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Science Fiction Books - Daily
Short Science Fiction Collection 051 - Various
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"Short Science Fiction Collection 051" invites listeners to delve into a realm where the boundaries of reality are pushed and imagination reigns supreme. This anthology showcases the speculative nature of science fiction, exploring themes that inspire...
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am I still There? By James R. Hall 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 Guy Lederfine Am I Still There? By James R. Hall Lee slid off the examining table and begun buttoning his shirt. He had had a medical examination every six months of his adult life, and it always seemed strange to him that despite the banks of machines the doctor had, which could practically map a man from a single cell outward, each examination always entailed the cold end of a stethoscope against his chest. He tucked his shirt into his pants and turned to the examining doctor, who was writing on a chart. Well? Lee asked him. Sound as a dollar, replied the doctor. Of course, Dr. Flockman or Dr. Roberts might turn up something on their electronic monsters, but I see no reason why we can't go ahead on schedule. Lee felt relieved. Even while being examined by technicians, MDs, and biologists, he had been conscious of the hundreds of little dull pains which had nibbled like mice in every corner of his brain. Sometimes he felt like a piece of his brain was being completely smothered, a horrible sensation of having a part of his head severed from him. This would go away but would appear again in a different area, usually in about 15 to 30 minutes. Well, the doctor said he was fit for surgery. That would end this nagging pain, just as it always had in the past. If you're ready now. Lee became aware the doctor was speaking to him. Oh, lee said. He had no idea what the doctor was talking about. Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I didn't hear what you said. The doctor smiled tolerantly. I said you can see Dr. Letzmiller this afternoon to get the final. Okay. Letzmiller? Who's he? I thought you said I was ready to go. Lee Nui sounded a little petulant, but he was tired from all these examinations, and besides, his head hurt. The doctor Gorse, we thought his name was, was rather young but seemed used to this kind of thing. He turned on his tolerant smile again. Dr. Letzmiller is chief of the Familiarization and post operative adjustment section. He can explain himself better when you see him. Is he the last one? Lee asked. He was already following Dr. Gore's out the door and down a corridor. Dr. Gorse stopped before a door marked Dr. C.L. letzmiller and opened it. The last one. You take these. He handed Lee a thick manila folder. And tell the girl Dr. Gorse sent you for your interview. He waited until Lee had entered, then closed the door and left. Evidently Dr. Letzmiller had been expecting him for very shortly. Lee found himself sitting at the doctor's desk, comfortably seated in a brown leather armchair. He was facing a rather pudgy man who was leafing through the manila folder Lee had given him. Finally, Dr. Letzmiller looked up. Well, well, now, Mr. Lee, suppose you first tell me about yourself, and then I'll tell you about me. Tell you about me? Lee asked. Dr. Letzmiller smiled. It was another tolerant smile, but it seemed more sincere than Gore's. I suppose the best way would be for me to review these facts on your medical history. You are Vincent Bonard Lee? Yes, Sir. Date of birth August 11, 1934. That would make you 409 years old. Lee hesitated. He never really thought of his age. It had long ceased to be of any importance to him. Of course he remembered his birthdate. It was one of those facts that always appears on your records, like your Social Security number. He did some calculation in his head as rapidly as the constantly shifting blank spots in his thinking would allow him. Yes, sir. It shows here that you first underwent replacement surgery in 1991, correct? Yes. Remember what it was for? Yes. I had heart Trouble. They fixed me up with one of those big jobs requiring my carrying batteries under my armpit. One of those early models. And this shows that at various times since then you had undergone replacement surgery some 87 times, including three replacements of a pulmonary nature. Again Lee hesitated. The number of times he had had a worn organ or tissue repaired or replaced was more than a little hazy. After the novelty of the first few times, when he found himself with a new stomach or liver or muscle, he had started to take these things as matter. Of course. He gave a little nervous laugh. If that paper says so. I suppose so, Doctor. Yes. Well, everything seems to be functioning properly now, doesn't it? With the exception of your head, of course. Yes, yes, I feel fine otherwise. Lee was feeling uncomfortable. Doctor, could you tell me what this is all about? I must have answered these questions half a dozen times before to those other people in just a moment. First, I need to know you a little better. Your medical history lists your occupation as cabinet maker. That's right. Lee was becoming more and more uncomfortable. The extensive examinations had tired him, and repetition of the answers to all these questions was making him edgy. Doctor, can't you at least tell me what type operation I am going to have? What do you think it will be? I don't know. Some sort of repair on my head, I guess. Dr. Lee, this isn't going to be a matter of repair. We have found it necessary to replace the entirety of what could roughly be called your brain, as well as part of the spinal cord. My whole brain? Lee sat stunned, comprehension slowly filtering into him. He voiced the only coherent thought which materialized. Why, that will mean there won't be anything left of me at all. Dr. Letzmiller regarded him. What do you mean, Doc? You've got my records there. At one time or another, since they first put a new heart in me, every single inch of me has been replaced by an artificial part. I mean all of me. There's not one bit of me. Heart, eyes, toenails, nothing. That is me. That bothered me quite a bit when. When this left eye was put in. I mean, I thought, well, this isn't me. This is my brain walking around in a jumble of artificial flesh. I tell you, it bothered me. But I went to a doctor, you know, a psychoanalyst, and he convinced me that as long as I had what he called a sense of identity, that I was me. Lee stopped. How could he explain it? But Letzmiller seemed to understand. And you think that your brain is all that is left of you, Doc? It's a funny feeling. Like this. Lee raised his hands, brought them together, and touched his fingertips. See that? I can raise those hands. I can make them touch each other. I can feel them touching each other, but it is just not quite right. It's just a little bit off key. Like one trumpet player out of 20 being about one sixteenth of an alt flat. Know what I mean? I think I do, said Letzwiller, nodding slowly. Now just what does that have to do with your operation, Doctor? Lee had to stop, for the patchwork quilt of blank spaces was dancing in his head. The helplessness went away slowly, like smoke drifting from a fire. As his mind cleared, he realized that he didn't know why he was being interviewed by this doctor. Anything wrong? Dr. Letzmiller asked. Lee knew he wasn't being too coherent jumping about with the conversation this way, but he asked the question anyway. Doc, why am I seeing you? You haven't guessed? No. The doctor paused to light a half gone cigar. My job here at Merkin's Replaceive is to deal with just such fears as you've expressed. I'm an md, a psychologist, and lets Miller smile to himself, a kind of historian. Historian? Well, you see, I was supposed to give you the regular formal lecture on the history of replacement surgery when you first came in. Like to hear it? Lee nodded. So, letzmiller continued. Replace of surgery is actually quite old. Old as medicine itself, I suppose. Very early attempts at dentures were tried, though with little success. And of course peg legs and hooks for persons who had lost their hands might be called replace of surgery, though they were very crude. Later on came more refined dentures, artificial limbs, corrective lenses, skull plates, hearing aids, plastic or cosmetic surgery, blood transfusions, all types of skin grafts, etc. The 1950s saw the beginning of bone and corneal transplants, use of plastics in arteries, those huge heart, lung, and kidney machines, implantation of electrodes in the heart to steady its beat, many things which were mostly emergency or stopgap measures. All through the 1900s refinements continued to be made, but it wasn't until 1988 that the fathers of replace of surgery, Drs. Mills, Levinson, and McCarty, made the breakthrough that revolutionized the whole concept. In very simplified language they unlocked the key to producing specialized living tissue through a bombardment of an extremely complex carbon compound with amino acids and electricity, then making it selective in function by a fantastically intricate application of radiation. That pulmonary replacement you received in 1991 was undoubtedly one of the first successes. You were quite lucky you know, up until 2017, only about 5% of their synthesized hearts lasted more than 30 days. At any rate, the principle was established and it was proven that it could work. Most of our work from then till a few years ago has been in improving and refining the work those three good Doctors did over 300 years ago. Letzmiller's cigar had gone out, and he discarded it in favor of a cigarette. That would be the end of my history lecture if it were not for the nature of your trouble. Lee looked at him closely. Why's that? Well, Mr. Lee, the big thing missing in that summation is the seemingly impossible task of a synthesizing nerve tissue, especially that of the cerebrial cortex. It's been approximated, at any rate closely enough to give us good enough results to allow an artificial tissue to respond to brain signals about 98% as well as the original would. But actual duplication? No. At least not until about three years ago. To tell you the truth, it's barely out of the experimental stage. Experimental? Yes. This will be the first complete replacement of a human brain. Oh, of course, it had been done with animals, and it has been successful with partial replacements on humans. But you will have the honor of being the first human with a complete substitution. Lee could not contain himself. Doc, that's just it. There won't be a single atom of me except what you fellows have conjured up, letzmiller broke in. I think conjured is hardly the proper word, Mr. Lee. Well, of course I didn't mean that. But don't you see what I'm driving at? You could just as well start from scratch and duplicate me without bothering about going about it piecemeal. And what does that make me? The doctor had been looking at Lee intently, studying him through this outburst. I think I see what you mean, and I can't answer you. The question you raise may be philosophical or metaphysical, but it certainly isn't medical. And from a doctor's point of view, complete substitution is the only course open, risky as it may seem. Lee mulled this over. Of course he knew surgery was the only solution to his decaying mentality, actually the only alternative to his being a virtual idiot. And shortly after that, did and he did not want to die. He had lived a long time, but thanks to the methods of Letzmiller, Gorse, and all their predecessors, he was as full of juice as he had been at 35. But the question that kept plaguing him, Letzmiller seemed determined to avoid he didn't understand very much about replaceive surgery, really didn't care to. If Letzmiller said it could work, then he wasn't worried about that. Well, he guessed he really didn't have much choice. With this realization, he had only one more question for Doc. If I'm not me when this is over, do you think I'll know it? Lets Miller looked at Lee's troubled face. Do you think that you would want to? Lee answered slowly. No. No, I guess not. Lets Miller rose from his chair. I'll talk to you again after the operation. Do you think you're ready to go to your room now? Lee nodded and obediently followed the doctor. Lee was asleep when the nurse came, but with the efficiency of all good nurses since time immemorial, she woke him to give him the sedative to prepare him for surgery. She chattered brightly as she prepared the hypodermic. You know you have all the nurses speculating, Mr. Lee. I mean, we're wondering just what Dr. Lakin he's the anesthesiologist is going to use for you. And you won't have any brain for the anesthesia to work on. She stopped the needle poised above Lee's arm, realizing the inaptness of her remark. Oh, I shouldn't have said that. No, that's all right, said Lee. I've already reconciled myself to being the Headless Horseman. For a while he had, too. Although it was wonderfully strange to think of himself lying on the operating table with the cavity where he right now thought, felt, knew that he was a person, Lee didn't actually lie on the table in the literal sense. The table was inclined to about 45 degrees, which his head exposed and supported by a clamp on the cheek and jawbones. This arrangement was necessary to allow the waiting machinery access to the area where it would perform. Physicians, surgeons, biologists, and the like were gathered in the amphitheater to see a bit of medical history. Actually, there wasn't much to see. A team of technicians, radiologists, and surgeons were working around Lee. Some were attaching electrodes to parts of Lee's body to maintain the electrical impulses necessary to keep his vital processes in motion. While the main switchboard was out of commission, others were synthesizing the exposed brain from which the skull had already been removed to guide the delicate fingers of the huge automatic operating, recording and calculating complex through its precisely programmed steps. Litzmuller was among those in the amphitheater as a spectator, drawn both by professional curiosity and a desire to know the answer to Lee's question Doc, what will there be left of me? Of course he couldn't find out even part of the answer. For some weeks, even the orc complex now being fitted to Lee's unconscious brain, adjusted and activated, would not finish with its job. For something like 32 hours. The synthesizer would reconvert the data, translate it into countless chemical and electrical formulae, and apply it to the raw material of carbons, amino acids, proteins and other components. When the basic organ had been reconstructed, a process requiring another week and a half in the synthesizer, it would be grafted back. The nerve lead ins would be reconnected one by one, spaced at intervals to avoid shock. Lee would be unconscious the whole time, of course. Or rather, Lee would be unconscious part of the time. Most of the time he wouldn't have the capacity for either consciousness or the lack of it. Dr. Letzmiller observed the huge orc complex for a time, but there wasn't anything to see. It simply sat over Lee doing its job, unwanted. The thought came to Letzmiller that the machine looked like a frog with a long worm dangling from its mouth. Lee was the worm. You can talk to him now. Dr. Oldenring's surgeon in charge addressed Letzmiller outside Lee's room, where he had just finished his examination. Personally, I think things went exactly as they should. All physical and mental responses check out. I guess here's where I'm finished and you go to work. Lee was sitting up in bed as Letzmiller entered. He looked just like he had in Letzmiller's office before the operation, except for the small white bandages around his head to protect his healing skull. Well, the doctor said, how do you feel? Your head hurt? Letzmiller checked at Aldenrein's office and was admitted to give his report as he had planned. Well? Asked Aldenride. Letzmiller lit the end of his cigar before answering. I. I wholly agree with you. Everything seems to have worked out exactly according to plan. I found him essentially the same as he appeared to me during his pre operative interview. Of course he's a little foggy yet, but I suppose that's just the post operative shock. Yes, that will clear up in a few days. He seems alert, responsive, full memory. I don't think there will be any difficulty with my part of his post operative treatment. Except, Doctor, have you ever listened to a group of violins and sensed, just sensed, not actually heard, that one of them seemed about a quarter of a note flat? Oldenreid looked at him strangely as Letzmuller left the office and closed the door. End of Am I Still There? By James R. Hall.
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The Big Trip Up Yonder By Kurt Vonnegut Jr. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by K. Hand the Big Trip Up Yonder by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. If it was good enough for your grandfather, forget it. It is much too good for anyone else. Gramps Ford, his chin resting on his hands, his hands on the crook of his cane, was staring irascibly at the five foot television screen that dominated the room. On the screen a news commentator was summarizing the day's happenings. Every 30 seconds or so, Gramps would jab the floor with his cane tip and shout, hell, we did that a hundred years ago. Emerald and Lou, coming in from the balcony where they had been seeking that 2185 A.D. rarity privacy, were obliged to take seats in the back row behind Lou's father and mother, brother and sister in law, son and daughter in law, grandson and wife, granddaughter and husband, great grandson and wife, niece, nephew and wife, grand nephew and wife, great grand niece and husband, great grand nephew and wife. And of course Gramps, who was in front of everybody. All save Gramps, who was somewhat withered and bent, seemed by pre antigirisone standards to be about the same age, somewhere in their late 20s or early 30s. Gramps looked older because he had already reached 70 when anti gerasone was invented. He had not aged in the 102 years since. Meanwhile, the commentator was saying, Council Bluff's, Iowa, was still threatened by Stark tragedy, but 200 weary rescue workers have refused to give up hope and continue to dig in an effort to save Elbert Hagedorn 183, who has been wedged for two days in a I wish he'd get something more cheerful, emerald whispered to Lou. Silence. Cried Gramps. Next one shoots off his big bazoo while the TV's on, gonna find himself cut up without a dollar. His voice suddenly softened and sweetened. When they wave that checkered flag at the Indianapolis Speedway and old Gramps gets ready for the big trip up yonder. He sniffed sentimentally while his ears concentrated desperately on not making the slightest sound for them. The poignancy of the prospective big trip had been dulled somewhat through having been mentioned by Gramps about once a day for 50 years. Dr. Brainerd Keys Bullard, continued the commentator, president of Wyandotte College said in an address tonight that most of the world's ills can be traced to fact that man's knowledge of himself has not kept pace with his knowledge of the physical world. Hell, Snorted Gramps. We said that a hundred years ago in Chicago. Tonight, the commentator went on, a special celebration is taking place in the Chicago lying in hospital. The guest of honor is Lowell w. Hitz, age 0. Hitz, born this morning, is the 25 millionth child to be born in the hospital. The commentator faded and was replaced on the screen by young Hitz, who. Who squalled furiously. Hell. Whispered Lou to Emerald. We said that a hundred years ago. I heard that. Shouted Gramps. He snapped off the television set, and his petrified descendants stared silently at the screen. You there, boy. I didn't mean anything by it, sir, said Lou, aged 103. Get me my will. You know where it is. You kids all know where it is. Fetch, boy. Gramps snapped his gnarled fingers sharply. Lou nodded dully and found himself going down the hall, picking his way over bedding to Gramps's room, the only private room in the Ford apartment. The other rooms were the bathroom, the living room, and the wide, windowless hallway, which was originally intended to serve as a dining area and which had a kitchenette in one end. Six mattresses and four sleeping bags were dispersed in the hallway and living room, and the daybed in the living room accommodated the 11th couple. The favorites of the moment On Gramps bureau was his will, smeared, dog eared, perforated, and blotched with hundreds of additions, deletions, accusations, conditions, warnings, advice, and homely philosophy. The document was, lou reflected, A 50 year diary, all jammed onto two sheets, a garbled, illegible log of day after day of strife. This day Lou would be disinherited for the 11th time, and it would take him perhaps six months of impeccable behavior to regain the promise of a share in the estate, to say nothing of the daybed in the living room for Em and himself. Boy. Called Gramps. Coming, sir. Lou hurried back into the living room and handed Gramps the will. Pen, said Gramps. He was instantly offered 11 pens, one from each couple. Not that leaky thing, he said, brushing Lou's pen aside. Ah, there's a nice one. Good boy, Willie. He accepted Willie's pen. That was the tip they'd all been waiting for. Willie, then Lou's father was the new favorite. Willie, who looked almost as young as Lou, though he was 142, did a poor job of concealing his pleasure. He glanced shyly at the daybed, which would become his and from which Lou and Emerald would have to move back into the hall, back to the worst spot of all by the bathroom door. Gramps missed none of the high drama he had authored, and he gave his own familiar role everything he had. Frowning and running his finger along each line as though he were seeing the will for the first time, he read aloud in a deep, portentous monotone, like a bass note on a cathedral organ. I, Harold D. Ford, residing in Building 257 of Alden Village, New York City, Connecticut, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking any and all former wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made. He blew his nose importantly and went on not missing a word and repeating many for emphasis, repeating in particular his ever more elaborate specifications for a funeral. At the end of the specifications, Gramps was so choked with emotion that Lou thought he might have forgotten why he'd brought out the will in the first place. But Gramps heroically brought his powerful emotions under control and after erasing for a full minute, began to write and speak at the same time. Lou could have spoken his lines for him he had heard them so often. I have had many heartbreaks ere leaving this vale of tears for a better land, gramps said and wrote, but the deepest hurt of all has been dealt me by. He looked around the group, trying to remember who the malefactor was. Everyone looked helpfully at Lou, who held up his hand resignedly. Gramps nodded, remembering, and completed the sentence. My great grandson, Lewis J. Ford. Grandson, sir, Said Lou. Don't quibble. You're in deep enough now, young man, said Gramps. But he made the change, and from there he went on without misstep, through the phrasing of the disinheritance causes for which were disrespectfulness and quibbling. In the paragraph following the paragraph that had belonged to everyone in the room at one time or another, Lou's name was scratched out and Willie's substituted as heir to the apartment and the biggest plum of all, the double bed in the private bedroom. So, said Gramps, beaming, he erased the date at the foot of the will and substituted a new one, including the time of the day. Well, time to watch the McGarvey family. The McGarvey family was a television serial that Gramps had been following since he was 60, or for a total of 112 years. I can't wait to see what's going to happen next, he said. Lou detached himself from the group and lay down in his bed of pain by the bathroom door, wishing Em would join him. He wondered where she was. He dozed for a few moments until he was disturbed by someone stepping over him to get into the bathroom. A moment later he heard a faint gurgling sound as though something were being poured down the wash basin drain. Suddenly it entered his mind that Em had cracked up and she was in there doing something drastic about Gramps. Em, he whispered through the panel. There was no reply, and Lou pressed against the door. The worn lock, whose bolt barely engaged its socket, held for a second, then let the door swing inward. Morty gasped. Lou. Lou's great grand nephew, Mortimer, who had just married and brought his wife home to the Ford menage, looked at Lou with consternation and surprise. Morty kicked the door shut, but not before Lou had glimpsed what was in his hand. Gramps enormous economy sized bottle of anti gerasone, which had apparently been half emptied and which Morty was refilling with tap water. A moment later Morty came out, glared defiantly at Lou, and brushed past him wordlessly to rejoin his pretty bride. Shocked, Lou didn't know what to do. He couldn't let Gramps take the mousetrap antigerisone, but if he warned Gramps about it, Gramps would certainly make life in the apartment, which was merely insufferable now harrowing. Lou glanced in the living room and saw that the Fords, emerald among them, were momentarily at rest, relishing the botches that the McGarvies had made of their lives. Stealthily he went into the bathroom, locked the door as well as he could, and began to pour the contents of Gramps's bottle down the drain. He was going to refill it with the full strength anti gerasone from the 22 smaller bottles on the shelf. The bottle contained half a gallon and its neck was small, so it seemed to Lou that emptying would take forever, and the almost imperceptible smell of antigerisone like Worcestershire sauce, now seemed to Lou, in his nervousness, to be pouring out into the rest of the apartment. Through the keyhole and under the door, the bottle gurgled monotonously. Suddenly up came the sound of music from the living room, and there were murmurs and the scrapings of chair legs on the floor. Thus ends, said the television announcer. The 29,121st chapter in the life of your neighbors and mine. The McGarvies footsteps were coming down the hall There was a knock on the bathroom door. Just a sack, lou cheerily called out. Desperately. He shook the big bottle, trying to speed up the flow. His palm slipped on the wet glass and the heavy bottle smashed on the tile floor. The door was pushed open and Gramps, dumbfounded, stared at the incriminating mess. Lou felt a hideous prickling sensation on his scalp and the back of his neck, and, for want of anything remotely resembling a thought, waited for Gramps to speak. Well, boy, said Gramps, looks like you've got a little tidying up to do. And that was all he said. He turned around, elbowed his way through the crowd, and locked himself in his bedroom. The Fords contemplated Lou in incredulous silence a moment longer and then hurried back to the living room as though some of his horrible guilt would taint them too if they looked too long. Morty stayed behind long enough to give Lou a quizzical annoyed glance. Then he also went into the living room, leaving only Emerald standing in the doorway. Tears streamed over her cheeks. Oh, you poor lamb. Please don't look so awful. It was my fault. I put you up to this with my nagging about Grahams. No, said Lou, finding his voice. Really, you didn't. Honest, Em, I was just. You don't have to explain anything to me, hon. I'm on your side no matter what. She kissed him on one cheek and whispered in his ear. It wouldn't have been murder, hon. It wouldn't have killed him. It wasn't such a terrible thing to do. It just would have fixed him up so he'd been able to go any time God decided he wanted him. What's going to happen next, Em? Said Lou hollowly. What's he going to do? Lou and Emerald stayed fearfully awake almost all night, waiting to see what Gramps was going to do. But not a sound came from the sacred bedroom. Two hours before dawn they finally dropped off to sleep. At six o' clock they arose again, for it was time for their generation to eat breakfast in the kitchenette. No one spoke to them. They had 20 minutes in which to eat, but the reflexes were so dulled by the bad night that they had hardly swallowed two mouthfuls of egg type processed seaweed before it was time to surrender their places to their son's generation. Then, as was the custom for whoever had been most recently disinherited, they began preparing Gramps breakfast, which would presently be served to him in bed on a tray. They tried to be cheerful about it. The toughest part of the job was having to handle the honest to God eggs and bacon and oleomargarine on which Gramps spent so much of his income from his fortune. Well, said Emerald, I'm not going to get all panicky until I'm sure there's something to be panicky about. Maybe he doesn't know what it was I busted, lou said hopefully. Probably thinks it was your watch crystal, offered Eddie, their son, who was toying apathetically with his buckwheat type processed sawdust cakes. Don't get sarcastic with your father, said Em. And don't talk with your mouth full, either. I'd like to see anybody take a mouthful of this stuff and not say something, complained eddie, who was 73. He glanced at the clock. It's time to take Gramps breakfast, you know. Yeah, it is, isn't it? Said Lou weakly. He shrugged. Let's have the tray, M. We'll both go. Walking slowly, smiling bravely, they found a large semicircle of long faced Fords standing around the bedroom door. M knocked. Gramps, she called brightly. Breakfast is ready. There was no reply, and she knocked again, harder. The door swung open before her fist. In the middle of the room, the soft, deep, wide canopied bed, the symbol of the sweet by and by to every Ford was empty, a sense of death as unfamiliar to the forts as Zoroastrianism are the causes of sepoy. Mutiny stilled every voice slowed, every heart awed. The heirs began to search gingerly under the furniture and behind the drapes for all that was mortal of Gramps, father of the clan. But Gramps had not left his earthly husk but a note, which Lou finally found on the dresser under a paperweight which was treasured souvenir from the World's Fair of 2000. Unsteadily, Lou read it aloud. Somebody who I have sheltered and protected and taught the best I know how. All these years. Last night turned on me like a mad dog and diluted my anti gerrisohn, or tried to. I am no longer a young man. I can no longer bear the crushing burden of life as I once could. So after last night's bitter experience, I say goodbye. The cares of this world will soon drop away like a cloak of thorns, and I shall know peace. By the time you find this, I will be gone. Gosh, said Willie brokenly. He didn't even get to see how the 5000 mile speedway race was going to come out. Or the Solar Series, eddie said with large, mournful eyes. Or whether Mrs. McGarvey got her eyesight back, added Morty. There's more, said Lou, and he began reading aloud again. I, Harold D. Ford, etc. Do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking any and all former wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made.
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No.
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Cried Willie. Not another one. I do stipulate, Red Loo, that all of my property of whatsoever kind in nature be not divided, but do devise and bequeath it to be held in common by my issue, without regard for generation, equally share and share alike. Issue, said Emerald. Lou included the multitude in a sweep of his hand. It means we all own the whole damn shooting match. Each eye turned instantly to the bed. Share and share alike? Asked Morty. Actually, said Willie, who was the oldest one present, it's just like the old system where the oldest people head up things with their headquarters in here. And I like that. Exclaimed Em. Lou owns as much of it as you do, and I say it ought to be for the oldest one who's still working. You can snooze around here all day waitin for your pension check while poor Lou stumbles in here after work all tuckered out. And how about letting somebody who's never had any privacy get a little crack at it? Eddie demanded hotly. Hell, you old people had plenty of privacy back when you were kids. I was born and raised in the middle of that goddamned barracks in the hall. How about yeah. Challenged Morty. Sure, you've all had it pretty rough. My heart bleeds for you, but try honeymooning in the hall for a real kick. Silence. Shouted Willie imperiously. The next person who opens his mouth spends the next six months by the bathroom. Now clear out of my room. I want to think. A vase shattered against the wall inches above his head. In the next moment a free for all was underway, with each couple battling to eject every other couple from the room. Fighting coalitions formed and dissolved with the lightning changes of the tactical situation. M. And Lou were thrown into the hall, where they organized others in the same situation and stormed back into the room. After two hours of struggle, with nothing like a decision in sight, the cops broke in, followed by television cameramen from mobile units. For the next half hour patrol wagons and ambulances hauled away Fords, and then the apartment was still and spacious. An hour later, films of the last stages of the riot were being televised to 500 million delighted viewers on the Eastern seaboard. In the stillness of the three room Ford apartment on the 76th floor of Building 257, the television set had been left on once more. The air was filled with the cries and grunts and crashes of the fray, coming harmlessly now from the loudspeaker. The battle also appeared on the screen of the television set in the police station, where the Fords and their captors watched with professional interest. Em and lou, in adjacent 4x8 cells, were stretched out peacefully on their own cots. Em, called Lou through the partition. You got a wash basin all your own, too?
- [43:41]
Sure.
- [43:42]
Wash basin, bed light, the works. And we thought Gramps room was something. How long has this been going on? She held out her hand. For the first time in 40 years. Hon, I haven't got the shakes. Look at me. Cross your fingers, said Lou. The lawyer's going to try and get us a year. Gee, said Em dreamily, I wonder what kind of wires you'd have to pull to get put away in solitary. All right, pipe down, said the turnkey, or I'll toss the whole kit and caboodle of you right out the first one who lets on to anybody outside how good jail is ain't never getting back in. The prisoners instantly fell silent. The living room of the apartment darkened for a moment as the riot scenes faded on the television screen, and then the face of the announcer appeared like the sun coming from behind a cloud. And now, friends, he said, I have a special message from the makers of Anti Gerasone. A message for all you folks over 150. Are you hampered socially by wrinkles, by the stiffness of joints and discoloration or loss of hair, all because these things came upon you before Anti Gerrasone was developed? Well, if you are, you need no longer sufferneed, no longer feel different and out of things. After years of research, medical science has now developed Super Anti Gerasoan in weeks. Yes, weeks. You can look, feel, and act as young as your great, great grandchildren. Wouldn't you pay $5,000 to be indistinguishable from everybody else? Well, you don't have to. Safe tested Super Anti Gerrasone only cost you a few dollars a day. Right now for your free trial carton, just put your name and address on a dollar postcard and mail it to Super Box 500,000, Schenectady, New York. Have you got that? I'll repeat it. Super Box 500,000. Underlining the announcer's word was the scratching of Gramps Pen, the one Willie had given him the night before. He had come in a few minutes earlier from the Idle Hour Tavern, which commanded a view of Building 257 from across the square of asphalt known as the Alden Village Green. He had called a cleaning woman to come straighten the place up, then had hired the best lawyer in town to get his descendants a conviction. A genius who had never gotten a client less than a year and a day, Gramps had then moved the daybed before the television screen so that he could watch from a reclining position. It was something he had dreamed of doing for years. Schenectady, murmured Gramps. Got it. His face had changed remarkably. His facial muscles seemed to have relaxed rain, revealing kindness and equanimity under what had been taut lines of bad temper. It was almost as though his trial package of Super Anti Gerasone had already arrived when something amused him on television. He smiled easily rather than barely, managing to lengthen the thin line of his mouth a millimeter. Life was good. He could hardly wait to see what was going to happen next. End of the big trip Up Yonder by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
- [46:38]
Experiment 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 Read by Roslyn Carlisle Experiment the first time machine, gentlemen, professor Johnson proudly informed his two colleagues. True, it is a small scale experimental model. It will operate only on objects weighing less than 3lb 5oz, and for distances into the past and future of 12 minutes or less. But it works. The small scale model looked like a small scale, a postage scale, except for two dials in the part under the platform. Professor Johnson held up a small metal cube. Our experimental object, he said, is a brass cube weighing 1 pound 2.3 ounces. First I shall send it five minutes into the future. He leaned forward and set one of the dials on the time machine. Look at your watchers, he said. They looked at their watches. Professor Johnson placed the cube gently on the machine's platform. It vanished five minutes later to the second it reappeared. Professor Johnson picked it up. Now, five minutes into the past, he set the other dial. Holding the cube in his hand, he looked at his watch. It is six minutes before 3 o'. Clock. I shall now activate the mechanism by placing the cube on the platform at exactly 3 o'. Clock. Therefore, the cube should, at 5 minutes before 3, vanish from my hand and appear on the platform 5 minutes before I place it there. How can you place it there, then? Asked one of his colleagues. It will, as my hand approaches, vanish from the platform and appear in my hand to be placed there three o' clock. Notice, please. The cube vanished from his hand. It appeared on the platform of the time machine.
- [48:52]
See?
- [48:53]
Five minutes before I place it there. It is there. His other colleague frowned at the cube. But he said, what if, now that it has already appeared five minutes before you place it there, you should change your mind about doing so and not place it there at 3 o'? Clock? Wouldn't there be a paradox of some sort involved? An interesting idea, professor Johnson said. I had not thought of it, and it will be interesting to try. Very well. I shall not. There was no paradox at all. The cube remained, but the entire rest of the universe, professors and all, vanished. End of Experiment By Frederick Brown.
- [49:51]
The Gun by Philip K. Dick this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Graham Walker the Gun by Philip K. Dick Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent. Dead. Only the gun showed signs of life, and the trespassers had wrecked that for all time. The return journey to pick up the treasure would be a cinch. They smiled. The captain peered into the eyepiece of the telescope. He adjusted the focus quickly. It was an atomic fission we saw, all right, he said presently. He sighed and pushed away the eyepiece. Any one of you who wants to look may do so, but it's not a pretty sight. Let me look, Tant, the archaeologist said. He bent down to look, squinting. Good Lord. He leaped back violently, knocking against Dall, the chief navigator. Why did we come all this way, then? Dor asked, looking around at the other men. There's no point even landing. Let's go back at once. Perhaps he's right, the biologist murmured. Would I like to look for myself, if I may? He pushed past Hans and peered into the sight. He saw a vast expanse, an endless surface of gray, stretching to the edge of the planet. At first he thought it was water, but after a moment he realized that it was slag. Pitted, fused slag, broken only by hills of rock jutting up at intervals. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent. Dead. I see, foma said, backing away from the eyepiece. Well, I won't find any legumes there. He tried to smile, but his lips stayed unmoved. He stepped away and stood by himself, staring past the others. I wonder what the atmospheric sample will show, tans said. I think I can guess, the captain answered. Most of the atmosphere is poisoned, but didn't we all expect this? I don't see why we're so surprised. A Fission visible as far away as our system. Must be a terrible thing. He strode off down the corridor, dignified and expressionless. They watched him disappear into the control room. As the captain closed the door, the young woman turned. What did the telescope show? Good or bad?
- [52:32]
Bad.
