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[00:01]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
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[00:38]
is no room for slowdowns. With Grainger's vast selection of high quality
[00:43]
motors, sensors, belts and hard to find parts, you can get what you need fast and all in one place so nothing gets in the way of getting the job done. Call 1-800-GRAINGER clickranger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done. Grainger knows when you're a procurement manager for an office park, you're not managing one building, you're managing all of them. And to stay ahead, you need to see through walls and around corners. Lights about to fail, filters ready to clog H Vac on its last leg. If you wait until something breaks, you're already behind. Count on Grainger for quality products, easy reordering and 24. 7 support. Call 1-800-GRAINGER click grainger.com or just stop by Granger for the ones who get it done.
[01:31]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
The Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester 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 Dan Grazinski the Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester with all kinds of plots twisting in my head, I hadn't slept well the night before. For one thing, I'd worked too late on a yarn that wasn't worth it. For another, there'd been a high wind howling through the streets. It made me restless and did a lot more damage than that. When I got up, I found it had blown a lot of paper and junk in the window and most of the story out. Only a part of the carbon was left. I wasn't especially sorry. I got dressed and hustled down to the luncheon. That luncheon's something special. We meet every Tuesday in a second rate restaurant and gossip and talk story and editors and mostly beef about the mags that won't pay until publication. Some of us, the high class ones, won't write for them. Maybe I ought to explain. We're the unromantic writers, what they call pulp writers. We're the boys who fill the pulp magazines with stories that have sent a word Westerns, mystery, wonder, weird adventure. You know them. Not all of us are hacks. A couple have graduated to the movies. A few have broken the slicks and try to forget the lean years. Some get 4 cents a word and try to feel important to literature. The rest come to the luncheon and either resign themselves to the $0.01 rate or nurse a secret Pulitzer Prize in their bosoms. There wasn't much of a turnout when I got there. Belcher sat at the head of the table as usual, playing the genial host. He specializes in what they call science fiction. It's fantastic stuff about time machines in the fourth dimension. Belcher talks too much in a Southern drawl. As I eased into a chair, he called, ah, the poor man's Orson Wells, and crinkled his big face into a showy laugh. I said, your dialogue's getting as lousy as your stories. I don't like to be reminded that I look like a celebrity. Belcher ignored that. He turned to Black, the chap who agents our stuff, and began complaining. He said, land's sake, Joey, can't you sell that Martian story? I think it's good. Before Joey could answer, Belcher turned to the rest of us and said, reminds me of my granddaddy. He got shut up at Vicksburg before his father could locate him and drag him back home.
[04:15]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Home.
[04:16]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
Granny used to say, all my life I've believed in the Solid south and the Democratic Party. I believe they were good, and if they aren't, I don't want to know about it. Belcher laughed and shook his head. I gave Joey a frantic sos. When Belcher gets going on the Civil War, no one else gets a word in for solid hours. Joey didn't move, but he said, what story? Very incredulously, and then he glanced at me and winked. That Martian story, belcher said. The one about the colony on Mars and the new race of Earth Mars men that springs up. I've forgotten the title. They say Fitz James o' Brien never could remember the title of his stories either. Joey said, you never gave me any such yarn. And this time he really meant it. Belcher said, you're crazy. Down at the other end of the table, someone wanted to know who o' Brien wrote for. I said, he's dead. He wrote the Diamond Lens. He was the first pulp writer. Belcher said. Most folks believe Poe invented the short story. Land sake. Poe never wrote a short story. He wrote mood pieces. O' Brien was the first. He wrote great short stories and great pulp stories. I said, if you're looking for the father of the pulp industry, why don't you go back far enough? There was a boy named Greene in the late 16th century. You mean Groatsworth of Wit Greene? The very same. Only forget that piece of junk. It was his last grab at a dollar. Get hold of a catalogue some day and see the quantity of pulpy poured out to make a living. Pamphlets and plays and whatnot. Someone said, green. A pulp writer. He sounded shocked. I said, brother, when he turned that stuff out, it was pulp. Passes 300 years and it turns into literature. You figure it out. Belcher waved his hand. I was talking about the invention of the short story. He said, o'. Brien. I tried to cut him off. I thought o' Brien predated Poe. It was a mistake, Belcher said. Not at all. O' Brien fought in the Civil War. He was with the 37th Georgian Rifles, I believe. A captain.
[06:40]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
He.
[06:41]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
I nudged Joey so hard he yelped. But he said, I tell you, I never received any such story. Then Mallison grunted and sipped his drink. He started to talk and we missed the first few words. It's always that way with Mallison. He's white haired, incredibly ancient looking, and he acts half dead. He used to be in the Navy, so he writes sea stories now. They say he acquired a peculiar disease in the tropics that makes him mumble Most of the time he turns out a damn good yarn. Finally we figured out Mallison was calling Joey a liar. Say, what is this? Joey said indignantly. Are you kidding? Alison mumbled something about Joey stealing a story of his that never got paid for and never showed up. Belcher nodded and poured wine from a bottle. He always drinks a cheap kind of stuff with the greatest ostentation. He acts as though it makes you more important if your drink comes out of a bottle instead of from a glass on a tray. He said, I'll bet some mag paid 2 cents for it. Joey, and you're holding out. Joey snorted. You better look in your desk, Belcher. You probably forgot to give me the yarn. Belcher shook his head. I know I haven't got it. I can't think how I lost it. He broke off and glanced up at some people who were threading through the restaurant toward our table. There came a man followed By a couple. The lone man I knew, although I never remember his name. He's a quiet little fellow who. Who smokes what looks like his father's pipe. Joey says he's past 40 and still lives with his folks who treat him like a child. One of the pair was Jinx McDougal. He turns out a fantastic quantity of detective fiction. None of his yarns are outstanding. In fact, they're all on a consistent pulp level. That happens to be why he sells so much. Editors can always depend on Jinx never to fail them. Jinx had a stranger with him. He was a tall, slender young man with scanty tow colored hair. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look blurry, and he was dressed in a sweater and ridiculously tight little knickers. He smiled shyly and I could swear his teeth were false. They were so even. I said, you've got a hell of a nerve, Jinx. If this guy's an editor, and I really meant it, editors are taboo at the luncheon, it being the only chance we get to knock them in unison. Jenks said, hi, everybody. This here's a white man that'll interest you, name of Dugan. Found him up in one of the publishing offices trying to locate the pulp slaves. Says he's got a story. I said, pass, friend, and have a drink on us. Jinks sat and Dugan sat. He smiled again and gazed at us eagerly, as though we were the flower of American letters. Then he studied the table and it looked as though he were itemizing the plates and glasses. All the while, Jinx was making introductions. Belcher said, another customer for you, Joey. Even if Jinx hadn't given it away, I could have told you he was a writer. Land sakes, I can smell the manuscript in his back pocket. Dugan looked embarrassed. He said, oh, no, really. I've just got a story idea, so to speak. I. He said a lot more, but I couldn't understand him. He mumbled something like Mallison, only his speech was very sharp and clipped. It sounded like a phonograph record with every other syllable cut out. Jenks said, dugan comes from your home town, Malleson. Whereabouts? Mallison asked. Knights Road. Knights Road? You sure? Dugan nodded. Malison said, hell, man, that's impossible. Knights Road starts outside the town and runs through the old quarry. Oh. Dugan looked flustered. Well, there's a new Vention. A new what? Vention. Dugan stopped. Then he said, a new development. That's a slang word. Malleson said, why, man, I was back home less than a month ago. Wasn't any development. Then Belcher said, maybe it's very new. Dugan didn't say anything more. I hadn't listened much because I was busy watching his fingers. He had one hand partially concealed under the table, but I could see that he was fumbling nervously with an odd contraption that looked like a piece of old clock. It was a square of metal the size of a matchbox, and at one end was a coil of wire like a watch spring. On both faces of the box were tiny buttons, like adding machine keys. Doughan kept jiggling the thing absently and pressing the buttons. I could hear the syncopated clicks. I thought, this guy is really soft in the head. He plays with things. Belcher said, sure you're not a rider? Dugan shook his head, then glanced at Joey. Joey smiled a little and turned away. Because he's very shy about ethics and such. He doesn't want people to think he runs around trying to get writers on his string. Mallison said to Jenks, well, what in hell is this story? Jenks said, I don't know. Ask him. They all looked at Junior G Man. I wanted to warn him not to spill anything because pulp writers are leeches. They'll suck the blood right out of your brain. You have to copyright your dialogue at the Tuesday luncheon, Dugan said, it' sit's about a time machine. We all groaned, and I didn't worry about Dugan's ideas anymore after that. Joey said, oh, God. Not that the market's sick of time stories. You couldn't sell one with Shakespeare's name on it. Dugan actually looked startled. What's the matter? Belcher asked, showing off his erudition. You got a manuscript with Shakespeare's name on it? Discover a Shakespeare autograph on a pulp story? He laughed uproariously, as though he'd cracked a joke at my expense. Dugan said, no, only that's the story I mean. He faltered, and then said, I wish you'd let me just tell you this story. We said, sure, go ahead. Well, dugan began, perhaps it isn't very original at that, but it's what you might call provocative. The scene is the 23rd century, over 300 years from now, at a great American university, physicists have devised a time machine. It's a startling invention, of course, just as the invention of electric light was startling, but its operation is based more on sane physical laws. Never mind the explanations, belcher interrupted. We've all alibi to time machine at one time or another. Land sakes. You don't even have to anymore. You just write time machine, and the readers take the rest for granted. When the story begins, Dugan continued, the machine has been in use for several years, but for the first time it is to be used for literary purposes. This is because back in the first half of the 20th century there lived a great writer. He was so great that modern critics call him the New Shakespeare. He is called that not only for his genius, but because, like the original Shakespeare, almost nothing is known of his life. Mallison said, that's impossible. Not altogether, I argued. It's conceivable that wars and unprecedented bombings and fires could destroy records. Why, even today there are gaps in the lives of contemporary artists that will never be filled up. Tell with that, Malison said, I still say it's impossible. Dugan gave me a grateful look. He he said, anyway, that's about what happened. The literature department of the university is going to send one of its research men back through time to gather material on the life of the New Shakespeare. This man is an expert in ancient English. He shuttled back into the 20th century equipped with camera and stenographic devices and all that. In the short period at his disposal he attempts to get hold of his man. I said. It's a cute idea. Imagine going back to the old Mermaid Tavern and buying Marlo a drink. Malleson said, it's a hell of a dull story. I don't know about that, belcher said. I did something of the sort a couple of years ago. Got a cent and a half for it, eh, Joey? Also a bonus, joey said. Say, Dugan, you're not cribbing Belcher's yarn, are you? Certainly not. Dugan looked shocked. Well, the research man had less than a day. There was some trouble locating the New Shakespeare's address, and when he did it was already late at night. Now here's the first little surprise. The man lived in the Bronx. We smile back at him because most of us live in the Bronx. Maybe it was a kind of sour smile, but we appreciated the irony. No bohemian Greenwich Village, no romantic New England retreat. Just unadulterated Bronx. Dugan said he lived in an ordinary apartment house, one like a million others. The research man hadn't time enough for formality, so at three in the morning he learned how to operate the self service elevator, went up to the apartment, and broke in to snoop around. He expected at least to find something different to see in the furniture and decorations and books and an outward sign of the New Shakespeare's great talent. But it was just a plain apartment, so plain that it needs no description. When I say that there are a million others like it, I've described it down to the ultimate detail. What did he expect? Joey asked. Genius. Isn't that what we all expect of genius? Dugan countered. Certainly the research man was disappointed. He sneaked a look at the sleeping genius and saw a dull, undistinguished person thrashing ungracefully about on the bed. Nevertheless, he crept about silently taking motion pictures. And at 3am oh, well, Dugan said. Cameras of the 23rd century and all that, you know, could be, Jinx said. Infrared photography. The little guy with the pipe bobbed his head as though he'd invented infrared rays. Then Dugan went. He went to the New Shakespeare's desk and gathered all the manuscripts he could find, because in his time there were no surviving manuscripts from his hand and nowhere's the final surprise. Don't tell me, Chenk said he'd gone to the wrong apartment. Belcher said, no, that's what I used. The surprise is, dugan said, that the research man is doing this work for his doctorate and he knows he'll never get his degree because even coming back to the time of the New Shakespeare, he can't gather enough material. Dugan looked around expectantly, but it had laid an egg. There was an uncomfortable pause while Mallison mumbled bitterly to himself. Jenks was very unhappy and tried to say complimentary things. I suppose he felt responsible. Only I wasn't doing much supposing because I had the most peculiar sensation. I believe Dugan's story. I was thinking of that manuscript that had blown out the window, and I was trying to remember whether I'd used a paperweight to anchor it down. I was thinking of that gadget with buttons, and I was realizing how this mysterious Dugan slipped from one tense to another, which is a thing all writers are conscious of and which began to have psychological import for me. But the most convincing thing of all was how the others were looking at Dugan. Belcher was staring keenly from under his black eyebrows. Belcher, who wrote that sort of stuff and who should have been sophisticated. The little guy with the pipe was absolutely electrified. I knew it couldn't be the story because the story was lousy even for pulp. Finally Dugan said, it's all there is. How'd you like it? Malison said it stinks, and probed in his pockets, her cigarettes. What was this New Shakespeare's name? Belcher asked. Slowly, Dugan said, I haven't decided yet. The little guy took the pipe out of his mouth. What was the name of the story he took? Belcher said, yes. What was it? Dugan shrugged and smiled. I haven't decided yet. It's not really important, is it? I said, Dugan, when was that manuscript taken? I know it was foolish, but I had to ask, and none of the others seemed to think it peculiar. They leaned forward with me and waited for Dugan's answer. He looked at me, still smiling, and as I stared at those blurry eyes behind the vast thick lenses, I began to shake with uncertainty. In all that blur there was a strangeness, a something. Oh, hell. Suddenly Belcher began to laugh. He laughed so hard he overturned his wine bottle and we all had to scurry out of the wet. When it came time to sit down again, the spell was broken. Anyway, the luncheon was over. When I got outside, Joey was standing there with Dugan. He was saying, I'm afraid you haven't got much of a yarn there. Dugan said, I suppose so. Only he didn't seem put out. He shook hands with us cheerfully, said he hoped he'd see us again, and turned toward Broadway. We all waved once just to be polite, and then lost all interest. We turned on Joey to see if we could get the price of that lunch out of him, and we kidded Jinx about the lousy stories he picked up. Maybe it was because some of us felt a little self conscious. I know. I glanced over my shoulder and felt guilty when I noticed Dugan standing on the corner. He was watching us intently and adjusting his glasses with both hands. Then I stopped haggling with Joey and turned around because. Well, because it occurred to me that cameras of the 23rd century could be so small you couldn't see them at that distance. All that flash and glitter couldn't be coming just from Dugan's glasses. Yes, brother. I turned around while Gray's elegy went thrumming through my head. It could be Belcher or Jinx or Malison or the little guy with the pipe, but I don't think so. I've got a pretty good idea who it is, because something suddenly occurred to me. I turned around to give Dugan a nice full face, and I waved because one of those scraps of paper I thought had been blown in my window was marked very peculiarly in red load only in total darkness. Expires December 18, 2241 end of the Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester.
[22:37]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
In his image By Bryce Walton from planet stories Winter 1948 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 Towering and invulnerable, they stood on the hills, patiently waiting their master. Meanwhile, they slew the vermin that crawled below in his image. By Bryce Walton John ran down the long corridor and into the old man's room. He was breathless as he threw himself on his face. Beneath the old man's chair, made from gypsum, a kind of savage eagerness lighted his face. But the old man's face, a frozen pallid ball, crackled into a million lines, was sad and hopelessly resigned. I seen em. John cried. I seen em. His unhealthy pallid body, though big and raw boned, was slender and writhed with a leathery strength that comes with constant effort and exercise rather than diet and sun. The old man struggled. His voice was a hoarse whisper in that one cavern among the hundred and fifty miles of corridors, interlocking levels and rivers that made up the underground hideaway. So you seen em, John? Many have seen the Mecs. And the Mecs might have seen you too, if they ever find us here. Well, they'd probe us out like we were grubs. And they'd burn us with those red ray eyes. Why'd you go up on top? You know it's against the rules. Jon got up. His chest heaved. His eyes were polished beads in a thick nest of reddish beard. Cause I don't like living in this cave like a grub. I been up twice and now I can't stay down here any more. Nobody else got guts enough to go up. Let em stay down here and rot. But I'm going back on top, Chief, and I'm staying up there. The old man leaned back. He couldn't hide the gleam of gruff respect in his eyes. Go ahead, John, but don't come back down. Once they get on your trail. You can't shake em and you'd lead em right back here and then they'd get the rest of us. As far as I know, John, we're the only humans left. John's hands clenched. And so might all of us be dead too, living down here in this cave where there ain't no sun, eating lizards and snakes and dying off one by one? Anyway, we're all going to be dead in another year. What's so great about spending a year crawling and grubbing down here, scared to even take one last look at the sun? It's not for me, Chief. I'm leaving the old man shrugged again. Go ahead, I said. Just promise not to ever come back and lead them down here. You'll promise that, John? Something thickened in his throat, but he managed to say yes. He turned, then twisted back toward the old man. You're smart, he said. You're supposed to know about when they took over. I ask others. No one seems to know, and they care less. Would you tell me, Chief? What are they? The mechs? The old man's voice echoed strangely against the surrounding grotesque bars of limestone stalactites and stalagmites in multicolored hues of fusing reds and orange, purple and browns. A pinched face peered at them from between the ancient bars.
[26:52]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
When you're a maintenance engineer in a beverage manufacturing plant, you keep production lines moving and quality on track because there
[27:00]
is no room for slowdowns.
[27:02]
With Grainger's vast selection of high quality motors, sensors, belts, and hard to find parts, you can get what you need fast and all in one place. So nothing gets in the way of getting the job done. Call 1-800-GRAINGER clickranger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done. Grainger knows. When you're a procurement manager for an office park, you're not managing one building, you're managing all of them. And to stay ahead, you need to see through walls and around corners. Lights about to fail, filters ready to clog H Vac on its last leg. If you wait until something breaks, you're already behind. Count on Grainger for quality products, easy reordering, and 24. 7 support. Call 1-800-GRAINGER Click grainger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done. When you're a maintenance engineer in a beverage manufacturing plant, you keep production lines moving and quality on because there is
[28:00]
no room for slowdowns. With Grainger's vast selection of high quality
[28:05]
motors, sensors, belts, and hard to find parts, you can get what you need fast and all in one place so nothing gets in the way of getting the job done. Call 1-800-GRAINGER clickgrainger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done,
[28:22]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
then withdrew its tired eyes. Maybe there's 50 humans left down here in the Mammoth hole, the old man said softly. Maybe there ain't nobody else left in the world. Just them with their silent machinery driving over the wastes and their red death eyes sweeping the dark, grubbing for us. The big war went on and on, nobody knows how long, but humans couldn't fight it too much deadly radiation. So they made the machines to fight for them. The sky and the land were just masses of machines, throwing out clouds and streamers and explosions. The land became nothing but pools and seas of deadly dust and fire. The sky was clouded with it and people went underground. They had to go deep down, and they couldn't come back up what was left of them for hundreds of years and more. The old man was gazing with a distant, haunted expression at the small blind lizard crawling up the painted wall. John listened. His skin was cold. A shiver ran down his back. Then they started grubbing the humans out and killing them. I don't suppose anyone knows how long it's been since they took over. That's wrong. I wasn't around then. Nor my father, nor my father's father's father. It was long, long before that. It was so long ago that the old man's eyes widened, his voice choked off with a cloud of unconscious fear that had slipped through. They're godly, he whispered. You seen em? They're all shapes and angles, cubes and small smooth running things. They all shine like metal. And I guess they are metal. Nobody knows what they are. I heard tell when I was a boy that they were just machines, machines built by humans a long time before, and somehow or other the hard radiation put a spark in em that made em able to think and move around and organize like humans used to do. But I reckon they're more intelligent than any humans ever were. Jon backed away, Sweat popped out coldly on his face and chest. I seen em, he choked. I sneaked on top. I went down to the river. It took me hours to get used to the sun. I waited until the sun started going down. Then I sneaked out and looked down the big hill that goes into the valley. I seen two of them. They must have been a hundred foot high. They was smooth. They had long snaky arms, single eyes that shot out red beams like fire. They stood on top of the hill against the sun. The sun was red all around them. They looked like they were made of metal all right, Chief. But how can they move by themselves and think if they're metal? The old man sighed. How? He peered at John with tired, retreating eyes. What is? Thought he said. Then. What is life? Ever Floods of gamma rays bathed them for centuries, and then they were living and they had thoughts of their own. Humans never got a chance to find out what life was before he took it away from himself. He took it and gave it to them. The old man dropped his face in his Shaking hands, Jon had never heard a man cry before. He backed away slowly, then turned and ran out of the great cavern. A gray, dusky afternoon was dying when John crawled out of the small hall between rocks and started writhing down the hill. His eyes stayed open in fearful wonderment until tears rolled down his cheeks, the soft greens and browns of the great forest that thinned up into the hills. There was not the slightest hint that beneath this vast, silent beauty stretched the enormous, grotesque underworld of Mammoth Hole. Nor that in those nameless caverns and corridors along the cold and rushing and naked rivers, a few unkempt savages clung to dim memories of centuries lost power and surface civilization. Jon stopped. An intangible yet powerful emotion surged in him. I'm crawlin, he gritted as he sat up. I said I was sick at crawlin'. I ain't a grub. I'm not crawlin any more. Not for those damned machines, not for anything. They can't do nothing but kill me. And what's life down in that hole. He stood up. He stood up straight and started walking down the rocky trail and finally along the smooth greenness beside the river. His strides were long and unhesitating, but inside him was a deep, growing horror as he remembered those shiny silver giants that had stood so silently on the hill against the red sunset, the huge, attentive, waiting stillness and the sudden terrible sweep of the red beam eyes and the reaching of the metal arms. He stopped and looked down at his thin white legs, starved of sun, knotted and scarred from crawling over the harsh underground paths. He looked at his gnarled, pallid fingers quivering in the cold. He looked up at the sky. A few stars were showing dimly, palely. Oh God, give me a quick ending when my time comes, that's all I ask. Don't let me crawl any more on my belly. Give me the guts to keep walking straight up like I'm walkin now. There was no answer. There was no sound except the cry of birds in the forest, the drone of insects and other louder noises from the river. He was alone. He walked faster, but soon he tired because he had never walked far at a time. Underground people crawled a lot of the time through narrow holes, and under there no one could walk far unless they went in circles. He sat down to rest beneath the canopy of stars. He lay back and looked at them, a feeling of frightful awe pressing down upon him. The night around him was colder now, and the sounds of the night had risen to a hungry song. And then he rolled over with a quick, terrible cry, leapt Crouching to his feet. There were at least a dozen of them, great, shiny, angular and cubed monsters sliding noiselessly down the hill. A peculiar bluish radiance pushed out around them, bathed the surrounding night in a deadly seeming pall. With a pathetic defiance, John picked up a heavy stone, stood with legs wide apart, holding the rock in front of him. Every nerve in him shrieked, pulling his muscles away. But he couldn't run. He couldn't run nor crawl any more. A kind of dark, resigned courage replaced the first impulses of flight, and he hurled the rock. There was a futile thud and the rock bounded from the great unruffled wall of metal. Then, for an instant, he didn't think the thoughts, the voices were anything but his own. Strange, alien, terrifying, inspired by his own fears. Then he realized it was the mechs. A grub. Yes. I thought they were all gone. No, there are some remaining deep in the soil. Central files say they are no longer of any danger. But Files also retains the order to kill all organic things. John moved toward them. He moved stiffly, a strange and intangible bulwark of purpose shielding him from the screaming horror. Something of the awful indignity of his position shook him, sent a hot rage throbbing blindly past his temples. He heard his breath coming hard from Titan throat. These great nameless things, machines, intelligent metal, it didn't matter what. They had no idea of what he was, that he had a brain, that he could think. And yet their gigantic thoughts were plain to him. Sometime so very long ago, he, his kind, humans, had made these things, had built them up from molten stuff, had put intricate interlocking machinery within them so that they could move, think for themselves, repair themselves. And then humans had launched the big war, had released seething seas of basic energy, and somehow these gigantic shining silver things had begun to live. But to them, John, a human, a descendant of the humans that had made them and given them life, was less than the dirt under their towering, invulnerable radiance, less than the dust beneath their sweeping red death eyes. They had no conception that he was anything but a pale, crawling cave worm. John walked closer. He was not so much afraid for himself now. There was more of a sweeping terror of the whole situation, the terrible futility and irony. He wasn't afraid to die. And he knew that he had to die now, and that there was no escape, no defense. He shook his fist at the silent, towering forms. Damn you. It's me. A man. Man. I'm human. I'm not crawlin', see? I'm not crawling. I'm talkin to you. I'm talking. I'm thinking too. See? It's making noises.
