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Short Science Fiction Collection 072 - Various
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"Short Science Fiction Collection 072" is a captivating anthology that showcases the imaginative breadth of the science fiction genre, where anything is possible and the only limits are those set by the authors themselves. This collection invites...
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The Earthman's Burden by R.F. starzl 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 Mike Manolakis The Earthman's Burden by R.F. starzl Denny O' Lear was playing blackjack when the Colonel's orderly found him. He hastily buttoned his tunic and in a few minutes, alert and very military, was standing at attention in the little office on the ground floor of the Denver IFP barracks. His swanky blue uniform fitted without a wrinkle. His little round skull cap was perched at the regulation angle. O', Lear, said the colonel, they're having a little trouble at the Blue River Station Mercury. Trouble? Uh huh, olier said placidly. The colonel looked him over. He saw a man past his first youth, 35, possibly 40. O' Lear was well knit, sandy haired, not over 5ft 6 inches in height. His hair was close cropped, his features phlegmatic. His eyes a light blue with three thick, short, light colored lashes. His teeth, excellent. A scar, dead white on a brown cheekbone was a reminder of an encounter with one of the numerous saurians of Venus. I'm sending you, explained the Colonel, because you're more experienced and not like some of these kids, always spoiling for a fight. There's something queer about this affair. Morones factor of the Blue River Post REM reports that his assistant has disappeared. Vanished. Simply gone. But only three months ago the former factor Maronis was his assistant disappeared. No hide nor hair of him. Maronis reported to the company, the Mercurian Trading Concession. And they called me something they think is rotten. Yes, sir. I guess I needn't tell you, the colonel went on, that you have to use tact. People don't seem to appreciate the force, what with the lousy politicians begrudging every cent we get and a bunch of suspicious foreign powers afraid we'll get too good. Yeah, I know. Tact, that's my motto. No rough stuff. He saluted, turned on his heel. Just a minute. The colonel had arisen. He was a fine ascetic type of man. He held out his hand. Goodbye, o'. Lear. Watch yourself. When o' Lear had taken his matter of fact departure, the colonel ran his fingers through his whitening hair. In the past several months he had sent five of his best men on dangerous missions, missions requiring tact, courage, and so it seemed very much luck. And only two of the five had come back. In those days the Interplanetary Flying police did not enjoy the tremendous prestige it does now. The mere presence of a member of the force is enough in these humdrum days of interplanetary law and order to quell the most serious disturbance anywhere in the solar system. But it was not always thus. This astounding prestige had to be earned with blood and courage in many a desperate and lonely battle, had to be snatched from the dripping jaws of death. O' Lear checked his flying ovoid, got his bearings from the port astronomer, set his coordinate navigator and shoved off. Two weeks later he plunged into the thick, misty atmosphere on the dark side of Mercury. Ancient astronomers had long suspected that Mercury always presented the same side to the sun, though they were ignorant that the little planet had water and air. Its sunward side is a dreary, sterile, hot and hostile desert. Its dark side is warm and humid and resembles to some extent the better known jungles and swamps of Venus. But it has a favored belt some hundreds of miles wide around its equator, where the enormous sun stays perpetually in one spot on the horizon. Sunward is the blinding glare of the desert. On the dark side, enormous banks of lowering clouds. On the dark margin of this belt are the ring storms, violent thunderstorms that never cease. They are the source of the mighty rivers which irrigate the tropical habitable belt and plunge out boiling far into the desert. Olier's little ship passed through the rainstorms and he did not take over the controls until he recognized a familiar mark of the trading company, a blue comet on the aluminum roof of one of the larger buildings. Visibility was good that day, but despite the unusual clarity of the atmosphere, there was a suggestion of the sinister about the lifeless scene. The vast irresistible river, the riotously colored jungle roof. The vastness of nature dwarfed man's puny work. One horizon flashed incessantly with livid lightning, the other was one blinding blaze of the nearby sun. And almost lost below in the savage landscape was man's symbol of possession, a few metal sheds in a clear fenced space of a few acres. Olier cautiously checked speed, skimmed over the turbid, slow surface of the great river, and set her down on the ground within the compound. With his pencil like ray tube in his hand, he stepped out of the hatchway. A Mercurian native came out of the residence presently, his hands together in the peace sign for the benefit of Earth lubbers whose only knowledge of mercury is derived from the teleview screen. It should be explained that Mercurians are not human, even if they do slightly resemble us. They hatch from eggs, pass one life phase as frog like creatures in their rivers and in the adult stage turn more human in appearance, but their skin remains green and fish belly white. There is no hair on their warty heads. Their eyes have no lids and have a peculiar dead staring look when they sleep, and they carry a peculiar fishy odor with them at all times. This Mercurian looked at Olier seemingly without interest. Where's Moronis? The officer inquired. Moronis, the native piped in English. Inside. He busy. All right, I'm coming in. He busy? Yeah, move over. Though the native was a good 6 inches taller than O', Lear, he stepped aside when the officer pushed him. Men and Mercurians had a way of doing that. When they looked into those colorless eyes, they were not as phlegmatic as the face. Moronis was sitting in his office. Well, I'm here, o' Lear announced, helping himself to a chair. Yes, sourly who invited you? O' Lear looked at the factor levelly appraising him. A big man, fat, but the fat, well distributed, saturnine face, dark hair darkened, bristly beard, the kind that thrived where other men became weak and fever ridden. Also, to judge by his present appearance, an unpleasant companion and a nasty enemy. Don't see what difference it makes to you, o' Lear answered in his own good time. But the company invited me. They would, moronis growled. His eyes flickered to the door and quick as a cat, o' Lear leaped to one side, his ray pencil in his hand. Moronis had not moved, and in the door stood the native, motionless and without expression. Moronis laughed nastily. Kinda chumpy, eh? What is it, Nargle? Nargle burst into a burbling succession of native phrases which Olier had some difficulty following. Nargal wants to move your ship into one of the sheds, but the activator key's gone. Yeah, I know, o' Lear assented casually. I got it. Leave the ship till I get ready, then I'll put it away. Get out, Nargle. The native hesitated, then, on the lift of Morones eyebrows, departed. Olier shifted a chair so that he could watch both Moronis and the door. He reopened the conversation easily. Well, we understand each other. You don't want me here and I'm here. So what are you going to do about it? Moronis flushed. He struggled to keep his temper down. What do you want to know? What happened to the factor who was here before you? I don't know. The Translucene wasn't coming in like it should. Samus went out into the jungle for a palaver with the chiefs to find out why. And he didn't come back. You didn't find out where he went? I just told you, marona said impatiently. He went out to see the native chiefs. Alone? Of course alone. There were only two of us Earth men here. Couldn't abandon this post to the wogglies, could we? Not that it would make much difference. Except for Nargle. None'll come near you. Never heard of him again. No, damn it, no. Say, didn't they have any dumber strappers around than you? I told you once, I tell you again, I never saw hide nor hair of him after that. All right, all right. O' Lear regarded Moronis placidly. And so you took the job of factor and radioed for an assistant. And when the assistant came, he disappeared. Moronis grunted. You went out to get acquainted with the country and didn't come back. Olier masked his close scrutiny of the factor under his idle and expressionless gaze. He was not ready to jump to the conclusion that Moronis uneasiness sprang from a sense of guilt. Guilty or not, he had a right to feel uneasy. The man would be dense indeed if he did not realize he was in line for suspicion. And he did not look dense indeed. He was obviously a shrewd character. Let me see your Lucine. Moronis rose. Despite his bulk, he stepped nimbly. He had the nimbleness of a Saturnian bear, which is great, as some of the earlier explorers learned to their dismay. That's the first sensible question you've asked. Marona snorted. Take a look at our Lucine. Heh. Have a good look. He led the way across the compound, waved his hand before the door of a strongly built shed in a swift definite combination, and the door opened, revealing the interior. He waved invitingly. You go first, o' Lear said with a sneer. Marona stepped in. You're safe, boy. You're safe. O' Lear looked at the small pile on the floor in astonishment. Instead of the beautiful semi transparent chips of Translucene, the dried SAP of a Mercurian tree which is invaluable to the world as the source of an unfailing cancer cure, there were only a few dirty, dried up shavings, hardly worth shipping back to Earth for refining. The full significance of the affair began to dawn on the officer. The Translucene trees grew only in this favored section of Mercury, and the Earth Company had a monopoly of the entire supply. Justly, for only on Earth was cancer known, and it was on the increase. That small, almost useless pile on the floor connoted a terrible drug famine for the human race. Moronis smile might have been a grin of satisfaction at Olier's question. Is that all you've bought since the last freighter was here? It is, he replied. The last load went off six months ago, and this here shed should be full to the eaves. There'll be hell to pay. It may not be tactful, olear remarked, but if you've got your takings cached away somewhere to hold up the Earth for a big ransom, you'd better come across right now. You can't get by with it, fellow. You should have close to $6 million worth of it, and you can't get away. You just can't. Moronis controlled his anger with an effort. Like any dumbstrapper. You've got your mind made up, ain't you? Well, go ahead. Get something on me Here I was almost set to give you a lead that might get you somewhere, and you come shooting off trying to make out I stole the lucine and killed those two fellows, eh? Go ahead, get something on me, but not on company grounds. You're leaving now. With that he made a lunge at the officer, quite beside himself with rage. O' Lear could have burnt him down, but he was far too experienced for such an amateurish trick. Instead, he ducked to evade Moronis blow. But the big man was as agile as a panther in midair, so it seemed he changed his direction of attack. The big fist swept downward, striking Ulir's head a glancing blow. But the men of the force have always been fighters, whatever their shortcomings as diplomats. Olier countered with a strong right to the body, thudding solidly. For Moronis, softness did not go far below the surface. The Factor whirled instantly, but not quite fast enough to bar the door. O' Lear was out and inside his ship in a few seconds, slamming the hatch.
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Narrator or Minor Character
Tact.
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Narrator
He grinned to himself, inserting the activator key. Tact is what a fella needs. The little space flyer shot aloft until the tiny figure of the Factor stopped shaking its fist and entered the residence. The post had a flyer of its own, of course, but Moronis was too wise to use it in pursuit. O' Lear considered what was best to do. Of course he could have placed Moronis under arrest. Could still do it, but that would not solve the mystery of the two deaths and the missing lucine. If the cholerk factor was really guilty of the crimes, it would be better to let him go his way in the hope that he would betray himself. Olear regretted that he had not kept his tongue under closer curb, but there was no use regretting. Perhaps, after all, he ought to turn back and pump Moronis for some helpful information. His mind made up, he descended again until he was hovering a few feet from the ground. Moronis. He called. Moronis. He held the hatch open. Moronis came to the door of the residence. He had a tube in his hand. A long range weapon. Moronis, o' Lear declared pompously. I place you under arrest. The effect was instantaneous. Moronis lifted the tube and a glimmering iridescent beam sprang out. The ship was up and away in a second, lurching and shivering uncomfortably every time the beam struck it in its upward flight. A good few seconds continued impingement, but a miss is as good as a light year miles high. O' Lear looked into his tail ends. Moronis had laid aside his tube and was working with an instrument like a twin transit, plotting the ship's course. Naturally, Olier set his course for the Earth and kept it on for a good 24 hours. Moronis, if he was still watching him, would think he'd gone back for reinforcements. Such an assumption would be incredible now, but that was before the IFP had achieved its present tremendous reputation beyond observation range. Ollier curved back toward Mercury again and was almost inside its atmosphere when he made a discovery that caused him to lose for a moment his natural indifference and to clamp his jaws in anger. The current oxygen tank became empty, and when he removed it from the rack and put in a new one, he found someone had let out all of this essential gas. The valve of every one of the spare tanks had been opened. Had o' Lear actually continued on his way to Earth, he would have perished miserably of suffocation long before he could have returned to the Mercurian atmosphere. The officer whistled tunelessly through his teeth as he considered this fact. The visibility was by this time normal. That is, so poor it would have been possible to land very close to the trading station. Olier was taking no chances, however, and came down a good three three earth miles away. The egg shaped hull sank through the glossy, brilliant treetops, through twisted vines, and was buried in the dank gloom of the jungle. Here it might remain hidden for a hundred years. The twilight of the jungle was almost darkness. Landmarks were not, but Olier made a few small inconspicuous marks on trees with his knife until he came to an outcropping rock. He had noticed the scar, like white of it, slashing through the jungle from the air, used it as a guide to direct his stealthy return to the trading post. His belt chronometer told him it would be about time for Moronis to get up from his night's sleep. A little discreet observation might tell much. Long before he reached the compound, Olier heard the rushing of the great blue river in its headlong plunge to the corrosive heat of the desert, and then through the mists he glimpsed the white metal walls of the company sheds. He climbed a tree and for a long time watched patiently, lying prone on a limb. Blood sucking insects tortured him, and flat tree lice resembling discs with legs crawled over him inquisitively. Olier tolerated them with stoic indifference until at last his patience was rewarded. Moronis was coming out of the compound. He was alone and obviously did not suspect that he was being watched, for he stepped out briskly once in the jungle, he walked even faster, watching out warily for the panther like carnivora that were the most dangerous to man on Mercury. Olier shinned to the ground and followed cautiously. Morones had his ray tube with him, as any traveler in these jungles did. Olier could and did draw fast, but a dead traitor would be valueless to him in his investigation. So he stalked it with every faculty, strained to maintain complete silence. Often in the occasional clearings where the brown darkness grew less, he had to grovel on the slimy ground, picking up large bacteria that could be seen with the naked eye and which left tiny festering red marks on the skin. Mercury has no snakes. The traders seemed to be heading for higher ground, for the path led ever upward, though not far from the tossing waters of the river. And then suddenly he disappeared. O' Lear did not immediately hurry after him. A canny fugitive, catching sight of his pursuer might suddenly drop to the ground and squirm to the side of the trail, there to wait and catch his pursuer as he passed. So o' Lear sidled into the all but impenetrable underbrush and slowly, with infinite caution, wormed his way along. Presently he came to the little rise of ground where Moronis had disappeared, but a painstaking search did not reveal the factor. There were, however, a number of other trails that joined the very faint trail he had been following, and now there was a well defined track which continued to lead upward. With a grimace of disgust, o' Lear again plunged into the odorous underbrush and traveled parallel to the trail. It was well he did so, for several Mercurians passed swiftly, intent, so it seemed, in answering a shrill call that at times came faintly to the ear. They carried slender spears. Several more Mercurians passed. The growth was thinning out, and o' Lear did not dare to proceed further. However, from his hiding place he could discern a number of irregular cave openings, apparently leading downward. They were apparently the entrances to one of the native cavern colonies, or possibly of a meeting place. No earthman had ever entered one, but it was thought they had underground openings into the river. As the cave openings were obviously natural, Olier conjectured that there might be others that were not used. After an anxious search, he found one narrow and irregular well hidden under the broad glossy leaves of some uncatalogued vegetation. As it showed no evidence of use, Olier, unhesitatingly speaking, slid down into was very narrow and irregular, so that often he was barely able to squeeze through. The roots of trees choked the passage for a dozen feet or so requiring the vigorous use of a knife.
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No purchase necessary VTW group void where prohibited by law CTNC21+ sponsored by Chumba Casino Bathed in sweat, his uniform a filthy mass of rags, Olier at last saw light. The passage ended abruptly near the roof of a large natural cavern. Lights glistened on stalactites, which cut off Olier's larger view. And voices came from below. By craning his neck, the officer could look between the pendant icicles of rock and see a fire burning on a huge oblong block of stone. Stone figures were sitting on the floor around this block, hundreds of Mercurians. The leaping flames made their white and green faces and bodies look frog like and less human than usual. But the figure that dominated the whole assemblage, both by its own hugeness and the magnetic power that flowed from it, was not of Mercury, but of Pluto. For the benefit of those who have never seen a stuffed of plot Plutonian in our museums, and they are very rare, let me refer you to the pious books still to be found in ancient library collections. The ancients personified their fears and hates in a being they called the Devil. The resemblance between the Devil of their imagination and the Plutonian is really astounding. Horns, hoofs, tail, almost at the smallest detail, the resemblance is there. Philosophers have written books on the coincidence and appearance of the ancient Devil and the modern decadent Plutonians. The Plutonians were once numerous and far advanced in science, and no doubt they called on the Earth many times in prehistoric days. And the so called Devil was a true picture of those vicious invaders who are somewhat less human than usually portrayed. What was once classed as superstition was therefore a true racial memory. Long before our ancestors came out of their caves to build houses, the Plutonians had mastered interplanetary travel, only to forget the secret until human ingenuity should reveal it once more. The modern Plutonian in that dank cave was over 10ft tall, and it is easy to see why he dominated the assemblage. His black visage was set in an evil smile. His ebony body glistened in the firelight. He held a three pronged spear in one hand and sat on a pile of rocks, a sort of rough throne, so that he towered magnificently above all others. He spoke the Mercurian language, although the liquid intonations came harshly from his sneering lips. Are ye assembled frog folk, that ye may hear the decision of your thinking ones? He asked. A respectful peeping chorus signified assent, but in that there was a hint of unrest, even of fear. Speak, ye thinking one, your commands? Hear me first. An old Mercurian, unusually tall, faded and dry looking, his thick hide wrinkled like crushed leather, rose slowly to his feet and stepped before the oblong stone. His back was to the Plutonian, his face to the Crescent of Chiefs. The Old Wise One. A twittering murmur went around the assemblage. Hear the Old Wise One. My people, I like this not. Began the ancient the Lords of the green star Footnote 1 In their various languages, almost all solar races call Earth the Green Star. Although conditions on Mercury are unfavorable, Earth can be seen from the Dark Star on mountaintops during occasional dispersals of the cloud masses have dealt with us fairly each phase. Footnote 2 the Mercurians had no conception of time before the Earthmen came. A phase is the time between calls of the freight ships, and is therefore variable. But in those days it was about six or seven months. They have brought us the things we wanted. He touched his spear and a few gaudy ornaments on his otherwise naked body in exchange for the worthless white SAP of our trees. If we longer offend the Lords of the Green Star. A raucous laugh interrupted the Mercurian's feeble voice, and it echoed eerily from the walls of the chamber. Valueless, ye call the white SAP, sneered the Plutonian. Hear me. That SAP you call valueless is dearer than life itself to the Lords of the Green Star, for they are afflicted in great numbers with a stinking death they call cancer. It destroys their vitals, and nothing, nothing in this broad universe can help them save this white SAP ye give them. In your hands ye have the power to bring the proud Lords of the Green Star to their knees. They would fill this chamber many times with their most priceless treasures for the SAP ye give them so freely. Withhold the SAP, and your thinking ones may go to the Green Star itself to rule over its lords. They are desperate. Their emissaries may even now be on the way to beg your pleasure. Speak, thinking ones. Would ye not rule the Green Star? But the chiefs failed to become enthused. One of them rose and addressed the O Lord of the Outer Orbit. For near one full phase have ye dwelt among us, and well should ye know we have no desire for conquest. We fear to go to the Green Star to rule Then let me rule for ye. Exclaimed the Plutonian. Instantly my brothers will abide with ye as your guests shall see that ye receive a fair reward for the white SAP, and I will convey your commands to the Lords of the Green Star. The old Wise one raised his withered hands so that the uncertain twittering of voices which followed the Plutonian suggestion subsided.
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Piped the feeble old voice. The Black Lord has spoken cunning words, but they are false. It is plain to see that he desires to rule the Green Star, and our welfare does not concern him. If so it be that the white SAP is of great value to the Lords of the Green Star, it is still of no value to us. And if the gifts they bring to us are of no value to them, they are dear to us. The Plutonian sneered. Dearer than the paste of strange dreams. A startled hush fell upon the assembled Mercurians. They looked guiltily at one another, avoiding the eyes of the old Wise One. What is this? She shrilled he, turning furiously to the Plutonian. Have ye brought the paste of evil to our abode, knowing well the strict proscription of our tribe? Fool, your death is upon ye. But the Plutonian only grinned and spread his glistening black hands in a careless gesture high overhead. Peering through the stalactites, o' Lear instantly understood the Plutonian's strange power. The paste of strange dreams, a fearsome narcotic of that far swinging dark planet, more insidious and devastating than any drug ever produced on Earth. It had wrought frightful havoc among many solar races. The Earthmen had opened the lanes, broken the age old barriers of distance, so that the harpies of evil could traffic their poison from planet to planet. So the paste of strange dreams was added to the Earthman's burden. Seize him, the Evil one. Shrieked the old chief. But the Mercurians sat sullen and silent, and the Plutonian sneered. Finally one of the chiefs arose and with an effort faced the old Wise one and said, the strange dreams are dearer to us than all else. Do as he says. The piping voices rose in eager acclamation, but the old Wise one held up his claws, waiting until silence returned. Wait, wait. Before ye commit this folly, hear the Green Star man. Many times has he demanded audience. Let him come in. It is not permitted. Demurred one of the chiefs. Ye permitted this being of evil to enter. Let him enter also. He is in the outer chambers now. One of the guards spoke. His face is like the center of a ring storm. Let him enter. Moronis strode into the room angrily Blinded by the fire after the darkness of the antechambers, he did not at first see the Plutonian. He strode up to the ancient chief and glared at him. Does the old Wise One learn wisdom at last? He rasped. The ancients shrank away from him, as did the near of the lesser chiefs. The old Wise One thinks less of his wisdom, he replied wearily. Behold. He pointed to the enthroned Plutonian. Moronis started. His hand flashed to his side and came away empty. Deft fingers had extracted his ray tube, but he was a man of courage. Never could it be said to his shame, that an Earthman cringed in the sight of lesser races. So it's you, my sooty friend, he snarled in English. The Plutonian, accomplished linguist, replied, as you see. You don't look very happy, Mr. Moronis. Moronis regarded him impassively, his eyes frosty. Well, that explains everything.
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- [35:30]
Narrator or Character
Lies.
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Narrator
Lies. He bellowed. See, they are weak as egglets. He stepped down, picked Moronis up by one shoulder, and held him dangling high over the heads of all. Moronis clawed and tore at the brawny arm. He made a ludicrous picture. Soon the simple natives made a sniffling sound of mirth, and the Plutonian, satisfied at last, set him down again. He tells truth. The old Wise One had climbed to the top of the stone block. The Lords of the Green Star have their power not in their bodies, but it is great. It is greater far than the frog folk. It is greater than the Lords of the outer Orbit. They will come, even as the surly One has said, and great shall be our sorrow. It is not yet too late. Release him and deliver to him the white SAP. Seize this evil one. The feeble, fickle minds were being swayed again. In a gust of impatience, the Plutonian stepped down, seized the aged chief's skinny body in his great black hands, and snapped him in two. There was a tearing of tough cords and tissue, and the two halves fell into the fire. For an instant the Mercurians were stunned. Then some of them vented hissing sounds of rage, while others prostrated themselves on the floor. The black giant watched them narrowly for a moment, then turned his attention to Moronis. He seized him by the arm and drew him slowly and irresistibly to him. The murder of the old Wise One had been done so quickly that o' Lear was unable to prevent it. Had he been able to use his ray weapon, he could have burned the Plutonian down. But it had been bent at one of the narrow turns of the crevice. He had come down. The need for extreme lightness and weapons was rather overdone in those early times, and a little rough handling made them useless. So now o', Lear, weaponless except for the service knife at his belt, began the hazardous undertaking of climbing among the stalactites to a position approximately above the Plutonian's head. The job required judgment. Some of the stone masses were insecurely anchored and would crash down at the lightest touch. Some were spaced so closely together that he could not get between them. Others were so far apart that it was difficult to get from one to another. Yet he made it somehow and unnoticed, for all eyes were turned on the tense drama being enacted below. From almost directly overhead, he saw Moronis being drawn upward. You saw, the Plutonian was saying triumphantly in Mercurian. You saw me unmake your old fool, and now you will see that a Lord of the Green Star is even softer, even weaker. Moronis, in that pitiless grasp, turned his face to the hateful, grinning visage above him. In his last extremity he was still angry. You devil. Moronis shouted. You may murder me, but they'll get you. They'll get you. Who'll get me? The Plutonian purred sulkily deferring the pleasure of the kill. For another moment. Moronis was having trouble with his breathing. His red face lolled from side to side. His eyes rolled in agony. Suddenly he saw o'. Lear. Unbelieving, he relaxed. I'm seeing things, he breathed. Who'll get me? Persisted the Plutonian, applying a little more pressure. The ifp. Moronis gasped. Well, you little son of a gun, o' Lear thought. And then he jumped. He landed astraddle the neck of the Plutonian, which was almost like forking a horse. One brawny arm seized the horn. The other, with a lightning swift dart, brought the point of the long surface knife to the pulsing black throat. Put him down. Olier spoke into the great pointed ear. Easy back on his feet, Moronis began bellowing at the Mercurians. Utterly demoralized, they fled. Pell mell. Moronis came back. He said nothing to tie him up with. That's all right, oliar replied, studiously keeping the knife point at exactly the right place. I'll ride him in. Get going, you. And be tactful when you go through the door, or this sticker of mine might slip. With extreme care, the Plutonian did exactly as o' Lear ordered him to. It was necessary to radio for one of the larger patrol ships to take Olier's enormous prisoner back to Earth for his trial. The officer testified, of course, and the Plutonian was duly sentenced to death for the murder of the old Mercurian. Execution by dehydration was decreed so that the body would be uninjured for scientific study, and today it is considered one of the finest specimens extant. In his testimony, however, o' Lear so minimized his own connection with the case that he received no public recognition. It was not until some months afterward that when Moronis, on leave, rode back with a shipload of translucene that the whole story came out emphatically and profanely. O' Lear finally consented to speak a few words for the telephoto news company. As he stepped off the little platform, deferential hands tried to push him back. You haven't told them who you are, protested the announcer. Give your name and rank. Ah, they don't have to know that, oliar rejoined, keeping on going. They know it's one of the force. That's all they have to know. Besides, there's a blackjack game going on, and I'm losing money every minute I'm out of it. End of the Earthman's Burden by R.F. starzl.
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Narrator or Storyteller
Two Timer by Frederic Brown this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org this is a recording by Alicia Two Timer by Frederic Raum. Here is a brace of vignettes by
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Short and sharp, like a hypodermic. Part 1 Experiment the first time machine, gentleman, Professor Johnson proudly informed his two colleagues.
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True, it is a small scale experimental model.
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It will only operate on objects weighing less than 3 pounds, 5 ounces, and 4 distances into the past and future of 12 minutes or less. But it works. The small scale model looks like a
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First, I shall send it five minutes into the future. He leaned forward and set one of
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the dials on the time machine. Look at your watches, 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
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I shall now activate the mechanism by
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placing the cube on the platform at exactly 3 o'.
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It will, as my hand approaches, vanish
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Three o'. Clock. Notice, please, the cube vanished from his
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See?
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It is there.
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Clock.
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Very well. I shall not. There was no paradox at all. The cube remained, but the rest of the entire universe, professors and all, vanished. Part 2 Century he was wet and muddy and hungry and cold, and he
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was 50,000 light years from home.
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Cronus of the DFC by Lloyd Biggle 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 Mike Manolakis Cronus of the DFC by Lloyd Biggle Jr. A bright sunny day in May and a new job for me. I found the room in the basement of police headquarters. A big room with freshly stenciled letters DFC on the door and an unholy conglomeration of tubes, wires, and dials bulking large in one corner. A bright young police cadet sat at a desk in the center of the room. Are you Mr. Forresten? I nodded and dumped my bag beside the desk. Captain Marks is waiting for you, he said and jerked his head toward a door to the rear. Captain Marks had his office in a cubbyhole off the main room. It was quite a comedown from the quarters he'd occupied upstairs. As Captain of detectives, he'd held onto that job past his retirement age, and when they were about to throw him out on his ear, DFC came along and he jumped at it.