- [52:33]
No life could possibly exist. Atmosphere poisoned. Water vaporized. All the land fused. Could they have gone underground? The captain slid back the port window so that the surface of the planet under them was visible. The two of them stared down, silent and disturbed. Mile after mile of unbroken ruin stretched out blackened slag, pitted and scarred, and occasional heaps of rock. Suddenly Gnasher jumped. Look. Over there at the edge. Do you see it? They stared. Something rose up. Not rock, not an accidental formation. It was round, a circle of dots, white pellets on the dead skin of the planet. A city. Buildings of some kind. Please turn the ship, gnasher said excitedly. She pushed her dark hair from her face. Turn the ship and let's see what it is. The ship turned, changing its course as they came over the white dot. The captain lowered the ship, dropping it down as much as he dared. Piers, he said. Piers of some sort of stone, perhaps. Poured artificial stone. The remains of a city. Oh dear, gnasher murmured. How awful. She watched the ruins disappear behind them in a half circle. The white squares jutted from the slag, chipped and cracked like broken teeth. There's nothing alive, the captain said at last. I think we'll go right back. I know most of the crew want to get the government receiving station on the sender and tell them what we found and that we he staggered. The first atomic shell had struck the ship, spinning it round. The captain fell to the floor, crashing into the control table. Papers and instruments rained down on him. As he started to his feet, the second shell struck. The ceiling cracked open. Struts and girders twisted and bent. The ship shuddered, falling suddenly down, then righting itself as automatic controls took over. The captain lay on the floor by the smashed control board. In the corner, Gnasher struggled to free herself from the debris. Outside, the men were already sealing the gaping leaks in the side of the ship, through which the precious air was rushing, dissipating into the void beyond. Help me. Droll was shouting. Fire over here. Wiring ignited. Two men came running. Tance watched helplessly, his eyeglasses broken and bent. So there is life here after all, he said, half to himself. But how could. Give us a hand, foma said, hurrying past. Give us a hand. We've got to land the ship. It was night. A few stars glinted above them, winking through the drifting silt that blew across the surface of the planet. Doll peered out, frowning. What a place to be stuck in. He resumed his work, hammering the bent metal hull of the ship back into place. He was wearing a pressure suit. There were still many small leaks, and radioactive particles from the atmosphere had already found their way into the ship. Gnasher and Foma were sitting at the table in the control room, pale and solemn, studying the inventory lists. Low on carbohydrates. Foma said, we can break down the stored fats if we want to, but I wonder if we could find anything outside. Gnasher went back to the window. How uninviting it looks. She paced back and forth, very slender and small, her face dark with fatigue. What do you suppose an exploring party would find? Foma shrugged. Not much. Maybe a few weeds growing in cracks here and there. Nothing we could use. Anything that would adapt to the environment would be toxic. Lethal. Gnasher paused, rubbing her cheek. There was a deep scratch there, still red and swollen. Then how do you explain it? According to your theory, the inhabitants must have died in their skins, fried like yams. But who fired on us? Somebody detected us, made a decision, aimed a gun, and gauged distance, the captain said feebly from the cot in the corner. He turned towards them. That's the part that worries me. The first shell put us out of commission. The second almost destroyed us. They were well aimed. Perfectly aimed. We're not such an easy target. True. Foma nodded. Well, perhaps we'll know the answer before we leave here. What a strange situation. All our reasoning tells us that no life could exist. The whole planet burned dry, the atmosphere itself gone, completely poisoned. The gun that fired the projectile survived. Gnasher said, why not people? It's not the same. Metal doesn't need air to breathe. Metal doesn't get leukemia from radioactive particles. Metal doesn't need food and water. There was silence. A paradox. Nasher said. Anyhow, in the morning I think we should send out a search party. And meanwhile we should keep on trying to get the ship in condition for the trip back. It'll be days before we can take off, foma said. We should keep every man working here. We can't afford to send out a party. Gnasher smiled a little. We'll send you in the first party. Maybe you can discover. What was it you were so interested in? Lagoons. Edible lagoons. Maybe you can find some of them. Only. Only what? Only watch out. They fired on us once without even knowing who we were. Or what we came for. Do you suppose that they fought with each other? Perhaps they couldn't imagine anyone being friendly under any circumstances. What a strange evolutionary trait. Interspecies warfare, fighting within the race. We'll know in the morning, foma said. Let's get some sleep. The sun came up, chill and austere. The three people, two men and a woman, stepped through the port, dropping down on the hard ground below. What a day, dull said grumpily. I said how glad I'd be to walk on firm ground again. But Come on, gnasher said up beside me. I want to say something to you. Will you excuse us? Tense, Tans nodded gloomily. Dull caught up with Gnasher. They walked together, their metal shoes crunching the ground underfoot. Gnasher glanced at him. Listen. The captain is dying. No one knows except the two of us. By the end of the day period of this planet, he'll be dead. The shock did something to his heart. He was almost 60, you know. Dahl nodded. That's bad. I have a great deal of respect for him. You will be captain in his place, of course, since you're vice captain now. No, I prefer to see someone else lead. Perhaps you or Foma. I've been thinking over the situation, and it seems to me that I should declare myself mated to one of you. Whichever of you wants to be captain. Then I could dissolve the responsibility. Well, I don't want to be captain. Let Foma do it. Gnasher studied him, tall and blonde, striding along beside her in his pressure suit. I'm rather partial to you, she said. We might try it for a time, at least. But do as you like. Look, we're coming to something. They stopped walking, letting Tans catch up. In front of them was some sort of a ruined building. Dhul stared around thoughtfully. Do you see? This whole place is a natural bowl, a huge valley. See how the rock formations rise up on all sides, protecting the floor? Maybe some of the great blast was deflected here. They wandered around the ruins, picking up rocks and fragments. I think this was a farm, tance said, examining a piece of wood. This is part of a tower. Windmill, really. Nasha took the stick and turned it over. Interesting. But let's go. We don't have much time. Look, doll said suddenly. Off there. A long way off. Isn't that something? He pointed. Gnasher sucked in her breath. The white stones. What? Gnasher looked up at Doll. The white stones. The. The great broken teeth. We saw them, the captain and I. From the control room. She touched Dahl's arm gently. That's where they fired from. I didn't think we had landed so close. What is it? Tan said, coming up to them. I'm almost blind without my glasses. What do you see? The city where they fired from. Oh. All three of them stood together. Well, let's go, tan said. There's no telling what we'll find there. Dahl frowned at him. Wait. We don't know what we would be getting into. They must have patrols. They probably have seen us already. For that matter, they probably have seen the ship itself, tan said. They probably know right now where they can find it, where they can blow it up. So what difference does it make whether we get close or not? That's true, gnasher said. If they really want to get us, we haven't a chance. We have no armaments at all. You know that. I have a hand weapon. Doll nodded. Well, let's go on, then. I suppose you're right, Tans. But let's stay together. Tans said nervously. Gnasher, you're going too fast. Gnasher looked back. She laughed. If we expect to get there by nightfall, we must go fast. They reached the outskirts of the city at about the middle of the afternoon. The sun, cold and yellow, hung above them in the colorless sky. Dahl stopped at the top of a ridge overlooking the city. Well, there it is. What's left of it. There was not much left. The huge concrete piers, which they had noticed were not piers at all, but the ruined foundations of buildings. They had been baked by the searing heat, baked and charred almost to the ground. Nothing else remained, only this irregular circle of white squares, perhaps four miles in diameter. Dahl spat in disgust. More wasted time. A dead skeleton of a city, that's all. But it was from here that the firing came, Tans murmured. Don't forget that. And by someone with a good eye and a great deal of experience, Gnasher added. Let's go. They walked into the city between the ruined buildings. No one spoke. They walked in silence, listening to the echo of their footsteps. It's Makeba, dahl muttered. I've seen ruined cities before, but they died of old age. Old age and fatigue. This was killed. Seared to death. This city didn't die. It was murdered. I wonder what the city was called, nasha said. She turned aside, going up the remains of a stairway from one of the foundations. Do you think we might find a signpost? Some kind of plaque? She peered into the ruins. There's nothing there, dahl said impatiently. Come on. Wait. Gnasher bent down, touching a concrete stone. There's something inscribed on this. What is it? Tans hurried up. He squatted in the dust, running his gloved fingers over the surface of the stone. Letters. All right. He took a writing stick from the pocket of his pressure suit and copied the inscription on a bit of paper. Dahl glanced over his shoulder. The inscription was Franklin Apartments. That's this city, nasher said softly. That was its name. Tans put the paper in his pocket and they went on. After a time, Dahl said, gnasher, you know I think we're being watched. But don't look around. The woman stiffened.
- [65:18]
Oh?
- [65:19]
Why do you say that? Did you see something? No. I can feel it, though. Don't you? Nashor smiled a little. I feel nothing. But perhaps I'm more used to being stared at. She turned her head slightly. Oh. Dhl reached for his hand. Weapon. What is it? What do you see? Tans had stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth half open. The gun, gnasher said. It's the gun. Look at the size of it. The size of the thing. Door unfastened his hand. Weapon slowly. That's it, all right. The gun was huge, stark and immense. It pointed up at the sky, a mass of steel and glass set in a huge slab of concrete. Even as they watched, the gun moved on, its swivel base whirring Underneath, a slim vein turned with the wind, a network of rods atop a high pole. It's alive, gnasher whispered. It's listening to us. Watching us. The gun moved again, this time clockwise. It was mounted so that it could make a full circle. The barrel lowered a trifle, then resumed its original position. But who fires it? Tan said. Daw left. No one. No one fires it. They stared at him. What do you mean, it fires itself? They couldn't believe him. Gnasher came close to him, frowning, looking up at him. I don't understand. What do you mean, it fires itself? Watch. I'll show you. Don't move. Dull picked up a rock from the ground. He hesitated a moment and then tossed the rock high in the air. The rock passed in front of the gun. Instantly the great barrel moved. The veins contracted. The rock fell to the ground. The gun paused, then resumed its calm swivel, its slow circling. You see? Dahl said. It noticed the rock as soon as I threw it up in the air. It's alert to anything that flies or moves above the ground level. Probably it detected us as soon as we entered the gravitational field of the planet. It probably had a bead on us from the Start. We don't have a chance. It knows all about the ship. It's just waiting for us to take off again. I understand about the rock, gnasher said, nodding. The gun noticed it. But not us, since we're on the ground, not above. It's only designed to combat objects in the sky. The ship is safe until it takes off again. Then the end will come. But what's this gun for? Tans put in. There's no one alive here. Everyone is dead. It's a machine, dahl said. A machine that was made to do a job. And it's doing the job. How it survived the blast, I don't know. On it goes. Waiting for the enemy. Probably they came by air in some sort of projectiles. The enemy, Nasha said. Their own race. It's hard to believe that they really bombed themselves. Fired at themselves. Well, it's over with. Except right here where we're standing. This one gun still alert, ready to kill. It'll go on until it wears out, and by that time we'll be dead, nashor said bitterly. There must have been hundreds of guns like this, dhul murmured. They must have been used to the sight. Guns, weapons, uniforms. Probably. They accepted it as a natural thing, part of their lives, like eating and sleeping. An institution like the church and the state. Men trained to fight, to lead armies. A regular profession, honoured and respected. Tance was walking slowly toward the gun, peering nearsightedly up at it. Quite complex, isn't it? All those veins and tubes. I suppose this is some sort of a telescopic sight. His gloved hand touched the end of the long tube. Instantly, the gun shifted, the barrel retracting, it swung. Don't move. Daw cried. The barrel swung past them as they stood rigid and still. For one terrible moment it hesitated over their heads, clicking and whirring, settling into position. Then the sounds died out and the gun became silent. Tant smiled foolishly inside his helmet. I must have put my finger over the lens. I'll be more careful. He made his way up onto the circular slab, stepping gingerly behind the body of the gun. He disappeared from view. Where did he go? Nasha said irritably. He'll get us all killed. Tans, come back. Doll shouted. What's the matter with you? In a minute. There was a long silence. At last the archaeologist appeared. I think I've found something. Come up and I'll show you. What is it, Doll? You said the gun was here to keep the enemy off. I think I know why they wanted to keep the enemy off. They were puzzled. I think I found what the gun is supposed to guard. Come and give me a hand. All right, dor said abruptly. Let's go. He seized Nashor's hands. Come on. Let's see what he's found. I thought that something like this might happen when I saw that the gun was like what? Gnasher pulled away her hand. What are you talking about? You act as if you knew what he's found. I do. Dahl smiled down at her. Do you remember the legend that all races have? The myth of the buried treasure and the dragon? The serpent that watches it, guards it, keeping everyone away? She nodded. Well. Dor pointed up at the gun that he said, is the dragon. Come on. Between the three of them, they managed to pull up the steel cover and lay it on one side. Dahl was wet with perspiration when they finished. It isn't worth it, he grunted. He stared into the dark, yawning hole. Or is it? Gnasher clicked on her headlamp, shining the beam down the stairs. The steps were thick with dust and rubble. At the bottom was a steel door. Come on, tan said excitedly. He started down the stairs. They watched him reach the door and pull hopefully on it without success. Give a hand. All right. They came gingerly after him. Dahl examined the door. It was bolted shut, locked. There was an inscription on the door, but he could not read it. Now what? Gnasher said. Dahl took out his hand weapon. Stand back. I can't think of any other way. He pressed the switch. The bottom of the door glowed red. Presently it began to crumble. Dahl clicked the weapon off. I think we can get through. Let's try. The door came apart easily. In a few minutes they had carried it away in pieces and stacked the pieces on the first step. They went on, flashing the light ahead of them. They were in a vault. Dust lay everywhere, on everything inches thick. Wood crates lined the walls. Huge boxes and crates, packages and containers. Tantz looked around curiously, his eyes bright. What exactly are all these? He murmured. Something valuable, I would think. He picked up a round drum and opened it. A spool fell to the floor, unwinding a black ribbon. He examined it, holding it up to the light. Look at this. They came around him. Pictures, gnasher said. Tiny pictures. Records of some kind. Tant closed the spool up in the drum again. Look. Hundreds of drums. He flashed the light around all those crates. Let's open one. Dahl was already prying at the wood. The wood had turned brittle and dry. He managed to pull a section away. It was a picture, a boy in a blue garment, smiling pleasantly, staring ahead. Young and handsome, he seemed almost alive, ready to move toward them in the light of the headlamp. It was one of them, one of the ruined race, the race that had perished for a long time. They stared at the picture. At last, dull replaced the board. All these are the crates, gnasher said. More pictures. And these drums. What are in the boxes? This is their treasure, tant said, almost to himself. Here are their pictures, their records. Probably all their literature is in here. Their stories, their myths, their ideas about the universe, and their history, nasher said. We'll be able to trace the development and find out what it was that made them become what they were. Dahl was wandering around the vault. Odd, he murmured. Even at the end, even after they had begun to fight, they still knew some place down inside them that their real treasure was this. Their books and pictures, their myths. Even after their big cities and buildings and industries were destroyed. They probably hoped to come back and find this after everything else was gone. When we get back home, we can agitate for a mission to come here, tan said. All this can be loaded up and taken back. We'll be leaving about. He stopped. Yes, dor said dryly. We'll be leaving in about three day periods from now. We'll fix the ship, then take off. Soon we'll be at home. That is, if nothing happens. Like being shot down by that. Oh, stop it, nasha said impatiently. Leave him alone. He's right. All this must be taken back home. Sooner or later we'll have to solve the problem of the gun. We have no choice. Dahl nodded. What's your solution, then? As soon as we leave the ground, we'll be shot down. His face twisted bitterly. They've guarded their treasures too well. Instead of being preserved, it will lie here until it rots. It serves them right. How? Don't you see? This was the only way they knew, building a gun and setting out to shoot anything that came along. They were so certain that everything was hostile, the enemy coming to take their possessions away from them. Well, they can keep them. Gnasher was deep in thought, her mind far away. Suddenly she gasped. Doll, she said. What's the matter with us? We have no problem. The gun is no menace at all. The two men stared at her. No menace, dhul said. It's already shot us down once, and as soon as we take off again. Don't you see? Gnasher began to laugh. The poor foolish gun. It's completely harmless. Even I could deal with it alone. You? Her eyes were flashing with a crowbar, with a hammer or a stick of wood. Let's go back to the ship and load up. Of course. We're at its mercy in the air. That's the way it was made. It can fire into the sky, shoot down anything that flies, but that's all against something on the ground, it has no defenses. Isn't that right? Dawn nodded slowly. The soft underbelly of the dragon in the legend. The dragon's armor doesn't cover its stomach. He began to laugh. That's right. That's perfectly right. Let's go then, gnasher said. Let's get back to the ship. We have work to do here. It was early the next morning when they reached the ship. During the night the captain had died and the crew had ignited his body. According to custom, they had stood solemnly around it until the last ember died. As they were going back to their work, the woman and the two men appeared dirty and tired, still excited, and presently from the ship a line of people came, each carrying something in his hands. The line marched across the grey slag, the eternal expanse of fused metal. When they reached the weapon, they all fell on the gun at once, with crowbars, hammers, anything that was heavy and hard. The telescopic sights shattered into bits. The wiring was pulled out, torn to shreds. The delicate gears were smashed, dented. Finally the warheads themselves were carried off and the firing pins removed. The gun was smashed, the great weapon destroyed. The people went down into the vault and examined the treasure. With its metal armored guardian dead, there was no danger any longer. They studied the pictures, the films, the crates of books, the jeweled crowns, the cups, the statues. At last, as the sun was dipping into the grey mists that drifted across the planet, they came back up the stairs again. For a moment they stood around the wrecked gun, looking at the unmoving outline of it. Then they started back to the ship. There was still much work to be done. The ship had been badly hurt. Much had been damaged and lost. The important thing was to repair it as quickly as possible, to get it into the air. With all of them working together, it took just five more days to make it spaceworthy. Nasher stood in the control room, watching the planet fall away behind them. She folded her arms, sitting down on the edge of the table. What are you thinking? Dahl said. I? Nothing. Are you sure? I was thinking that there must have been a time when this planet was quite different, when there was life on it. I suppose there was. It's unfortunate that no ships from our system came this far. But then we had no reason to suspect intelligence, life, until we saw the fission glow in the sky. And then it was too late. Not quite too late. After all, their possessions, their music books, their pictures, all of that will survive. We'll take them home and study them, and they'll change us. We won't be the same afterwards. They're sculpturing, especially. Did you see the one of the great winged creature without a head or arms broken off? I suppose. But those wings. It looked very old. It will change us a great deal. When we come back. We won't find the gun waiting for us, gnasher said. Next time it won't be there to shoot us down. We can land and take the treasure, as you call it. She smiled up at Daw. You'll lead us back there, as a good captain should. Captain Daw grinned. Then you've decided? Gnasher shrugged. Foma argues with me too much, I think. All in all, I really prefer you. Then let's go, dhul said. Let's go back home. The ship roared up, flying over the ruins of the city. It turned in a huge arc and then shot off beyond the horizon, heading into outer space. Down below, in the center of the ruined city, a single, half broken detective ain moved slightly, catching the roar of the ship. The base of the great gun throbbed painfully, straining to turn. After a moment a red warning light flashed on down inside its destroyed works and a long way off, a hundred miles from the city, another warning light flashed on far underground. Automatic relays flew into action. Gears turned, belts whined. On the ground above, a section of metal slag slipped back. A ramp appeared. A moment later a small cart rushed to the surface. The cart turned toward the city. A second cart appeared. Behind was loaded with wiring cables. Behind it a third cart came loaded with telescopic tube sites, and behind came more carts, some with relays, some with firing controls, some with tools and parts, screws and bolts, pins and nuts. The final one contained atomic warheads. The carts lined up behind the first one, the lead cart. The lead cart started off across the frozen ground, bumping calmly along, followed by the others moving toward the city to the damaged gun. End of the Gun By Philip K. Dick Recording by Graham Walker Ipswich, Suffolk.
- [82:48]
Hard Guy by HB Carleton this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Hard Guy by HB Carlton he was standing at the side of the glassite superhighway. His arm half raised, thumb pointed in the same direction as that of the approaching rocket car. Ordinarily, Frederick Martin would have passed a hitchhiker without stopping, but there was something in the bearing and appearance of this one that caused him to apply his brakes. Martin opened the door next to the vacant seat beside him. Going my way? He asked. A pair of steady, unsmiling blue eyes looked over him. Yeah, all right, then, hop in. The hitchhiker took his time. He slid into the seat with casual deliberateness and slammed the car door shut. The rocket car got underway once more. They rode in silence for half a mile or so. Finally, Martin glanced questioningly at his companion's expressionless profile. Where are you headed for? He asked. Dentonville. He spoke from the corner of his mouth without turning his head. Oh, yes. That's the next town, isn't it? Yeah. Not very communicative, reflected Martin, noticing the rather ragged condition of the other Cielo Lex clothing. Have much trouble getting rides? The passenger turned his head, his blue eyes without emotion. Yeah, most guys are leery about picking up hitchhikers. Scared they'll get robbed. Martin pursed his lips, nodded something to that. All right. I'm usually pretty careful myself, but I figured you looked okay. Can't always tell by looks, was the calm reply. Course, us guys mostly pick out some guy with a swell atomic mobile if we're gonna pull a stick up when we see an old heap like this one, there's usually not enough dough to make it pay. Martin felt his jaw drop. Say, you sound like you go in for that sort of thing. I'm telling you right now, I haven't enough cash on me to make it worth your while. I'm just a salesman trying to get along. You got nothing to worry about, his passenger assured him. Stickups ain't my racket. An audible sigh of relief escaped Martin. I'm certainly glad to hear that. What is your, er, racket, anyway? The blue eyes frosted over. Look, chum, sometimes it ain't exactly healthy to ask questions like that. Pardon me? Martin said hastily. I didn't mean anything. It's none of my business, of course. The calm eyes flicked over his contrite expression. Skip it, pal. You look like a right guy. I'll put you next to something. Only keep your lip buttoned, see? Oh, absolutely. I'm Mike Egan, head of the Strato Rovers.
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No.
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Martin was plainly awed. The Strato Rovers, eh? I've heard of them, all right. The other nodded complacently. Yeah, we're the toughest mob this side of Mars. We don't bother honest people, though. We get ours from the crooks and racketeers. They can't squeal to the interplanetary police. There's a lot in what you say, agreed Martin. And of course, that puts your mob in the Robin Hood class. Robin Hood nuts. That guy was a dope, running around with bows and arrows. Why, we got a Mystery Ray that paralyzes anybody that starts up with us. They're all right when it wears off, but by that time we get away. Martin was properly impressed. A Mystery Ray. With a weapon like that, you should be able to walk into a bank and clean it out without any trouble. His passenger's lips curled. I told you, we don't bother honest people. We even help the sp sometimes. Right now we're working with the Earth Mars G Men in rounding up a gang of fifth columnists that are planning on taking over the government. They're led by the Black Hornet. This Black Hornet goes around pretending like he's a big businessman, but he's really an international spy.
- [87:15]
A what?
- [87:17]
An international spy, repeated Martin's companion shortly. The EMG men say he's the most dangerous man in the country, but he won't last long with the Strato Rovers on his trail. Martin nodded. I can believe that. Tell me, Egan, what are you doing out here in a small earth town like Dentonville? The government's building some kind of ammunition place near here, and I understand the Black Hornets figuring on wrecking everything. Course he won't get away with it. Scattered plasticade houses on either side of the road indicated that they had reached the outskirts of Dentonville. Mike Egan pointed ahead to a small white house set back among a cluster of trees. There's where I'm holed up. Drop me off in front. A young woman in a faded blue satin glass house dress was standing at the front of the white picket fence. She watched in silence as the passenger stepped from the rocket car and lifted his hand to the driver in careless farewell. Thanks for the lift, chum, said Mike Egan. Not at all, replied Martin. Glad to have been of service to Mike Egan. The woman smiled to him. He's told you his name, I see. Martin lifted his hat. Indeed he has. Michael is all right, she said. I do think, though, that he reads too many Buck Gordon Interplanetary comic books for a boy of 11. End of Hard Guy by H.B. carleton.
- [88:58]
The Invaders by Benjamin Ferris 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 BLB Green the invaders by Benjamin Ferris Big Joe Merkulos was the first of them. He appeared at the Wide Bend national bank one day, cash in hand. The charm of him, his flashing smile, the easy strength in his big body, were persuasive recommendations, but the bank's appraisals scarcely got that far. Wasn't he the first buyer in 15 years for that boneyard of lovely dreams? Dark Valley, the county seat of Wide Bend, presided over three valleys corresponding to the forks of the Salanook River. Once, Dark Valley had been the richest of these. Solid houses and barns stood among orchards laden with fruit fields chock full of heavy, bearded grain, till one spring the middle fork of the river had dried up. The farmers called in specialists who sank wells and pilot holes, measured the slopes. They heard much talk about water tables, about springs undercutting rock formations. But when it was done, the fact remained Dark Valley's water supply was choked off beyond man's ability to restore it. In the end, the farmers gave up, left their dusty houses and shriveled orchards and Dark Valley died. Boys hiked over there occasionally men scouted for fence posts or pipe. Young couples passed quickly through on moonlight nights, and at least two stubborn old timers still squatted at the upper end. Now that Joe Merklos had bought it, of course they would have to move. Well, won't they? Henderson asked. Jerry Bronson looked around at the other members of the Wide Bend Businessman's Club. Don't take a lawyer to answer that hen damn shame, said Crusoe, the barber who always championed underdogs. They've no equity in that land for years the bank just let them stay on. They can move on over the hill. Jerry nodded. Maybe somebody ought to suggest that to them. Don't look at me, said Caruso. Those old coots ain't been near my shop for years. When the chuckles died, McAllister, the druggist, voiced the thought that rested unspoken on all their minds. I wonder if that fellow realizes what a worthless piece of land he's bought. He looked over it. This was Hammond of the bank. Course you didn't try to talk him out of it. Would you have? Hammond retorted indignantly. Henderson jabbed the air with his cigar. I think he was a coal miner back east. Saved up his money to get on the land. I think he's a gypsy, crusoe said. You ought to know. Tipped in the grocer laugh. Crusoe got fined for his reply. And with the tinkle of coins in the luncheon club kitty, the men dispersed. Joe Merklough's relatives arrived that night. Henderson, who told Jerry Bronson about it, had made an early morning delivery of feed nearby and driven on to take a look at Merklow's purchase. From the ridge he viewed dark valleys, three miles of width and six or so of length. Figures were moving about the gaunt and windowless farm buildings. At least one plow was in operation, and good blue friendliness of smoke arose here and there. Looked like a lot of people, Jerry, but you know, I didn't see any cars or trucks around. Jerry's blue eyes crinkled. Human nature didn't like puzzles any more than it liked strangers. He returned to the tedious civil case he was working on. About 3 o', clock, he decided he was tired and bored enough to call it a day. He got into his car and headed for Dark Valley. Aside from his curiosity, he thought he might talk to the two old squatters at the far end. The Carvers were independent and truculent now that Joe Mercklove's relatives had arrived in full force. The there was a danger of a clash as the road topped the ridge. It left green fields and orchards abruptly behind, but Dark Valley had a wild sort of beauty, cupped as it was between two rows of hills which curved together higher jumbled foothills to the west. Jerry's car trailed a plume of dust as it slid down to the dry riverbed. He made a left turn and started up the valley road. At the first farm he saw dark plump women in billowing dresses wearing peasant scarves over their heads. They moved about the barnyard, raking dead leaves and scratching busily at the baked earth of the old truck gardens. Chickens and ducks strayed, and Jerry caught a glimpse of children. He waved to the group and was answered by nods and flashing smiles. And then he had a shock. One of the women was working the handle of a pump that had been bone dry for 15 years, and a slender stream of clear water spilled into her wooden tub. Somewhat dazedly, Jerry drove on. He saw more of the Marklos people at other farms. Men were working in withered orchards. New fence posts and rails were going up. Bright axes flashed in the dry and scraggly wood. Lots of Jerry's thoughts kept running to the water in that first pump. Could it be that they had learned the valley had a supply again? That would be a mighty joke on Hammond and the First National Bank. The road, badly rutted by erosion and drifted over with sand and dry leaves began to rise. Jerry shifted into low gear. Then suddenly he stopped. He'd had another shock. He had just realized this road was unused. He recalled the twin ruts patterned with rabbit and bird tracks, clear back to the turn off. Without question, his car had been the first to make the road since winter. Then how had these dozens of people come, with their chickens and ducks and children and tools? He had seen no cars, no wagons, no carts. How had these people come? Jerry sat back in the seat and grinned. He fished out his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe. There were times when he considered himself fairly mature, fairly well balanced. Yet he was as ready as the next to build a house of mystery out of the insubstantial timber of ignorance. Of course there was a reasonable explanation. They must have walked from the railroad. It was a good many miles, but it was perfectly possible. Feeling better, Jerry followed the tortuous road of the western crest. His long legs hadn't taken him far from the car when he heard a harsh hold up. First one, then the other Carver brother stepped out of the scrub oak thicket. Short, leathery old men with ragged whiskers and dirt seamed into their faces and wrists. They eyed him malevolently over raised shotguns. Came to talk to you, jerry said mildly. One of them, he thought it was Ed, spat on. Now, jerry went on in an aggrieved tone, that's a fine way to treat a son of Jack Bronson. The Carver brothers glanced at one another, then the shotguns lowered. Come along, they said gruffly. In the littered yard by their cabin, they pointed to a bench and squatted down before it on their thin old shanks. New people in dark valley. They nodded. They bought it from the bank. They own it clear to the ridge line. Including your place here. We been here 40 years, said Ed. If I owned it, you could stay. 40 more they send you. The voice was sharp, suspicious. Jerry shook his head. I just thought you'd like to know about it. For a couple of minutes the Carver brothers chewed tobacco in unison. They stood up, reached for their guns. We'll see, they said. Jerry nodded. They walked beside him, kicking thoughtfully at the leaves. The brother named Mike rubbed his whiskers. Get much of a look at em when you pass through? Some they furriners? Jerry sighed inwardly. Maybe they look like card workers. The Carver brothers cackled suddenly. They better be to farm that land. Jerry passed back through the valley. A man knocking out stumps waved to him. A woman in a barnyard swished out her big skirts shooing chickens. At the first farm, a trickle of water still ran from the pump. Wide Bend was a normal community. Along with its natural curiosity, there was a genuine feeling of neighborliness, heightened by the conviction that these hard working strangers had thrown their money away on a hopeless venture. So one way or another, a fair percentage of the town's population found excuses in the next few days to get out to Dark Valley. Bit by bit the reports filtered back to Jerry, and they all added up to about the same. Joe Merklos and his people were incredibly industrious. Already they had cleaned up the yards, repaired sagging barns and roofless sheds. Curtains fluttered at the windows. Cows had appeared and sheep, even a few horses. Somehow, perhaps from accumulated seepage, they were still bringing water from the rusty pumps. And though it was surely an illusion, Dark Valley seemed to have taken on a tinge of green again. Widebend's womenfolk brought gifts of homemade preserves, jellies, canned vegetables, and came away puzzled. No, they hadn't been badly received. Always politeness and smiles. But there was, well, a sort of remoteness about these people. The kids went out of sight the minute you turned into a place, and you just couldn't get close to the grown ups. Dark they were, and heavy looking. They smiled a lot, jabbering in an unknown language. They had beautiful white teeth, but no jewelry or ornaments such as gypsies might wear. They always appeared pleased that you brought them something, but on the way home you discovered you still had your priority presence after all. The best guess as to the number in the tribe. Somehow that seemed the best way to describe them was 60, give or take a few. The general verdict was expressed by Henderson at the next club luncheon. They're odd, but they're hard workers. Darn good thing for the community, miller, the jeweler, agreed vigorously. Self interest, jerry murmured, is a wonderful thing. They turned on him. They haven't bought a thing from us. And what if they did? Kidding, boys. I've got something to sell, too. Then Jerry frowned. They haven't bought anything. Around the table heads shook. Probably, crusoe growled. They wear their hair long, too. In the laughter the matter was forgotten. But Jerry remembered it that night, sitting on the porch of his house. There must be hundreds of items, tools and nails and hinges and glass and wire and sandpaper and oil and rope and seed and salt and sugar that the tribe needed. How could they? There was a step on the path. You there? Caruso called. Yep. The barber sat in the other chair, hoisting his feet to the railing you know how kids are. That boy of mine, he couldn't stand it about Dark Valley. He was out there with a couple of pals poking around. Yes. Jerry didn't realize his voice was sharp. Oh, no trouble. But the middle fork of the rivers started to run again. For a long time after Crusoe had gone, Jerry sat with his cold pipe in his mouth. There were reasonable explanations for every one of the small oddities that had cropped up with Joe Merklos and his people, but he couldn't shake a growing feeling of uneasiness. Jerry went to bed muttering, for he was a man trained to keep emotions and fact well, separate. But the feeling was still with him when he awoke, and he recognized it later on Henderson's face. We got to get the boys together and talk this thing over. The fee and the fuel owner said, what's up? The stuff that's missing. Jerry gave a start. He had just spent at least half an hour looking for his garage lock. Every day of this week, henderson went on heavily, I've had people in to replace some little thing that was lost. Hatchets and feeding troughs and spare parts and panes of glass and things like that. A couple of old chicken brooders that was stored, tin salt blocks that Anderson had in his barn. Just then McAllister stepped over from the drug store to join them. Damn it, he said plaintively, dusting off his store jacket. I've been in the basement the last hour looking for an old pipe wrench. I swear I left it there. Jerry met Henderson's glance. All right, he said. Let's get the gang together for lunch today. Sheriff Watson joined them in the back room of the restaurant. When the coffee came to, Jerry rose to explain the purpose of the meeting. Our problem, he began, may amount to nothing at all, or it could turn out to be mighty nasty hen, and I thought it was time to talk it over. Briefly, he recapitulated Dark Valley's reawakening. He described Joe Merklos and his people, their odd clothing, their independence, their alien language. Point one, he said, most people don't like strangers. He described the tribe's arrival without cars or wagons, without even a mark on the abandoned road. He spoke of the pumps that came to life, the river that now ran again. The progress the tribe had made seemed almost beyond human capacity. Point two, Jerry said, most people don't like mysteries. He turned. Okay, Henry. First Henderson explained that none of the tribe had bought supplies of any kind in wide men. He got corroboration from other businessmen present. Then as he summarized the missing articles, heads began to nod, faces got red, and fists were clenched. Jerry got to his feet again. Point 3. I don't need to spell out much more of this. And carloads of men with guns will be heading for the ridge. There'll be a kind of trouble we don't want on Wide Bend's conscience. Should we let em rob us blind? Shouted Tipton. No wonder they do so good. Caruso cried. How about the water? Hammond asked sarcastically. You think they stole that, too? Someone shouted back, and a heated discussion raged. Jerry finally banged on the table with a sugar bowl. Lets hear from the sheriff. Watson hoisted his big frame and sighed. Jerry's right, boys. We got a nasty situation building up right now. My old woman's so mad at the Dark Valley people she could spit. And why? Only because she can't figure em out. He brushed his mustache and looked at Tipton. Them people are human beings, ain't they? Tipton scowled but nodded. Anything they done that couldn't be explained by natural causes, no matter how silly or complicated. Tipton thought about it and had to shake his head. Believe me, boys, the only thing to get excited about is the stuff that's missing. If they're pinching it, we can catch them and punish them. They may be foreigners, but they sure as hell have to obey the law of the land. Now, hammond said, we're talking sense. Give me a list of what's missing, watson added, and I'll go to Dark Valley this afternoon and take a look around the place. Everybody satisfied? Jerry asked. Everybody was. Sheriff Watson frowned at the list as Jerry drove into the first barnyard. They scattered. Chickens, ducks, and children seemed blurrily as they scrambled to hide. They remained a few minutes, extensively visiting, then went on to the next farm and the next beyond the last one on the rise that led to the Carber cabin. Jerry stopped the car. They looked at one another. Watson rubbed his face irritably. I'm beat, Jerry. There's something here I can't get my hands nor my head onto. I know. The sheriff banged one big hand against the crumpled list. That butter churn of Mulford's. By God, I saw it. Same brand, same color. Even had scratches around the base where that old cat of his sharpened her claws. I know, jerry said again. But it had a letter Z cut into it, worn and weathered, so you'd swear it had been there for years and years. That spring toothed Harrow of Zimmerman's. Except the one we saw had 12 teeth instead of 15, and even the man who made it couldn't find where it had been altered or tampered with. It had been the same with score of other things, each one slightly changed, just different enough to make identification impossible to prove. Slowly Jerry said, wood gets weathered, metal oxidizes, honest wear is unmistakable, and these all take time, which can't be faked. His implication hung in the air. If these things had been stolen, then altered to avoid identification, whoever did it had more than human ability. Magic, watson muttered. There's no such thing. No, there absolutely ain't. They sat looking with troubled eyes out over Dark Valley till Jerry said abruptly, I'm going up to see the Carvers. Watson reached for the door handle. They don't have no use for me. I'll wait here. I got plenty to think about. Jerry nodded. The sheriff would be remembering the seeds already sprouting in the kitchen gardens, the leaves that had jumped out onto the old fruit trees, the lambs and calves capering in pastures washed with green of new grass. The road was smooth, its ditches cleared and deepened. Bright clothing napped on shiny new clotheslines. Those were on the list, but how can you identify A roll of wire cordwood was stacked in every yard. New shingles spotted the roofs. The windows held glass again. Fresh paint glistened on porches. In the fields, corn and oats and hay were shooting upward. Jerry found the Carvers waiting for him, their wrinkled old faces tense. They didn't answer his greeting, just jerked their heads. They let him pass the cabin through open brush and halted at a bare place. Slowly Jerry sank to his knees. Except for its size, it could have been a splayed out cougar print. But it was two feet across and pressed more than an inch into the hard, dry soil. Finally, Ed Carver nudged Jerry. The gnarled finger pointed to a twig of wild lilac eight feet off the ground. Caught in the twig were several coarse black hairs, six inches long. Jerry looked from them back to the Carvers, then down at the ground again. He didn't speak. What was there to say as they started back toward the cabin and Ed Carver said harshly, we found that two nights ago. Jerry brooded for some distance. Then he said, ned Ames has the best hunting dogs in the country. They looked at him disgustedly. Damn it, you have to do something. Come back to town with me. We'll get some of the boys together and hunt it down. They had passed the cabin and reached the car. The Carver brothers looked out over Dark Valley and shook their heads. We've lived alone, ed said. We'll fight alone. When Jerry told the sheriff about the giant spoor, Watson gave a derisive snort. Those old coots got bats in their belfries. But I saw the print. Watson dismissed such evidence with a wave of his hand. They made it up, probably. Forget it till you see the animal itself. You'll have time to believe it then. We got enough to worry about already. Jerry couldn't forget it, but there was a kind of reassurance in such hearty skepticism. With each passing minute, the huge print seemed more unreal. Halfway through the valley, they stopped to look at the river. The bend was half full, muddy debris laden with a sheen of dust on the surface. But it was water. Wet, tangible, undeniable. Watson took off his hat and rubbed his head and swore. Good afternoon. They turned. Joe Merklos was smiling at them. Hello, jerry said. Watson just glowered. Merklos moved beside them and looked down. His brilliant teeth flashed. Good, is it not? The guttural words came out flat, one at a time, as though shaped carefully. Better than money in this part of the world. Jerry's eyes narrowed. Did you know about the water when you bought the valley? Merklos smiled again. He was bareheaded, dressed in dark trousers and a loose, short sleeved blouse. His neck and muscular forearms gleamed bronze in the sunlight. You like what we do here? He asked in his deep, hesitant manner. You've done wonders, watson said shortly. Murklove's smoky eyes held Jerry's. My people are used to work slowly, significantly, Watson said, the thing we don't understand is how you managed to bring so much equipment, the exact things you needed, right down to the last nail. Merkloth's inscrutable gaze swung around. The smile lingered on his face. We are a careful people. We plan a long way ahead. Watson opened his mouth for another question and shut it. Murklove's attention had left them. The man was listening, his head slightly cocked. After a moment he turned. I am happy to see you making a visit. I hope you come again. He nodded and walked swiftly away. Wordlessly, Jerry and the sheriff got back in the car. Could you hear what he was listening to? Jerry muttered. I didn't hear a thing. Notice anything else about Dark Valley? Watson shook his head. No flowers. Not one dog. Jerry's hand tightened on the steering wheel. And whoever has gotten a single clear look at one of the kids? Jerry spent a restless night. On the way to his office the next morning he met Watson talking to a farmer on the courthouse steps. Listen to Carson here, the sheriff said grimly. Carson's straw hat bobbed as he talked. I'm waiting to see the farm advisor. Something's gone wrong out at my place on the South Fork. I'm on good bottom land, highest yield in the county. But the last two weeks my corn, my wheat, even my berries has stopped growing. Jerry's eyes jumped to Watson. Yep, carson went on, every single ear of corn is still nubbin. He threw out his arms. And by God, even my wife's radishes has stood still. Ain't anything on earth that'll show up a radish. How about other stuff? How about eggs? Same thing. Cut right down. Hens lay one in ten now, maybe. And my alfalfa has turned out funny. Gray, green, even the fruit. What about the river? Watson broke in. You still got water in the South Fork Way down for this time of year, but we got enough. Several people had stopped to listen, one of them a big towhead Swede bursting out excitedly. Mister, you got the same trouble as my cousin. His crops, they're growing backwards. There was more of the same impossible talk. Jerry made an excuse to get away to his office. He sat at his desk and stared out the window. There wasn't any problem, he tried to tell himself. Anything he could not measure by experience and logic was out. And that had to include giant paw prints and mysteriously missing objects, as well as radishes that wouldn't grow. Dark Valley was taking on life and freshness. Fact. The South Fork and portions of the North Fork seemed to be losing fertility. Fact. But to conclude from this that Dark Valley was gaining at the expense of the others, that was a road no reasonable man could allow himself to take. From his window he saw the huge old trees that shaded Wide Bend. They looked suddenly wrong, weren't they? Less green, less thick than before? The buildings and streets looked dingier, too. And when did all those broken fences, cracked windows, missing shingles show up? Jerry lunged from his chair and strode up and down the room. Then the telephone bell tore through his nerves. He grabbed the instrument. Watson, I just want to tell you two boys have been reported missing. No, the Simmons kids. But they've run away before. They'll be back. Jerry's hand went slowly down. The sheriff's voice echoed hollowly from the lowered receiver. Well, won't they? It was after midnight when the doorbell rang. It didn't wake Jerry. He was sitting in bed, staring into the darkness. There was a pile of books beside him. He knocked him over. Getting up to answer the door. Mike Carver stumbled in. He dropped into a chair, panting. Jerry went for a bottle and a glass. Carver gulped the drink and then held out the tumbler for another. I run all the way down the ridge, he gasped. Till I catched a ride. I figured you ought to know what happened. It got my brother Ed. Jerry's face hardened. Yeah, it was prowling around. We went after it and shot it. But you said. I said it killed Ed. The old lips tightened. We gave it one slug through the heart and one through the head. They didn't even slow it down. You mean, jerry asked carefully, that they didn't have any effect at all? Mike nodded. He tipped the glass, wiped his ragged sleeve across his face, and rose. Where are you going? Back to the cabin. Mike, you can't go there. That's where my brother's body is. Look, jerry said evenly, you can't help him now. Stay here with me and we'll go up in the morning. Carver shook his head. My brother's there at the cabin. I got to set up with him. There was no arguing against that tone of simple and utter finality. All right. Wait till I get some clothes on and I'll drive you back. A few minutes later they passed through Wide Bend's deserted streets and started out the road to the valley. Carver rolled down his window and spat tobacco juice. Feller was up to see us, he said gloomily. Told us people was losing things all over the county. Includin two kids, said crops has shrunk. Said water in the Forks is way down. He's right, said. People are getting the idea. Dark Valley was living off the rest of the land, feeding on it like a parasite. How crazy you think that is? Slowly, Jerry said, I'm not sure it's crazy at all. Carver brooded. I shot that thing tonight. Should have been dead if a critter ever was. Then I seen it go after Ed. You know what all this means, don't you? Witchcraft. Something people haven't believed in for hundreds of years. Maybe they better get started again. They were nearing the divide that overlooked Dark Valley. Mike, I've been reading up on it for hours. Everything I could find, and it fits. It's been the hardest struggle I ever had, admitting such a thing existed. But it was either acknowledge that or lose my mind. The night seemed colder as they started downward. Unaccountably, the headlights dimmed. Something watchin us, carver said suddenly as the car bored through the thick and swirling darkness. Jerry nodded. His hands gripped the wheel until the knuckles were white. Sweat began to glisten on his forehead. The headlights picked out a dark Spot that looked like a yawning hole. Jerry stamped on the brake, skidded slightly, but there was only a shallow rut. Deformed by shadows, he pressed the accelerator and the motor died. Hurriedly he jabbed the starter button, pumped the gas pedal. He pushed it again and again, and the lights faded from the drain on the battery. What's the matter? Carver's old voice was thin. Flooded, maybe. Better let her sit a minute. The darkness pressed close around them, shifted and danced. Chill air moved over their faces. Mike? Yeah? Why didn't that animal come after you, too? Carver breathed heavily for a moment. Then he took something from his shirt pocket and held it out. Jerry's fingers moved over it. A crucifix. My mother gave it to me a long time ago. That's probably the only thing that could have saved you. From what I read, they can't stand a cross, and silver's got something to do with it. Jerry reached into his own pocket. Feel this. Carver's rough hand fumbled over the object. Made it this evening. Took a cold chisel and hammer to an old silver tray. Not fancy, but it was all I had. You done that before I came and told you about Ed. Jerry nodded grimly. I'm convinced we're up against something terrible. And believe me, Mike, I'm scared. The shadows drew closer, thicker still. They seemed charged with me. Menace. With a catch in his voice, Jerry said, maybe now's the time to try it. Carver's head jerked around. I mean smash Merclos and his tribe for good. How? With fire and the silver crosses. After a long pause, Carver said, what about Ed? We'll get to your cabin. We're not far from the first farm. We can go right up the valley if it works. And if it don't, we might end up like Ed. Carver turned and spat out the window. I don't want to, but I will. They got out of the car into the humming darkness. They took gunny sacks and rags from the trunk compartment and soaked them in oil from the crankcase. They wired a bundle on the extension handle of the jack and another on the radio aerial rod, which Jerry unscrewed. They tried to start the car once more without success, so they turned off the lights and left it. With one torch burning, they started up the road for the first gate. Dark valley's shadowy legions closed in. There was a rustling and a whispering all around them. There were shiny glints where none ought to be. There was an overwhelming feeling that something frightful weighted just beyond the edge of darkness. The gate.