[40:02]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Yes.
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Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
All the various species of organic life make noises peculiar to their type. Have you not seen a grub before?
[40:12]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
No.
[40:13]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Let us kill it now. We must report back to central file. How long will it take to kill all organic life? Central file says it may take many more years, even though now most organic life has been destroyed. We must complete the task soon. You know man will return Glorious Man God, Mighty Man God. Man God the Creator. Man God the Eternal. Ah yes, Mighty Man God. How long will it be before the Man God's coming? Jon shivered, reaching out a shaking hand as though to support himself against the air. He tried to speak, but his facial muscles seemed frozen. He wanted to say, I'm Man. I'm your Creator. I made you long ago. But he could say nothing, nothing at all. That is not known. Man God made us in his own image, then departed, promising to return. Return to bring us glory and eternity. May the great Man God who created us from the lifeless stuff of the dirt return soon, for only then may our destiny be fulfilled. Yes, may Man God return soon. Meanwhile, Central files demands immediate action in preparation for that day. Kill this scrub. Soon all organic life that stands in the way of the Man God's coming will be eradicated. A thunderous impact of telepathic power roared in Jon's head as he staggered forward, fists clenched. For thee, Great Man God for whom we wait. Return, O Man God, to bring us glory. John laughed. Hot tears scalded his face as he laughed. He was still laughing as the red death eye brightened, leapt out and silently swept him away. The End of In His Image by Bryce Walton.
[42:49]
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Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey 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 Kelly Wilcox Baird Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey Councilman Curtis would never cooperate with Max Flea's plans for overthrow. But a duplicate of Curtis, a simulacrum which could not be distinguished from the real man, would follow Flea's orders to perfection. And one man, Jeremiah Greek, knew the secret of making the duplications. Max Flea's heavy jowls relaxed, and he chuckled without humor as he examined the knots that bound the man at his feet. Quite impersonally, he planted the toe of his boot in Curtis's ribs, listened to the muffled grunt of pain, and decided that the gag was effective, for once Slim had done a good job and there was nothing wrong. It was probably unnecessary anyway, but there could be no bungling when the future of the Plutarchy was at stake. Incompetence had cost them an empire once, and there would be no third opportunity. The stupid democracies that had called themselves a world union had colonized the planets and ruled them without plan. And when Mars, Venus, and the Jovian worlds had revolted and set up a Planet Planet Council, all that Earth could do was to come crawling to it, begging polite permission to join what they should have owned. But that had been before practical realists had kicked out the Dreamers and set up the Plutarchy under an iron discipline that could implement its plans. Now they were heading back toward their lost empire, colonizing the asteroids and establishing claims that gave them a rough rule of over the outlaws who had retreated there. With the Council softened up by years of cautious propaganda, they were in a position to ask and receive a mandate over the scattered planetoids. It was the opening wedge and all they needed. Once the asteroids could be given spurious independence to seek a council seat, they would be ready to strike at the Jovian worlds with proper incidents, propaganda, and quislings, plus the planetoids to separate Jupiter from Mars, there could be no question of the outcome. Earth would gain a majority of three votes, and the Council would be the basis of a new and greater Plutarchy. Flea gave the bound body of Curtis another careless kick and went forward to the cabin, where the lanky form of his companion was hunched dourly over the controls of the little spacecraft. How's it going, Slim? So so. Slim ejected a green stream of narcotic juice and grinned sourly. But I still say we've been crowding our luck too. Hard rot. Lay out the right moves, cover all possibilities, outmaneuver your enemies, and you don't need luck. Ever play chess? Nope. Can't say I did. Played the horses on Mars, though. Time we heisted the Euphemeron one two after I bought my lucky ghost charm. Been in the chips ever since. Slim's grin widened, but his face remained stubbornly unconvinced. Flea chuckled. If the planetoid outlaws depended on magic while the Council visionaries spouted sentimental twaddle, so much the better for the realists. Charms don't work in politics, Slim. We have to anticipate resistance. And you saw what happened to our fine Martian Counselor Curtis when he decided to expose us and ruin the mandate.
[46:40]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Yeah.
[46:41]
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Slim's yellow teeth chewed thoughtfully on his cud. S' pose he'd stood on Mars, though we'd have dropped hints and just the information he needed on Ceres and trapped him there as we did. Checkmate or check out so when he don't come back they smell a rat and I ain't planning on being around to chew rat poison. My grandpappy killed a counselor once. Poor grandpappy. Hey, there's the rock. There was no outward sign of life on the barren little planetoid, but as the ship came to a grinding stop in a narrow gorge, a concealing shield snapped over them and a crudely painted sign blazed out in phosphorescent gaudiness on one Rocky Wall. Simulacra Ltd. Jeremiah Greek proprietor. A line in Greek characters Specialist and another line in Greek characters Flea came out of the lock first and paused while he waited for Slim to shoulder the tarpaulin, covered Curtis and follow. He grinned and pointed at the Greek characters in the sign. Magician and Wonder Worker Specialist in imitation and mockery. He translated. I looked it up on Mars, so don't go thinking it's some kind of spell now if the old fool will open up. Max remembered his own preconceptions of Greek's process, pictured various impressive looking apparatus which included a large tube through which some sort of lightning zigzagged and a beautiful woman taking form from stream of transmuted elements streaming from the top. It was nothing like such cinematic ledger domain, of course. Why ain't English good enough for him? Complained Slim. I don't go for that magic stuff, Max. We've been but the Sigma was already swinging back on its tips to reveal a passage through the rock. A little shriveled man and tattered shorts and thick lensed glasses stood motioning them in impatiently, and the door closed silently. When they obeyed his summons they headed down a side passage toward a ramp and the sound of busy humming Greek threw open a door and pointed to a table where the duplicate of Counselor Curtis lay. With the duplicate Jeremiah Greek fussing over it and humming through his nose, the guide dropped to a bench and began removing his chest and inserting a fresh power pack between two terminals. Slim's mouth dropped open and his burden slipped from his back to the floor with a sudden thump while he stared from one Greek to the other and back to the first. His fingers were stretched in the ancient sign of the horns as he watched the changing of accumulators and his voice was hoarse and uncertain. A damned robot. Not a robot, a simulacrum denied the owl eyed man who must have been the original of the metal Creature? I'm a mimist, not a creator. A robot has independent life, but that's only a limited copy of my memories and habits. Like this phony Curtis and those tapes you brought me, Flea. They stink. He gestured toward the spools of the marvelous wire that could record electromagnetic waves of any type of frequency, up to several million megacycles. In one corner, a stereo player was running one off, but the vision screen was fuzzy and and the voice part was a mass of gibberish. Flea scowled at it and turned back suspiciously to Greek. Sure you know how to use them? Those were made by by a fool who had a shield leak in his scanner. Only a few were any good. I was using pan cyclic tape before you ever saw a stereo record. Where do you think I impress my simulacrum's memory on a real brain? It takes miles of tape to feed the selectrons. I did the best I could, but here, take a look. He reached into the false Curtis's mouth and did something that made the figure sit up. Suddenly Max went over and muttered into the thing's ear, but after the first few answers it lapsed into sullen silence and he swung back towards Greek. I told you Curtis had to be perfect. This wouldn't fool a Jovian. And I told you I wasn't Jehovah. I specialize in mechanical imitations, greek answered shortly. Bum tape, bum simulacrum. If you brought me some decent reels, I'll see what I can do, though. Fleet grunted and yanked the tarpaulin off the real Curtis. At the site, new interest appeared on Greek's face, and he came over to examine the counselor, but stopped after a cursory look had shown that the man was still alive. He nodded. That's more like it, Flea. I'll set up an encephalograph and idea form analyzer and record directly off his mind. It's better than feeding impressions from tapes anyway, though I always used an editing circuit before. Okay, you'll get something his own mother would swear was perfect. When? Depends. Narrowband analysis would take a couple weeks, but it'd be permanent. If I run an all wave impressor in, the tapes will be barely affected. I can do it in 10, 12 hours, but your simulacrum will begin to fade in a week and wash out completely in a month. Suits me, Flea decided. We don't need them more than a few days. Any place where Slim and I can catch up on her sleep while you finish? Greek's double came to life at a signal and led them down a series of rock corridors to a room that lacked nothing in comfort. The then went silently out and left them alone, to Flea's relief. Slim tested the bed in sour displeasure, pulled a blanket off, and rolled up on the floor, leaving the flotation mattress unoccupied. He had as little use for such luxuries as his boss had for his presence in the same bed. Max climbed in and adjusted the sprigy dial to perfect comfort with a relaxed grunt of pleasure. He had no intention of sleeping, though, while things that concerned him were going on. Three hours later, he heaved out and slipped silently down the rocky halls on sponge rubber slippers. But his training had covered the stupidity of spy stereos, and there was nothing stealthy about his entry into the laboratory. Greek looked up from a maze of wires and gadgets with faint surprise but no suspicion. Couldn't sleep, flea volunteered apologetically. I was wondering if he had any barbiturates. A few minutes later he took the tablet from Greek's double and turned back down the hallway with a muttered thanks. He had learned all he wanted to know. Both Greeks and Curtises were present and accounted for where they belonged, and the mimemist was busy about his work. There was no funny business involved. Actually, he had expected none, but it never did any harm to make sure of such things when dealing with men who were outside the law of either the plutarchy or the Council.
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[55:17]
Slim was snoring and kicking about on the floor when he returned, and he grinned as he plopped back onto the mattress. The outlaws were useful enough now, but once Earth took over the mandate, something would have to be done about them. Too many were the wrong sort to fit into the Plutarchy. Flea stretched with a self satisfied yawn and slipped into well earned sleep. Greek simulacrum wakened them in the morning and led them back to the laboratory where the scientist was waiting beside the imitation Curtis. The real counselor must have been drugged, for he lay unconscious on one of the tables. Flea wasted only a casual glance at him and then turned to the new simulacrum as Greek flash flipped it on. This time his tests were longer and there were no sullen silences from the imitation. Its response was quick, sure, and completely correct. The real Curtis could have done no better, and Flea stepped back at last and nodded his approval. He demanded a perfect simulacrum and it had been delivered. You're sure it has a good strong desire to live? He asked briefly as he fished into his bag for the little prepared relay that was ready. Greek smiled faintly. They all have that. They couldn't pass as normal men without it, and if your dimensions were correct, you should have no trouble installing your relay. He stripped aside the blouse to reveal a small cavity in the back of the simulacrum with a bundle of little wires which Flea hooked into the relay. It slipped in and locked firmly. Greek unclipped the tiny switch from inside the machine's mouth. The animation within the simulacrum disappeared at once to snap back again as a switch on Flea's bag was pressed. A little circle of the pansilic strip moved over a scanner inside the bag, sending out a complex wave while a receiver in the simulacrum's back responded by closing the relay. Then the animation was cut off again and came back at once on a second pressure of the switch. Attempted removal of the relay will destroy all circuits, just as you ordered, greek assured the operative. Well. Flea's face mirrored complete satisfaction. You get the fire emeralds as promised. He reached into the bag and came out with a little bundle. A grin stretched across his face. It stayed there while Greek moved forward quickly to stagger back with a chopped off scream as the slugs poured into his face and exploded his head into a mangled mess of blood and gray tissue. For a second the Greek double moved forward, but it turned with a shriek and went down the hall at a clumsy run. As Flea ripped the smoking gun from the package, he let it go. Curtis's head dissolved under a second series of slugs and only the simulacrum of the counselor was left in the laboratory with the church two men. Slim closed his mouth slowly and reached for his green narcotic, but he made no protest. The other moved about, gathering up combustibles and stacking them in a corner, then setting fire to the pile. Which takes care of almost everything, Slim, flea said calmly. They headed out and down the hall toward their ship with the imitation Curtis moving quietly along behind. Another slug from the gun destroyed the lock on the big Sigma and they pushed through, out into the rocky gorge. Nothing left a chance and a perfect red herring to cover up Curtis's disappearance. Slim ducked into the lock and went forward to the controls. Uh huh. Grandpappy'd sure have admired you. Max used to look just the same when he drilled somebody he didn't like. All set for takeoff. Forgetting anything, Slim? The outlaw looked up in puzzled surprise while Flea shook his head and went over to the receiver. There was no sense in trying to teach the fool anything, apparently, but at least he might have learned elementary caution from his mode of life. The Plutarch operative ripped out the tape from the illegal all wave recorder and slipped it into a playback slot while slow comprehension crossed the other's face. But everything was in order, with the usual hash of faint signals on various frequencies. There were no signs of a strong response such as would have been made by an attempt on Greek's part to double cross him with a call to the outside. He set the receiver to record and went toward the rear cabin with the simulacrum while the ship blasted off and headed toward Mars. The false Curtis was already at a table and and groping through a bag of notes the original counselor had carried. It looked up as Flea came in, grimaced, and went on organizing the papers before it. The operative dropped to a chair with his familiar humorless chuckle. You realize your life is dependent on obedience, Curtis. Would I have let you kill myself otherwise? The thing asked grimly. Leave that control gadget of yours where I can get it, and you'll feel the difference between my hands and mere flesh ones. But meantime, I'll cooperate Since I have no choice, I suppose you intend helping me with my speech before the Council. Flea's appreciation for the peculiar genius of Greek went up several points as he assented tersely. The thing was perfect, or so nearly so that it seemed to consider itself the real man. There would be no trouble on that score. As for the control bag, he had no intention of letting that out of his hands until the simulacrum was turned off. It gestured toward the notes with a motion peculiar to Curtis. You'd only ruin anything you edited, Flea. I'm perfectly capable of writing the thing myself, and it'll sound like me, but if I'm going to give you a clean sheet and not make the whole Council suspicious, I'll need more information than I have. I must have the whole picture so that I can take care of all objections without running counter to what some other Counselors may know already. Also, I think you'd better learn to address me as Counselor Curtis. Quite so, Counselor Flea agreed, and this time the amusement in his laugh was genuine. Now, if you'll tell me what you know of our plans and methods, I'll fill in the blanks, but I want to see that speech when you're finished. It was amazing the amount of evidence Curtis had managed to accumulate in a brief week, or perhaps much of it had been in his hands before and only needed organizing against what they had let him find on Ceres. It was enough to have ruined all hopes of Earth's getting the mandate and seriously endangered her relations with the Planet Council. In addition, Flea made a mental note to press for an investigation of some of the Outland operatives. As he began filling in the missing links in the other's information, Curtis took the facts down in a notebook, grim faced and silent, checked them back, and reached for the typewriter. The first part of the speech he had meant to deliver needed but slight modification, and Flea read it over the simulacrum's shoulder as it operated the machine. Then the going grew tougher, and there were long pauses while the thing considered revising a word here or changing a paragraph there. It disregarded Flea's suggestion with the same disdain that would have been on the real Counselor's face, and the operative began to realize that it was justified when it came to writing speeches. He was only an amateur, and this was professional work. He was beginning to regret that the thing could have a life of only from a week to ten days. When it finished, Earth could have used such a propagandist, particularly one accepted on the Council as Mars Chief Representative Curtis's speeches had always been good, but but he had never realized that the man's talents would have been equally good on propaganda. It was hard to believe that this was fiction as he listened to the calm, assured voice running through it, apparently reciting only the simple truth and yet coloring every word with some trick of oratory that seemed to make it glow with virtue and integrity. Perfect, he commented. When it was finished, he cut off the relay signal, watched the simulacrum slip to the floor, and went forward to the control cabin with a full measure of satisfaction. Earth could not fail, and already the red disk of Mars was large and close in the viewplate. Flea hadn't realized the time the writing of the speech had taken, but he did not regret a second of it as Slim began nursing the ship down through the thin atmosphere toward the solar center. The taste of coming victory was strong in Max Flee as he waited outside the Martian house the the next day, but Slim was still glum and morose. Part of that was probably due to his orders to stay out of the usual outlaw haunts on the planet where the police might have picked him up and ruined the whole plan. The rest, Flea decided, was just his natural fear of what he could not understand. The outlaw was grumbling and turning his lucky ghost charm over and over in his palms, leaving the thing run around this way. We've been lucky, Max, but taint reasonable to figure it a hold. You should have let me tail him. Sure, Slim. People expect him to go around with you at his heels. No doubt. Fleece spat dango seeds out of the open car window and took another bite of the cool fruit before going on. We have to let him circulate. No, Counselor, just back from a two week trip would hole up before this meeting when he had instructions to pick up any last minute details piling in or Besides, we're not dealing with Curtis now, but with a machine, and it knows who its master is. The minute I cut the relay or it gets 10 miles away from me, no life. He spotted the simulacrum coming down the steps and jumped out to open the car door. Slim grunted dourly, pulling his chauffeur's cap further down over his forehead, but he took the curt order from Curtis with no other protest and headed the big car toward the council chambers. The counselor passed over two slips of elaborate pasteboard and leaned back against the seat. Passes for the two of you. Are you sure Slim knows what he's to do? There was a disgusted sound from the front, but Flea ignored it. He'd better. We've been over it often enough, but go ahead and make sure the the simulacrum ticked off the points with incisive authority. The council chamber was radiation proof, and since Curtis would not be trusted with the relay signal, the success of the whole thing depended on Slim's behavior. Max had secured a duplicate of his signal generator, which the outlaw was to use outside the assembly while Flea went inside with his and waited. The operative had developed complete confidence in the ability of the false Curtis, and he was sure of his own part. It was all up to Slim, but there was no reason for him to fail, and he had always taken orders well enough before. Actually, it all went off with perfect smoothness. The guards passed him in after a careful scrutiny of his permit, and he carried the briefcase that held the generator up to the gallery and turned it on. Seconds later the simulacrum came through the big doorway with only a slight flicker of uncertainty as the anti radiation shield touched him and he passed from one generator to the other. Curtis walked along the aisle with the proper confidence and attention to his friends, presented his credentials for the purely perfunctory examination, and turned off into one of the little council rooms. Two of the other Martian counselors followed him and passed out of Flea's field of view, but he was not worried about that. Slim came slouching down the gallery stairs and dropped into a seat beside the operative, putting the duplicate generator between his feet. Satisfied? Perfect, Flea assured him they would reverse it going out. After that, Curtis would announce that he was leaving on a long trip to Ganymede, and they would be able to dispose of the simulacrum without any parts left to show what he was. Then Curtis came back into the main chamber. Apparently the council had been waiting for his return, for the sergeant at arms waved for order, and the meeting began with almost no preliminaries. Earth brought up the subject of the mandate, and the head of the Venus Council began to come to his feet. But Curtis was up first, and the chair recognized him. Flea relaxed completely as the familiar words of the speech began to come to him, while the Venusians glanced about in surprise and then began to listen. A moment later they were under the sway of his oratory. The single speech should do it, since the question had been tentatively decided in favor of Earth at the last meeting, pending Curtis's investigation. By night the mandate should be a fait de camp, Li and Earth could begin moving out her mercenary legions in the squat mining freighters. Flea had a pretty good idea of who would lead them? He'd been in line for promotion for some time already, and the Plutarch had dropped hints of the outcome of success. It would be good to leave the dubious position of operative and become a legally recognized governor of the Mandate planetoids to settle down and begin organizing his own private little plans for the Plutarch's job. Slim nudged him with the bony knee, but Flea was too wrapped in his own thoughts to bother until the other seized his elbow and hissed at him. Then he came out of his daydreams. Something was going on. The counselors were paying too careful attention, and the Earth delegation didn't look right. In a second his mind was back on the speech, and the words came to a chilling focus in his ears. Found the organization inconceivably complex, and yet the basic pattern is old. Old is barbarism that prompted it. Gentlemen. I have only my word as evidence now, but I can name names and give exact locations that will enable our planetary police to confirm every word of it before night falls on this meeting. The Plutarch of Earth, on 20 April, 42 years ago, gave the following orders, which I quote Flea grabbed for Slim's generator and yanked the button savagely. But still the damning words went on, detail piling on, exact detail, while secret servicemen moved forward to cut the speaker off from the Earth delegates. Their rudeness was an open declaration that Earth was immediately severed from the Council.