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VGW Group void where prohibited by law 21 terms and conditions apply. The captain was not the retiring type. His door was open and he waved me in. Sit down forresden, he said. Welcome to the Department of Future Crime. I sat down and he looked me over. A lean, hard face, closely cropped white hair and steely gray eyes that looked through a man rather than at him. Small, 5ft 7, 140 pounds. You looked at him and wondered how he'd ever gotten on the force in the first place, until you saw his eyes. A I'd never felt comfortable in his presence. Do you know what we have here, Forsten? He said. Not exactly. I don't either. Exactly. The brass upstairs thinks it's an expensive toy. It is, but they've given us a trial budget to see if it works, and now it's up to us. I nodded and waited for him to go on. He packed his pipe, lit it, then leaned back and let the smoke go out. We have an invention, he said, which I don't pretend to understand. You saw the thing. Yes, I said. It wasn't easy to overlook. Walker calls it Cronus, for the Greek God of time. It gives us random glances around the city on what looks like a large TV screen. Random glances into the future. He paused for a dramatic effect, and I probably disappointed him. I already knew that much. The picture is hazy, he went on, and sometimes we have a hell of a time figuring out the location of whatever it is we're looking at. We also have trouble pinpointing the time of an event, but we can't deny the potential. We've been in operation for three weeks, and already we've seen half a dozen holdups days before they happened. At least it's an ideal we've always worked for, I offered. I mean to prevent crime rather than just catch the criminal. Oh, he said, and went to work on his pipe again. Maybe I didn't make myself clear. We saw the holdups on that screen, but we couldn't prevent a single one. All we managed to do was catch the criminal a few minutes after he had committed the crime. So it raises an interesting question. Is it possible to change the future? Why not? I said. Captain Marks thought a moment. It isn't too critical where the holdups are concerned. The criminal is caught immediately, the loot is recovered, and the victim goes his way, thinking kind thoughts about the efficiency of the police force. But what about assault or rape or murder? Apprehending the criminal 10 minutes later won't be much comfort to the victim. But now that you're here to follow up the leads given us by Cronus, well, we'll see what we can do. Come on. I want you to meet Walker and Cronus. Walker, Dr. Howard F. Walker was huddled over his creation. There was no doubt about it being his baby. As you could see from the way his hands caressed the dials, he was a gangly looking man. 6ft 1, maybe 170 pounds. 50 odd years old. He had a long neck, an overly pronounced Adam's apple, and thinning hair. He wore thick glasses. His face was gentle and dignified, and he looked like a very tired university professor. He didn't hear us come up, and the old man waited quietly until he noticed us. Walker, the old man said. This is Forresden, our new detective. He nodded at me. Cronus has something, he said. If I can find it again. He turned to his dials. That's one of our problems, captain Marks said. Once we focus on a crime, it's sometimes hard to locate it again. The time interval between the present and the time the crime is committed keeps getting less. It takes a different adjustment each time. His voice trailed away and I looked from Walker to the six foot square screen above his head. Shadows flitted about on the screen. A female shadow walking along the street holding a child's shadow by the hand. Shadow. Air cars moving along jerkily. A row of male shadows grotesquely posed along a bar, their glasses making bright blotches. In the picture, a room and a female shadow moving around a table. The future revealed by Cronus was a shadow world, and the only way you could tell male from female was by their dress. The scene kept shifting. A park with trees and lounging adults and running children. A room with people seated around a table. A a reading room, perhaps at the public library. A large living room with an old fashioned fireplace and a bright blotch that was the fire. Another, smaller room. A female shadow. That's it, walker said suddenly. He moved the motion picture camera into position and pressed a button. It whirred softly as we watched. A nondescript living room. A female shadow. She threw up her hands and stood transfixed for a horrible moment or two. A male shadow bounded into the picture. A giant male shadow. She turned to run and he caught her from behind. His hand moved upward. Something glittered in it and he brought it down. He struck twice and the female crumpled to the floor. He whirled, ran toward us, and disappeared. The camera ground on, recording the image of that shapeless shadow on the floor. Abruptly the scene changed. A restaurant with crowded tables and jerkily moving robot servers. Walker swore softly and turned off the camera. That's all I got before he said, if I could come on it from a different angle, maybe we could locate the place. When? The captain asked. Seven to 12 days. It hit me then, like a solid wallop on the jaw. I'd been looking into the future. Plenty of time the captain said. But not much to go on. He looked at me. What do you think might be able to identify the man? I said. He'll be well over six feet. Wouldn't surprise me if he were six, eight, or nine. He'll have the build of a male gorilla and he limps slightly with his right foot. Not bad. Anything else? It's an apartment or a hotel room, I said. I'd guess an apartment. The scanner screen by the door means it's either relatively new or it's been remodeled. The living room has a corner location with windows on two sides. It's hard to say for certain, but I believe there's an old fashioned sofa, one of those with a back on it along the far wall. Walker slumped into a chair. You make me feel better, he said. I thought there was next to nothing to go on. Captain Marks nodded. But you missed one thing. What's that? Our assailant is left handed. Also, the limp may be something temporary. All right, Forrest, and It's all yours. Seven to 12 days. And you better plan on seven. He went back to his office and I looked at Walker. Can you give me any idea at all as to the location? I can draw you a circle on the map, but it's only about 5050 that you'll find the place inside the circle. That's better than nothing. There is one thing, walker said. I'd like to have you wear this everywhere. A band of elastic with what looked like dark beads placed on it at intervals. It's an armband, walker said. Cronus picks up these beads as bright spots so I'll be able to identify you if you show up on the screen. I hesitated and he said, the captain wears one. We know it works because Cronos has picked him up twice. I took the armband and slipped it on. I sat down with a map and a directory and worked until a technician came back with the developed film. Walker was still perspiring in front of Cronus. He hadn't been able to focus on the crime a third time. The captain's door was closed and his nasal voice was rattling the door as he bellowed into his telephone. I pulled the curtains to darken one corner of the room and fed the film into a projector machine. I ran the film 10 times without coming up with anything new. I couldn't make out the number on the door. I also couldn't decide whether the assailant was a chance prowler or someone known to the victim. I stopped the camera and made a sketch of the room from what I could make out in the way of furnishings. The captain came barging out of his office, took a quick look at my sketch, and nodded approval. We'll find the apartment, he said. Then our troubles will really start. I couldn't see that, and I told him so. I figured our troubles would be nearly over if we found the apartment. You think it's possible to prevent this crime? He said. I don't. Even if we find the apartment and identify the man and woman, the crime is still going to happen. Why? I said. Look at it this way. If we prevent the crime, it's not going to happen, right? Right. And if it's not going to happen, Cronus wouldn't show it to us. All you see on that screen is what will happen. As far as Cronus is concerned, it already has happened. Preventing it is like trying to change the past. We can try, I said. Yes, we can try. The regular force will help us on this one. A team of detectives is waiting outside. Tell them what you want done. I wanted an apartment living room with a corner location and a door scanner. It wasn't as bad as it sounded. The scanner was a new gadget. At that time not many apartment buildings would have it. There was always a chance, however, that an individual had had one installed on his own, but that was a worry I could postpone. I put in a hectic day of trudging through apartment buildings and squabbling with superintendents, but we found it the next morning in a stubby little seven story building on South Central. It was one of those apartment buildings that went up way back in 1990 when the city decided it couldn't afford the luxury of open spaces and open part of old Central park apartment buildings. This one was a midget among the other buildings in that development, but it had been remodeled recently. It had scanner screens. After the usual protests, the superintendent showed me around. Most of the occupants weren't home. He let me into a rear apartment on the sixth floor and I took one look and caught my breath. I pulled out my sketch, though I had it memorized by this time, and moved across the room to get the right angle. The sofa was there. It was an old fashioned job with a back. What had been a bright blotch in the picture turned out to be a mirror, a blur. By the sofa was a low table. A chair was in the wrong place, but that could have been moved. What was I thinking about? It was going to be moved. Every detail checked. Stella Emerson, the superintendent said. Ms. Stella Emerson, I think. She never gave me no Trouble. Something wrong? Not a thing, I said. I want some information from her. I don't know when she's home. Her next door neighbor did. I went back to headquarters and picked up the loose ends on the attempt to identify her assailant to be no luck. And at six o' clock that evening I was having a cup of Coffee with Ms. Stella Emerson. She was the sort of person it's always a joy to interview. Alert, understanding, cooperative. None of that petty temperamental business about invasion of privacy. She was brunette and TR 26 or 27, maybe 5ft 4, 110 pounds. The pounds were well distributed and she was darn nice looking. She served the coffee on the low table by the sofa and sat back with her cup in her hand. You wanted information, she said. I fingered my own cup, but I didn't lift it. I'd like to have you think carefully, I said, and see if you've ever known a man who matches this description. He's big, really big. Heavyset, maybe 6ft 8 or 9. He's left handed. He might walk with a slight limp in his right foot. She set her cup down with a bang. Why, that sounds like Mike. Mike Gregory. I haven't seen him for years. Not since I took a deep breath and wrote Mike Gregory in my notebook. Where was he when you last saw him? On Mars. I was there for two years with civil service. Mike was a sort of general handyman around the administration building. Do you know where he is now? As far as I know, he's still on Mars. My coffee was scalding hot, but I didn't notice as I gulped it down. I'd like to know everything you can tell me about this Mike Gregory, I said. May I take you to dinner? As my dad used to say, there's nothing like mixing business with pleasure. She suggested the place, a queer little restaurant in the basement of a nearby apartment building. There were lighted candles on the tables, the first candles I'd seen since I was a child. The waitresses wore odd costumes with handkerchiefs wrapped around their heads. An old man sat off in one corner scraping on a violin. It was almost weird, but the food was good and Stella Emerson was good company. Unfortunately, her mind was on Mike Gregory. Is Mike in trouble? She said. He always seemed like such a gentle, considerate person. I thought of the knife wielding shadow and shuddered. How well did you know him? I said. Not too well. He stopped in to talk with me now and then. I never saw him except at work. Was he interested in you? She blushed. It was also the first blush I had seen in so long I couldn't remember when I heard it said that the blush went out when women did away with their two piece bathing suits and started wearing trunks like the men. I'm telling you, you can't have any idea about what's wrong with our scientific civilization until you've seen a girl blush by candlelight. I suppose he was, she said. He kept asking me to go places with him. I felt sorry for him. He seemed such a great grotesque person, but I didn't want to encourage him. You're certain about the limp? Oh yes, it was very noticeable. And about his being left handed? She thought for a moment. No, I'm not certain about that. He could have been, I suppose, but I don't think I ever noticed. Is there anything else you remember about him? She shook her head slowly. Not much, I'm afraid. He was just a person who came through the office now and then. He had an odd way of talking. He spoke very slowly. He separated his words just like this. Most of the girls laughed at him and when they did he'd turn around and walk away without saying anything. And oh yes, sometimes he'd talk about California. I guess that was where he was from. I never found out anything about his personal life. But you didn't laugh at him? No, I couldn't laugh at him. He was just too pathetic. Have you heard from him since you came back? He sent me a Christmas card once. He didn't know my address on Earth, so he sent it to the office on Mars so it would be forwarded. It didn't reach me until July. How long ago was that? It must be four years ago. It was a couple of years after I left Mars. I dropped Mike Gregory and tried to learn something about Stella emerson. She was 28. She'd worked for two years on Mars and then she came back and got a job as a private secretary with a small firm manufacturing plastic textiles. She made enough money for her own needs and was able to save a little. She liked having a place of her own. She had a sister in Boston and an aunt over in Newark and they visited her occasionally. She led a quiet life with books and visits to the art institutes and working with her hobby, which was photography. It all sounded wonderful to me. The quiet life. A detective gets enough excitement on the job. If he can't relax at home, he's going to be a blight on the mortality tables. We were on our second cup of coffee by then and I motioned the old fiddler over to our table. His bloodshot eyes peered out over a t weak growth of beard. I slipped him a dollar bill. How about giving us a melody? He gave us a clumsy serenade, and Stella reacted just as I hoped she would. She blushed furiously and kept right on blushing, and I just leaned back and enjoyed it. I took her back to her apartment and said a friendly farewell at her door. We shook hands, and she didn't invite me to spend the night with her, which was just as refreshing. I rode the elevator with chiming bells and a wisp of the old man's music floating through my mind. I stepped out on the ground level, walked dreamily out the door, and hailed an air cab with my pocket signal, and just as I was about to step in it stabbed me like the flickering knife on Cronus screen. She was a wonderful girl, and I was falling for her. And in seven to 12 days, no, near five to 10 days now, she was going to be murdered. Something wrong? The driver said. I flashed my credentials. Police headquarters, I said. Use the emergency altitude. Walker was crouched in front of Cronus, perspiring as usual but looking infinitely more tired. No matter what time I came in, he always seemed to be there. Or there was a note saying he was down in his lab in the sub basement. I haven't found it again, he said. That's all right. We can manage with what we have. He frowned irritably. It's important, confound it. This is just an experimental model and it's maddingly inefficient. With money and research facilities we could produce one that would really work. But we can't get that kind of support by predicting a few piddling hold ups. But a murder? Now that would make someone sit up and take notice. Stop worrying about your dratted Cronus, I snapped. I don't give a damn about that pile of junk. There's the girl's life to be saved. It was unfair, but he didn't object. Yes, of course, he said. The girl's life. But if I can't get more information I found the apartment, I told him, and I found the girl. But the man is supposed to be on Mars. It doesn't figure, but it's something to work on. I called the captain and gave him my report. If he resented my bothering him at home, he didn't show it. Any wheel I could get my fingers on. I set turning and then I went home. I won't pretend that I slept. By morning we had a complete report from the Colonial Administration on Michael Rowland Gregory. Fingerprints, photos, detailed description complete with limp and left handedness. The works. Also the added information that he'd resigned his civil service job eight months before and had left immediately for Earth on a dawn liner scheduled to land at San Francisco. I swore savagely, got off an urgent message to San Francisco, and left for a dinner date with Stella Emerson and another handshake at her apartment door. San Francisco did a thorough job, but it took time. Two more days. Michael Roland Gregory had hung around for a while, living in run down rooming houses and holding a series of odd jobs. Two months before he had disappeared. He could be anywhere by now, I told the captain. Including here in New York, the captain said dryly. Two to seven days. I took Stella back to her apartment after our dinner date and in front of the door I said, stella, I like you. She blushed wonderfully. I like you too, Jim. Then do me a favor. A very special favor. Her blush deepened with an overlay of panic.
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21 I'd like to, Jim, because I like you. But I can't. It's hard to explain, but I've always told myself that unless I marry a man. I leaned against the wall and laughed helplessly while her eyes widened in amazement. Then I dispensed with the handshaking. She clung to me and it might have been her first kiss. In fact it was. I don't just like you, darling, I said. I love you. And that wasn't the favor I was going to ask. You said you have an aunt over in Newark. I want you to stay with her for a while. For a week or so. But why? Will you trust me? I can't tell you anything except that you're in danger here. You mean Mike? I'm afraid so. It's hard to believe that Mike would want to harm me, but if you think it's important. I do. Will you call your aunt now and make the arrangements? I'll take you over tonight. She packed some things and I took her to Newark in an air cab. Her aunt was hospitable and cooperative, albeit a little confused. I checked her apartment thoroughly. I was taking no chances that the aunt's living room could be the potential scene of the crime. It wasn't no similarity. Promise me, I said, that you won't Go back to your apartment for any reason until I tell you it's all right. I promise. But I may need some more things. Make a list and I'll have a policewoman pick them up for you. All right. I arranged with the superintendent of her apartment building to have the lights in her apartment turned on each evening and turned off at an appropriate time. I put a stakeout on her apartment building and on her aunt's. I got a detective assigned to shadow her, though she didn't know it, of course. Then it was zero to five days and I was quietly going nuts. Zero to four days. I walked into the DFC room and Walker swarmed all over me. I found it again, he said. Anything new? No, just the same thing. Exactly the same. When? Two to three days. I sat down wearily and stared at Cronus. The screen was blank. How did you manage to invent that thing? I said. I didn't really invent it. I just discovered it. I was tinkering with a TV set and I changed some circuits and added a lot of gadgets just for the hell of it. The pictures I got were darned poor, but they didn't seem to be coming from any known station or combination of stations since they kept changing. That was interesting. So I kept working on it. Then one day the screen showed me a big aircar smash up. There were about 10 units involved, and I told myself, boy, these class D pictures are really overdoing it. About a week later I opened my morning paper and there was the same smash up on page one. It took a long time to get anybody interested. He stopped suddenly as the captain came charging out of his office. Brooklyn, he called. Gregory was living in a rooming house in Brooklyn. He left three weeks ago, a lead with a dead end. No one knew where he'd gone. It proved that he was somewhere in the vicinity of New York City. But I don't think any of us ever doubted that. One thing is interesting, the captain said. He's using his own name. No reason why he shouldn't, of course. He's not a criminal. But he is a potential criminal, and he doesn't know that. I saw suddenly that we had a double problem.
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We had to protect Stella from Gregory, but we also had to protect Gregory from himself. If we could find him. There's not much we can do, I said, but keep on looking. It was what Walker called the critical period. Something had to happen on this day or the next, or Cronus was a monkey's Dutch uncle. If we could only pick Gregory up and hold him for a couple of days. Maybe we could beat this, I told the captain. We've eliminated Stella Emerson, we've locked the apartment, and Cage and Gregory should snap the last thread. He laughed sarcastically. You think that would solve the problem? Listen, we spotted a hold up and I recognized the crook. He had a long record. I had him picked up and he was carrying a gun, so we slapped him in jail on a concealed weapons charge. He escaped, got another gun, and committed to holdup right on schedule. I'm telling you, Cronus shows exactly how the future is. We can't change it. I'm working as hard as anyone else to prevent this, but I know for a certainty that sometime today or tomorrow the girl and Gregory are going to meet in that apartment, or in one exactly like it. We're going to change it this time, I said. On my way out, I stopped for a good look at Cronus. Nothing but a monster would give you a murderer, a victim, and a place, an approximate time, and make you completely helpless to do anything about it. I felt like giving Cronus a firm kick in a vital part of its anatomy. I called off my dinner date with Stella and prowled around Manhattan looking for a big man with a pronounced limp, one speck of dust among the millions. I noticed with satisfaction that I was not alone in my search. Aircars were swooping in low for a quick look at pedestrians. Foot patrolmen were scrutinizing every passerby, and detectives would be making the rounds of the rooming houses and hotels with photographs. Cab and bus drivers would be alerted. For a man who had no reason to hide, Michael Roland Gregory was doing an expert job of keeping out of sight. I radioed police headquarters at 10pm and the captain's voice exploded at me. Where the hell have you been? The stakeout at the girl's apartment got Gregory. They're bringing him in. I cut off without any of the formalities and sprinted. I tore down the corridor to the DFC room and burst in on what might have been a funeral celebration. Walker sat with his face in his hands and the captain was pacing in a tight circle. He got away, the captain snarled, snapped the handcuffs like toothpicks, beat up his escort, and ran. The man must have the strength of a utility robot. How did they happen to pick him up? I wanted to know. He came strolling down the street and started to go into the apartment building, completely innocent about the whole thing. Of course, he didn't have any idea we were looking for him. He has now, I said. It's Going to be great sport locating him again. We had a small army loose in the area where Gregory escaped, but for all they found, he might have burrowed into the pavement. I called Stella and asked her to stay home from work. The next day I got the stakeout on her aunt's apartment doubled. I was up at dawn prowling the streets, riding and patrolling air cars and I suppose generally making a nuisance of myself with calls to headquarters. We put in a miserable day, and Gregory might have been hiding on Mars for all the luck we had. I had my evening meal at a little sandwich shop and did a leisurely foot patrol along the street by Stella's apartment building. The stakeout was on the job, and the superintendent had Stella's lights on. I stood for a moment in the doorway watching the few pedestrians, and then I signaled an air cab. I'd like to circle around here a bit, I said. Sure thing, the cabbie said. We crisscrossed back and forth above the streets, and I squinted at pedestrians and watched the thin traffic pattern. Fifteen minutes later we were back by the apartment building. Circle low around the building, I said. Oh, no. Want me to lose my license? I can't go out of the air lanes. You can this time, I said. Police. He looked at my credentials and grunted. Why didn't you say so? There was a narrow strip of lawn behind the building with a couple of trees and then a dimly lit alley. The cabbie handed me a pair of binoculars, and I strained my eyes on the sprawling shadows. I couldn't see anything suspicious, but I decided it might be worth a trip on foot the third time around. I glanced at Stella's lighted windows, the rear ones, and gasped. A dark shadow clung to the side of the building, edging slowly along the ledge towards her window. Gregory, see that? I said to the cabbie. As we watched, he got the window open and disappeared into the apartment. I tried to radio the men on the stakeout and couldn't rouse them. I called headquarters. Both Walker and Captain Marks were out. They would be back in a few minutes, but I didn't have minutes left. Skip it, I said. I snapped out a description of the situation and cut off. Can you get close enough to get me through that window? I asked the cabbie. I can try, he said. But watch your step, fellow. It's a long drop. He hovered close, and I grabbed the edge of the window and pulled myself through. Gregory faced me across the living room, a bewildered, panicky look on his huge, childlike face. I was thinking, how stupid can we get from the way he came into Cronus picture, we should have known he didn't come through the door. Stella had come through the door, and we just assumed he was already in the room. But who would have thought Gregory could make like a human fly? All right, Gregory, I said. You're under arrest. Tears streaked his face. His jaw moved, but no sound came out. Suddenly I saw how we had blundered. This grotesquely oversized child meant no harm to anyone. Stella was the only person he'd ever known who treated him like a human being, and he wanted to see her again. For some reason he couldn't understand, the police were trying to prevent that. Suddenly the entire universe was against him, even Stella, and he was frightened and dangerous. He lunged at me like a pile driver and forced me back towards the open window. I got my gun out and he just casually knocked it out of my hand. He had me on the window ledge, forcing me back, and all I could see were the stars at in space. Then the apartment door opened and closed, and Gregory glanced back over his shoulder. I screamed, run, Stella, run. Then the night air was whistling past me. I bounced off an awning, crashed into the branches of a tree, struggled frantically for a hold, and fell through. From the window above came a piercing scream. The doctor had a face like an owl, and and he bent over me, making funny clucking noises with his tongue. There we are, he said when he saw my eyes open. Not bad at all. What's good about it? I said. Young man, you fell six stories and all you have is a broken leg and assorted bruises. You ask me what's good about it? You wouldn't understand, I said. Beat it. Stella's scream still rang in my ears. I twisted and felt the heavy cast on my left leg. My mood merged and blended with the dull gray of the hospital room. A nurse came tiptoeing in and smiled blandly when she saw I was awake. You have some visitors, she said. Do you want to see them? I knew it was the captain. I hated to face him, but I said, let's get it over with. The Captain loomed in the doorway, backed away, and came in again. And ahead of him walked Stella, a different Stella, face pale and distorted, eyes registering shock and grief, but alive. But very much alive. I started to get up, and the nurse placed a firm hand on each shoulder and held me to the bed. Not so fast, sonny boy, she said. Captain Marks moved up a chair for Stella. Jim, she said. Her voice broke. I'll tell him, the captain said. It seems that Ms. Emerson has a sister living in Boston. She didn't know anything about our problem, and she came down this evening for a visit. She had a key to Ms. Emerson's apartment, and she walked in just at the right time to play a leading role in Cronus drama. Was she? No. Thankfully no. Her condition is serious, but she'll be all right. Again, the knife missed a vital spot by a fraction of I relaxed. What happened to Gregory? He tried to go out the way he came in. There wasn't any tree to break his fall. And one other thing. I have an urgent message for you from Walker. I glanced at the slip of paper. Jim, for God's sake, stay out of aircars. Cronus showed us your fall half an hour before it happened. From our angle, it looked as if you fell out of the air cab that was hovering over the building. Sometime in the next 24 hours, Walker calculated, but we couldn't reach you. It wouldn't have made any difference, I said. You know yourself. Yes, he said. I know. His voice rambled on while my eyes met Stella's. So Cronus can show us the future, I heard him say. But he can't change it, and neither can we. Cronos changed mine, I said, still looking at Stella. The captain took the hint and left. Five minutes later the phone rang and I reached around Stella to answer it. It was Walker, and Stella held her face close to mine and listened. Just called to offer my congratulations, walker said. Congratulations for what? For your wedding. Cronus just spotted it. I swore, but kept it under my breath. I haven't even asked the girl, I said. And don't tell me I'm wearing that stupid armband on my wedding, because I'm not. No, you're on crutches, but the captain is standing up with you, and he's wearing his. All right, I said. When is this glad event going to take place? Four to eight days. I slammed down the receiver and kissed Stella's blushing face. Chronos says we're getting married in four to eight days, and this is one time that monstrosity is going to be wrong. We'll get married tomorrow. All right, Jim, if you want to. But. But What? This is May 28, and I want to be a June bride. We were married five days later, and we went to Arizona on our honeymoon. I'd done some checking, and I knew Arizona was well outside of Cronus range. End of cronus of the DFC by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.
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Narrator or Minor Character
A Fall of Glass by Stanley R. Lee this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org A fall of Glass by Stanley R. Lee the weatherman was always right. Temperature 59, humidity 47 per cent. Occasional light showers, but of what? The pockets of Mr. Humphrey phones were being picked outrageously. It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, the humidity a mildly desiccated 47 per cent. The sun was a flaming orange ball in a cloudless blue sky. His pockets were picked 11 times. It should have been difficult under the circumstances. It was a masterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was Humphrey Fone's obstruction. He was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. He was strolling along a quiet residential avenue, small private houses, one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions. But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking so deeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too many people were bumping into him. He was thinking about optimum dome conditions, a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly desiccated 47 per cent, when a bogus postman who pretended to be reading a postal card jostled him in the confusion of spilt letters and apologies from both sides, the postman trifled phone's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girl happened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got his right and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence. The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time. He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in a heated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps, they emptied his rear pants pockets, got his wrist watch and restored the contents of the handkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of put and take, the sole difference being that Humphrey phones had no idea he was playing. There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass. It fell on the streets and houses, making small gazes of shining mist, heating with a gentle musical sound like the ephemeral droppings of a Celesta. It was precipitation, peculiar to a dome, feather light fragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Dome weevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed the huge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. Humphrey Fones strode through the paths of falling glass, still intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity that was always 47 per cent, by weather that was always optimum. It was this rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting his finger prints off the postman's bag and which photographed, X rayed, and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning them. Two blocks away from his home, a careless housewife sport a five pound pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster of Paris. He left his shoe print, stride measurement, height, weight, and handedness behind. By the time Fones reached his front door, an entire dossier, complete with photographs, had been prepared and was being read by two men in an orange patrol car parked down the street. Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Faun's approach with a distinct feeling of admiration. Although it was an odd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature, it was similar to that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new and particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanphear's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be tolerated within the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a social force. It was a physical necessity, and after years of working at it, Lanphear had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that genuine quirks were rare, and as time went on, due partly to his own small efforts, Rarer Phones was a masterpiece of quirk. He was utterly inexplicable. Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fomes. Sometimes his house shakes, lanphear said. House shakes, Lt. MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then he stopped and frowned. He re read what he'd just written. You heard right the house shakes, lanphear said, savouring it. MacBride looked at the phone's house through the magnifying glass of of the windshield. Like from side to side? He asked in a somewhat patronizing tone of voice. And up and down McBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orange uniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossed the dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacDonald bride couldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways, McBride was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on phones for months. He had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned phones to MacBride. After years of searching for for differences, Lanfierre had seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were. Echoes, really. Dimly resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably trite. Then a fine, robust freak came along, and the others, the echoes, refused to believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting a vacation. Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant McBride suggested. It's like this, McBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze. A zephyr? I've heard some. They say there are mountain tops where winds blow all the time. Strong winds, McBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there was a house sitting on such a mountain, and if winds did blow, it would shake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling the whole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing down the avenue. Lieutenant McBride pursed his lips. I'll tell you something else, lanphear went on. The windows all close at the same time. You'll be watching, and all of a sudden every single window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanphier leaned back in the seat he, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I think there's a whole crowd of people in there, waiting for a signal, as if they all had something important to say but had to close the windows first so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city? And then as soon as the place is buttoned up, they all explode into conversation. And that's why the house shakes. MacBride whistled. No, I don't need a vacation. A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against the windshield. Lanphear started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel. No, you don't need a rest, McBride said. You're starting to see flying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in your brain, Lanfierre. Breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality. At that moment, all. All at once, every last window in the house slammed shut. The street was deserted and quiet. Not a movement, not a sound. MacBride and Lanfier both leaned forward as if waiting for the ghostly babble of voices to commence. The house began to shake. It rocked from side to side. It pitched forward and back. It yawned and dipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. The house could have been preparing to take off and sail down the McBride looked at Lanfear and Lanfear looked at McBride, and then they both looked back at the dancing house. And the water, llandphear said. The water he uses. He could be the thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a whole family of thirsty and clean kids, and he still would. Wouldn't need all that water. The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumped through the pages now in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? He asked. Did you see what he carries in his pockets and compasses won't work on this street. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed. He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. It expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There was something implacable about his size. He'll be coming out soon, lanfier said. He eats supper next door with a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper at the widows next door and then the library. McBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library, he said. Is ye in with that bench? I Lanfierre nodded. Should be very interesting, McBride said slowly. I can't wait to see what he's got in there, lanfierre murmured, watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence, and every now and then their eyes widened as the house danced a new step.