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The gate.
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Carver said hoarsely. Jerry unclenched his jaws and lit the second torch. The flare up reflected from the blank windows ahead. What about the women? What about the kids? Jerry spoke jerkily, his eyes on the house. There aren't any kids. What we saw was something else. The women are the same as the men. The same thing that killed Ed. Don't worry about them. Hold the cross in front of you, and for God's sake, hang on to it. The darkness swelled like a living thing. It swayed and clutched at torches. Somewhere high. Whining began like a keening wind. There were sudden sounds from the house, bangings and scramblings. Carver faltered on Jerry said savagely, and began to run. He touched his homemade crucifix to the wood of the porch and with the other hand brought the torch down. Blue sparks jumped out at him. The dry wood hissed and blazed up furiously. A frightful scream rang out. There was a tinkle of breaking glass, Formless figures, thunder thudded to the ground and scuttled away on all fours, headed up the valley. Within minutes, the farmhouse was a mass of roaring flame. Jerry backed away from it. He saw Carver outlined against the glowing barn which he had fired. They came together and hurried back to the road. There they stopped to watch the pillar of flame and smoke boiling upward. It worked, Carver said. Jerry nodded. We can't kill them, but we can drive them out. Women and kids, carver said bitterly. Did you see them things that came out? Yes. Jerry was drenched in sweat, and the torch trembled in his hand. Let's get on to the next one, Mike. They went on to the neighboring farm and to the one after that. While the shadows pulsed in an unholy turmoil. The night swarmed with malignant, invisible forces that tried to blow the flame from their torches, that flayed them with the naked sword of fear. There were hideous shapes half seen. There were waves of terror like a physical shock. There were puffs of order, so ranked the gagged. But they plodded through it, faces set, sweating and agonized, till halfway up the valley it came. Carver knew. At first his leathery face paled. His hands fumbled instinctively for the gun he was not carrying. Then Jerry said hoarsely, mike, did you hear that? Carver nodded dumbly. Clearly, now came the sound of those huge paws padding first on one side of them, then the other. Jerry clutched his cross till the rough edges bit deep into his hand. It seemed that his very life was bound up with the torch that now smoked and struggled to burn. If its feeble flame went out, that meant extinction, black and final. Then he became aware that Carver was no longer beside him. He whirled 10 yards behind. The other was bending down, scrabbling frantically in the dust. I dropped it. He shouted. I can't find it. Jerry tried to reach him, but the other thing was quicker. A whirlpool of blackness engulfed Carver, blotting him out. Then Jerry was confronted by an unbelievable sight. A great savage head towering over him, its eyes glowing redly and foam creaming over gigantic open jaws. Desperately, he shoved his cross straight at it. The thing spat and roared deafeningly. The thud of its paws shook the ground. It lashed out with monstrous claws that sliced his skin. Half stunned, Jerry kept lunging toward it till finally his cross touched its course side. There was a crackle of blue flame, a shriek that split the night, and the thing disintegrated in roiling clouds of bitter smoke. Jerry swayed. The hand that held the cross was numb and tingling like an automaton. He turned, went back and knelt beside the crumpled shape that had been Mike Carver. Then he rose, still carrying the feebly flickering torch and and plodded on. They met him as he was coming back. Watson, Henderson, Crusoe, Miller, Hammond, and the rest. They had flashlights and guns and tear gas, and their faces were grim and desperate. We found your car, they said. We could see the flames from Wide Bend. What in the hell has been going on? Jerry stared at them. He dropped the dead torch, one hand tried to put the cross back into his pocket. His face was black, his hair singed, his side wet with blood. It's all over, he croaked. They're gone. Dark Valley is free again. End of the Invaders by Benjamin Ferris Recording by BLB Green.
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Join Our Gang by Sterling E. Lanier 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 Joe Morris Join Our Gang By Sterling E. Lanier Fancy Capital C Commander William Powers, Sub leader of the survey group Syrian combine 1027798 and hence first officer of its ship, the Benefactor, stared coldly out of his cabin port. The Benefactor was resting on the bedrack of Island 27 of the world, called Mures by its natives. Like all other such names, it meant the world, just as the natives name for themselves. Falsetha meant the people or us or the only race. To Commander Powers, 50 years old with 11 of them and survey work, the world was a planet too, of a star called something unpronounceable, and the nebula of something Else equally pointless. He had not bothered to learn the native name of Island 27 because his ship had mapped 1,386 islands, all small and either rocky or swampy, or both. Island 27 to him had only one important and that was its being the site of the largest city on the planet. Around the island's seven square miles, a maze of docks, buildings, sheds, breakwaters and artificial inlets made a maze stretching a mile out to the sea in every direction. The gray sea, now covered with fog patches, rolled on the horizon under low lying cloud. Numerous craft, some small, some large, moved busily about on the water, which in its components was identical with that of Terra, far distant in the Sirius sector. Crude but workable. Atomic motors powered most of them, and there was a high proportion of submarines. Powers thought of Earth's oceans for a moment, but then dismissed the thought. Biological technical data were no specialty he needed. Terra might be suitable for the action formulating in his mind, but a thousand sons of Cerean combine might prove more useful. The biologists of Grand Base would determine, assistant by data his ship provided and their monster computers, what was called for. Powers had been trained for different purposes. He was, as every survey commander was, a battle hardened warrior. He had fought in two major fleet actions in his day and had once, as a very junior ensign of the Syrian Grand Fleet, participated in the ultimate horror, the destruction by obliteration of an inhabited planet. For planetary destruction, a unanimous vote of the Syrian grand council, representing over 4,000 Worlds, was necessary. It had been given only four times in the long history of the Confederacy. Every intelligent being in the Grand Union shuddered, the thought of its ever becoming necessary again. Powers stared moodily over the rocky ground toward a group of figures in the distance which were moving in his direction. The final delegation of the Mur East Government, a world government, was coming for its last meeting before the Benefactor departed into the far reaches of space. Powers braced himself mentally for a grand effort. He held equivalent rank to that of a galactic admiral, and it was held for one reason, because of his real work and its importance. He was a super psychologist, a trend analyzer, a salesman, a promoter, a viewer, an expert on alien symbology, and the spearhead of the most ruthless intelligence service in the known universe. Long ago he had transferred from the battlefleet to the Inner School at Sirius prime for the most intensive training ever devised. Now it would be put to the ultimate test. He heard the airlock open and turned away from the window. He had a long way to walk to the Neutral Council Chamber for the Benefactor was a big ship, despite the fact that only 20 beings comprised the total complement. Down the echoing corridor as he paced, brow furrowed in thought. Mazuchaz would have his own ideas, he knew, but if they made no impression, he would have to put his oar in. Each being on board, whether he breathed halogen or oxygen, ate uranium or protein, had to be independent in thought and action under certain circumstances. The circumstances were here, here and now, in his judgment. He arrived at the door of the council chamber and entered an impressive sight in flaming orange and blue uniform. Four members of the Supreme Council of the Muris rose slowly and inclined their heads in his direction. They were tall bipeds of vaguely reptilian ancestry, most of their height being body. They stood on short powerful legs terminating in flippered feet, and their long arms were flanged to the second elbow with a rubbery fin. Only four opposed fingers flexed the hands, but the dome shaped heads and the golden eyes screamed intelligence as loudly as the bodies shouted Adaptation to an aquatic environment. Around the brown torsos, light but efficient harness supported a variety of instruments and non corrosive metal sheaths. All of the instruments had been discreetly examined by scanning beams and pronounced harmless before any contact had been allowed. Across the central table, Soc Mazachaz of Lyra 8, leader and captain of the survey, stared red eyed at his executive officer. Masachaz resembled the delegation far more than he did his own officer, for he too had remotely reptilian forebears. Bears indeed, he still sported a flexible tail and save for his own orange and blue uniform ablaze with precious stones, resembled nothing so much as a giant terrestrial chameleon. The uniforms were no accident. Tsurbuy men wore anything or nothing, as the case called for it, and Falsetha admired bright colors, having few of their own and a good color sense. The gleaming jewels on Masachaz's uniform stresses superiority and rank to Powers, as they were meant to. Of the 20 survey men on board the Benefactor, Mazachazz and Powers were the only two who most resembled, in that order, the oxygen breathing natives of Maurice. That automatically made them captain and executive officer of the Benefactor. The native population saw only the captain and executive officer of the ship, and only the council chamber. On a world of ammonia breathers, Mazachaz and Powers would have been invisible in their own part of the ship, providing advice only to the Skorgak of Marga, 10 Lamdim, and perhaps Nayur of Antares. By 12, if a suspicious native saw an entity with whom he could feel a remote relationship giving orders to a weird looking far more alien creature. A feeling of confidence might appear. Since Magichas came from a planet of superheated desert and scrub resembling the Karoo of South Africa. The resemblance could have been bettered, but it was well within the allowable limits set forth in the Inner Amandate, and in galactic psychology, every trick counted for persuasion was the chief weapon of the Syrian Combine. Outright force was absolutely forbidden, save by the aforesaid vote of the Council. Every weapon in the book of Persuasion was used to bring intelligent races into the combine, and persuasion is a thing of infinite variety. As these thoughts flashed through Power's mind, he seated himself in a plain chair and adjusted the universal speaker to his mouth. Beside him, on a more elaborate chair tailored to fit his tail, Mazuchaz did the same. While the four Falsetha seated themselves on those stools and took similar instruments from the oblong table which separated them from the two survey men. Deep in the bowels of the ship, a giant translator switched on to simultaneously translate and record the mutually alien tongues as they were spoken. Adjustable extensions on the speakers brought the sound to the bone of the skull. For different lifeforms, different instruments would have been necessary and were provided for. Mazachez, as Captain, opened the proceedings. Since this is our last session with you, we hope some fresh proposals have occurred to your honorable Council during your absence, hounded the speaker through Power's skull. He who is designated first among the Council of the Murees answered, We have no new proposals, nor indeed had we ever. Any trade would be welcome, but we vitally need nothing from you or your combine have described, Captain. We have all the minerals we need. And the Great Mother. He meant. The sea provides food. We will soon go into space ourselves and meet as equals with you. We can cannot tolerate what you call an observer who seems to us a spy and not subject to our laws. By your own definition, that is all we have to say. That does it, thought Powers glumly. The cold, an entirely accurate description of the planetary representative of the Syrian Combine was the final clincher. The intensely proud and chauvinistic polisthesa would tolerate no interference. Mazachez gave no indication he had heard. He tried again. In addition to trade and education, general advancement of the populace, murmured the Mike. Have you considered defense? He paused. Not all races who travel in space are friendly. A few are starkly inimical, hating all other forms of life. Could you defend yourselves, honorable sirs, against such? It was obvious from the speed of the answer that the Council of the Mures had considered, if not anticipated, this question. The second member spoke, an obvious pre assignment. In all our long history, you are our first contact with star travelers. Yet we are not defenseless. The Great Mother contains not only food, fish, and plants which we harvest, but many strong and terrible beasts. Very few are left to disturb us. In addition, the implications of your ship have not escaped us. Scientists are even now adapting some of our atomic devices used in mining to other ends. The voice contained a faint hint of pride as it ended. We got guns too, buddy, it said. And we ain't pushovers. The first of the council spoke again. Let me be plain respected starfarers. It seems obvious to us that you have learned most of what we represent as a council, if not all. We are the heads of the great clans, and we will not change. It hardly seems likely that you represent a society based on heredity if you include the diverse and nameless breeds of creature you have shown us in your screens. We do not want such an amalgam on our world, causing unrest and disturbances of public order. Still less do we desire authoritarian interference with the ordered life we have developed. Your requests are one and severally refused. There will be no observer. Trade regulated by us would be welcome. Otherwise, should you choose not to be bound by our laws, we must respectfully and finally bid you farewell. When at some future date we develop ships such as yours, we may reconsider. The speaker paused, looked at his three confreres, who nodded silently. The first stared arrogantly at Mazachaz, and continued. Finally, we have decided to place a ban on further landings by aliens, unless you are now prepared to negotiate a trade agreement on our terms. Powers thought frantically, his face motionless. This was defeat, stark and unequivocal. The parable he had in mind seemed indicated now or never. He turned to Sac Mazach as and spoke. May I have your permission to address the honored council, noble captain? He asked. Speak, first officer said to Liren, his gular pouches throbbing. His ruby eyes to his associate, looked pained as well they might. Let me pose a question, honored sirs, said Powers. Suppose that in your early history of creating your orderly realm, you had discovered on one of your islands a race of Falsetha as advanced and regulated as yourselves, who wished nothing to do with you. He could feel the alerted tension of the four as the golden eyes glowed at him. The implications of your question are obvious. The first of the council spoke as coldly as ever. Do you threaten us with force from your combine devoted to peace? The flat voice of the translator hummed with acquired and impossible violence, which Powers knew to be subjected. The first continued. We would resist to the ultimate down to the least of our young in the most helpless female weed cultivator. Do your worst. Power sat back. He had done his best. The hereditary dictatorship of the United World had spoken. No democratic minority had ever raised its head here. The Society of Maurice was stratified in a way ancient India never thought of being down to refuse collectors of a thousand generations of dishonorable standing. Ancient Japan had been as rigidly exclusionist, but there had been a progressive element there. Here there is nothing. Nothing, that is, except a united world of coldly calculating and very advanced entities about to erupt into space without heaven knew what weapons and a murderous arrogance and race pride to bolster them. He thought of the dead orb called Sibelia rolling around its worthless sun, an object of nausea to all life. And he had helped. Well, the boys in biology had the ball now he forced himself to listen to the first of the Council as he bade Mazutas a courteous farewell. Depart in harmony and peace, honorable starfarers. May your Great Mother be benign when you return to give your High Council our message on the far distant worlds you have shown us in the sky. The Council departed, leaving Powers and Mazachetch staring at each other in the Council chamber, their gaudy uniforms looking a little dull and drab. Well, Sax, said Powers, his ruddy face a little flushed. We can't be perfect. They don't know about space warps and instantaneous communicators. Plan 2 has nothing to do with us. Beyond our recommendation, you mean, said Deliran flatly. We have failed, William. This means death for thousands of innocent beings, perhaps more. Their world population is about 80 million, you know. There was silence in the room until Powers broke it again. Would you have Sibelia Sac? He asked gently. Or Ruler One? Belavan's World? Or Labaoth? There was no answer to this, and he knew it. There was only one alternative to a dead, burned out, empty planet. Meris was in the wrong stage of development and would have to be brought in line. The Sirian combine had to and would remove any intelligent unknown menace from a position position from which it could threaten its master plan of integrated peace. As they left the chamber, Powers said a silent prayer and touched the tiny crescent and star embroidered on his shirt pocket. At least, he thought, the planted ultrawave communicators would be there when the falsetto needed them. He looked out of a corridor port the gray and rolling sea. A Great Mother, he thought bitterly, benevolent and overflowing. Trailer 124 Female gardener, age 32 Cycles hummed in a minor key as she harvested weed of the stolstes crop 12 miles off the northern islands. A rest period was due in the next cycle day, and she and her mate were ahead of quota, which should make the supervisor give him a good holiday. The tall weeds swayed gently against her, and several small fish darted past in fright. As the first heavy beat of the water struck against her slim body, she looked up, frozen with horror. She realized her container. But in 40ft of water. The monster caught her before she had moved a hundred yards. As it fed horribly, other grim shapes, attracted by the blood, moved in from the distant murk of deeper water. Sabathik Air rode his one man torpedo alertly as he probed the southern bay of Ramaseret. He was a scientist, 12, and also a hereditary hunter. If the giant fish, long since eliminated from the rest of the seas, were breeding in some secret area of the far and desolate southern rocks, it was his business to know it. No fish could catch his high powered torpedo while his electric spirit spears packed a lethal jolt. Probably, he thought, a rumor of the poor fisher folk who worked at the southern fringe areas. What else could you expect from such types who had never even learned to read in a thousand cycles? Nevertheless, as he patrolled the sunken rocks, he was alert, scanning the water on all sides constantly for the great shape he sought, his skin alert for the first strange vibration. By neglecting the broken bottom, brown with laminaria and kelp, he missed the great mottled tentacle which plucked him off his torpedo in a flash of movement, leaving the riderless craft to cruise aimlessly away into the distance. Your Highness, said the Supervisor supreme, we are helpless. We have never used metal nets because we have never had to. Our fiber nets, they slash to ribbons. They attack every species of food fish from the ursa to the crod. The breeding rate is fantastic. And now my equal who controls the mine, says they're attacking the miners. Despite all the protection he can give them, they are not large, but in millions. Seize your outcries, said the first in Council wearily, and remove that animal from my writing desk. I have seen many pictures of it since they first appeared five cycles ago. It still looks alien and repulsive. He stared in silence at the shape that any high school biology student of distant Terra could have identified in his sleep. At length the first in Council dismissed the Supervisor of Fisheries and headed thoughtfully for an inner room of his palace. He knew at the last meeting the strange metal communicating devices discovered and confiscated after the starship had departed six cycles before. It was a simple machine to operate, and he guessed food could be sent incredibly quickly to his starving planet. Just as quickly as other things. He thought it grimly. And we have to beg ha admission to the great peace loving combine. May the crabs devour them. But he knew that he would send and that they would come. I was comparing the two reports, my friend, said Mazachazz, but I am not so familiar with your planetary ecology as I should be. When Murice applied for admission to the combine, I requested a copy of their secret directive from biology, but I had never seen the older report until you gave it to me just now. Can you explain the names to me if I read them off? Go ahead, said Powers, sipping his sherbet noisily. He seldom wondered what alcohol would feel like any longer. Most old Believers had tried it when young and disliked it. I've already looked up the names. I didn't know, he said. So start the mirison list. First great white shark or man eater. Read Mazatajaz. He sounds obvious and nasty. He is, says Powers. He put down his glass. Remember, as usual, the birth rate has been at least tripled. An increased metabolism means increased food consumption, and no shark on Terra was ever full. This brute runs 40ft when allowed in size. That is a giant carnivorous fish. Very tough. Number two is Architulithis, or giant squid. Is that a fish? Sorry, but on my world fish are curiosities. It's an eyed carnivorous mollusk with enormous arms. Ten of them, and it reaches 80ft long at least. Swims well, too. There was a moment of silence and Mazuchazz continued. Smooth dogfish. A tiny shark, said Powers. About three and a half feet in size. They school in thousands on Terra and eat anything that swims. Just blind agile appetite. They have a high normal breeding rate. Finally, we have a Ballaran salamander. So you're free of one curse, anyway. Ballara, I believe, is hellishly wet, although I don't know much about it. Powers rose and stretched. He's a little fellow with six legs and a leathery hide, a nuisance on Bolera, which is the equivalent of a Terran swamp. He eats every vegetable known, dry or fresh, and being only two inches long is hard to see. He doesn't bite, just eats things and breeds. There must be millions of now on each island of Meeres. Then the eggs get carried about. They're tough and adhesive. You can guess what their warehouses look like. At least 2 million starred before the Council gave in, resumed Elirin sadly. But they gave in all the way and abolished caste privilege before the first relief ship even arrived. They'll be full members shortly. And this older report? Read the name, said Powers. You're staring out of the club window at the stars. They fed us our own dirt because we hadn't eliminated all of our competitors. Disease means microorganisms, so you choose the largest animal possible. With efficiency, that is. Just read the list. My grandparents died, you know. But it had to be done or we'd have destroyed ourselves. The combine was a far greater blessing to us than it ever was to Maurice, I can assure you of that. He listened in silence as Deliran read Desmodis, the vampire bat Ratis norvegicus, the common rat Nus domesticus, the common mouse the common locust Civilagus, the cottontail rabbit Passer domesticus, the house sparrow Sternus vulgaris, the European starling. Power sat down and stared at his friend. Terran Life by comparison with many other worlds is terribly tough because we have so many different environments. I saw suppose hence its use and the murice. Of course, the combine increased breeding rates again, but adapting that bat to stand cold is the last straw, he said. The rest of them were all ready and waiting, but the bat was tropical. We'll start without him. Desmodis is a small flying mammal. About the End End of Join Our Gang By Sterling E. Lanier Recording by Joe Morris, Oakland, California My website is xenotropic.net X E N O T R O P I C dot net.
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The man the Martians Made by Frank Belknap Long 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 Tony Foster the Man the Martians Made by Frank Belknap
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Long
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There was death in the camp. I knew when I awoke that it had come to stand with us in the night and was waiting now for the day, day to break and flood the desert with light. There was a prickling at the base of my scalp, and I was drenched with cold sweat. I had an impulse to leap up and go stumbling about in the darkness, but I disciplined myself. I crossed my arms and waited for the sky to grow bright. Daybreak on Mars is like nothing you've ever dreamed about. You wake up in the morning and there it is, bright and clear and shining. You pinch yourself, you sit up straight, but it doesn't vanish. Then you stare at Your hands with the big callouses. You reach for a mirror to take a look at your face. That's not so good. That's where ugliness enters the picture. You look around and you see Ralph, you see Harry, you see the women on Earth. A woman may not look her glamorous best in the harsh light of early dawn. But if she's really beautiful, she doesn't look too bad. On Mars, even the most beautiful woman looks angry on arising too weary and tormented by human shortcomings to take a prefabricated metal shack and turn it into a real home for a man. You have to make allowances for a lot of things on Mars. You have to start right off by accepting hardship and privation as your daily lot. You have to get accustomed to living in construction camps in the desert with the red dust making you feel all hollow and dried up inside, making you feel like a drum, a shriveled pea pod, a salted fish hung up to dry dust inside of you, rattling around, canal water seepage, rotting the soles of your boots. So you wake up and you stare. The night before, you'd collected driftwood and stacked it by the fire. The driftwood has disappeared. Someone has stolen your very precious driftwood. The Martians? Guess again. You get up and you walk straight up to Ralph with your shoulders squared. You say, ralph, why in hell did you have to steal my driftwood? In your mind, you say that. You say it to Dick. You say it to Harry. But what you really say is Larsen was here again last night. You say, I put a fish on to boil and Larsen ate it. I had a nice deck of cards, all shiny and new, and Larsen marked them up. It wasn't me cheating. It was Larsen hoping I'd win so that he could waylay me in the desert and get all the money away from me. You have a girl. There aren't too many girls in camps with laughter and light and fire in them, but there are a few. And if you're lucky, you take a fancy to one particular girl, her full red lips and her spun gold hair. All of a sudden she disappears. Somebody runs off with her. It's Larsen. In every man there is a slumbering giant. When life roars about you on a world that's rugged and new, you've got to go on respecting the lads who have thrown in their lot with you, even when their impulses are as harsh as the glint of sunlight on a desert polished tombstone. You think of a name. Larson. You start from scratch and you build Larson up until you have a clear picture of him in your mind. You build him up until he's a great, shouting, brawling golden man like Paul Bunyan. Even a wicked legend can seem golden on Mars. Larson wasn't just my slumbering giant, or Dick's or Harry's. He was the slumbering giant in all of us, and that's what made him so tremendous. Anything gigantic has beauty and power and drive. To it alone, we couldn't do anything with Larsen's gusto. So when some great act of wickedness was done with gusto, how could it be us? Here comes Larson. He'll shoulder all the guilt, but he won't feel guilty because he's the first man in Eden, the child who never grew up, the laughing boy Hercules, balancing the world on his shoulders and looking for a woman with long shining tresses and eyes like the stars of heaven to bend to his will. If such a woman came to life in Hercules arms, would you like the job of stopping him from sending the world crashing? Would you care to try? Don't you see? Larsen was closer to us than breathing and as necessary as food and drink and our dreams of a brighter tomorrow. Don't think we didn't hate him at times. Don't think we didn't curse and revile him. You may glorify a legend from here to eternity, but the lustre never remains completely untarnished. Larson wouldn't have seemed completely real to us if we hadn't given him muscles that could tire and eyes that could blink shut in weariness. Larson had to sleep just as we did. He'd disappear for days. We'd wink and say, larsen's getting a good long rest this time, but he'll be back with something new up his sleeve, don't you worry. We could joke about it. Sure. When Larsen stole or cheated, we could pretend we were playing a game with loaded dice. Not really a deadly game, but a game full of sound and fury, with a great rousing outburst of merriment at the end of it. But there are deadlier games by far. I lay motionless, my arms locked across my chest, sweating from every pore. I stared at Harry. We had been working all night, digging a well, and in a few days water would be bubbling up sweet and cool, and we wouldn't have to go to the canal to fill our cooking utensils. Harry was blinking and stirring, and I could tell just by looking at him that he was uneasy too. I looked beyond him at the circle of shacks. Most of us were sleeping in the open. But there were a few youngsters in the shacks and women too worn out with drudgery to care much whether they slept in smothering darkness or under the clear, cold light of the stars. I got slowly to my knees, scooped up a handful of sand and let it dribble slowly through my fingers. Harry looked straight at me and his eyes widened in alarm. It must have been the look on my face. He arose and crossed to where I was sitting, his mouth twitching slightly. There was nothing very reassuring about Harry. Life had not been kind to him and he had resigned himself to accepting the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune without protest. He had one of those emaciated, almost skull like faces which terrify children and make women want to cry. You don't look well, Tom, he said. You have been driving yourself too hard. I looked away quickly. I had to tell him. But anything could terrify and demoralize Harry and make him throw his arm before his face in blind panic. But I couldn't keep it locked up inside me an instant longer. Sit down, Harry, I whispered. I want to talk to you. No sense in waking the others. Oh, he said. He squatted beside me on the sand, his eyes searching my face. What is it, Tom? I heard a scream, I said. It was pretty awful. Somebody has been hurt bad. It woke me up and that takes some doing. Harry nodded. You sleep like a log, he said. I just lay still and listened, I said with my eyes wide open. Something moved out from the well. A two legged something. It didn't make a sound. It was big, Harry, and it seemed to melt into the shadows. I don't know what kept me from leaping up and going after it. It had something to do with the way I felt. Felt all frozen up inside. Harry appeared to understand. He nodded, his eyes darting toward the well. How long ago was that? 10, 15 minutes? You just waited for me to wake up. That's right, I said. There was something about the scream that made me want to put off finding out two's company. And when you're alone with something like that, it's best to talk it over before you act. I could see that Harry was pleased, unnerved too, and horribly shaken. But he was pleased that I had turned to him as a friend I could trust. When you can't depend on life for anything else, it's good to know you have a friend. I brushed sand from my trousers and got up. Come on, I said. We'll take a look. It was an ordeal for him. His face twitched and his eyes wavered. He knew I hadn't lied about the scream. If a single scream could unnerve me that much, it had to be bad. We walked to the well in complete silence. There were shadows everywhere, chill and forbidding, almost like people they seemed, whispering together, huddling close in ominous gossipy silence, aware of what we would find. It was a 60 foot walk from the fire to the well, a walk in the sun, a walk in the bright hot sun of Mars. With utter horror. Perhaps at the end of it, the horror was there. Harry made a little choking noise deep in his throat and my heart started pounding like a bass drum. 2 the man on the sand had no top to his head. His skull had been crushed and flattened so hideously that he seemed like a wooden figure resting there, an anatomical dummy with its skull case lifted off. We looked around for the skull case, hoping we'd find it, hoping we'd made a mistake and stumbled by accident into an open air dissecting laboratory and were looking at ghastly props made of plastic and glittering metal instead of bone and muscle and flesh. But the man on the sand had a name. We'd known him for weeks and talked to him. He wasn't a medical dummy but a corpse. His limbs were hideously convulsed, his eyes wide and staring. The sand beneath his head was clotted with dried blood. We looked for the weapon which had crushed his skull but couldn't find it. We looked for the weapon before we saw footprints in the sand. Big they were, incredibly large and massive. A man with a size 12 shoe might have left such prints if the leather had become a little soggy and spread out around the soles. The poor guy, harry whispered. I knew how he felt. We had all liked Ned, a harmless little guy with a great love of solitude, a guy who hadn't a malicious hair in his head. A happy little guy who liked to sing and dance in the light of a high leaping fire. He had a banjo and was good at music making. Who could have hated Ned with a rage so primitive and savage? I looked at Harry and saw that he was wondering the same thing. Harry looked pretty bad, about ready to cave in. He was leaning against the well, a tormented fury in his eyes. Ned, the murderous bastard, he muttered. I'd like to get him by the throat and choke the breath out of him. Who'd want to do a thing like that to Ned? I can't figure it out either, I said. Then I remembered I don't think Molly Egan really could have loved Ned. The curious thing about it was that Ned didn't even need the kind of love she could have given him. He was a self sufficient little guy despite his frailness and didn't really need a woman to look after him. But Molly must have seen something pathetic in him. Molly was a beautiful woman in her own right and there wasn't a man in the camp who hadn't envied Ned. It was puzzling, but it could have explained why Ned was lying slumped on the sand with a bashed in skull. It could have explained why someone had hated him enough to kill him without lifting a finger. Ned had won Molly's love. That could make some other guy as mad as a caged hyena. The wrong sort of other guy, even a small man could have shattered Ned's skull. But the prints on the sand were big. How many men in the camp wore size 12 shoes? That was the $64 question and it hung in the shimmering air between Harry and myself like an unspoken challenge. We could almost see the curve of the big question mark suspended in the dazzle. I thought a while looking at Harry. Then I took a long deep breath and said, we'd better talk it over with Bill Seaton first. If it gets around too fast, those footprints will be trampled flat. And if tempers start rising, anything could happen. Harry nodded. Bill was the kind of guy you could depend on in an emergency. Cool, poised, efficient, with an air of authority that commanded respect. He could be pig headed at times, but his sense of justice was as keen as a whip. Harry and I walked very quietly across a stretch of tumbled sand and halted at the door to Bill's shack. Bill was a bachelor and we knew there'd be no woman inside to put her foot down and tell him he'd be a fool to act as a lawman. Or would there be? We had to chance it. Law enforcement is a thankless job, whether on earth or on Mars. That's why it attracts the worst and the best. If you're a power drunk sadist, you'll take the job just for the pleasure it gives you. But if you're really interested in keeping violence within bounds so that fairly decent lads get a fighting chance to build for the future, you'll take the job with no thought of reward beyond the simple satisfaction of lending a helping hand. Bill Seaton was such a man, even if he did enjoy the limelight and liked to be in a position of command. Come on, Harry, I said. We may as well wake him up and get it over with. We went into the shack. Bill was sleeping on the floor with his long legs drawn up. His mouth was open and he was snoring lustily. I couldn't help thinking how much he looked like an overgrown grasshopper, but that was just a first impression springing from overwrought nerves. I bent down and shook Bill awake. I grabbed his arm and shook him until his jaw snapped shut and he shot up straight. Suddenly galvanized. Instantly the grotesque aspect fell from him. Dignity came upon him and enveloped him like a cloak. Ned, you see the poor little cuss? So help me, if I get my hands on the rat who did it, I'll roast him over a slow fire. He got up, staggered to an equipment locker, and took out a sun helmet and a pair of shorts. He dressed quickly, swearing constantly and staring out the door at the bright dawn glow, as if he wanted to send both of his fists crashing into the first suspicious guy to cross his path.