[70:30]
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[72:00]
Max ripped out the generator, crushing the delicate tubes in his hands. He was stamping on his own device at the same time, but the voice went on unchecked. Down on the floor, Curtis looked upwards without pausing in his detailed list of evidence, found the operative's eye, and grinned. Then he resumed his normal gravity and went on. Slim's hands were trembling and fumbling over his charm. Flea practically carried him to the aisle and dragged him along as he made his way up the infinite distance to the gallery door. Every step was made with the expectation of a shouted order from Curtis that would send the big explosive slugs tearing through him. But it did not come. Instead, there was only the quiet continuance of the speech and Slim's hoarse prayers to the ghosts of the Charm to save them. Surprisingly, the doors opened in the hands of the courteous guards, and the hall was before them with no police in sight. Max cut Slim's babbled relief off with a crisp whisper. We're not out of it, you fool. 10 to 1 it's cat and mouse with us, the losers. But if we're going to make use of the 10th chance, shut up. Walk, damn it, and grin. There was another flight of stairs leading down a long hall and a second door that opened promptly and politely as they neared it. Then the main steps led down to the street. It was impossible that the simulacrum could have given no orders for their arrest, as impossible as the relay could be tampered with. But the big car waited on the curb, and there were still no police reaction left Slim drooling narcotic juice over the hands that were caressing and kissing the charm. Flea yanked him savagely into the car and gunned the electros. It went tearing out into the street under full power while a wild yellow despair ripped out of the outlaw's throat. My ghost charm. He was pawing frantically at the door lock with his face swiveled around toward the bright, receding twinkle of the metal piece on the sidewalk behind Max. Max, shut up and stay put. There must be a hundred more of those things you can buy if we get out of this, Flea freed a hand and forced the cringing fool back into the seat, where he relaxed woodenly, terror fading out to sullen despair that gradually mingled with doubt. Then let's get out quick, Max. Oncet we hit Earth, I know a guy's got another taint as good a ghost with it as mine, but it ain't no fake neither. You gotta give me enough to get it, Max. Flea hid his thin grin from the other. They'd need more than a ghost charm or even planning if they ever went to Earth. He'd seen what happened to failures there, and he knew that it would be better to walk into the nearest Planet Police bureau. But he reached over soothingly and patted the outlaw's shoulder. Sure, Slim. We'll get you another maybe before we leave here. It shouldn't be hard to find one of the charm peddlers and dope up a story. There was a place on Venus where they could hide once Slim worked up his nerve to pilot them there and provided that their luck held long enough to keep the police from impounding the little craft. But the hideout would take money, and that had to come first. Planning took care of that. He'd always been careful to avoid tying his personal fortune up in the Earth operative strongholds. He swung the car around a corner, glanced up at a jeweler's sign, and cursed without slowing down. The red light was on, warning that it had been raided. One of his secret quarters gone. He stopped obediently for a through highway and roared on. But the second was no better. There was sweat on his forehead and his hands were slippery with it. When he headed out Marr's Center Canal into the suburbs. Damn Curtis. It was impossible for him to have found the hideout, or should have been. But there was no warning light in the window of the third and last place. The lawyer's faded sign swung in the thin wind, and everything was serenely peaceful. Flea jerked Slim out of the car, set its automatic chauffeur, and let it go rolling off. Then he moved up the stairs with the outlaw at his heels, listened cautiously at the door, and nodded. The steady click of a typewriter indicated that the scrawny little secretary was doing the routine office work, and Sammy must have been undisturbed. He opened the door eagerly to a louder clicking from the typewriter above it. Curtis looked up with an assured smile and waved the grandfather of all hand weapons at him in genial greeting. Come in, Max, he said cordially. Like my double speech. Slim's trembling hand fumbled out automatically in a Sign of the horns. His blanched mouth worked furiously, but the words refused to come until Curtis turned to him, then jerked back, waving his fingers. He couldn'ta. We'd a beat him, Max. He's dead. He's a ghost. Flea's hand groped for him and missed. Another apparition came from the room from the inner office. This one was a shriveled little man without eyes that blinked at them out of thick lensed spectacles. Jeremiah Greek picked up a pencil with a contented grin, drew it across the bare flesh of his arm, and held the red mark that rose on the skin out toward the outlaw. In the flesh, he stated, but Slim was no longer listening. Slowly, as if moved by worn down clockworks, he slid down the wall and his dead faced head bent forward to meet the knees that drew upwards. There he stayed motionless. If that's catatonic, return to the fetal position. It's an all time record for speed, curtis commented with quiet interest. Sit down, Max. You seem to have overestimated your companion's moral fiber and underestimated your opponents. Never count on luck. It takes planning to get anywhere in this universe. By the way, Jeremiah Greek is the original inventor of the Pan Cyclic Tate. You should have checked up on him before you trusted him and found out the way your plutarchy gypped him out of his invention, he wasn't the sort of man who'd cooperate very well with Earth. In fact, he was the sort who could and would fake a tape for your recorder to cover up the call he put in under my code to the Martian Council. Flea moved towards the chair as the gun commanded. Only half conscious of the words, he sank into a sitting position, his eyes churning savagely and getting nowhere. Play along. Keep your eyes open. If you let the other guy make the moves, he'll slip up somewhere. It was basic training to operatives, though there was uncertainty in even that logic now. But there was nothing else to do. Greek picked up the account. With the promise of secrecy from Counselor Curtis and a chance to do legitimate research here, I felt quite free to drop my very doubtful loyalty to my native planet. Mr. Flea, those two simulacra you shot were crude, and the brain and blood imitation was quite poor, I thought. But fortunately you didn't investigate thoroughly. I didn't think the relay control could fail, so you simply let the surmulicrum collapse and took its place. Flea was forcing himself to casualness while his brain hashed over all the rules for upsetting a trap, but it returned inevitably to the basic need of Stalling for time and keeping them talking. Not at all, curtis corrected him. We were late returning, so they simply used an all wave receiver to record your control signal on pancyclic tape, inserted it into the generator, and the simulacrum had his freedom in his pocket Two minutes after you turned on your control in the council chamber. You really didn't think I'd leave my speech in the middle to chase you when I had a perfectly good double, Surely. Flea's eyes darted to Slim, but there would be no help from that quarter. Not a muscle had moved since the outlaw had collapsed on the floor. He forced himself to relax, deliberately relax. As long as he was tensed up in the chair, they'd watch him. But they d be less cautious if he seemed to abandon hope. And he was younger and faster than they were, in spite of his fat Greek's amused cackle broke his chain of thought. So simple a solution, Max. But of course an involute brain would miss just that. That's fine. Relax. And when you start anything, you'll be surprised to find how quickly and efficiently a couple of sentimental visionary fools can shoot. Or do you think, Counselor, that we're really such fools? I doubt it, curtis answered with the same hard amusement in his voice. As I see it, a reactionary is simply unable to adapt to new conditions. He's filled with a blind, stubborn dependence on the rude past. The brute force is an admission of that intellectual poverty, Max. You should have studied history better. The addle padded idealists have a particular habit of winning. They stood there grinning and studying their captive with the one thing in the universe he had never encountered open contempt. Flea wet his lips, glancing from one to another and considering the hopeless distance to the door, and suddenly the beginnings of an idea permeated through the hard knot of fear in his brain. They didn't believe in brute force. They wouldn't kill him without provocation. They couldn't turn him into the police. He swung back to Curtis, and this time there was a grin on his own lips. You said you promised Mr. Greek secrecy, counselor, not immunity. Because the old law against making robots is too strong and simulacra would be considered robots. Well, just how do you figure you can turn me over to the authorities without breaking that promise and and having him strung up beside me?
[82:20]
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[84:20]
I never meant to turn you in, Curtis answered. And you said yourself the brute force was stupid. Quite true. It was Greek who answered this time. But the rules of justice sometimes invoke it. The penalty for treason like that, for robbery, is still death, though we've abandoned most other reasons for capital punishment. Then turn me in or kill me yourselves, and you'll find that brute force really is stupid on Mars. The police here are the best in the system, which is why I always preferred to do my little jobs elsewhere. You amateurs wouldn't have a chance. Well. But he knew he had them, and the taste of freedom in his mouth was sweet after the fear and hopelessness of their gloating power. He did not wait for an answering nod from them, but turned from his chair in calm assurance, and headed for the door. Greek's voice interrupted his exit. Just a minute, Max. You really should know all your mistakes. And there's one we forgot. Never use a perfect simulacrum. It can't be perfect without thinking exactly like its original. The same mind must operate the same way. Your simulacrum was limited only by the time it could exist, and it knew that as well as knowing it was useless among real men. So what? Flea asked jauntily and reached for the door. And so long steel hands grabbed him, and a pair of arms with inhuman strength picked him up and turned him around to face the two men. Curtis dropped his gun onto the table with a slow, deliberate motion, holding the struggling operative with a single hand while he stretched the other out to Jeremiah Greek. Then he turned toward the door, dragging the fat body of Flea along without effort. So when you're found dead in your house, killed by the robot, you are having built in some fiendish plot against Counselor Curtis, I don't think the police will worry beyond seeing that both you and the robot are thoroughly beyond repair. There was bitterness in the voice of the simulacrum, but it was resolute and determined bitterness. When the real Curtis replaced me in the council chamber, he meant to make my few days of existence as pleasant as possible. But even a limited simulacrum likes to be useful. Come along, Max. Max Flea went along. There was nothing else he could do as the duplicate of Curtis tossed him into a small car and began driving back toward the town and the house that had been his Martian home and would soon be his tomb. He couldn't even think straight, for his head insisted on dwelling on nonsense. Slim had been right, after all, and his ghost charm had brought him luck even after he lost it. But for a man who had refused to believe in it, there was no hope for such insane oblivion. There was simply no hope of any kind. End of Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey.
[87:35]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Beyond Lies the WUB 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 the loading. Outside stood the Optis, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning. What's the matter? He said. You're getting paid for all this? The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his his robes. The captain put his boot on the hem of the robe. Just a minute. Don't go off. I'm not finished. Oh. The Optus turned with dignity. I am going back to the village. He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. I must organize new hunts. Franco lit a cigarette. Why not? You people can go out into the veld 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. He looked at his watch. We 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 toward 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 toward him. What is it? The wub stood sagging. It's its gray body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail. 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. A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed on 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 spite of 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 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. Said 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. You got this for 50 cents? Yes, sir, peterson said. It eats almost every anything. I fed it on grain, and it liked that. And then potatoes and mash and scraps from the table, and milk. It seemed to enjoy eating. 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 anymore. 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 small, silent. What was that? Franco said. Just now? The wub, sir, peterson said. It spoke. They all looked at the wub. What did it say? What did it say? It suggested we talk about other matters. Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Side. Then he came back over and stood with the men. I wonder if there is a native inside it, he said thoughtfully. Maybe we should open it up and have a look. Oh goodness. The wub cried.
[94:43]
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[96:43]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
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 wub waited, good naturedly, licking the water from its jowls. Coming to my office, the captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub 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 hear. 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. All right, he said. Said, let's get started. You're a wub, is that 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?
[99:07]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
No.
[99:08]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
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. I see, the captain said. Telepathy. Of course. We are a very old race, the Wubs 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. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run. Too soft to fight. Too good natured to hunt for game. How do you live? Plants? Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very Catholic. Tolerant. Eclectic Catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten a 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 the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle. A bit for your pet cat. So you read minds, The Captain 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 them. Indeed. The captain nodded. But to get back to the problem.
[101:34]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
Quite so.
[101:35]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact 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 will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage, I know. The Wub 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 infinite infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote. The captain walked to the door. Nuts to you, he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth. He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his 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. Ishtar, Odysseus. Peterson sat silently staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair. Go on, he said. Please go on. I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wonders as an individual aware of himself, himself as such. This is the idea 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 over here. There was silence. Go ahead, the wub said. It doesn't matter. Peterson stood up. What for? 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 toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the the wall. It is interesting, the wub said, that you are 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, french said. For God's sake. Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray 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.
[106:27]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
Who?
[106:27]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
The captain. 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 of the way. The men pulled aside toward the door. You are quite afraid, aren't you? The wub said. Have I done anything to you? I. I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being, like yourselves. I am curious to see your ship, learn about you, I suggested to the native. The gun jerked. See, Franco Sa said. I thought so. The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it. It is very warm, the wub said. I understand that we are close to the Jed's 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. I'll do it. You can watch. French nodded. Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib cage 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 have 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. Franko walked toward 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 savior related. It stopped, staring at the gun. Can you look 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 around 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. More. And some wine perhaps? Not me, french said. I think I'll go back 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 staring down at him, his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat. He opened his mouth. No sound came. The captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder. It is 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 is 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 he said. I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true. The taste of wub very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past. He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson and 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, said Odysseus, as I understand him. End of Beyond Lies the Wub by Philip K. Dick Read by D. Searles.
[112:26]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
The Terror by Alfred Koppel this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the Wars of Nerves the cold wars of the early 20th century pale into insignificance beside the fear that beset humanity when Jan Carvill returns from space. The Terror by Alfred copple from Quintus Bland's History of Mankind, chapter 24 the Terror these are the Halcyon years. The awful goad of the Terror is gone and men can look into the sky without fear. The new colonies thrive among the low red hills of Mars, in the icy moraines of IO, Europa, and Titan. Starships are poised on the outer moons. Perhaps soon Earth will wear a diadem of stars. Yet some of the bitterness of the fear ridden years is with us still. Forgiveness does not come easily to those who have suffered the humiliation of the Terror. There are the blighted lives to remember and the unfortunates who lived and died under the threat of annihilation from the sky. Jan Carvel's memory is accused, for it was Carvel who brought the terror of the man himself. Little is known he lived and died in the first decade of the conquest of space or in the last decade of the nationalist era. Since they coincide. A few short years have passed since the first successful moon flights and the establishment of the space stations and the tensions that had been mounting among the nations of Earth were nearing the breaking point. Lunaris was moon base then and the launching racks were pointed back toward Earth and not toward the planets. Intense activity had turned the moon into an atomic arsenal, a focal point of all the destructive arts man had learned during and since the Second World War. The old countries, mainly the Soviet Union of socialist republics and the United States of America, stood with weapons poised and seemingly eternal Cold War steadily growing hotter. The moon base was American and the space stations were Russian. A parity of weapons had been reached and jingoists cried for war. History does not record the exact date of Jan Carville's departure from the Earth moon system. It is known that he was an American, a qualified moon pilot and a fanatic on the subject of planetary exploration. It is also known that he boarded an experimental long range rocket bomber without authorization and vanished from the arsenal in Tycho. Some have suggested that he did not steal the craft and that he was actually ordered on his epoch making flight, presumably in search of military useful information. This is unlikely. Having reached the moon and turned it into a fortress, the United States lost interest in space travel. Carvel chafed under the restraints placed upon him and the Bureau of Security. It is therefore more than just probable that he took it upon himself to press the cause of exploration without authority or sanction. The result of this irresponsible course of action was predestined. Carvel lost his ship and his life, but he left a legacy that was to shake the world. On the evening of January 17, 1971, some six years after Carvel's disappearance from Moon Base, the Pacific Radar watch detected an approaching missile. It was tracked for routine interception and one ground to air missile was actually launched at it before its erratic course identified the unknown rocket as a spacecraft in distress. Fortunately, the GTA missile was caught and neutralized before the interception occurred and the approaching spacecraft was allowed to crash in the middle of California's Central Valley, near what was then the city of Fresno. Jan Carville's ship crashed and burned. When he came back, search crews found the wreckage and it was immediately established as an experimental rocket bomber stolen six years before by Jan Carvill. It was badly smashed by the crash and in addition seemed to have sustained a considerable amount of battle damage. A charred body was removed from the rocket and identified as Jan Carville, the Craft's papers, however, were in an excellent state of preservation, it being indicated that Carvel sacrificed his own life to protect them. These papers, consisting of some photographs, some crudely drawn planetary maps, and a diary, were contained in a steel box addressed to the Secretary of Defense. They were rushed to his office without delay. Fortunately, he was at the time in New Washington, somewhere under the Great Lakes. Within 12 hours, a meeting was held among the chiefs of state of all the Western powers. Two hours later, a special courier plane was dispatched to Karabishev, the new Russian capital beyond the Urals, and the greatest joint effort in the history of mankind was begun. The terror had come to Earth. From the text of the President of the United States Message to Marshal Vasily Kimpov, the Russian dictator. In spite of our differences, therefore, I urgently request that you personally authorize the dispatching of qualified Russian experts to join in the Scientific Council now convening here to evaluate these terrifying documents. If you desire, hostages may be exchanged to assure the safety of your personnel. From the Carvel diary. I stood on the thin snowdrifts and looked westward into the setting sun. The vastness of the silent desert was red with faintly visible plumes of sand that rode high on the icy air. Above me, the sky was cobalt and the stars shone brightly and unwinking. The nearer moon rode low on the horizon, almost touching the tiny disc of the sun. I was alone, as I have been since leaving Earth. Nowhere on this world is there life, but here men might have lived and thrived, for there is beauty and peace. Later. I have found a rich vein of uranium ore. The ship's converter will serve to refine it. I can go on. When I return, I will build a cairn to prove that one man at least, was sane. Later. The landing was difficult, for the heat of the rocket blast volatilized the frozen methane under me. As I let her settle, the ship dug a pit in the glacier, and now she lies half buried in the yellowish ice. I slept and fed myself and put on a pressure suit. Outside, the cold and black sky pressed in on me, making me afraid. It is never dark here, for the planet fills the sky like a bloated yellow balloon. In the far distance, I can see a fault in the glacier, and the black rock of this moonlet shows through. I think there is silver in the rock. It streaks it like a pattern of filigree. There is little here, but the challenge of keeping alive. The cold depresses me, and the giant in the sky fills me with vertigo. I shall go on later. A giant ahead and a giant behind. The blackness of space is all around me. I grow used to it. I sleep and eat little now and weightlessness is beginning to sicken me. I have come a long way. The system ahead shows promise. Later, I landed the ship on a wide plain. Rubble is everywhere. Perhaps this was once a moraine. But even the glacier is gone now. In the light of the sun I can see the rising fault like a palisade. Some low hills and a talus flank it. Bright colors are sparkling there. I think the cliff is thick with gem deposits. Later, I do not like to leave this moonlet. It is small and friendly. The air is thin, but it makes the sky blue and not black. And that makes me think of Earth. Perhaps I should be thinking of going back. The fuel is getting low and the air in the ship is fouling. It will take a long time to reach home. Later, I will go on for a little while longer. I cannot help thinking that I will be the only one of my race to ever have seen these worlds. It is a godlike thought, but sad. At home there is nothing but hate and thoughts of killing. A great pity. The sky could be ours if we united. God have mercy on me. I have seen the face of doom. The great cratered plain that spread out below me is lined with ships. Great towering machines of war. We have waited too long. And now they have come. I am a soldier. A bad one, but still a soldier. I know the look of an invasion base when I see one. This is what I have seen. I will take pictures. I must return and warn them at home. They have so little time to prepare. Where have they come from? From the stars. They do not belong here. This tiny moonlet never gave them birth. Then whence have they come? And why, I am afraid? From the report of the UN Psychometry Evaluation Board. Careful study of the Carvel diary indicates that it is in fact authentic. Apparently, the loneliness of the protracted deep space flight shattered his mind. But his observations are in no wise to be discredited. For this reason it is highly possible that the invasion base was the culminating cause rather than the effect of Carvill's obvious psychosis. Further investigation is most definitely called for. From the statement of Representative L. Lewis, Frank, House Minority Leader, after meeting with administration officials. Unquestionably, the people must be told. From Pravda, official organ of the CP of the ussr the authenticity of the so called Carvel diary, at first doubted, has been established by Soviet experts. From the joint resolution of the General assembly of the UN the nations of Earth in general concourse assembled, do hereby proclaim a state of grave emergency and for the preservation of safety declare that the United nations shall be considered a world government with all necessary powers to command the massed armed forces of the member nations. The principle of unanimity among the major powers is indefinitely suspended. And a terrible year began with the return of Carvill's ship with its dread discovery. And people dreamed nightly of death from the skies. From the files of UNESCO fleet of 20 spacecraft under UN authority will depart from the UN moon base for Mars, there to establish a military and scientific base. Personnel will include Hanson White, astronomer Ivan Dieglishevsky, ecologist George Washington Lee, radiologist Consuelo Dias, cartographer Jules Feldman, physicist Kendo Higashi, psychologist. From the report of the first UN Martian expedition. Radar and watch stations established and garrisoned According to directive 2533. Bimonthly transportation service has been established between Kannapolis settlement and Luna. Combined efforts by UNESCO and UT armed forces personnel are being made to establish satellite stations. It is strongly urged by the project Committee that more personnel be sent to Mars. However, as a serious shortage of manpower has developed due to the feverish pace of this settlement's growth, colonization may be the answer. Nowhere have the UN patrols discovered any identifications of previous occupation by alien forces. Nothing resembling the invasion fleet discovered by Jan Carville has been located. However, the karn mentioned in the diary has been found, further supporting the authenticity of that document. Addendum in manuscript Higashi suggests that the message found in the CARN confirms the original findings of the UN Psychometry Evaluation Board concerning Jan Carvill's sanity. From the message found written in pencil on a shipping tag in the Martian cairn built by James Carvill. Welcome, my brothers. From the founding directive of the new UN Planetary Colonization and Development Committee, it is established that Mars and Europa are free of alien occupation. Colonization of the areas immediately surrounding the UN military and scientific bases on these planets immediately begun. From a statement by Delegate L. Lewis Frank, assembly minority Leader to the world. Simply because we have not yet been attacked, I stand foursquare on my record as a public servant. If I am returned to the assembly as delegate from the southwest area, I will continue to support the expanding military program. We cannot rest until all the habitable planets and satellites in the solar system are bases for our mighty cruisers. Only then can we be safe from this terror. From a memorandum written by Kei Higashi to the Psychometric Evaluation Board's subcommittee in Canalopolis, Mars. Since I have been on Titan, both Here and on IO and Europa, we have found cairns. Each time they contained the same. Welcome, my brothers. Has it occurred to any member of the board that these messages were all written after Carvill's supposed flight in panic from the place where he spotted the invasion fleet? From a memorandum to K. Hagashi, Base Psychologist, Titan Colony. From the Secretary of the Psychometric Evaluation Board Subcommittee in Canalopolis, Mars. It has. The pictures were faked too, were they not? From a memorandum to Secretary, Psychometric Evaluation Board Subcommittee, Canalopolis, Mars. From Kei Hagashi, Senior Staff Psychologist, first UN Triton Expedition. Yes, the pictures were taken on Titan. I think we found a plane there similar to the one in his prints. You'll recall that the plates were all fogged conveniently by cosmic ray radiation. A little time and touching up took care of the rest. He must have been quite a natural psychologist himself, you know, he understood that people at home would just be looking for an excuse to abandon their suicidal hysteria. What he gave them was a common enemy. Had a lot of courage, too. Must have shot up his own ship and then wrecked himself deliberately, leaving the papers and the trail of Carnes. People will hate him when they find out that he made fools of them. But I don't think they'll go back to the old life before the Terror. They will find out, of course. I suggest you break it to them back home. I'd like to be there to see it, but I'm too busy out here. We're building a staging base for the stars. I think Carvel would have liked that, don't you? The End of the Terror by Alfred Koppel.