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Phones stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of Paris off his shoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car, and this intense preoccupation of his was also responsible for the dancing house. He simply hadn't noticed there was a certain amount of vibration. Of course he had a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and the high pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of the house. At least he called it buffeting. He'd never thought to watch from outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no room left in the closets. Crossing the living room, he stopped to twist a draw pull every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought. Satisfied, he continued on toward the closet at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was that right? No. Snug as a hack in a rug, he went on thinking. The old devils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion of will surrounding the master mechanism, which was a miniature seesaw that went back and forth 365 and a quarter times an hour. The wheels had a curious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, savaged from grandfathers, clocks and music boxes, and they went around in graceful circles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour, although there was one slightly eccentric calm that vacillated between 28 and 29. He watched as they spun and flashed in the darkness and then set them for 7 o' clock in the evening, April 7th. Any year outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or as phones hoped it might appear, the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more satisfactory and, for his specific purpose, more functional illusion. Looking through the window, he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sun setting, brilliantly marred only by an occasional arc over which left the smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid a huge area of sky, and it sunk. The sun and moon both looked down upon a garden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses satisfactory and cocktails for two. Blast. He'd never be able to figure that one out. He watched as the moon played oh Ye Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashed slowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned on the scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated rose as the moon shifted to people will say we're in love. He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset, an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative, of course. He had no idea how a rose really smelt or looked, for that matter. Not to mention a moon. But then neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive, insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine, realistic, romantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your poles? Do you feel icy fingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected, but then he hadn't read that book on ancient moors and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incredibly long and drawn out process, accompanied by a considerable amount of falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Null meant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and the circumstances. It could mean yes. It could mean ask me again. Later on this evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rainmaker, thinking, thou shalt not inundate the risks he was taking. A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain. Undiminished. The yellow moon and the red sun continued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over and demolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steering wheel from an old 1995 Studbaker. This was on the bootleg pipe. He gingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle of winds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This was important. The window had a really fixed attitude about air currents. The neon roses bent and tingled against each other as the wind rose, and the moon shook a trifle as it whispered, cuddle up a little closer. He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dear Mrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the rheumatic garden. Time to be a bit forward, my very dear Mrs. Duchazaway. No, contrived. How about a simple dear Mrs. Duchazaway? That might be it. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn't rather stay over instead of going home preoccupied. He hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear the shaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connected to wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they made one gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance as high pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening the Stude baker valve wider and wider. The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sun shot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moon fell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning when the blue of the night meets the gold of the day. The shaking house finally woke him. He scrambled upstairs to the Studebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again he sighed. Repairs were in order, and it wasn't the first time the wind got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all down and went out the front door wondering about the rhyme of the months, about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April Its days were 30 and it followed September and all the rest have 31. What a strange people, the Asians. He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. Men are too perishable, Mrs. De Chazaway said over dinner. For all practical purposes, I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die. Would you pass the bids, please? Humphrey, phone said. She handed him a platter of steaming red beads. And don't look at me that way, she said. I'm not going to marry you. And if you want reasons, I'll give you four of them. Andrew, Curd, Norman, and Alphonse. The widow was a passionate woman. She did everything passionately. Talking, cooking, dressing. Her beads were passionately ready. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelry tinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Phones had never known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes, she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible for her to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have any idea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal. I rob my husbands of their life force, and when they're empty I carry their bodies outside on my way to the justice of the Peace. As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll be talking. But it's the air. Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale. I'm positive it's not nourishing. The air is stale, and Andrew, Kurt, Norman, and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never so healthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadily worse for him. I don't seem to mind the air. She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot. She left the table rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Try some of the asparagus. 5. That's what they'd say. That woman did it again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record. Really, phones protested. I feel splendid. Never better. He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on his shoulders. And what about those very elaborate plans you've been making to seduce me? Phones froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork. Don't you think they'll find out? I found out. And you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much and I don't always tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Phones, it wasn't the old custom at all standing between us. It was air. I can't have another man die on me. It's but for my self esteem. And now you've gone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar. Phones put his fork down. Dear Mrs. The Chassaway, he started to say, and of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Phones, you'll tell them no nor heroics, please. When they ask a man a question, he always answers. And you will too. You'll tell them I wanted to be courted, and when they hear that, they'll be around to ask me a few questions. You see, we're both a bit queer. I hadn't thought of that, phones said quietly. Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew Curt Norman. That won't be necessary, phones said with unusual force. With all due respect to Andrew, Kurt Norman, and Alphonse, I might as well stay here now. I have other plans for you, Mrs. The Chassaway. But my dear Mr. Phones, she said, leaning across the table, we're lost, you and I. Not if we could leave the dome, fawn said quietly. That's impossible. How? In no hurry now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fawn slant across the table and whispered, fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway. Space. Miles and miles of space with the real estate monopoly, has no control whatever where the wind blows across prairies. Or is it the other way around? No matter how would you like that, Mrs. Deshazaway? Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on her two hands. Pray continue, she said. Endless vistas of moonlight and roses. April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway, and June, which, as you may know, follows directly upon April and is supposed to be the month of brides of marrying. June also lies beyond the dome, I see. And, Mr. Phones added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they say that somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight, the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's vernal, and that's when it roams the open country, where geigers no longer scintillate. My Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window, and then came back to the table standing directly over fones. If you can get us outside the dome, she said, out where a man stays warm long enough for his wife to get to know him. If you can do that, Mr. Foames, you may call me Agnes. When Humphrey Fawnes stepped out of the widow's house, there was a look of such intense obstruction on his features that Lanfierre felt a wistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. It would be such a deliciously insane experience. April has 30 days, phones mumbled, passing them because 30 is the largest number such that all smaller numbers not having a car mon divisor with it, are primes. McBride frowned and added it to the dossier. Lanfear sighed, pinning his hopes on the movement. Phones went straight to the library several blocks away, a shattered, depressing place given over to government publications and censored old books with holes in them. It was used so infrequently that the movement was able to meet there undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed dog eared woman of 80. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like the books around her, had been rendered by Time's own censor into near unintelligibility. Here's one, she said to him as he entered Gulliver's Travels, loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979, for five days. What do you make of it? In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surrounded the librarian, Phones noticed a torn dust jacket with a curious illustration. What's that? He said. A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to this. Seven Years later, on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book. What do you make of that? I'd say Humphrey Fawn said that he. That he recommended it to her. That one day they met in the street and he told her about this book and then they. They went to the library together and she borrowed it. And eventually. Why eventually? They got married.
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They were brother and sister. The librarian shouted in her parched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning. Phones smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twister was unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously like a malevolent top and coursed the countryside destructively, carrying a Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anything to femmed impulses, if they could possibly, possibly be a part of a moonlit night with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacket in his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the O' Brien mumbling after him. Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as though reading inscriptions on A tombstone. The movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaid ladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read straight stories to other people's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tables, looking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? The leader was demanding of them. He stood in the centre of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. He glanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as Humphrey Fenes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leader said. For lack of something, an invention. What is the one thing that the great technological societies before ours could not invent, notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Faunes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. He waited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggled with his present problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy, the leader said, aware that no one else had obtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can be created, the only alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus the movement into domes began by common consent of the government. This is known as self containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Phones waited for a lull in the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might be arranged for him to get out. Out? The leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh, all in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and leave, and that day I'll wait impatiently, Phones replied with marvelous tact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My future wife and I have to leave now. Nonsense. Ridiculous. You have to be prepared for the open country. You can't just up and leave. It would be suicide, Phones and Dialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations? The practical necessities of life in the open country. Food, clothing? A weapon, perhaps? What else? Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anything out, he said to the group. Phones looked around at them at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the far window and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. And a sound foreign policy, they all said, it being almost too obvious for words. On his way out, the librarian shouted at him. A tail of a tub, 35 years overdue. She was calculating the fine as he closed the door. Humphrey Fern's preoccupation finally came to an end when he was one block away from his house. It was then that he realized something unusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security police was parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. It was disconcerting and at the same time enchanting to watch one's residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight that for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causing it. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch porch which was doing its own independent cavott, he reached for the door knob with an immense curiosity. The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. From a prone position on his minuscule front lawn, Fones watched as his favourite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast of cold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. A wild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs, suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ash trays, sofa cushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging an old spoilt meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of his ancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up. A wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toying with his hair. It was a whistling in his ears and a tingle on his cheeks. He got hit by a shoe as he forced his way back to the doorway. Needles of rain played over his face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. Help. Lieutenant McBride called, standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on his dripping stone scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in the distance like thunder. Humphrey Phone suddenly saw it all very clear.
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See terms and conditions 21 winds he said in a whisper. What's happening? McBride yelled, crying, crouching behind the sofa. March winds, he said. What? April showers. The winds roared for a moment, and then McBride's lost voice emerged from the blackness of the living room. These are not optimum dome conditions, the voice wailed. The Temperature is not 59 degrees. The humidity is not 47%. Phones held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight. He shouted. Roses. My soul for a cocktail for two. He grasped the doorway to keep from being blown out of the house. Are you going to make it stop or aren't you? McBride yelled. You'll have to tell me what you did first. I told him not to touch that wheel. Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs bedroom. When he heard this, fertility fones plunged into the house and fought his way up the stairs. He found Lanphier standing outside the bedroom with a wheel in his hand. What have I done? Lanphier asked in the monotone of shock phones took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfier with an astonishing amount of objectivity. But. But the entire dome air supply is now coming through my bedroom. The wind screamed. Is there something I can turn? Lanphear asked. Not anymore, there isn't. They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them and they quickly reached the bottom in a Wet Heap, recruiting Lt. McBride from behind his sofa. The men carefully edged out of the house and forward, forced the front door shut. The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the optimum dome conditions of the bright avenue. I never figured on this, landphier said, shaking his head. With the front door closed, the wind quickly built up. Inside the house. They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did a wild, elated jig. What kind of a place is this? McBride said, his courage beginning to return. He took out his notebook, but it was a soggy mess. He tossed it away. Sure, he was different, landfair murmured. I knew that much. When the roof blew off, they weren't really surprised. With a certain amount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully, standing on end for a moment before, before toppling to the ground. It was strangely slow motion, as was the black, twirling cloud that now rose out of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases every which way. Now what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated as this strange black cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolent top. Humphrey Phones took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. He held it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroom with the illustration. The cloud rose and span, assuming the identical shape of the illustration. It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister. What? McBride asked, his bravado slipping away again. What is a twister? The twister rode and moved out of the bedroom and out over the rear of the house toward the side of the dome. It says here, folmes shouted over the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twister and that and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land beyond the confines of everyday living. McBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. Is there something I can turn? Lanfear asked. Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them. Phones. McBride shouted. This is a direct order. Make it go back. But phones had already begun to run on towards the next house, dodging mountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. The Chassaway. He shouted. Yoo hoo. Mrs. The Chassaway. The dome weevils were going berserk, trying to keep up with the precipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then emptied of molten glass, rushed to the trough, which they quickly emptied, and then rushed about empty handed. Yoo hoo. He yelled, running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister. Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway Agnes, will you marry me?
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Lanphear and Lt. MacBride leaned against their car and waited, dazed. There was quite a large fall of glass. End of a Fall of Glass By Stanley R. Lee.
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Narrator
Navy Day by Harry Harrison this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Mike Manalakis Navy Day by Harry Harrison General Wingrove looked at the rows of faces without seeing them. His vision went beyond the Congress of the United States, past the balmy June day, to another day that was coming, a day when the army would have its destined place of authority. He drew a deep breath and delivered what was perhaps the shortest speech ever heard in the hallowed halls of Congress. The General staff of the U.S. army requests Congress to abolish the archaic branch of the armed forces known as the U.S. navy. The aging senator from Georgia checked his hearing aid to see if it was in operating order, while the press box emptied itself in one concerted rush and a clatter of running feet that died off in the direction of the telephone room. A buzz of excited comment ran through the giant chamber. One by one, the heads turned to face the naval section, where rows of blue figures stirred and buzzed like smoked out bees. The knot of men around a paunchy figure heavy with gold braid broke up, and Admiral Fitzjames climbed slowly to his feet. Lesser men have quailed before that piercing stare, but General Wingrove was nevertheless a man. The admiral tossed his head with disgust, every line of his body denoting outraged dignity. He turned to his audience, a small pulse beating in his forehead. I cannot comprehend the General's attitude, nor can I understand why he has attacked the Navy in this unwarranted fashion. The Navy has existed and will always exist as the first barrier of American defense. I ask you gentlemen to ignore this request as you would ignore the statements of any person slightly demented. I should like to offer a recommendation that the General's sanity be investigated and an inquiry be made as to the mental health of anyone else connected with this preposterous proposal. The General smiled calmly. I understand, Admiral, and really don't blame you for being slightly annoyed. But please, let us not bring this issue of national importance down to a shallow personal level. The army has facts to back up this request, facts that shall be demonstrated tomorrow morning. Turning his back on the raging Admiral, General Wingrove included all the assembled Solons in one sweeping gesture. Reserve your judgment until that time, gentlemen. Make no hasty judgments until you have seen the force of argument with which we back up our request. It is the end of an era. In the morning the Navy joins its fellow fossils, the dodo and the brontosaurus. The Admiral's blood pressure mounted to a new record and the gentle thud of his unconscious body striking the floor was the only sound to break the shocked silence of the giant hall. The early morning sun warmed the white marble of the Jefferson Memorial and glinted from the soldiers helmets and the roofs of the packed cars that crowded forward in a slow moving stream. All the gentlemen of Congress were there, the passage of their cars cleared by the screaming sirens of motorcycle policemen. Around and under the wheels of the official cars pressed a solid wave of government workers and common citizens of the capital city. The trucks of the radio and television services pressed close, microphones and cameras extended. The stage was set for a great day. Neat rows of olive drab vehicles curved along the water's edge. Jeeps and half tracks shouldered close by weapons carriers and six bys, all of them shrinking to insignificance beside the looming Patton tanks. A speaker's platform was set up in the center of the line near the audience. At precisely 10am General Wingrove stepped forward and scowled at the crowd until they settled into an uncomfortable silence. His speech was short and consisted of nothing more than amplifications of his opening statement that actions speak louder than words. He pointed to the first truck in line, a two and a half ton filled with an infantry squad sitting stiffly at attention. The driver caught the signal and kicked the engine into life. With a grind of gears it moved forward towards the river's edge. There was an indrawn gasp from the crowd and as the front wheels ground over the marble parapet, then the truck was plunging down toward the muddy waters of the Potomac. The wheels touched the water and the surface seemed to sink while taking on a strange glassy character. The truck roared into high gear and rode forward on the surface of the water, surrounded by a saucer shaped depression. It parked 200 yards offshore and the soldiers, goaded by the sergeant's bark, leaped out and lined up with a showy present arms. The general returned the salute and waved to the remaining vehicles. They moved forward in a series of maneuvers that indicated a great number of rehearsal hours on some hidden pond. The tanks rumbled slowly over the water while the jeeps cut back and forth through their lines in intricate patterns. The trucks backed and turned like puffing ballerinas. The audience was rooted in a hushed silence, their eyeballs bulging. They continued to watch the amazing display as General Wingrove spoke again. You see before you a typical example of army ingenuity developed in army laboratories. These motor units are supported on the surface of the water by an intensifying of the surface tension in their immediate area. Their weight is evenly distributed over the surface, causing the shallow depressions you see around them. This remarkable feat has been accomplished by the use of the dornifier, a remarkable invention that is named after that brilliant scientist, Colonel Robert A. Dorn, commander of the Brook Point Experimental Laboratory. It was there that one of the civilian employees discovered the dorne effect. Under the colonel's constant guidance, of course, utilizing this invention, the army now becomes master of the sea as well as the land. Army convoys of trucks and tanks can blanket the world. The the surface of the water is our highway, our motor park, our battleground, the airfield and Runway for our planes. Mechanics were pushing a shooting star onto the water. They stepped clear as flame gushed from the tailpipe. With a familiar whooshing rumble, it sped down the Potomac and hurled itself into the air. When this cheap and simple method of crossing oceans is adopted, it will of course mean the end of that fantastic medieval anachronism, the Navy. No need for billion dollar aircraft carriers, battleships, dry docks, and all the other cumbersome junk that keeps those boats and things afloat. Give the taxpayer back his hard earned dollar teeth grated in the naval section as carriers and battleships were called boats and the rest of America's sea might lumped under the casual heading of things. Lips were curled at the transparent appeal to the taxpayer's pocketbook. But with leaden hearts they knew that all this justified wrath and contempt would avail them nothing. This was army day with a vengeance, and the doom of the Navy seemed inescapable. The army had made elaborate plans for what they called Operation Sinker. Even as the general spoke, the publicity mills ground into high gear. From coast to coast, the citizens absorbed the news with their morning nourishment. Agnes, you hear what the radio said? The Army's going to give a trip around the world in a B36 as first prize in its limerick contest. All you have to do is fill in the last line and mail one copy to the Pentagon and the other to the Navy. The Naval mail room had standing orders to burn all the limericks when they came in. But some of the newer men seemed to think the entire thing was a big joke. Commander Bowman found one in the mess hall. The army will always be there. On the land, on the sea, in the air. So why should the Navy take all of the gravy to which a sea going scribe had added, and not give us ensigns our share? The newspapers were filled daily with photographs of mighty B36s landing on Lake Erie and grinning soldiers making mock beachhead attacks on Coney Island. Each man wore a buzzing black box at his waist and walked on the bosom of the now quiet Atlantic like a biblical prophet par. Radio and television also carried the thousands of news releases that poured in an unending flow from the Pentagon building. Cards, letters, telegrams and packages descended on Washington in an overwhelming torrent. The Navy Department was the unhappy recipient of deprecatory letters and a vast quantity of little cardboard battleships. The people spoke and the Representatives listened closely. This was an election year. There didn't seem to be much doubt as to the decision, particularly when the reduction in the budget was considered. It took Congress only two months to make up its collective mind. The people were all pro army. The novelty of the idea had fired their imaginations. They were about to take the final vote in the lower house. If the amendment passed, it would go to the states for ratification and their votes were certain to follow that of Congress. The Navy had fought a last ditch battle to no avail. The balloting was going to be pretty much of a sure thing. The wet water Navy would soon become ancient history. For some reasons, the admirals didn't look as unhappy as they should. The Naval Department had requested one last opportunity to address the Congress. Congress had patronizingly granted permission for even the doomed man is allowed one last speech. Admiral Fitzjames, who had recovered from his choleric attack, was the appointed speaker Gentlemen of the Congress of the United States, we in the Navy have a fighting tradition. We dam the torpedoes and sail straight ahead into the enemy's fire, if that is necessary. We have been stabbed in the back. We have suffered a second Pearl harbor sneak attack. The army relinquished its rights to fair treatment with this attack. Therefore, we are counter attacking. Worn out by his attacking and mixed metaphors, the admiral mopped his brow. Our laboratories have been working day and night on the perfection of a device we hoped we would never be forced to use. It is now in operation, having passed the final trials a few days ago. The significance of this device cannot be underestimated. We are so positive of its importance that we are demanding that the army be abolished. He waved his hand toward the window and bellowed one word. Look. Everyone looked. They blinked and looked again. They rubbed their eyes and kept looking. Sailing majestically up the middle of Constitution Avenue was the battleship Missouri. The admiral's voice rang through the room like a trumpet of victory. The mark 1D binder, as you see, temporarily lessens the binding energies that hold molecules of solid matter together. Solids become liquids, and a ship equipped with this device can sail anywhere in the world, on sea or land. Take your vote, gentlemen. The world awaits your decision. End of Navy Day By Harry Harrison.
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Spatial delivery by Randall Garrett this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Colleen McMahon spatial delivery by Randall Garrett Women on space station assignments shouldn't get pregnant, but there's a first time for everything. Here's the story of such a time and a historic situation. 1075 miles above the wrinkled surface of Earth, a woman was in pain. There, high in the emptiness of space, Space Station 1 swung in its orbit. Once every two hours. The artificial satellite looped completely around the planet, watching what went on below. At the outside, its bright steel hull was the silence of the interplanetary vacuum. Inside, in the hospital ward, Lieutenant Alice Britton clutched at the sheets of her bed in pain, then relaxed as it faded away. Major Baines looked at her and smiled a little. How do you feel, Lieutenant? She smiled back. She knew the pain wouldn't return for a few minutes yet. Fine, Doctor. It's no worse than I was expecting. How long will it be before we can contact White Sands? The major looked nervously at his wristwatch. Nearly an hour. You'll be all right? Certainly, she agreed, running a hand through her brown hair. I'll be okay. Just you be on tap when I call. The major's grin broadened. You don't think I'd miss a historical event like this, do you? You take it easy. We're over Eastern Europe now, but as soon as we get within radio range of New Mexico, I. I'll be him a call in. He paused, then repeated, you just take it easy. Call the nurse if anything happens. Then he turned and walked out of the room. Alice Britton closed her eyes. Major Baines was all smiles and cheer now, but he hadn't been that way five months ago. She chuckled softly to herself as she thought of his blistering speech. Lieutenant Britton, you're either careless or brainless. I don't know which. Your husband may be the finest rocket jockey in the space Service, but that doesn't give him the right to come blasting up here on a supply rocket just to get you pregnant, alice had said. I'm sure the thought never entered his mind, Doctor. I know it never entered mine. But this was two and a half months ago. Why didn't you come to me before this? Of all the tom fo. His voice had died off in suppressed anger. I didn't know, she had said stolidly. You know my medical record. I know, I know. A puzzled frown had come over his face then, a frown which almost hid the green eyes that contrasted so startlingly with the flaming red of his hair. The question is, what do we do next? We're not equipped for obstetrics up here. Send me back down to Earth, of course. And he had looked up at her scathingly. Lieutenant Britton, it is my personal opinion that you need your head examined, and not by a general practitioner either. Why, I wouldn't let you get into an airplane, much less land on Earth in a rocket. If you think I permit you to subject yourself to eight gravities of acceleration in a rocket landing, you're daffy. She hadn't thought of it before, but the major was right. The terrible pressure of a rocket landing would increase her effective body weight to nearly half a ton of an adult human being couldn't take that sort of punishment for long, much less the tiny life that was growing within her. So she had stayed on the space station, doing her job as always. As chief radar technician, she was important in the operation of the station. Her pregnancy had never made her uncomfortable. The slow rotation of the wheel shaped station about its axis gave an effective gravity at the rim only half that of Earth's surface, and the closer to the hub she went, the less her weight became. According to The Major the baby was due some time around the 1st of September. 280 days, he had said. Luckily we can pinpoint it almost exactly, and at a maximum of half of Earth gravity, you shouldn't weigh more than £70. Then you're to report to me at least once a week, Lieutenant. As the words went through her mind, another spasm of pain hit her and she clenched her fists tightly on the sheets again. It went away and she took a deep breath. Everything had been fine until today. And then only half an hour ago a meteor had hit the radar room. It had been only a tiny bit of rock, no bigger than a.22 bullet, and it hadn't been traveling more than 10 miles per second, but it had managed to punch its way through the shielding of the station. The self sealing walls had closed the tiny hole quickly, quickly. But even in that short time a lot of air had gone whistling out into the vacuum of space. The depressurization hadn't hurt her too much, but the shock had been enough to start labor. The baby was going to come two months early. She relaxed a little more, waiting for the next pain. There was nothing to worry about. She had absolute faith in the red haired major. The major himself was not so sure. He sat in his office massaging his fingertips and looking worriedly at the clock on the wall. The chief nurse at a nearby desk took off her glasses and looked at him speculatively. Something wrong, Doctor? Incubator, he said without taking his eyes off the clock. I beg your pardon? Incubator. We can't deliver a seven month preemie without an incubator. The nurse's eyes widened. Good Lord, I never thought of that. What are you going to do? Right now I can't do anything. I can't beam a radio message through to Earth. But as soon as we get within radio range of White Sands, I'll ask them to send up an emergency rocket with an incubator. But. But what? Will we have time? The pains are coming pretty fast now. It will be at least three hours before they can get a ship up here. If they miss us on the next time around, it'll be five hours. She can't hold out that long. The chief nurse turned her eyes to the slowly moving second hand of the wall clock. She could feel a lump in her throat. Major Baynes was in the communications center a full five minutes before the coastline of California appeared on the curved horizon of the globe beneath them. He had spent the hour typing out a complete report of what had happened to Alice Britton and a list of what he needed. He handed it to the teletype operator and paced the floor impatiently as he waited for the answer. When the receiver teletype began clacking softly, he leaned over the page, waiting anxiously for every word. White Sands Rocket Base 4 July 19840913 hours urgent to Major Peter Baynes, MC 0266118 SS1 Medical Officer from General David Barrett 01994 515, Commanding WSRB rocket orbit now being computed for rendezvous with SS1 as of next passage above USA Captain James Britton piloting medics loading ship 12 with incubator and other supplies. Base Obstetrician Lt. Col. Gates also coming to assist in delivery. Hang on. Over. Baynes nodded and turned to the operator. I want a direct open telephone line to my office in case I have to get another message to the base before we get out of range again. He turned and left through the heavy door. Each room of the space station was protected by airtight doors and individual heating units. If some accident, such as a really large meteor hit should release the air from one room, nearby rooms would be safe. Baynes next stop was the hospital ward. Alice Britton was resting quietly, but there were lines of strain around her eyes which hadn't been there an hour before. How's it coming, Lieutenant? She smiled, but another spasm hit her before she could answer. After a time she said, I'm doing fine. But you look as if you'd been through the mill. What's eating you? He forced a nervous smile. Nothing but the responsibility. You're going to be a very famous woman, you know. You'll be the mother of the first child born in space, and it's my job to see to it that you're both all right. She grinned. Another Dr. Defoe. Something on that order, I suppose. But it won't be all my glory. Colonel Gates, the OB man, was supposed to come up for the delivery in September, so when White Sands contacted us, they said he was coming immediately. He paused, and a genuine smile crossed his face. Your husband is bringing him up, Jim. Coming up here. Wonderful. But I'm afraid the colonel will be too late. This isn't going to last that long. Baynes had to fight hard to keep his face smiling when she said that, but he managed an easy nod. We'll see. Don't hurry it, though. Let nature take its course. I'm not such a glory hog that I'd not let Gates have part of it. Or all of it, for that matter. Relax and take it easy. He went on talking, trying to keep the conversation light, but his eyes kept wandering to his wristwatch, timing Alice's pain intervals. They were coming too close together to suit him. There was a faint rap and the heavy airtight door swung open to admit the chief nurse. There's a message for you in your office, Doctor. I'll send a nurse in to be with her. He nodded and turned back to Alice. Stiff upper lip and all that sort of rot, he said in a phony British accent. Oh, rah there, old chap. She grinned. Back in his office, Baynes picked up the teletype. Flimsy White Sands Rocket Base, 4 July 19840928 hours. Urgent 2 Major Peter Baines MC 0266118 SS1 Medical Officer from General David Barrett, 01994515 Commanding WSRB rocket orbit computed for rendezvous at 1134 hours MST Captain Britton sends personal to Lieutenant Britain as hold the fort, baby. The whole world is praying for you. Out. Baynes sat on the edge of his desk, pounding a fist into the palm of his left hand. Two hours. It isn't soon enough. She'll never hold out that long. And we don't have an incubator. His voice was a clipped monotone timed with the rhythmic slamming of his fist. The chief nurse said, can't we build something that'll do until the rocket gets here? Baynes looked at her, his face expressionless. What will we build it out of? There's not a spare piece of equipment in the station. It costs money to ship material up here, you know. Anything not essential is left on the ground. The phone rang. Baynes picked it up and identified himself. The voice at the other end said, this is Communications Major. I tape recorded all the monitor pickups from the Earth radio stations, and it looks as though the Space Service has released the information to the public. Lt. Britton's husband was right when he said the whole world's praying for her. Do you want to hear the tapes? Not now, but thanks for the information. He hung up and looked into the chief nurse's eyes. They released the news to the public. She frowned. That really puts you on the spot. If the baby dies, they'll blame you. Baines slammed his fist to the desk. Do you think I give a tinker's damn about that? I'm interested in saving a life, not worrying about what people may think. Yes, sir. I just thought. Well, think about something useful. Think about how we're going to Save that baby. He paused as he saw her eyes. I'm sorry, Lieutenant. My nerves are all raw, I guess. But damn it, my field is space medicine. I can handle depressurization, space sickness, things like that. But I don't know anything about babies. I know what I read in medical school, and I watched a delivery once, but that's all I know. I don't even have any references up here. People aren't supposed to go around having babies on a space station. It's all right, Doctor. Shall I prepare the delivery room? His laugh was hard and short. Delivery room? I wish to heaven we had one. Prepare the wardroom next to the one she's in now. I guess it's the best we have. So help me, Hannah, I'm going to see some changes made in regulations. A situation like this won't happen again. The nurse left quietly. She knew Baynes wasn't really angry at the Britons. It was simply his way of letting off steam. The to ease the tension within him. The slow, monotonous rotation of the second hand on the wall clock seemed to drag time grudgingly along with it. Baynes wished he could smoke to calm his raw nerves, but it was strictly against regulations. Air was too precious to be used up by smoking. Every bit of air on board had had to be carried up in rockets when the station was built. In space, the air purifiers in the hydroponic section could keep the air fresh enough for breathing, but fire of any kind would overtax the system, leaving too little oxygen in the atmosphere. It was a few minutes of 10 when he decided he'd better get back to Alice Britton. She was trying to read a book between spasms, but she wasn't getting much read. She dropped it to the floor when he came in. Am I glad to see you. It won't be long now. She looked at him analytically. Say, just what is eating you? You look more haggard than I do. Again he tried to force a smile, but it didn't come off too well. Nothing serious. I just want to make sure everything comes out all right. She smiled. It will. You're all set. You ordered the instruments months ago. Or did you forget something? That hit home, but he just grinned feebly. I forgot to get somebody to boil water. Whatever for? Coffee, of course. Didn't you know that Papa always heats up the water? That keeps him out of the way. And the doctor has coffee afterwards. Alice's hands grasped the sheet again, and Baynes glanced at his watch. 90 seconds. It was long and hard when the pain had ebbed away, he said, we've got the delivery room already. It won't be much longer now. I'll say it won't. How about the incubator? There was a long pause. Finally he said softly, there isn't any incubator. I didn't take the possibility of a premature delivery into account. It's my fault. I've done what I could, though. The ship is bringing one up. I think we'll be able to keep the child alive until he stopped. Alice was bubbling up with laughter. Lieutenant. Lieutenant Britton. Alice, this is no time to get hysterical. Stop it. Her laughter slowed to a chuckle.