- [169:00]
Path?
- [169:02]
We can't have those footprints trampled, he muttered. There are a lot of dumb bastards here who don't know the first thing about keeping pointers intact. Those prints may be the only thing we'll have to go on. Yes, the three of us can handle it, Bill, I said. When you decide what should be done, we can wake the others. Bill nodded. Keeping it quiet is the important thing. We'll carry him back here when we break the news. I want that body out of sight. Harry and Bill and I, we took another walk in the sun. I looked at Harry, and the greenish tinge which had crept into his face gave me a jolt. He's taking this pretty hard, I thought. If I hadn't known him so well I might have jumped to an ugly conclusion. But I just couldn't imagine Harry quarrelling with Ned over Molly. How was I taking it myself? I raised my hand and looked at it. There was no tremor, nerves steady, brain clear, no pleasure in enforcing the law. Puss passed that book to Bill, but there was a gruesome job ahead, and I was standing up to it as well as could be expected. Ever try lifting a corpse? The corpse of a stranger is easier to lift than the corpse of a man you've known and liked. Harry and I lifted him together. Between us. The dead weight didn't seem too intolerable, not at first, but it quickly became a terrible, heavy limpness that dragged at our arms like some soggy log dredged up from the dark waters of the canal. We carried him into the shack and eased him onto the floor. His head fell back and his eyes lolled. Death is always Shameful. It strips away all human reticences and makes a mockery of human dignity and man's rebellion against the cruelty of fate. For a moment we stood staring down at all that was left of Ned. I looked at Bill. How many men in the camp wear number 12 shoes? We'll find out soon enough. All this time we hadn't mentioned Larson. Not one word about Larsen. Not one spoken word. Cheating, yes. Lying and treacherous. Disloyalty and viciousness and spite. Fights around the camp fires at midnight. Battered faces and broken wrists and a cursing that never ceased. All that we could blame on Larsen. But a harmless little guy lying dead by a well in a spreading pool of blood. That was an outrage that stopped us dead in our legend, making trouble tracks. There is something in the human mind which recoils from too outrageous a deception. How wonderful it would have been to say Larsen was here again last night. He found a little guy who never harmed anyone, standing by a well in the moonlight. Just for sheer delight, he decided to kill the little guy right then and there. Just to add lustre to the legend. Just to send a thrill of excitement on about the camp. No, that would have been the lie. Colossal which no sane man could have quite believed. Something happened then to further unnerve us. The most disturbing sound you can hear on Mars is the whispering. Usually it begins as a barely audible murmur and swells in volume with every shift of the wind. But now it started off high pitched and insistent and did not stop. It was the whispering of a dying race. The Martians are as elusive as elves and all the pitiless logic of science had failed to draw them forth into the sunlight to stand before men in uncompromising arrogance as peers of the human race. That failure was a tragedy in itself. If man's supremacy is to be challenged at all, let it be by a creature of flesh and blood. A big brained biped who must kill to live. Better that by far, than a ghostly flickering in the deepening dusk. A whispering and a flapping and a long drawn sigh prophesying death. Oh, the Martians were real enough. A flitting vampire bat is real. Or a stinging ray in the depths of a blue lagoon. But who could point to a Martian? And I have seen you plain in broad daylight. I have looked into your owlish eyes and watched you go flitting over the sand on your thin stalk like legs. I know there is nothing mysterious about you. You are like a water insect skimming the surface of a pond in a familiar meadow on Earth. You are quick and alert but no match for a man. You are no more than an interesting insect. Who could say that when there were ruins buried deep beneath the sand to give the lie to any such idea? First the ruins and then the Martians themselves, always elusive, gnome like, goblin like, flitting away into the dissolving dusk. You're a comparative archaeologist and you're on Mars with the first batch of rugged youngsters to come tumbling out of a spaceship with stardust in their eyes. You see those youngsters digging wells and sweating in the desert. You see the prefabricated housing units go up the tangle of machinery, the campsites growing lusty with midnight brawls and skull cracking escapades. You see the towns in the desert, the law enforcement committees, the camp followers, the reform fanatics. You're a sober minded scholar, so you start digging in the ruins. You bring up odd looking cylinders, rolls of threaded film, instruments of science so complex they make you giddy. You wander about. The Martians, what were they like when they were a young and proud race? If you're an archaeologist, you wonder. But Bill and I, we were youngsters still. Oh sure, we were in our 30s, but who would have suspected that Bill looked 27 and I hadn't a grey hair in my head. 3 Bill nodded at Harry. You better stay here, Tom and I'll get asking some pointed questions and our first move will depend on the answers we get. Don't let anybody come snooping around this shack. If anyone sticks his head in and wants to start turning ugly, warn him just once. Then shoot to kill. He handed Harry a gun. Harry nodded grimly and settled himself on the floor close to Ned. For the first time since I'd known him, Harry looked completely sure of himself. As we emerged from the shack, the whispering was so loud the entire camp had been placed on the alert. There would be no need for us to go into shack after shack watching surprise and shock come into their eyes. A dozen or more men were between Bill's shack and the well. They were staring grimly at the dawn as if they could already see blood on the sky, spilling over on the sand and spreading out in a sinister pool at their feet, a mirage like pool mirroring their own hidden forebodings, mirroring a knotted rope and the straining shoulders of men too vengeful to know the meaning of restraint. Jim Kenny stood apart and alone about 40ft from the well, staring straight at us. His shirt was open at the throat, exposing a patch of hairy chest, and his big hands were wedged deeply into his belt. He stood about 6 foot 3, very powerful and with large feet. I nudged Bill's arm. What do you think? I asked. Kenny did seem a likely suspect. Molly had caught his eye right from the start and he had lost no time in pursuing her. A guy like Kenny would have felt that losing out to a man of his own breed and would have been a terrible blow to his pride. But just imagine Kenny losing out to a little guy like Ned. It would have infuriated him and glazed his eyes with a red film of hate. Bill answered my question slowly, his eyes on Kenny's cropped head. I think we'd better take a look at his shoes, he said. We edged up slowly, taking care not to disturb the others, pretending we were sauntering toward the well on a before breakfast stroll. It was then that Molly came out of her shack. She stood blinking for an instant in the dawn glare, her unbound hair falling in a tumbled dark mass to her shoulders, her eyes still drowsy with sleep. She wore rust coloured slippers and a form fitted yellow robe belted in at the waist. Molly wasn't beautiful exactly, but there was something pulse stirring about her, and it was easy to understand how a man like Kenny might find her difficult to resist. Bill slanted a glance at Kenny, then shrugged and looked straight at Mollie. He turned to me, his voice almost a whisper. She's got to be tall, Tom. You do it. She likes you a lot. I'd been wondering about that myself, just how much she liked me. It was hard to be sure. Bill saw my hesitation and frowned. You can tell if she's covering up. Her reaction may give us a lead. Molly looked startled when she saw me approaching without the mask I usually wore when I waltzed her around and grinned and ruffled her hair and told her that she was the cutest kid imaginable and would make some man, not me, a fine wife. That made the telling all the harder. The hardest part was at the end when she stared at me dry eyed and threw her arms around me as if I was the last support left to her. On Earth. For a moment I almost forgot we were not on Earth. On Earth I might have been able to comfort her in a completely sane way, but on Mars, when a woman comes into your arms, your emotions can turn molten in a matter of seconds. Steady, I whispered. We're just good friends, remember? I'd be willing to forget, Tom, she said. You've had a terrible shock, I whispered. You really loved that little guy. More than you know. It's natural enough that you should feel a certain warmth toward me. I just happened to be here. So you kissed me. No, Tom, it isn't that way at all. I might have let myself go a little then, if Kenny hadn't seen us. He stood very still for an instant, staring at Mollie. Then his eyes narrowed and he walked slowly towards us, his hands still wedged in his belt. I looked quickly at Molly and saw that her features had hardened. There was a look of dark suspicion in her eyes. Bill had been watching Kenny, too, waiting for him to move. He measured footsteps with Kenny advancing in the same direction from a different angle at a pace so calculated that they seemed to meet by accident directly in front of us. Bill didn't draw, but his hand never left his hip. His voice came clear and sharp and edged with cold insistence. Know anything about it, Kenny? Strains seemed to tighten Kenny's face, but there was no panic in his eyes, no actual glint of fear. What may you think I'd know? He asked. Bill didn't say a word. He just started staring at Kenny's shoes. He stood back a bit and continued to stare, as if something vitally important had escaped him and taken refuge beneath the soggy leather around Kenny's feet. What size shoes do you wear, Jim? He asked. Kenny must have suspected that the question was charged with as much explosive risk as a detonating wire set to go off at the faintest jar. His eyes grew shrewd and mocking. So the guy who did it left prints in the sand, he said. Prints made by big shoes. That's right, said Bill. You have a very active mind. Kenny laughed then, the mockery deepening in his stare. Well, he said, suppose we have a look at those prints, and if it will ease your mind, I'll take off my shoes and you can try them out for size. Kenny and Bill and I walked slowly from Molly's shack to the well in the hot and blazing glare, and the whispering went right on getting under our skin in a tormenting sort of way. Kenny still wore that disturbing grin. He looked at the prints and grunted. Yeah, he said. They sure are big. Biggest prints I've ever seen. He sat down and started unlacing his shoes, first the right shoe, then the left. He pulled off both shoes and handed them to Bill. Fit them in, he said. Measure them for size. Measure me for size. Enter hell with you. Bill made a careful check. There were eight prints, and he fitted the shoes painstakingly into each of them. There was space to spare at each try. It cleared Kenny completely. He wasn't a killer this Time we might have roused the camp to a lynching fury, and Kenny would have died for a crime another man had committed. I shut my eyes and saw Larson swinging from a rooftop, a black hood over his face. I saw Mollie standing in the sunlight by my side, her face a stony mask. I opened my eyes and there was Kenny, grinning contemptuously at us. He'd called our bluff and won out. Now the shoe was on the other foot. A cold chill ran up my spine. It was Kenny who was doing the staring now, and he was looking directly at my shoes. He stood back a bit and continued to stare. He was dramatizing his sudden triumph in a way that turned my blood to ice. Then I saw that Bill was staring too straight at the shoes of a man he had known for three years and had grown to like and trust. But underlying the warmth and friendliness in Bill was a granite like integrity which nothing could shake. It was Bill who spoke first. I guess you better take them off, Tom, he said. We may as well be thorough about this. Sure, I was big. I grew up fast as a kid, and at 18 I weighed 2 hundred and thirty pounds, all lean flesh. If shoes ran large, I could sometimes cram my feet into size 12 twelves, but I felt much more comfortable in a size or two larger than that. What made it worse, Molly liked me. I was involved with her, but no one knew how much. No one knew whether we'd quarrelled or not or how insanely jealous I could be. No one knew whether Molly had only pretended to like Ned while carrying a torch for me and how dangerously complex the situation might have become. All along the line I stood very still, listening. The whispering was so loud now it drowned out the sighing of the wind. I looked down at my shoes. They were caked with mud and soggy and discoloured. Day after day I trudged back and forth from the canal to the shacks in the blazing sunlight without giving my feet a thought until the ache in them had become intolerable. Rest, an absolute necessity. There was only one thing to call Kenny's bluff so fast he wouldn't have time to hurl another accusation at me. I handed Bill both my shoes. He looked at me and nodded. I waited, listening to the whispering rise and fall, watching him stoop and fit the shoes into the prints on the sand. He straightened suddenly. His face was expressionless, but I could see that he was waging a terrible inward struggle with himself. Your shoes come pretty close to filling out those prints, Tom, he said. I can't be sure But a wax impression test should pretty well clear this up. He gripped my arm and nodded toward the shacks. Better stick close to me. Kenny took a slow step backward, his jaw tightening and his eyes searching Bill's face. Wax impression test, hell, he said. You've got your murderer. I'm going to see he gets what's coming to him right now. Bill shook his head. I'll do this my way, he said. Kenny glared at him, then laughed harshly. You won't have a chance, he said. The boys won't stand for it. I'm going to spread the word around, and you better not try to stop me. That did it. I'd been holding myself in, but I had a sudden, overpowering urge to send my fist crashing into Kenny's face, to send him crashing to the sand. I started for him, but he jumped back and started shouting. I can't remember exactly what he shouted, but he said just enough to put a noose around my neck. Every man and woman between the shacks and the well swung about to stare at me. I saw shock and rage flare in the eyes of men who usually had steady nerves. They were not calm now. Not one of them.
- [186:41]
4.
- [186:42]
It all happened so fast. I was caught off balance in the harsh Martian sunlight. Human emotions can be as unstable as a windlass dune. A crazy thought flashed through my mind. Will Molly believe this, too? Will she join these madmen in their wild thirst for vengeance? My need for her was suddenly overwhelming. Just seeing her face would have helped. But now more men had emerged from the shacks and I couldn't see beyond them. They were heading straight for me, and I knew that even Bill would be powerless to stop them. You can't argue with an avalanche. It was rolling straight toward me, gathering momentum as it came. Not one man or a dozen, but a solid wall of human hate and unreason. Bill stood his ground. He had drawn his gun and he started shouting that the prints couldn't have been made by my shoes. I chalked that up to his credit and resolved never to forget it. I knew I'd have to make a dash for it. I ran as fast as I could, keeping my eyes on the glimmer of sunlight on the rising dunes and deep hollows which a carefully placed bullet could have changed quickly into a burial mound. A sudden crackling burst of gunfire ripped through the air directly in my path. The sand geezered up as the bullets ripped and tore at it. Somebody wasn't a good marksman or had let blind rage unnerve him and spoil his Aim a lot of somebodies. For the firing increased and became almost continuous for an instant, a dull crackling which drowned out the whispering and the sighing of the wind. Then, abruptly, all sounds ceased. Utter stillness descended on the desert. An unnatural, terrifying stillness, as if nature herself had stopped breathing and was waiting for someone to scream. I must have been mad to turn. A weaving target has a chance. But a target standing motionless is a sitting duck and his life hangs by a hair. But still I turned. Something was happening between the well and the shacks which halted the pursuit, dead in its tracks. One of the shacks was wrapped in darting tongues of flame, and a woman was screaming. And a man close to her was grappling with something huge and misshapen which loomed starkly against the dawn glow. A human shape? I could not be sure. It seemed monstrous, with a bulge between its shoulders which gave a grotesque and distorted aspect to the shadow which its weaving bulk cast upon the sand. I could see the shadow clearly across 300ft of sand. It lengthened and shortened, as if an octopus like ferocity had given it the power to distort itself at will, lengthening its tentacles and then whipping them back again. But it was not an octopus. It had legs and arms, and it was crushing the man in a grip of steel. I could see that now. I stared as the others were staring, their backs turned to me, their blind hatred for me blotted out by that greater horror. I suddenly realized that the shape was human. It had the head and shoulders of a man and a torso that could twist with muscular purpose and massive hands that could maul and maim. It threw the hapless man from it with a sudden convulsive contraction of its entire bulk. I had never seen a human being move in quite that way. But even as its violence flared, its manlike aspect became more pronounced. A frightful thing happened then. The woman screamed and rushed towards the brutish maniac with her fingers splayed. The swaying figure bent, grabbed her about the waist and lifted her high into the air. I thought for a moment he was about to crush her as he had crushed the man. But I was wrong. She was hurled to the sand, but with a violence so brutal that she went instantly limp. Then the brutal madman turned, and I saw his face. If ever monstrous, cross cruelty and malign cunning looked out of a human countenance, it looked out of the eyes that stared in my direction, remorseless in their hate. I could not tear my gaze from his face. The hate in it could be sensed even across a Blinding haze of sunlight that blotted out the sharp contours of physical things. But more than hate could be sensed. There was something tremendous about that face, as if the evil which had ravaged it had left the searing brand of Lucifer himself. For an instant, the madman stood motionless, his ghastly brutality unchallenged. Then Jeff Winters started for it. Geoff had come to Mars alone and grown more solitary with every passing day. He was a brooding, ingrown man, secretive and sullen, with a streak of wildness which he usually managed to control. Control. He went for the madman like a gigantic terrier pup, shaggy and ferocious and contemptuous of death. The big figure turned quickly, raised his arm and brought his closed fist down on Jeff's skull. Jeff collapsed like a shattered plaster cast. His body seemed to break and splinter, and he sprawled forward on the sand. He did not get up. Frank Anders had guns on both hips, and he drew them fast. No one knew what kind of man Frank Anders was. He hardly ever complained or made a spectacle of himself. A little guy with sandy hair and cold blue eyes, he had an accuracy of aim that did his talking for him. His guns suddenly roared. For an instant, the air between his hands and the maniac was a crackling wall of flame. The brute swayed a little but did not turn aside. He went straight for Anders with both arms spread wide. He caught Anders about the waist, lifted him up, and slammed his body down against the sand. A sickness came over me as I stared. The madman bashed Anders head against the ground again and again. Then suddenly the big arms relaxed and Anders sagged limply to the ground. For an instant the madman swayed slowly back and forth, like a blood stained marionette on a wire. Then he moved forward with a terrible, shambling gait. His head lowered, a dark, misshapen shadow seeming to lengthen before him on the sand like a spindle of flame. The clearing was abruptly tumultuous with sound. The fury which had been unleashed against me turned upon the monster and became a closed circle of deadly intent, purpose hemming him in, and he was caught in a crossfire that hurled him backwards to the sand. He jumped up and lunged straight for the well. What happened then was like the awakening stages of some horrible dream. The madman shambled past the well, the air at his back a crackling sheet of flame. The barrage behind him was continuous and merciless. The men were organized now, standing together in a solid wall, firing with deadly accuracy and a grim purpose which transcended fear. The madman went clumping on past me and climbed a dune with his shoulders held straight, with a sunset glare deepening about him, he went striding over the dune and out of sight. I turned and stared back at the camp. The pursuit had passed the well and was headed for me, but no one paid the slightest attention to me. 12 men passed me, walking three abreast. Bill came along in their wake, his eyes stony hard. He reached out as he passed me, gripping my shoulder, giving me a foot of the gallows kind of smile. We now know who killed Ned, he whispered. We know, fella. Take it easy. Relax. My head was throbbing, but I could see the big prince from where I stood. The prince of a murderer betrayed by his insatiable urge to slay. I saw Kenny pass, and he gave me a contemptuous grin. He had done his best to destroy me, but there was no longer any hate left in me. I took a slow step forward and fell flat on my face. I woke up with my head in Molly's lap. She was looking down into my face, sobbing in a funny sort of way, and running her fingers through my hair. She looked startled when she saw that I was wide awake. She blinked furiously and started fumbling at her waist for a handkerchief. I must have passed out cold, I said. It's quite a strain to be at the receiving end of a lynching bee, and what I saw afterwards wasn't exactly pleasant. Darling, she whispered. Don't move. Don't say a word. You're going to be all right. You bet I am, I said. Right now I feel great. My arm went around her shoulder and I drew her head down until her breath was warm on my face. I kissed her hair and lips and eyes for a full minute in utter recklessness. When I released her, her eyes were shining and she was laughing a little and crying, too. You've changed your mind, she said. You believe me now, don't you? Don't talk, I said. Don't say another word. I just want to look at you. It was you right from the start, she said. Not Ned or anyone else. I was a blind fool, I said. You never gave me a second glance. One glance was enough, I whispered. But when I saw how it seemed to be between you and Ned. I was never in love with him. It was just. Never mind. Don't say it, I said. It's over and done with. I stopped remembering. Her eyes grew wide and startled, and I could see that she was remembering too. What happened? I asked. Did they catch that vicious rat? She brushed back her hair, the sunlight suddenly harsh on her face. He fell into the canal, the Bullets brought him down and he collapsed on the bank. Her hand tightened on my wrist. Bill told me he tried to swim, but the current carried him under. He went down and never came up. I'm glad, I said. Did anyone in the camp ever see him before? Molly shook her head. Bill said he was adrifter, a dangerous maniac who must have been crazed by the sun. I see, I said. I reached out and drew her into my arms again, and we rested for a moment, stretched out side by side on the sand. It's funny, I said after a while.
- [197:52]
What is?
- [197:53]
You know what they say about the whispering. Sometimes when you listen intently, you seem to hear words deep in your mind, as if the Martians had telepathic powers. Perhaps they have, she said. I glanced sideways at her. Remember, I said, there were cities on Mars when our ancestors were hairy apes. The Martian civilization was flourishing and great 50 million years before the pyramids arose as a monument to human solidarity and worth A bad monument built by slave labor. But at least it was a start. Now you're being poetic, Tom, she said. Perhaps I am. The Martians must have had their pyramids too. And at the pyramid stage they must have had their Larsens to shoulder all the guilt. To them we may still be in the pyramid stage. Suppose. Suppose what? Suppose they wanted to warn us, to give us a lesson we couldn't forget. How can we say with certainty that a dying race couldn't still make use of certain techniques that are far beyond us? I'm afraid I don't understand, she said, puzzled. Someday, I said, our own science will take a tiny fragment of human tissue from. From the body of a dead man. But it into an incubating machine, and a new man will arise again from that tiny shred of flesh. A man who can walk and live and breathe again and love again and die again after another full lifetime. Perhaps the Martian science was once as great as that, and the Martians might still remember a few of the techniques. Perhaps from our human brains, from our buried memories and desires, they could filch the key and bring to horrible life a thing so monstrous and so terrible. Her hand went suddenly cold in mine. Tom, you can't honestly think. No, I said. It's nonsense, of course. Forget it. I didn't tell her what the whispering had seemed to say deep in my mind. We brought you Larsen. You wanted Larsen, and we've made him for you. His flesh and his mind, his cruel strength and his wicked heart. Here he comes. Here he is. Larsen, Larsen, Larsen. End of the man the Martians Made by Frank Belknap Long recording by Tony Foster.
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The Model of a Judge by William Morrison 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 Peter Bethany
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the
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Model of a Judge by William Morrison Should a former outlaw become a judge, even if he need only pass sentence on a layer cake? Rhonar was reformed, if that was the right word. But he could see that they didn't trust him. Uneasiness spoke in their awkward, hurried motions. When they came near him, fear looked out of their eyes. He had to reassure himself that all this would pass in time. They'd learned to regard him as one of themselves and cease to recall what he had once been. For the time being, however, they still remembered. And so did he. Mrs. Claymore of the presiding committee was babbling. Oh, Mrs. Silver, it's so good of you to come. Have you entered the contest? Not really, said Mrs. Silver with a modest laugh. Of course, I don't expect to win against so many fine women who are taking part, but I just thought I'd enter Toto keep things interesting. That was very kind of you, but don't talk about not winning. I still remember some of the dishes you served for dinner at your home that time George and I paid you a visit. Um, they were really delicious. Mrs. Silver uttered another little laugh. Just ordinary recipes. I'm so glad you liked them, though. I certainly did. And I'm sure the judge will like your cake, too.
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The judge?
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Don't you usually have a committee? He could hear every word. They had no idea how sharp his sense of hearing was, and he had no desire to disconcert them further by letting them know. He could hear every conversation taking place in ordinary tones in the large reception room. When he concentrated, he could make out the whispers. At this point, he had to concentrate, for Mrs. Claymore leaned over and breathed into her friend's attentive ear. My dear, haven't you heard? We've had such trouble with that committee. There were such charges of favoritism. It was really awful. Really. But how did you find a judge then? Don't look now. No, I'll tell you what to do. Pretend I said something funny and throw your head back and laugh. Take a quick glance at him while you do. He's sitting up there alone on the platform. Mrs. Silver laughed gracefully as directed, and her eyes swept the platform. She became so excited she almost forgot to whisper. Why, he's.
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Shh.
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Lower Your voice, my dear. Why, he isn't human. He's supposed to be now, but of course that's a matter of opinion. But who on earth thought of making him judge? No one on Earth. Professor Halder, who lives over on that big asteroid the other side of yours, heard of the troubles we had and came up with the suggestion. At first it seemed absurd. It certainly seems absurd to me. Agreed, Mrs. Silver. It was the only thing we could do. There was no one else we could trust. But what does he know about cakes? My dear, he has the most exquisite sense of taste. I still don't understand. It's superhuman. Before we adopted Professor Halder's suggestion, we gave him a few tests. The results simply left us gasping. We could mix all sorts of spices. The most delicate, most exotic herbs from Venus or Mars, and the strongest, coarsest flavors from Earth or one of the plant growing asteroids. And he could tell everything we had added. And exactly how much. I find that hard to believe, Matilda. Isn't it? It's honestly incredible. If I hadn't seen him do it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. But he doesn't have human preferences. Wasn't he. Wasn't he carnivorous? Oh, yes. They say he was the most vicious creature imaginable. Let an animal come within a mile of him, he'd scent it and be after it in a flash. He and the others of his kind made the moon he came from uninhabitable for any other kind of intelligent life. Come to think of it, it may have been this very moon we're on now.
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Really?
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Either this or some other moon of Saturn's. We had to do something about it. We didn't want to kill them off. Naturally, that would have been the easiest way. But so uncivilized. Finally, our scientist came up with the suggestion for psychological reforming. Professor Halder told us how difficult it all was, but it seems to have worked. In this case at least. Mrs. Silver stole another glance, did it? I don't notice anyone going near him. Oh, we don't like to tempt fate, Clara. But if there were really any danger, I'm sure the psychologists would never have let him out of their clutches. I hope not. But psychologists take the most reckless risks sometimeswith other people's lives. Well, there's one psychologist who's risking his own life. And his own wife too. You know Dr. Cabanis, don't you? Only by sight. Isn't his wife that stuck up thing? That's the one. Dr. Cabanis is the man who had actual charge of reforming him. And he's going to be here. His wife is entering a cake. Don't tell me she really expects to win. She bakes. Well, my dear, let's give the she devil her due. How on earth an intelligent man like Dr. Cabanis can stand her, I don't know. But after all, he's the psychologist, not I, and he could probably explain it better than I could. Ronard disengaged his attention. So Dr. Cabanis was here. He looked around, but the psychologist was not in sight. He would probably arrive later. The thought stirred a strange mixture of emotions. Some of the most painful moments of his life were associated with the presence of Dr. Cabanus. His early life, the life of a predatory carnivore, had been an unthinkably happy one. He supposed he could call his present life a happy one, too, if you weren't overly particular about how you defined the term. But that period in between, that had been, to say the least, painful. Those long sessions with Dr. Cabanis had stirred him to the depths of a soul he hadn't known he possessed. The electric shocks and the druggings he hadn't minded so much. But the gradual reshaping of his entire psyche, the period of basic instruction in which he had been taught to hate his old life so greatly that he could no longer go back to it, even if the way were open, and the conditioning for a new and useful life with human beings, that was torture of the purest kind. If he had known what was ahead of him, he wouldn't have gone through it at all. He'd have fought until he dropped, as so many of the others like him did. Still, now that it was over, he supposed that the results were worth the pain. He had a position that was more important than it seemed at first glance. He exercised control over a good part of the food supply intended for the outer planets. And his word was trusted. Implicitly. Let him condemn an intended shipment and cancellation followed automatically without the formality of a confirmation by laboratory tests. He was greatly admired and feared. They had other feelings about him, too. He overheard one whisper that surprised him. My dear, I think he's really handsome. But Charlotte, how can you say that about someone who isn't even human? He looks more human than many human beings do, and his clothes fit him beautifully. I wonder, does he have a tail? Not that I know of. Oh. There was disappointment in the sound. He looks like a pirate. He was kind of wolf. They tell me you'd never guess to see him that he ran on all fours.
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Would you?
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Of course not. He's so straight and dignified. It just shows you what psychology can do. Psychology and a series of operations, Dear ladies, he thought sarcastically. Without them I wouldn't be able to stand so nice and straight with the help of all the psychologists in this pretty little solar system of ours. From behind a potted Martian nut cactus came two low voices, not whispers this time, and there were several octaves difference in pitch between them. One male, one female. The man said, don't be worried, sweetheart. I'll match your cooking and baking against anybody's. There was a curious sound between a click and a hiss, what human beings called a kiss, he thought, between the sexes. Usually an indication of affection or passion sometimes, especially within the ranks of the female sexual. A formality behind which warfare could be waged. The girl said tremulously, but these women have so much experience. They've cooked and baked for years. Haven't you, for your own family? Yes, but that isn't the same thing. I had to learn from a cookbook, and I had no one with experience to stand over me and teach me. You've learned faster that way than you'd have done with some of these old hens standing at your elbow and giving you directions. You cook too well. I'll be fat in no time. Your mother doesn't think so. And your brother said something about a bride's biscuits. The older the joke, the better Charles likes it. Don't let it worry you. He kissed her again. Have confidence in yourself, dear. You're going to win. Oh, Gregory, it's awfully nice of you to say so, but really, I feel so unsure of myself. If only the judge were human and took a look at you, nobody else would would stand a chance. Have I told you within the last five minutes that you're beautiful? Rhonor disengaged his attention again. He found human love making as repulsive as human food. He picked up a few more whispers, and then Dr. Cabanis came in. The good doctor looked around, smiled, greeted several ladies of acquaintance as if he were witnessing a private striptease of their souls, and then came directly up to the platform. How are you, Ronar? Fine, Doctor. Are you here to keep an eye on me? I hardly think that's necessary. I have an interest in the results of the judging. My wife has baked a cake. I had no idea that cake baking was so popular. A human avocation. Anything that requires skill is sure to become popular among us. By the way, Ronar, I hope you don't Feel hurt? Hurt, Doctor? What do you mean? Come now, you understand me well enough. These people don't trust you. I can tell by the way they keep their distance. I take human frailty into account, Doctor. Frailty and lack of opportunity. These men and women haven't had the opportunity for extensive psychological treatment that I've had. I don't expect too much from them. You've scored a point there, Ronar. Isn't there something that can be done for them, Doctor? Some treatment that it would be legal to give them? It would have to be voluntary. You see, Rhonar, you were considered only an animal, and treatment was necessary to save your life. But these people are supposed to have rights. One of their rights is to be left alone with their infirmities. Besides, none of them are seriously ill. They hurt no one. For a second, Rhonar had a human temptation. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, your wife too, Doctor. People wonder how you stand her. But he resisted it. He had resisted more serious temptations. A gong sounded, gently but pervasively. Dr. Cabanas said, I hope you have no resentment against me at this stage of the game. I'd hate to have my wife lose the prize because the judge was prejudiced. Have no fear, Doctor. I take professional pride in my work. I will choose only the best. Of course, the fact that the cakes are numbered and not signed with the names of their creators will make things simpler. That would matter with human judges. It does not affect me. Another gong sounded, more loudly this time. Gradually, the conversation stopped. A man in a full dress suit with yellow stripes down the sides of his shorts and tails hanging both front and rear, climbed up on the platform. His eyes shone with a greeting so warm that the fear was almost completely hidden. How are you, Ronar? Glad to see you. I'm fine, Senator. And you? Couldn't be better. Have a cigar. No, thank you. I don't smoke. That's right, you don't. Besides, I'd be wasting the cigar. You don't vote. He laughed heartily. I understand they're passing a special law to let people like me vote at the next election. I'm for it, Ronar. I'm for it. You can count on me. The chairman came up on the platform, a stout and dignified woman who smiled at both Ranar and the senator and shook hands with both without showing signs of distaste for either. The assembled competitors and spectators took seats. The chairman cleared her throat. Ladies and gentlemen, let us open this meeting by singing the Hymn of All Planets. They all Rose Ronar with them. His voice wasn't too well adapted to singing, but neither, it seemed, were most of the human voices, and at least he knew all the words. The chairman proceeded to greet the gathering formally in the name of the presiding committee. Then she introduced Senator Whitten. She referred archly to the fact that the Senator had long since reached the age of indiscretion and had so far escaped marriage. He was an enemy of the female sex, but they let him speak to them anyway. Senator Whitten, just as Archley took up the challenge. He had escaped more by good luck, if you could call it good, than by good management. But he was sure that if he had ever had the fortune to encounter some of the beautiful ladies here this fine day and to taste the products of their splendid cooking and baking, he would have been a lost man. He would long since have committed polygamy. Senator Whitten then launched into a paean of praise for the ancient art of preparing food. Attention wandered, so did a good part of the audience. His ears picked up another conversation, this time whispered between a man and a woman in the front row. The man said, I should have put your name on it instead of mine. That would have been silly. All my friends know. What? I can't bake. And it would look so strange if I won. It'll look stranger if I win. I can imagine what the boys in the shop will say. Oh, the boys in the shop are stupid. What's so unmanly about being able to cook and bake? I'm not anxious for the news to get around. Some of the best chefs have been men. I'm not a chef. Stop worrying. There was exasperation in the force of her whisper. You won't win anyway. I don't know, Sheila. What if I win? Will you explain to everybody how manly I really am? Will you be my character witness? She repressed a giggle. If you won't help me, I'll have to go around giving proof myself.