[131:46]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
Keep out by Frederick Brown this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Record by Ryan Lohner Keep out by Frederick Brown with no more room left on Earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the red planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants. But that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered, except one of the flaws of human nature. Dapteen is the secret of it. Adaptee, they called it first. Then it got shortened to Dap Teen. It let us adapt. They explained it all to us when we were 10 years old. I guess they thought we were too young to understand before then. Although we knew a lot of it already. They told us just after we landed on Mars. Ya, home, children, the head teacher told us after we had gone into the glassite dome they'd built for us there, and he told us there'd be a special lecture for us that evening, an important one that we must all attend. And that evening he told us the whole story and the whys and wherefores. He stood up before us. He had to wear a heated spacesuit and helmet, of course, because the temperature in the dome was comfortable for us, but already freezing cold for him, and the air was already too thin for him to breathe. His voice came to us by radio from inside his helmet. Children, he said, you are home. This is Mars, the planet on which you will spend the rest of your lives. You are Martians, the first Martians. You have lived five years on earth and another five in space. Now you will spend 10 years until you are adults in this dome, although toward the end of that time you will be allowed to spend increasingly long periods outdoors. Then you will go forth and make your own homes, live your own lives as Martians. You will intermarry and your children will breed true. They too will be Martians. It is time you are told the history of this great experience experiment of which each of you is a part. Then he told us. Man, he said, had first reached Mars in 1985. It had been uninhabited by intelligent life. There is plenty of plant life and a few varieties of non flying insects, and he had found it, by terrestrial standards, uninhabitable. Man could survive on Mars only by living inside glassite domes and wearing spacesuits when he went outside of them, except by day. In the warmer seasons, it was too too cold for him. The air was too thin for him to breathe, and long exposure to sunlight, less filtered of rays, harmful to him than on Earth because of the lesser atmosphere, could kill him. The plants were chemically alien to him and he could not eat them. He had to bring all his food from Earth or grow it in hydroponic tanks. For 50 years he had tried to colonize Mars, and all his efforts had failed. Besides this dome, which had been built for us, there was only one other output outpost, another glassite dome much smaller and less than a mile away. It had looked as though mankind could never spread to the other planets of the solar system besides Earth, for of all of them, Mars was the least inhospitable. If he couldn't live here, there was no use even trying to colonize the others. And then, in 2034, 30 years ago, a brilliant biochemist named Weymouth had discovered Daptein, a miracle drug that worked not on the animal or person to whom it was given given, but on the progeny he conceived during a limited period of time after inoculation. It gave his progeny almost limitless adaptability to changing conditions, provided the changes were made gradually. Dr. Weymouth had inoculated and then mated a pair of guinea pigs. They had borne a litter of five, and by placing each member of the litter under different and gradually changing conditions, he had obtained amazing results. When they attained maturity, one of those guinea pigs was living comfortably at a temperature of 40 below zero Fahrenheit. Another was quite happy at 150 above. A third was thriving on a diet that would have been deadly poison for an ordinary animal. And a fourth was contended under a constant X ray bombardment that would have killed one of its parents within minutes. Subsequent experiments with many litters show that animals who had been adapted to similar conditions bred true and their progeny was conditioned from birth to live under those conditions ten years later. Ten years ago, the headteacher told us, you children were born born of parents carefully selected from those who volunteered for the experiment. And from birth you have been brought up under carefully controlled and gradually changing conditions. From the time you were born, the air you have breathed has been very gradually thinned and its oxygen content reduced. Your lungs have compensated by becoming much greater in capacity, which is why your chests are so much larger than those of your teachers and attendance. When you are fully mature and are breathing air like that of Mars, the difference will be even greater. Your bodies are growing fur to enable you to stand the increasing cold. You are comfortable now under conditions which would kill ordinary people quickly. Since you were 4 years old, your nurses and teachers have had to wear special protection to survive conditions that seem normal to you. In another 10 years at maturity, you will be completely acclimated to Mars. Its air will be your air, its food, plants, your your food. Its extremes of temperature will be easy for you to endure, and its median temperatures pleasant to you. Already. Because of the five years we spent in space under gradually decreased gravitational pull, the gravity of Mars seems normal to you. It will be your planet to live on and to populate. You are the children of Earth, but you are the first Martians. Of course, we had known a lot of those things already. The last year was the best. By then, the air inside the dome, except for the pressurized parts where our teachers indicate attendants live, was almost like that outside. And we were allowed out for increasingly long periods. It is good to be in the open. The last few months they relaxed segregation of the sexes, so we could begin choosing mates. Although they told us there is to be no marriage until after the final day, after our full clearance, choosing was not difficult in my case. I had made my choice long since, and I'd felt sure that she felt the same way. I was right. Tomorrow is the day of our freedom. Tomorrow we will be Martians. The Martians. Tomorrow we shall take over the planet. Some among us are impatient, have been impatient for weeks now. But wiser counsel prevailed. And we are waiting. We have waited 20 years, and we can wait until the final day. And tomorrow is the final day. Tomorrow, at a signal, we will kill the teachers and the other Earthmen among us before we go forth. They do not suspect, so it will be easy. We have dissimulated for years now, and they do not know how. How we hate them. They do not know how disgusting and hideous we find them with their ugly, misshapen bodies, so narrow shouldered and tiny chested, their weak, sibilant voices that need amplification to carry in our Martian air, and above all, their white, pasty, hairless skins. We shall kill them. And then we shall go and smash the other dome so all the Earthmen there will die too. If more Earthmen ever come to punish us, we can live and hide in the hills where they'll never find us. And if they try to build more domes here, we'll smash them. We want no more to do with Earth. This is our planet. And we want no aliens. Keep off. End of Keep Out By Frederick Brown Recording by Ryan Loner.
[138:56]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
The Mightiest man by Patrick Fay 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 PJ Vandercoy
[139:16]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
the
[139:16]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
mightiest man by Patrick Fay they caught up with him in Belgrade. The aliens had gone by then, only a few shining metal huts in the Siberian tundra, giving mute evidence that they had been anything other than a nightmare. It had seemed exactly like that, a nightmare in which all of Earth stood helpless, unable to resist or flee, while the obscene shapes slithered and flopped all over her green fields and fair cities. And the awakening had not brought the reassurance that it had all been a bad dream, that if it happened in reality, the people of Earth would have been capable of dealing with a terrible menace. It had been real, and they had been no more capable of resisting the giant intelligences than a child of killing the ogre in his favorite fairy story. It was an ironic parallel, because that was what finally saved Earth for its own people. A fairy story, the old fable of the lion and the mouse. When the lion had exhausted his atomic armor in proud science against the invincible and immortal invaders of Earth, for they could not be killed by any means, the mouse attacked and vanquished them. The mouse, the lowest form of life. The fungoids, the air of earth, swarming with millions of their spores, attacked. The monstrous bodies, grew and entwined within the gray convolutions that were their brain centers. And as the tiny thread roots probed and tightened, the aliens screamed soundlessly, the intelligences toppled and fell, and at last that few among them who retained sanity gathered their lunatic brethren and fled as they had come. If he had known the effect the fungoids would have on them, he would have told them that too. He had told them everything else when he had been snatched from a busy city street, a random specimen of humanity to be probed and investigated. They had chosen well for the payment they offered him. He was willing to barter the whole human race as far as it lay in his power. He did just that. He was not an educated man, though he was intelligent. It was child's play to them to strip his mind bare. But they had to know the intangibles too, the determined will of humanity to survive, the probabilities of the pattern of human behavior. In a situation which humanity had never before faced, he told them all he could. Gladly and willingly. He would have descended to any treachery for the vast, glittering reward they tempted him with. It wasn't easy for the Yugoslavs to guard him, and anyway, their hearts weren't in the task. His treachery, the ultimate treason, the betrayal of the whole human race, was commonly known. Inevitably, the mob got him and killed three policemen in the process. When they had sated their anger a little and the traitor had lost most of his clothes in the thumb of his right hand, they dragged him to the junction where the Danube meets the Sava and held him under the gray waters with long poles, as if he was some poisonous reptile. He lay supinely on the bed of the river and smiled evilly while a hundred thousand people writhed in neural agony. 24 hours later, the neural plague had spread to Zagreb and into Albania, as far as Tirana when it crossed to Leghorn in Italy. The Balkans held 20 million lunatics, and the Danube was an artificial lake a hundred miles wide. They had used a clean bomb, so they were able to bring a loudspeaker van to its edge and boom at him to come out. He allowed them to do that for some inscrutable reason, perhaps to demonstrate that his powers were selective. Then it seemed he got tired of the farce, and cruel fingers twined themselves into the nerve centers of the President of Italy and the Prime Minister of the Government of United Europe. He made them dance a horribly twisted pas de deux on the banks of the Danube for his perverted amusement. Then he released them and released the millions of gibbering, twitching idiots that inhabited southern Europe. And he came out of the river bed in which he had lain for 48 hours. He walked alone through the deserted streets of Belgrade until he came to the United nations building. There he told a very brave lieutenant that he was willing to stand trial any place in the world they wished. For three days nobody came to arrest him. He sat alone with the lieutenant in the People as city of Belgrade and waited for his captors. They came then, timidly reassured by his nonviolence. While he talked to them pleasantly, the citizens of London and Paris suddenly began to dance jerky and grotesque jigs on the pavement of their cities. In the same moment, the Chief justice of the Court of the nations at a cocktail party in Washington writhed in the exquisite pain of total muscle cramp. His august features twisted into a mask of abject fear. The trial itself was a legal farce. The prisoner promptly pleaded guilty to the charge of betraying mankind to an alien race. But he didn't allow them to question him. When one lawyer persisted in face of his pleasant refusals, he died suddenly in a cramped ball of screaming agony. The gray faced Chief justice inquired whether he wished to be sentenced, and he answered, yes, but not to death. They couldn't kill him, he explained. That was part of the reward the aliens had given him. The other part was that he could kill or immobilize anybody in the world or everybody from any distance. He sat back and smiled at the stricken courtroom. Then he lost his composure and his mouth twitched. He laughed uproariously and slapped his knees in ecstasy. It was plain that he was fond of a joke. An anonymous lawyer stood up and waited patiently for his merriment to subside. If this was true, he asked, why had not the aliens used this power? Why had they not simply killed off the inhabitants and taken over the vacant planet? The traitor gazed kindly at him, and a court stenographer who had cautiously picked up a pencil, returned agonizingly to her fetal position and that way died. The traitor looked at his fingers and shrugged. The thumb that had been snapped off in the mob's frenzy was more than half grown again. They needed slaves, he said simply, and that's the end. While some of them were still sane, the traitor raised his eyebrows, giving him his full, courteous attention. The lawyer sat down abruptly, his question unfinished. The creature who had betrayed his own race smiled at him and permitted him to live. He even completed his question for him and answered it. Why did they not kill then? They had something else on their minds. Fungoids. He laughed uproariously at his macabre joke, and in their minds too. The lawyer's blue eyes gazed at him steadily, and he stopped laughing. In the bated hush of the courtroom, he said softly, what a pity I'm not an alien too. You could have the fungoids destroy me. He laughed again helplessly, the tears running down his cheeks. The Chief justice adjourned the court then, and the prisoner sauntered to his comfortable quarters in front of the frightened guards. That night, in his own living room, the Chief justice danced an agonized fandango in front of his horror stricken wife, and the anonymous lawyer sat in his apartment staring at the blank wall. He was glad the aliens had not made their traitor telepathic too. He had found the chink in his armor, the neural paralysis. The murders by remote control were acts of a conscious will. He had himself admitted that if his mind were destroyed, his powers would be destroyed with it. The aliens had not sought revenge because their minds were totally occupied with saving themselves. The stricken ones had simply lost the power. The knowledge was useless to him. There was no way they could attack his mind without his knowing it. Possibly they could steal away his consciousness by drugging or bludgeoning, but it would be racial suicide to attempt it. In the split moment of realization, he would kill every human being on earth. There would be nobody left to operate on his brain to make him a mindless, powerless idiot for the rest of time. For any period of time, he corrected himself, his brain would heal again. It was useless to think about it. There was nothing they could use against his invincibility. The only hope was to attack him unawares. And if that hope was a fraction less than a certainty, it could only mean final and absolute catastrophe. The lawyer looked at his watch. It was four in the morning. He went into the kitchenette and then shrugged himself into his coat. He walked through the silent streets, past the city hospital where the Chief justice lay in agony while the motor impulses from his nerve centers ran wrenched and twisted his body. He entered the foyer of the luxury hotel where the race betrayer was held prisoner and took the elevator to the sixth floor. Two sleepy guards jerked erect outside the unlocked door. He put his finger to his lips, enjoining them to silence. Then he entered the room and stood for a moment over the man who was invincible and immortal and human. Human and subject to the involuntary unconsciousness which nature demands from all men. He slept. The eyelids fluttered. The lawyer took the steel meat skewer from his pocket. He thrust it through a half opened eye and rotated it methodically reducing the soft brain to formless mush. After that, the trial proceeded normally. The prisoner stared vacantly in front of him and all of his movements had to be directed. But he was alive and his thumb was full grown again. It was the lawyer that noticed this and pointed out the implications. The thumb had grown to full size in less than six weeks. They must regard that as their maximum period of immunity. They ruminated over it for another four days. The question was a tricky one, for malignant immortality was beyond human solution. It was not just a matter of dealing up punishment. The problem now was the protection of the race from sudden annihilation. An insolvable problem, but one that must be solved. They could only do their best. He was sentenced to life imprisonment with a special feature. It was decided that he should be guillotined once a month as long as he lived. End of the Mightiest man by Patrick Fay Recording by PJ Vandercoy.
[150:59]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Egocentric Orbit by John Corey this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org it took a long time for human beings to accept that our little piece of meteoric rubble wasn't the exact and absolute state center of the universe. It does appear that way, doesn't it? It may not take so long for a spaceman to learn. Near the end of his 15th orbit, as Greenland slipped by noiselessly below, he made the routine measurements that tested the operation of his space capsule and checked the automatic instrument instruments which would transmit their stored data to Earth on his next passover control everything normal. All mechanical devices were operating perfectly. This information didn't surprise him. In fact, he really didn't even think about it. The previous orbits and the long simulated flights on Earth during training had made such checks routine and perfect results expected. The capsules were developed by exhaustive testing both on the ground and as empty satellites, before entrusting them to carry animals. And then the first human. He returned to contemplation of the panorama passing below and above Although, as he noted idly above and below had lost some of their usual meaning, since his capsule, like all heavenly bodies, was stable in position with respect to the entire universe, and thanks to Sir Isaac Newton and his laws never changed. The Earth and the stars alternated over his head during each orbit. Up now meant whatever was in the direction of his head. He remembered that even during his initial orbit, when the Earth first appeared overhead, he accepted the fact as normal. He wondered if the other two had accepted it as easily. For there had been two men hurled into orbit before he ventured into space. Two others who had also passed the rigorous three year training period and were selected on the basis of overall performance to precede him. He had known them both well and wondered again what had happened on their flights. Of course they had both returned. Depending upon what your definition of return was, the capsules in which they had ventured beyond Earth had returned them living. But this was to be expected, for even the considerable hazards of descent, descent through the atmosphere and the terrible heating which occurred were successfully surmounted by the capsule. Naturally, it had not been expected that the satellites would have to be brought down by command from the ground. But this too was part of the careful planning. Radio control of the retrorockets that moved the satellite out of orbit by reducing its velocity. Of course, ground control was to be used only if the astronaut failed to ignite the retrorockets himself. He remembered everyone's surprise and relief when the first capsule was recovered and its occupant found to be alive. They had assumed that in spite of all precautions, he was dead because he had not fired the rocket on the 15th orbit and it was necessary to bring him down on the 65th. Recovery alive, only partially solved the mystery for the rescuers and all others were met by a haughty stony silence from the occupant. Batteries of tests confirmed an early diagnosis, complete and utter withdrawal, absolute refusal to communicate. Therapy was unsafe. Successful. The second attempt was similar in most respects, except that command return was made on the 31st orbit after the astronauts failure to deorbit at the end of the 30th. His incoherent babble of moons, stars and worlds was no more helpful than the first. Test after test confirmed that no obvious organic damage had been incurred by exposure outside of the Earth's protective atmosphere. Biopsy of even selected brain tissue seemed to show that microscopic cellular changes due to the prolonged weightlessness or primary cosmic ray bombardment which had been suggested by some authorities were unimportant. Somewhat reluctantly, it was decided to repeat the experiment. A third time the launching was uneventful. He was sent into space with the precision he expected. The experience was exhilarating, and although he had anticipated each event in advance, he could not possibly have foreseen the overpowering feeling that came over him. Weightlessness he had experienced for brief periods during training, but nothing could match the a heady impression of continuous freedom from gravity. Earth passing overhead was also to be expected from the simple laws of celestial mechanics. But his feeling as he watched it now, was inexpressible. It occurred to him that perhaps this was indeed why he was there, because he could appreciate such experiences best. He had been told the stars would be bright, unblinking, and an infinitude in extent. But could mere descriptions or photographs convey the true seeing? On his 21st orbit he completed his overseeing the entire surface of the planet in daylight. He had seen more of Earth than anyone able to tell about it, but only he had the true feature feeling of it. The continents were clearly visible, as were the oceans and both polar ice caps. The shapes were familiar, but in only a remote way. A vague distinctness born of distance served to modify the outlines, and he alone was seeing and understanding. On the dark side of the planet, large cities were marked by indistinct light, areas which paled to insignificance compared to the stars and his sun. He speculated about the others who had only briefly experienced these sights. Undoubtedly they weren't as capable of fully grasping or appreciating any of these things as he was. It was quite clear that no one else but he could encompass the towering fear, feeling of power and importance generated by being alone in the universe. At the end of the 25th orbit, he disabled the radio control of the retrorockets and sat back with satisfaction to await the next circuit of his Earth around him. End of Egocentric Orbit by John Corey Read by D. Searles.