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Get hysterical? That's a good one. What about you? You're so nervous you couldn't sip water out of a bathtub without spilling it. He blinked. What do you mean? Another pain came, and he had to wait until it was over before he got her answer. Doctor, she said. I thought she would have figured it out. Ask yourself. Just one question. Ask yourself why is a space station like an incubator? Spaceship 12 docked at Space Station 1 at exactly 11:34, and two men in spacesuits pushed a large, bulky package through the airlock. Major Peter Baynes, haggard but smiling, met Captain Britain in the corridor as he and the colonel entered the hospital ward. Baynes nodded to Colonel Gates, then turned to Britton. I don't know whether to congratulate you or take a poke at you, Captain, but I suppose congratulations come first. Your son, James Edward Britain ii, is doing fine, thank you. D' ye mean already? The colonel said nothing, but he raised an eyebrow. Over an hour ago, said Baines. But. But the incubator. Baynes grin widened. We'll put the baby in it now that we've got it, but it really isn't necessary. Your wife figured that one out. A space station is a kind of an incubator itself, you see. It protects us poor, weak humans from the terrible conditions of space. So all we had to do was close up one of the airtight rooms, sterilize it, warm it up, and put in extra oxygen from the emergency tanks. Young James is perfectly comfortable. Excellent, Major, said the colonel. Don't thank me. It was Captain Britain's wife who. But Captain Britain wasn't listening any more. He was headed toward his wife's room at top speed. End of Spatial Delivery by Randall Garrett recording by Colleen McMahon.
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Chumba Casino Spokesperson
Solander's Radio Tomb by Ellis Parker Butler 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 Desa D. Solander's Radio Tune by Ellis Parker Butler I first met Mr. Remington Solander shortly after I installed my first radio radio set. I was going into New York on the 8:15am train and was sitting with my friend Murchison and as a matter of course we were talking radio. I just told Murchison that he was a lunk headed noodle and that for 2 cents I would poke him in the jaw and that even a pinheaded idiot ought to know that a tube set was better than a crystal set. To this Murchison had replied that that settled in. He said he had always known I was a moron and now he was was sure of it. If you had enough brains to fill a hazelnut shell, he said, you wouldn't talk that way. Anybody but a half baked lunatic would know that what a man wants in radio is clear, sharp reception and that's what a crystal gives you. You're one of those half wits that think they're classy if they can hear some 2 cent station 500 miles away utter a few faint squeaks. Shut up. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to listen to you. Go and sit somewhere else else. Of course this was what was to be expected of Murchison and if I did let out a few laps of anger I feel I was entirely justified. Radio fans are always disputing over the relative merits of crystal and tube sets, but I knew I was right. I was just trying to decide whether to choke Murchison with my bare hand and throw his lifeless body out of the car window or tell him a few things I had been wanting to say ever since he began knocking my tube set set. When this Remington Salander, who was sitting behind us, leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder, I quickly turned and saw his long sheep like face close to mine. He was chewing cardamom seed and breathing the odor into my face. My friend, he said, come back and sit with me. I want to ask you a few questions about radio. Well, I couldn't resist that, could I? No radio fan could. I did not care much for the looks of this Remington, but for a few weeks my friends had seemed to be steering away from me when I drew near. Although I am sure I never said anything to bore them. All they ever talked about was my radio set and some new hookups. I was trying, but I had noticed that men who formerly had seemed to be fond of my company now gave startled looks when I neared them. Some even climbed over the nearest fence and ran madly across vacant lots, looking over their shoulders with frightened glances as they ran. For a week I had not been able to get any man of my acquaintance to listen to one word from me except Murchison, and he is an utter idiot, as I think I have made clear. So I left Murchison and sat with Remington Solander. In one way I was proud to be invited to sit with Remington Solander because he was far and away the richest man in our town. When he died, his estate proved to amount to $3 million. I had seen him often and I knew who he was, but he was a standoffish old fellow and did not mix, so I had never met him. He was a tall man and thin, somewhat flabby, and he was pale in an unhealthy sort of way, but after all, he was a millionaire and a member of one of the old families of Westcote. So I took the seat alongside of him with considerable satisfaction. I gather he said as soon as I was seated, that you are interested in radio. I told him I was, and I'm just building a new set using a new hookup that I heard of a week ago, I said. I think it is going to be a wonder. Now here is the idea, instead of using a grin. Yes, yes, the old aristocrat said hastily. But never mind that now. I know very little of such things. I have an electrician employed by the year to care for my radio set, and I leave all such things to him. You are a lawyer, are you not? I told him I was. And you are a chairman of the trustees of the Westcote Cemetery, are you not? He asked. I told him I was that also. And I may say that the Westcote Cemetery association is one of the rightest and tightest little corporations in existence. It has been in existence since 1808 and has been exceedingly profitable to those fortunate enough to hold its stock. I inherited the small block I owned from my grandfather. Recently we trustees had bought 60 additional acres adjoining the old cemetery and had added them to it, and we were about ready to put the new lots on the market at $300 apiece. There promised to be a tremendous profit in the thing, for our cemetery was a fashionable place to be buried in, and the demand for the lots in the new addition promised to be enormous. You have not known it, said Remington Solander in his slow drawl, which had the effect of letting his words slide out of his mouth and drip down his long chin like Cold molasses. But I have been making inquiries about you. And I have been meaning to say speak to you. I am drawing up a new last will and testament and I want you to draw up one of the clauses for me without delay. Why, certainly, Mr. Salander, I said with increased pride, I'll be glad to be of service to you. I am choosing you for the work, Remington Salander said, because you know and love radio as I do, and because you are a trustee of the Cemetery Association. Are you a religious man? Well, well, I said, a little uneasily. Some, some, but not much. No matter, said Mr. Slander, placing a hand on my arm. I am. I have always been. From my earliest youth, my mind has been on serious things. As a matter of fact, sir, I have compiled a manuscript collection of religious quotations, hymns, sermons and uplifting thoughts, which now fill 14 volumes, all in my own handwriting. Fortunately, I inherited money and this collection is my gift to the world. And a noble one, I'm sure, I said. Most noble, said Mr. Slander. But, sir, I have not confined my activities to the study chair. I have kept my eye on the progress of the world. And it seems to me that radio, this new and wonderful invention, is the greatest discovery of all ages and imperishable. But, sir, it is being twisted to cheap uses. Jazz, cheap songs, worldly words and music. The that I mean to remedy. Well, I said it might be done, of course. People like what they like. Some nobler souls like better things, said Remington Slander solemnly. Some more worthy men and women will welcome nobler radio broadcasting. In my will I am putting aside $1 million to establish and maintain a broadcasting station that will broadcast only my 14 volumes of hymns and uplifting material every day. This matter will go forth. Sermons, lectures on prohibition, noble thoughts and religious poems. I assured him that some people might be glad to get that, that a lot of people might, in fact, and that I could write that into his will without any trouble at all. Ah, said Remington Solander, but that is already in my will. What I want you to write for my will is another clause. I mean to build in your cemetery a high class and imperishable granite tomb for myself. I mean to place it on that knoll, that high knoll, the highest spot in your cemetery. What I want you to write into my will is a clause providing for the perpetual care and maintenance of my tomb. I want to set aside $500,000 for that purpose. Well, I said to the sheep faced millionaire, I can do that too. Yes, he agreed. And I want to give my family and relations the remaining million million and a half dollars. Provided, he said, accenting the provided they carry out faithfully the provisions of the clause providing for the perpetual care and maintenance of my tomb. If they don't care and maintain, he said, giving me a hard look, that million and a half is to go to the home for flea bitten dogs. They'll care and maintain all right. I laughed. I think so, said Remington Slander gravely. I do think so indeed. And now, sir, we come to the important part. You, as I know, are a trustee of the cemetery. Yes, I said, I am. For drawing this clause of my will. If you can draw it, said Remington Slander, looking me full in the eye with both his own, which were like the eyes of a salt mackerel, I shall pay you $5,000. Well, I almost gasped. It was a big lot of money for drawing one clause of a will. And I began to smell a rat right there. But I may say the proposition Remington Salander made to me was one I was able, after quite a little talk with my fellow trustees of the cemetery to carry out. What Remington Slander wanted was to be permitted to put a radio loudspeaking outfit in his granite tomb. A radio loudspeaking outfit permanently set at 327 meters wavelength, which was to be the wavelength of his endowed broadcasting station. I don't know how Remington slowly Slander first got his remarkable idea, but just about that time an undertaker in New York had rigged up a hearse with a phonograph so that the hearse would loudspeak suitable hymns on the way to the cemetery, and that may have suggested the loudspeaking tomb to Remington Solander. But it is not important where he got the idea he had it, and he was set on having it carried out. Think, he said of the uplifting effect of it on the highest spot in the cemetery will stand in my noble tomb, loud speaking in all directions the solemn and holy words and music I have collected in my 14 volumes. All who enter the cemetery will hear, all will be ennobled and uplifted. That was so too. I saw that at once I said so. So Remington Solander went on to explain that the income from the $500,000 would be set aside to keep A batteries and B battery supplied, to keep the the outfit in repair, and so on. So I tackled the job rather enthusiastically. I don't say that the $5,000 fee did not interest me, but I did think Remington Salander had a grand idea. It would make our cemetery stand out People would come from everywhere to see and listen. The lots in the new edition would sell like hotcakes. But I did have a little trouble with the other trustees. They balked when I explained that Remington Salander wanted the sole radio loudspeaking rights act of our cemetery. But someone finally suggested that if Remington Slander put up a new and artistic iron fence around the whole cemetery, it might be all right. They made him submit his 14 volumes so they could see what sort of matter he meant to broadcast from his high class station. And they agreed it was solemn enough. It was all solemn and sad and gloomy. Just the stuff for a cemetery. So when Remington Slander agreed to build the new iron fence, they made a formal contract with him. And I drew up the clause for the will. And he bought six slots on top of the high knoll and began erecting his marble mausoleum. For eight months or so, Remington's lander was busier than he had ever been in his life. He superintended the building of the tomb. And he had on hand the job of getting his endowed radio station going. It was given the letters WZZZ and hiring artists to sing and play and speechify his 14 volumes of gloom and uplift at 327 meters. And it was too much for the old culture. The very night the test of the WCCZ outfit was made, he passed away and was no more on earth. His funeral was one of the biggest we ever had in Westcote. I should judge that 5,000 people attended his remains to the cemetery. For it had become widely known that the first WZZ program would be received and let loudspoken from Remington Salander's tomb. That afternoon the first selection on the program, his favorite hymn, beginning as a funeral cortege, left the building and the program continuing until dark. I'll say it was one of the most affecting occasions I have ever witnessed. As the body was being carried into the tomb, the loudspeaker gave us a sermon by Reverend Peter L. Rugas full of snob stuff. And every one of the 5,000 present wept. And when the funeral was really finished, over 2000 remained to hear the rest of the program, which consisted of hymns, missionary reports, static and recitations of religious poems. We increased the price of the lots in the new edition. $100 per lot immediately. And we sold four lots that afternoon and two the next morning. The big metropolitan newspapers all gave the Westcote cemetery full page illustrated articles the next Sunday. And we received during the next week over 300 letters, mostly from ministers praising what we had done. But that was not the best of it.
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Requests for lots began to come in by mail. Not only people in Westcote rode for prices, but people away over in New Jersey and up in Westchester country and even from as far away as Poughkeepsie and Delaware. We had twice as many requests for lots as there were lots to sell. And we decided we would have an auction and let them go to the highest bidders. UC Remington Slander's talking tomb was becoming nationally famous. We began to negotiate with the owners of six farms adjacent to our cemetery. We figured on buying them and making more new additions to the cemetery. And then we found we could not use three of the farms. The reason was that the loudspeaker in Remington Slander's tomb would not carry that far. It was not strong enough. So we went to the executors of his estate and ran up against another snag. Nothing in the radio outfit in the tomb could be altered in any way whatever that was in the will. The same loudspeaker had to be maintained. The same wavelength had to be kept. The same makes of batteries had to be used. The same style of tubes had to be used. Remington's lander had thought of all that. So we decided to let it well enough alone. It was all we could do anyway. We bought the farms that were reached by the loudspeaker and had them surveyed and laid out in lots. And then the thing happened. Yes, sir, I'll sell my cemetery stock for $0.02 on the dollar if anybody will bid that much for it. For what do you think happened? Along came the government of the United States, United States regulating this radio thing and assigned new wavelengths to all the broadcasting stations. It gave Remington Salander's endowed broadcasting station WZZ, an 855 meter wavelength. And it gave that station at Dodwood station PKX their 327 meter wavelength. And the next day poor old Remington Slander's tomb poured forth. Yes, we ain't got no bananas and the hot dog jazz. And if you don't see Mama every night, you can't see Mama at all. Hanks hubs in his funny stories like. Well, one day an Irishman and a Swede were walking down Broadway and they see a flapper coming towards them and she had on one of them short skirts they was wearing, see? So Mike he says, Gee be jabbers. Oh I see a peach so the sweet, he says looking at the silk stockings. Maybe you band see a peach, Mike, but I ban see one mighty nice pair. Well, the other day I went to see my mother in law. You know the sort of program I don't say that the people who like them are not entitled to them, but I do say they are not the sort of programs to loudspeak from a tomb in a cemetery. I expect old Remington Solander turned clear over in his tomb when those programs begin to come through. I know our board of trustees went right up in the air. But there was not a thing we could do about it. The newspapers gave us double pages the next Sunday. Remington Solander's jazz tune and Westcote's Two Step Cemetery. And within a week the inmates of our cemetery began to move out. Fronts of people who had been buried over a hundred years came and moved them to other cemeteries and took the headstones and monuments with them. And in a month our cemetery looked like one of those Great War battlefields, like a lot of shell holes. Not a man, woman or child was left in the place. Except Remington Cylander in his granite tomb on top of the high knoll. What we've got on our hands is a deserted cemetery. They all blame me, but I can't do anything about it. All I can do is groan. Every morning I grab the paper and look for the PKX program. And then I groan. Remington Salander is the lucky man. He's dead. End of Salander's radio tune by Alice Parker Butler. Year of the Big Thaw by Marion Zimmer Bradley 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 Desa D Year of the Big Thaw by Marion Zimmer Bradley. You say that Matthew is your own son, Mr. Emmet? Yes, Reverend Duane. And a better boy never stepped. If I do say it as shouldn't, I've trusted him to drive team for me since he was 11. And you can't say more than that for a farm boy. Way back when he was a little shaver so high when the war came on he was bound. And he was going to sail with this Admiral Farragut. You know boys that age like runaway colts. I couldn't see no good in his being cabin boy on some tarnation navy ship and I told him so. If he'd wanted to sail out on a whaling ship, I low I'd have let him go. But Marthy, that's the boys Ma took on so that Matt stayed home. Yes, he's a good boy and a good son. We'll miss him a powerful lot if he gets this scholarship thing. But I low it'll be good for the boy to get some learnin besides what he gets in this school here. It's right kind of you, Reverend, to look over this application thing for me. Well, if he is Your own son, Mr. Emmet, why did you write birthplace unknown on the line here? Reverend Joanne, I'm glad you asked me that question. I've been turning it over in my mind and I've just about come to the conclusion it wouldn't be nohow fair to hold it back. I didn't lie when I said Ma was my son because he's been a good son to me and Marthy. But I'm not his PA and Marthy ain't his ma, so could be I stretched the truth just a mite. Reverend Duane, it's a tarnal funny yarn, but I'll walk into the meeting house and swear to it honest and stack of Bibles as thick as a cord of wood. You know, I've been farming the old Corning place these past seven year. It's good flat Connecticut bottom land, but it isn't like our land up in Hampshire where I was born and raised. My PA called it the Hampshire Grants and all that was King's land when his PA came in there and started farming at the foot of Skuddick Mountain. That's Injun for fires, folks say, because the Injuns used to build fires up there in the spring for some of their heat teeth and do dads. Anyhow, up there in the mountains we see a tarnal power of choir things you call to mind the year we had the big thaw, about 12 years before the war. You mind the blizzard that year? I heard tell it spread down most to York. And at Fort Orange, the place they call Albany now, the Hudson froze right over, so they say. But those York folks do a sight of exaggerated, I'm told. Anyhow, when the ice went out, there was an almighty good thought all over. And when the snow run off Skoduck Mountain, there was a good sized hunk of farmland and our valley went under water. The creek on my farm flowed over the bank and there was a foot of water in the cowshed and down in the swimmin hole in the back pasture wasn't nothing but a big gully 50 foot and more across, rushing through the pasture, deep as a lake and brown as the old cow. You know, fresh floods full up with sticks and stones and old dead trees and somebody's old shed floating down the middle. And I swear to goodness, Carson, that stream was running along so fast I saw 4 inch cobblestones floating and bumping along. I tied the cow and the calf and Kate, she was our white mare, you mind. She went lame last year and I had to shoot her. But she was just a young mare then and skittish as I'll get out, but she was a good little mare. Anyhow. I tied the whole kit and caboodle of them in the woodshed up behind the house where they'd be dry. Then I started to get the milk pail and right then I heard the gosh, awfullest screech I ever heard in my life. Sounded like thunder and a freshet and a forest fire all at once. I dropped the milk pail as I heard Martha scream inside the house. And I run inside. Martha was already there in the yard and she points up in the sky and yelled, look up yonder. We stood looking up at the sky over Shittuck Mountain where there was a great big shoot. Now I dunno as I call its name, but it was like a trail of fire in the sky and. And it was making the dangest racket you ever heard, Reverend. Looked kinda like one of them Fourth of July skyrockets, but it was big as a house. Marthy was screaming and she grabbed me and hollered hez, hez. What in Tonkin is that? And when Martha cusses like that, Reverend, she don't know what she's saying. She's so scared. I was plumb scared myself. I heard Liza, that's our youngin Lisa Grace that got married to the Taylor boy. I heard her crying on the stoop and she came flying out with her penny all black and white. Hollered to Martha that the pea soup was burning. Marthy let out another screech and ran for the house. That's a woman for you. So I quietened Liz down some and I went in and told Marthy it weren't no more than one of them shooting stars. Then I went and did the milking. But you know, while we were sitting down to supper, there came the most awful grind and screeching pound and crash I ever heard. Sounded if it were in the back pasture, but the house shook as if something had hit it. Martha jumped a mile, and I never saw such a look on her face. Hez. What was that? She asked. Shoot now. Nothing but the freshet, I told her, but she kept on about it. You reckon that shooting star fell on her back pasture, Hez? Well now, I dunno. It did nothin like that, I told her, but she was jittery as an old hen and it warn't like her nohow. She said it sounded like trouble, and I finally quieted her down by saying I'd saddle Kate up and go have a look. I kind of thought, though I didn't tell Marthy that somebody's house had floated away in the freshet and run aground in our back pasture. So I saddled up Kate and told Marthy to get some hot rum ready in case there was some poor soil running ground back there. And I rode Kate back to the back pasture. It was mostly uphill because the top of the pasture is on high ground, and it sloped down to the creek on the other side of the rise. Well, I reached the top of the hill and looked down. The creek were a regular river now, rushing along like nar. On the other side of it was a stand of timber, then the slope of Shaddock Mountain, and I saw right away the long streak where all the timber had been cut out in a big scoop, with roots standing up in the air and a big slide of rocks down to the water. It was still raining a mite and the ground was sloshy and squanchy underfoot. Kate scrunched her hooves and got real balky, not liking it a bit. When we got to the top of the pasture she started to whine and whicker and stand, and no matter how loud I whoaed, she kept on a stampin', and I was plumb scared she'd pitch me off in the mud. Then I started to smell a funny smell, like something burning. Now don't ask me how anything could burn in all that water, because I don't know. When we came up on the rise, I saw the contraption. Reverend. It was the most tarnal, crazy contraption I ever saw in my life. It was bigger nor my cowshed, and it was long and thin and as shiny as Marthy's old pewter pitcher her ma brought from England. It had a pair of red rocks sticking out behind and a crazy globe fitted up where the top ought to be. It was stuck in the mud, turned halfway over on the little slide of roots and rocks, and I could see what had happened all right. The thing must have been. Now, Reverend, you can say what you like, but that thing must have flew across Shuttuck and landed on the slope in the trees, then turned over and slid down the hill. That must have been the crash we heard. The rods weren't just red, they were red hot. I could hear them sizzle as the rain hit them. In the middle of the infernal contraption there was a door, and it hung all together as if every hinge on it had been wrenched halfway off. As I pushed old Kate alongside it, I heard somebody hollering alongside the contraption. I didn't know how get the words, but it must have been for help, because I looked down and there was a man flopping along in the water. He was a big fellow and he wasn't swimming, just flopping, thrashin and hollerin. So I pulled off my coat and boots and hoven after him. The stream was running fast, but he was near the edge, and I managed to catch onto an old tree root and hang on, keeping his head out of the water till I got my feet aground. Then I hauled him onto the bank. Up above me, Kate was still whinnying and raising Ned, and I shouted at her as I bent over the man. Wal, Reverend, he's sure to give me a surprise. Warn't no proper man I'd ever seed before. He was wearing some kind of red clothes, real shiny and sort of stretchy and not wet from the water like you'd expect, but dry, and it felt like that sick and India rubber stuff mixed together, and it was such a bright red that at first I didn't see the blood on it. When I did, I knew he were a goner. His chests were all stove in, smashed to pieces. One of the old tree roots must have jabbed him as the current flung him down. I thought he were dead already, but then he opened up his eyes a funny color. They were greeny yellow, and I swear, Reverend, when he opened them eyes I felt he was reading my mind. I thought maybe he might be one of them circus fellers in their flying contraptions that hang at the bottom of a balloon. He spoke to me in English, kind of chokey and stiff, not like Joe the Portuguese sailor or like those tarnal dumb Frenchies up Cannady way, but, well, funny. He said, my baby and ship get baby. He tried to say more, but his eyes went shut and he moaned hard. I yelped. God Almighty. Scuse me, Reverend, but I was so blame upset. That's just what I did say. God almighty, man. You mean there's a baby in that there dingful contraption? He just moaned. So after spreading my coat around the man a little bit I just plunged in that there river again. Reverend, I heard tell once about some tomfool idiot going over an agri in a barrel. And I tell you it was like that when I tried crossing that freshet to reach the contraption I went under and down and was whacked by floating sticks and whirled around in the freshet. But somehow I dunno how except by the pure grace of God I got across that raging torrent and clomb up to where the crazy dingpole machine was sitting. Ship he'd call it. But that were no ship, Reverend. It was some flying dragon kind of thing. It was a real scary looking thing. But I clumb up to the little door and hauled myself inside it. And sure enough there was other people in the cabin, only they was all dead. There was a lady and a man and some kind of an animal. Looked like a bobcat, only smaller with a funny shaped rooster comb thing on its head. They all, even the cat thing was wearing those shiny stretchy clothes. And they all was so battered and smashed I didn't even bother to hunt for their heartbeats. I could see by a look they was dead as a doornail. Then I heard a funny little whimper like a kitten and. And in a funny rubber cushion thing there's a little boy baby. Looked about six months old. He was howling lusty enough and when I lifted him out of the cradle kind of thing I saw why that boy baby, he was wet and his little arm was twisted under him. That there flying contraption must have smashed down awful hard. But that rubber hammock was so soft and cushiony all it did to him was jolt him good. I looked around but I couldn't find anything to wrap him in. And the baby didn't have a stitch on him except a sort of spongy paper diaper, wet as sin. So I finally lifted up the lady who had a long cape thing around her and I took the cape off her real gentle. I knew she was dead and she wouldn't be needing it. And that boy baby would catch his death if I took him out bare naked like that. She was probably the baby's ma, a right pretty woman she was, but smashed up something shameful. So anyhow, to make a long story short, I got that baby boy back across that Niagarae farm paws somehow and laid him down by his paw. The man opened his eyes kind and said in a choky voice, take care, baby. I told him I would and said I'd try to get him up to the house where Marthy could doctor him. The man told me not to bother. I dying. He says we come from Planet Star up there. Crash here. His voice trailed off into a language I couldn't understand, and he looked like he was praying. I bent over him and held his head on my knees real easy, and I said, don't worry, mister. I'll take care of your little fellow until your folks come after him before God I will. So the man closed his eyes and I said, our Father, which art in heaven. And when I got through, he was dead. I got him up on Kate, but he was cruel, heavy for all he was. Such a tall, skinny fellow. Then I wrapped that there baby up in the cape thing and took him home and gave him to Marthy. And the next day I buried the fellow in the south matter. And next meeting day we had the baby baptized. Matthew Daniel Emmett and brung him up just like our own kids. That's all.
- [177:58]
Narrator or Storyteller
All.
- [177:59]
Chumba Casino Spokesperson
Mr. Emmett, didn't you ever find out where that ship really came from? Why, Reverend, he said it come from a star. Dying men don't lie. You know that. I asked the teacher about them planets he mentioned. And she says that on one of the planets can't rightly remember the name March or Mark or something like that. She says some big scientist feller with a telescope saw canals on that planet. And they'd have to be pretty near as big as this here Erie Canal to see them so far off. And if they could build canals on that planet, I dunno why they couldn't build a flying machine. I went back the next day when the water was down a little to see if I couldn't get the rest of them folks and bury them. But the flying machine had broke up and washed down the creek. Marthy's still got the cape thing. She's a powerful saving woman. We never did tell Matt, though. Might make him feel funny to think he didn't really belong to us. But. But Mr. Emmett, didn't anybody ask questions about the baby, where you got it? Well, now I know they was curious because Marthy hadn't been in the family way and they knew it. But up here, folks minds their own business pretty well, and I just let them wonder. I told Lisa Grace I'd found her new little brother in the back pasture. And of course, it was the truth. When Lisa Grace growed up. She thought it was just one of those yarns old folks tell the little shavers. And has Matthew ever shown any differences from the other children that you could see? Well, Revan, not so as you could notice it. He's powerful smart, but his real pain ma must have been right smart too to build a flying contraption that could come so far. Of course, when he were about 12 years old he started reading folks minds, which didn't seem exactly right, but he'd tell Marthy what I was thinking and things like that. He was just at the pesky age. Lisa, Grace, and Minnie were both a courtin then, and he'd drive their boyfriends crazy telling them what Liza, Grace, and Minnie were thinking and tease the gals by telling them what the boys were thinking about. There weren't no harm in the boy, though. It was all teasing, but it just weren't decent somehow. So I took him out behind the woodshed and give his britches a good dusting, just to remind him that that kind of thing warn't polite no how. And Reverend Joanne, he ain't never done it since end of Year of the Big Thaw By Marion Simmer Bradley.
- [180:19]
Narrator or Character
Beyond Lies the Wob 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 the slovenly wub might well have said, many men talk like philosophers and live like fools. They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning. What's the matter? He he said. You're getting paid for all of this. The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The captain put his boot on the hem of the robe. Just a minute.
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Narrator or Character
I'm not finished. Oh. The Optus turned with dignity. I am going back to the village. He looked towards the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. I must organise new hunts. Franco lit a cigarette. Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again, but when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth. The Optus went off. Wordless, Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank. How's it coming? He said, looking at his watch. We've got a good bargain here. The mate glanced at him sourly. How do you explain that? What's the matter with you? We need it more than they do. I'll see you later, Captain. The mate threaded his way up the plank between the long legged Martian. Go birds into the ship. Franco watched him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank towards the port, when he saw it. My God. He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking along the path, his face red, leading it by a string. I'm sorry, Captain, he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked towards them. What is it? The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed around its flank and it switched its tail. It sat. There was silence. It's a wub, peterson said. I got it from a native for 50 cents. He said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected this. Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. It's a pig. A huge dirty pig. Yes sir, it's a pig. The natives call it a wub. A huge pig. It must weigh 400 pounds. Franco grabbed a tuft of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist. Then its great mouth twitched.
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Narrator or Character
Casino A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed onto the floor. Maybe it's good to eat, peterson said nervously. We'll soon find out, franco said. The wub survived the takeoff sound asleep in the hold of the ship. When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive what manner of beast it was. The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway. Come on, jones grated, pulling up at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the anteroom, tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up. Good Lord, french said. What is it? Peterson says it's a wub, jones said. It belongs to him. He kicked at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting. What's the matter with it? French came over. Is it going to be sick? They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the men. I think it's thirsty, peterson said. He went to get some water. French shook his head. No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to Reset all my ballast calculations. Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap, gratefully splashing the men. Captain Franco appeared at the door. Let's have a look at it. He advanced, squinting critically.