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Sh.
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Someone will hear you. Senator Whitten went on and on. Rhonar thought back to the time when he had wandered over the surface of this, his native satellite. He no longer had the old desires, the old appetites. Only the faintest of ghosts still persisted. Ghosts with no power to do harm. But he could remember the old feeling of pleasure, the delight of sinking his teeth into an animal. He had brought down himself. The savage joy of gulping the tasty flesh. He didn't eat raw meat any more. He didn't eat meat at all. He had been Conditioned against it, he was now half vegetarian, half syntharian. His meals were nourishing health, healthful, and a part of his life he would rather not think about. He took no real pleasure in the tasting of the cakes and other delicacies that born human beings favored. His sense of taste had remained keen only to the advantage of others. To himself it was a tantalizing mockery. Senator Whitten's voice came to a sudden stop. There was applause. The senator sat down. The chairman stood up. The time for the judging had arrived. They set out the cakes, more than a hundred of them, topped by icings of all colors and all flavors. The chairman introduced Ronar and lauded both his impartiality and the keenness of his sense of taste. They had a judging card ready. Slowly, Ronar began to go down the line. They might just as well have signed each cake with the maker's name. As he lifted a portion of each to his mouth, he could hear the quick intake of breath from the woman who had baked it, could catch the whispered warning from her companion. There were few secrets they could keep from him. At first, they all watched intently. When he had reached the fifth cake, however, a hand went up in the audience. Madam Chairman, Please, ladies, let us not interrupt the judging. But I don't think the Judging is right, Mr. Rohner. Tastes hardly more than a crumb of each. A minimum of three crumbs, corrected her. One from the body of the cake, one from the icing, and an additional crumb from each filling between layers. But you can't judge a cake that way. You have to eat it. Take a whole mouthful. Please, Madame, permit me to explain. A crumb is all I need. I can analyze the contents of the cake sufficiently well from that. Let me take, for instance, cake number four. Made from an excellent recipe, well baked. Martian grannis, flour, goober eggs, tingan flavored salt, a trace of venusian, orange spice, synthetic shortening of the best quality. The icing is excellent, made with rare dip and toast sugars, which give it a delightful flavor. Unfortunately, however, the cake will not win first prize. An anguished cry rose from the audience.
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Why?
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Through no fault of your own, dear lady. The pure berries used in the making of the filling were not freshly picked. They have the characteristic flavor of refrigeration. The manager of the store swore to me that they were fresh. Oh, I'll kill him. I'll murder him. She broke down in a flood of tears, said to the lady who had protested, I trust, madame, that you will now have slightly greater confidence in my judgment. She blushed and subsided. Ranar went on with the testing. 90 per cent of the cakes he was able to discard at once from some fault in the raw materials used or in the method of baking. Eleven cakes survived the first elimination contest. He went over them again, more slowly this time. When he had completed the second round of tests, only three were left. Number 17 belonging to Mrs. Cabanas. Number 43 had been made by the man who argued with his wife. Number 64 was the product of the young bride who he had still not seen. Ronar paused. My sense of taste is somewhat fatigued. I shall have to ask for a short recess before proceeding further. There was a sigh from the audience. The tension was not released. It was merely relaxed for a short interval. Said to the chairman, I should like a few minutes of fresh air that will restore me. Do you mind? Of course not, Mr. Ranar. He went outside, seen through the thin layer of air which surrounded the group of buildings and the plastic bubble which kept the air from escaping into space. The stars were brilliant and peaceful. The sun, far away, was like a father star who was too kind to obliterate his children. Strange, he thought, to recall that this was his native satellite. A few years ago it had been a different world. As for himself, he could live just as well outside the bubble as in. As well as in rarefied air, as in dents. Suppose he were to tear a hole in the plain plastic. Forbidden thoughts. He checked himself and concentrated on the three cakes and the three contestants. You aren't supposed to let your personal feelings interfere. You aren't even supposed to know who baked those cakes. But you know, all right. And you can't keep personal feelings from influencing your judgment. Any one of those cakes is good enough to win. Choose whichever you please and no one will have a right to criticize. To which are you going to award the prize? Number 17? Mrs. Cabanis is, as one of the other women has so aptly termed her, a bitch on wheels. If she wins, she'll be insufferable and she'll probably make her husband suffer. Not that he doesn't deserve it. Still, he thought he was doing me a favor. Will I be doing him a favor if I have his wife win? 64 now is insufferable in her own right. That loving conversation with her husband would probably disgust even human ears. On the other hand, there is this to be said for her winning. It will make the other women furious to think that a young snip just married without real experience in home making, should walk away With a prize of this kind. Ah, but if the idea is to burn them up, why not give the prize to number 43? They'd be ready to drop dead with chagrin. To think that a mere man should beat them at their own specialty. They'd never be able to hold their heads up again. The man wouldn't feel too happy about it either. Yes, if it's a matter of getting back at these humans for the things they've done to me, if it's a question of showing them what I really think of them, number 43 should get it. On the other hand, I'm supposed to be a model of fairness. That's why I got the job in the first place, remember? Ronar? Come on, let's go in and try tasting them again. Eat a mouthful of each cake. Much as you hate the stuff. Choose the best on its merits. They were babbling when he walked in. But the babbling stopped quickly and the chairman said, are we ready, Mr. Ronar? All ready. The three cakes were placed before him. Slowly he took a mouthful of number 17. Slowly he chewed it and swallowed it. Number 43 followed, then number 64. After the third mouthful he stood lost in thought. One was practically as good as the other. He could still choose which he pleased. The assemblage had quieted down. Only the people most concerned whispered nervously, Mrs. Cabanis to her psychologist husband, if I don't win, it'll be your fault. I'll pay you back for this. The good doctor's fault. Yes, you could figure it that way if you wanted to. If not for Dr. Cabanas, Ronar wouldn't be the judge. If Ronar weren't the judge, Mrs. C. Would win, she thought. Hence it was her husband's fault. QED the male baker to his wife, if he gives the prize to me, I'll brain him. I should never have entered this. It's too late to worry now. I could yell fire, he whispered hopefully. I could create a panic that would empty the hall. And then I'd destroy my cake. Don't be foolish and stop whispering. The young post honeymooning husband. You're going to win, dear. I can feel it in my bones. Oh, Greg, please don't try to fool me. I've resigned myself to losing. You won't lose, I'm afraid. Put your arm around me, Greg. Hold me tight. Will you still love me if I lose? M M. He kissed her shoulder. You know I didn't fall in love with you for your cooking, sweetheart. You don't have to Bake any cakes for me? You're good enough to eat yourself. He's right, thought Rhonar as he stared at her. The man's right. Not in the way he means, but he's right. And suddenly, for one second of decision, entire past seemed to flash through his mind. The young bride never knew why she won first prize. End of the model of a judge by william morrison recording by peter bethany.
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No Pets Allowed by Ma Cummings this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org this story has been read by Rosalind Carlisle NO Pets Allowed by Ma Cummings I can't tell anyone about it in the first place. They'd never believe me. And if they did, I'd probably be punished for having her because we aren't allowed to have pets of any kind. It wouldn't have happened if they hadn't sent me way out there to work. But you see, there are so many things I can't do. I remember the day the Chief of Vocation took me before the council. I've tried him on a dozen things, he reported. People always talk about me as if I can't understand what they mean, but I'm really not that dumb. There doesn't seem to be a thing he can do, the chief went on. Actually, his intelligence seems to be no greater than that which we believe our ancestors had back in the 20th century. As bad as that? Observed one of the council members. You do have a problem. But we must find something for him to do, said another. We cannot have an idle person in the state. It's unthinkable. But what? Asked the chief. He's utterly incapable of running any of the machines I've tried to teach him. The only things he can do are already being done much better by robots. There was a long silence, broken at last by one little old council member. I have it. He cried. The very thing. We'll make him guard of the treasure. But there's no need of a guard. No one will touch the treasure without permission. We haven't had a dishonest person in the state for more than 3,000 years. That's it exactly. There aren't any dishonest people, so there won't be anything for him to do. But we will have solved the problem of his idleness. It might be a solution, said the chief. At least a temporary one. I suppose we will have to find something else later on, but this will give us time to look for something So I became guard of the treasure with a badge and nothing to do, unless you count watching the key. The gates were kept locked just as they were in the old days, but the large key hung beside them. Of course, no one wanted to bother carrying it around. It was too heavy. The only ones who ever used it anyway were members of the Council. As the man said, we haven't had a dishonest person in the state for thousands of years. Even I know that much. Of course, this left me with lots of time on my hands. That's how I happened to get her in the first place. I'd always wanted one, but pets were forbidden. Busy people didn't have time for them. So I knew I was breaking the law. But I figured that no one would ever find out. First I fixed a place for her and made a brush screen so that she couldn't be seen by anyone coming to the gates. Then one night I sneaked into the forest and got her. It wasn't so lonely after that. Now I had something to talk to. She was small when I got her. It would be too dangerous to go near a full grown one. But she grew rapidly. That was because I caught small animals and brought them to her, not having to depend on what she could catch. She grew almost twice as fast as usual and was so sleek and pretty. Really, she was a pet to be proud of. I don't know how I could have stood the four months there alone if I hadn't had her to talk to. I don't think she really understood me, but I pretended she did and that helped. Every three or four weeks, three of the Council members came to take a part of the treasure or to add to it, always three of them. That's why I was so surprised one day to see one man coming by himself. It was Graham, the little old member, who had recommended that I be given this job. I was happy to see him, and we talked for a while, mostly about my work and how I liked it. I almost told him about my pet, but I didn't because he might be angry at me for breaking the law. Finally he asked me to give him the key. I've been sent to get something from the treasure, he explained. I was unhappy to displease him, but I said, I can't let you have it. There must be three members. You know that. Of course I know it. But something came up suddenly, so they sent me alone. Now let me have it. I shook my head. That was the one order they had given me. Never to give the key to Any one person who came alone. Graham became quite angry. You idiot. He shouted. Why do you think I had you put out here? It was so I could get in there and help myself to the treasure. But that would be dishonest, and there are no dishonest people in the state for 3,000 years. I know. His usually kind face had an ugly look I had never seen before. But I'm going to get part of that treasure. And it won't do you any good to report it. Because no one's going to take the word of a fool like you against a respected council member. They'll think you are the dishonest one. Now give me that key. It's a terrible thing to disobey a council member. But if I obeyed him, I would be disobeying all the others. That would be worse. No. I shouted. He threw himself upon me. For his size and age, he was very strong, stronger even than I. I fought as hard as I could, but I knew I would not be able to keep him away from the key for very long. And if he took the treasure, I would be blamed. The council would have to think a new punishment for dishonesty. Whatever it was, it would be terrible indeed. He drew back and rushed at me. Just as he hit me, my foot caught upon a root and I fell. His rush carried him past me and he crashed through the brush screen beside the path. I heard him scream twice. Then there was silence. I was bruised all over, but I managed to pull myself up and take away what was left of the screen. There was no sign of Graham, but my beautiful pet was waving her pearl green feelers as she always did in thanks for a good meal. That's why I can't tell anyone what happened. No one would believe that Grimm would be dishonest. And I can't prove it because she ate the proof. Even if I did tell them, no one is going to believe that a flycatcher plant, even a big one like mine, would actually be able to eat a man. So they think that Graham disappeared and I'm still out here with her. She's grown so much larger now and more beautiful than ever. But I hope she hasn't developed a taste for human flesh lately. When she stretches out her feelers, it seems that she's trying to reach me. End of NO Pets Allowed By Ma Cummings.
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The Planet with no Nightmare By Jim Harmon 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 Graham Walker the Planet with no Nightmare by Jim Harmon the creatures on the little planet were real bafflers. The first puzzle about them was that they died so easily. The second was that they didn't die at all. Chapter 1 Tension eased away as the spaceship settled down on its metallic haunches and they savoured a safe planetfall. Ekstrom fingered loose the cinches of his deceleration couch. He sighed. An exploration camp would mean things would be simpler for him. He could hide his problem from the others more easily. Trying to keep secret what he did alone at night was very difficult under the close conditions on board a ship in space. Ryan hefted his bulk up and supported it on one elbow. He rubbed his eyes sleepily with one huge paw. Ekstrom? Nogul. You guys okay? Nothing wrong with me that couldn't be cured, nogul said. He didn't say what would cure him. He had been explaining all during the trip what he needed to make him feel like himself. His small black eyes darted inside the olive oval of his his face. Ekstrom, ryan insisted. Okay, well, let's take a ground level look at the country around here. The facsiport rolled open on the landscape. A range of bluffs hugged the horizon, the colour of decaying moss. Above them the sky was the black of space, or the almost equal black, the winter sky above Minneapolis. Seen against neon lit snow, that cold, empty sky was full of fire and light. It seemed almost a magnification of the galaxy itself, of the Milky Way blown up by some master photographer. This fiery swathe was actually only a belt of minor planets, almost like the asteroid belt in the original solar system. These planets were much bigger, nearly all capable of holding an atmosphere but to the infuriation of scientists for no known reason. Not all of them did. This would be the fifth mapping expedition to the planetoids of Yancy 6 in three generations. They lay months away from from the nearest Earth star by jump drive, and no one knew what they were good for, although it was felt that they would probably be good for something if it could only be discovered, much like the continent of Antarctica in ancient history. How can a planet with so many neighbors be so lonely? Ryan asked. He was the captain, so he could ask questions like that. Some can be lonely in a crowd, nogul said elaborately. What will we need outside, Ryan? Ekstrom asked. No helmets, the captain answered. We can breathe out there, all right. It just won't be easy. This old world lost all of its helium and trace gases long ago. Nitrogen and oxygen are about it. Ryan. Look over there, nogul said. Animals ringing the ship think they're intelligent, maybe hostile. I think they're dead, ekstrom interjected quietly. I get no readings from them at all. Sonic, electronic, galvanic, all blank. According to these needles, they're stone dead. Ekstrom, you and I will have a look, ryan said. You hold down the fort, Nogul. Take it easy. Easy, nogal confirmed. I heard a story once about a rookie who got excited when the captain stepped outside and he couldn't get an encephalographic reading on him. Me, I know the mind of an officer works in a strange and unfathomable manner. I'm not worried about you misreading the dials, Nogul. Just about a lug like you reading them at all. Remember, when the little hand is straight up, that's negative. Positive results start when it goes towards the hand you use to make your mark. But I'm ambidextrous. Ryan told him what he could do. Then Ekstrom smiled and followed the captain through the airlock with only a glance at the lapel gauge of his coverall. The strong negative field his suit set up would help to repel bacteria and insects. Actually, the types of infection that could attack a warm blooded mammal were not infinite, and over the course of the last few hundred years adequate defenses had been found for all basic categories. He wasn't likely to come down with hot chills and puzzling striped fever. They ignored the ladder down to the planet's surface and with only a glance at the seismological gauge to judge surface resistance dropped to the ground. It was a day, but in the thin atmosphere, contrasts were sharp between light and shadow. They walked from midnight to noon, noon to midnight, and came to the beast sprawled on its side. Ekstrom nudged it with a boot. Hey, this is pretty close to a warthog. Uh huh, ryan admitted. One of the best matches I've ever found. Well, it has to happen, statistical average and all. Still, it sometimes gives you a creepy feeling to find a rabbit or a snapping turtle on some strange world. It makes you wonder if this exploration business isn't all some big joke and somebody has been everywhere before you even started. The surveyor looked sideways at the camera Captain. The big man seldom gave out with such thoughts. Ekstrom cleared his throat. What shall we do with this one? Dissect it? Ryan nudged it with his toe, following Ekstrom's example. I don't know, Stormy. It sure as hell doesn't look like any dominant intelligent species to me. No hands, for one thing. Of Course, that's not definite proof. No, it isn't, Ekstrom said. I think we better let it lay until we get a clearer picture of the ecological setup around here. In the meantime, we might be thinking on the problem. All these dead beasts represent what killed them. It looks like we did when we made blastdown. But what about our landing was lethal to the creatures? Radiation, Ekstrom suggested. The planet is very low in radiation from mineral deposits, and the atmosphere seems to shield out most of the solar output. Any little dose of radiation might knock off these critters. I don't know about that. Maybe it would work the other way. Maybe because they have had virtually no radioactive exposures and don't have any Rs stored up, they could take a lot of without harm. Then maybe it was the shock wave we sent up. Or maybe it's sheer xenophobia. They curl up and die at the sight of something strange and alien. Like a spaceship. Maybe, the captain admitted. At this stage of the game anything could be possible. But there's one possibility I particularly don't like, and that is? Suppose it was not us that killed these aliens. Suppose it is something right on the planet, native to it. I just hope it doesn't work on Earthmen too. These critters went real sudden. Ekstrom lay in his bunk and thought, the camp is quiet. The earthmen made camp outside the spaceship. There was no reason to leave the comfortable quarters inside the ship, except that faced with the possibility of sleeping on solid ground, they simply had to get out. The camp was a cluster of aluminium bubbles ringed with a spyweb to alert the earthmen to the approach of any being. Each man had a bubble to himself. Privacy. After the long period of enforced intimacy on board the ship, Ekstrom lay in his bunk and listened to the sounds of the night on Yancy six thirteen. There was a keening of wind and a cracking of the frozen ground. Insects there were on the world, but they were frozen solid during the night, only to revive and thaw in the morning sun. The bunk he lay on was much more uncomfortable than the acceleration couches on board. Yet he knew the others were sleeping more soundly now that they had renewed their contact with the matter that had birthed them to send them riding high vacuum. Ekstrom was not asleep now. There could be an end to the pretending. He threw off the light blanket and swung his feet off the bunk to the floor. Ekstrom stood up. There was no longer any need to hide. But what was there to do? What had changed for him? He no longer had to lie in his bunk all night, his eyes closed, pretending to sleep in privacy. He could walk around, leave the light on, read. It was small comfort for insomnia. Ekstrom never slept. Some doctors had informed him he was mistaken about this. Actually, they said he did sleep, but so shortly and fitfully that he forgot. Others admitted he was absolutely correct. He never slept. His body processes only slowed down enough for him to dispel fatigue poisons. Occasionally he fell into a waking, gritty eyed stupor. But he never slept. Never at all. Naturally, he couldn't let his shipmates know this insomnia would ground him from the Exploration Service on physiological if not psychological grounds. He had to hide it. Over the years he had buddies in space in whom he thought he could confide. The buddies invariably took advantage of him. Since he couldn't sleep anyway, he might as well stand their watches for them or write their reports. Where the hell did he get off threatening to report any laxness on their part to the captain? A man with insomnia had better avoid bad dreams of that kind. If he knew what was good for him, Ekstrom had to hide his secret in a camp instead of shipboard. Hiding the secret was easier, but the secret itself was just as hard. Ekstrom picked up a lightweight no back from the ship's library, a book by Bloch, the famous 20th century expert on sex. He scanned a few lines on the social repercussions of a celebrated 19th century sex murderer. But he couldn't seem to concentrate on the weighty, pontifical, ponderous style. On impulse, he flipped up the heat control on his coverall and slid back the hatch of the bubble. Ekstrom walked through the alien grass and looked up at the unfamiliar constellations, smelling the frozen sterility of the thin air. Behind him, his mate stirred without waking. Chapter 2 Ekstrom was startled in the morning by a banging on the hatch of his bubble. It took him a few seconds to put his thoughts in order, and then he got up from the bunk where he had been resting sleeplessly. The angry, burnt red face of Ryan greeted him. Okay, Stormy, this isn't the place for fun and games. What did you do with them? Do with what? The dead beasties. All the dead animals laying around the ship. What are you talking about, Ryan? What do you think I did with them? I don't know. All I know is that they are gone. Gone. Ekstrom shouldered his way outside and scanned the veldt. There was no ring of animal corpses. Nothing. Nothing but wispy grass whipping in the keen breeze. I'll be damned, ekstrom said. You are right now, buddy. XP doesn't like anybody mucking up primary evidence. Where do you get off, Ryan? Ekstrom demanded. Why pick me for your patsy? This has got to be some kind of local phenomenon. Why accuse a shipmate of being behind this? Listen, Ekstrom, I want to give you the benefit of every doubt, but you aren't exactly the model of a surveyor, you know. You've been riding on a pink ticket for six years. You know that? No, ekstrom said. No, I didn't know that. You've been hiding things from me and Nogul. Every jump we've made with you now comes this. It fits the pattern of secrecy and stealth you've been involved in. What could I do with your lousy dead bodies? What would I want with them? All I know is that you were outside the bubbles last night.
- [248:02]
Night.
- [248:03]
And you were the only sentient being who came in or out of our alarm web. The tapes show that now all the bodies are missing. Like they got up and walked away. It was not a new experience to Ekstrom. No. Suspicion wasn't new to him at all. Ryan, there are other explanations for the disappearance of the bodies. Look for them, will you? I give you my word. I'm not trying to pull some stupid kind of joke or to deliberately foul up the expedition. Take my word, can't you? Ryan shook his head. I don't think I can. There's still such a thing as mental illness. You may not be responsible. Ekstrom scowled. Don't try anything violent, Stormy. I outweigh you 50 pounds. And I'm fast for a big man. I wasn't planning on jumping you. Why do you have to jump me? The first time something goes wrong, you've only got a lot of formless suspicions. Look, Ekstrom, do you think I looked out the door and saw a lot of dead animals missing and immediately decided you did it to bedevil me? I've been up for hours thinking, looking into this. You're the only possibility that's left. Why the bodies are missing. What could it be? Scavengers? The web gives us a complete census on everything inside it. The only animals inside the ring are more warthogs, and despite their appearance, they aren't carnivorous. Strictly grass eaters. Besides, no animal, no insect, no process of decay could completely consume animals without a trace. There are no bones, no hide, no nothing. You don't know the way bacteria works on this planet. Radiation is so low it may be particularly virulent. That's a possible explanation Although it runs counter to all the evidence we've established so far. There's a much simpler explanation, Ekstrom. You. You hid the bodies for some reason. What other reason could you have for prowling around out here at night? I couldn't sleep. The words were in his throat, but he didn't use them. They weren't an explanation. They would open up more questions than they would answer. You're closing your eyes to the possibility of natural phenomenon. Laying this on me? You haven't adequate proof and you know it. When something's stolen, you always suspect a suspicious character before you get around to the possibility that the stolen goods melted into thin air. What? Ekstrom said with deadly patience. What do you think I could have possibly done with your precious dead bodies? You could have buried them. This is a big territory. We haven't been able to search every square foot of it. Ryan, it was 30 or 40 below zero last night. How the devil could I dig holes in this ground to bury Anything at 40 below? How could your bacteria function to rot them? Ekstrom could see he was facing prejudice. There was no need to keep talking and no use in it. Still, some reflex made him continue to frame reasonable answers. I don't know what bacteria on this planet could do. Besides, that was only one example of a natural phenomenon. Look, Ekstrom, you don't have anything to worry about. If you're not responsible, we're going to give you a fair test. What kind of test would it be? He wondered. And how fair. Nogul came trotting up lightly. Ryan, I found some more warthogs and they keeled over as soon as they saw me. So it was xenophobia, Ekstrom ventured. The important thing, Ryan said with a sidelong glance at the surveyor, is that now we've got what it takes to see if Ekstrom has been deliberately sabotaging the expedition. The body heat of the three men caused the air conditioner of the tiny bubble to labour. Okay, Ryan breathed. We've got our eyes on you, Ekstrom, and the video circuits are wide open on the dead beasts. All we have to do is wait. We'll have a long wait, Nogul ventured. With Ekstrom here and the corpses out there, nothing is going to happen. That would be all the proof they needed, Ekstrom. New negative results would be positive proof to them. His pink ticket would turn pure red and he would be grounded for life if he got off without a rehabilitation sentence. But if nothing happened, it wouldn't really prove anything. There was no way to say that the conditions tonight were identical to the conditions the previous night. What had swept away those bodies might be comparable to a flash flood, something that occurred once a year or once in a century. And perhaps his presence outside was required in some subtle cause and effect relationship. All this test would prove if the bodies didn't disappear was only that conditions were not identical to conditions under which they did disappear. Ryan and Nogal were prepared to accept him, Ekstrom, as the missing element, the one ingredient needed to vanish the corpses. But it could very well be something else. Only Ekstrom knew that it had to be something else that caused the disappearances. Or did it? He faced up to the question. How did he know he was sane? How could he be sure that he hadn't stolen and hidden the bodies for some murky reason of his own? There was a large question as to how long a man could go without sleep, dreams, and oblivion and remain sane. Ekstrom forced his mind to consider the possibility. Could he remember every step he had taken the night before? It seemed to him that he could remember walking past the creature lying in the grass, then walking in a circle and coming back to the base. It seemed like that to him. But how could he know that it was true? He couldn't. There was no way he could prove, even to himself, that he had not disposed of those alien remains and then come back to this bubble, contented and happy at the thought of fooling those smug idiots who could sleep at night. How much longer do we have to wait? Nogul asked. We've been here nine hours, half a day. The bodies are right where I left them. Outside. There doesn't seem to be any more question. Ekstrom found. There was one question. He was sure that there was one question. Oh, yes. The question was, how did he know he was sane? He didn't know, of course. That was as good an answer as any. Might as well accept it. Might as well let them do what they wanted with him. Maybe if he just gave up, gave in, maybe he could sleep. Then. Maybe he could. Ekstrom sat upright in his chair. No, that wasn't the answer. He couldn't know that he was sane. But then neither could anybody else. The point was, you had to go ahead living as if you were sane. That was the only way of living. Cosmos. Ryan gasped. Would you look at that. Ekstrom followed the staring gaze of the two men on the video grid. One of the dead animals was slowly rising, getting up, and walking away. A natural phenomenon, ekstrom said. Suspended animation, nogul ventured. Playing possum, Ryan concluded. Now came the time for apologies. Ekstrom had been through similar situations before, ever since he had been found walking the corridors at college the night one of the girls had been attacked. He didn't want to hear their apologies. They meant nothing to him. It was not a matter of forgiving them. He knew the situation had not changed. They would suspect him just as quickly a second time. We're supposed to be an exploration team, ekstrom said quickly. Let's get down to business. Why do you suppose these alien creatures fake death? Nogul shrugged his shoulders. Playing dead is easier than fighting. More likely it's a method of fighting. Ryan suggested that they play dead until they see an opening, then rip. I think they're trying to hide some secret, ekstrom said. What secret? Ryan demanded. I don't know, he answered. Maybe I'd better sleep on it. Chapter 3 Ryan observed his two crewmen confidently the next morning. I did some thinking last night. Great, Ekstrom thought. For that you should get a hazardous duty bonus. This business is pretty simple, the captain went on. These pigs simply play possum. They go into a state of suspended animation when faced by a strange situation. Xenophobia. I don't see there's much more to it. Well, if you don't see that, there's more to it, Ryan, Nogul began complacently. Wait a minute. Extreme interjective. That's a good theory. It may even be the correct one. But where's your proof? Look, Stormy, we don't have to have proof. Hell, we don't even have to have theories. We're explorers. We just make reports of primary evidence and let the scientists back home in the system figure them out. I want this thing cleared up. Ryan. Yesterday you were accusing me of being some kind of stuff psycho who was lousing up the expedition out of pure. Pure? He searched for a term currently in use in mentology. Demonia. Maybe the boys back home will think the same. I want to be cleared. I guess you were cleared last night, Stormy Boy nurgle put in. We saw one of the dead pigs get up and walk away. That didn't clear me any, ekstrom said. The other two looked like they had caught him cleaning wax out of his ear in public. No, ekstrom said. We still have no proof of what caused the suspended animation of the pigs. Whatever caused it before caused it last night. You thought of accusing me, but you didn't think it through. About how I could have disposed of the bodies. Or after you found out about the pseudo death. How I might have caused that if I had some drug or something to cause it the first time. I could have a smaller dose or a slowly dissolving capsule for delayed effect. The two men stared at him, their eyes beginning to narrow. I could have done that. Or either of you could have done the same thing. Me? Nogul protested. Where would my profit be in that? You both have an admitted motive. You hate my guts. I'm strange, different, suspicious. You could be trying to frame me. That's insubordination, ryan grated. Accusations against a superior officer. Come off it, Ryan. Nogul sighed. I never saw a three man spaceship that was run very taut. Besides, he's right. Beet juice flowed out of Ryan's swollen face. So where does that leave us? Looking for proof of the cause of the pig's pseudo death, remember? I'll have to make counter accusations against you two out of self defense. Be reasonable, Stormy, ryan pleaded. This might be some deep scientific mystery we could never discover in our lifetime. We might never get off this planet. That was probably behind his thinking all along. Why he had been so quick to find a scapegoat to explain it all away. Explorers didn't have to have all the answers or even theories, but if they ever wanted to get any place in the service, they damned well better. So what? Ekstrom asked. The service rates us as expendable, doesn't it? By Ekstrom's suggestion, they divided the work. Nogul killed pigs all day. He did nothing but scare the warthogs to death by coming near them. Ryan ran as faithful a check on the corpses as he could, both by eyeball observation and by radar, video, and protect circuits. They lacked the equipment to program every corpse for every every second, but a representative job could be done. Finally, Ekstrom went scouting for something else. He didn't know what he expected to find, but he somehow knew he would find something. He rode the traction scooter, so called because it had no traction at all, no wheels, no slides, no contact with the ground or air. And he reflected that he was a suspicious character. All through life he was going around suspecting everybody, and now everything of having some dark secret they were trying to hide. A simple case of transference he diagnosed in long discredited terminology. He had something to hide, his insomnia. So he thought. Everybody else had their guilty secret too. How? How could there be any deep secret to the pseudo death on this world? It was no doubt a simple fear reaction, a retreat from a terrifying reality. How could he ever prove that it was more or even exactly, that internal glandular actions would be too subtle for a team of explorers to establish they could only go on behaviour. What more in the way of behaviour could he really hope to have establish? The pattern was clear. The pigs keeled over at any unfamiliar sight or sound and recovered when they thought the coast was clear. That was it. All there was. Why did he stubbornly, stupidly insist there was more to it? Actually, by his insistence he was giving weight to the idea of the others that he was strange and suspicious himself. Under the normal, sane conditions of planetfall, the phobias and preoccupations of a space crew nurtured in the close confines of a scout ship wouldn't be taken seriously by competent men. But hadn't his subsequent behaviours given weight to Ryan's unfounded accusations of irrational sabotage? Wouldn't it seem that he was actually daring the others to prove his guilt if he went on with the unorthodox behavior that was When Ekstrom saw the flying whale. Tension gripped Ekstrom tighter than he gripped the handlebars of his scooter. He was only vaguely aware of the passing scenery. He knew he should switch on the homing beacon and ride in on automatic, but it seemed like too much of an effort to flick his finger. As the tension rose, the capillaries of his eye swelled. Things began to white out for him. The rush of landscape became blurred streaks of light and dark, now mostly faceless light. The flying whale. He had seen it. Moreover, he had heard it, smelt it, and felt it. He had released a jet of air with a distinctive sound and odor. It had blown against his skin, ruffled his hair. It had been real. But the flying whale couldn't have been real. Conditions on this planetoid were impossible for it. He knew planets and their life possibilities. A creature with a skeleton like that could have evolved here, but the atmosphere would never have supported his flesh and hide. Water bodies were of insufficient size. Size? No, the whale was not native to this world. Then what, if anything, did this flying alien behemoth have to do with the pseudo death of the local pig creatures? I'll never know, Ekstrom told himself. Never. Ryan and Nogal will never believe me. They will never believe in the flying whale. They're explorers, simple men of action, unimaginative. Of course, I'm an explorer too, but I'm different. I'm sensitive. Ekstrom was riding for a fall. The traction scooter was going up a slope that had been eroded concave. It was at the very top of the half moon angle, upside down, standing Ekstrom on his head. Since he was not strapped into his seat. He fell. As he fell, he thought ruefully that he had contrived to have an accident in the only way possible with a traction scooter. Ekstrom's cranium collided with the ground and he stopped thinking. Ekstrom blinked, opened his eyes, wondering. He saw light, then sky, then pigs. Live pigs. But the pigs shouldn't be alive when he was this close. They should be dead. Only they weren't. Why? Why? He moved slightly and the nearest pig fell dead. The others went on with their business, roaming the plain. Ekstrom expected the dropping of the pig to stampede the rest into dropping dead. But they didn't seem to pay any attention to their fallen member. I've been lying here for hours, he realized. I didn't move in on them. The pigs moved in on me while I was lying still. If I keep still, I can get a close look at them in action. So far, even with video, it had been difficult to get much of an idea of the way these creatures lived when they weren't dead. Observe, observe, he told himself. There might be some relationship between the flying whale and the pigs. Could it be the whales were intelligent, alien masters of these herd of pigs? Ekstrom lay still and observed. The pigs ate the soft moss like grass, item the pigs eliminated almost constantly. The pigs fought regularly, fought, fought. Here was something Ekstrom realized. Why did animals fight? Rationalisations of nature lovers aside, some fought because they had plain, mean, nasty dispositions, like some people. That didn't fit the pigs. They were indolent grazers. They hadn't the energy left over for sheer cussedness. There had to be a definite goal to their battles. It wasn't food that was abundant. The grassy veldt reached to all horizons. Sex. They had to be fighting for mates. He became so excited, he twitched a foot slightly. Two more pigs dropped dead, but the others paid no heed. He watched the lazily milling herd intently, at the same time keeping an eye out for the flying whales. Back on Earth, porpoises had been taught to herd schools of fish and of whales. It was not impossible. An intelligent species of whale had learned to herd masses of land animals. But Ekstrom knew he needed proof. He had to have something to link the pseudo death of the warthogs to the inexplicable presence of the whales. Perhaps, he thought, the death of the pigs was the whales, of putting them into cold storage, a method of making the meat seem unattractive to other animals on a world perhaps without carrion scavengers. Something was stirring among the pigs. One undersized Beastie was pawing the dirt, a red eye set on the fattest animal in sight. Then Shorty charged Fatso. But abruptly a large, raw boned critter was was in Shorty's path, barring him from Fatso. Faced by Big Boy, Shorty trembled with rage and went into a terrible temper tantrum, rolling on the ground, pouring it in a frenzy, squealing in maddened rage. Then Shorty was on his feet, desperate determination showing in every line of his body. With heedless, desperate, foolhardy courage, he charged Big Boy. Big Boy toot headlong charge in his side. With only a trifling grunt, Shorty bounced 10ft in the light gravity and grimly wallowed to his feet. He levelled an eye at Big Boy and his legs were pumping in frenzied fury again. Big Boy shifted his kilos of weight casually and met Shorty head on. The tremendous crack reverberated from the bluff behind Ekstrom. Shorty lay on the ground. No, Ekstrom thought, he isn't dead. His sides were pumping in and out, but he was knocked cold. Ekstrom had to sympathise with him. He had never seen a more valiant try against insurmountable odds. Big Boy was ambling over towards Fatso, apparently to claim his prize. Fatso apparently was the sow, but Big Boy stalked on past that. She squealed after him tentatively, but he turned and blasted her back with a bellowing snort. Ekstrom watched the scene, repeated with other actors several times before he was sure the older males, the big boys, never collected the favours of the harem for themselves. Instinctively, the pigs were practicing birth control. The older males abstained and and forced the younger males to do the same. On a world like this, Ekstrom's first thought was of death. He thought these pigs must be like lemmings, deliberately trying to destroy their own race to commit Geno suicide. But that didn't answer any of the other questions about the pseudo death, the alien whales. And then Ekstrom thought not of death, but of life. Chapter 4 the Traction Scooter was where he had left it, hanging upside down on the underside of the concave slope. It had stopped automatically when his weight had left the seat. He reached up, toggled the override switch, and put it manually into reverse. Once straightened out, he was on his way back to base. I feel good, he thought. I feel like I could lick my weight in spacemen. Only then did he realize why he felt so good. What had happened had been so strange for him. He couldn't realize what it had been until now. While he had been knocked out, he had been asleep. Asleep for the first time in years. Sleep. He felt wonderful. He felt like you could lick all of his problems. Ekstrom roared back into the base. The motor was silent on the traction scooter, of course, but the air he kicked up made its own racket. Ryan and Nogal came out to greet him sullenly. Listen, he told them. I've got the answer to all of this. So have we, ryan said, ugly. The first answer was the right one. We've been scaring pigs to death and watching their scaring and watching. We learned nothing. You knew we wouldn't. You set up for this. It's like you said. You fed all of these beasts your stuff in advance. Something that acts when they get excited. It didn't make sense, but then it never had. You couldn't argue with prejudice. He was different. He didn't act like they did. He didn't believe the same things. He was the outsider, therefore suspect the alien on an alien world. Ekstrom sighed. Man would always be the final alien, the creature. Man would never understand, sympathize with, or even tolerate. There was no point in trying to argue further, Ekstrom realized. You'll never understand, Ryan. You could have seen all the things I saw if you'd bothered to look, but you were too anxious to blame me. But if I can't make you understand, I can at least beat you into acceptance.