[158:58]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Reaching for the Moon by SA Lambino 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 it was no longer a question of theory, but of money. Man could reach the moon if Saunders could persuade someone to finance him. Reaching for the Moon by S.A. lombino the laboratory was brightly lit, and four men in business suits surrounded a large table. They stared down at the blueprints on the table, some scratching their heads, others rubbing their chins in spite of speculation. A thin man in gray tweeds eyed them cautiously, his breath coming in short, anxious rushes the big man at the head of the table adjusted his eyeglasses. His hand lingered on the rim for a second. Then he cleared his throat. And it won't work, Dr. Saunders. The little man in gray tweeds darted impatient eyes at the man who had just spoken. Spoken? Why won't it work? Why not? It can't be done, the big man stated simply. Maybe some time in the future, but certainly not now. Saunders stretched a bony hand out from the cuff of his tweeds. It can be done, he said, slapping that hand on the table. It's all here. You've just seen it. You've studied it. Damn it. This isn't a fly by night affair. I've worked on these plans for more than eight years. I know it will work. A man in blue serge shrugged. And I'm afraid Bragg is right, Dr. Sanders. He tugged at his collar, the fat hanging in loose folds around his neck. Saunders turned to eye the newcomer. You agree, he said defiantly. Even after studying my work, you agree that my proposed rocket can't possibly reach the moon? It might, the man in the blue serge admitted. But we can't speculate on a thing of this nature. After all, Dr. Saunders, there'll be money involved. And money. Sanders snorted in disgust. Is that all you're worried about? You're one of the richest men on earth, Mr. Peterson. How can you let money stand in the way of what may well be man's greatest achievement? Bragg spoke again, peering from behind the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. Peterson is right. This thing would cost millions more than any of us would be willing to risk. We appreciate your considering us, but. Sanders cut in sharply. Does that go for all of you? Is Mr. Bragg speaking for all of you? A heavy silence crowded into the room. Saunders confronted Peterson again. He speaks for me, peterson said. And you, Mr. Thorpe? Saunders asked. Yes, yes, I'm inclined to agree. A balding man in Glenn Plaid announced. Mr. Slade. Saunders turned to a weasel like man dressed in solemn black. Slade nodded, his face chalky white against the black of his garb. I've asked you four men because you were probably the richest men on Earth. I've asked you because I thought perhaps you would see the significance of. Of such a project. To reach the moon? Saunders eyes gleamed with an intense light. To reach the moon. And when we reach it? Peterson asked. Then what? Unlimited space, saunders answered with feeling. New worlds. Worlds beyond the imagination of man. The moon is only the first step, the experimental step. From there, Mars or Venus or a new solar system, bragg said. Rubbish. Even if this should work. I'm not at all convinced it will. But even if it should, what's on the Moon for us? Bare crags and lonely craters? Cold, bleak atmosphere? Nothing. Nothing that would bring in money. True, saunders said. But look at Copernicus and Galileo. Look at Pasteur and Edison and Curie. Look at. Oh, I could go on all night. What these men contributed to mankind could never be measured in terms of gold or silver. Can't you see that? Who wants to go to the Moon, anyway? Thorpe asked, passing a hand over his bald head. We've got troubles of our own right here on Earth. Plenty to settle right here, man. Plenty. In a little while. Perhaps sometime in the future. 20, 25 years. But now? Unthinkable. We've been saying that too long, sanders snapped. Now is the time. Not 20 or 25 years from now, but right now. Science has given us the means. It's up to us to take the opportunity and use. Couldn't be done profitably, peterson said dryly. Profitably, saunders said bitterly. Are your wars profitable? He suddenly shouted, bringing his bony fist crashing to the tabletop. Lets not get violent, slade said. It was the first thing he'd said all night. Saunders somehow had a feeling that a corpse had spoken. Exactly, he said. Let's not get violent. Let's spend some of the money that's been buying munitions and lives. Instead of raising cities to the ground. Let's go up to the skies. We'll spend that money for a project that's worthwhile. For once, forget the profit and think of the meaning to mankind. He paused, and his voice grew lower. We've been ravaged by too many wars, gentlemen. Can't we stop this useless butchery and devote our time and energy to something constructive? Can't we? I know my rocket will work. It's scientifically sound. I know, too, that I can get a crew of scientists and technicians to take it to the moon and back. All I need is the money and a little time. Just a little time. There's a war going on, Saunders, Bragg reminded him. He had lit a cigar with a gold lighter and was sitting now, puffing leisurely, blowing smoke at the ceiling. I know, saunders said. Two wars in the past 30 years, and now another one. But consider this a a trip to the moon would probably end all hostilities on Earth. It would probably unify this planet as no other force has ever done. It will galvanize humanity to constructive action. It will open new vistas that cannot possibly admit plans for war. Peterson yawned openly. Um, I must say, you're an idealist, Saunders. I doubt very much if anything short of a trip to the sun would unite the people of Earth. He chuckled a little at this and looked to the others for approval. That's right, brag agreed. There'll always be wars, Saunders. The Earth is overpopulated. Always will be more reason to find new worlds, saunders said tiredly. The only solution is war, bragg insisted. Survival of the fittest. Forget your crazy ideas about new worlds. There's plenty of room right here for the people who win. And suppose we lose this time? Saunders asked. We'll never lose, said Bragg with certainty. Slade smiled a thin, wry smile. Exactly, Bragg, he said. As for me, whenever people are ready for a fight, I'll be ready to supply them with the goods they'll need. In the meantime, the moon can wait for a year, maybe two, saunders pleaded. And the universe will be open to us. Think of it. Think of it again. His eyes lit with intense ardor. You think of it, brag said. I'm going home. The other men nodded and began bustling into their overcoats. Saunders stood by helplessly, feeling his last ounce of strength seep from his body. Nice of you to think of us, thorpe said cheerily. Business is business, though. Yes, said Sanders quietly. If you can figure out a way to put a warhead on that rocket of yours, slade suggested. Not a bad idea, bragg admitted. Well, Saunders, peterson said, we've got to be running. No hard feelings, of course. In fact, I wish you lots of luck. He chuckled again and opened the door. Good night. The rest of the men filed out after him, nodding their farewells. Saunders watched them through the window of his laboratory, watched chauffeurs opening the doors to long limousines, watched tail lights disappear into the blackness of the night, little red pinpoints emphasizing his failure. He walked back to the table and sat, cradling his head in his arms, leaning on the blueprints of his ship. All I needed was money, he thought. Money and a little time. A year or two at the most. A year or two. Slowly he rose and brushed a thin hand over his wet eyes. There was work to be done, and tomorrow was another day. He walked to the door leading to his inner laboratory and paused. It was past midnight, and being a punctilious person, Saunders ripped the day's page from the calendar, exposing the new day to view. The day was September 21, the year 3951. He snapped off the lights and stepped quickly into the other room. The End of Reaching for the Moon by S.A. lombino.
[170:49]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
And all the Girls were Nude by Richard Magruder 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 quartertone and all the Girls Were Nude by Richard Magruder Appearances oftentimes can be deceiving, and things most certainly aren't always as they seem. Take the case of Nathaniel Evergood, for instance. The nature of this old man was such that nobody ever called him Nat, not even his closest working companions in the company's bookkeeping department. As long as any of them had ever known Nathaniel Evergood, there had never been the slightest indication of any desire for his intimacy or even friendship. Not once had he shared a drink or lunch or relaxed conversation with anyone so far as his associates knew. To say Nathaniel was reserved is putting it mildly. It would be more accurate to describe this little old man as dull completely and absolutely dull in his appearance, his dress, his speech, in every way imaginable. But in addition to being quite dull, as everyone knew, Nathaniel Evergood was also a thoroughly evil and obscene old man, as no one knew. Likely the main reason no one had ever seen the inside of Nathanael's rooms was the fear within him that his evilness and obscenity might be discovered. For Nathaniel Evergood might be called a connoisseur. To slightly distort the meaning of that word, he could be called a connoisseur of femininity from afar and in secret, a course, an arbiter of the well turned thigh, the rounded dimpled bottom, the tight waist and the high firm bosom. Oh, Nathaniel Evergood was a connoisseur all right. At the investigation he ventured a very rough but conservative guess that he had collected at least 50,000 pictures of girls in whole or in part, horizontal or vertical, semi nude or nude. Over the years. Upon entering his living room, if that were possible, the first thing a casual observer would have noted would be the point of saturation reached by his walls in their photographic content. There were photographs of blondes and brunettes and red heads. There were pictures of thin girls, fat girls, girls with ample bosoms, and girls lacking girls holding telephones, books and ice cream cones. Girls 16, girls 25, and girls no longer girls. There were shots in glorious color by the hundreds, originals and prints alike, but there wasn't among them one single view of the Grand Canyon, nor even a solitary Indian astride a tired horse looking pensively out over the prairie. There was a red skinned maiden, mind you, but she wasn't sitting on a horse.
[173:47]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Horse.
[173:48]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
And she certainly wasn't staring laconically out over any prairie either. Rather, she appeared to be testing with her toe the water temperature of a tree shaded brook somewhere. And she was clad in a lone strategically located feather. On the tea table, in the bookshelves, in the magazine racks and all throughout his rooms one might find other evidence of this evil and obscene old man's preoccupation with womankind mind. But the kind of woman he was preoccupied with often wasn't the kind that married dear old dad. He subscribed to every girlie publication in the country and to several in France. So you see, Nathaniel Evergood was not only a connoisseur, he was also an avid collector. There were books and there were magazines and there was even a deck of playing cards backed with the most astounding set of pictures you ever saw. That anyone could sit down to a game of old Maid or snap with that deck of cards is inconceivable to say the least. But such an evil and obscene old man as Nathaniel Evergood likely never played games with his cards anyway. He would much prefer to just sit and look at them. The reverse side. Of course, he later said he probably spent almost half his really quite meager earnings for up to date additions to his extension extensive collection. The girlie magazines, playing cards and prints he received from various mail order houses sent as the advertisements testified in a plain unmarked envelope. But the other half of his collection, the photographs mounted unmounted mat and glossy enlargements and contact prints. Nathaniel Evergood came by in an entirely different and somewhat novel manner. These resulted from his ability as a fairly advanced amateur photographer. Over the years Nathaniel had acquired three fine cameras, an excellent enlarger, two contact printers, electronic flash units, interchangeable lenses, filters, sunshades and lens caps, extension tubes and tripods. In short, Nathaniel Evergood was well equipped to take photographs of just about everything. He had the equipment and he had the necessary technical knowledge and facility. But invariably he passed up the usual pictorial, architectural, human interest, interpretive and abstract photographs, even when the opportunities for truly fine shots were there. Instead, he took roll after roll, pack after pack and cartridge upon cartridge of girls. Nothing but girls. All sorts of girls. Just girls. At the investigation Nathaniel suggested that the presence of a camera introduced on the scene in a gentlemanly and courteous manner was enough to cause almost frenzied unlocking and unzipping by even the most demure and prudish female ladies, Nathaniel said wisely, love to have their bodies recorded for posterity. Oh, he was certainly a very evil and highly obscene old man was Nathaniel Evergood, if ever you saw one. But the full import of what his evil old soul and obscene little mind contained would probably escape the casual observer unless he happened onto a tiny cubbyhole at the back of the rooms occupied by Nathanael. This was the sanctum sanctorum, so to speak, of. Of his thin little heart. For here, Nathaniel Evergood guarded jealously a secret utterly beyond belief. He fancied himself to be something of an inventor, and he was too, of a sort. His ardent and relentless pursuit of photographic subject matter during the years had led him into situations demanding full knowledge of his craft from a technical rather than from an artistic point of view. Thus, this inventive turn of mind was given an able assist by his understanding of the theory, optics and chemistry of photography. And now he was just putting the finishing touches to the most important project in his entire life. Basing his plan of action on the simple optical theory of astigmatism, Nathaniel designed a lens. Astigmatism, he had learned results in the human eye as well as in manufactured lenses of certain formulae in the failure of horizontal and vertical target lines to reach a common focus. So his lens was designed intentionally astigmatic, allowing focus to be brought on one group of target lines or another, but never on both simultaneously. To the front of the lens mount he added a front surface prism and a filter, carefully ground and tinted internally the precise color complement of human flesh. He reasoned, quite accurately as it turned out, that the prism would gather all the colours of light together and converge them at the focal plane of the lens as pure white, thus eliminating all colour. But at the same instant, the complement filter replaced last the flesh colour of the object focused upon and subsequently recorded on film. Then, in one fell swoop, the lens allowed Nathaniel to focus, focused carefully on one group of target lines, in his case, the female form underneath its covering, automatically throwing an opposing group of lines out of focus, the covering over the female body. In his case, the prism was busily gathering together all color and converting it into pure white light. While lastly, the complementary filter replaced the color of flesh to the image and finally to the photograph. You see the possibilities, of course. Course, by replacing the normal lens of one fine camera with his invention, Nathaniel Evergood was now equipped to photograph in rich natural color the female form, divine, unfettered by any or all clothing. Well, this day in particular, Nathaniel Evergood stationed himself poised like a pointer at his window, camera in hand, invention in place, waiting impatiently for the first likely subject to appear. And shameful as it must seem, this evil and obscene old man was quite noticeably drooling right from one side of his pinched little mouth. He heard the saucy click of her heels on the pavement a full 30 seconds before she swung gracefully into his myopic line of sight. She was blondish. Not too blond, understand, but just blond enough. And she was a true blue blond at heart, if you know what I mean. Shutter set at 1200th of a second. Diaphragm F 5.6 film. Real life color rangefinder superimposed.
[180:29]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
Click, click, click, click.
[180:32]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Four shots. Four beautiful pictures in color too. Before she was gone on down the street with incredible speed, this evil and obscene old man descended from his window purse perch and scuttered back to his little cubbyhole. He darkened the room and unloaded the automatic sheet film holder. No attempt can be made to describe the gnawing impatience that Nathaniel Evergood felt as he sloshed the sensitized emulsions through the series of solutions for the precise time required for true color rendition. As after 90 long minutes he washed the sheets and finally held them up to the light for a first wide eyed look. She was there all right, his swaying blonde. She was there. All of her. Well, sir, after filling his eyes and his evil little mind with the four lovely images of the girl, Nathaniel Evergood rushed to the downtown camera shop and wrote out a large check for their entire supply of real life color film. Then back on the street, madly clicking, clicking, clicking every pretty girl that came along. Every single one. Oh, he had a time for himself, did this evil, obscene old man. The next day was Sunday, happily for his designing brain, and there was no work. After a full night in his cubbyhole developing sheet after sheet of colour film, Nathaniel went to the beach and as you must know by now, set his camera shutter clicking like a miniature machine gun. And again. The results were spectacular, to put it mildly. The collection grew and grew and grew, and Nathaniel Evergood was never wearier or never happier. What an evil, obscene man he was. Now, if Nathaniel had stuck to his camera and to his wonderful invention, this story might never have been written. But evil and obscene as he was, he soon began to dream of new worlds to conquer. Simple as it had been to apply the principle of astigmatism to photography. And with such marvellous results, why not apply this same principle to his eyeglasses? This would eliminate the annoying delay of taking pictures, then developing and viewing them, to say nothing of the terrific expense involved. Usually when writers say no sooner said than done, it is often a gross exaggeration, but Nathaniel was quick about it. Nevertheless, in short order, the problem of focus, image distortion and aberrations were ironed out, and Nathaniel ventured once again out into the streets to give his newest brainchild its dry run, so to speak. The glasses worked all right. They worked just fine. And Nathaniel Evergood, in a leering ecstasy to see, raced up and down the streets, peering with his watery and overworked eyes this way and that, up and down, all around and back again. For the next day or so, Nathaniel was busy as a bee, attending every beauty contest and fashion show in town, and even found time for a quick run out to the girls school. The third day, following the initial test of his new seeing eye glasses, Nathaniel suddenly observed there were an uncommon lot of nicely constructed young ladies right in his own department at the office. An opportunist if ever there was one, Nathaniel thought it just might be fun to give the remarkable spectacles a chance to separate the women from the girls and the girls from the children. This he did, and although his work suffered, he spent the better part of the day classifying the office help in various categories and learning there were at least two. Two ladies who fell in no classification whatsoever. It was the nicest day he had spent at the office in quite some time, he decided. Not long after that, the strain brought on by the frequent changes from his normal reading glasses to the prism spectacles became so intense that he decided there was really no good reason why he shouldn't just wear them, the new ones, of course, all the time, the better to preserve his vision and the better to pursue his avocation. So he did. And therein lay the downfall of Nathaniel Evergood. For, you see, the climax of our story comes a month later, on a sunny July day when Nathaniel made his decision to take a short stroll among the midday lady shoppers downtown. Understand, with those glasses of his, Nathaniel had become so accustomed to seeing his fellow creatures, au naturel, as it were, that it was on the verge of becoming almost commonplace. But evil and obscene as he was, it was still highly diverting. Yet at any rate, on this particular day, Nathaniel had made his way no more than a couple of hundred feet from his front door when a heavy hand was clamped on his shoulder and a rough voice growled, where do you think you're going, you scrawny old buzzard? You ought to know better. Nathaniel Evergood spun about, suddenly petrified. The uniform, of course, was invisible, and the man was no raving beauty. He'd have said, but there was no mistaking the ugly gun and the shiny badge and the authoritative tone of voice. I beg your pardon, Nathaniel sputtered indignantly.
[185:52]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Just what is the meaning of this ridiculous outrage?
[185:56]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
The beefy Irish copy was even more indignant, though. Now just look at yourself. I've seen absent minded old timers parading down the street with no shoes on or even no pants on, but just look at yourself.
[186:09]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Not a stitch on.
[186:11]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Nathaniel Evergood looked down at himself in sudden horrified realization and looked back up as quickly. But. But. He began.
[186:20]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Everybody else.
[186:22]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
But then of course, you he had to stop. Well, the upshot of it all was that the officer hauled him back into his rooms to get some clothes on before carting him down to the station house. As it was before they entered the apartment, Nathaniel stood to get 10 days probation or a token fine for forgetting all his clothes, Irish cops being ordinarily an understanding lot. But when confronted by the staggering array of unclad femininity, this Irishman flushed a deep red, spewed an amazing Irish blasphemy, and then roared like a lion. And don't think the officer didn't check the evidence carefully with the proper degree of loathing, of course, before shoving Nathaniel unceremoniously down the street to call the paddy wagon. Of a certainty things went much worse for the evil, obscene Nathaniel Evergood than they might have, had not this righteously outraged plain policeman done his duty as he saw it. Matter of fact, they threw the book at the old boy, but not until a thorough investigation was made and not until several hundred outraged members of every morals, anti delinquency and anti vice committee in town had carefully checked and gasped all over the collected evidence. Never in the history of the city had there been such a hue and cry aroused for the punishment of an offense offender. So Nathaniel Evergood, evil and obscene as ever, got five years for possession of pornography, indecent exposure and other charges. In the words of the presiding jurist at the climax of the spectacular, such a sentence is far too lenient a punishment for a crime of such enormity. And to this very day there rests in the files of the local constabulary the voluminous collection of Nathaniel Evergood, occupying 14 huge well worn cabinets and always on display for the indignant and affronted eyes of any anti sin committee man who wishes to examine it. Also taken as evidence was Nathaniel's wonderful prismatic lens and his marvelous glasses. Anytime you're by the station house, drop into the chief's office and there in the open cabinet opposite his desk you can see the venal objects now, though the lenses are pretty scratched and worn, but they're still the same two inventions of that ingenious but evil and obscene old man, Nathaniel Evergood, number 504-9870 and not that it makes much difference, since the case is long past and closed, but it might be interesting to point out that the Chief is often seen at beauty contests, in fashion shows, wearing thick lensed glasses, which, he explains, the optometrist prescribed for his failing sight. And I don't know if it's true or not, but they say the Chief is also the biggest customer the local camera shops have for a certain product called Real Life Color Film. Not that it makes much difference. Now Nathaniel Evergood is serving his sentence out evil and obscene as ever, and the case seems is long past and closed. End of and all the Girls were Nude.