- [184:56]
Chumba Casino Promoter
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- [184:58]
Narrator or Character
Yes, sir, peterson said. It eats almost anything I fed it on. Grain in it like that, and potatoes and mash and scraps from the table and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. And after it eats, it lies down and goes to sleep. I see, captain Franco said. Now, as to its taste, that's the real question. I doubt if there's much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I want to find out. The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the captain. Really, Captain, the wub said. I suggest we talk of other matters. The room was silent. What was that? Franko said. Just now? The wub said. Peterson said. It spoke. They all looked at the wub. What did it say? What did it say? It suggested we talk of other things. Franco walked towards the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men. I wonder if there's a native inside it, he said thoughtfully. Maybe we should open it up and have a look. Is that all you people can think of? Killing and cutting? Franco clenched his fists. Come out of there, whoever you are. Come out. Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly. I beg your pardon, the wub said. I don't think there's anyone in there, Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other. The cook came in. You wanted me, Captain, he said. What's this thing? This is a wub, Franco said. It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out? I think we should have a talk, the wub said. I'd like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues. The captain took a long time to answer. The wob waited, good naturedly, licking the water from its jowls. Come into my office, the captain said at last. He turned and walked out the room. The wob rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs. I wonder what the outcome will be, the cook said. Well, I'll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you're here. Sure, Jones said. Sure. The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. You must forgive me, it said. I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation when one is as large as I. The captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands. Alright, he said. Let's get started. You. You're a wub, Is this correct? The wub shrugged. I suppose so. That's what they call us. The natives, I mean. We have our own term. And you speak English. You've been in contact with Earth men before? No. Then how do you do it? Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind. My mind? I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it. As I see, the captain said. Telepathy. Of course. We are a very old race, the Web said. Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that Anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. It was no use in relying on physical defences. How could we win? Too heavy to run. Too soft to fight. Too good natured to hunt for game. How do you live? Plants?
- [188:48]
Chumba Casino Promoter
Vegetables?
- [188:49]
Narrator or Character
We eat almost anything. We're very Catholic. Tolerant. Eclectic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten along. The wub eyed the captain. And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind. Most of me in frozen food lockers, some of me in the kettle. A bit for your pet cat. So you read minds, the captain said. How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines? A few odds and ends, the wub said absently, staring around the room. A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep. Reap them. Indeed. The captain nodded. But let's get back to the problem. Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contract be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me rather. You should discuss questions with me. Philosophy? The arts? The captain stood up. Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we'd be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage, I know, the web nodded. But wouldn't it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws or something along that line? After all democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote. The captain walked to the door. Nuts to you, he said. He stood frozen, his mouth wide, eyes staring, fingers still on the knob. The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation. The room was quiet. So you see, the wub said, we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols and Ishtar Odysseus. Peterson sat silently staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair. Go on, he said. Please go on. I find your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of the most self conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country, the process of individuation. But Odysseus returns to his home. Peterson looked out the port window at the stars, endless stars burning intently in the empty universe. Finally he goes home. As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race. The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head. Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door. Are you all right? French said. Do you mean me? Peterson said, surprised. Why me? Franco lowered his gun. Come over here, he said to Peterson. Get up and come here. There was silence. Go ahead, the wob said. It doesn't matter. Peterson stood up.
- [192:19]
Narrator or Minor Character
What for?
- [192:20]
Narrator or Character
It's an order. Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm. What's going on? Peterson wrenched loose. What's the matter with you? Captain Franco moved towards the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall. It is interesting, the wub said. I'm too obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why. Get up, franco said. If you wish. The wub rose, grunting. Be patient. It is difficult for me. It stood gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly. Shoot it now, Friendship said. For God's sake. Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes grey with fear. You didn't see him like a statue standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn't come down, he'd still be there. Who? The captain. Peterson stared around. But he's all right now. They looked at the wub standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling. Come on, franco said out the way. The men pulled aside towards the door. You are Quite afraid, aren't you? The wub said. Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I've done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to. To rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourself. I was curious to see your ship, to learn about you, I suggested to the native. The gun jerked. See? Franco said. I thought so. The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it. It's very warm, the wub said. I understand that we are close to the jets atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it. Technically. Apparently your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral ethical. Franco turned to the men crowding behind him, wide eyed, silent.
- [194:17]
Chumba Casino Promoter
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- [194:18]
Narrator or Character
You can watch. French nodded. Try to hit the brain. It's no good. Fleeting. Don't hit the chest. If the ribcage shatters, we'll have to pick the bones out. Listen, Peterson said, licking his lips. Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You've no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you. Franco raised his gun. I'm going out, jones said, his face white and sick. I don't want to see it. Me too, french said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door. It was talking to me about myths, he said. It wouldn't hurt anyone. He went outside. Franco walked towards the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed. A very foolish thing, it said. I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your saviour related. It stopped, staring at the gun. Can you look at me in the eye and do it? The wub said. Can you do that? The captain gazed down. I can look you in the eye, he said. Back on the farm we had hogs. Dirty razorback hogs. I can do it. Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming moist eyes, he pressed the trigger. The taste was excellent. They sat glumly at the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco. More, he said, looking around.
- [195:52]
Narrator or Minor Character
More.
- [195:52]
Narrator or Character
And some wine perhaps. Not me, French said. I think I'll go back up to the chart room. Me too. Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. I'll see you later. The captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves. What do you suppose the matter is? The captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson sat down, staring at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas and the thick slab of tender, warm meat. He opened his mouth. No sound came. The captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder. It's only organic matter now, he said. The life essence is gone. He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. I myself love to eat. It's one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy eating, resting, meditation, discussing things. Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The captain drank some water and sighed. Well, he said, I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All of the reports I heard were quite true. The taste of wub very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past. He dabbled at his lips with a napkin and and leaned back in his chair. Peterson stared dejectedly at the table. The captain watched him intently. He leaned over. Come, come, he said. Cheer up. Let's discuss things. He smiled. As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths. Peterson jerked up, staring to go on. The captain said, odysseus as I understand him. End of Beyond Lies the Wub By Philip K. Dick Recording by Calvin Evans.
- [197:51]
Narrator or Character in Story
One Martian Afternoon By Tom Leahy 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 Michael Furey the clod burst in a cloud of red sand, and the little Martian sand dog ducked quickly into his burrow. Mary Lou threw another at the aperture in the ground and then ran over, and with the inside of her foot she scraped sand into it until it was filled to the surface. She started to leave, but but stopped. The little fellow might choke to death, she thought. It wasn't his fault she had to live on Mars. Satisfied that the future of something was dependent on her whim, she dug the sand from the hole. His little yellow eyes peered out at her. Go on and live, she said magnanimously. She got up and brushed the sand from her knees and dress and walked slowly down the red road. The noon sun was relentless. Nowhere was there relief from it. Mary Lou squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand. She looked in the sky for one of those infrequent Martian rain clouds, but the deep blue was only occasionally spotted by fragile white puffs like the sun. They had no regard for her either. They were too concerned with moving toward the distant mountains, there to cling momentarily to the peaks and then continue on their endless route. Mary Lou dabbed the moisture from her forehead with the hem of her Dress. I know one thing, she mumbled. When I grow up, I'll get to Earth and never come back to Mars, no matter what. She broke into a defiant, cadenced step. And I won't care whether you and Mommy like it or not, she declared aloud, sticking out her chin as an imaginary father before her. Before she realized it, a tiny lime washed stone house appeared not a hundred yards ahead of her. That was the odd thing about the Martian midday something small and miles away would suddenly become large and very near as you approached it. The heat waves did it, her father had told her. Really, she had replied. And you think you know so doggone much, she had thought. Aunt Twilly. She broke into a run by the Joshua trees. Through the stone gateway she ran, and with a leap she lit like a young frog on the porch. Hi, Aunt Twili, she said breathlessly. An ancient Martian woman sat in a rocking chair in the shade of the porch. She held a bowl of purple river apples in her lap. Her papyrus like hands moved quickly as she shaved the skin from one. In a matter of seconds it was peeled. She looked up over her bifocals at the panting Mary Lou. Gracious child, you shouldn't run like that this time of day, she said. You Earth children aren't used to our Martian heat. It'll make you sick if you run too much. I don't care. I hate Mars. Sometimes I wish I could just get good and sick so as I'd get to go home. Mary Lou, you are a little tyrant. Aunt Wylie laughed. Whatcha doin, Aunt Twylie? Mary Lou asked, getting up from her frog posture and coming near the old Martian lady's chair. Oh, peeling apples, dear. I'm going to make a cobbler this afternoon. She dropped the last apple peeled into the bowl. There, done. Would you like a little cool apple juice, Mary Lou? Sure, you betcha. Hey, could I watch you make the cobbler entwiley?
- [201:28]
Narrator or Minor Character
Could I?
- [201:29]
Narrator or Character in Story
Mummy can't make it for anything. It tastes like glue. Maybe if I could see how you do it, maybe I could show her. Do you think? Now, Mary Lou, your mother must be a wonderful cook to have raised such a healthy little girl. I'm sure there's nothing she could learn from me, aunt Twylie said as she arose. Let's go inside and have that apple juice. The kitchen was dark and cool and filled with the odors of the wonderful edibles the old Martian had created on and in the Earth made stove. She opened the Earth made refrigerator that stood in the corner and withdrew an earth made bottle filled with Martian apple juice. Mary Lou jumped upon the table and sat cross legged. Here, dear. Aunt Twylie handed her a glass of the icy liquid. Mmm, thanks, mary Lou said and gulped down half the contents. That tastes dreamy, Aunt Twylie. The little girl watched the old Martian as she lit the oven and gathered the necessary ingredients for the cobbler. As she bent over to get a bowl from the shelf beneath Mary Lou's perch, her hair brushed against the child's knee. Her hair was soft, soft and white as a puppy's. Soft and white like the down from a dandelion. She smiled at Mary Louise. She always smiled. Her pencil thin mouth was a perpetual arc. Mary Lou drained the glass and Twylie, is it true what my daddy says about the Martians?
- [203:00]
Narrator or Minor Character
True?
- [203:01]
Narrator or Character in Story
How can I say, dear? I don't know what he said. Well, I mean that when us Earth people came, you Martians did infan infanticide. Antwiley interrupted Ra rolling the dough on the board. A little flatter, a little faster. Yes, that's it. Kill babies, mary Lou said and took an apple from the bowl. My daddy says you were real primitive and killed your babies for some silly religious reason. I think that's awful. How could it be religious? God wouldn't like to have little babies killed. She took a big bite of the apple. The juice ran from the corners of her mouth. Your daddy is a very intelligent man, Mary Lou, but he's partially wrong.
- [203:43]
Narrator
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It is true, but not for religious reasons. It was a necessity. You must remember, dear, Mars is very arid, sterile, unable to sustain many living things. It was awful, but it was the only way we knew to control the population. Mary Lou looked down her buttoned nose as she picked a brown spot from the apple. I'll tell him he's wrong, she said. He thinks he knows so damn much. Mary Lou. Aunt Twylie exclaimed as she looked over her glasses. A sweet child like you shouldn't use such language. Mary Lou giggled and popped the remaining portion of the apple in her mouth. Do Your parents know where you are, child? Aunt Twylie asked as she took the bowl from Mary Lou's hands. She began dicing the apples into a dough lined casserole. No, they don't, Mary Lou replied. She sprayed the air with little particles of apple as she talked. Everybody's gone to the hills to look for the boys.
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Narrator or Character
The boys?
- [205:14]
Narrator or Character in Story
Aunt Twylie stopped her work and looked at the little girl.
- [205:17]
Narrator or Minor Character
Yes.
- [205:18]
Narrator or Character in Story
Jimmy and Eddie and some of the others disappeared from the settlement this morning. The men are afraid. They've run off to the hills and the renegades go, Adam. Gracious, Aunt Twyle said, her brow knitted into a criss cross of wrinkles. Oh, I know those dopes. They're probably down at the canals fishing or something. Just the same, your mother will be frantic, dear. You should have told her where you were going. I don't care, mary Lou said with unadulterated honesty. She'll be all right when I get home. Aunt Twyla shook her head and and clucked her tongue. Can I have another glass, please? The old lady poured the glass full again and then she sprinkled sugar down among the apple cubes in the casserole and covered them with a blanket of dough. She cut an uneven circle of half moons in it and put it in the oven. There, all ready to bake, Mary Lou. She sighed. It looks real yummy, Aunt Twiley. Well, I certainly hope it turns out good, dear, she said, wiping her forehead with her apron. She looked out the open back door. The landscape was beginning to gray as heavier clouds moved down from the mountains and pressed the afternoon heat closer, more oppressively to the ground. My, it's getting hot. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we didn't get a little rain this afternoon, Mary Lou. She turned back to the little girl. Tell me some more about your daddy, dear. We Martians certainly owe a lot to men like your father. That's what he says too. He says you Martians would have died out in a few years if we hadn't come here. We're so much more civilized. Civilized?
- [207:00]
Narrator or Character
Yeah.
- [207:01]
Narrator or Character in Story
He says we were so much more civilized than you that we saved your lives when we came here with all our modern stuff. Well, that's true enough, dear. Just look at that wonderful earth stove. Aunt Twili said and laughed. We wouldn't be able to bake an apple cobbler like that without it, would we? A rumble of thunder shouldered through the crowded hot air. No, he says you Martians are kinda likable, but you can't be trusted. He's nuts. I like you Martians. Thank you, child, but everyone's entitled to his own opinion. Don't judge your daddy too severely, aunt Twili said as she scraped spilled sugar from the table and put little bits of it on her tongue. He says that you'd bite the hand that feeds you. He says we brought all these keen things to Mars and that if you got the chance, you'd kill all of us. Gracious, said Aunt Twilie as she speared scraps of dough with the point of her long paring knife. He's a dope, mary Lou said. Aunt Wily opened the oven and peeked in at the cobbler. The aroma of the simmering apples rushed out and filled the room. Could I have some cobbler when it's done? Mary Lou asked, her mouth filling with saliva. I'm afraid not, child. It's getting rather late. The thunder rumbled again, a little closer, a little louder. The old lady washed the blade of the knife in the sink. Tell me more of what your father says, dear, she said as she adjusted the bifocals on her thin nose and ran her thumb along the length of the knife's blade. Oh, nothing very much. He just says that you'd kill us if you had the chance. That's the way the inferior races always act. He says they want to kill the people that help them cause they resent them. Very interesting. Well, it isn't so, is it, Aunt Twili? The room was filled with blinding blue white light, and the walls quaked at the sound of a monstrous thunderclap. The old Martian glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. My, it is getting late, she said as she fondled the knife in her hands. You Martians wouldn't do anything like that, would you? You want the truth, don't you, dear? Aunt Twili asked, smiling as she walked to the table where Mary Lou sat. Of course I do, Aunt Twylie, she said. Her scream was answered and smothered by the horrendous roar of the thunder and the piercing hiss of the rain that fell in sheets in great volumes of water. It fell as though the heavens were attempting to wash the sins of man from the universe and into non existence in the void beyond the void. Mary Lou lay beside the other children. Aunt Twylie smiled at them, closed the bedroom door, and returned to the kitchen. The storm had moved on. The thunder was the faint grumbling of a pacified old man. What water fell was a monotonous trickle from the eaves of the lime washed stone house. Aunt Twylie washed the blood from the knife and wiped it dry on her apron. She opened the oven and took out the browned cobbler. Sweet apple juice bubbled to the surface through the half moons and burst in delights of sugary aroma. The song sun broke through the thinning edge of the thunderhead. Aunt Twyly brushed a lock of her feathery white hair from her moist cheek. Gracious, she said. I must tidy up a bit before the others come. End of One Martian Afternoon by Tom Leahy.
- [210:38]
Narrator
One Man's Poison by Robert Sheckley 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 Mike Manolakis One Man's Poison by Robert Sheckley. Hellman plucked the last radish out of the can with a pair of dividers. He held it up for Kasker to admire, then laid it carefully on the workbench beside the razor. Hell of a meal for two grown men, kasker said, flopping down in one of the ship's padded crash chairs. If you'd like to give up your share, Hellman started to suggest. Kasker shook his head quickly. Hellman smiled, picked up the razor, and examined its edge critically. Don't make a production out of it, kasker said, glancing at the ship's instruments. They were approaching a red dwarf, the only planet bearing sun in the vicinity. We want to be through with supper before we get much closer. Hellman made a practice incision on the radish, squinting along the top of the razor. Kasker bent closer, his mouth open. Hellman poised the razor delicately and cut the radish cleanly in half. Will you say grace? Hellman asked. Kasker growled something and popped a half in his mouth. Hellman chewed more slowly. The sharp taste seemed to explode along his disused taste buds. Not much bulk value, hellman said. Kasker didn't answer. He was busily studying the red dwarf as he swallowed the last of his radish. Hellman stifled a sigh. Their last meal had been three days ago, if two biscuits and a cup of water could be called a meal. This radish now resting in the vast emptiness of their stomachs, was the last gram of food on board ship. Two planets, kasker said. One's burned to a crisp. Then we'll land on the other. Kasker nodded and punched a deceleration spiral into the ship's tape. Hellman found himself wondering for the hundredth time where the fault had been. Could he have made out the food requisitions wrong when they took on supplies at Callao Station? After all, he had been devoting most of his attention to the mining equipment. Or had the ground crew just forgotten to load those last precious cases? He drew his belt in to the fourth new notch he had punched. Speculation was useless. Whatever the reason, they were in a jam. Ironically enough, they had more than enough fuel to take them back to Callao, but they would be a pair of singularly emaciated corpses by the time the ship reached there. We're coming in now, kasker said. And to make matters worse, this unexplored region of space had few suns and fewer planets. Perhaps there was a slight possibility of replenishing their water supply, but the odds were enormous against finding anything they could eat. Look at that place, kasker growled. Helman shook himself out of his reverie. The planet was like a round gray brown porcupine. The spines of a million niel. Sharp mountains glittered in the red dwarf's feeble light, and as they spiraled lower, circling the planet, the pointed mountains seemed to stretch out to meet them. It can't be all mountains, helman said. It's not. Sure enough, there were oceans and lakes, out of which thrust jagged island mountains, but no sign of level land. No hint of civilization or even animal life. Looking for a little Hollywood style fun?
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CTS and SEAS 21 sponsored by Chumpa Casino. At least it's got an oxygen atmosphere, kasker said. Their deceleration spiral swept them around the planet, cutting lower into the atmosphere, breaking against it, and still there was nothing but mountains and lakes and oceans and more mountains. On the eighth run, Hellman caught sight of a solitary building on a mountaintop. Casca braked recklessly, and the hull glowed red hot. On the 11th run, they made a landing approach. Stupid place to build, kasker muttered. The building was donut shaped and fitted nicely over the top of the mountain. There was a wide, level lip around it, which Kasker scorched as he landed the ship. From the air, the building had merely seemed big. On the ground, it was enormous. Hellman and Kasker walked up to it slowly. Hellman had his burner ready but there was no sign of life. This planet must be abandoned, hellman said, almost in a whisper. Anyone in his right mind would abandon this place, kasker said. There's enough good planets around without anyone trying to live on a needlepoint. They reached the door. Hellman tried to open it and found it locked. He looked back at the spectacular display of mountains. You know, he said, when this planet was still in a molten state, it must have been affected by several gigantic moons that are now broken up. The strains, external and internal, wrenched it into its present spined appearance. And Come off it, kasker said ungraciously. You were a librarian before you decided to get rich on uranium. Hellman shrugged his shoulders and burned a hole in the door lock. They waited. The only sound on the mountaintop was the growling of their stomachs. They entered. The tremendous wedge shaped room was evidently a warehouse of sorts. Goods were piled to the ceiling, scattered over the floor, stacked haphazardly against the walls. There were boxes and containers of all sizes and shapes, some big enough to hold an elephant, others the size of thimbles. Near the door was a dusty pile of books. Immediately Hellman bent down to examine them. Must be food somewhere in here, Kasker said, his face lighting up for the first time in a week. He started to open the nearest box. This is interesting, hellman said, discarding all the books except one. Let's eat first, Kasker said, ripping the top off the box. Inside was a brownish dust. Kasker looked at it, sniffed, and made a face. Very interesting indeed, Hellman said, leafing through the book. Kasker opened a small can which contained a glittering green slime. He closed it and opened another. It contained a dull orange slime. Hmm, Hellman said, still reading. Hellman, will you kindly drop that book and help me find some food? Food? Hellman repeated, looking up. What makes you think there's anything to eat here? For all you know, this could be a paint factory. It's a warehouse. Kasker shouted. He opened a kidney shaped can and lifted out a soft purple stick. It hardened quickly and crumpled the dust as he tried to smell it. He scooped up a handful of the dust and brought it to his mouth. That might be extract of strychnine, Hellman said casually. Kasker abruptly dropped the dust and wiped his hands. After all, Hellman pointed out, granted that this is a warehouse, a cache if you wish. We don't know what the late inhabitants considered good fare. Paris green salad, perhaps, with sulfuric acid as dressing. All right, Kasker said. But we got to eat. What are you going to do about all this? He gestured at the hundreds of boxes, cans, and bottles. The thing to do, hellman said briskly, is to make a qualitative analysis on four or five samples. We could start out with a simple titration, sublimate the chief ingredient, see if it forms a precipitate, work out its molecular makeup. Hellman, you don't know what you're talking about. You're a librarian, remember? And I'm a correspondence school pilot. We don't know anything about titrations and sublimations. I know, hellman said. But we should. It's the right way to go about it. Sure. In the meantime, though, just until a chemist drops in. What'll we do? This might help us, hellman said, holding up the book. Do you know what it is? No, kasker said, keeping a tight grip on his patience. It's a pocket dictionary and guide to the Helg language.
- [219:23]
Narrator or Character
Helg?
- [219:24]
Narrator
The planet we're on. The symbols match up with those on the boxes. Casca raised an eyebrow. Never heard of Helg. I don't believe the planet has ever had any contact with Earth, hellman said. This dictionary isn't Helg English. It's Helg Alumbrigian. Casker remembered that Alumbrigia was the home planet of a small, adventurous reptilian race out near the center of the galaxy. How come you can read Alumbrigian? Kasker asked. Being a librarian isn't a completely useless profession, hellman said modestly. In my spare time, yeah. Now how about do you know? Hellman said. The Alumbrigians probably help the Helghans leave their planet and find another. They sell services like that. In which case this building very likely is a food cache. Suppose you start translating, kasker suggested wearily, and maybe find something to eat. They opened boxes until they found a likely looking substance. Laboriously, Hellman translated the symbols on it. Got it, he said. It reads Use Sniffners, the better. Abrasive doesn't sound edible, kasker said. I'm afraid not. They found another which read Vigroom. Fill all your stomachs and fill them right. What kind of animals do you suppose these Helghans were? Kasker asked. Hellman shrugged his shoulders. The next label took almost 15 minutes to translate. It read Argocell. Makes your Thundra all tizzy. Contains 30 arps of Ramstadt pulse for shell lubrication. There must be something here we can eat, kasker said with a note of desperation. I hope so, hellman replied. At the end of two hours they were no closer. They had translated dozens of titles and sniffed so many substances that their olfactory senses had given up in disgust. Let's talk this over, hellman said, sitting on a box marked Vormitish. Good as it sounds. Sure, kasker said, sprawling out on the floor.
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If we could deduce what kind of creatures inhabited this planet, we'd know what kind of food they ate and. And whether it's likely to be edible for us. All we do know is they wrote a lot of lousy advertising copy. Hellman ignored that. What kind of intelligent beings would evolve on a planet that is all mountains? Stupid ones, kasker said. That was no help, but Hellman found that he couldn't draw any inferences from the mountains. It didn't tell him if the late Helghans ate silicates or proteins or iodine based foods or anything. Now look, hellman said. We'll have to work this out by pure logic. Are you listening to me? Sure, kasker said. Okay. There's an old proverb that covers our situation perfectly. One man's meat is another man's poison. Yeah, kasker said. He was positive his stomach had shrunk to approximately the size of a marble. We can assume first that their meat is our meat. Kasker wrenched himself away from a vision of five juicy roast beefs dancing tantalizingly before him. What if their meat is our poison? What then? Then, Hellman said. We will assume that their poison is our meat. And what happens if their meat and their poison are our poison? We starve. All right, kasker said, standing up. Which assumption do we start with? Well, there's no sense in asking for trouble. This is an oxygen planet. If that means anything, let's assume that we can eat some basic food of theirs. If we can't, we'll start on their poisons. If we live that long. Hellman began to translate labels. They discarded such brands as Androgynite's Delight and VRBEL for a longer, curlier, more sensitive antennae, until they found a small gray box about 6 inches by 3x3. It was called Valkorin's Universal Taste Treat for All Digestive Capacities. This looks as good as any, hellman said. He opened the box. Kasker leaned over and sniffed. No odor. Within the box they found a rectangular, rubbery red block. It quivered slightly like jelly. Bite into it, kasker said. Me Hellman asked. Why not you. You picked it. I prefer just looking at it, helman said with dignity. I'm not too hungry. I'm not either, kasker said. They sat on the floor and stared at the jelly like block. After 10 minutes, Hellman yawned, leaned back, and closed his eyes. All right, coward, kasker said bitterly. I'll try it. Just remember, though, if I'm poisoned, you'll never get off this planet. You don't know how to pilot. Just take a little bite then, hellman advised. Kasker leaned over and stared at the block. Then he prodded it with his thumb. The rubbery red block giggled. Did you hear that? Kasker yelped, leaping back. I didn't hear anything, hellman said, his hands shaking. Go ahead. Kasker prodded the block again. It giggled louder this time with a disgusting little simper. Okay, kasker said. What do we try next? Next? What's wrong with this? I don't eat anything that giggles, kasker said firmly. Now listen to me, hellman said. The creatures who manufactured this might have been trying to create an ascetic sound as well as a pleasant shape and color. That giggle is probably only for the amusement of the eater. Then bite into it yourself, Kasker offered. Hellman glared at him but made no move toward the rubbery block. Finally he said, let's move it out of the way. They pushed the block over to a corner. It lay there giggling softly to itself. Now what? Kasker said. Hellman looked around at the jumbled stacks of incomprehensible alien goods. He noticed a door on either side of the room. Let's have a look in the other sections, he suggested. Kasker shrugged his shoulders apathetically. Slowly they trudged to the door in the left wall. It was locked, and Hellman burned it open with the ship's burner. It was a wedge shaped room piled with incomprehensible alien goods. The hike back across the room seemed like miles, but they made it only slightly out of wind. Hellman blew out the lock and they looked in. It was a wedge shaped room, pip piled with incomprehensible alien goods. All the same, kasker said sadly, and closed the door. Evidently there's a series of these rooms going completely around the building, Hellman said. I wonder if we should explore them. Kasker calculated the distance around the building, compared it with his remaining strength, and sat down heavily on a long gray object. Why bother? He asked. Hellman tried to collect his thoughts. Certainly he should be able to find a key of some sort, a clue that would tell him what they could eat. But where was it? He examined the object Kasker was sitting on. It was about the size and shape of a large coffin with a shallow depression on top. It was made of a hard, corrugated substance. What do you suppose this is? Hillman asked. Does it matter? Hellman glanced at the symbols painted on the side of the object, then looked them up in his dictionary. Fascinating, he murmured after a while. Is it something to eat? Kasker asked with a faint glimmering of hope. No. You are sitting on something called the Morog Customs Super Transport for the discriminating Helghan who desires the best in vertical transportation. It's a vehicle. Oh, kasker said dully. This is important. Look at it. How does it work? Kasker wearily climbed off the Morag Custom Super Transport and looked it over carefully. He traced four almost invisible separations on its four corners. Retractable wheels, probably, but I don't see Hellman read on. It says to give it three amphus of high gain integror fuel than a van of tender lubrication and not to run at over 3000 rules for the first 50 mungus. Let's find something to eat, kasker said. Don't you see how important this is? Hellman asked. This could solve our problem. If we could deduce the alien logic inherent in constructing this vehicle, we might know the Helghan thought pattern. This in turn would give us an insight into their nervous system, which would imply their biochemical makeup. Kasker stood still, trying to decide whether he had enough strength left to strangle Hellman. For example, Hellman said, what kind of vehicle would be used in a place like this? Not one with wheels, since everything is up and down. Antigravity, perhaps, but what kind of anti gravity? And why did the inhabitants devise a box like form instead? Kasker decided sadly that he didn't have enough strength to strangle Helman, no matter how pleasant it might be. Very quietly, he said kindly, stop making like a scientist. Let's see if there isn't something we can gulp down. All right, hellman said sulkily. Kasker watched his partner wander off among the cans, bottles, and cases. He wondered vaguely where Hellman got the energy and decided that he was just too cerebral to know when he was starving. Here's something, hellman called out, standing in front of a large yellow vat. What does it say? Kasker asked. Little bit hard to translate, but rendered freely it Morishil's Voozy with lacto ecto added for a new taste sensation. Everyone drinks Voozy good before and after meals. No unpleasant after effects. Good for children. The drink of the universe. That sounds good, kasker admitted, thinking that Hellman might not be so stupid after all. Looking for a little Hollywood style fun?