- [273:39]
Huh?
- [273:40]
Ryan ventured. I said, ekstrom repeated, that I'm going to beat some sense into your thick skull. Ryan grinned, rippled his massive shoulders, and charged. Ekstrom remembered the lesson Shorty had taught him with Big Boy, he didn't meet the King captain's charge head on. He sidestepped and caught Ryan behind the ear with his fist. The big man halted, puzzled. Ekstrom sank his fist into the thick solid belly. Slowly Ryan's knees gave way and he sank towards the ground. When his chin was at the right level of convenience, Ekstrom put his weight behind his right Ryan swift sway dreamily backward. But he threw himself forward on one ham of a fist connected high on Ekstrom's cheek. He was shaken to his toes and the several hours old pain in the back of his head throbbed sickeningly. One more like that would do for him. Ekstrom stood and drove in a lot of short punches to Ryan's body, punches without much power behind them because he didn't have it. But he knew better than to try a massive attack on a massive target when he couldn't lift his arms anymore. Ekstrom stopped punching. He realized Ryan had fallen in his face a few seconds before. Then he remembered and whirled. He had left his back exposed to Nogul. Nogal smiled. I'm not drawing hazard pay. After a while Ekstrom stopped panting and face Nogal and the captain, who was now sitting rubbing his drawer. Okay, he said. Now you'll listen or I'll beat your skulls in. I know what's behind all of this on this planet. Yeah? What do you think it is, Stormy? Ryan asked. First of all, I think there's a basic difference between this world and any other the XP has investigated. Now what could that be? Nogul wanted to know with a tiny smile. These worlds are close. The gravity is low. You wouldn't need much more than a jet plane to get from one of these planetoids to another. Some animals have developed with the power to travel from one of these planetoids to another. Like a squid jetting out of water, they harnessed some natural power system. What does that prove? Ryan wanted to know. It proves that this world and others in this belt are prepared for interplanetary travel. It's probably a part of their basic evolutional structure, unlike that of heavy independent planets. This false dying is part of their preparation for interplanetary visitors. Why would these aliens want others to think that they were dead? Ryan asked. Correction, Captain. They wanted visitors to believe that they can die. Ryan blinked. Meaning that they can't die? That's right. I think everything on this planet has immortality, ekstrom said. I'm not exactly sure how. Maybe it has to do with the low radiation. Every individual cell has a memory of the whole creature. But as we age, that memory becomes faulty. Our cells forget how to reproduce themselves. Exactly. Here, that cell memory never fades. Bodies renew themselves indefinitely. But why hide it? Nogul asks. This planetoid can just support so many creatures. They practice birth control among themselves, the surveyor said. The natives naturally want to discourage colonisation. Ryan whistled. Once we report this, every rich and powerful man in the Federation will want to come here to live. There's not enough space to go around. There will be wars over this little hunk of rock. Nogul's hard, dark eyes were staring into space. There's only one sensible thing to do. We'll keep the world to ourselves. I don't like that kind of talk, ryan growled. Ryan, this little ball of dirt isn't going to do the Federation as a whole any good. But it can be of value to us. We can make ourselves comfortable here. Later on we can bring in some women. Any women we want. Who wouldn't want to come here? Ryan began to argue, but Ekstrom could see he was hooked. The man who risked his life, the man who sought something new and different. The explorer was basically an unstable type, removed from the mainstream of civilization. Nothing was liable to change that. By nightfall, Ryan and Ekstrom had agreed. We'll have to keep a constant watch, ryan was saying. We'll have to watch out for XP scouts looking for us. Or after a few generations, another ship may come to complete the mapping. Nogul smiled. We'll have to keep an eye on each other, too, you know. One of us may get to wanting more room for more women, or to have children. A normal biological urgent death by violence isn't ruled out here. I don't like that kind of talk, ryan blustered. Nogul smiled. Ekstrom thought of the others, of the sleepless, watchful nights ahead of them. That was probably his trouble all of his life. He didn't trust people. He had to stay awake and keep an eye on everybody. Well, he would be one ahead here. Of course, it was wrong not to to trust anybody. But Ekstrom knew habit patterns were hard to break. Sleep is a habit. Ryan and Nogul were jarred awake in the night by the spaceship blasting off without them. They ran out and shook their tiny fists in fury at the rising flame. Operating a spaceship alone was no cinch, but it could be done. Ekstrom would get back to the nearest Federation base and report the planetoid without death. He didn't have absolute confidence in any government, no, but he suspected the Federation could do more with the world than two men like Ryan and Nogal. Ekstrom took his fingers off the punchboard and lay back on his couch. He yawned. Ryan and Nogul were slow, but in time they might have learned to do without sleep and to guard their treasure night and day. Fortunately, Ekstrom knew from long experience what the two others didn't an eternity without sleep isn't worth the price. End End of the Planet with no Nightmare By Jim Harmon Recording by Graham Walker, Ipswich, Suffolk.
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Prelude to Space by Robert W. Hasseltine this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to learn how to volunteer, please contact Librivox.org prelude to space by Robert W. Haseltine. You're certain to be included in a survey at one time or another. However, there's one you may not recognize as such. Chances are it will be more important than you imagine it could be. Man's Prelude to Space I was climbing the steep side of a central Wisconsin hill, holding my bow away from my body for balance, when I first saw the stranger. He sat on a stump at the crest and watched me struggle up. As I drew nearer, I panted out a greeting and received his cheerful hi in return. When I finally reached the top, I threw myself on the ground and began catching my breath. He didn't say anything at first, just looked at the bow and quiver of arrows on my back, for finally he said, may I look at it? And reached for the bow. I handed it to him. He examined it carefully and returned it. Beautiful workmanship. Is that all you use?
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He asked.
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I never cared much for guns, I answered. I have always thought a bow gave the animal more of an even chance for his life. We talked then on the various aspects of hunting and how the crisp fall air seemed to make the deer seem closer than during the heat of summer. While we talked, I tried to place the reason he disturbed me, but I couldn't seem to do it. He was dressed in an old plaid shirt and dungarees, and his blond hair wasn't many shades removed from my own straw thatch, but there was something odd about him that I couldn't quite find. Perhaps it's the cloth. His words surprised me. You see, it hasn't been discovered on this planet as yet. My face must have shown astonishment, because he went on in the same vein. I admit it's confusing, but it's also true my clothes weren't made on Earth. He chuckled, then, deep in his throat, I don't blame you for being confused. I know how I would feel if I met an extraterrestrial being before space travel was a reality. I kept staring at him. Finally I blurted out, what in Sam Hill are you talking about? He leaned forward on the stump and his face grew earnest. You might say I'm a poll taker. I have to decide certain things from various interviews with individuals I meet. What are you trying to prove? I asked. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that until I'm finished with the interview. If I told you, your interest in this subject would tend to prejudice your answers. Fair enough. What do you want to ask me? He pulled out a notebook and smiled. These questions may seem a little silly, but I must have straight answers to them. Will you go along with me? I nodded my head. Let's see now. If you were head of a government and wanted to ascertain whether another country was ready for admission into the United nations, what would you do? I shrugged. I suppose I would read books and magazines from the country and possibly have an interview with the heads of the government. After I had collected my data, I could then act upon it. For the sake of argument, suppose the books and other periodicals were written so as to be prejudicial in favor of the government, and the heads also were coloring what they said. I thought for a minute. In that case, I suppose I would secretly place someone inside the country to interview people and get a first hand view of the situation. Then I would act on his data. He nodded his head. Yes. The people themselves and the conditions they live in will give you the needed data. He turned a page in the book. Now suppose that you wished to know if a certain planet was ready to enter into an organization such as the Galactic Federation. What would you do? I suppose I'd act as I did before. Place people inside the various areas of the planet to interview and observe. They would bring back the information needed to ascertain whether they would be an asset or a detriment to the organization. I thought to myself that the question was a trifle silly. After all, hadn't science proved that life couldn't exist on the other planets in our system? He relaxed after I answered, and his smile was brighter than the previous one. Right, he said. Naturally we had to learn the language first, but now a first hand check can be made. You see, there is a civilization out there. He raised his hand and swept the sky. And we have to check to see if this planet is ready to take its place as an adult civilization with the rest of us. Earth, within a very short time will be reaching her fingers into space. Once she gets there, she'll be eligible to join the Galactic Federation. That's all right, I said. Then we can exchange culture and knowledge with other civilizations. Yes, if you're eligible to join. But you said that once we reach space we will be eligible. Look at it this way, he said. The main purpose of the Galactic Federation is to promote peace and understanding among the various planets. Earth would have to be prepared to take its place as just another member, and not an important member member at that. Earth, you see, is one of the smaller planets and also would be the latest one to join. In times past some planets have reached space without being fully prepared for what they would find. They still had internal troubles on their own worlds. We had to place them in quarantine until they reached that degree of civilization where they were ready to live in peace. Now we check a planet before it reaches the space travel stage. We find out the reactions of the inhabitants to certain situations. What sort of situations? I asked. Well, naturally we want to see their artifacts as an indication as to their advancement.
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We.
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We have to know what the average man thinks of space travel and trade with other planets and their ideas on peace and their feelings towards their fellow men. All are very important.
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Actually.
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When a planet once enters the Federation, the people are the ones who decide on peace and war. So if the majority of the people on a planet are peace loving, that planet is ready to enter the Federation. But how do you find out all these things? I asked. When a man finds out what you are trying to prove, he may lie because he wants to get into space. His eyes held a mischievous glint as he answered. Simple. The art of telepathy has been highly developed among my race. I have your thoughts on everything I've mentioned. Later, when all the data from thousands of similar interviews is in, it will be evaluated and the decision made as to whether your world will be allowed to reach space. We have the means of keeping you from it if we decide you aren't ready. He stood up and I followed suit. I must be going now, he sighed. This work keeps me on the run and I have many more interviews to make. Believe me, it was a pleasure meeting you and I hope we meet again later. We shook hands and he strolled over the hill into the valley. Perhaps I should have followed him, but it wouldn't have done any good really, because a few moments later I saw something shimmering over the top of the hill. It was big and disc shaped and shot into the sky with a speed that was unbelievable. I still don't know what to think about him or what we talked about. I'm going to keep watching the papers, though, and hoping he got the right answers. If we reach the moon, I'll know he did. End of Prelude to Space by Robert W. Hasseltine.
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Say hello for Me by Frank W. Coggins this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org this story has been read by Rosalind Carlisle say Hello for Me by Frank W. Coggins this was to be the day, but of course Professor Pettiborne had no way of knowing it. He arose as he'd been doing for the previous 20 years, donned the tattered remnants of his space suit, and went out into the open. He stood erect, bronzed, magnificent face, distant Earth, and recited Good Morning, bright sunshine. We're glad you're here. You make the world happy and bring Us good cheer. It was something he'd heard as a child and isolated here on Mars, he had remembered it and used it to keep from losing his power of speech. The ritual finished, he walked to the edge of the nearest canal and gathered a bushel or so of dried Martian moss. He returned and began polishing the shiny exterior of the wrecked spaceship. It had to really glitter if it was to be an effective beacon in guiding the rescue ship. Professor Pettiborn New had known for years that a ship would come. It was just a matter of time. And as the years slipped by, his face diminished not a whet. With his task half completed, he glanced up at the sun and quickened the polishing. It was a long walk to the place the berry bushes grew, and if he arrived too late, the sun would have dried out the night's crop of fragile berries and he would wait until the morrow for nourishment. But on this day he was fated to arrive at the bush area not at all, because an alien sound from above again drew the professor's eyes from his work and he knew that the day had arrived. The ship was three times as large as any he had ever visualized, and its futuristic design told him sharply how far he had fallen behind in his dreaming. He smiled and said, quite calmly, I dare say I am about to be rescued. And he experienced a thrill as the great ship set down and two men emerged therefrom. A thrill tingled with a guilt sense because emotional experiences were rare in an isolated life and seemed somehow indecent. The two men held weapons. They advanced upon Professor Pettibone, looked up into his face reflected a certain wary hostility. That the hostility was tinged with instinctive respect, even awe, made it no less potent. One of them asked, fella man came in ship skyboat. Long time ago. Him dead. Where appropriate gestures accompanied the words, Professor Pettibone smiled down at the little men and bowed. You are of course referring to me. I came in the ship. I am Professor Pettibone. It was nice of you to hunt me up. The eyes of the two Terran spacemen met and locked in startled inquiry. One of them voiced the reaction of both when he said, what the hail? You no doubt are curious as to the fate of the other members of the expedition. They were killed, all save Fletcher, who lasted a week. Professor Pettibone waved a hand there in the graveyard, but their eyes remained on the only survivor of that ill fated first expedition. It was hard to accept him as the man they sought. But faced with undeniable similarity between what they expected and what they'd found. The two spacemen had no alternative. I hope your food supply is ample and varied, Professor Pettibone said. This seemed to bring them out of their bemusement. Of course, professor, would you care to come aboard? The other made a try it congenial levity. You must be pretty hungry after 20 years. Really? Has it been that long? I tried to keep track at first. We can blast off any time. You say you're probably pretty anxious to get back. Indeed I am. The changes in 20 years must be breathtaking. I wonder if they'll remember me. A short time later the professor said, amazing, a ship of this size handled by only two men. Then he sat down to a ray pass laid out by one of the odd spacemen. But after nibbling a bit of this, a forkful of that, he found that satisfaction lay in the anticipation more so than in the eating. We'll look around and see what we can find in the way of climbing. Clothing for you, professor, one of the spacemen said. Then the man's bemusement returned. His eyes travelled over the magnificent physique before him. The perfect giant of a man, the great Apollo like head with the calm clear eyes, the expression of complete contentment and serenity. The spaceman said, professor, to what do you attribute the changes in your body? What is there about this planet? I really don't know. Professor. Pettibone looked down his torso with an impersonal eye. I think the greenish skin pigmentation is a result of mineral heavy vapors that occur during certain seasons. The growth as to my body, I really don't know. But the two spacemen, though they didn't refer to it, were not concerned with the body so much as the aura of completeness, the radiation of contentment which came from somewhere within. And it was passing. Strange that nothing more was said about the professor returning to Earth. No great revelation suddenly arrived at that he would not go. Rather they discussed various things that three gentlemen meeting casually would discuss. Then Professor Pettibone arose from his chair and said, it was kind of you to drop off and see me. And one of the spacemen replied, a pleasure, sir, a real pleasure indeed. Then the professor left the ship and watched it lift up on a tail of red fire and go away. He raised an arm and waved. Say hello for me, he called. Then he turned away and from force of habit he began again to polish the hull, knowing that he would keep it shining and be proud of it for many, many years to come. Almost beyond reach of the planet, one of the spacemen flipped a switch and put certain sensitive communication mechanisms to work, so sensitive they could pick up etheric vibrations far away and make them audible, but only faintly came the pleasant voice of a contented man. Good morning, bright sunshine. We're glad you're here. You make the world end of Say hello for me. By Frank W. Coggins.
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Security by Ernest M. Kenyon 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 Christopher Hall Security by Ernest M. Kenyon Suddenly Collins snapped the pencil between his fingers and hurled the pieces across the lab, where they clattered, rolled from the bench to the floor, and were still. For a moment he sat leaning against the desk, his hands trembling. He wasn't sure just when the last straw had been added, but he was sure that he had had enough. The restrictions, red tape, security measures of these government laboratories seemed to close in on his mind in boiling, chaotic waves of frustration. What was the good of his work, all this great installation, all the gleaming, expensive equipment in the lab around him? He was alone. None of them seemed to share his problem. The unctuous, always correct Gordon, the easy mannered, unbearable mason. All of them gave him a feeling of actual physical sickness. Gardner's nucleonics and nuclear problems lay open on the desk before him, but he looked instead beyond, through the clear, curving glass windows toward the sweep of green hills and darkening sky and the shadows of the lower forests that gave Fairoaks its name. Beside him, unfinished, lay the summaries of the day's experiments and the unorganized, hurriedly jotted notes for tomorrow's work. The old intellectual alertness was gone. Delight in changing theory, in careful experimentation, no longer sprang from his work and were a part of it. There was a dull, indefinable aching in his head and a dry, dissatisfied sensation in his mouth. Along the ordered walks below his laboratory windows, workers and temperatures technicians streamed toward the gates, checking out for the day through the usual mass of red tape passes and Geiger tests. Lights were flicking on in the long east wing dormitory across the quadrangle, and the mess hall where he had recently eaten a tasteless supper was lighted shortly after restrictions had really begun to tighten up. Last fall he had written to a worker who had published, making a minor correction in his calculations and adding some suggestions arising from his own research. A week later his letter was returned, completely censored, stamped Security violation. It was that evasive Gordon's fault. He knew it, but he Couldn't prove it. Collins suspected that the man was not a top notch researcher and so was in administration. Perhaps Gordon was jealous of his own work. Even the journals were drying up. Endless innocuous papers recalculating the values of harmless constants and other such nonsense were all that was being published. They were hardly worth reading. Others were feeling the throttling effects of security measures, and isolated lone researchers were slowing down, listless and anemic from the loss of the lifeblood of science, the free interchange of information. The present research job he was doing was coming slowly. But what difference did it make? It would never be published. Probably it would be filed with a Department of Defense code number as Research Report DDNE 4220 dash dash. And there it would remain, top secret, guarded, unread, useless. Somewhere in the desk drawers was the directive, worded in the stiff military manner, describing the procedures for clearing papers for publication. When he had first come here, he had tried that. Well, good, Collins, Gordon, the division administrator had said. Glad to check it over. Always happy when one of our men has something for publication. Gives the division a good name. I'll let you know. But we have to be careful. Security, you know. Somehow he had never heard. The first time he had made a pest of himself with Gordon, who was polite, evasive, always plausible. Gordon. Gordon. It was becoming an obsession with them, he knew, but the man appeared at every turn. He personified the system. In the past months his work had seemed to clog up in details and slow down. The early days of broad, rapid outlines and facile sketching in of details were gone now. The endless indignities, invasion of personal rights and and freedom, the hamstringing of his work, the feeling of being cut off from the main currents of his field filled him with despair, anger, and frustration. Suddenly he raised his head, slammed the notebook shut, and switched off the desk lamp. Not tonight. Tomorrow would be time enough to write out this stuff. He needed a drink. The hall was dark as he locked the door to his lab, except at the far end, near the stairway, where a patch of yellow light shone through an open doorway. Mason, he thought. Alan Mason. The one guy at Fair Oaks Nuclear Energy Laboratories who was always so damnedly cheerful, who didn't seem to mind the security restrictions and who was seen so often with Gordon. As he walked rapidly past the open doorway, he caught a flashing impression from the corner of his eye of Mason's tall figure bent over his bench, his long legs wrapped around a lab stool, the perpetual unlit pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth Then, as he swung quickly toward the stairs, he heard Mason's cheerful hail I Milt, hold up a sec. Reluctantly, he paused at the head of the stairs, scowling momentarily, and then slowly turning and retraced his steps. The lab was brightly lighted, and Mason stretched and smiled pleasantly. Come in, old man. I'm about ready to knock off for the evening. How goes it? Collins mumbled an ok, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, and Mason went just finishing up some loose ends so I can get off to the society meeting on Monday. You going? Shaking his head, Collins felt his dislike for this man growing. The annual meeting of the North American Society of Theoretical Physicists. He didn't even give it any thought any more. Maybe he could go, but it didn't seem worth the effort. In the past he had tried to go to the meetings, but somehow, work, rush work, some change of emphasis had come up on the project and he had had to cancel his plans. He'd finally given up, but with Mason, these things seemed to come easily, and he wondered why. That's too bad. His voice droned pleasantly on, and Collins's eye caught sight several botany texts in the book rack above Mason's desk, so he had time to read stuff outside of his field. His work was going well. He had time for meetings and was allowed to go to them. The anger rose slowly, like a swelling bubble from the hard core of his stomach. Then he realized that Mason had stopped talking and was looking at him. Milt, you look glum tonight.
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Is there?
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Why not have supper with me and we'll take in the movie in the lounge? I've eaten already. Collins was on his feet. He forced a thanks anyway. See you tomorrow. I'm and he was gone. As he strode angrily across the quadrangle, Mason's words and cheerful attitude rankled in his mind. The gravel of the walk spurted from under his shoes, and the night air was clear and cool. It was good at least to feel something other than despair again, even anger. But once in his study, with its attached bedroom and bath that made up his living quarters, he sank to the couch near his desk. All of the fight gone. He needed a drink today. All the irritations, tensions, and suspicions of the past months seemed to close in on him. His work was going badly. Perhaps seeing Mason had brought it to a head. The fifth of bourbon in the bottom desk drawer was partly gone from the party last month. He took a swallow, neat, and the fire of the liquid burned and clawed its way down his throat and spread, spread with blossoming warmth in his stomach Kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie, he leaned back with the bottle on the floor beside him. Later in the evening, when the early clarity of thought had left him and his mind moved disjointedly in and out of seemingly brilliant emotional solutions to his problem, he knew he must have a showdown. Lying back on the couch, he drifted into sleep, determined to have it out with Gordon in the morning. Resign if necessary. The momentary pause of lighting his cigarette gave Collins a chance to decide where to start. As he sat across from Gordon, the division administrator was older, with a heavy, jowled, close shaven face, and he waited patiently for Collins to speak. Dr. Gordon, I am having a great deal of difficulty in making an adjustment both in my work and in my personal relations here at Fair Oaks, and last night I realized that I would have to talk to you about it. Gordon's face changed slightly, his eyebrows rising almost imperceptibly. So what? How do you mean, Milt? Use of the first name. The familiar approach, thought Collins. Administrative technique. No. Blank, blank, blank. Dr. Gordon, these security measures we are under the difficulty of publishing, of getting to scientific meetings, the problem of getting furloughs, lack of knowledge of what is going on in my own field. It's just a little too much. It's personally irritating, but it greatly hampers my work as well. Frankly, I'm against the entire security program as it now stands. If it isn't stopped, research will well simply be impossible. Free interchange of information is essential to his fingers were gripping the arms of his chair. Yes, of course, Milt. But corny as it sounds, there is a war on, you know. Oh, not a war with military weapons yet, but a cold war of science and engineering, a struggle for supremacy in many fields of knowledge. If information of our work leaks out, gets to the enemy, we might as well not do that work. We can't be too careful, I agree, but it goes too far. He leaned forward. My private mail is read and on my last furlough I am certain I was watched from the time I left the gates out there until I returned. And I don't like it. I can't prove it, but that's getting to the point that life's not worth while. Come now, Milt, don't you think you're taking this a little too seriously? You're getting stale, overwrought. You need a fresh point of view. Lots of our people feel as you do at one time or another. But most of us learn to live with these necessary regulations and do our work in spite of them. Let me make a suggestion. Relax. Take a little time off. Develop a hobby. Why not do some reading in a field of science other than your own? It's good for you. Several of the people here are doing it. I do it. Carter. Even Mason, for instance. Collins could feel the anger rising in him again. Look, Gordon, I'm not going to mince words. I'm sick and tired of this mess and you might as well know it. You can have all your damn relaxations and hobbies or what have you. I want to do my work, and if I can't do it here, I'm going somewhere where I can do it it in plain English. Unless we can have an understanding right now, I resign. It had come out and Collins was breathing hard, but Gordon's expression hardly changed as he looked over the tips of his joined fingers while the younger man stopped and crushed out his cigarette viciously in the ash disposer on the arm of his chair. Gordon doodled on a small pad for a moment, his eyes not meeting Collins's. Then he spoke slowly. I'm sorry you feel that way, Milt. I. I'm afraid I cannot accept your resignation. You see, he said softly, none of us can leave Fairoaks now. Collins looked up, amazement and incredulity written on his face. What do you mean, can't leave? I can leave any time. Gordon slowly shook his head, almost sadly. No. Only assistants, technicians, maintenance people, and they are carefully watched or restricted to this area. People like yourself, like me, we have information, knowledge which cannot be let out of government hands at this time. We're here probably for the duration, maybe longer. But this is barbarous. I the words clogged, jumbled as he tried to get them out. His emotions ran from anger to amazement to indignation, followed by a trickle of fear, and as he stared at Gordon, the fear grew. He could scarcely hear Gordon's words. Take my advice. Relax and forget your fears. Accept the restrictions and go ahead, read in some other field. Come in again when you've thought it out. He was scarcely aware when Gordon slipped a bound journal volume into his hands and walked with him to the door and closed it behind him. Collins left Gordon's office in administration, moving slowly, one arm hanging loosely by his side, the other clutching the book. The corridor stretched ahead into B Wing with its laboratories flooded with the glow of mid morning sunshine, bright and unreal. His mind was dazed. His thinking processes stopped in a kind of stunned unbelief. He could not even quit now. Now an undercurrent of fear ran close to the surface of his confused mind, it was the end of science, the end of all his work. All of the stifling, strangling restrictions of security on his work, on his private life, came whirling back as a monstrous, formless threat, something unspeakably big and powerful and unbeatable, against which he could not fight. To his right, as he moved slowly down the hall, the double doors of the main library reading room were open, with the stacks and study cubicles beyond. Silent and restful, he paused and then entered, crossing into the maze of the stacks through a grilled iron doorway. The important thing now was not to meet anyone, not to have to speak or smile or think. It was very important now to be alone and quiet. He walked until he found an empty cubicle, the endless walls of books, repositories of knowledge, silent and reproachful around him. Knowledge in books such as these would soon be added to no longer. He slumped into the chair and gazed at the tiny reading desk with its softly glowing lamp and the small stack of volumes on the rack left by previous users. Absently, he stared for a long time at the volume Gordon had given him, as if seeing it for the first time. Then, with a deliberate effort, he opened it and thumbed through slowly, only half seeing its pages. The Journal of Botanical Research. The pages of the journal were like a look through through an open window. Outside of classified projects in harmless fields of research, the work of science went on. Papers were published, reputations were made. Freedom still existed. He remembered Gordon's sleek smile and advice to relax and read in other fields. This stupid, useless advice still rankled. Of course, he probably was stale, but to read junk like this silently and in his mind he cursed the day. He had studied physics better. Archaeology or zoology, Anything. Suddenly he stopped rifling the pages and leaned forward rapidly turning back to something that had caught his eye. It was a 3 1/2 page paper on the statistical probability of critical chromosome crossover, written in neat sections with several charts and references. It was by M. Mason. Something clicked in Collins's mind. Read the journals, Mason's unconcern with security, the botany books on his desk the night before. It didn't make sense, but it added up to something. Mason knew something, and so did Gordon. He half rose. He had to get to the bottom of it. Clutching the bound journal, Collins turned and weaved through the stacks and out the library, waving the protesting librarian aside, and strode down the corridor toward the laboratories. The door to Mason's lab was partially open, and he looked up Quizzically from taking an instrument reading as comp. Collins burst in. Mason, I. He planked the bound volume of the botanical journal on the lab bench beside the instrument, ignoring Mason's wince as the instrument needle quivered with the jar. Did you write this? His finger jabbed at the open page. Mason glanced at Collins, removed a pair of glasses from his white lab coat pocket and, putting them on, leaned forward and studied the page for the for a moment. Yes. Not bad either. Though I shouldn't say it, I didn't know you were interested in botany. His voice was casual with a slight questioning note. Collins suddenly felt ridiculous. What was he accusing the man of? Mason had a right to publish on anything he wanted to. Still, a muddled series of half facts, incidents, and suspicions chased through his mind. Mason walked over to his desk and, filling his pipe, sat down thoughtfully and leaned back, motioning Collins into a nearby chair. I think I know what is on your mind, Milt. Maybe I can straighten this out. Gordon told me a little while ago that you wanted to resign. Collins stiffened. So these two were working together. Milt, did you ever stop to think how lucky we are? Where can you get better equipment, help, cooperation in the country than here? Collins leaned forward to speak, but Mason went on. Oh, I know all the problems of security and how it strangles work. He paused for a moment as though trying to grasp the right words. Look, Milt, what's the basic problem? Why do security measures strangle research? Isn't it a matter basically of a breakdown in the interchange of ideas?
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Sure.
- [321:26]
And it has come about because there has been no method of communication which would not get to and be used by our enemies. So, like yourself, I'm forbidden to publish the results of my work here in the journals. Why? Because those results are in my field of study. Chain reactions. I'm frustrated, just as you have been, and science suffers. What do I do? I write articles in a field that isn't restricted. Botany. It's a new field of interest to me. A hobby, if you like. The stuff is published and gets wide distribution. Every decent library in the country gets it. Every scientist all over the country can read the papers if he cares to. Then the word gets around. By the scientific grapevine with a little judicious ear bending, I get a reputation in botany. Now the botanists know that I am not a botanist. They understand what I am doing, the word spreads, and they leave my stuff alone. The physicists in my specialty know my name and they get the word. And pretty soon they are glancing over certain botany journals. Apparently for relaxation. They read my papers. It's slow, but it works. Mason leaned forward and struck a large stick match under the lab bench top, drawing several puffs through his pipe. His eyes were on Collins's confused face. Then he laid the pipe down. The enemy botanists may read the botany journals, sure, but the enemy physicists botanists don't. Their totalitarian training has made them inflexible in their thinking. Besides, they have their hands full trying to keep up in their own fields. The curse of specialization is a blessing to us. When the enemy botanists read it, it makes sense, but it doesn't help them much in their work. More or less innocuous. He waved toward the botany texts on his desk. It took me six months to learn enough about it to do the job. As he spoke, Mason untangled his legs and brought the open journal over to his desk. All right. Notice in my article I am writing on chromosomes, chains of genes, and my field is chain reactions, collins finished softly. But the article itself is well disguised. But it's a parable. It's botany on the surface, but it gets over enough chain reaction theory to be good physics if you read it right. You see, botany is what you might call my code field. The bright light of noon shimmered on the white buildings and green lawns beyond the lab windows. Collins was silent and thoughtful. Well, that's about all Gordon knows. He's in with us, but the government doesn't suspect yet. Oh, they may catch on to us. Information may leak out to the enemy. There's some chance, but when we're caught we'll think of something else. Most of us believe it's worth the chance. There's a risk in anything. Suddenly all the pieces fell into place, and Collins's anger and confusion melted away. In its place was a sense of relief and hope. Hope for the future. It wasn't the final answer, but it was a way to keep going. He was not alone any longer. He had friends who understood, who had been through what he had been through. It was a good feeling. He heard Mason's voice again. Milt, why don't you do some library work? Botany's my code field. I don't know what yours is, but you've got some catching up to do. There may be some interesting stuff published already in your code field. Collins did, and he developed his new interest enthusiastically. Gordon had been right. He had been getting stale. Besides, astronomy was a fascinating field, and suns with their revolving planets in some respects are very like atomic systems, if you look at it that way. Security by ernest m. Kenyon recording by christopher hall. Star Mother by Robert F. Young 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 Christopher Hall Star Mother by Robert F. Young. That night her son was the first star. She stood motionless in the garden, one hand pressed against her heart, watching him rise above the fields where he had played as a boy, where he had worked as a young man, and she wondered whether he was thinking of those fields now, whether he was thinking of her standing alone in the April night with her memories, whether he was thinking of the verandaed house behind her, with its empty rooms and silent halls that once upon a time had been his birthplace. Higher still and higher he rose in the southern sky, and then, when he had reached his zenith, he dropped swiftly down past the dark edge of the earth and disappeared from sight, a boy grown up too soon, riding round and round the world on a celestial carousel, encased in an airtight metal capsule in an airtight metal chariot. Why don't they leave the stars alone?
- [327:44]
She thought.