[189:38]
Jake Stauch (Cervel Commercial) / Narrator (Third Planet)
Third Planet by Murray Leinster 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 John D. Parker Third Planet by Murray Leinster the aliens had lost their lives to nuclear war, but their loss might be the salvation of Earth One. It was, as usual, a decision on which the question of peace or atomic war depended. The Council of the Western Defense alliance, as usual, had made the decision, and as usual, the WDA coordinator had to tell the COM ambassador that the COMs had won again. The WDA would not risk atomic war over a 30 mile shift of a national border in Southeast Asia. Perhaps, said the Comm ambassador politely, it will be easier for you personally if I admit that our intelligence service has reported the decision of your Council. He paused and added in detail. The coordinator asked wearily, how much detail? First, said the ambassador, you are to insist that no decision has been reached. You are to play for time. If I do not agree, you are to offer to compromise. If I do not agree, you are to accept the settlement we suggested, but you are to ask urgently for time in which to remove the citizens we might fill ought to be shot. This is not an absolute condition, but you are to use every possible means to persuade me to grant it. The coordinator ground his teeth. But the Council wouldn't go to war for a few thousand citizens of an Asiatic country who would probably be killed in the war anyhow. There would be millions killed in Western countries if the war did come. I have much respect for you, said the ambassador politely. So I agree to three days of delay during which you may evacuate Disloyal citizens by helicopter. On the fourth day our troops will move up to the new border. It would be unfortunate if there were clashes on the way. We can't get them out of there in three days, protested the coordinator. It's impossible. We haven't enough copters with warning to flee, said the ambassador. Many can reach the new border on foot. The coordinator ground his teeth again. That would be a public disgrace, and not the first one for the WDA for not protecting its friends. But the public in the Western nations did not want war. It would not allow its governments to fight over trivial matters. Its alliance could not make threats. On the other hand, the public in the com nations had no opinions. Its governments had not decreed the comm nations could threaten. They could even carry out threats, though made for trivialities. So the WDA found itself yielding upon one point after another. Eventually it would fight and fight bravely, but too late, the coordinator said heavily. You will excuse me, Mr. Ambassador. I have to see about getting as many copters as possible to Southeast Asia. Some hundreds of light years away, the survey ship Lotus floated in space a discrete number of millions of miles from the local sun. It was on a strictly scientific mission, so it would not be subject to calm suspicion of having undesirable political intentions. At least they hadn't demanded to have an observer on board. Calm intelligence reports were notoriously sound, however, and possibly spies had assured their employers that the Lotus mission was bona fide. Her errand was the mapping and first examination of a series of Sol type solar systems. This was the ninth such system on the list, the third planet out from the sun. Here, lay off to starboard. It was near enough to have a visible disk to the naked eye, and moderate magnification showed ice caps and permanent surface markings that could be seas and continents. As was to be expected, it was very much like a more familiar third planet outearth. The skipper gave Nolan the job of remote inspection while the gross examination of the system went on. Nolan had a knack for such work, and much of it, naturally, fell to him. Ok, he said resignedly. Another day, another world. My private nightmare, said the skipper with humor, is bug eyed monsters. Try not to find him here, Nolan, eh? He'd said that eight times before. On this voyage, nolan said, my private nightmare is getting home and finding out that while we've been finding new worlds for men to live on, they've started a war and made Earth a place to die on. Try to arrange that it doesn't happen before we get home, eh? He'd said that eight times before on this voyage too. I wish us both luck, Nolan, said the skipper, but that ball out yonder looks plausible as a nest for bug eyed monsters. He shook his head and went out. He was still being humorous. Nolan set up his instruments and went to work. As he worked, he tried to thrust away the thoughts that came to everybody on Earth every day. They were as haunting some light centuries from Earth as back at home. There was the base that comms were building on the moon. The WDA had an observatory there, but the comms were believed to be mounting many more rockets than telescopes. And there was the unsatisfying agreement made between the coms and WDA just before the Lotus took off. Each promised solemnly to notify the other of all space takeoffs before they happened. The idea was to prevent a mistake by which a Pearl harbor style attack might be inferred when it wasn't really happening. The fact that it could be prepared against was evidence of the kind of tension back on Earth. But the Lotus was far from home. She lay some 70 odd millions of miles out from the Sol type star Fanwell Alpha, whose third planet Nolan was to look over. He sent off a distance pulse and took angular measurements of the planet's disk. The ratio of polar to equatorial diameters was informative. The polar flattening said that the day lasted about 30 hours, almost like Earth's. The equatorial diameter of 8,200 miles was much like Earth's. The inclination of the axis of rotation indicated seasons not exaggerated, but much like the seasons on the third planet of Sol. The size of the ice caps indicated the overall planetary temperature. There were clouds. In fact there was a cloud mass in the southern hemisphere that looked just like an earthly tropic storm undergoing the usual changes as it went away from the equator. This was very much like Earth. And the dark masses which were seas. Nolan frowned. Those mud colored patches were water. Undoubtedly a narrow band light filter proved it. But the areas which were neither sea nor cloud mass. There were three levels of brightness to be seen on the disk outside the polar areas. One was sea bottom, one was cloud, the other. Nolan fretted a little. There was something wrong. The solid ground surface of the planet was too light in color. It was such items that a person with a knack for it would notice sooner than a man without the knack. Vegetation should be more nearly midway between sea bottom and cloud mass in color. Nolan fitted the chlorophyll filter on the planet of a Sol type sun. Vegetation had to use chlorophyll or Else. Through this filter the clouds would show. Of course they were white and reflected all colors of light, but no color that chlorophyll didn't reflect could pass through the filter. The cloud masses showed clearly. Nothing else appeared. The filters would have shown vegetation. It didn't. It said there wasn't any. Nolan stepped up to magnification. He saw other things. He didn't like them. He got some maximum magnification pictures and interpreted them with increasing grimness. He went to make his report just as the system constants began to reach the skipper. The local Sun's mass was 1.3 sols. The solar rotation period was 34 days. There were sunspots of perfectly familiar kinds. The lauriac laws about the size and distribution of planets in a Sol type system were borne out. One was small and its sunward side was probably at a low red heat. This was like Mercury. Planet two, like its analog Venus in the home system, would be resolutely unoccupiable by man. Planet 4, analogous to Mars, was smaller than 3 and had a very thin atmosphere. There were gas giants in orbit 6 and 7, then a novelty. Lauriac's laws predicted things about fifth planets too. But they'd never been verified. Because fifth planets were unstable, they blew up only fragments. Asteroids had so far been noted where fifth planets of Sol type suns ought to be. But there was a fifth planet here, rolling magnificently through emptiness. It matched the lauriac predictions. It had an atmosphere which should contain oxygen. It was the first Sol system fifth planet ever observed. There was a babble in the skipper's office as the discoverers of the fifth plan planet told him about it. Nolan said curtly, I've something more urgent to report. Planet 3 ought to be like Earth. It was. It isn't any longer. It's dead. Nobody paid attention. There was a fifth planet. It was unparalleled. All the theories about the absence of fifth planets could now be checked. I'm telling you, said Nolan sharply, that the third planet's dead. It was alive and something happened to it. It has seas and clouds and ice caps and they're water. But its land surface is pure desert. Where life can exist, it does always. Life did exist here. Now it doesn't. He turned to the skipper. Maybe bug eyed monsters killed it. Skipper. It looks to me like murder. Then they stared at him. He spread out his pictures. He pointed out this item and that. They were conclusive. Nobody else might have realized the facts behind them quite so soon. But when put together, they fitted. Familiar, eh? Asked Nolan sardonically. You recognize the pictures? Like them before, they weren't made with cameras like these, but artists drew them from descriptions of what would happen here. It's happened. I think, he added, looking at the skipper, that this is more important than fifth planets. I think we'd better go over and get what information we can and take it home. Death like this implies life a lot like men. If non human creatures can do something as human as this, we'd better get the word back home so something can be done to get ready before we find them or they find us. The skipper went carefully over the pictures. On one he put his finger on a feature Nolan hadn't mentioned. He seemed to wince. I think you win, Nolan, he said painfully. We'll send a drone down. I doubt we can land, but this ought to be checked immediately. Maybe I should add inconspicuously. Confidentially, said the comm ambassador to the coordinator of the wda, confidentially, I agree that it is a trivial matter, but we are a new nation. Our people lack perspective. They rejoice in the strength and vigor of the nation of which which they are citizens. They will not allow that nation to display what they consider weakness in any matter. One has to allow for a certain exuberance in the people of a nation newly freed from the tyranny of capitalists and warmongers such as still enslave the people of your countries. We cannot yield in this matter, the coordinator said, to be confidential in my turn. We both know that what you just said simply isn't true. Your government decides what its public shall think. It makes sure they don't think anything it doesn't want them to. The common ambassador shrugged his shoulders. He was very polite. He did not even pretend to resent being called a liar. Now my country intends to move forward in this matter in 10 days, he observed, and it would be deplorable if our soldiers were fired on two. It turned out that it wouldn't have mattered if the Lotus had sent screaming notifications of its presence throughout all nearby space. There were detectors out, of course, but they reported absolutely nothing. As the Lotus moved on toward Planet Three, there was static from storms upon the planet. It grew louder as the survey ship approached, but there was no sign of anything alive. The lotus cruised some 200 miles above seas and cloud masses and deserted photographing as she followed a search pattern that covered all the sunlit hemisphere. There were mountains in the tropics which by all the rules of meteorology, should have had rainforest at their feet. They didn't There was a river system which ran like the Nile for a thousand miles or more through deserts like those of Egypt. There should have been at least a ribbon of vegetation along its banks. There wasn't. Where it reached the sea was an enormous delta. A drone went down and reported temperatures and humidity and the composition of the atmosphere and the radiation background count. One would have thought the records those of Earth. The background count was a trifle high, 3.9 instead of 3.6, but there was 18% of oxygen in the atmosphere. The only oddity there was nearly a full percent of helium. When the drone came up, it brought samples of soil and seawater. There was no life in either. The soil was mostly mineral dust, but an electron microscope disclosed abraded fractions of pollen grains and the like. The seawater sample had evidently been picked up by the drone's dredge from some shallow there were tiny siliceous cells in it. Plankton. They had been alive but were so no longer. I think, said Nolan, that I make a landing. Right, the skipper said crossly. Yes, you're the best man for it. You notice things, but I doubt you'll learn very much. He tapped the written report that the radiation background count was 3.9. It happened a long time ago. A long, long time ago. Then, he said, with a totally unsuccessful attempt at humor, try and find out that it was bug eyed. Monsters, eh? It looks too much like Earth. I'd rather blame monsters than men, nolan growled and went to prepare for the landing. Two other men would go with him, of course. The lotus wouldn't descend. It cost fuel to make landings. Unless there was some remarkable specimen that a drone couldn't handle. The ship would stay aloft. So a drone took three of them down to the ground, a second drone following with equipment. They had weapons, of course. Men never land anywhere without weapons. They had the material for a foam house camp. They had a roller jeep running on huge inflated bags. It would run efficiently on anything from sand to swamp mud and float itself across bogs or rivers. They had cameras and communicators. Nolan had picked Crawford for geology and Kelly for communications. They could get other specialists from the ship if desirable. The ground where they landed was desert, nothing more. There were enormous dunes, like gigantic frozen swells of sand. Sometimes there were miles between crests. They landed close to the mud bank's northern ice cap to avoid the deep gorges in which rivers ran farther south. On the first day they set up their camp. Mountains reared to the north of them, covered almost to their bases with ice These they need not explore. Instruments would do most of the landing party work in any case. But they inflated small balloons and sent them skyward to learn about currents of the upper air. And Crawford took painstaking photographs of dune formations. And they set up a weather radar. They checked the water recovery from the camp's air conditioner. It would supply their needs when night drew near. With all instruments recording, they watched the sunset. It was amazing how splendid and how magnificent a sunset could be. Not many men see sunsets these days. The three of them aground at the ice cap's edge saw enormous mile long dunes reaching away as far as it was possible to see. They cast black shadows. Then glories of crimson and gold rose from the western horizon of this dead and empty world. There was ice and snow upon the mountains and unbelievable tints and blends of colors appeared there. After a long, long time, the light faded away. Then there was nothing to see but the stars and nothing to listen to at all. This world was dead. They went in their camphouse and shut out the dark and the silence. On the second day, Nolan went in search of permafrost. Their instruments faithfully recorded everything they needed, except such items as this. Nolan found permanent ice in a valley of the northern mountains. It was perpetually frozen ground which might not have thawed in a thousand thousand years. He dug down through surface ice to the permanently frozen soil beneath it. That soil was not desert sand and preserved in it Nolan found the blackened roots of plants and the blackened blades of something like grass and even some small indefinite objects which had been seeds or fruit. They hadn't died with the planet. They were far older than that catastrophe. But they were proof that once this world lived and throve during what was left of the daylight. Nolan and Kelly went south to a river gorge and photographed it for the record. The river had cut a GORGE A full 200ft deep in the wind, deposited dust which was everywhere. There were now dry gullies which undercut the dune sides and at times dumped mud into the slowly flowing liquid of the river. There were no colorings save dust and mud. The river itself was mud. It flowed very, very slowly and without elation. They came back depressed. An airless planet holds no life, but it defies life to establish itself. A methane ammonia planet fights the intrusion of men with monstrous frigid storms. But this world was designed for life. That it was dead was tragedy. Its rivers float sullen syrupy mud which moved reluctantly toward the lifeless seas. Kelly wouldn't look at the sunset this second night. He went into the camp and turned on music. Crawford watched for a little while only. There were clouds. There were breezes. One knew that here and there rain fell, and gentle showers which should have nourished grasses and flowers and filled the air with fragrance, but instead it fell upon impalpable dust and turned it to mud, which flowed slowly into gullies and into rivers which were also mud, and moved onward until perhaps after years, the soil would become part of a mud bank in the ocean. Nolan came into the foam walled house and said shortly. We'll finish up tomorrow and leave, Kelly said abruptly. Nobody's made any guess about why everything died here. But we all know, crawford said reflectively, it must have taken a lot of intelligence to murder this planet. When do you suppose it happened? 10,000, 20,000 years ago, said Nolan. The whole place must have been radioactive air and all, but if they used cobalt, the background count could be down to 3.9 in 10 or 20,000 years. We haven't, said Kelly, seen any craters. Even the pictures from out in space didn't show bomb craters. When everything died and turned to dust, said Nolan, there'd be dust storms. There still must be. They'd cover anything. There was a terrific civilization in part of what's now the Sahara back on Earth, by pure accident, they've found a patch of highway and a post house. Everything else is covered up. Cities, highways, dams, canals. And that's heavy sand instead of fine dust. The Lotus found some shadows on a photo. They want us to look and see what cast them. We'll look at it tomorrow and then leave, crawford said deliberately. We three have had a preview of what Earth will look like before too long. I wonder if it would do any good on Earth to show them what we've found. It's being argued on the ship, said Nolan. Some say we'd better suppress the whole business. Crawford considered. The Coms aren't a very believing people, he said slowly. But our people are. If we report this, our people will believe it, but the Coms can tell their people it is lies. Our people will want peace more than ever if they see what a war will mean. But the big shot comms will just take that as a reason to demand some more concessions, and more and more like demanding to build a base on the moon. I'm going to bed, said Nolan. He added ironically, I hope you have pleasant dreams. He did go to bed, but he slept very badly. The others slept no better. All three of them were up before sunrise. They saw it, and to Nolan, the coming of the light seemed somehow like an eager arrival of the new day, anxious to see if some tiny thread of green somewhere lifted proudly from brown earth to greet it. But none ever did, or would. We should be through by noon, said Nolan. They set out in the jeep. They abandoned the camp. They would abandon the jeep too, presently. When they went up to the ship that waited in orbit, they headed west, and Kelly took over the microwave set that sent a wide fanning beacon skyward. The Lotus was in orbit now. Every 90 minutes she was overhead, she'd completed the mapping of the planet. Every square foot of its surface had been photographed. From aloft they drove. The ungainly inflated bags which took the place of wheels rolled unweariedly at first over dew wetted dust, and then over the minor gullies which, so near the ice cap, were not yet gorges. They went on for 20 miles, and the abomination of the desolation was all about them. We shouldn't tell about this back home, said Kelly abruptly. If the calm people saw it, they'd know that. No. His tone was ironic. National aspiration justified the risk of this. But they wouldn't see it. And our people might look at it and decide that anything was better than this. But it isn't. Nolan said nothing. He didn't believe that the discovery of this dead planet could be kept a secret for very long. The mountains drew back to northward and the desert took their place. The Lotus went by overhead, unseen, but it gave a message to Kelly. We're on course, he reported. The ship just said so. 10 miles more. In 10 miles they came upon a city, or what had been one. It was partly buried in the omnipresent dust. That is, they saw part of a city's remnants showing in the mile wide trough between dunes hundreds of feet high. There were other remnants. Between two other dunes and still more in yet other troughs beyond, structures of stone had existed and portions of them remained. They had cast shadows, the Lotus had discovered from aloft. The stone remains were abraded by the dust carrying winds of a hundred centuries. The roofs had been crushed when monster dunes formed over them. They had been re exposed to the sunshine when winds moved the dunes away. There was no metal left, no glass, no artifacts. They had been buried tens or hundreds of times and uncovered as many. There was nothing left but skeletons of stone which cast angular shadows, though their fragments were rounded by centuries of patient wind erosion. It had been a very great city, but Nolan made the only observation that could tell anything about its occupants, the builders of this city he said tonelessly, use doors about the same size we do. And that was all they could find out presently. New York will be like this eventually, said Crawford. And Chicago and everywhere else. Kelly spoke suddenly into the microwave transmitter. He said sharply to the ship invisibly overhead. Yes, Send down the drone. We've had it. The council member from Brazil made an impassioned speech in the supposedly secret meeting of the Western Defense Alliance. He pointed out with bitter factuality that no past yielding to calm demands had gained. Anything further yielding would be suicidal. He made a fierce demand that the WDA present a united front against this fresh diplomatic pressure, that it refuse flatly and firmly and with finality to make a single concession on a single point. It was a good speech. It was an excellent speech. It and others like it should have been made a long time before. The coordinator of the Western Defensive alliance nodded at its end. I agree, he said. With every word the representative from Brazil has spoken. I think we all agree. The practical thing to do, of course, is to send a combined expeditionary force to maintain the independence of Sierra Le. This force should be formed of contingents from every Western Defense alliance nation and it should have orders to prevent the entry of Comm troops into Sierra Leone territory. I do not think that anything else will prevent the extinction of another member nation of the Western Defense Alliance. Will any council member propose such an action for a vote? There was a pause, then babblings. It would mean war. It would mean atomic war. Tens or hundreds of millions of human beings would die over a matter affecting less than 200,000. It was ridiculous public opinion. The council meeting ended with no vote upon the matter, without even a proposal on which a vote could be taken. Two days later, Comm troops from one of the African COM nations moved in and occupied Sierra Leone. A great many of its citizens were shot, some for opposing the new state of affairs, but some seemingly just on general principles. 3. The Lotus went on toward Planet Five, leaving a world which should have been alive and wasn't to go to a world which should not exist but did. On the way. There was argument which became embittered. In theory, the discoveries made by a survey ship became automatically available to all the world. But the discovery of three in the state it was in would have political results on Earth. It was and is a fact that nobody really believes in death until he sees a dead man. And nobody can believe in the destruction of a planet unless he's seen the corpse or color photographs of it. But that was precisely what the Lotus had to carry back to Earth. The WDA nations would see those pictures and read the facts. They would believe an atomic war and the complete sterilization of a world. Com nations would not see the pictures. They would continue to believe that the west, the wdawas decadent and enslaved to tyrannical warmongers and obviously could not resist the splendid armed forces of the COM Association. And they wouldn't really believe there could be more than isolated, crazy resistance to their valiant troops. So they'd back their leaders with enthusiasm, and the western peoples at most would be merely desperate. The Lotus arrived at Planet 4, which by the Lauriac laws should have been similar to Mars. It was almost its twin. It had ice caps of hoar frost and its atmosphere was thin and barely contaminated by oxygen. A base could be maintained here, of course, provided one had a source of supply. A base here, incidentally, would have much the value of the Comm base on Luna. The Lotus did not find that base. It found no cities or signs of settlement. But it did find a bomb crater. Miles across and it seemed miles deep. There was an accumulation of reddish dust at its bottom, trapped from the thin winds that blew over this half frozen world. The Lotus went on to planet five. The sun, so far out, was very small and its warmth was barely perceptible. But there was vegetation. The surface temperature was above freezing. The Lauriac laws had predicted that the central metallic core would be small and the greater part of its mass should be stony. The radioactives in Earth's thin rocky crust produced a constant flow of heat from the interior to the surface. It is considered that it is enough heat to melt a fraction of an inch of ice in a year. On this planet, with a crust of many hundreds instead of mere scores of miles thickness, the internal heat was greater. The world was not frozen and life existed here. It was a pallid, unnatural sort of life which had developed to live in starlight with a feeble assist from a very bright nearby star which happened to be its sun. There was a base here too. Kelly located it when he found a resonant return of certain frequencies from the ground. It was not a reflection, but resonance. And so they found the base. It had been built by engineers the humans on the Lotus could only admire. There were gigantic doors which could admit the Lotus herself. They were rusted shut and had to be opened with explosives. There were galleries and tunnels and laboratories. There were missile launchers and missile storage chambers. There was a giant dome housing a telescope men had not even dreamed of equaling. It was not an optical telescope. Ultimately, they found A mortuary where the members of the garrison were placed when they died. The Lotus was not equipped for the archaeological and technological studies the base called for. Its function was to scout out things for especially qualified expeditions to study. And of course, there was the political situation back on Earth. On the fourth day after landing, the skipper sent for Nolan. The skipper sweated a little. Nolan, he said querulously, we've found something. A bug eyed monster? Asked Nolan, dourly. No. The skipper mopped his forehead. Back yonder. On three. You took a few looks from 20 million miles and figured out what had happened there. We'd have worked it out eventually, but you saw it at once. You're lucky that way. Now we've found something. It's an instrument. We're short on time. Come with me and make some guesses. He led the way, explaining jerkily as he went. The thing was in a room by itself, with its own air system and apparently its own food store. It was inside four successive systems of locked doors, all of them inches thick, stainless steel. It was intended that the last door could be opened from inside. It was evidently the very heart of the armed base on Planet Five. Anything sealed up like that would have to be either incredibly valuable or incredibly dangerous. Nolan followed through the shattered doors and presently the skipper made a helpless gesture. There was the discovery. It looked more like an old fashioned telescope than anything else. It had a brass barrel and it was very solidly mounted. And there were micro, micro adjustments to point it at with almost infinite exactitude. It had been sealed in a completely airtight environment and what moisture was present had combined with other metals. It wasn't rusted. There was an eye piece placed in an improbable position. And there was a trigger. It wasn't like a gun trigger, but it couldn't have any other purpose. There was no porthole for it to fire through. The compartment in which it had been sealed was deep underground. Nolan said uneasily, it's a weapon. Of course. Of course, said the skipper. He mopped his forehead. I. I think we should take it home. It might make a difference to wda, but we don't know what it does. It could be a mistake. Nolan walked around it. He saw that it could be aimed in almost any direction, but not quite. There was a direction that stops prevented it from pointing to. Nolan said, what's in that direction? The skipper jumped when Nolan asked the question. He began to suspect many answers. He said in a stricken voice, that's where the missiles were launched and where the others are stored. Nolan stared at the thing. It looked hateful. It had the savage feel of a frozen snarl. The power pile. The skipper nodded. He mopped his face again right alongside. We figured they'd want it to shield the rest of the base from radioactives, Nolan said carefully. It could be that they wanted to shield the radioactives from something in the base. Maybe something that would act on radioactives is involved, he said painfully. Men can't change the rate of fission except by building up a critical mass. But maybe, possibly. Bug eyed monsters could. The skipper perspired. He'd have worked out the same thing in the long run. But Nolan saw it right away. He went away and got the ship's engineers. They brought an X ray for finding flaws in metal. They took pictures of the inwards of the brass barreled instrument. In its place they traced two separate incomprehensible circuits. But they were separate. At long last the skipper nodded permission for Nolan to try the eyepiece to see what it showed. With heavy metal and much soil and vegetation atop it, they taped the trigger so it could not be moved. The controls affecting the eyepiece they left free. The skipper almost dripped sweat as Nolan turned on the eyepiece circuit, peering in. For a long time he saw nothing whatever. Then a tiny disk moved slowly into the eyepiece's field. It was barely larger than a point. Nolan moved one of the eyepiece controls. The disk enlarged. It enlarged again. A tiny red dot appeared in the center of the field of vision. As the disk enlarged, the red dot grew larger and became a tiny red circle. Nolan fumbled. He shifted the position of the instrument with the microcontrol. He moved the faintly glowing disk until it was enclosed in the red circle. He enlarged. Presently the disk was very large and the red circle ceased to enlarge. It enclosed only a part of the disk. Nolan felt cold chills down his spine. He swallowed and asked for the angular relationship of planet 4 to 3. The skipper sent someone to find it out, but Nolan had found planet four before the answer came. The first disk was in some fashion a representation of Planet 3, the Earth like world which was dead. The second was a representation of 4. There was a bright spot near the equator of 4, the equator being located by the flattening of the poles. It would be just about where a gigantic atomic bomb crater still existed. Nolan drew back and took a deep breath. Apparently, he said unsteadily, this eyepiece detects radioactives converting something that I can't imagine into visible light after it's passed through a few feet of metal and a Good. Many more of dirt. There's a red ring which makes me think of a gun sight. And there's a trigger. Skipper, would you send half an ounce or so of ship fuel out to space in a drone? I think we're going to have to pull this trigger. The skipper wrung his hands. He went away, and Nolan stood staring at nothing in particular, appalled and sickened by the thoughts that came to him presently. The skipper came back and mumbled that a drone was on the way up. Nolan searched for it with the eyepiece. He found it. The sensitivity of the eyepiece was practically beyond belief. What it worked on, what it transmuted and amplified to light, was wholly beyond his imagination. The drone went 4,000 miles out. Nolan absently asked for somebody to be posted out of doors. Watching the sky, he got the vivid spark that was the half ounce of ship fuel in the center of the red luminous ring. He turned his eyes away and pulled the trigger. There was no sound. There was no vibration. There was no indication in the underground room that anything at all had happened. There was only a violent flare in the eyepiece from which Nolan had just drawn back. Someone came shouting from out of doors that there had been an intolerable flash of brilliance in the sky. A few moments later the word came that the drone control bore indicated that the drone had ceased to exist. The Comm Ambassador sighed a little when he saw the expression on the coordinator's face. Interviews with the titular head of the alliance of All Western nations became increasingly a strain on his politeness. But the coordinator said grimly, I think I can guess what you're here to tell me. The Comm Ambassador said politely, it is painful to beat around the bush. May I speak plainly? Do, said the coordinator. Our base on the Moon, said the ambassador with a fine air of frankness, some time ago reported military preparations on Earth among the WDA nations. Those preparations could have no purpose other than an unwarned attack upon us. We felt it necessary then to take countermeasures of preparation only. We modified the plans of our moon base to have it contain not only the telescopes and such observational equipment, but to have an adequate armament of missiles. It is now so armed. The coordinator whitened a little, but he did not look surprised. Well, I have to inform you, said the Comm Ambassador, that any military action directed against any Comm Nation or its troops or the Union of Calm Republics will be met by atomic bombardment from the Moon as well as our standard military establishments. This, of course, does not mean war. To the contrary, we hope that it will end the possibility of war. We trust that all causes of tensions between our nations will one by one be removed, and that an era of perpetual peace and prosperity will follow. The coordinator's lips twisted in an entirely mirthless smile. Military action against com troops, he observed, means resistance to invasion or occupation. Doesn't would be wiser, said the ambassador carefully, to protest than to resist. At least so it seems to me, the coordinator of the Western Defense alliance said. Tell me something confidentially, Mr. Ambassador. How long before you expect no, you wouldn't answer that.