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Do something. Kasker shouted. Deliquid was trying to back him into a corner. Nothing I can do, hellman said, reading on. Ah, here's the error. It doesn't say everyone drinks Voozy. Wrong subject. Voozy drinks everyone. That tells us something. The Helghans must have soaked liquid in through their pores. The naturally they would prefer to be drunk instead of to drink. Kasker tried to dodge around the liquid, but it cut him off with a merry gurgle. Desperately, he picked up a small bale and threw it at the voozee. The voozee caught the bale and drank it. Then it discarded that and turned back to Kasker. Hellman tossed another box. The voozee drank this one and a third and fourth that Kasker threw in. Then, apparently exhausted, it flowed back into its vat. Kasker clapped down the lid and sat on it, trembling violently. Not so good, hellman said. We've been taking it for granted that the Helghans had eating habits like us. But of course it doesn't necessarily. No, it doesn't. No, sir, it certainly doesn't. I guess we can see that it doesn't. Anyone can see that it doesn't. Stop that, hellman ordered sternly. We've no time for hysteria. Sorry. Kasker slowly moved away from the voozy vat. I guess we'll have to assume that their meat is our poison, hellman said thoughtfully. So now we'll see if their poison is our meat. Kasker didn't say anything. He was wondering what would have happened if the vousi had drunk him. In the corner, the rubbery block was still giggling to itself. Now here's a likely looking poison, hellman said. Half an hour later. Kasker had recovered completely, except for an occasional twitch of the lips. What does it say? He asked. Hellman rolled a tiny tube in the palm of his hand. It's called Vlaskin's Plugger. The label reads warning Highly dangerous. Vlaskin's Plugger is designed to fill holes or cracks of not more than two cubic vims. However, the plugger is not to be eaten under any circumstances. The active ingredient ramitol, which makes flaskins so excellent a plugger, renders it highly dangerous when taken internally. Sounds great, kaskar said. It'll probably blow a sky high. Do you have any other suggestions? Helman asked. Kasker thought for a moment. The food of Helg was obviously unpalatable for humans, so perhaps was there poison. But wasn't starvation better than this sort of thing? After a moment's communion with his stomach, he decided that starvation was not better. Go ahead, he said. Hellman slipped the burner under his arm and unscrewed the top of the little bottle. He shook it. Nothing happened. It's got a seal, kasker pointed out. Hellman punctured the seal with his fingernail and set the bottle on the floor. An evil smelling green froth began to bubble out. Hellman looked dubiously at the froth. It was congealing into a glob and spreading over the floor. Yeast, perhaps, he said, gripping the burner tightly. Come, come. Faint heart never filled an empty stomach. I'm not holding you back, hellman said. The glob swelled to the size of a man's head. How long is that supposed to go on? Kasker asked. Well, hellman said, it's advertised as a Plugger. I suppose that's what it does. Expands the plug up holes. Sure. But how much? Unfortunately, I don't know how much two cubic vims are, but it can't go much. Belatedly they noticed that the plugger had filled almost a quarter of the room and was showing no signs of stopping. We should have believed the label. Castor yelled to him across the spreading globe. It is dangerous. As the plugger produced more surface, it began to accelerate in its growth. A sticky edge touched Hellman and he jumped back. Watch out. He couldn't reach Kasker on the other side of the gigantic sphere of blob. Hellman tried to run around, but the plugger had spread, cutting the room in half. It began to swell toward the walls. Run for it. Helman yelled and rushed to the door behind him. He flung it open just as the expanding glob reached him. On the other side of the room, he heard a door slam shut. Hellman didn't wait any longer. He sprinted through and slammed the door behind him. He stood for a moment, panting, the burner in his hand. He hadn't realized how weak he was. That sprint had cut his reserves of energy dangerously close to the collapsing point. At least Kasker had made it to, though. But he was still in trouble. The plugger poured merrily through the blasted lock into the room. Hellman tried a practice shot on it, but the plugger was evidently impervious, as he realized a good plugger should be. It was showing no signs of fatigue. Helman hurried to the far wall. The door was locked as the others had been, so he burned out the lock and went through. How far could the glob expand? How much was two cubic vims? Two cubic miles, perhaps? For all he knew, the plugger was used to repair faults in the crusts of planets. In the next room, Hellman stopped to catch his breath. He remembered that the building was circular. He would burn his way through the remaining doors and join Kasker. They would burn their way outside, and Kasker didn't have a burner. Hellman turned white with shock. Kasker had made it into the room on the right because they had burned it open earlier. The plugger was undoubtedly oozing into that room through the shattered lock, and Kasker couldn't get out. The plugger was on his left, a locked door on his right. Rallying his remaining strength, Hellman began to run. Boxes seemed to get in his way, purposefully tripping him, slowing him down. He blasted the next door and hurried on to the next and the next and the next. The plugger couldn't expand completely into Kasker's room. Or could it? The wedge shaped rooms, each a segment of a circle, seemed to stretch before him forever. A jumbled montage of locked doors, alien goods, more doors, more goods. Hellman fell over a crate, got to his feet, and fell again. He had reached the limit of his strength and passed it. But Kasker was his friend. Besides, without a pilot he'd never get off the place. Hellman struggled through two more rooms on trembling legs and then collapsed in front of a third. Is that you, Hellman? He heard Kasker ask from the other side of the door. You all right? Hellman managed to gasp. Haven't much room in here, kasker said, but the plugger stopped growing. Hellman, get me out of here. Hellman lay on the floor, panting. Moment, he said. Moment. Hell. Kasker shouted. Get me out. I found water. What? How? Get me out of here. Hellman tried to stand up, but his legs weren't cooperating. What happened? He asked. When I saw that glob filling the room, I figured I'd try to start up the Super Custom Transport. Thought maybe it could knock down the door and get me out. So I pumped it full of high gain Integor fuel. Yes, Hellman said, still trying to get his legs under control. That Super Custom Transport is an animal, Hellman, and the Integor fuel is water. Now get me out. Hellman lay back with a contented sigh. If he had had a little more time, he would have worked out the whole thing himself by pure logic. But it was all very apparent now. The most efficient machine to go over those vertical razor sharp mountains would be an animal, probably with retractable suckers. It was kept in hibernation between trips. The other products designed for it would be palatable too. Of course they still didn't know much about the late inhabitants, but un undoubtedly. Burn down that door. Kasker shrieked, his voice breaking. Hellman was pondering the irony of it all. If one man's meat and his poison are your poison, then try eating something else. So simple, really. But there was one thing that still bothered him. How did you know it was an Earth type animal? He asked. It's breath, stupid. It inhales and exhales and smells as if it's eaten onions. There was a sound of cans falling and bottles shattering. Now hurry. What's wrong? Hellman asked, finally getting to his feet and poising the burner. The Custom Super Transport. It's got me cornered behind a pile of cases. Hellman, it seems to think that I'm its meat, broiled with the burner. Well done for Hellman, medium rare for Kasker. It was their meat, with enough leftover for the trip back to Callao. End of One Man's Poison by Robert Sheckley.
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Narrator or Storyteller
The Stellar Legion by Leigh Brackett this is Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the Stellar Legion by Lee Brackett no one had ever escaped from Venus's dread Stellar Legion, and as Thecla, the Low Martian learned, no one had ever betrayed it and lived. Silence was on the barracks like a lid clamped over tight coiled springs. Men in rumpled uniforms, outlanders of the Stellar Legion, space rats, the scrapings of the solar system, sweated in the sullen heat of the Venusian swamplands before the rains sweated and listened. The metal door clanged open to emit Len, the young Venusian commandant, and every man jerked tautly to his feet. Ian McKean, the white haired, space burned earthman, alone and hungrily poised for action. Thekla, the smart Martian, low canler grinning like a weasel beside Buck, the hulking strangler from Titan. Every quick, nervous glance was riveted on Len. The young officer stood silent in the open door, tugging at his fair mustache. To McGeehan watching, he was a trim, clean incongruity in this brutal wilderness of savagery and iron men. Behind him, the eternal mists writhed in a thin curtain over the swamp stretching for miles beyond the soggy earthworks. Through it came the sound every ear had listened to for days, a low, monotonous piping that seemed to ring from the ends of the earth. The Nihali, the six foot scarlet eyed swamp dwellers whose touch was weapon enough, praying to their gods for rain when it came, the hot torrential downpour of southern Venus. Then a Hollywood burst in a scaly tide over the fort. Only a moat of charged water and four electro cannon stood between the Legion and the Horde. If those things failed, it meant 200 lives burned out, the circle of protective forts broken, the fertile uplands plundered and laid waste. McGeehan looked at Len's clean, university bred young face and wondered cynically if he was strong enough to do his job. Len spoke so abruptly that the men started. I'm calling for volunteers. A reconnaissance in Natalie territory. You know well enough what that means. Three men.
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Well.
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Ian McGean stepped forward, followed instantly by the Martian Thecla Bok. The Titan hesitated, his queerly bright blank eyes darting from Thecla to Len and back to Macian. Then he stepped up, his hairy face twisted in a sly grin. Len eyed them, his mouth hard with distaste under his fair moustache. Then he nodded and said, report in an hour. Light equipment. Turning to go, he added almost as an afterthought, report to my quarters, Mic Ian. Immediately. Mician's bony Celtic face tightened and his blue eyes narrowed with wary distrust. But he followed Len, his gaunt, powerful body as ramrod straight as the Venusian's own, and no eye that watched him go held any friendship. Thekla laughed silently like a cat with his pointed white teeth. Two of a kind, he whispered. I have hope they choke each other. Black grunted, flexing his mighty six fingered hands. In his quarters, Len, his pink face flushed, strode up and down while McGeehan waited dourly. It was plain enough what was coming. Mcgeon felt the old bitter defensive anger rising in him. Look, he told himself inwardly. Books. Good cigars. A girl's picture on the table. You had all that once, you damn fool. Why couldn't you? Lent stood abruptly in front of him, gray eyes steady. I'm new here, McKeon, he said. But we've been legion men for five generations, and I know the law. No man is to be questioned about his past. I'm going to break the law. Why are you here, Macian? McKeon's white head was gaunt and stubborn as tantalum rock, and he kept silent. I'm trying to help, lynn went on. You've been an officer, and every man in the barracks knows that if you're here for any reason but failure in duty, you can be an officer again. I'll relieve you of special duty. You can start working for the examinations. No need to waste you in the ranks. Well? McKeon's eyes were hidden, but his voice was harsh. What's behind this land? What the hell is it to you? The Venusian's level gaze wavered for a moment. The boy looked through the man, and Macian felt a quick stab in his heart. Then all that was gone, and And Len said curtly, if you find the barracks congenial, stay there. By all means. Dismissed. Macian glared at him, half blindly for a moment, his fine long hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Then he bout faced with vicious smartness and went out. Nearly an hour later he stood with the Martian thecla and the earthworks waiting, the monotonous pipes prayed on in the swamp, began looking up at the heaven sky, Prayed just as hard that it would not rain, not just yet, because if it rained before the patrol left, the patrol would not leave. Then a holly would be on the march with the very first drop, and my chance would be gone, he whispered to himself. Thekla's bright black eyes studied him as they always did, an insolent, mocking scrutiny that anchored the Scot. Well, he said dryly, the perfect soldier, the gallant volunteer for love of Venus Thecla. Or love of the region, perhaps, said Thecla softly, for the same reason you did, Earthman, and perhaps not. His face, the thwart hard face of a low canal outlaw, was turned abruptly toward the mist wrapped swamp. Love, Venus, he snarled. Who could love this lousy sweatbox? Not even Len, if he had the brains of a flea. Mars is better, eh? Macian had sudden inspiration. Cool dry air and little dark woman in the wine shops on the Jacquar low canal. You'd like to be back there, wouldn't you? To himself, he thought in savage pleasure. I'll pay you out, you little scum. You've tortured me with what I've lost until I'd have you killed if it hadn't been against my plan. All right, see if you can take it. The slow dusk was falling. Thecla's dark face was a blur, but Micah knew he had got home. The fountains in palace, the gardens, Thecla, the sun bursting up over the red deserts, the singing girls and the thill in Madame Cannes. Remember the thill, Thekla? Ice cold and greenish, bubbling in blue glasses. He knew why Thecla snarled and sprang at him. And it wasn't Thecla he threw down on the soft earth so much as a tall youngster with a fair moustache who was goaded with good intent. Funny, thought Maciam, that well intentioned. Goads hurt worse than the other kind. A vast paw closed on one shoulder, hunger calling him back. Another, he saw, yanked Thecla upright, and Bok, the titan's hairy travesty of a face, peered down at them. Listen, he grunted in his oddly articulated Esperanto. I know what's up. I got ears and village houses got thin walls. I heard the Nihali girl talking. I don't know which one of you has the treasure, but I want it. If I don't get it. His fingers slid higher on Mcgeon's shoulders, gripped his throat, six fingers like iron clamps. McKeon heard Thekla choking and cursing. He managed to gasp you're in the wrong place, Bok. We're men. I thought you only strangled women. The grip slackened a trifle. Men too, said Bok slowly. That's why I had to run away from Titan. That's why I've had to run away from everywhere. Men or women. Anyone who laughs at me. McKeon looked at the blank eyed, revolting face and wondered that anyone could laugh at it, pity it, shut it harmlessly away, but not laugh. Bach's fingers fell away abruptly. They laugh at me, he repeated miserably, and run away. I know I'm ugly, but I want friends and a wife like anyone else. Especially a wife. But they laugh at me, the women do when I ask them. And he was shaking suddenly with rage, and his face was a beast's face, blind and brutal. And I kill them. I kill the damned little vixens that laugh at me. He he glared stupidly at his great hands. Then I have to run away. Always running away alone. The bright empty eyes met McKeon's with deadly purpose. That's why I want the money. If I have money, they like me. Women always like men who have money. If I kill one of you, I'll have to run away again. But if I have someone to go with me, I won't mind. Thecla showed his pointed teeth. Try strangling in a Holly Girl box. Then we'll be rid of you. Bock grunted. I'm not a fool. I know what the Nahali'd do to you. But I want that money the girl told about, and I'll get it. I'll get it now. Only Len will come. He stood over them, grinning. McGeean drew back between pity and disgust. The Legion is certainly the system's garbage dump, he muttered in Martian, loud enough for Thecla to hear, and smiled at the low Canaler's stifled taunt stiffled because Len was coming up, his heavy water boots thudding on the soggy ground. Without a word the three fell in behind the officer, whose face had taken on an unfamiliar stony grimness. McGeeon wondered whether it was anger at him or fear of what they might get in the swamp. Then he shrugged. The young cub would have to follow his own trail wherever it led, and Macian took a stern comfort from this thought. His own feet were irrevocably directed. There was no doubt, no turning back. He'd never have again to go through what Len was going through. All he had to do was wait. The plank bridge groaned under them, almost touching the water in the moat Most ingenious, that moat. The Nihali could swim in their sleep normally, but when the conductor rods along the bottom were turned on, they literally burned out their circuits from an overload. The swamp rafts packed a bigger potential than any earthly electric eel. Ian McKeon, looking at the lights of the squalid village that lay below the fort, reflected that the Nihali had at least one definitely human trait. The banging of three cheered Venusian piano echoed on the heavy air, along with shouts and laughter that indicated a free flow of swamp juice. This link in the chain of stations surrounding the swamplands was fully garrisoned only during the rains, and the less warlike Nihali were busy harvesting what they could from the soldiers and the rabble that came after them. Queer creatures, the swamp rats with their ruby eyes and iridescent scales. Nature, in adapting them to their wet, humid environment, had left them somewhere between the warm blooded animals and cold blooded reptiles. Anthropoid in shape, man sized, capricious. The most remarkable thing about them was their breathing apparatus, each epithelial cell forming a tiny electrolysis plant to extract oxygen from water. Since they lived each equally on land and in water, and since the swamp air was almost a mist, it suited them admirably. That's why they had to wait for the rains to go raiding in the fertile uplands. And that was why hundreds of interworld legionnaires had to shelter on the strip of soggy ground between swamp and plateau to stop them. McGean was last in line. Just as his foot left the planks, four heads jerked up as one facing to the darkening sky.
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Big drops splattering slowly down, making a sibilant whisper across the swamp. The pipes broke off, leaving the ears a little deafened with the lack of them after so long, and Macian, looking at Len, swore furiously in his heart. The three men paused, expecting an order to turn back, but Len waved them on. But it's raining, protested Bok. We'll get caught in the attack. The officer's strangely hard face was turned toward them. No, he said with an odd finality. They won't attack. Not yet. They went on toward the swamp that was worse in silent than it had been, with the praying pipes. And Macian looking ahead at the oddly assorted men plowing grimly through the mud, caught a sudden glimpse of something dark and hidden, something beyond the simple threat of death that hung always over the reconnoitering patrol. The swamp folded them in. It was never truly dark on Venus on owing to the thick, diffusing atmosphere. There was enough light to show branching muddy trails, great still pools choked with weeds, the spreading lea trees with their huge pollen pods, everything dripping with the slow rain. Macian could hear the thudding of that rain for miles around on the silent air, the sullen forerunner of the deluge fort and village were lost in sudden twilight. Len's boots squelched onward through the mud of a trail that rose gradually to a ridge of height ground. When he reached the top, Len turned abruptly, his electro gun seeming to materialize in his hand, and McGee was startled by the bleak look of his pink young face. Stop right there, said Len quietly. Keep your hands up and don't speak until I'm finished. He waited a second, with the rain drumming on his waterproof coverall dripping from the ends of his fair mustache. The others were obedient, Bock a great grinning hulk between the two slighter men. Lent went on calmly, Someone has sold us out to the Nihali. That's how I know they won't attack until they get the help they're waiting for. I had to find out, if possible, what preparations they have made for destroying our electoral supply, which is our only vulnerable point, but had a double purpose in calling this party. Can you guess what it is? Macian could, Len continued. The traitor had his price. Escape from the Legion for from Venus, through the swamp to Livia, where he can ship out on the tramp. His one problem was to get away from the fort without being seen, since all leaves have been temporarily canceled. Llenn's mist grey eyes were icy. I gave him that chance. Bok laughed, an empty, jarring rowed. See, that's what the na' Hurri girl said. She said he can get what he needs now. He'll get away before the rains, probably with a patrol. Then our people can attack. I know what he needed. Money. And I want it. Shut up. Len's electro gun jested peremptorily. I want the truth of this. Which one of you is the traitor? Thecla's pointed white teeth gleamed. McGeehan loves the Legion, sir. He couldn't be guilty. Len's gaze crossed McKeon's briefly and again the Scot had a fleeting glimpse of something softer beneath the new hardness. It was something that took him back across time, to a day when he had been a green subaltern in the Terran Guards and a hard bitten, battle tempered senior officer had filled the horizon for him. It was the something that had made Len offer him a chance when his trap was set and sprung. It was the something that was going to make Len harder on him now than on either Bok or Thekla. It was hero worship. Macian groaned inwardly. Look here, he said. We're in Nihaly country. There may be trouble any moment. Do you think this is time for detective work? You may have caught the wrong men. Anyway. Better do your job reconnoitering and worry about the identity of the traitor back at the fort. You're not an officer Now, McGeehan, snapped. Len. Speak up and I want the truth. You Thekla. Thekla's black eyes were bitter. I'd as well be here as anywhere. Since I can't be on Mars. How could I go back with a hanging charge against me? McGeehan? Len's gray gaze was leveled stiffly past his head, and mcgeon was quivering suddenly with rage raised against the life that had brought him where he was. Against Len, who was a symbol of all he had thrown away. Think what you like, he whispered, and be damned. Bach's movement came so swiftly that it caught everyone unprepared. Handling the Martian like a child's beanbag, he picked him up and hurled him against Len. The electric gun spat a harmless bolt into empty air as the the two fell struggling in the mud. McKeon sprang forward, but Bok's great fingers closed on his neck. With his free hand the Titan grabbed Thecla upright. He held them both helpless while he kicked the sprawling Len in the temple. In the split second before unconsciousness took him, lan's eyes met Mcgeon's, and they were terrible eyes. McGee groaned. You young fool. Then Len was down and Bock's fingers were throttling him. Which one? Snarled the Titan. Give me the money and I'll let you go. I'm going to have the money if I have to kill you. Then the girls won't laugh at me. Tell me which one. Mgeon's blue eyes widened. Suddenly, with all his strength, he fought to croak out one Nihali. Boq dropped them with a grunt, swinging his great hands. Forgetting his gun completely, he stood at bay. There was a rush of bodies in the rain blurred dusk, a flash of scarlet eyes and triangular mouths laughing in queer noseless faces. Then there were scaly manlike things hurled like battering rams against the legionnaires. Macian's guns spat blue flame. Tunahly fell electrocuted, but there were too many of them. His helmet was torn off so that his drenched white hair blinded him. Rubber shod fists and feet lashed against reptilian flesh. Somewhere just out of sight, Thecla was cursing breathlessly in low carnal argot, and Len, still dazed, was crawling gamely to his feet. His helmet had protected him from the full force of Bok's kick. The hulking titan loomed in the midst of a swarm of red eyed swamp rats, and Macian saw abruptly that he had taken off his clumsy gloves when he had made ready to strangle his mates. The great six fingered hands stretched hungrily toward an ahali throat.
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The Titan's heavy laughter drowned him out, the vast paws close, closed in a joyous grip. On the instant, Bok's great body bent and jerked convulsively. He slumped down. The heart burned out of him by the electricity circuited through his hands. Len's gun spoke. There was a reek of ozone, and a Nihali screamed like a stricken reptile. The Venusian cried out in sudden pain and was silent. Macian, struggling upright, saw him buried under a pile of scaly bodies. Then a clammy paw touched his own face. He moaned as a numbing shock struck through him and lapsed into semi consciousness. He had vague memories of being alternately carried and towed through warm lakes and across solid ground. He knew dimly that he was dumped roughly under a leha tree in a clearing where there were thatched huts, and that he was alone. After what seemed a very long time he sat up and his surroundings were clear. Even more clear was Thecla's thin dark face peering amusedly down at him. The Martian bared his pointed white teeth and said, hello, traitor. Mcgeon would have risen and struck him, only that he was weak and dizzy. And then he saw Thecla had a gun. His own holster was empty. McGean got slowly to his feet, raking the white hair out of his eyes, and he said, you dirty little rat. Thecla laughed as a fox might laugh at a baffled hound. Go ahead and curse me, McGeean, you high and mighty renegade. You are right. I rather swing on Mars than live another month in this damned sweat box. And I can laugh at you, Ian McKeon. I'm going back to the deserts and the wine shops on the Jacara Low Canal. The Nihali girl didn't mean money. She meant plastic surgery to give me another face. I'm free, and you're going to die right here in the filthy mud. A slow, grim smile touched McKeon's face, but he said nothing. Oh, I understand, said Thecla mockingly. You've fallen swells and your honor, but you won't die honorably any more than you've lived that way. McKeon's eyes were contemptuous and untroubled. The pointed teeth gleamed. You don't understand, McKeon. Len isn't going to die. He's going back to face the music after his post is wiped out. I don't know what they'll do to him, but it won't be nice. And remember, McKeon, he thinks you sold him out. He thinks you cost him his post, his men, his career, his honor. You scutt think that over. When the swamp rats go to work on you, they like a little fun now and then. And remember, I'm laughing. McKeon was silent for a long time, hands clenched at his sides, his craggy face carved in the dark stone under his dripping white hair. Then he whispered, why? Thecla's eyes met his in sudden, intense hate. Because I want to see your damned proud supercilious noses rose, rubbed in the dirt. Mician nodded. His face was strange, as though a curtain had been drawn over it. Where's Llenn? Thekla pointed to the nearest hut. But it won't do you any good. The rats gave him an overdose. Accidentally, of course, and he's out for a long time. McGeehan went unsteadily toward the hut through rain. Over his shoulder he heard Thekla's voice. Don't try anything funny, mcgeon. I can shoot you down before you're anywhere near an escape. Even if you could find your way back without me. The Nihali are gathering now all over the swamp. Within half an hour they'll march on the fort and then onto the plateaus. They'll send my escort before they go. But you and Len will have to wait until they come back. You can think of me while you're waiting to die, Mican. Me going to leave and freedom Macian didn't answer. The rhythm of the rain changed from slow drumming to a rapid, vicious hiss. He could see it almost smoking in the broad leaves of the lihe tree trees. The drops cut his body like whips, and he realized for the first time that he was stripped to trousers and shirt. Without his protective rubber coverall, Thecla could electrocute him far quicker than even in a hahale with his service pistol. The hut, which had been very close, was suddenly far off, so far he could hardly see it. The muddy ground swooped and swayed underfoot. Macian jerked himself savagely erect. Fever. Any fool who prowled the swamp without proper covering was a sure victim. He looked back at Thecla, safe in helmet and coverall, grinning like a weasel. Under the shelter of a pod hung tree branch. The hut came back into proper perspective, aching, trembling. Suddenly with icy cold, he stooped and entered. Len lay there, dry but stripped like M', gan, his young face slack and unconsciousness. M' Ian raised a hand, let it fall limply back. Len was still paralyzed from the shock. It might be hours, even days, before he came out of it, perhaps never, if he wasn't cared for properly. McKeon must have gone a little mad then, from the fever and the shock to his own brain and Thecla. He took Len's shirt in both hands and shook him as though to beat sensed back into his brain and shouted at him in hoarse savagery. All I wanted was to die. That's what I came to the Legion for, to die like a soldier. Because I couldn't live like an officer. But it had to be honored, honorably, Len. Otherwise. He broke off in a fit of shivering, and his blue eyes glared under his white tumbled hair. You robbed me of that, damn you. You and Thecla. You trapped me. You wouldn't even let me die decently. I was an officer, Len, like you. Don't you hear me, young fool? I had to choose between two courses and I chose the wrong one. I lost my whole command, 2,500 men dead. They might have let me off at the court martial. It was an honest mistake, Sake. But I didn't wait. I resigned. All I wanted was to die like a good soldier. That's why I volunteered. And you tricked me, Lan Yu and Thekla. He let the limp body fall and crouched there, holding his throbbing head in his hands. He knew he was crying and couldn't stop. His skin burned and he was cold to the marrow of his bones. Suddenly he looked at Len out of bright fever mad eyes, very well, he whispered. I won't die. You can't kill me. You and Thecla. And you go on believing I betrayed you. I'll take you back, you two, and fight it out. I'll keep the Nihali from taking the fort, so you can't say I sold it out. I'll make you believe me. From somewhere far off, he heard Thecla laugh. Mician huddled there for some time, his brain whirling through the rain beat and the fever mist in his head and the alternate burning and freezing that wracked his body. Certain truths shot at him like stones from a sling. Thecla had a gun that shot a stream of electricity, a gun designed for Nihaly, whose nervous systems were built to carry a certain load and no more. Like any set of wires, the low frequency discharge was strong enough to kill a normal man only under ideal conditions. And these conditions were uniquely ideal. Wet clothes, wet skin, wet ground, even the air saturated. Then there were metal and rubber. Metal in his belt and lens, belt metal mesh because the the damp air rotted everything else. Rubber on his feet. On Len's feet, rubber was insulation. Metal was a conductor. Macian realized with part of his mind that he must be mad to do what he planned to do, but he went to work just the same. Ten minutes later he left the hut and crossed the soaking clearing. In the downpour, Thecla had left the leha tree for a hut directly opposite Lens. He rose warily in the doorway, gun ready. His sly black eyes took in Micean's wild blue gaze, the fever spots burning on his lean cheekbones, and he smiled. Get back to the hut, he said. Be a pity if you die before the Nihali have a chance to try electrotherapy. McKeon didn't pause. His right arm was hidden behind his back. Thekla's jaw tightened. Get back or I'll kill you. Keehan's boots sucked in the mud. The beating rain streamed from his white hair, over his craggy face and gaunt shoulders, and he didn't hesitate. Thekla's pointed teeth glass gleamed. In a sudden snarl. His thumb snapped the trigger. A bolt of blue flame hissed toward the Striding Scott. McGean's right hand shot out the instant the gun spoke. One of Len's rubber boots cased his arm almost to the shoulder, and around the ankle of it a length of metal was made fast, two mesh belts linked together. The spitting blue fire was gathered to the metal circle, shot down the coupled lengths, and died in the ground. The pistol sputtered out and A coil fused Thecla cursed and flung it at Macian's head. The Scot dodged it and broke into a run, dropping Len's boot that his hands might be free to grapple. Thekla fought like a low canal rat, but Macian was bigger and beyond himself. With the first madness of fever, he beat the little Martian down and bound him with his own belt, and then went looking for his clothes and gun. He found them with lens in the hut next door. His belt pouch yielded quinine. He got the large dose and felt better. After he had dressed, he went and wrestled Len in his coverall and helmet and dragged him out beside Thekla, who was groaning back to consciousness in the mud. Looking up, mcgeon saw three Nihali men watching him warily out of scarlet eyes as they slunk toward him. Thekla's escort, and it was a near thing. Twice clammy paws seared his face before he sent them writhing down in the mud, jerking as the overload beat through their nervous system. Triangular mouths gaped in noseless faces, hand like paws tore convulsively at the scaly breastplates, and Macian, as he watched them die, said calmly, there will be hundreds of them storming the fort. My gun won't be enough, but somehow I've got to stop them. No answer now. He shrugged and kicked Thecla erect back to the fort. Scut, he ordered, and laughed. The link belts were fastened now around Thecla's neck, the other end hooked to the muzzle of McKean's gun. The slightest rough pull would discharge it. What if I stumble? Theklas snarled. Mickeyann answered, you better not. Len was big and heavy, but somehow Mickian got him across his shoulders and they started off. The fringe of the swamp was in sight when Mickian's brain became momentarily lucid. Another dose of quinine drove the mist back so that the fort, some 50 yards away, assumed its proper focus. McKeon dropped Lent on his back in the mud and stood looking, his hand ready on the gun. The village swarmed with swamp rats in the slow, watery dawn. They were arranged in a solid mass around the edges of the moat, and the fort's guns were silent. McGean wondered why until he saw that the dam that furnished power for the turbine had been broken down. Becca laughed silently. My idea, Macian. The Nihali would never have thought of it themselves. They can't drown, you know. I showed them how to sneak into the reservoir right under the fort's guns and and stay underwater, loosening the stones around the spillway. The pressure did the rest. Now there's no power for the big guns nor the conductor rods in the moat. He turned feral black eyes on Macian. You made a fool of yourself. You can't stop those swamp rats from tearing the fort apart. You can't stop me from getting away after they're through. You can't stop Len from thinking what he does. You haven't changed anything with those damned heroics. Heroics, Said Mickian hoarsely, and laughed, maybe with sudden viciousness. He threw the end of the linked belts over a low leha branch so that Thecla had to stand on tiptoe to keep from strangling. Then, staring blindly at the beleaguered fort, he tried to beat sense out of his throbbing head. There was something. Something I was saying back in the swamp. Something in my mind was trying to tell me, only I was delirious.