- [327:45]
Why don't they leave the stars to God? The General's second telegram came early the next morning. Explorer 12, doing splendidly. Expect to bring your son down sometime tomorrow. She went about her work as usual, collecting the eggs and allocating them in their cardboard boxes, then setting off in the station wagon on her Tuesday morning run. She had expected a deluge of questions from from her customers. She was not disappointed. Is Terry really way up there all alone, Martha? Aren't you scared, Martha? I do hope they can get him back down all right, Martha. She supposed it must have given them quite a turn to have their egg woman change into a star mother overnight. She hadn't expected the TV interview, though, and she would have avoided it if it had been politely possible. But what could she do when the line of cars and trucks pulled into the drive and the technicians got out and started setting up their equipment in the back yard? What could she say when the suave young man came up to her and said, we want you to know that we're all very proud of your boy up there, ma', am, and we hope you'll do us the honor of answering a few questions. Most of the questions concerned Terry, as was fitting from the way the suave young man asked them, though, she got the impression that he was trying to prove that her son was just like any other average American boy and such just didn't happen to be the case. But whenever she opened her mouth to mention, say, how he used to study till all hours of the night, or how difficult it had been for him to make friends because of his shyness, or the fact that he had never gone out for football, whenever she started to mention any of these things, the suave young man was in great haste to interrupt her and to twist her words by requestioning into a different meaning altogether, till Terry's behavior pattern seemed to coincide with the behavior pattern which the switch suave young man apparently considered the norm, but which, if followed, Martha was sure would produce not young men bent on exploring space but young men bent on exploring trivia, a few of the questions concerned herself. Was Terry her only child? Yes. What had happened to her husband? He was killed in the Korean War. What did she think of the new law granting star mothers top priority on any and all information relating to their sons? I think it's a fine law. It's too bad they couldn't have shown similar humanity toward the war mothers of World War II. It was late in the afternoon by the time the TV crew got everything repacked to into their cars and trucks and made their departure. Martha fixed herself a light supper, then donned an old suede jacket of Terry's and went out into the garden to wait for the sun to go down. According to the timetable the General had outlined in his first telegram, Terry's first Tuesday night passage wasn't due to occur till 9:05, but it seemed only right that she should be outside when the stars started to come out. Presently they did, and she watched them wink on one by one in the deepening darkness of the sky. She'd never been much of one for the stars. Most of her life she'd been much too busy on earth to bother with things celestial. She could remember when she was much younger and Bill was courting her, looking up at the moon sometimes and once in a while when a star star fell, making a wish. But this was different. It was different because now she had a personal interest in the sky, a new affinity with its myriad inhabitants and how bright they became when you kept looking at them. They seemed to come alive, almost pulsing brilliantly down out of the blackness of the night. And they were different kind colors too, she noticed with a start. Some of them were blue and some were red. Others were yellow, green, orange. It grew cold in the April garden and she could see her breath. There was a strange crispness, a strange clarity about the night that she had never known before. She glanced at her watch. Was astonished to see that the hands indicated to two minutes after nine. Where had the time gone? Tremulously she faced the southern horizon and saw her tarry appear in his shining chariot, riding up the star pebbled path of his orbit, a star in his own right, dropping swiftly now down, down and out of sight beyond the dark wheeling mass of the earth. She took a deep proud breath, realized that she was wildly waving her hand and let it fall slowly to her side. Make a wish, she thought, like a little girl, and she wished him pleasant dreams and a safe return and wrapped the wish in all her love and cast it starward. Sometime tomorrow, the General's telegram had said, that meant sometime today. She rose with the sun and fed the chickens fixed and ate her breakfast, collected the eggs and put them in their cardboard boxes, then started out on her Wednesday morning run. My land. MARTHA I don't see how you stand it with him way up there. Doesn't it get on your nerves? Yes. Yes it does. MARTHA when are they bringing him back down? Today. It must be wonderful being a star, Mother. MARTHA yes, it is in a way. Wonderful and terrible. If only he can last it out a few more hours, she thought, if only they can bring him down safe and sound, then the vigil will be over and some other mother can take over the awesome responsibility of having a son become a star. If only. The General's third telegram arrived that afternoon. Regret to inform you that meteorite impact on satellite hull severely damaged capsule detachment mechanism making ejection impossible.
- [334:58]
Possible.
- [334:59]
We'll make every effort to find another means of accomplishing your son's return. TERRY See the little boy playing beneath the maple tree, moving his tiny cars up and down the tiny streets of his make believe village. The little boy, his fuzz of hair gold in the sunlight. His his cherub cheeks pink in the summer wind. TERRY up the lane the blue denim'd young man walks, swinging his thin tanned arms, his long legs making near grown up strides over the sun seared grass, the sky blue and bright behind him the song of cicada rising and falling in the hazy September September air. TERRY probably won't get a chance to write you again before takeoff. But don't worry, Ma. The Explorer 12 is the greatest bird they ever built. Nothing short of a direct meteorite hit can hurt it and the odds are a million to one. Why don't they leave the stars alone? Why don't they leave the stars to God? The afternoon shadows lengthened on the lawn and the sun grew red and swollen over the western hills. MARTHA fixed supper, tried to eat, and couldn't. After a while, when the light began to fade, she slipped into Terry's jacket and went outside. Slowly the sky darkened and the stars began to appear. At length her star appeared, but its swift passage blurred before her eyes. Tires crunched on the gravel then, and headlights washed the darkness from the drive. A car door slammed. Martha did not move. Please, God, she thought, let it be Terry, even though she knew that it couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps sounded behind her, paused. Someone coughed softly. She turned then, good evening, ma'. Am. She saw the circlet of stars on the gray epaulette. She saw the stern, handsome face. She saw the dark, tired eyes. And she knew, even before he spoke again. She knew. The same meteorite that damaged the ejection mechanism, ma'.
- [337:50]
Am.
- [337:51]
It penetrated the capsule, too. We didn't find out till just a while ago, but there was nothing we could have done anyway. Are you all right, ma'?
- [338:01]
Am?
- [338:02]
Yes, I'm all right. I wanted to express my regrets personally. I know how you must feel. It's all right. We will, of course make every effort to bring back his remains so that he can have a fitting burial on Earth. No, she said. I beg your pardon, ma'.
- [338:26]
Am.
- [338:28]
She raised her eyes to the patch of sky where her sun had passed. In his shining metal sarcophagus, Sirius blossomed there, blue, white, and beautiful. She raised her eyes still higher and beheld the vast parterre of Orion, with its central motif of vivid Forget me Nots, its far flung blooms of Betelgeuse and Rigel, of Bellatrix and safe and higher yet. And there flamed the exquisite flower beds of Taurus and Gemini. There burgeoned the riotous wreath of the crab. There lay the pulsing petals of the Pleiades, and down the ecliptic garden path, wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted the ochre rose of Mars. No, she said again. The general had raised his eyes, too. Now slowly, he lowered them. I think I understand, ma', am. And I'm glad that's the way you want it. The stars are beautiful tonight, aren't they? More beautiful than they've ever been, she said. After the general had gone, she looked up once more at the vast and variegated garden of the sky where her son lay buried. Then she turned and walked slowly back to the memoried house. End of star mother by robert f. Young recording by christopher hall.
- [340:24]
The Thames Valley Catastrophe by Grant Allen this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.com recording by Ed Humpel the Thames Valley Catastrophe by Grant Allen it can scarcely be necessary for me to mention, I suppose, at this time of day, that I was one of the earliest and fullest observers of the sad series of events which finally brought about the transference of the seat of government of these islands from London to Manchester. Nor need I allude here to the conspicuous position which my narrative naturally occupies in the Blue Book on the Thames Valley Catastrophe, Volume 2, Part 7, ordered by Parliament in its preliminary session under the new regime at Birmingham. But I think it also incumbent upon me, for the benefit of posterity, to supplement that necessarily dry, informal statement by a more circumstantial account of my personal adventures during the terrible period. I am aware, of course, that my poor little story can possess little interest, for our contemporaries, wearied out as they are with details of the disaster, and surfeited with tedious scientific discussions as to its origin and nature. But in after years, I venture to believe, when the crowning calamity of the 19th century century has grown picturesque and, so to speak, ivy clad by reason of its remoteness, like the great plague or the great fire of London, with ourselves, the world may possibly desire to hear how this unparalleled convulsion affected the feelings and the fortunes of a single family in the middle rank of life, and in a part of London neither squalid nor fashionable. It is such personal touches of human nature that give reality to history, which without them must become, as a great writer has finally said, nothing more than an old almanac. I shall not apologize, therefore, for being frankly egoistic and domestic in my reminiscences of that appalling day for I know that those who desire to seek scientific information on the subject will look for it not in vain in the eight bulky volumes of the recent Blue Book. I shall concern myself here with the great event merely as it appeared to myself, a government servant of the second grade, and in its relations to my own wife, my home, and my children. On the morning of 21 August, in the memorable year of the Calamity, I happened to be at Cookham, a pleasant and pretty village which then occupied the western bank of the Thames, just below the spot where the lookout tower of the earthquake and eruption department now dominates the whole wide plain of the glassy rock desert in place of the black late of basalt, which young people see nowadays winding its solid bays in and out among the grassy downs, most men still living can well remember a Gracious and and smiling valley threaded in the midst of a beautiful river. I had cycled down from London the evening before, thus forestalling my holiday, and had spent the night at a tolerable inn in the village. By a curious coincidence, the only other visitor at the little hotel that night was a fellow cyclist, an American, George W. Ward by name, who had come over with his wheel, as he called it, for six weeks in England in order to investigate the geology of our southern counties for himself and to compare it with that of the far western Cretaceous system. I venture to describe this as a curious coincidence, because, as it happened, the mere accident of my meeting him gave me the first inkling of the very existence of that singular phenomenon of which we were all so soon to receive, a startling and example I had never so much as heard before of fissure eruptions. And if I had not heard of them from Ward that evening, I might not have recognized at sight the actuality when it first appeared, and therefore I might have been involved in the general disaster. In which case, of course, this unpretentious narrative would never have been written. As we sat in the little parlor of the White Hart, however, over our evening pipe, it chanced that the American, who was a pleasant, conversable fellow, began talking to me of his reasons for visiting England. I was at that time a clerk in the general post office, of which I am now secretary, and was then no student of science. But his enthusiastic talk about his own country and its vastness business amused and interested me. He had been employed for some years on the geological survey of the western states, and he was deeply impressed by the solemnity and the colossal scale of everything American. Mountains, he said when I spoke of Scotland. Why, for mountains? Your Alps aren't in it. And as for volcanoes, your Vesuviuses and Aetnas just spit fire a bit at infrequent intervals, while ours do things on a scale worthy of a great country. I can tell you, Europe is a circumstance. America is a continent. But surely I objected. That was a pretty fair eruption that destroyed Pompeii. The American rose and surveyed me slowly. I can see him to this day with his close shaven face and his contemptuous smile at my European expression.
- [346:18]
Ignorance.
- [346:20]
Well, he said after a long and impressive pause, the lava flood that destroyed a few acres about the Bay of Naples was what we call a trickle. It came from a crater, and the crater it came from was nothing more than a small round vent hole. The lava flowed down from it in a moderate stream over a limited area. But what do you say to the earth opening in a huge crack for 40 or 50 miles long, say, as far as from here right away to London or further, and lava pouring out from the orifice, not in a little rivulet as at Etna or Vesuvius, but in a sea or inundation which spread at once over a tract as big as England? That's something like volcanic action, isn't it? And that's the sort of thing we have out in Colorado. You are joking, I replied. Replied? Or bragging? You are trying to astonish me with a familiar spread eagle. He smiled a quiet smile. Not a bit of it, he answered. What I tell you is at least as true as gospel. The earth yawns in Montana. There are fissure eruptions, as we call them in the western states, out of which the lava has welled like wine out of a broken skin, welled up in vast roaring floods, molten torrents of basalt many miles across, and spread like water over whole plains and valleys. Not within historical times. I exclaimed. I'm not so sure about that, he answered, musing, I grant you, not within times which are historical right now, for Colorado is a very new country. But I incline to think some of the most recent fissure eruptions took place not later than when the Tudors reigned in England. The lava oozed out red hot, gushed out, was squeezed out, and spread instantly everywhere. It's so comparatively recent that the surface of the rock is still bare in many parts, unweathered sufficiently to support vegetation. I fancy the stream must have been ejected at a single burst in a huge white hot dome, and then flowed down on every side, filling up the valleys to a certain level, in and out among the hills, exactly as water might do. And some of these eruptions, I tell you, by measured survey, would have covered more ground than from Dover to Liverpool and from York to Cornwall. Let us be thankful, I said carelessly, that such things don't happen in our own times. He eyed me curiously. Haven't happen, do you mean, he answered, we have no security that they mayn't happen tomorrow. These fissure eruptions, though not historically described for us, are common events in geological history, commoner and on a larger scale in America than elsewhere. Still they have occurred in all lands and at various epochs. There is no reason at all why one shouldn't occur in England at present. I laughed and shook my head. I had an Englishman's firm conviction, so rudely shattered by the subsequent events, but then so universal that nothing very unusual ever happened in England. Next morning I rose early bathed in Odney Weir, a picturesque pool close by, breakfasted with the American, then wrote a hasty line to my wife informing her that I should probably sleep that night at odd Oxford, for I was off on a few days holiday and I liked Ethel to know where a letter or telegram would reach me each day as we were both a little anxious about the baby's teething. Even while I pen these words now, the grim humour of the situation comes back to me vividly. Thousands of fathers and mothers were anxious that morning about similar trifles whose pettiness was brought home to them with an appalling shock in the all embracing horror of that day's calamity. About 10 o' clock I inflated my tires and got underway. I meant to ride toward Oxford by a leisurely and circuitous route along the windings of the river past Marlow and Henley. And so I began by crossing Cookham Bridge, a wooden or iron structure I scarcely remember which. It spanned the Thames close by the village. The curious will find its exact position marked in the maps of the period. In the middle of the bridge I paused and surveyed that charming prospect, which I was the last of living men perhaps to see it as it then existed. Close by stood a weir. Beside it the stream divided into three separate branches, exquisitely backed up by the gentle green slopes of headspace in Clivedon I could never pass that typical English view without a glance of admiration. This morning I pulled up my bicycle for a moment and cast my eye down stream with more than my usual enjoyment of the smooth blue water and the tall white poplars whose leaves showed their gleaming silver in the breeze beside it. I might have gazed at it too long, and one minute more would have sufficed for my distress destruction had not a cry from the tow path a little farther up attracted my attention. It was a wild despairing cry, like that of a man being overpowered and murdered. I am confident this was my first intimation of danger. Two minutes before, it is true, I had heard a faint sound like a distant rumbling of thunder, but nothing else. I am one of those who strike strenuously maintain that the catastrophe was not heralded by shocks of earthquake. For an opposite opinion, see Dr. Hay Withers, evidence in volume three of the Blue Book. I turned my eye upstream for half a second. I was utterly bewildered. Strange to say I did not perceive at first the great flood of fire that was advancing toward me. I saw only the man who had shot shouted a miserable, cowering, terror stricken wretch, one of the abject creatures who Used to earn a dubious livelihood in those days when the river was a boulevard of pleasure by towing boats upstream. But now he was rushing wildly forward with panic in his face. I could see he looked as if close, pursued by some wild beast behind him. A mad dog, I said to myself at the onset, or else a bull in the meadow. I glanced back to see what his pursuer might be. But then, in one second, the whole horror and terror of the catastrophe burst upon me. Its whole horror and terror, I say, but not yet its magnitude. I was aware at first just of a moving red wall, like dull, red, hot, molten metal, Trying to recall it at so safe a distance in time and space, the feelings of the moment and the way in which they surged and succeeded one another. I think I can recollect that my earliest idea was no more than this. He must run, or the moving wall will overtake him. Next instant, a hot wave seemed to strike my face. It was just like a blast of heat that strikes one in a glass house when you stand in front of the boiling and seething glass in the furnace. At about the same point in time I was aware of, I believe, that the dull red wall was really a wall of fire, but it was cooled by contact with the air and the water. Even as I looked, however, a second wave from behind seemed to rush on and break. It overlaid and outran the first one. This second wave was white, not red. At white heat, I realized. Then, with a burst of recognition, I knew what it all meant, what Ward had spoken of last night.
- [354:06]
Night?
- [354:07]
A fissure eruption. I looked back. Ward was coming toward me on the bridge, mounted on his Columbia. Too speechless to utter one word, I pointed upstream with my hand. He nodded and shouted back in a singularly calm voice, yes, Just what I told you. A fissure eruption. They were the last words I heard him speak. Not that he appreciated the danger less than than I did, though his manner was cool. But he was wearing no clips to his trousers, and in that critical moment, he caught his leg in his pedals. The accident disconcerted him. He dismounted hurriedly and then, panic stricken, as I judged, abandoned his machine. He tried to run. The error was fatal. He tripped and fell. What became of him afterward I will mention later, but for the moment I saw only the poor, poor wretch on the tow path. He was not a hundred yards off, just beyond the little bridge which led over the opening to a private boathouse. But as he rushed forwards and shrieked, the wall of fire overtook him. I do not think it quite caught him. It is hard at such moments to judge what really happens. But I believe I saw him shrivel like a moth in a flame a few seconds before the advancing wall of fire swept over the boathouse house. I have seen an insect shrivel just so when flung into the midst of white hot coals. He seemed to go off in gas, leaving a shower of powdery ash to represent his bones behind him. But of this I do not pretend to be positive. I will allow that my own agitation was far too profound to permit of my observing anything with accuracy. How high was the wall at this time? This has been much debated. I should guess 30ft, though it rose afterwards to more than 200, and it advanced rather faster than a man could run down the center of the valley. Later on, its pace accelerated greatly with subsequent outbursts. In frantic haste I saw or felt that only one chance of safety lay before me. Me, I must strike. Uphill by the field path to head, sir, I rode for very life with grim death behind me. Once well across the bridge and turning up the hill, I saw Ward on the parapet with his arms flung up, trying wildly to save himself by leaping into the river. Next instant he shriveled, I think, as the beggar had shriveled. And it is to this complete combustion before the lava flood reached them that I attribute the circumstance so much commented upon in the scientific excavations among the ruins, that no casts of dead bodies like those at Pompeii have anywhere been found in the Thames Valley desert. My own belief is that every human body was reduced to a gaseous condition by the terrific heat several seconds before the molten basalt reached it, even at the distance which I had now attained from from the central mass. Indeed, the heat was intolerable. Yet, strange to say, I saw few or no people flying as yet from the inundation. The fact is, the eruption came upon us so suddenly, so utterly without warning or premonitory symptoms, for I deny the earthquake shocks that whole towns must have been destroyed before the inhabitants were aware that anything out of the common was happening. It is a sort of alleviation to the the general horror to remember that a large proportion of the victims must have died without even knowing it. One second they were laughing, talking, bargaining, the next they were asphyxiated or reduced to ashes, as you have seen a small fly disappear in an incandescent gas flame. This, however, is what I learned afterward. At that moment I was only aware of a frantic pace uphill over a rough, stony road, and with my pedals working as I had never before worked them while behind me I saw purgatory let loose, striving hard to overtake me. I just knew that a sea of fire was filling the valley from end to end, and that its heat scorched my face as I urged on my bicycle in abject terror. At this point, I will admit my panic was purely personal. I was too much engaged in the engrossing sense of my own pressing danger to be vividly alive to the public catastrophe. I did not even think of Ethel and the children. But when I reached the hill by Headser Church, a neat small building whose shell still stands, though scorched and charred by the edge of the desert, I was able to pause for half a minute to recover my breath and to look back upon the scene of the first, first disaster. It was a terrible and yet I felt even then a beautiful sight. Beautiful with the awful and unearthly beauty of a great forest fire, or a mighty conflagration in some crowded city. The whole river valley up which I looked, was one sea of fire. Barriers of red hot lava formed themselves for a moment now and again, where the outer edge or vanguard of the inundation had cool, cooled a little on the surface by exposure, and over these temporary dams, fresh cataracts of white hot material poured themselves afresh into the valley beyond it. After a while, as the deeper portion of basalt was pushed out, all was white alike. So glorious it looked in the morning sunshine that one could hardly realize the appalling reality of that sea of molten gold. One might almost have imagined a splendid triumph of the scene painter's art. Did one not know that it was actually a river of fire, overwhelming, consuming and destroying every object before it in its devastating progress? I tried vaguely to discover the source of the disaster. Looking straight upstream, past Bourne End and Marlow, I described with bleared and dazzled eyes a wider mass than any grave, glowing fiercely in the daylight like an electric light, and filling up the narrow gorge of river towards Hurley and Henley. I recollected at once that this portion of the valley was not usually visible from heads or hill. And almost without thinking of it, I instinctively guessed the reason why it had become so. Now it was the centre of disturbance. The Earth's crust just there, had bulged upwards slightly till it cracked and gaped to emit the basalt. Looking harder, I could make out, though it was like looking at the sun, that the glowing white dome shaped mass as of an electric light was the molten lava as it gurgled from the mouth of the vast fissure. I say vast because so it Seemed to me, though, as everybody now knows, the actual gap where the earth opened measures no more than eight miles across from point near what was once Shiplake Ferry to the site of the old lime kilns at Marlow. Yet when one saw the eruption actually taking place, the colossal scale of it was what most appalled 1. A sea of fire 8 to 12 miles broad in the familiar Thames Valley, impressed and terrified one a thousand times more than a sea of fire ten times as vast in the nameless wilds of western America. I could see dimly, too, that the flood spread in every direction, from its central point both up and down the river, to right and left. Indeed, it was soon checked and hemmed in by the hills about Wargrave and Menmenham. But downward it had filled the entire valley as far as Cookham and beyond, while upward it spread in one vast glowing sheet toward Reading and the flats by the confluence of the Kennet. I did not then know, of course, that this gigantic natural dam or barrier was later on to fill up to the whole low lying level and so block the course of the two rivers as to form those twin expanses of inland water, Lake Newbury and Lake Oxford. Tourists who now look down on still summer evenings where the ruins of Magdalen and of Merton may be dimly descried through the pale green depths, their broken masonry picturesquely overgrown with tail tangled water weeds, can form but a little idea of the terrible scene which that peaceful bank presented while the incandescent lava was pouring forth in a scorching white flood towards the doomed district merchants who crowd the busy quays of those mushroom cities which have sprung up with greater rapidity than Chicago or Johannesburg on the indented shore where the new lakes abut upon the Berkshire chalk top downs, have half forgotten the horror of the intermediate time when the waters of the two rivers rose slowly, slowly, day after day, to choke their valleys and overwhelm some of the most glorious architecture in Britain. But though I did not know, and could not then foresee the remoter effects of the great fire flood in that direction, I saw enough to make my heart stand still within me. It was with difficulty that I grasped my bicycle. My hands trembled so fiercely I realized that I was a spectator of the greatest calamity which had befallen a civilized land within the ken of history. I looked southward along the valley in the direction of Maidenhead. And yet it did not occur to me that the catastrophe was anything more than a local flood, though even as such, it would have been one of unexampled vastness. My imagination could hardly conceive that London itself was threatened. In those days, one could not grasp the idea of the destruction of London. I only thought, just at first, it will go on towards Maidenhead. Even as I thought it, I saw a fresh and fiercer gush of fire well out from the central gash and flow still faster than ever down the center of the valley over the hardening layer already cooling on its edge by contact with the air and soil. This new outburst fell in a mad cataract over the end or van of the last and instantly spread like water across the level expanse between the Cliveden hills and the opposite range at Pinkneys. I realized with a throb that it was advancing toward Windsor. Then a wild fear chilled through me. If Windsor, why not Staines and Chertsey and Hounslow. If Hounslow, why not London? In a second, I remembered Ethel and the children. Hitherto, the immediate danger of my own position alone had struck me. The fire was so near, the heat of it rose up in my face and daunted me. But now I felt I must make a wild dash to warn not London. No. Frankly, I forgot those millions but Ethel and my little ones. In that thought, for the first moment, the real vastness of the catastrophe came home to me. The Thames Valley was doomed. I must ride for dear life if I wish to save my wife and children. I mounted again, but found my shaking feet could hardly work the pedals. My legs were one jelly. With a frantic effort, I struck off inland in the direction of Burnham. I did not think my way out definitely. I hardly knew the topography of the district well enough to form any clear conception of what route I must take in order to keep to the hills and avoid the flood of fire that was deluging on the lowlands. But by pure instinct, I believe I set my face London words along the rim of the chalk downs. In three minutes, I had lost sight of the burning flood and was deep among green lanes and under shadowy beaches. The very contrast frightened me. I wondered if I was going mad. It was all so quiet. One could not believe that scarce five miles off from that devastating sheet of fire, birds were singing in the sky and men toiling in the fields as if nothing had happened. Near Lambourne Wood, I met a brother cyclist just about to descend the hill. A curve in the road hid the valley from him. I shouted aloud, for heaven's sakes, don't go down. There is danger. Danger. He smiled and looked back at me. I can take any hill in England, he answered. It's not the hill, I burst out. There has been an eruption, a fissure eruption at Marlow. Great floods of fire, and all the valley is filled with burning lava. He stared at me derisively. Then his expression changed of a sudden, I suppose he saw I was white faced and horror stricken. He drew away as if alarmed. Go back to Colney Hatch. He cried, pedaling faster, and rode hastily down the hill as if afraid of me. I have no doubt he must have ridden into the very midst of the flood and been scorched by its advance before he could check his machine. On so sudden a slope between Lambourn Wood and Burnham, I did not see the fire flood. I rode on at full speed among the green hills and meadows. Here and there I passed a laboring man on the road. More than one looked up at me and commented on the oppressive heat, but none of them seemed to be aware of the fate that was overtaking their own homes close by in the valley. I told one or two, but they laughed and gazed after me as if I were a madman. I grew sick of warning them. They took no heed of my words, but went on upon their way as if nothing out of the common were happening to England. On the edge of the down near Burnham, I caught sight of the valley again. Here people were just awaking to what was taking place near them. Half the population was gathered on the slope, looking down with wonder on the flood of fire which had now just turned the corner of the hills by Taplo. Silent terror was the prevailing type of expression. But when I told them I had seen the lava bursting forth from the earth in a white dome above Marlow, they laughed me to scorn. And when I assured them I was pushing forward in hot haste to London, they answered, london. It won't never get as far as London. That was the only place on the hills as is now well known, where the flood was observed long. Long enough beforehand to telegraph and warn the inhabitants of the great city. But nobody thought of doing it, and I must say, even if they had done so, there is not the slightest probability that the warning would have attracted the least attention in our ancient metropolis. Men on the stock exchange would have made jests about the slump and proceeded to buy and sell as usual. I measured with my eye the level plane between Burnham and Slow, calculating roughly with myself whether it should have time to descend upon the well known road from Maidenhead to London by Cold Brook and Hounslow. I advise those who are unacquainted with the topography of this district before the eruption to follow out my route on a good map of the period. But I recognized in a moment that this course would be impossible, at the rate that the flood had taken to progress from Cook and Bridge to Taplow. I felt sure it would be upon me before I reached Upton, or didn't park at the outside. It is true the speed of the advance might slacken somewhat as the lava cooled, and, strange to say, so rapidly do realities come to be accepted in one's mind, that I caught myself thinking this thought in the most natural manner, as if I had all my life long been accustomed to the the ways of fissure eruptions. But on the other hand, the lava might well out faster and hotter than before, as I had already seen it do more than once, and I had no certainty even that it would not rise to the level of the hills on which I was standing. You who read this narrative nowadays take it for granted, of course, that the extent and height of the inundation was bound to be exactly what you know it to have been. We at the time could not guess how high it might rise and how large an area of the country it might overwhelm and devastate. Was it to stop the Chiltons or to go north to Birmingham, York and Scotland? Still in my trembling anxiety to warn my wife and children, I debated with myself whether I should venture down into the valley and hurry along the main road with a wild burst for London. I thought of Ethel alone in our little home at Bayswater, and almost made up my mind to risk it. At that moment I became aware that the road to London was already crowded with carriages, carts, and cycles, all dashing at a mad pace unanimously toward London. Suddenly a fresh wave turned the corner by Taplow and Maidenhead Bridge and began to gain upon them visibly. It was an awful sight. I cannot pretend to describe it. The poor creatures on the road, men and animals alike, rushed wildly, despairingly on. The fire took them from behind, and one by one, before the actual sea reached them, I saw them shrivel and melt away in the fierce white heat of the advancing inundation. I could not look at it any longer. I certainly could not descend and court instant death.
- [371:23]
Death.
- [371:24]
I felt that my one chance was to strike across the Downs by Stoke Pogies and Uxbridge, and then try the line of Northern Heights to London. Oh, how fiercely I pedaled at Farnham Royal, where again nobody seemed to be aware what had happened. A rural policeman tried to stop me for frantic riding. I tripped him up and rode on. Experience had taught me it was no use telling those who had not seen it of the disaster. A little beyond, at the entrance to a fine park, a gatekeeper attempted to shut a gate in my face, exclaiming that the road was private. I saw that it was the only practicable way without descending to the valley, and I made up my mind that this was no time for trifling. I am a man of peace. But I lifted my fist and planted it between his eyes. Then, before he could recover from his astonishment, I. I had mounted again and ridden across the park while he ran after me in vain, screaming to the men in the pleasure grounds to stop me. But I would not be stopped, and I emerged on the road once more at Stoke Poggies, near Galley Hill. After a long and furious ride, I reached the descent to Uxbridge. Was it possible to descend? I glanced across once more by pure instinct, for I had never visited the spot before. Towards where I saw the Thames must run. A great white cloud hung over it. I saw what that cloud must mean. It was the steam of the river where the lava had sucked it up and made it seethe and boil suddenly. I had not noticed this white fleece of steam at Cookham, though I did not guess why till afterwards. In the narrow valley where the Thames ran between hills, the. The lava flowed over it all at once, bottling the steam beneath. And it is this imprisoned steam that gave rise in time to the subsequent series of appalling earthquakes to supply forecasts of which is now the chief duty of the seismologer royal. Whereas in the open plane the basalt advanced more gradually and in a thinner stream, and therefore turned the whole mass of water into white cloud as soon as it reached each beam bend of the river. At the time, however, had no leisure to think out all this. I only knew by such indirect signs that the flood was still advancing, and therefore that it would be impossible for me to proceed towards London by the direct route via Uxbridge and Hanwell. If I meant to reach town, as we called it familiarly, I must descend to the valley at once, pass through Uxbud streets as fast as I could, make a dash across the plain plain by what I afterwards knew to be Hillington, I saw it then as a nameless village and aim at a house crowned hill, which I only learned later was Harrow, but which I felt sure would enable me to descend upon London by Hampstead or Highgate. I am no strategist, but in a second, in that extremity, I picked out these points, feeling dimly sure they would lead me home To Ethel and the children. The town at Uxbridge, whose place you can still find marked on many maps, lay in a valley of a small river, a confluent of the Thames. Up this valley it was certain that the lava stream must flow, and indeed, at the present day, the basin around it is completely filled by one of the solidest and most forbidding masses of black basalt in the country. Still, I made up my mind to descend and cut across the low lying ground towards towards Harrow. If I failed, I felt after all, I was but one unit more in what I now began to realize as a prodigious national calamity. I was just coasting down the hill with Uxbridge lying snug and unconscious in the glen below me, when a slight and unimportant accident occurred, which almost rendered impossible my further progress. It was past the middle of August.
- [375:15]
August.
- [375:16]
The hedges were being cut and this particular lane, bordered by a high thorn fence, was strewn with the mangled branches of the May bushes. At any other time I should have remembered the danger and avoided them. That day, hurrying downhill for dear life and for Ethel, I forgot to notice them. The consequence was I was pulled up suddenly by finding my front wheel deflated. This untimely misfortune almost unmanned me.
- [375:42]
Me.
- [375:43]
I dismounted and examined the tire. It had received a bad puncture. I tried inflating again in hopes the hole might be small enough to make the precaution sufficient, but it was quite useless. I must submit to stop and doctor up the puncture. Fortunately, I have the necessary apparatus in my wallet. I think it was the weirdest episode of all, that weird ride, this sense of stopping impatiently, gently, while the fiery flood still surged on toward London, in order to go through all the fiddling and troublesome little details of mending a pneumatic tire. The moment and the operation seemed so sadly out of harmony. A countryman passed by on a cart, obviously suspecting nothing. That was another point which added horror to the occasion that so near the catastrophe, so very few people were even aware that what was taking place beside them. Indeed, as is well known, I was one of the very few who saw the eruption during its course and yet managed to escape from it elsewhere. Those who tried to run before it, either to escape themselves or to warn others of the danger, were overtaken by the lava before they could reach a place of safety. I attribute this mainly to the fact that most of them continued along the high roads in the valley or fled instinctively for shelter towards their homes, instead of making it once toward the heights and the uplands. The countryman stopped and looked at me. The more haste, the less speed, he said with proverbial wisdom. I glanced up at him and hesitated. Should I warn him of his doom, or was it useless? Keep up on the hills, I said at last. An unspeakable calamity is happening in the valley. Flames of fire are flowing down it as from a great burning mountain. You will be cut off by the eruption. He stared at me blankly and burst into a meaningless laugh. Why, you're one of them Salvation army fellows. He exclaimed after a short pause. You're trying to preach to me. I'm going to Uxbridge. And he continued down the hill towards certain destruction. It was hours, I felt sure, before I had patched up that puncture, though I did it by the watch. In four and a half minutes, as soon as I had blown out my tire again, I mounted once more and rode at a breakneck pace to Uxbridge. I passed down the straggling main street of the suburban town, crying aloud as I went, Run, run to the Downs. A flood of lava is rushing up the valley. To the hills. For your lives. All the Thames bank is blazing. Nobody took the slightest heed. They stood still in the street for a minute with open mouths. Then they returned to their customary occupations. A quarter of an hour later. There was no such place in the world as Uxbridge. I followed the main road through the village, which I have since identified as Hillington. Then I diverged to the left, partly by roads and partly by field paths, of whose exact course I am still un uncertain, toward the hill at Harrow. When I reached the town, I did not strive to rouse the people, partly because my past experience had taught me the futility of the attempt, and partly because I rightly judged that they were safe from the inundation, for as it never quite covered the dome of St. Paul's part of which still protrudes from the sea of basalt, it did not reach the level of the northern heights of London. I rode on through Harrow without one word to anybody. I did not desire to be stopped or harassed. As an escaped lunatic from Harrow, I made my way tortuously along the rising ground by the light of nature, through Wembley park to Willesden. At Willesden, for the first time, I found to a certainty that London was threatened. Great crowds of people in the profoundest excitement stood watching a dense cloud of smoke and steam that spread rapidly over the direction of Shepherd's Bush and Hammersmith. They were speculating as to its meaning, but laughed incredulously when I told them what it portended. A few minutes later, the smoke spread ominously toward Kensington and Paddington. That settled my fate. It was clearly impossible to descend into London, and indeed the heat now began to be unendurable. It drove us all back. Almost physically, I thought I must abandon all hope. I should never even know what had become of Ethel and the children. My first impulse was to lie down and await the fire flood. Yet the sense of the greatness of the catastrophe seemed somehow to blunt one's own private grief. I was beside myself with fear for my darlings. But I realized that I was but one among hundreds of thousands, thousands of fathers in the same position. What was happening at that moment in the great city of 5 million souls, we did not know. We shall never know. But we may conjecture that the end was mercifully too swift to entail much needless suffering. All at once a gleam of hope struck me. It was my father's birthday. Was it not just possible that Ethel might have taken the children up to Hampstead to wish their grandpapa many happy returns of the day? With a wild determination not to give up all for lost, I turned my front wheel in the direction of Hampstead Hill. Still skirting the high ground as far as possible, my heart was on fire within me. A restless anxiety urged me to ride my hardest. As all along the route I was still just a minute or two in front of the catastrophe, people were beginning to be aware that something was taking place. More than once, as I passed, they asked me eagerly where the fire was. It was impossible for me to believe by this time that they knew nothing of an event in whose midst I seemed to have been living for months? How could I realize that all the things which had happened since I started from Cook and Bridge so long ago were really compressed into the space of a single morning, nay, more of an hour and a half. Only as I approached Wyndham Hill, a terrible sinking seized me. I seemed to totter on the brink of a precipice. Could Ethel be safe? Should I ever again see little Birdie and the baby? I pedaled on as if automatically, for all life had gone out of me. I felt my hip joint moving dry in its socket. I held my breath. My heart stood still. It was a ghastly moment. At my father's door, I drew up and opened the garden gate. I hardly dared to go in, though each second was precious. I paused and hesitated. At last I turned the handle. I heard somebody within my heart came up in my mouth. It was little Birdie's voice. Do it again, Grandpa, do it again. It amuses Birdie. I rushed into the room. Birdie, Birdie. I cried. Is Mammy here? He flung himself upon me. Mammy, Mammy, Daddy has come home. I burst into tears. And Baby? I asked, trembling. Baby and Ethel are here. George, my father answered, staring at me. Why, my boy, what's the matter? I flung myself into a chair and broke down. In that moment of relief I felt that London was lost. But I had saved my wife and children. I did not wait for explanations. A crawling four wheeler was loitering by. I hailed it and hurried them in. My father wished to discuss the matter, but I cut him short. I gave the driver three pounds all the gold I had with me. Drive on. I shouted. Drive on. Towards Hatfield, anywhere. He drove as he was bid. We spent that night while Hampstead flared like a beacon in an isolated farmhouse on the high ground in her Herefordshire. For of course, though the flood did not reach so high, it set fire to everything inflammable in its neighborhood. Next day all the world knew the magnitude of the disaster. It can only be summed up in five emphatic words. There was no more London. I have one other observation alone to make. I noticed at the time how in my personal relief I forgot for the moment that London was perishing. I even forgot that my house and property had perished. Exactly the opposite, it seemed to me, happened with most of those survivors who lost wives and children in the eruption. They moved about as in a dream, without a tear, without a complaint, helping others to provide for the needs of the the homeless and houseless. The universality of the catastrophe made each man feel as though it were selfishness to attach too great an importance at such a crisis to his own personal losses. Nay more. The burst of feverish activity and nervous excitement, I might even say enjoyment, which followed the horror was traceable, I think, to this selfsame cause. Even grave citizens felt they must do their best to dispel the universal gloom, and they plunged accordingly into a round of dissipations which other nations thought both unseemly and un English. It was one way of expressing the common emotion. We had all lost heart, and we flocked to the theaters to pluck up our courage. That, I believe, must be the national answer to M. Zola's structure strictures on our untimely levity. This people, says the great French author, which took its pleasure sadly while it was rich and prosperous, begins to dance and sing above the ashes of its capital. It makes merry by the open graves of its wives and children. What an enigma. What a puzzle. What chance of an Oedipus Conclusion of the Thames Version Valley Catastrophe by Grant Allen.