[228:49]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Ah.
[228:50]
Jake Stauch (Cervel Commercial) / Narrator (Third Planet)
How long do you think it will be before I am shot? The Comm ambassador said politely. I would hesitate to guess. The Lotus started back to Earth with the enigmatic weapon fastened firmly in its cargo hold. Great pains had been taken to keep it from being knocked or shocked or battered in its transfer to the ship firmly anchored. Nolan had insisted that the stops which prevented it from being aimed below the horizon or toward the radioactives in the base be adjusted so it could not be aimed at the Lotus own engines or fuel stores. There were no missiles to worry about, of course. Even this precaution, however, roused doubt and uneasiness, especially among the scientific staff. It was highly probable that when the Lotus reported in from space, the Coms would ask to examine such specimens as she brought back. The request would be expressed as scientific interest, but a refusal would be treated as a concealment of dire designs. There were those on the ship who felt that the weapon should be dismantled and made to seem meaningless, to avoid any chance of a humiliating squabble with the Coms. The skipper roared at them. It was the only time on the voyage when he displayed anger, but he glared at those who proposed the act of discretion. He drove them out of the cabin in which the suggestion was made. He turned to Nolan, who definitely was not a party to it. His manner changed. He said querulously, nolan, why do you want that thing mounted? So it could be used if necessary. That's the way it was mounted on Planet 5. To box it or case it might injure it. To take it apart might mean that it could never be got together in working order again. Is that the real reason? Demanded the skipper. It's a good reason. But is it the real one? No, admitted Nolan, it isn't. The skipper fumed to himself. We might get home, he said fretfully, and find things just as we left em. Then there'd be no harm in the mounting. We'd at least try to diddle the coms and get it ashore without their knowing it was important we might get home and find that war'd broken out and Earth was dead like the third planet back yonder, only not all yet turned to desert. Then the mounting wouldn't matter. Nothing would. Or we could find that the comms had smashed the west and were all cockapoop about what they'd managed to do in a sneak attack, so it had better stay mounted. I covered everything, didn't I? Nolan wasn't feeling any better than anybody else on the Lotus, the jitters that affected everybody but conditioned comms had been bad when the Lotus went about its business. But when the ship headed for home, nerves got visibly worse. They didn't know what they'd find there. With the third planet of Fanua in mind, it was all too easy to believe in disaster. There's one thing, said Nolan painfully, that bothers me. I've been trying to think like a Com top brass. The WDA is a well meaning organization, and it's gained time, no doubt. But aside from the Kalm missiles, 95% of the atomic warheads on Earth are in the hands of just one WDA nation. It happens to be ours. It's been bearing most of the load of defense costs for the West. It's the richest country in the world. There's practically no poverty in it. What has poverty to do with a possible war? Demanded the skipper. Everything, nolan said uncomfortably. The comms take over a country. They march in. There are rich people and poor people. The Koms start to humiliate and destroy the rich. The poor people hated them. So the coms are popular long enough to get things going right. But if they tried that in our country it wouldn't work, said the skipper. Not for a minute it wouldn't, agreed Nolan. Most of our people think of themselves as well to do, and the rest can hope to become so. So the Coms would have to try to govern 200 million indignant and subversive underground resisters. They couldn't hold down such a country. They wouldn't try. The skipper blinked. If you mean they'd leave our country alone. I don't, said Nolan. They'd destroy it. They'd have to. So they might as well destroy it out of hand and destroy most of the fighting potential and a lot of resolution in the West. A well handled atomic missile bombardment and some luck, and they can take over the rest of the world without trouble. I think that's the practical thing for them to do. I think they'll do it if they can. The skipper grimaced. Then he said, almost ashamedly. Maybe we're talking nonsense, Nolan. Maybe we've just got bad cases of nerves. Maybe things have gotten better since we left. We could arrive back home and find nobody even dreaming of war anymore. That, said Nolan, would scare me to death. That would be the time to make a sneak attack. Which was pessimism, but nothing else seemed justified. It was not even easy to be hopeful about the value of the fifth Planet Weapon to the Western Defense Alliance. The WDA couldn't use it in a preventive war. Their people wouldn't allow it. The initiative would always remain with the comms. The Lotus moved earthward. She carried a more deadly instrument for war than men had ever dreamed of. But the ship's company daily jittered a little more violently. The war might have been fought and be over by now. If it had, the Coms would have won it. The coordinator for the WDA handed the Comm ambassador his passport. I'm sorry you've been recalled, he said heavily, because I think I see the meaning of the move. I am only called home for conference and instructions, said the ambassador politely. I shall miss our friendly chats. We have had a very fine personal relationship, though we have disagreed so often. The coordinator absently shifted objects on his desk. He said suddenly, Mr. Ambassador, have I ever lied to you? The ambassador raised his eyebrows. Then he smiled. Never, he said pleasantly. I have marveled. The coordinator took a quick, sharp breath. I shall not lie now, he said abruptly. I hope you will believe me, Mr. Ambassador, when I tell you one of our best kept military secrets. The Ambassador blinked and then shrugged politely. You always astonish me, he said mildly. Your High Command, said the coordinator grimly, has decided not to try to take over the nation around us. It is considered impractical. So this nation is to be destroyed to shatter the backbone of the WDA and to make resistance anywhere else unthinkable? The ambassador said reproachfully. Ah, but you begin to believe your own propaganda. No, said the coordinator. I have simply told you the facts you undoubtedly already know. Now I tell you our best kept military secret. We know that we cannot deal with you. We know that you might be successful in an overwhelming unwarned attack. We know that if you decide upon war, it will be directed primarily at this nation. So we have set up some very special atomic bombs where it is extremely unlikely that you will find them. They are dirty bombs. They are designed to make the maximum possible amount of radioactive dust of fallout. Timing mechanisms are set to detonate them. Every day a man goes and sets back the timing mechanism in each place where a bomb is established, on the day that a man fails to do so, the bombs will certainly explode. The coordinator said almost briskly. We calculate that the bombs will make the atmosphere of the whole Earth lethally radioactive, that they will raise the background count on Earth to the point where nothing can live. No plant, no animal, no fish in any sea. This will only happen if this nation is destroyed. It will fight if it is attacked, of course, but your chances of substantial success are good. But if you are successful, the Earth will die. I may add that the people of the calm nations will die also. To the last individual. The ambassador started to his feet. But you could not do that, he protested. White lipped. You cannot. The coordinator shrugged and shook his head. I have not lied to you before, Mr. Ambassador. I do not lie to you now. Then, he said formally, I hope you have a pleasant journey home. 4 the Lotus came out of the usual sequence of arrival hops, no more than six light seconds from Earth. A million miles more or less, perhaps four times the distance of the moon. Nolan examined the planet's sunlit face and said steadily, nothing's happened yet. There was almost agonized relief. Only the skipper did not seem to relax. He went stolidly to the control room and got out the scrambler card that matched just one other scrambler card in the world. He put it in the communicator. To speak to Earth by scrambler would be an offense. It would be protested by the comms. They would insist that a survey ship should have nothing secret to report and that anything secret must be inimical to the Comm association of Nations. The skipper formally reported in in the clear and then insisted on completing his report by scrambler. He did complete it, over the agitated protest of the ground. Then there was silence. He mopped his forehead. Nolan, better get down to the eyepiece. The comms could send something up to blast us. I'll get the detectors out. You be ready. You're sure you can handle things? This is a little bit late to raise the question, said Nolan. I think I can do it, though. He went down to the hold. He turned on the eyepiece. He saw the distinct luminous disk, which was Earth. In the not at all believable field of the impossible instrument. He saw points, not dots, of extremely vivid light. Obviously the size of a radioactive object did not determine the brightness of its report to the weapon from Planet 5 of Fanua. Something else controlled the brilliance. He saw the groupings of many dimensionless points of light. There were the patterns which meant the silos holding the monster atomic missiles of the West. He could distinguish them from the much more concentrated firing points of the calm nations. The oceans had few or no bright points at all. There were only so many atomic powered ocean going vessels. No one could tell well enough which were the western accumulations of radioactives for defense purposes and which were the calm stores of warheads. His throat went dry as he realized the power in his hands. Neither he nor anyone else could make one blade of grass grow, but he could turn the third planet of this sun into a desert and a dreariness like the third planet of another sun far, far away. The skipper came into the hold. He locked the entrance door behind him. I got to the coordinator, he said in a shaking voice. I started enough trouble by reporting by scrambler. He talked to me. I showed him pictures. He's telling the comms most of what I reported, saying that if they like, they can try to blast us. If they try and don't succeed, we can try to figure out what to do next. The com premiership was in some ways the equivalent of the office of Coordinator of the Western Defense Alliance. But the men who held the two posts were quite unlike, and the amount of authority they could exercise was vastly different. The compremier read again the newly arrived message from the coordinator. The high officials he'd sent for came streaming into the room. Most of them had flimsies of the message in their hands. The Premier beamed at them. You have the news, he said humorously. The WDA coordinator first threatened to make all Earth's air radioactive if we attacked the a leading member of the WDA and destroyed it. He was evidently decided that this threat is not strong enough. So he assures us that a Western survey ship has come back from an exploring voyage with a cargo of artifacts from a non human civilization. Among the artifacts there is what he says is the absolute weapon. He says that the skipper who has brought it back claims that it can end the tension between the WDA and us by ending us. The Premier chuckled. He invites us to verify the skipper's claim by attempting to blast the survey ship whose coordinates of position he gives us. I think he has made a rather substantial error of judgment. His eyes twinkled as he looked from one to another of the high officials he had summoned. We accept the invitation, said the premier. Naturally, General. He looked at the tall general officer with twin silver rockets in his lapels. The general said proudly, yes, Excellency. Our space radar located an object at the survey ship's stated position. We sent six Rockets with atomic warheads at it. We used satellite placing rockets for maximum acceleration. They are well on their way now. Of course, they can be disarmed or destroyed as well as maneuvered to intercept this survey ship. If it attempts to flee. They will reach the target area in just under three hours. The premier nodded very humorously. Since we accept their invitation, naturally, the Western Staff concludes that we are disturbed, that we will wait to see what our rockets learn. It would be interesting. But our scientists tell me that the alleged weapon is impossible, utterly impossible. So it is merely a trick. And we will not wait for our rockets to arrive. We might be late for our dinners and we would not like that. The high officials made sounds of amusement. So we put our own ending to the comedy, said the Premier blandly. The circuits are joined. He asked the question of a craggy faced service of supply Colonel. The colonel managed to nod and was stricken numb by the importance of the gesture. Then, said the premier humorously, we will destroy our enemy. He waddled across the room. He put a pudgy forefinger on a button. He pushed it. Even here, deep underground, there were roaring sounds as rockets took off for the West. All over the calm nations, carefully distributed rocket firing sites received signals from from the one push button. They sent bellowing monsters up into the sky. Three COM rockets reached their targets, and Nolan never quite forgave himself for it. They were murderous. They wiped out cities. But that was all. The rest of the rockets went off prematurely. A spread of half a hundred crossing the North Pole detonated just out of atmosphere. Others went off over the Atlantic. Not a few made temporary suns above the Pacific. Nolan brought moving specks within the thin red circle of his instrument and pulled the trigger. The points flamed momentarily and left patches of luminosity behind them, and that was that. But they continued to rise. On Earth. They made noises like dragons. There was panic from their starting points. Those first out had not reached their targets. So the comm launching sights flung more and more missiles skyward. One of them reached a city of the West, a second, a third. The only possible answer was to blast them as they rose. Then to blast them before they rose. Nolan's task became the terrible necessary one of preventing radioactives from moving away from the COM territory and into WDA nations, specifically one WDA nation. He did not think of the consequences of his actions except in terms of preventing excessively bright mathematical points of light from getting to the areas where there were so many fewer points of similar light which did not move at all. He tried to stop only Those that moved but three got by him and he could do nothing but detonate all the radioactives in calm territory. He had to. When that was done, there were six warheads coming up from Earth. He detonated them. There were massed warheads moving toward Earth from the moon. It seemed that they practically tore space apart, that they went off together. Then the moon base began to fire rockets hysterically at the Lotus. And it was necessary to detonate the radioactives in the moon base. It had been estimated that an atomic war might be over in three hours. But prophecies are usually underestimates. Between the first and last explosions on Earth, in space and on the Moon, there was a truly gigantic crater where the comm base had been some 37 minutes elapsed. Then the war was over. There were some survivors in COM territory, of course, but they couldn't retaliate for the destruction of their nations. Their own bombs had done the destruction. They couldn't even gloat that the rest of Earth shared their catastrophe. It didn't. Most of the bombs exploded high and over ocean. No less than 3/5 of all fallout landed in the sea and sank immediately. For the rest, the background count on Earth Nowhere went above 4.9 and people could be protected against that. The survey ship Lotus came gingerly down to ground. There was no longer any reason for tension. Its crew reported in and scattered to the various places they called home. They were very glad to be back. In the course of time they were all suitably bemettled and admired and told that their names would live forever. Of course it was not true. Nolan didn't pay much attention to this. He left a survey. He went to live in a small town. He married a small town girl and he never, never, never took anyone to the excursion so many WDA people took to see the result of atomic explosions in COM territory when their attempt to murder one western nation backfired. Nolan had caused the backfiring. He very passionately did not want to see its results. He'd seen all he wanted of that sort of thing on the third planet of a soul type sun, some light centuries from Earth. End of third Planet by Murray Leinster Recording by John d. Parker john parkerauthor.com Foreign.
[247:43]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
Say hello For Me by Frank W. Coggins this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org say hello for Me by Frank W. Coggins this was to be the day. But of course Professor Pettibone had no way of knowing it. He arose as he had been doing for the previous 20 years, donned the tattered remnants of his space suit and went out into the open. He stood erect, bronzed, magnificent, faced distant Earth and recited, Good morning, bright sunshine. We're glad you are here. You make the world happy and bring us good cheer. It was something he had heard as a child and isolated here on Mars, he had remembered it and used it to keep from losing his power of speech. The ritual finished, he walked to the edge of the nearest canal and gathered a bushel or so of drink, dried Martian moss. He returned and began polishing the shiny exterior of the wrecked spaceship. It had to really glitter if it was to be an effective beacon in guiding the rescue ship. Professor Pettibone knew, had known for years that a ship would come. It was just a matter of time. And as the years slipped by, his faith diminished not a whit it. With his task half completed, he glanced up at the sun and quickened the polishing. It was a long walk to the place the berry bushes grew, and if he arrived too late, the sun would have dried out the night's crop of fragile berries and he would wait until the morrow for nourishment. But on this day he was fated to arrive at the bush area not at all, because in an alien sound from above again drew the professor's eye from his work and he knew that the day had arrived. The ship was three times as large as any he had ever visualized and its futuristic design told him sharply how far he had fallen behind in his dreaming. He smiled and said, quite calmly, I dare say I. I am about to be rescued. And he experienced a thrill as the great ship set down and two men emerged therefrom. A thrill tinged with a guilt sense because emotional experiences were rare in an isolated life and seemed somehow indecent. The two men held weapons. They advanced upon Professor Pettibone, looked up into his face. Face reflected a certain wary hostility. That the hostility was tinged with instinctive respect, even awe made it no less potent. One of them asked, fella man came in ship skyboat. Long time ago. Him dead. Where appropriate gestures accompanied the words, Professor Pettibone smiled down at the little men and bowed. You are of course referring to me. I came in the ship. I am Professor Pettibone. It was nice of you to hunt me up. The eyes of the two Terran spacemen met and locked in startled inquiry. One of them voiced the reaction of both when he said, what the hell? You no doubt are curious as to the fate of the other members of the XP expedition, they were killed. All save Fletcher, who lasted a week. Professor Pettibone waved a hand there in the graveyard. But their eyes remained on the only survivor of that ill fated first expedition. It was hard to accept him as the man they sought. But faced with undeniable similarity between what they expected and what they had found, the two spacemen had no alternative. I hope your food supply is ample and varied, Professor Pettibone said. This seemed to bring them out of their bemusement. Of course, professor. Would you care to come aboard? The other made a try at congenial levity. You must be pretty hungry after 20 years. Really? Has it been that long? I tried to keep track at first. We can blast off anytime. You say you're probably pretty anxious to get back. Indeed I am. The changes in 20 years must be breathtaking. I wonder if they'll remember me. A short time later the professor said, it's amazing. A ship of this size handled by only two men. Then he sat down to a repast laid out by one of the odd styles spacemen. But after nibbling a bit of this, a forkful of that, he found that satisfaction lay in the anticipation more so than in the eating. We'll look around and see what we can find in the way of clothing for you, professor, one of the spacemen said. Then the man's bemusement returned. His eyes traveled over the magnificent physique before afford him the perfect giant of a man. The great Apollo like head with the calm clear eyes, the expression of complete contentment and serenity. The spaceman said, professor, to what do you attribute the changes in your body? What is there about this planet? I really don't know. Professor Pettibone looked down his torso with an impersonal eye. I think the greenish skin pigmentation is a result of mineral heavy vapors that occur during certain seasons. The growth as to my body, I really don't know. But the two spacemen, though they didn't refer to it, were not concerned with the body so much as the aura of completeness. The radiation of contentment which came came from somewhere within and it was passing. Strange that nothing more was said about the professor returning to Earth. No great revelation suddenly arrived at that he would not go. Rather they discussed various things that three gentlemen meeting casually would discuss. Then Professor Pettibone arose from his chair and said, it was kind of you to drop off and see me. And one of the spacemen replied, a pleasure, sir, a real pleasure indeed. Then the professor left the ship and watched it lift up on a tail of red fire and go away. He raised an arm and waved. Say hello for me, he called. Then he turned away, and from force of habit he began again to polish the hull, knowing that he would keep it shining and be proud of it for many years to come. Almost beyond reach of the planet, one of the spacemen flipped a switch and put certain sensitive communication mechanisms to work, so sensitive they could pick up etheric vibrations far away and make them audible, but only faintly came the pleasant voice of a contented man. Good morning, bright sunshine. We're glad you are here. You make the world end of say hello for Me by Frank W. Coggins Read by D. Searles.