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Thecla? The Martian was silent, the bloody grin set on his dark face. McGann took him by the shoulders and shook him. What is it? Thekla choked and struggled as the metal halter tightened. Nothing, you fool. Nothing but nihali and leha trees. Leha trees. Macian's fever bright eyes went to the great green pollen pods hung among the broad leaves. He shivered, partly with chill, partly with exultation, and he began like a madman to strip Len and Thecla of their rubber coveralls. Len's because it was larger. He tensed it over two low branches, Theclas he spread on the ground beneath. Then he tore down pod after pod from the leha tree, breaking open the shells under the shelter of the improvised tent, pouring out the green powder on the ground cloth. When he had a two foot pile he stood back and fired a bolt of electricity into the heart of it. Thick, oily black smoke poured up slowly at first, then faster and faster as the fire took hold. A sluggish breeze was blowing out of the swamp, drawn by the cooler uplands beyond the fort. It took the smoke and sent it rolling toward the packed and struggling mast on the earthworks out on the battlefield. Nihali stiffened suddenly, fell, tearing convulsively at their bodies. The beating rain washed the soot down onto them harder and harder, streaked it away, left a dull film over the reptilian skins, the scaly breastplates. More and more of them fell as the smoke rolled thicker, fed by the blackened madman under the leha tree, until only Legion legionnaires were left standing in its path, staring dumbly at the stricken swamp rats the squirming bodies stilled in death. Hundreds more, out on the edges of the smoke, seeing their comrades die, fled back into the swamp. The earthworks were cleared. Ian McGann gave one wild shout that carried clear to the fort. Then he collapsed, crouched shivering beside the unconscious Len, babbling incoherently. Thecla strained on tiptoe under the tree branch, had stopped smoking, smiling. The fever mist rolled away. At last McGeean woke to see Len's pink yawned face, rather less pink than usual, bending over him. Len's hand came out awkwardly. I'm sorry, McGheen. That GLA told me. I made him. I should have known. His gray eyes were ashamed. McKeon smiled and gripped his hand with what strength the fever had left him. My own fault, boy. Forget it. Len sat down on the bed. What did you you do to the swamp rats? He demanded eagerly. They all have a coating as though they've been dipped in paraffin. McGee chuckled. In a way they were. You know how they breathe, Each skin cell forming a miniature electrolysis plant to extract oxygen from water while it extracts hydrogen too naturally. And the hydrogen is continually being given off, just as we give off carbon dioxide. Black smoke means soot, soot means carbon. Carbon plus hydrogen forms various waxy hydrocarbons. Wax is impervious to both water and air. So when the oily slip from the smoke united with the hydrogen exuded from Nihali's bodies, it sealed away the life giving water from the skin cells they literally smothered to death like an earthly ant doused with powder. Len nodded. He was quiet for a long time, his eyes on the sick bay's well scrubbed floor. At length he said, my offer still goes. McGeehan officers examinations. One mistake, an honest one shouldn't rob you of your life. You don't even know that it would have made any difference if your decision had been the other way. Perhaps there was no way out. McKeon's white head nodded on the pillow. Perhaps I will, Len. But something Thekla said sent me thinking. He said he'd rather die on Mars than live another month in exile. I'm an exile too, Len. In a different way. Yes, I think I'll try it. And if I fail again? He shrugged and smiled. They are always nahali. It seemed for a minute after that as though he had gone to sleep. Then he murmured so low that Len had to bend down to hear him, thexel will hang after the court martial. Can you see that? They take him back to Mars first.
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End of the Stellar Legion by Leigh Brackett.
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The Doorway by Evelyn E. Smith 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 Dale Grothman A man may wish he'd married his first love and not really mean it, but an insincere wish may turn ugly in dimensions unknown. The Doorway by Evelyn E. Smith it is my theory, professor Falabella said, helping himself to a cookie, that no one ever really makes a decision. What really happens is that whenever alternative choices of action are called for, the individual splits up and continues on two or more divergent planes, very much like the parthenogenesis of a unicellular animal. Delicious cookies these, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you, professor, gloria simpered. I made them myself. You must give us the recipe, said one of the ladies, and the others murmured agreement, glad to get their individualities on a plane they could understand. Since most decisions are hardly as momentous as the individual imaginations, professor Falabella continued, and since the imagination of the average individual is very limited, many of these different planes, or as they are colloquially known, space time continuums, may exist in close, even tangential relationships. Gloria rose unobtrusively and took the teapot to the kitchen for a refill. Her husband stood by the sink, moodily drinking whisky out of the bottle so as to avoid having to wash a glass afterwards. Bio, you're not being polite to our guests. Why don't you go out and listen to Professor Falabella? I can hear him perfectly well from here, bill muttered. And indeed the professor's mellifluous tones pervaded every nook and cranny of the thin walled house. Long winded cultist. What is he a professor of, I'd like to know? Professor Falabella is not a cultist, affirmed Gloria angrily. He's a great philosopher, bill Hughes said. Something unprintable. If I'd married Lucy Allison, he continued unkindly, she'd never have filled the House with long haired cultists on my so called day of rest. Gloria's soft chin trembled and her blue eyes filled with tears. She was beginning to put on weight, he noticed. I've been hearing nothing but Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison for the past year. Y you said yourself she looked like a horse. Horses, he observed, have sense. He was being brutal, but he couldn't help it and didn't want to. Professor Falabella was only the most long winded of a long series of mystics Gloria was forever dragging into the house. The trouble with the half educated, he thought bitterly, is that they seek culture in the most peculiar places. I'll bet she would let me have peace on Sunday, he said. It just goes to show what happens when you marry a woman solely for her looks. He drained the bottle, then hurled it into the garbage pail with a resounding crash. Gloria's shoulders shook as she filled the kettle. I wish I'd decided to be an old maid, she sobbed. A very unlikely possibility, he thought. Even now, shop worn as she was, Gloria could have a fairly wide range of suitors should something happen to him. She looked sexy, but how deceiving appearances could be. Professor Falabella was still talking as Bill and Gloria emerged from the kitchen. I believe that it is possible for an individual who exists on a limited plane of imagination to transpose from one plane to the adjacent plane without difficulty. Great heavens, what was that? Something had whisked past the archway leading to the foyer. Don't pay any attention. Gloria smiled nervously. The house is haunted, my dear, one of the ladies offered. I know of the most marvelous exterminator the house, gloria assured her coldly, really is haunted. We've been seeing things ever since we moved in. And she really believed it, Bill thought. Believed that the house was haunted. And that is, of course, he had seen things too. But he was enlightened enough to know that ghosts don't exist even if you do see them. Professor Falabella cleared his throat. As I was saying, it is possible to send an individual through another, well, dimension, as some popular writers would have it, to one of his other spatial existences on the same temporal plane. It is merely necessary for him to find the door. Nonsense, bill interrupted. Wholly unmitigated nonsense. Every head swiveled to look at him. Gloria restrained tears with an effort. Brute, somebody muttered. But ridicule apparently only stimulated the professor. He beamed. You don't believe me. Your imagination cannot extend to the comprehension of the multifariousness of space. Nonsense, bill said again, but less confidently. I believe I have discovered the doorway, professor Falabella continued, and the way is open. However, most people fear to penetrate the unknown, even though it is to enter another phase of their own existence. I do admit that the shock of spatial transference, no matter how slight, combined with the concrete awareness of a previous spatial relationship, would perhaps be too much for the keenly sensitive individualism. Bill opened his mouth. I know what you're about to say, young man. You don't have to be a mind reader to know that, Bill assured him. His consonants were already a little slurred, and he knew Gloria was ashamed of him. It served her right. He'd been ashamed of her for years. Professor Phalabella smiled. His teeth were very sharp and white. Very well, Mr. Hughes, since you're a skeptic, perhaps you will not object to being the subject of. Of our experiment yourself. What kind of an experiment? Bill asked suspiciously. Merely go through the door. Any door can become the doorway if it is transposed into the proper spatial dimension. That door, for instance. Professor Falabella waved his hand toward the doorway of what Gloria liked to call Bill's study. You mean you want me to open the door and go into that room? Bill asked incredulously. That's all. That is all. Of course. You go with the awareness that it is the threshold of another plane and that you step voluntarily from this existence into an adjacent one. Sure, bill said. He had just remembered there was a nearly full bottle of Calvert in the bottom drawer of the desk. Sure. Anything to oblige. Very well. Go to the door and keep remembering that of your own free will, you are passing from this plane to the next. Look out, everybody. Bill called raucously as he pulled open the door. I'm coming in on the next plane. No one laughed. He stepped over the threshold, shutting the door firmly behind him. A wonderful excuse to get away from those blasted women. He'd climb out of the window as soon as he'd collected the whiskey and give them a nervous moment, thinking he'd really passed into another existence. It would serve Gloria right. For a moment as he crossed, he had a queer sensation. Maybe there was something in what Professor Falabella said. But no, there he was in the study. All that mumbo jumbo was getting him down, that was all. He was a nervous man. Only nobody appreciated the fact that, taking a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, he reached for the lighter on his desk. It wasn't there. Time and time again he'd told Gloria not to touch his things, and always she disobeyed him. Company was coming and she must tidy up. Cooking and cleaning, that was all she was good for, but this was carrying tidiness too far. She'd even removed the ashtrays. And where did that glass block paperweight come from? He'd had a penguin in a snowstorm and he'd been happy with it. This was too much. He'd tell Gloria off stealing a man's penguin. He opened the door into the living room and bumped into Lucy Allison. Don't you think you've been in there a long time, Bill? She asked acidly. I'm sure your guest would appreciate catching a glimpse of you. Why, hello, Lucy, he said, surprised. I didn't know Gloria had invited you. Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, lucy cut across his sentence. You've been talking about nothing but that dumb little blonde for months. Because of the people in the room beyond. Her voice was pitched low, but her pale eyes glittered unpleasantly behind her spectacles. I wish you had married her. You'd have made a fine pair. Gently, carelessly, the short hairs on the back of Bill's neck rose. Come back in here, lucy said, hauling him back into the living room, where a number of people who had been enjoying the domestic fracas suddenly broke into loud and animated chatter. Dr. Hildebrand was telling us all about nuclear fission. I can't find an ashtray, bill muttered, seizing on something tangible. Can't find an ashtray in the whole darned place. We've been over this a million times, Bill, you know. She smiled at the guests, a smile that carefully excluded Bill. I'm allergic to smoke, but I never get my husband to remember he isn't to smoke inside the house. Now take the neuron, for example, Dr. Hildebrand said through a mouthful of pate. What is a neuron? It is only what is that? The wraith of Gloria crossed the foyer and disappeared. Bill took a step forward, then stood still. Lucy smiled self consciously. It's nothing at all. The house is merely haunted. Everyone laughed. Forgot something, bill muttered, and dashed back into the study. He yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk. Sure enough, there was a bottle of Shenly, nearly a third full. There are some advantages, he thought as he tilted it to his lips, in having a limited imagination. The End of the Doorway by E.E. doc Smith.
- [285:52]
Narrator or Character in Story
Old Shag by Bob Farnham this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recorded by James Jenkins Old Shag by Bob Farnham Maybe a guy shouldn't believe everything he hears, but the trouble with some people is that they don't even believe a true story. Let me buy you a beer and
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Narrator or Minor Character
tell you about it.
- [286:23]
Narrator or Character in Story
After working some years in the baggage room of the local depot, I decided to transfer to the train service and made application for it. The application was approved. I was sent to the city offices for the course of study and training which all trainmen undergo, and after a time I was sent out as a brakeman on a freight. I stayed for a year and a half. Then I succeeded in being assigned as head brakeman on a fast flight food special. Called the Red Ball Special. It made no stop between Chicago and New York except for water and fuel. The big diesel in which I rode as head brakey was a high speed locomotive used exclusively for hauling the food special. Our first stop was Detroit, where we cut off all but three cars and took on five more scheduled in New York. At nine the next morning in New York, I strolled along Broadway, caulking at the sights exactly like any other yokel. After a 12 hour rest, the return trip began. I stood in my place at the big diesel till we had cleared for the main line and then settled back to enjoy the ride. It was close to midnight. I sat at the cab window half asleep, my senses somewhat dulled by the steady rhythm of train movement. I had finished an extra good cigar and had started to doze off when the engineer gave a low moan and toppled from his seat to the floor of the cab. The fireman, much against the rules, but feeling safe with the engineer and myself to watch in his place, had gone back to inspect a suspected leaking air hose. Without waiting for the train to stop, I got the engineer back on his seat. He was dead. I tied him in place and then began pulling on the whistle cord like mad. It was not my work to operate a diesel. I had not troubled to learn. I wondered why the fireman did not get back. I was going to jump, although I didn't like my chances at that speed, when I suddenly discovered a strange man in the cab with me. He was a pretty ordinary little guy, except for a wild, shaggy head of hair. You chump. He squeaked at me. Maybe next time you'll obey the rules and not sneak by without finding out things. See that short rod with the spring clip? Squeeze that clip and pull the rod back. Move, you fathead. I did as the shaggy man told me and felt the speed of the train slacken slightly as the power went off. Now that brass handle sticking out of the pipe. Move it to the right. Slowly, Slowly, you dunce. Nine cars in the diesel ground. Slowly to a stop. The wheels shuddered and skidded slightly because of my inexperienced hand. But the train did stop. The stranger nodded in satisfaction. When you get back home, bone up on things. But right now you go take a close look at the manifest card on the side of that second and third cars. I jumped to the ground to go back and look at the second and third cars. As I passed the rear of the diesel, I saw why the fireman had not come back to the engine cab. All that was left of him was the lower part of his body. He had slipped, caught one foot, and gone under the wheels. I came to the second car and read the manifest label. My hair stood straight up. The cars were marked Danger. Dynamite. High Explosive. The shaggy man was at my side. You've got questions, but let me ask you one. Ever hear a story about how if you travel back to the time of an ancestor and you let him die, you never get born? What about it? I said. It's true, said the shaggy man. End of Old Shag By Bob Farnham Recording by James Jenkins Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania the Grave of Solon Reg By Charles A. Stearns 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 Andrew Gantz the Grave of Solon Reg by Charles A. Stearns A Among the miserable gels of southern Mars, George Seeling ventured, ready to share his fearless feats with all the world, but hardly ready to share the Grave of Solon Reg. George Seeiling was one of the most personable ghouls you would ever care to meet. When he disappeared three years ago, somewhere in the unexplored wilderness of Sol southern Mars, his loss was mourned not only by the Terran Museum of Natural History, for whom he worked, but by a multitude of lovers of adventure by proxy as well, who kept up with his astounding fortunes through their daily papers. For George Seeling, who feared nothing that walked, crawled, flew, or pulsed, and who owned, moreover, a shining pair of scarlet seven league boots in the form of an inexhaustible expense account, believed in sharing himself with the public. He adored publicity. There was the time, for instance, that he made off with the crown jewels of the Czarn princess of Ganymede. The people loved it, all of them, excepting, of course, the Ganymedians. They were considerably upset, but being a minority group, there was not much that they could do once Ceiling had escaped with the jewels. Then there was the celebrated occasion of his robbing the crypts of Nekor, the moon goddess of IO From IO he swiped several golden idols of inestimable value. Which was just as well, for they were not doing the natives the least bit of good good. Despite their complaints, it almost caused an international incident. But the museum kept the treasure and their procurer collected a fat commission. This, as one can readily see, demonstrates graphically that George Seeling felt almost at home in the tombs, as he did in the public eye. The south of Mars is a rugged land of naked red peaks and deep impassable canyons, of reed filled swamplands and barren plateaus. The people who live there are primitive and thin as greyhounds, but of a shy, gentle nature, with huge dark melting eyes set deep in leathery purplish skin and nervous splayed bare feet that can pad the sands of the uplands at incorporated incredible speed.
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Casino To George Ceiling, the gels were merely an incidental impression, to add to the menagerie of weird people from many worlds that already stuffed his brain and made him rather a cosmopolitan with regard to alien cultures. He had already spent several weeks on Mars, most of it in Parthena, the chief spaceport of southern Mars, where he haunted the bars of the native district, asking, seeking, wheedling, bribing, until he found what he sought a man who could lead him to one of the old cities that lay hidden back in the hills. So it came about that he landed himself and his guide in a rented copter on a certain uncharted mountainside to the south and west of Parthena. Through the field glasses the minarets of the city were just visible, but it was impossible to get any closer, for there was no place to land. The old Martians had been averse to flat roofs, a circumstance which led seeiling to doubt audibly that they could have had the sense of an addled eel. After loading himself down with the paraphernalia that explorers are supposed to carry, he went on alone, the guide declining an invitation to accompany him. It was almost dark when he stumbled over the first bit of masonry, some prehistoric curbstone perhaps. He had walked for hours in a tangled forest of giant reeds, and the suddenness of his discovery startled him. He had wandered right into the midst of the abandoned city without even knowing it. Such was the customary luck of George Seiling. He could see shadowy outlines of some of the eroding old towers from where he stood, but he knew it was too late in the evening to explain, explore them safely. He had waited this long. It wouldn't hurt to wait through one more short Martian night. He found a clearing near a roofless columnar tower and spread his sleeping bag beneath its wall. He went to sleep, elated with his good fortune, and slept dreamlessly without disturbance. But then it took a great deal to disturb George Sleep Ceiling. When he slept in the morning, the Gells were there. There were about a dozen of them, silently squatting in a semicircle about his camp, contemplating him at a respectful distance with their soulful gazelle eyes. There is something disconcerting about waking up and finding that one has acquired uninvited guests. But Ceiling never turned a hair. He reached over and grabbed his rifle. But the Gells never moved. They looked for all the world like purple, brown graven images squatting there. Except that the round black eyes blinked once in a while. The Gell tongue was a very rudimentary one, and Seeiling, who was naturally adept at such things, had studied it at some length during the weeks in Parthena. He felt that he could get along. I greet you, he said, still fondling his rifle. I am an Earthman. We know, one of the Gells said in a curious whistling voice. What do you want here? I come to see the city, george said. This is the sacred dead city of Sol Stolen Rag, the wisest of the ancient ones. We do not welcome visitors here. It's not your city, damn it, George said. What did you say? Sorry, I said. This is not the work of your race. Why do you care if I look around? It is a shrine. The Old Ones took care of us before they went away. We loved them, and we do not want their dead disturbed. George Seeling grinned with delight. He never enjoyed himself so much as when he was where he wasn't supposed to be. We would be very sad if the dead were desecrated, the Gell said. Um, said Ceiling impudently. But what would you do if I went ahead and desecrated them anyway? The head Gell looked shocked. He turned his saucer eyes on his companions, and they all squirmed on their haunches and looked shocked too. We would be very sad, the Gel answered. No hard feelings, George Seeling said. But if the advancement of such science and the dispersal of knowledge were left up to you fellows, the world would be in a hell of a fix. He aimed his rifle suggestively at the Gell's chest. Do you know what this is that I am pointing at you? It is a death stick. We have seen them before. Right now there's something you can do for me, and I'll take it very kindly if you cooperate. Kindness is something we understand. That's fine. Somewhere about here are the tombs of the old race. All the legends of Mars tell about the wealth of the ancients, and I hear this Solon Reg was sort of a Martian King Tut. Lead me there and I'll be kind enough to spare your life. The Gells all blinked their eyes rapidly. Ceiling fancied that there would have been tears in their eyes, except that Gels have no tear glands. He felt a little sorry for them. Come with us, the leader of the Gells said. Seeiling was properly impressed. He had seen enough of the old cultures of the planets to realize that here indeed was something special. The walls loomed high above his head, shutting out the light of the morning sun as he walked down the street canyons where the vegetation had not yet penetrated the Gels padded on ahead of him. There was a musty smell about the place, most appropriate, and the old timers had quite a flair for architecture, he thought. The masonry was kind of a cemented substance that was nearly as hard as granite. The weather had eroded it into a lovely pearly grayness that was satiny smooth to the touch. He stroked the walls lovingly and wished that he could transport the whole place back to Earth. At the end of one street a bright yellow crawl snake struck him, and he killed it with the butt of his rifle. They encountered no other life. Everywhere there was silence. The Gels made several turns through narrow passageways, and all at once Ceiling was face to face with the most breathtaking sight he had ever beheld. In a great hidden courtyard, the palace lay. It was at least 600ft high, from massive base to delicate multiple pinnacles that festooned the arched roof. The facade was inscribed with countless lacy designs set into the mother masonry with snowy white stones. The great arched doorway gaped open invitingly to the kind of darkness that Seeiling found most exciting. The Gells stopped. You are certain that you will not change your mind? Look here, ceiling said. I've come here to collect artifacts or anything I can lay my hands on for my people on Earth. If I don't bring something good back, they'll send others who won't be as patient with you as I am. That is sad indeed, for the radiance that made us still lingers in the castle, said the Gell. I'm not gonna hurt His Radiant Majesty, whoever he is, seeiling said. What I want is junk. Stuff that you never use anyhow. So let's get on. George Seeling was panting by the time he had climbed to the top of the central tower. He had always thought of a tomb as some damp, dark hole beneath the surface of the ground, for such had been his experience many times before. But the resting place of Solon Reg the Wise was a large, light room, not half so eerie as the big throne room below, for instance.
- [303:05]
Narrator or Minor Character
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Narrator or Character in Story
It took him five minutes to work the mechanism of the outer door. When he got it open, he went in and found a convenient coffin to sit on, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and indulged in a cigarette before continuing. The room had no windows, but there was light coming in from the great transparent dome of roof. A cheerful place, he thought, for a crypt. There were six coffins in the room, neatly arranged around its periphery. He wondered which one was Soln Rags. All of the biers were plain, untarnished metal, a silvery alloy he couldn't quite identify. Upon one of them there was a modest crest or symbol.
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Casino that one, he decided, must be the coffin of Solon Reg. He was feeling a little ill. A headache from the altitude, he thought, or perhaps he'd caught a touch of the fever. Better to get it over with and get out of here. All the pleasure of discovery was gone now. He took out his array of chisels and went to work on the coffin, which yielded easily to his professional looter's touch. The lid was light and slid aside soundlessly. George Seeling came face to face with Solon Reg. The relics of Reg the Wise seemed to be in perfect condition. Over all lay a semi transparent coating of a waxy substance, the preservative, he supposed. The figure was as large as his own. The old race must have been much closer genetically to his own than the Gell's. But Seeiling was not concerned with any of this. He flopped sullen rag over on his belly without ceremony and examined the bottom of the coffin. It was no use. No treasure here. He did find something, however. The ring on Solon Rag's finger. He chipped off the preservative, slid the ring off and put it in his pocket. Then he examined the other coffins. Wives, perhaps, and dignitaries of court. These had been. There were both male and female, but no jewelry. He searched the room carefully, but there was nothing to be found. It had not been their custom then to bury their treasures with the dead. Or perhaps the Gells had taken it. No matter. He knew the futility of looking further. When a race chose to hide its treasures rather than try to take them along to the happy hunting grounds, they usually did a good job. He remembered searching in vain for a solid year in the catacombs of Neptune. Once his face was burning with some inner fire. Now he knew that he must have a high fever. He felt much worse. But to go back empty handed. And suddenly he knew that he would not. He took the steps back down to the throne room three at a time, for he felt strangely that he must hurry. The Gells were still waiting for him there in the gloom. There seemed to be more of them now, but he didn't bother to count. I want eight of you, he said. You are going to come with me up to the crypts. I'm taking the coffin of Solon Reg back with me and you are going to carry it. I don't want any arguments. I'll pay you whatever you want, but it's got to be done right away. They were not a strong race, the Guelphs, and the box was without handles, but they finally got it to their shoulders. Twice, coming down the spiraling staircases, they slipped and he cursed them furiously, then was amazed that he could be so distraught. They carried it down to the throne room and set it down. The big rotunda was full of Gels by this time, hundreds of them. What the hell is this, George? Seeling said, and his voice sounded thick to him. If you're going to start trouble, I'll kill the first Gel that lays a hand on me or the coffin. He waited for an answer. There was not a sound among the dark multitude of Gells. They watched him sorrowfully. Well, Seeling. Bellowed. The Gell who had talked with him before said, we are gathered here for a telling. Will you crouch there and hear us? I don't know what you're talking. Please hear us. Seeling looked around him. Better not to antagonize them at that, he supposed, since it seemed that they had no intention at present of doing anything drastic. He waited long ago, the Gell said. There were the Old Ones. They were as gods and knew great magic. All was happiness, but the magic was not great enough, for one day there came invaders from beyond the stars and sprayed the cities with green fire that was so light that its touch could not be felt. And yet it killed in great numbers. And the rest it changed. Solon Reg, who, who was wise, took his family about him and hid in the tower behind airtight doors where the green fire could not come. Many weeks he stayed there with an air purifier to keep out the radiance and let in fresh air. And at last the enemy left. The ones who were left had changed more and more, so that even in their heads they were affected and could scarcely take care of themselves. Solon Wregg, from behind his steel door where the pure air was sorrowed for us and counseled us to pick up our lives as best we could. He did not dare come out because the radiance did not leave but hung about the palace. We did not care any more. We knew the radiance would always be there, but it could not hurt us now. Solon Reag and his family did all they could for us and remembered all the wonderful knowledge that we had forgotten. They tried to teach us, but we had forgotten how to learn too.
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Detective or Police Officer
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Narrator or Character in Story
George Seeling screamed. What are you talking about? We Gells. Do you not understand? We were the Old Ones. Oh God, George said. The radiance is still in the buildings. That is what we tried to tell you before, but it is too late now. It has touched you. Let me out of here. Seeiling sobbed. I won't be changed by any damn radiation. I'll go back to Earth. They'll help me. They'll know what to do. Help me, dammit. You will not go back, the girl said. I am sorry, but you really cannot go back like this. You will be more at home here from now on. All the Gells looked at George Seeling with sad, limpid stares. They were silent. There wasn't any more to be said, nothing that they could think of. And George Seeling, squatting there, gazed back at them with big saucer eyes. Ebook of the Grave of Solon Ragg by Charles A. Stearns.