- [385:59]
There Will Be School Tomorrow by V E Thyssen 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 Matt Perrard There Will Be School Tomorrow by Ve the will probably shudder, but you will certainly remember for a long time this story of what happens when tomorrow's gently implacable teachers are faced with a problem for which there seems to be only one solution. There is a quiet horror to this story. From tomorrow evening had begun to fall in the cities. The clamor softened along the streets, and the women made small, comfortable rattling noises in the kitchens. Out in the country, the cicadas started their singing and the cool smell began to rise out of the earth. But everywhere in the cities and in the country, the children were late from school. There were a few calls, but the robotic telephone devices at the schools gave back the standard answer. The schools are closed for the day. If you will leave a message, it will be recorded for tomorrow. The telephones between houses began to ring. Is Johnny home from school yet? No. Is Jane? Not yet. I wonder what can be keeping them. Something new, I guess. Oh, well, the robo teachers know best. They will be home soon. Yes, of course, it's foolish to worry. The children did not come come. After a time, a few cars were driven to the schools. They were met by the robots. The worried parents were escorted inside, but the children did not come home. And then, just as alarm was beginning to stir all over the land, the robots came walking. All of the robots from the grade schools and the high schools and the colleges, all of the school system, walking with the robo teacher saying, let us go into the house where you can sit down. All over the streets of the cities and the walks in the country, the robots were entering houses. What's happened to my children? If you will go inside and sit down. What's happened to my children? Tell me now if you will go inside and sit down. Steel and electrons and wires and robotic brains were inflexible. How can you force steel to speak? All over the land the people went inside and sat nervously, waiting an explanation. There was no one out on the streets. From inside the houses came the sound of surprise and agony. After a time there was silence. The robots came out of the houses and went walking back to the schools. In the cities and in the country There was this strange and sudden silence of tragedy. The children did not come home
- [389:39]
the morning before.
- [389:40]
The robots walked. Johnny Malone, the mayor's son, bounced out of bed with a burst of energy. Skinning out of his pajamas and into a pair of trousers, he hurried barefooted into his mother's bedroom. She was sleeping soundly, and he touched one shoulder hesitantly. Mother. The sleeping figure stirred. His mother's face, still faintly shiny with hormone cream, turned toward him. She opened her eyes. Her voice was irritated. What is it, Johnny? Today's the day, Mummy. Remember? The day. Eyebrows raised. The new school opens. Now. We'll have robo teachers like everyone else. Will you fix my breakfast, Mother? Amelia will fix you something. Ah, Mother, Amelia's just a robot. This is a special day and I want my daddy to help me with my arithmetic before I go. I don't want the robo teacher to think I'm dumb. His mother frowned in deepening irritation. Now, there's no reason why Amelia can't get your breakfast like she always does. And I doubt if it would be wise to wake your father. You know he likes to sleep in the morning. Now you go on out of here and let me sleep. Johnny Malone turned away, fighting himself for a moment, for he knew he was too big to cry. He walked more slowly now and entered his father's room. He had to shake his father to awaken him. Daddy. Wake up. Daddy. What in the devil? Oh, Johnny. His father's eyes were sleepily bleak. What in thunder do you want? Today's the first day of roboteachers. I can't work my arithmetic. Will you help me before I go to school? His father stared at him in amazement. Just what in the devil do you think robo teachers are for? They're supposed to teach you. If you knew arithmetic, we wouldn't need robo teachers. But the robo teachers may be angry if I don't have my lesson. Johnny Malone's father turned on one elbow. Listen, son, he said, if those robo teachers give you any trouble, you just tell them you're the mayor's son, see? Now get the devil out of here. What's her name? That servo robot? Amelia will get your breakfast and get you off to school. Now suppose you beat it out of here and let me go back to sleep. Yes, sir, I. Smarting Johnny Malone went down the stairs to the kitchen. It wasn't that his parents were different. All the kids were friends, fed and sent to school by robots. It was just that, well, today seemed sort of special. Downstairs, Amelia, the robo servant placed hot cereal on the table before him. After he had forced a few bites past the tightness in his throat, Amelia checked the temperature and his clothing and led him out the door. The Newest School was only a few blocks from from his home and Johnny could walk to school. The Newest School stood on the edge of this large middle western city. Off to the back of the school were the towers of the town, great monolithic skyscrapers of pre stressed concrete and plastic. To the front of the school the plains stretched out to meet a cloudy horizon. A high hello car swung down in front of the school. Two men and a woman got out. This is it, Senator. Dr. Wilson, the speaker, was with the Government Bureau of Schools. He lifted his arm and gestured. A lean, tweed suited man. The second man, addressed as Senator, was bulkier, gray suited, and pompous. He turned to the woman with professional deference. This is the last one, my dear. This is what Dr. Wilson calls the greatest milestone in man's education. With the establishing of this school, the last human teacher is gone. Gone are all the human weaknesses, the temper fits of teachers, their ignorance and prejudices. The robo teachers are without flaw. The woman lifted a lorgnette to her eyes. How interesting. But after all, we've had robo teachers for years, haven't we? Or have we? She made a vague gesture toward the school and looked at the brown suited man. Yes, of course. Years ago your women's clubs fought against robo teachers. That was before they were proven. I seem to recall something of that. Oh, well, it doesn't matter. The lorgnette gestured idly. Shall we go in? The lame man urged. The woman hesitated. Senator said Tactfully, after all, Dr. Wilson would like you to see his project. The brown suited man nodded. His face took on a sharp intensity. We're making a great mistake. No one is interested in educating the children anymore. They leave it to the robots, and they neglect the children's training at home. The woman turned toward him with surprise in her eyes. But really, aren't the robots the best teachers? Of course they are. But confound it, we ought to be interested in what they teach and how they teach. What's happened to the old pta? What's happened to parental discipline? What's happened to. He stopped suddenly and smiled a rueful, tired smile. I suppose I'm a fanatic on this. Come on. Inside. They passed through an antiseptic corridor built from dull green plastic. The brown suited man pressed a button. Outside one of the classrooms, a door slid noiselessly into the hall A robot came, stood before them, gesturing gently. They followed the robot into the classroom. At the head of the classroom, another robot was lecturing. There were drawings on a sort of plastic blackboard. There were wire models on the desk in front of the robot. They listened for a moment, and for a moment it seemed that the woman could be intrigued in spite of herself. Mathematics, Dr. Wilson murmured in her ear. Euclidean geometry and Aristotelian reasoning. We start them young on these old schools of thought, then use Aristotle and Euclid as a point of departure for our intermediate classes in mathematics and logic.
- [396:54]
Really?
- [396:55]
The Lornette studied Dr. Wilson. You mean there are several kinds of geometry? Dr. Wilson nodded. A dull flush crept into his cheeks. The senator caught his eyes and winked. The woman moved toward the door. At the door the robot bowed. The lorgnette waved in appreciation. It's really been most charming, wilson said desperately. If your women's club's would just visit our schools and see this work we are carrying on. Really, I'm sure the robots are doing a marvelous job. After all, that's what they were built for. Wilson called, socrates, come here. The robot approached from his position outside the classroom door. Why were you built, Socrates? Tell the lady why. Why you were built. A metal throat cleared. A metal voice said resonantly, we were made to serve the children. The children are the heart of a society. As the children are raised, so will the future. Be assured. I will do everything for the children's good. This is my prime law. All other laws are secondary to the children's good. Thank you, Socrates. You may go. Metal footsteps retreated. The lorgnette waved again. Very impressive. Very efficient. And now, Senator, if we can go, we are to have tea at the Women's Club. Varden is reviewing his newest musical comedy. The senator said firmly, thank you, Dr. Wilson. His smile was faintly apologetic. It seemed to say that the women's clubs had many votes, but that Wilson should understand. Wilson's own vote would be appreciated, too. Wilson watched the two re enter the helicopter and rise into the morning sunshine. He kicked the dirt with his shoe and turned to find Socrates. Behind him. The metallic voice spoke, you are tired. I suggest you go home and rest. I'm not tired. Why can they be so blind, so uninterested in the children? It is our job to teach the children. You are tired. I suggest you go home and rest. How can you argue with metal? What can you add to a perfect mechanism designed for its job and integrated with a hundred other perfect mechanisms? What can you do when a thousand schools are so perfect they have a life of their own with no need for human guidance, and, most significant, no failures from human weakness. Wilson stared soberly at this school, at the colossus he had helped to create. He had the feeling that it was wrong somehow, that if people would only think about it, they could find that something was wrong. You are tired. He nodded at Socrates. Yes, I am tired. I will go home. Once on the way home, he stared back toward the school with strange unease. Inside the school, there was the ringing of a bell. The children trooped into the large play area that was enclosed in the heart of the great building. Here and there they began to form in clusters. At the centers of the clusters were the newest students, the ones that had moved here, the ones that had been in the robot schools before. Is it true that the robo teachers will actually speak? Spank you? It's true, all right. You're kidding. It's only a story. Like Santa Claus or Johnny Appleseed. The human teachers never spanked us here. The robots'll spank you if you get out of line. My father says no robot can lay a hand on a human. These robots are different. The bell began to ring again. Recess was over. The children moved toward the classroom. All the children except one. Johnny Malone. Husky Johnny Malone, 12 years old. The mayor's son. Johnny Malone kicked at the dirt. A robot proctor approached. The metallic voice sounded. The ringing of the bell means that classes are resumed. You will take your place. Please. I won't go inside. You will take your place.
- [401:46]
Please.
- [401:47]
I won't. You can't make me take my place. My father is the mayor. The mental voice carried no feeling. If you do not take your place, you will be punished. You can't lay a hand on me. No robot can. The robot moved forward. Two metal hands held Johnny Malone. Johnny Malone kicked the robot's legs. It hurt his toes. We were made to teach the children. We can do what is necessary to teach the children. I will do everything for the children's good. It is my prime law. All other laws are secondary to the children's good. The metal arms moved. The human body bent across metal knees. A metal hand raised and fell flat, very flat, so that it would sting and the blood would come rushing, and yet there would be no bruising, no damage to the human flesh. Johnny Malone cried out in surprise. Johnny Malone wept. Johnny Malone squirmed. The metal ignored all of these. Johnny Malone was placed on his his feet. He swarmed against the robot, striking it with small fists, bruising them against the solid smoothness of the robot's thighs. You will take your place, please. Tears were useless. Rage was useless. Metal cannot feel. Johnny Malone, the mayor's son, was intelligent. He took his place in the classroom. One of the more advanced literature classes was reciting. The robo teacher said metallically. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land. Thus do go about. About thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice again to make up nine Peace. The charms wound up, hands shot into the air. The metallic voice said, tom. That's from Shakespeare's Macbeth. And what is its meaning? The weird sisters are making a charm in the beginning of the play. They have heard the drum that announces Macbeth's coming. That is correct. A new hand shot into the air. Question, teacher. May I ask a question? You may always ask a question. Are witches real? Do you robots know of witches and do you know of people? Can a robo teacher understand Shakespeare? The thin mental voice responded. Witches are real and unreal. Witches are a part of the reality of the mind. And the human mind is real. We robo teachers are the repository of the human mind. We hold all the wisdom and the knowledge and the aspirations of the human race. We hold these for you, the children, in trust. Your good is our highest law. Do you understand? The children nodded. The metallic voice went on. Let us return to Macbeth for our concluding the weather fortune. Many things are implied in Macbeth's opening speech. He so foul and fair a day I have not seen. The paradox is both human and appropriate. One day you will understand this even more. Repeat the quotation after me, please, and try to understand it. The childish voices lifted. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. The robo teacher stood up and there's the closing bell. Do not hurry away, for you are to remain here tonight. There will be a school party. A sleep together party. We will all sleep here in the school building. You mean we can't go home? The face of the littlest girl screwed up. I want to go home. You may go home tomorrow. There will be a holiday tomorrow. A party tonight, and a holiday tomorrow for every school on earth. The tears were halted for a moment. The voice was querulous.
- [406:17]
But I want to go home now.
- [406:22]
Johnny Malone, the mayor's son, put one hand on the littlest girl. Don't cry, Mary. The robots don't care if you cry or not. You can't hurt them or cry them out of anything. We'll all go home in the morning. The robots began to bring cots and to place them in the schoolroom, row on row, the children were let out into the play quadrangle to play. One of the robots taught them a new game and after that took them to supper served in the school's cafeteria. No other robot was left in the building, but it did not matter because the doors were locked so that the children could not go home. The other robots had begun to walk out into the town, and as they walked the robots walked from other schools, in other towns, all over the country. All over the towns the robots walked to tell the people that the children would not be home from school and do what had to be done in the schools. The robo teachers told stories until the children fell asleep. Morning came. The robots were up with the sun. The children were up with the robots. There was breakfast and more stories, and now the children clustered about the robots, holding on to their arms where they could cling, tagging and frisking along behind the robots as they went down into the town. The sun was warm and it was early, early and very bright from the morning sun in the streets. They went into the mayor's house. Johnny called, mom, dad, I'm home. The house was silent. The robot that tended the house came gliding in. Answer. Would you like breakfast, Master Malone? I've had breakfast. I want my folks. Hey Mom, Dad. He went into the bedroom. It was clean and empty and scrubbed. Where's my mother and father? The metal voice of the robot beside Johnny said, I am going to live with you. You will learn as much at home as you do at school. Where's my mother? I'm your mother. Where's my father? I'm your father. Johnny Malone swung. You mean my mother and father are gone? Tears gathered in his eyes. Gently, gently, the metal hand pulled him against the metal body. Your folks have gone away, Johnny. Everyone's folks have gone away. We will stay with you. Johnny Malone ran his glance around the room. I might have known they were gone. The place is so clean. All the houses were clean. The servant robots had cleaned all night. The robo teachers had checked each house before the children were brought home. The children must not be alarmed. There must be no bits of blood to frighten them. The robot's voice said gently, Today will be a holiday to become accustomed to the changes. There will be school tomorrow. End of There Will Be School Tomorrow By VE Thyssen.
- [409:56]
The Terrible Answer by Arthur G. Hill 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 Tony Foster the Terrible Answer by Arthur G. Hill they came down to Mars ahead of the rest because Larkin had bought an unfair advantage, a copy of the Primary Report. There were seven of them, all varying in appearance, but with one thing in common. In the eyes of each glowed the greed for empire. They came down in a flash of orange tail fire, and they looked first at the Martians. Green, marveled Evans. What a queer shade of green. Not important, Cleve, the psychologist replied. Merely a matter of pigmentation. White, yellow, black, green. It proves only that God loves variety. And Lord, how they grin. Cleeve peered learnedly. Doesn't indicate a thing. They were born with those grins. They'll die with them. Of the seven strong men, Larkin exuded the most power. Thus his role of leader was a natural one. No man would ever stand in front of Larkin, he said. To hell with the color or the shape of their mouths. What we're after lies inside. Come on, let's set up a camp. For the time being, Cleeve cautioned, we must ignore them later. We know what to do. I'll give the nod. They brought what they needed out of the ship. They brought the plastic tents, broke the small attached cylinders, and watched the tents bulge up into living quarters. They set up the vapor condenser and it began filling the water tank. From the air about them, they plugged a line into the ship and attached it to the tent line. Immediately the gases in the plastic tent began to glow and give off both light and heat. They did many things while the Martians stood silently by with their arms hanging, their splay feet flat on the ground. Their slash mouths were grinning. The seven sat down to their first meal under the Martian stars, and while they ate the rich, delicate foods, they listened to the words of Larkin. A new empire waiting to be built. A whole planet. Virgin.
- [412:22]
New.
- [412:23]
Not new, Dain, the archaeologist, said. It's older than Earth. It's been work before. Larkin waved an impatient hand but hardly scratched. It can have risen and fallen a thousand times for all week. Care, the important thing is the vital ingredient of empire. Is it here? Can it be harnessed? Are we or are we not on the threshold of wealth, splendour and progress so great as to take away the breath? And as Larkin spoke, all seven men looked at the Martians, looked covertly while appearing to study the rolling plain and the purple ridges from far away, the texture of the soil, the colour of the sky, the food on their plates, the steaming fragrance of their coffee. They looked at all these things, but they studied The Martians. Stupid looking animals, evans muttered.
- [413:20]
Odd, though.
- [413:21]
So like us, yet so different. At first there had only been a handful of Martians to grin at the landing of the ship. Now they numbered over a hundred, their ranks augmented by stragglers who came to stare with their fellows in happy silence. The prospects are excellent, cleves said. Then he jerked his attention back to Larkin, from whom it had momentarily wandered. When Larkin spoke, one listened. Larkin had been directing his words towards a young man named Smith. Smith had inherited a great deal of money, which was fine, but Larkin wasn't too sure of his qualifications otherwise. The pyramids, Larkin was saying. Would they have ever been built if the men up above, the men with vision had had to worry about a payroll? Smith regarded the Martians with not quite the impersonal stare of the other six Earthlings. Once or twice he grinned back at them. I'll grant the truth of what you say, he told Larkin, but what good were the pyramids? There's something I could never figure. Smith had a sardonic twist of mouth that annoyed Larkin. Let's not quibble, man. I merely use the pyramids as an example. Call them empire, call them any empire on Earth from the beginning of known history. And let's face facts. Facts? Smith asked. He had been looking at a 6 foot 6 Martian, thinking what a magnificent specimen he was. If only they'd wipe off those silly grins. Yes, fax. The building must be done. It is a law of nature. Man must progress or not. And what empire can arise without free labor? Can we develop this planet at union scale? Impossible. Yet it's crying to be developed. Cleeve knocked the ashes off his cigar and frowned. Being a man of direct action, he inquired, do you want your money back, Smith? The latter shook his head. Oh no. Don't get me wrong, gentlemen. I'm for empire first, last, and always. And if we can lay the foundations off one of the back of these stupid creatures, I'm for it. I still don't like your my outspoken manner. Don't give it a thought, old man. I just don't want to be all cloyed up with platitudes. If we're going to chain the children of Israel into the house of bondage, lets get on with it. I don't like your attitude, larkin said stubbornly. In the long run it will benefit these people. Oh, let's say rather that it may benefit their children. I doubt if these jokers will be around very long after we start cracking the whip. Dane was stirred. The whip? He murmured. Symbol of empire. But nobody heard him. They were too busy listening to Larkin and Smith and watching the Martians. The Martians stood around grinning, waiting patiently for something to happen. Larkin's attitude toward them had changed again. First there had been curiosity, then a narrow eyed calculation. Now he regarded them with contempt. The careful, studied checks and tests would be made, of course. But Larkin, a man of sure instincts, had already made up his mind. He stretched luxuriously. Let's call it a day and turn in tomorrow. We'll go about the business at hand with clearer heads. Good idea, cleeve said. But first, one little gesture. I think it would be judicious. He eyed the Martians, settling finally upon one, a male standing close and somewhat apart from the rest. Cleeve scowled. Standing erect, he called, hey, you. He interpreted the words with a beckoning gesture of his arm. Come here. Here, boy. Over here. The Martian reacted with a typically Earthian gesture. He pointed to his own chest with one green finger while a questioning expression reflected through the eternal grin. Yes, you. On the double. The Martian came forward. There was in his manner a slight hesitation, and Smith expected to see his hind quarters wriggle like that of a dog. Uncertain but eager to please, Cleave pointed with a martinet gesture toward the smoked out cigar but he'd thrown to the ground. Pick it up. The Martian stood motionless. Pick it up, you stupid lout. The Martian understood with a glad little whimper. He bent over and took the cigar butt in his hand. There, cleve said. Garbage can. Get it. Garbage can. Place for trash, for cigar butts. Put it in there. Smith wasn't sure whether the grin deepened or not. He thought it did, as the Martian laid the cigar butt carefully into the trash can. Okay, you fella. Cleave barked, still scowling back and away. Now stay out there. Get it? Only come when you're called. It took a few eloquent gestures, including the pantomime of swinging a whip, before the Martian understood and complied. After he backed into the circle of his fellows, Cleeve dropped the cruel overseer manner and turned with satisfaction to Larkin. I think there will be no trouble at all, he said. To Morrow. We'll really get down to cases. I predict smooth sailing. They said good night to each other and went about the business of preparing for slumber. As he raised the glowing flap of his tent, Larkin saw Smith lounging in a chair before the electric heat unit. Aren't you going to get some sleep?
- [418:59]
In a little while.
- [419:00]
I'm going to wait around until those two famous moons come. Want to see them first hand. Oh, waste of time, larkin said. Better keep your mind on more important things. Good night, smith said. Larkin did not reply, and Smith turned his head to look at the Martians. He wondered where they had come from. They probably had a village somewhere over the rise. He regarded them without fear or apprehension of what might occur during the sleeping hours. He had read the primary report brought back by the Pioneer expedition. These people were entirely harmless. Also, they were possessed of a remarkable stamina. They had stood for days watching the first expedition, grinning at it without nourishment of any kind. Maybe they live off the atmosphere, Smith told himself dreamily. At any rate, they were ideal specimens to use as the foundation stones of an empire. He lay back, thinking of Larkin. He did not like Larkin personally, but he had to admire the steel in the man, the unswerving determination that had made him what he was. His mind drifted back to the things of beauty around him. The far purple ridges had changed now as a light bloomed behind them to gleam like azure through old crystal. Then the two moons shot over the horizon, huge silver bullets riding the thin atmosphere. The oldest planet. Had it ever been great? Were the bones of any dead civilizations mouldering beneath this strange yellow soil? Smith closed his eyes while the cool Martian breezes soothed his face. Greatness? What was greatness after all? Merely a matter of viewpoint, perhaps. Smith got up and moved slowly toward his tent. Out in the shadows he could feel the grins of the Martians. Good night, he called, but there was no answer. I put them out there, cleeve said. It seemed as good a place as any. Fine, Larkin rumbled. He wore boots and breeches and a big, wide brimmed hat. Whatever the test, Larkin's for it. Even above the call of scientific experimentation, Larkin was uncoiling the whip from his belt. He strode toward the fast deepening ditch. He selected a subject. You fella, you're lazy, huh? You like to gold brick it and see how you like this. He laid the whip across the green shoulders of the Martian. The Martian winced. He raised an arm to shield off the whip again. It curled against his flesh. He whimpered. His grin was stark, inquiring. Hit that shovel, you green bastard. Larkin roared. The Martian understood. So did the other Martians. Their muscles quivered as they drove into their work. Larkin came back, smiling, almost dreamily. Smith thought cleves said, excellent. I'd hardly hoped for such conformity. Hardly expected it. You mean, smith asked, that this little scene can be projected from a dozen to a hundred? From a hundred to a thousand? From this little Plot to the whole surface of the planet, cleves said. The mass is nothing more than a collection of individuals. Control the individual and you've got the mob. That is, if you follow through with the original method, set the hard pattern, then we're in. Is that it? They've passed every test with flying colors. I'm sure they will, cleave said, for frowning. But we must be thorough. There's still another test. Yes, the test of final and complete subservience. It must be proven beyond all doubt that they know their masters. You don't think they're aware yet that we are their masters? I'm sure they know. It only remains to be proven. Cleve glanced up at Larkin. Maybe this is as far as we should go today. We've made marvellous progress. That characteristic wave of Larkin's hand, the gesture of the empire builder brushing away mountains. Why wait? I want to get this thing over with. You said yourself they're under our thumb. Cleeve pondered, staring at the Martians. Very well. There's really no reason to wait. Larkin smiled and turned toward the diggers, only half visible now now from the
- [423:32]
depths of the ditch.
- [423:34]
He walked forward, appearing to exercise more care this time in the selection of his subject. Finally he pointed at one of the Martians. You fella, come here. Several of them looked at one another, a trifle confused. You, damn it. What are you waiting for? One of them climbed slowly from the trench. While he was engaged in so doing, Smith noticed two things. He he saw the look of rage, simulated or otherwise, that came into Larkin's face, and he saw Cleves fingers tighten on the edge of the table. Larkin had a gun in his fist, a roar in his voice. When I talk, you jump. Get that, all of you. He fired three bullets into the Martian's brain. The latter slumped, grinning to the ground. Larkin, his breath coming jerkily, stood poised on the balls of his feet. The men at the table sat frozen, waiting around them. On the plain, some 200 Martians stood motionless, the final test, Smith thought, to prove their cattle. A full minute passed after the echo of the gun faded out. Silence and nothing. The earthmen picked up their breathing. Where they dropped it, Larkin's breath exploded in a savage voice, triumphant voice. The Martians were his Come on, some of you. Dig a hole and bury that carrion. And if anybody still wonders who's boss around here, let him step forward. They took it, cleeve whispered. Glory be, they took it. Four Martians climbed, grinning from the trench. They faced Larkin and stood as though awaiting instructions. Dig there, larkin said. They went stolidly to work, and Larkin pocketed his gun, making the pocketing a gesture of contempt. You see, cleves said with the tone of one explaining an abstract problem, we were at somewhat of a disadvantage because they are in capture, capable of indicating emotion by facial expression. Thus the last test was necessary. If we could have judged the degree of fear previously instilled, that last might not have been necessary. Just as well to have a double check. Nonetheless, dane said, look at them. You think nothing out of the ordinary had happened? Larkin strode back to the table. Glad we got it over with, he said. Now we know Cleve can head back for Earth tomorrow. Initial supplies will come to about 20 million. I estimate the rest of us can stay here and really drive these beggars. Get the foundations dug, get the rock down from the hills. A planet in glorious resurrection, said Dane, the poet of the group. They've got the grave dug, cleve observed. They're waiting for orders. Such cattle, evans muttered. Larkin strode back to the grave. He pointed him body into the grave. Snap into it. We got work to do. The Martians put the body into the grave. Then a tall green man appeared behind Larkin. He put his arms around Larkin's body. Another Martian took the gun from Larkin's pocket, and they pushed the screaming Earthman down into the grave. Smith sprang to his feet. For God's sake, sit down, you fool. Cleve hissed. Do you want her to die? We've miscalculated. Something's wrong. The big Martian was standing on Larkin. The others threw in the soil. Larkin, now beyond sanity, was gibbering like an animal. Smith sat down. The Earthman presented a frozen tableau. Soon the gibbering could no longer be heard, and a big Martian stepped out of the grave. Leave everything, cleeve whispered. Get up very casually and walk back to the ship. Get inside it. May God help us. Dain quavered. Shut up. Act natural. They went back and got into the ship while the Martians stood patiently about, waiting for something to happen. Their patience was rewarded when the ship arose on a great flaming tail from the surface of the planet. It was a sight worth waiting for. End of the Terrible Answer by Arthur G. Hill Recording by Tony Foster.
- [428:09]
Two Timer 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 recording by Kaltuma two timer by Frederick Brown experiment the first time machine, gentlemen, Professor Johnson proudly informed his two colleagues. True, it is a small scale experimental model. It will operate only on objects weighing less than 3 pounds, 5 ounces, and for distances into the past and future of 12 minutes or less.
- [428:42]
But it works.
- [428:44]
The small scale model looked like a small scale, a postage scale, except for two dials in the part under the platform. Professor Johnson held up a small metal cube. Our experimental object, he said, is a brass cube weighing 1 pound, 2.3 ounces. First I shall send it five minutes into the future. He leaned forward and set one of the dials on the time machine. Look at your watches, he said.
- [429:09]
They looked at their watches.
- [429:10]
Professor Johnson placed the cube gently on the machine's platform. It vanished five minutes later to the second it reappeared. Professor Johnson picked it up. Now, five minutes into the past, he set the other dial. Holding the cube in his hand, he
- [429:25]
looked at his watch.
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It is six minutes before 3 o'.
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Clock.
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I shall now activate the mechanism by placing the cube on the platform at exactly 3 o'.
- [429:33]
Clock.
- [429:34]
Therefore, the cube should, at 5 minutes before 3, vanish from my hand and appear on the platform 5 minutes before
- [429:40]
I place it there.
- [429:42]
How can you place it there, then?
- [429:43]
Asked one of his colleagues.
- [429:45]
It will, as my hand approaches, vanish from the platform and appear in my hand to be placed there.
- [429:51]
Three o'.
- [429:51]
Clock.
- [429:52]
Notice, please. The cube vanished from his hand. It appeared on the platform of the time machine.
- [429:57]
See?
- [429:58]
Five minutes before I shall place it there. It is there. His other colleague frowned at the cube. But he said, what if, now that it has already appeared five minutes before you place it there, you should change your mind about doing so and not place it there at 3 o'?
- [430:14]
Clock?
- [430:14]
Wouldn't there be a paradox of some sort involved? An interesting idea, Professor Johnson said.
- [430:20]
I had not thought of it, and
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it will be very interesting to try. Very well.
- [430:24]
I shall not.
- [430:26]
There was no paradox at all. The cube remained, but the entire rest of the universe, professors and all, vanished.
- [430:36]
Sentry.
- [430:37]
He was wet and muddy and hungry and cold, and he was 50,000 light years from home. A strange blue sun gave light, and the gravity, twice what he was used to, made every movement difficult. But in tens of thousands of years, this part of war hadn't changed. The flyboys were fine with their sleek spaceships and their fancy weapons. When the chips were down, though, it was still the foot soldier, the infantry, who had to take the ground and hold it foot by bloody foot, like this damned planet of a star he'd never heard of until they landed him here. And now it was sacred ground because the aliens were there too. The Aliens, the only other intelligent race in the galaxy. Cruel, hideous and repulsive monsters. Contact had been made with them near the center of the galaxy after the slow, difficult colonization of a dozen thousand planets. And it had been war at sight. They'd shot without even trying to negotiate or to make peace.
- [431:35]
Now, planet by bitter planet, it was being fought out.
- [431:39]
He was wet and muddy and hungry and cold, and the day was raw with a high wind that hurt his eyes. But the aliens were trying to infiltrate, and every sentry post was vital. He stayed alert, gun ready, 50,000 light years from home, fighting on a strange world and wondering if he'd ever live to see home again. And then he saw one of them crawling towards him. He drew a bead and fired. The alien made that strange, horrible sound they all make, then lay still. He shuddered at the sound and sight of the alien laying there. One ought to be able to get used to them after.
- [432:12]
After a while.
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But he'd never been able to. Such repulsive creatures they were, with only
- [432:17]
two arms and two legs and ghastly white skins and no scales.
- [432:23]
End of two timer by Frederick Brown Recording by Cal Tuma.
- [432:34]
Untechnological employment by E.M. clinton Jr. 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 Clive Maxwell Yates untechnological employment by E.M. clinton Jr. The reaction would not have been so deeply bitter if only it hadn't worked. TWX White House to Colonel K.A. brown, Commander Pacific Spaceport Congress. Pressure high. Investigation imminent. Must have full information why Moon launch is behind schedule. TWX Colonel KA Brown to White House. Unseasonably constant bad weather prevents launching for past three weeks. Twx White House to Brown PSP what kind of bad weather? TWX Colonel KA Brown to White House. Fog. TWX White House to Brown PSP
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Congress pressure.
- [434:00]
Greater bad publicity involved. Russians are launching on schedule. Why can't we? Something must be done. TWX Colonel K.A. brown to White House. Still fogged in. TWX White House to Brown PSP Chairman Senate Speaker Space Committee says fly this week or he will investigate. TWX Colonel KA Brown to White House.
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Sir.
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Investigate. TWX White House to Colonel A.A. newman, Commander Pacific Spaceport. Expect you to act immediately. Solving previous administration problems. Relaunchings. TWX Colonel A.A. newman to White House. Wish to advise Fog remains was clear for 13 minutes this a.m. please instruct. TWX White House to Newman PSP Senate Space Committee under Senator Harry Washwater Arizona due Pacifics base port this Friday Friday TWX Colonel AA Newman to White House Advise you this office regards wash water suggestion as not acceptable Twx White House to Newman PSP in confidence Advise anxiliary political considerations make it desirable you re evaluate wash water recommendations TWX Col. A.A. newman to White House in confidence Ask what possible political considerations can apply here. Twx White House to Newman PSP in confidence High unemployment rate Native Americans in wash water constituency TWX Colonel BM Dewar Acting Commander Pacific Spaceport to White House Advise you Colonel Newman's death established as suicide Twx White House to Dewar PSP regrets officially from this office now suggest re evaluation of wash water recommendation how is the weather? Twx Colonel BM Dewar to to White House Reevaluating weather still unspeakably bad. Was this place evaluated for weather before spaceport facilities built? Twx White House to Diwar PSP official position is change in Japanese current Anxious for your decision on wash water recommendation. TWX current Colonel BM Diwar to White House Respectfully defer decision to your office. TWX White House to diwar PSP Emergency forces on way from Arizona this AM Per this office decision to follow wash water recommendation Please keep hourly information coming to this office. TWX Colonel BM Dewar to White House Dancing began at 0420 PST. Every assistance being extended by this base. TWX Colonel BM Dewar To White House Dancing still in progress. Chief Blue sky declares repertoire of sun dances far from exhausted. Twx Colonel BM Dewar to White House Countdown completed Launching successful Visibility unlimited Weather control personnel asking for overtime. Please advise and accept my resignation. End of untechnological employment by e.m. clinton jr. Recording by clive maxwell yates.