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Detective or Police Officer
Song in a Minor Key by Kathryn Lucille Moore 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 Dale Grothman Song in a Minor Key by Kathryn Lucille Moore. Beneath him the clovered hill slope was warm in the sun. Northwest Smith moved his shoulders against the earth and closed his eyes, breathing so deeply that the gun holstered upon his chest drew tight against its strap as he drank the fragrance of earth and clover warm in the sun. Here in the hollow of the hills, willow shaped, pillowed upon clover and the lap of earth. He let his breath run out in a long sigh and drew one palm across the grass in a caress like a lover's. He had been promising himself this moment for how long, how many months and years on alien worlds? He would not even think of it now. He would not remember the dark spaceways or the red slag of the Martian dry lands, or the pearl gray days on Venus when he had dreamed of the Earth that was outlawed to him. So he lay with his eyes closed and the sunlight drenching him through no sound in his ears but the passage of a breeze through the grass and a creaking of some insect nearby. The violent blood smelling years behind him might never have been. Except for the gun pressed into his ribs between his chest and the clovered earth, he might be a boy again. Years upon years ago, long before he had broken his first law or killed his first man, no one else alive now knew who that boy had been. Not even the All Knowing patrol, not even Venusian Jarl, who had been his closest friend for so many riotous years. No one would ever know now. Not his name, which had not always been Smith, nor his native land, nor the home that had bred him, or the first violent deed that had sent him down the devious paths which lay here, here to the clover hollow in the hills of an Earth that had been forbidden him ever to set foot again upon her soil. He unclasped the hands behind his head and rolled over to lay a scarred cheek on his arm, smiling to himself. Well, here was earth beneath him, no longer a green star high in alien skies, but warm soil, new clover so near his face he could see all the little stems and trefoil leaves, moist earth granular at their roots. An ant ran by with waving antennae close behind his cheek. He closed his eyes and drew another deep breath. Better not even look. Better to lie here like an animal absorbing the sun and feeling the earth blindly, wordlessly. Now he was not Northwest Smith, scarred outlaw of the spaceways. Now he was a boy again, with all his life before him. There would be a white columned house just over the hill, with shaded porches and white curtains blowing in the breeze, and the sound of sweet familiar voices indoors. There would be a girl with hair like poured honey hesitating just inside the door, lifting her eyes to him, tears in the eyes. He lay very still, remembering, curious how vividly it all came back, though the house had been ashes for nearly 20 years. And the girl, the girl. He rolled over violently, opening his eyes. No use remembering her. There had been that fatal flaw in him from the very first, he knew now, if he were the boy again, knowing all he knew today still the flaw would be there, and sooner or later the same thing must have happened. That had happened 20 years ago. He had been born for a wilder age when men took what they wanted and held what they could without respect for law. Obedience was not in him. And so, as vividly as on that day it happened, he felt the same old surge of anger and despair. 20 years old now, felt the ray gun bucking hard against his unaccustomed fist fist, heard the hiss of its deadly charge ravening the face he hated. He could not be sorry, even now, for that first man he had killed. But in the smoke of that killing had gone up the columned house and the future he might have had, the boy himself lost as Atlantis now and the girl with the honey colored hair and much, much else besides. It had happened, he knew, he being the boy he was, it had to happen. Even if he could go back and start all over, the tale would be the same. And it was all long past now anyhow, and nobody remembered any more at all except himself. A man would be a fool to lie here thinking about it any longer. Smith grunted and sat up, shrugged the gun into place against his ribs.
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Out of this World Convention by Forrest James Ackerman 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 Mark Ortega out of this World Convention by Forrest James Ackerman I was a spy for the FBI, the Fantasy Bureau of Investigation, learning of a monster meeting of science fiction. Then in New York, I teleported myself 3,000 miles from the Pacific coast to check the facts on the monsters. And it was true. The 14th world sci fi Con was Tremonstrous. In all seriousness, the New York con was one of the greatest aggressions of SF enthusiasts I have ever seen, a far cry from the Nikon, the first world of sfcon of 17 years before, when the turnout of 125 was considered colossal. Now more than 1200 fans, authors, editors, artists, publishers, agents, anthologists, reviewers and readers of science fiction and fantasy registered for the Labor Day weekend gathering of the A Conclave of the slands. From 37 of the 48 states they came, and from Canada, Cuba, England, Germany, India, Israel and the West Indies, the roll call of celebrities read like the who's who of SF prodom. Theodore Sturgeon, Isaac Asimov, Fritz Leiber, Willie Ley, Nelson Bond, John W. Lay bracket, Anthony Butcher, William Ten, James E. Gunn, Frank Belknap Long Jr. And numerous others, including guest of honor Arthur C. Clarke. A standing ovation was given Arthur Clarke before and after his speech at the banquet, a serious address that lasted 45 minutes and covered many philosophical facets of the SF field. Especially rousing hands were given two of the real old timers. Artist Frank R. Paul, guest of honor of the first convention, and out of the Ark, the man who once was assistant to Thomas Alva Edison, the pioneer novelist of scientific romances, and the man who discovered the golden atom. Ray Cummings. World famous cartoonist Al Capp gave a hilarious speech at the banquet Sunday night. Other large laughs became garnered on the occasion by Isaac Asimov and Anthony Boucher, Robert Bloch again proving that he has no peer as a master of ceremonies. The Masquerade Ball was filmed for televising and was a site for bugging eyes. Extraterrestrial glamour girls came in spectramatic colors. 1 Ruth Landis of Venus, formerly New York, was a verdant beauty, fresh as a breath of chlorophyll, while tall. Tom Otterson, a recent import from England, had the judges agreeing that just looking at her was an education. Olga Ley won for the most beautiful costume, and Joss Kristoff, a survivor from the first convention of them all, was another prize winner. Monsters, mutants, scientists, spacemen, aliens and assorted things thronged the ballroom floor as the flashbulbs popped. John Campbell lectured on and demonstrated his controversial psionic hyneronomans. Machine and famous fan sprang from Der Vood workout. Sam Moskowitz, James Taurasi, Bob Tucker, Julius Unger, Raymond Van Houten, Allen Glasser, David Kyle, E.E. evans, James Taurasi, myself and two others were elected directors of the World Science Fiction Society. No account of the New York orn would be complete without a deep bow of appreciation to the altruistic trio of committee men, including one comely woman who all but destroyed themselves engineering the convention, and David A. Kyle, Ruth Landis, and Dick Ellington. By a vote of 3 to 1, London was elected as the site of the 15th con to be held in 57 for an unforgettable experience in a fantastic universe of science fiction. Enthusiasts plan now to attend the Lawn Con.
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Detective or Police Officer
The Ultimate Eve by H. Sanford Efron 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 Dale Grothman her creators had no doubt of her effectiveness. She would conquer this planet. The armed might of the Earth would vanish before her. The Ultimate Eve by H. Sanford Ephron the sun had not yet taken the chill out of the early April morning that broke on the foothills of the Rocky Mountains when the ship settled to the ground. It was surprisingly large compared to the aircraft native to this planet, and yet ridiculously small to have brought enough men and materiel to launch an invasion across light years of space. The landing went unobserved. In this fearful year of 1955, the world faced too many critical crises of their own making to consider the necessity to be watchful for an extraterrestrial invasion. Hardly had the craft come to rest when the outer lock slid noiselessly open and a small ladder like stick stairway came down until it too had touched Earth. A man appeared in the doorway, pausing to study the landscape which lay before him. His features, his body, were human. Despite his being too well muscled and his face unusually handsome, he would never have aroused suspicion of being from another planet. Grunting in satisfaction, he permitted himself the pleasure of of being proud of having landed so near the cabin chosen as his goal. It had been a wise choice, this picking of so well isolated a place as the testing ground for the weapon. A wisp of smoke, a dark smudge against the rich blueness of the sky, attested to the cabin's occupancy. What he was about to do seemed fitting, for even the scientists of this planet had used animal life to test their own puny weapons. Now he would be the guinea pig to prove the devastation to be wrought against all mankind native to this world. He turned and spoke to someone within the loch. His language, while resembling no earthly tongue, was not much different than perhaps English to Chinese. It was foreign, but not completely alien. With the ease of a man accustomed to heavier gravity, he went down the ladder Easily turning when he reached the ground to look up at the lock. And then to the edge of the airlock, she came. The weapon. There had been no doubt in the minds of her creator as to her effectiveness. She would conquer this planet. The armed might of Earth would vanish before her. Before the year had ended, the invasion would have been accomplished. As a weapon, the Earth's H bomb might well be a mere firecracker. She had been tested against the men of her own planet and found to be irresistible. But now would come the final test against the enemy. Without laboratory controlled conditions, the planet she had come from was unimportant. Suffice to say, their technology had conquered space over a thousand years ago. For over half that time, they had subjugated neighboring worlds until their rule had spread to the borders of Earth. Scouting ships had been spying on Earth for the past two centuries and had brought back alarming reports concerning the rapidly expanding technology of this planet. Soon after the aliens had discovered the secret of spaceflight had come the added knowledge planets could be conquered by other than force of arms. Psychological warfare had been developed to a fantastic degree, making weapons more potent than any bombs of fissionable material. There she stood, a monument to her creators, Eve, soon to be conqueror of the planet Earth. To attempt description of her beauty would be an impossibility, for the languages of man do not contain the necessary word symbols to express the utter perfection of her face and form. To each man, she would appear different, for he would see in her the substance of his unconscious desires for the woman he had never dreamed might exist for this purpose. The scientists had labored in their laboratories for nearly half a century, and now she would justify the time and effort spent in her creation. Gently, she smiled at the man waiting below. And despite the special conditioning he had undergone and the drugs he took with careful regularity for added protection, he almost surrendered to the impulse to throw himself at her feet, to beg for only the privilege to serve her, to obey her, to worship her. Out of the entire space fleet, he, Commander Giedris, after extensive psychological testing, had been selected for this task. The three months of conditioning had passed rapidly. His response to the treatments had been better than they had dared to hope. In the two weeks of their flight, he had been unaffected by her presence. And now, upon landing, he was beginning to feel the strain he was under. He wondered what would have happened had it not been for the added help of the drugs. His face betrayed none of the anxiety he now felt. It was an impassive mask. His body was ramrod tense and erect. She came down the steps gracefully. Her litheness would have made the movements of a cat seem awkward and clumsy. Both had been thoroughly trained in the languages needed to carry out the plan of invasion. English and Russian. First, the large continent of North America would be disarmed at her command, and then they would move across the large body of water to Europe. Russia would be their initial target. There the invasion timetable called for a three month campaign, and then Eve would be removed from the planet before the occupation fleet from the motherworld would land. Not a man would be lost, nor a spaceship damaged, and yet the planet's rich potential would be theirs for the taking. And what of Eve? She was too dangerous to be permitted to return to her creators. Commander Gydras had his instructions covering the final phase of the invasion plan. When her task of disarming Earth was completed and the planet lay helpless to defend itself, they would blast off into space together. Soon as Earth's atmosphere was left behind, she would be slain, her body incinerated through the rocket tubes. It seemed such a dreadful waste to destroy such beauty of perfection. But the commander, raised from infancy to be a space officer, realized the need for her disposal. After the need for a weapon has passed, it is safer to destroy it than risk the danger of trying to store it, even on this world. They dumped their poisonous gases into the seas and did the same with more volatile explosives. Come, he said, starting toward the cabin. When she would have taken his hand. He brushed it aside angrily. Even the work the psychologists had done to condition him and the strength of the drugs could be trusted only up to a point. He feared what her touch might do to the iron discipline with which he kept himself in check. The only response to his rebuff was a shrug of those magnificently rounded shoulders and a lazy half smile of amusement. Her creators had considered it a bit of ironic humor to name her so outlandish and yet befitting a name as Eve, for her namesake, too, had been a temptress, bringing about the calamities of mankind. And now, eons later, another Eve would end the supremacy of man. At the door of the cabin, the commander paused. His eyes sought those of the woman. She stood regarding him strangely, and for the first time he found himself wondering what she must feel about her part in bringing about the defeat of a world she had no control over her actions. She was conditioned to follow the tenets of the master plan. He wished he had not held himself so aloof from her during the flight. Now there was no time to question what she felt and after the invasion, for her there would be only destruction. Annoyed with himself, he turned back to the door. His knuckles sounded dully against the thickness of the wood. He waited impatiently, receiving no answer to his knocking. With one hand near the weapon in his belt, he reached out and lifted the latch, gesturing for Eve to remain outside. He stepped over the threshold, a man dozing in a large chair before the still smoldering fireplace. Then, when the cool air reached him, he shivered and opened his eyes. I am Commander Ydris. The man gazed at him blankly, his sleep stained face bewildered at the rude awakening. He seemed unimpressed by the military splendor of the commander's uniform. The commander eyed the man with mild contempt. This would do as a guinea pig to prove the effectiveness of Eve. Here too would be an excellent base of operations. The man could supply many useful details needed before the invasion could begin. Eve, he called. Come in. She entered the room reluctantly, her gaze pitying the man seated so strangely still in his chair. She waited for his expression to change when he saw her. In a moment he would be groveling at her feet. Eve hated what she was doing, but the patterns implanted in her brain by her creators made it impossible for her to resist. The commander's jaw relaxed, his mouth fell open in shock. Impossible. Incredible. The man continued to remain motionless, regarding them with annoying perplexity. The scientists had blundered. Earth beings were not creatures governed by their emotions. The data collected by the spy ships had been erroneous. The invasion would fail. Instinctively, he looked to the woman. Eve watched him in open amusement, and he wondered if he had not caught a glimpse of sympathy in her eyes. She knew what this meant to him. No man returned to the mother world in defeat. If he did not follow the time honored custom of self destruction to atone for his failure, he would face a quick death when he returned. What? What do you want? Asked the man, annoyance making his voice a petulant whine. Nothing, sir. We made a mistake. I am afraid we came to the wrong place. The commander turned to Eve, his face transformed by a smile for the first time since they had been together. I know an asteroid that is pretty well out of the space lanes. It has an atmosphere and can support life without great struggle on our part. Do you think you could like it there? Of course. It wouldn't be much of a world for you to conquer, and I would be the only man to serve you. But. She studied him thoroughly and then, in answer to what he had asked, she took his arm. They left the cabin together, walking very closely it must have seemed a cosmic joke to the gods of the universe to see the invader and the woman who was to have been his weapon pause and wave a casual farewell to the planet they had come to conquer. Asteroid, the man mused aloud. What kind of crazy gibberish had they been talking? Must be honeymooners from one of the nearby resorts. He shrugged in an attempt to dismiss it from his mind. Maybe he ought to ask Helen about it when she came back. Come to think of it, she should be back with the supplies any minute now. There was a strange roar from outside and the sound of some great object hurtling through the air, but strangely enough, the man did not leap from his chair and rushed to the door to see what created the disturbance. He did not move from the fireplace until the chill had begun to fill the cabin, and then, reluctantly, he stood up, fumbling along the side of the chair for some object leaning against it. When he located it, he grasped it tightly and then made his way cautiously to the door. He shifted the stick in his left hand, fumbling for the latch. Locating it, he closed the door. The invaders had come and left in defeat, but the victor would never know he had beaten off the first invasion of Earth, saving mankind from slavery and civilization from destruction. To him they were mere voices babbling meaningless words. The splendor of their spaceship, the wondrous, fatal beauty of the woman, never would be known to him, for he was totally blind. The End of the Ultimate Eve By H. Sanford Ephron.
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Narrator or Minor Character
The Recluse by Mike Curry this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the Recluse by Mike Curry the human voice. Had there ever been so sweet a sound? Arak Miller ached for it too eagerly, too swiftly. 25 years later, a ship appeared on an afternoon in the planet Summer, a ruck. Miller watched it from the mesa, looking
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Casino From Earth, he thought. From Earth. But Arak Miller was an ordered man. Even now, in the face of resurging visions of his wife and his sons and his work and the mighty civilization from which he had been cut adrift, his thoughts were ordered, probably the ship had arrived from Earth to resurvey one of the class two uninhabitable planets of the Alpha Centaurus system. Tomorrow its scout ships would whip along the daysides at 5,000ft. Tomorrow, atop the mesa, he must light his pyres, some hundred odd gigantic piles of pine trees and brush that would burn with billowing smoke. He must signal the presence of a lone Earth man with a hypnotic intensity. He stood watching the ship until, toward evening it merged into the grey sky over the horizon. He ran across the clearing and down to his house by the river that wound through the valley a thousand feet below. Come on, you fool. He shouted to Marbuk, sitting beneath a tree. Arakmulla threw the figure over his shoulder and carried him to the house. He sat Marbak on a chair and went into the kitchen to eat. Arak Miller had been nomadic the first few years after he crashed and had been abandoned for dead until he found in the planet's narrow temperate zone, one of the few arable regions capable of sustaining him. There was sufficient small game. The river was cool, and because the rain fell mainly in the valley, his pyres were safe. In recent years he was always building. He had added a front porch to the cabin he had started with, then more rooms which he had never used, then an attic into which he never went. Now it was a house. It had chairs and tables, a bed, a rug of vines, a garden for vegetables and tobacco, and a garden for flowers. He ate a leisurely meal of potatoes and corn and meat of the rabbit, like creatures which he trapped. Ms. Gormley was sitting on the porch as he went out. A ship's come. He shouted. I may be saved, you understand, he recalled. He had intended to do something about Ms. Gormley's nostril. With one of his knives, he scraped a little at the wall of her left nostril. Then he stood back, satisfied. Now you look better, he said. With a wry grin he added, you can smell better, too. For a long time he could not sleep, remembering that he had been cut off. In the prime of his life he had been the senior astrophysicist in the Systems War Office on Earth, working on the second Einstein modifications that promised travel to the more distant galactic systems. He had completed six months of comparison spectrography in the barren Centaurus system and had been about to take the year's return journey to Earth, looking forward to a vacation trip with his family to Venus City. He had been in the forefront of the free world's pushing back of the last frontiers of Man. He twisted on his bed in a wild agony of hope and yearning. Someday soon, he shouted to the walls, I'll ride the monorail across the western plains. He had discovered that it helped to talk aloud, though none of his devices could make him forget he was a prisoner. To feel the centaurus skies closing down on him and the alien mountains crushing him so far from his work and those he loved was to feel a terrible suffocation from which there was no release. But then he would go doggedly to work, or else carve the life sized figures to keep him silent company and try to forget. He talked on and on, and finally he could talk no more. He slept. He was awakened by a pattering on the roof. Rain. He shouted. He jumped up and ran to the window socket. The rain clouds were high and heavy with storm. It struck him like a blow. They hung above the mesa, above his pyres. In a panic he clambered up to the mesa, forgetting his breakfast, forgetting his outer clothing, his mind in disorder. A shockwave pounded his eardrums. He was too startled to make words. With unbelieving eyes. He saw about five miles away, where the river emptied into the sea, the black cloud of an atomic explosion rise into the sky to spread out under the rain. Then suddenly he was running blindly through the rain. The scout must have come down. They must be testing. The area was ideal for testing atomic weapons. I must reach them before they leave. Through heavy undergrowth he pushed his way down the slope to the valley. His foot slipped on an exposed root. With a sharp crack of bone he fell. My ankle. He screamed with terror smashing at his mind. He managed to find two thick lengths of branch that would serve as crutches. Then he started hobbling awkwardly toward the river. For an hour he forced himself on urgently along the riverbank, now feeling knifelike pain slicing up through his body. The effort of moving was beginning to exhaust him. He fell down and rested a moment. He heard a tree crash in the forest ahead. He heard someone shout, a human voice. He began to sob, softly at first, then uncontrollably. A human voice. It had never been so sweet a sound. He climbed painfully to his feet, crashed on through the undergrowth. The density of trees ended abruptly and he stopped around the scout ship. In the clearing, robot dredgers were digging the foundations for building. Grey uniformed men were setting up new type atomic artillery at the perimeters. Arak Miller drew a deep breath. I'm saved, he said, his voice breaking. I'm going to be a free man. He tottered on the edge of hysteria, but controlled himself. With a mighty effort of will, he took a step forward to reach the clearing. Then he stopped. Something was wrong. He tried to put together the pieces of his mind. Everything looked normal. Construction going on, stores being transferred to temporary warehouses, all the usual activities of a scout party on an atomic testing mission. The artillery was pointing. That was the floor. The artillery faced inward. He looked back at the construction work. Not foundations for buildings, he said dully. Ditches. As he watched, a flag was run up on a pole. The dreams of Arak Miller crashed in his mind. It was the flag of the slave world, superimposed upon the symbol of the systems, the world controlled by the dictators, which for centuries had existed alongside the free world in perpetual cold war. During some stage of Arok Miller's long imprisonment from Venus to Centaurus, the dictators had taken over. Hidden from guards, he lay on the ground and watched for a long time. Only when the next batch of captives was taken out of the scoutship and lined up in front of the ditch did he turn his gaze away. He waited till the next shockwave had passed, passed, then, with tears streaming down his face, hobbled back in the rain toward the river. He crawled the last two miles to his house. Ms. Gormley was sitting where he had left her. I'm sorry, he said painfully. I will have to destroy you and Marbuk and our house and the pyres. And when all that is done, I will have to leave this area. Otherwise they might find me. Ms. Gormley stared blindly out at the river. He lay still on the floor, gasping for breath. You see, he explained, I am not a prisoner. They are the prisoners. All of them. All the world but me. His eyes closed in exhaustion. I like it here now, he said, almost in a whisper, I intend to stay. There must be some place here where they can never find me. You understand? End of the recluse by mike curry.
- [348:54]
What's he doing in There? By Fritz Leiber this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Jeff Rogers what's he doing in There? By Fritz Leiber the professor was congratulating Earth's first visitor from another planet on his wisdom in getting in touch with a cultural anthropologist before contacting any other scientists or governments, God forbid, and in learning English from radio and TV before landing from his orbit parked rocket. When the Martian stood up and said hesitantly, excuse me, please, but where is it that Baffled, the professor and the Martian seemed to grow anxious. At least his mouth curved upward, and he had earlier explained that it curling downward was his smile, and he repeated, please, where is it? He was surprisingly humanoid in most respects, but his complexion was textured so like the rich dark armchair he'd just been occupying that the professor's pinstripe gray suit, which he had eagerly consented to wear, seemed an arbitrary interruption between him and the chair, a sort of Mother Hubbard dress on a phantom conjured from its leather. The professor's wife, always a perceptive host, came to her husband's rescue by saying with equal rapidity, top of the stairs into the hall, last door. The Martian's mouth curled happily downward and he said, thank you very much, and was off. Comprehension burst on the professor. He caught up with his guest at the foot of the stairs. Here, I'll show you the way, he said. No, I can find it myself, thank you, the Martian assured him. Something rather final in the Martian's tone made the professor desist, and after watching his visitor sway up the stairs with an almost hypnotic softly jogging movement, he rejoined his wife in the study, saying wonderingly, who'd have thought it? By George, function taboos as strict as our own. I'm glad some of your professional visitors maintain em, his wife said darkly. But this one's from Mars, darling, and to find out he's, well, similar in an aspect of his life is as thrilling as the discovery that water has burned oxygen. When I think of the day not far distant when I'll put his entries in the Cross Cultural Index, he was still rhapsodizing when the professor's little son raced in. Pop, the Martian's gone to the bathroom. Hush, dear. Manners. Now, it's perfectly natural, darling, that the boy should notice and be excited. Yes, son, the Martian's not so very different from us. Oh, certainly, the professor's wife said with a trace of bitterness. I don't imagine his turquoise complexion will cause you any comment at all when you bring him to a faculty reception. They'll just figure he's had a hard night and they got that baby elephant nose sniffing around for assistant professorships. Really, darling, he probably thinks of our noses as disagreeably amputated and paralyzed. Well, anyway, Pop, he's in the bathroom. I followed him when he squiggled upstairs. Now, son, you shouldn't have done that. He's on a strange planet and it might make him nervous if he thought he was being spied on. We must show him every courtesy. By George, I can't wait to discuss these things with Ackerley Ramsbottom. When I think of how much more this encounter has to give the anthropologist than even the physicist or astronomer. He was still going strong on his second rhapsody when he was interrupted by another high speed entrance. It was the professor's cultish daughter. Mom, Pop, the Martians Hush, dear, we know. The professor's cultish daughter regained her adolescent poise, which was considerable. Well, he's still in there, she said. I just tried the door and it was locked. I'm glad it was, the professor said, while his wife added, yes, you can't be sure what? And caught herself. Really, dear, that was very bad manners. I thought he'd come downstairs long ago, her daughter explained. He's been in there an awfully long time. It must have been a half hour ago that I saw him, Guy and Gimmel upstairs in that real gone way he has with nosy here following him. The professor's cultish daughter was currently soaking up both Jive and Alice. When the professor checked his wristwatch, his expression grew troubled. By George, he is taking his time, though of course we don't know how much time. Martians, I wonder. I listened for a while. Pop, his son volunteered. He was running the water a lot. Running the water, eh? We know Mars is a water starved planet. I suppose that in the presence of unlimited water he might be seized by a kind of madness and but he seems so well adjusted. Then his wife spoke, voicing all their thoughts. Her outlook on life gave her a naturally sepulchral voice. What's he doing in there? 20 minutes and at least as many fantastic suggestions later, the professor glanced again at his watch and nerved himself for action. Motioning his family aside, he mounted the stairs and tiptoed down the hall. He paused only once to shake his head and mutter under his breath, By George, I wish I had Thenchurch or von Gottschalk here. They're a shade better than I am on intercultural contacts, especially taboo breakings and affronts. His family followed him at a short distance. The professor stopped in front of the bathroom door. Everything was quiet as death. He listened for a minute and then rapped measuredly, steadying his hand by clutching its wrist with the other. There was a faint splashing, but no other sound. Another minute passed. The professor rapped again. Now there was no response at all. He very gingerly tried the knob. The door was still locked. When they had retreated to the stairs, it was the professor's wife who once more voiced their thoughts. This time her voice carried overtones of supernatural horror. What's he doing in there? He may be dead or dying, the professor's cultish daughter suggested briskly. Maybe we ought to call the fire department like they did with old Ms. Frisbee. The professor winced. I'm afraid you haven't visualized the complications, dear, he said gently. No one but ourselves knows that the Martian is on Earth or has even the slightest inkling that interplanetary travel has been achieved. Whatever we do, it will have to be on our own. But to break in on a creature engaged in. Well, we don't know what primal private activity is against all anthropological practice. Still, dying's a primal activity, his daughter said crisply. So is ritual bathing before mass murder, his wife added.
- [356:13]
Detective or Police Officer
Please.
- [356:14]
Narrator or Minor Character
Still, as I was about to say, we do have the moral duty to succor him if, as you all too reasonably suggest, he has been incapacitated by a germ or a virus, or, more likely, by some simple environmental factor such as Earth's greater gravity.
- [356:31]
Chumba Casino Promoter
Tell you what, Pop.
- [356:33]
Narrator or Minor Character
I can look in the bathroom window and see what he's doing. All I have to do is crawl out my bedroom window and along the gutter a little ways. Safe as houses. The professor's question, beginning with son, how do you know? Died unuttered, and he refused to notice the words his daughter was voicing silently at her brother. He glanced at his wife's sardonically composed face, thought once more of the fire department and of other and larger and even more jealous or were to be skeptical government agencies, and clutched at the straw offered him. Ten minutes later he was quite unnecessarily assisting his son back through the bedroom window. Gee, Pop, I couldn't see a sign of him. That's why it took so long. Hey, Pop, don't look so scared. He's in there. Sure enough. It's just that the bathtub's under the window and you have to get real close up to see into it. The Martians taking a bath? Yep, got it full up. And just the end of his little old schnozzle sticking out your suit, Pop was hanging on the door. The one word the professor's wife spoke was like a death knell. Drowned? No, Ma, I don't think so. His schnozzle was opening and closing regular like. Maybe he's a shape changer, the professor's cultish daughter said in a burst of evil fantasy. Maybe he softens in water and thins out after a while until he's like an eel, and then he'll go exploring through the sewer pipes. Wouldn't it be funny if he went under the street and knocked on the stopper from underneath and crawled into the bathtub with President Rexford or Mrs. President Rexford, or maybe right into the middle of one of Janie Rexford's oh, I'm so sexy bubble baths, please. The professor put his hand to his eyebrows and kept it there, cuddling the elbow in his other hand. Well, have you thought of something? The professor's wife asked him after a bit. What are you going to do? The professor dropped his hand and blinked his eyes hard and took a deep breath. Telegraph, then Church and Ackerley, Ramsbottom, and then break end, he said in a resigned voice, into which, nevertheless, a note of hope seemed also to have come. First, however, I'm going to wait until morning. And he sat down cross legged in the hall a few yards from the bathroom door and folded his arms so the long vigil commenced. The professor's family shared it, and he offered no objection. Other and sterner men, he told himself, might claim to be able successfully to order their children to go to bed when there was a Martian locked in the bathroom, but he would like to see them faced with the situation. Finally dawn began to seep from the bedrooms. When the bulb in the hall had grown quite dim, the professor unfolded his arms. Just then there was a loud splashing in the bathroom. The professor's family looked toward the door. The splashing stopped and they heard the Martian moving around. Then the door opened and the Martian appeared in the professor's gray pinstripe suit. His mouth curled sharply downward in a broad alien smile as he saw the professor. Good morning, the Martian said happily. I never slept better in my life, even in my own little wet bed back on Mars. He looked around more closely and his mouth straightened. But where did you all sleep? He asked. Don't tell me you stayed dry all night. You didn't give up your only bed to me. His mouth curled upward in misery. Oh dear, he said. I'm afraid I've made a mistake somehow. Yet I don't understand how. Before I studied you, I didn't know what your sleeping habits would be. But that question was answered for me. In fact, it looked so reassuringly homelike when I saw those brief TV scenes of your females ready for sleep in their little tubs. Of course, on Mars only the fortunate can always be sure of sleeping wet. But here, with your abundance of water, I. I thought there would be wet beds for all. He paused. It's true I had some doubts last night wondering if I'd used the right words and all, but when you rapped good night to me, I splashed the sentiment back at you and went to sleep in a wink. But I'm afraid that somewhere I've blundered and. No, no, dear chap, the professor managed to say. He had been waving his hand in a gentle circle for some time, in token that he wanted to interrupt. Everything was quite all right, it's true, we stayed up all night, but please consider that as a watch. An honour guard, by George, which we kept to indicate our esteem. End of what's he doing in there? By fritz leiber recorded by jeff rogers.