[255:47]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Absolutely no Paradox by Lester Del Rey this is 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 if time travel is possible, then why haven't we been visited by people from the Future? But Pete LaFranc found the answer to that Absolutely no Paradox by Lester Del
[256:23]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Rey
[256:25]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
the old men's section of the Arts and Science Club was always the best ordered. The robots somehow managed to avoid clanking there, and the greenswards beyond the veranda were always just right, and the drinks were the best for six counties. Old Ned Brussels touched his glass to his lips apprehensively, sighed in contentment, and waited for some of the other oldsters to break the silence. Finally, Lem Hardy took the plunge. He did it, he announced, referring to a conversation of weeks before. Then, at their puzzled looks, he amplified my grandson, damn it. He's got a time machine. It works. Sent a cat four days up and it came through unharmed. The glass fell from old Ned's hand, bouncing on the floor and spilling good liquor. A robot came forward silently to clean it up, but Ned didn't look at it. Four days does not mean a thing. Lamb, Is that kid planning on trying it out? He's going to try it next week. Then for the Lord's sake, stop him. Look, does it work like this? His fingers slipped over the pencil smoothly, as they had always done when he worked drafting robot bodies in the old days. A rude schematic seemed to grow almost instantly on the paper. Lamb looked at it, then stiffened suddenly. Who told you? A youngster named Pete Lanfranc. And it was 40 years. No, over 50 years ago. Lamb, if you like your grandson, keep him out of the machine. Four days, four weeks. They don't mean anything. Time machines don't work, however well they seem to. A bustle from behind them pulled their eyes around. One of the robots was quietly restraining a nervous young man who was trying to break free and join the group. His face was tense, excited with an odd, bitter fear behind it. His words were seemingly cut out of steel. He told me I'd find him there, damn it. Sorry, sir, you'll have to wait. The robot's voice was adamant under its smoothness. Ned grunted, and then impulse led him to look again. He'd seen the man somewhere. He'd hunted for it, then dismissed it, knowing that his memory was tricky these days. But he motioned the robot aside. We don't allow interruptions from junior members, he told the man, letting his voice soften the words. Still, if you want to sit down and listen quietly, nobody'll stop you. But quietly, the robot stressed the word. The man looked at it, then swiveled to Ned Brussel. For a moment the bitterness halted as if frozen, then gave place place to a sudden, sharp amusement. His eyes searched Ned's and he nodded. Dropping into a chair, Lamb took up the conversation again. It worked. And if it works for four days, it should work for four centuries. You're just scared of paradoxes, Ned. Going back and killing your grandfather or such rot. You've been reading too many stories on it. Fifty years ago, Pete Lanfranc said the same thing. Young man, either sit down or get out. This is an old man section. He had answers for all the paradoxes, too, except one question. Ned had been young then, just getting started at synthanatomy drafting, and not rich enough for wine of the type Pete always kept. He sipped it with relish. He looked at the old cage Pete was displaying. All the same, it won't work. Pete laughed. Reality doesn't mean a thing to an artist, does it? Be damned to your paradoxes. There's some answer to em. It did work. The dog appeared exactly four weeks later, just finishing his bark. Then why haven't time machines come back from the future? Ned shot at him. He'd been saving that as his final argument, and he sat back to watch the bomb explode for a second. Pete blinked. You never figured that out for yourself? Nope. I got it from a science fiction story. But why haven't they? If yours works, there'll be a lot more machines built. With more built, they'll be improved. They'll get to be commonplace. People'd use em, and someone would turn up here with one. Or in the why haven't we met Time travellers, Pete. Maybe we have met them and didn't know it. Nonsense. You get in that machine and go back to Elizabethan England. Try to pass yourself off as being native to that time. Even an hour. No, there'd be slip ups. Pete considered it, poured more wine. An idea, but you're right. Maybe I hadn't tried going back. If I'd sent the dog backward, I couldn't have checked up on it while I could be waiting in the future. Okay, you've convinced me then you're not going in the contraption. Pete's laughter was spontaneous and loaded with amusement. I'm going forward and find out why no one has come back. I've got a nice collection of rare coins I can trade off up there. Should be more valuable. I'll bring you back a working invention from the next century. With luck I'll bring you the answer. And after that maybe I can go back and kill an ancestor just to see what happens. Don't be a fool. But Pete was grinning and opening the door to the cage that rested in the middle of his laboratory. 50 years this trip, he said, spinning the dials, and you won't have long to wait. I'll come back just about in no time. Ned started to yell something, but there was a curious flicker such as he'd seen when Pete sent the dog forward. The time machine blurred over its surface, seemed to stretch into infinity while contracting to nothing at the same time. Then it was gone. Ned groped for the wine bottle, cursing, and drained the contents. Then he sat down to wait. Three days later the police came looking for Pete on some mysterious tip, perhaps from a fellow worker. It was a pretty rough time for a while, though. They finally decided it was just another mystery and that Ned's yarn of having been there only to keep the appointment was true. Ned had influential friends, even if he didn't have any money. Then for three years he rented Pete's laboratory before he made enough to buy it. For a decade he lived in it, but by then he'd begun to know that Pete wasn't coming back. The building's still there, old Ned finished. The diagrams of his machine are still in the drawers. But Pete never showed up. I tell you. Keep your fool grandson out of the time machine, Lem. They don't work. Too many paradoxes. If they worked, you could steal a future invention, get credit for inventing it, and nobody would ever have to invent it. When things have that many angles that can't work, the thing itself can't work. Lamb shook his head stubbornly. It worked. The kid got the cat back. Something just happened to your friend. Maybe his power failed. Then he wouldn't have gotten all the way and he'd have reappeared. Years ago, Pete measured things and there was no displacement in space. If something had happened to him, the machine would have been there anyhow. Besides, I had alarms wired to call the police, intold them it was to protect the safe the minute he showed up. He never showed up, he never came back. So I suppose he just disappeared. Time ate him up. Lemm's stubbornness was cracking a bit, though his voice was higher than even an old man's should be. I don't know, but time machines don't work otherwise. Where are the time travellers from the future? They sat quietly for a second. Ned was remembering the years up to the time he'd given up, disconnected the alarms, and came here to the Arts and Science Club to live. He'd been stubborn, maybe a little bit, but Pete hadn't reappeared. Behind him, a young man cleared his throat and the robot moved forward, but there was no rule against the intrusion. When no one was speaking and the robot came to a stop, Ned looked back just as the man decided the robot wouldn't interfere. There was more amusement on the man's face now, but the bitterness still lay there. He grinned at Ned, a familiar grin, and his voice was flat and positive. Time machines work, and there are no paradoxes. Absolutely no paradoxes. Lem stirred, craning back, and Ned bristled, but something about the young man caught back the words as he picked up the thin thread of memory. The other grinned again, wryly. It's simple. Time machines work in one direction. They can't go back. Your time traveler found that out too late. No trips to the past, no return from the future, and no paradoxes. Ned Brussels. He came to his feet, moving over to drop into the chair beside Ned. The older man nodded, stretching out his hand. I told you not to try that damn machine, Pete, ned told him. Then he chuckled as the oldest cliche among old friends meeting again came to his lips. 50 years and you haven't changed a bit. Pete Lanfranc the End of Absolutely no Paradox by Lester Del Rey.
[268:09]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
A Bottle of Old Wine by Richard O. Lewis 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 Craig Franklin A Bottle of Old Wine by Richard O. Lewis Herbert Hirrell settled himself more comfortably in his easy chair, extending his short legs further towards the fireplace and let his eyes travel cautiously in the general direction of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, her long legs curled up beneath her, the upper half of her face hidden in the bulk of her personalised three dimensional telovis. The telovis of a stereoscopic nature seemingly brought the performers with, with all their tinsel and colours directly into the room of the watcher. Hyrule had no way of seeing into the plastic affair she wore, but he guessed from the expression on the lower half of her face that she was watching one of the newer black market sex operas. In any event, there would be no sound, movement or sign of life from her for the next three hours. To break the thread of the play for even a moment would ruin all the previous emotional build up. There had been a time when he hated her for those long and silent evenings, lonely hours during which he was completely ignored. It was different now, however, for those hours furnished him with time for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smile and his right hand fondled the unobtrus obtrusive switch beneath his trouser leg. He did not press the switch. He would wait a few minutes longer, but it was comforting to know that it was there, exhilarating to know that he could escape for a few hours by a mere flick of his finger. He let his eyes stray to the dim light of the artificial flames in the fireplace. His hate for her was not bounded merely by those lonely hours she had forced upon him. No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burning savagery that was deadly in its passion. He hated her for her money, the money she kept securely from him. He hated her for the paltry allowance she doled out to him as if he were an irresponsible child. It was as if she was. She were constantly reminding him in every glance and gesture. I made a bad bargain when I married you. You wanted me, my money, everything, and had nothing to give in return except your own doltish self. You set a trap for me, baited with lies and a false front. Now you are caught in your own trap and will remain there like a mouse to eat from my hand, whatever crumbs I stoop to give you. But someday his hate would be appeased. Yes, someday soon he would kill her. He shot a sideways glance at her, wondering if, by chance, she suspected she hadn't moved. Her lips were pouted into a half smile. The sex opera had probably reached one of its more pleasurable moments. Hiroll let his eyes shift back to the fireplace again. Yes, he would kill her. Then he would claim a rightful share of her money, be rid of her debasing dominance. He let the thought run through his head, savouring it with mental taste buds. He would not kill her tonight. No. Nor the next night. He would wait. Wait until he had sucked the last measure of pleasure from the thought. It was like having a bottle of rare old wine on a shelf where it could be viewed daily. It was like being able to pause again and again before the bottle, hold it up to the light and say to some day when my desire for you has reached the ultimate, I. I shall unstopper you quietly and sip you slowly to the last soul satisfying drop. As long as the bottle remained there upon the shelf. It was symbolic of that pleasurable moment. He snapped out of his reverie and realised he had been wasting precious moments. There would be time enough to morrow for gloating tonight there were other things to do. Pleasurable things. He remembered the girl he had met the night before and smiled smugly. Perhaps she would be awaiting him even now. If not, there would be another one. He settled himself deeper into the chair, glanced once more at his wife, then let his head lean comfortably back against the chair's headrest. His hand upon his thigh, felt the thin mesh that cloaked his body beneath his clothing like a sheer stocking. His fingers went again to the tiny switch. Again he hesitated. Herbert Hiroll knew no more about the teleporter suit he wore than he did about the radio at the corner, the TV set against the wall, or the personalised Talovis his wife was wearing. You pressed one of the buttons on the radio. Music came out. You pressed a button and clicked a dial on the tv. Music and pictures came out. You pressed a button and made an adjustment on the telovis. Three dimensional emotion coloured pictures leapt into the room. You pressed a tiny switch on the teleporter suit. You were whisked away to a receiving statue at present previously set up in secret. He knew that the music and the images of the performers on the TV in telovis were brought to his room by some form of electrical impulse or wave, while the actual musicians and performers remained in the studio. He knew that when he pressed the switch on his thigh, something within him, his ectoplasm, higher self, the thing spirits use for materialization, whatever its real name, streamed out of him along an invisible channel, leaving his body behind in the chair in a conscious but dreamlike state. His other self materialised in a small cabin in a hidden nook between a highway and a river where he had installed the receiver set a month ago. He thought once more of the girl who might be waiting for him, smiled and pressed the switch. The dank air of the cabin was chill to Herbert Hirald's naked flesh. He fumbled through the darkness for the clothing he kept there, found his shorts and trousers, got hurriedly into them, then flicked on a pocket lighter and ignited a stub of candle upon the table. By the wavering light he finished dressing in the black satin clothing, the white shirt, the flowing necktie and tam. He invoiced the contents of his billfold. Not much, and his monthly pittance was still two weeks away. He had skimped for six months to salvage enough money from his allowance to make a down payment on the teleporter suit. Since then, his expenses, monthly payments for the suit, cabin rent, costly liquor had forced him to place his nights of escape on strict ration. He could not go on this way, he realised, not now, not since he had met the girl. He had to have more money. Perhaps he could not afford the luxury of leaving the wine bottle longer upon the shelf. Riverside Club, where Hiral arrived by bus and a hundred yards of walking, was exclusive. It catered to a clientele that had but three things in money, a desire for utter self abandonment and a sales slip indicating ownership of a teleporter suit. The club was of necessity expensive for self. Teleportation was speaking strictly illegal, and police protection came high. Herbert Hiroll adjusted his white silken mask carefully at the door and shoved his sail slip through a small aperture where it was thoroughly scanned by unseen eyes. A buzzer sounded an instant later, the lock of the door clicked and Hirald pushed through into the exhilarating warmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hidden lights along the walls sent slow beams of red, blue, vermilion, green, yellow and pink trailing across the dome ceiling in a heterogeneous pattern. The coloured beams mingled, diffused, spread, were caught up by mirrors of various tints which diffused and mingled the lights once more until the whole effect was an ever changing panorama of softly melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes of the masked revellers on the dance floor and at the tables, unearthly in themselves, were made even more so by the altering light. Music flooded the room from unseen sources. Laughter, hysterical, drunken, filled with utter abandonment, came from the dance floor, the tables and the private booths and rooms hidden cleverly within the walls. Hyrrol pushed himself to an unoccupied table sat down and ordered a bottle of cheap whisky. He would have preferred champagne, but his depleted finances forbade the more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, he poured, poured a glass tumbler half full, and consumed it eagerly while his eyes scanned the room in search of the girl. He couldn't see her in the dim swirl of colour. Had she arrived? Perhaps she was wearing a different costume than she had the night before. If so, recognition might prove difficult. He poured himself another drink, promising himself he would go in search of her. When the liquor began to take effect, a woman clad in the revealing garb of a Persian dancer threw an arm about him from behind and kissed him on the cheek through the veil which covered the lower part of her face.
[279:22]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
Hi, honey.
[279:23]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
She giggled into his ear. Having a time, he reached for the white arm to pull her to him, but she eluded his cry grasp and reeled away into the waiting arms of a tall toreador. Hiroll gulped his whisky and watched her nestle into the arms of her partner and begin with him a sinuous, suggestive dance. The whisky had begun its warming effect, and he laughed. This was the land of the lotus eaters, the sanctuary of the escape escapists, the haven of all who wished to cast off their shell of inhibition and become the thing they dreamed themselves to be. Here one could be, among his own kind, an actor upon a gay stage, a gaudy butterfly metamorphosed from the slug, a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl was probably the wife of a boorish oaf whose idea of romance was spending an evening telling his wife how he came to be a successful bank president. But she had found her means of escape. Perhaps she had pleaded a sick headache and had retired to her room. And there, upon the bed now reposed her shell of reality, while her inner self, the shadowy one, completely materialized, became an exotic thing, thing from the east in this never never land. The man, the toreador, had probably closeted himself within his library with a set of account books and had left strict orders not to be disturbed until he had finished with them. Both would have terrific hangovers in the morning, but that, of course, would be fully compensated for by the memories of the evening. Hirald chuckled. The situation struck him as being funny. The shadowy self got drunk and had a good time, and the outer husk suffered the hangover in the morning. Strange. Strange how a device such as the teleporter suit could cause the shadow of each bodily cell to leave the body, materialise and become a reality in its own right. And yet. He looked at the heel of his left hand. There was a long, irregular scar there. It was the result of a cut he had received nearly three weeks ago when he had fallen over this very table and had rammed his hand into a sliver of broken champagne glass. Later that evening, upon reteleporting back home, the pain of the cut had remained in his hand, but there was no sign of the cut itself. Himself, on the hand of his outer self, the scar was peculiar to the shadowy body only there was something about the shadowy body that carried the hurts to the outer body, but not the scars. Sudden laughter broke out near him and he turned quickly in that direction. A group of gaily costumed revellers were standing in a semicircle about a small mound of clothing upon the floor. It was the costume of the toreador. Hirill laughed too. It had happened many times before. A costume suddenly left empty as its owner, due to a threat of discovery at home, had had to press the switch in haste to bring his shadowy self and complete consciousness back to his outer self. In a hurry. A waiter picked up the clothing. He would put it safely away so that the owner could claim it upon his next visit to the club. Another waiter placed a fresh bottle of whisky on the table before Hirald and Hyrrol paid him for it. The whisky, reaching his head now in surges of warm cheerfulness, was filling him with abandonment, courage and a desire for merriment. He pushed himself up from the table, joined the merry throng, threw his arm about. The Persian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly to the throbbing rhythm. Dancing and holding on to each other tightly. Hiroll could feel her hot breath through her veil upon his neck, adding to the headiness of the liquor. His feeling of depression and inferiority flowed suddenly from him. Once again he was the all conquering male. His arm trembled as it drew her still closer to him and he began dancing directly and purposefully towards the shadows of a clump of artificial palms near one corner of the room. There was an exit to the garden behind the palms. Halfway there they passed a secluded booth from which protruded a long leg clad in black mesh stocking. Hirald paused as he recognized that part of the costume. It was she, the girl. The one he had met so briefly the night before. His arm slid away from the Persian dancer, took hold of the mesh clad leg and pulled. A female form followed the leg from the booth and fell into his arms. He held her tightly, kissed her white neck, let her perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey? She whispered her voice deep and throaty. You know it. He began whisking her away towards the palms. The Persian girl was pulled into the booth. Yes. She was wearing the same costume she had worn the night before, that of a can can dancer of the 90s. The mesh hose that encased her shapely legs were held up by flowered supporters in such a manner as to leave 4 inches of white leg exposed between hose top and lacy panties. Her skirt, frilled to suggest innumerable petticoats, fell away at each hip, leaving the front open to expose the full length of legs. She wore a wig of platinum hair encrusted with jewels that sparkled in the light. Her jewel studded mask was as white as her hair and covered the upper half of her face except for the large almond slits for her eyes. A white purse jewel crusted dangled from one arm. He stopped once before reaching the palms drew her closer, kiss kissed her long and ardently. Then he began pulling her on again. She drew back when they reached the shelter of the fronds. Champagne first, she whispered huskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very little money left. Well, it might buy a cheap brand. She sipped her champagne slowly and provocatively across the table from him. Her eyes sparkled behind the almond slits of her mask, caught the colour changes and cast them back. She was wearing contact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry with her drink. He had horrible visions of his wife at home taking off her televis and coming to his chair. He would then have to press the switch that would jerk his shadowy self back along its invisible connected cord, jerk him back and leave but a small mound of clothes upon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold of him. He would not be able to see her after to night until he received his monthly dole two weeks hence. She wouldn't wait that long. Someone else would have her. Unless. Yes. He knew now that he was going to kill his wife as soon as the opportunity presented itself. It would be a simple matter. With the aid of the teleporter suit he could establish an iron clad alibi. He took a long drink of whisky and looked at the dancers about him. Sight of their gay costumes heightened his depression. He was wearing a cheap suit of satin, all all he could afford. But some day soon he would show them. Sometime soon he would be dressed as gaily.
[287:57]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Something troubling you, honey?
[287:59]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
His gaze shot back to her and she blurred slightly before his eyes. No, nothing at all. He summoned a sickly smile and clutched her Hands in his. Come on, let's dance. He drew her from the chair into his arms. She melted towards him as if desiring to become part of him. A tremor of excitement surged through him and threatened to turn his knees into quivering jelly. He could not make his feet conform to the flooding rhythm of the music. He half stumbled, half pushed her along past the booths, in the shelter of the palms. He drew her savagely to him. Let's. Let's go outside. His voice was little more than a croak.
[288:51]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
But honey.
[288:52]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
She pushed herself away, her low voice maddening him.
[288:56]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Don't you have a private room?
[288:59]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
A girl doesn't like to be taken outside. Her words bit into his brain like the blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a private room at the club like the others. A private room for his teleporter receiver. A private room where he could take a willing guest. No, he couldn't afford it. No, no, no. His lot was a cheap suit of satin. Cheap whisky, cheap champagne. A cheap shack by the river. An inarticulate cry escaped his twisted lips. He clutched her roughly to him and dragged her through the door and into the moonlight. Whiskey and anger lending him brutal strength. He pulled her through the deserted garden. All the others had private rooms. He pulled her to the far end behind a clump of squatty furs. His hands, clothed, applauded her. He tried to smother her mouth with kisses. She eluded him deftly.
[290:05]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
But honey.
[290:07]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Her voice had gone deeper into her throat.
[290:10]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
I just want to be sure about things.
[290:12]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
If you can't afford one of the private rooms, if you can't afford to show me a good time, if you can't, come here real often. The whiskey pounded and throbbed at his brain like blows from an unseen club. His ego curled and twisted within him like a headless serpent. I'll have money. He shouted, struggling to hold her. I'll have plenty of money after tonight. Then we'll wait, she said.
[290:40]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
We'll wait until tomorrow night.
[290:43]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
No.
[290:44]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
He screamed. You don't believe me. You're like the others. You think I'm no good. But I'll show you. I'll show all of you. She had gone coldly rigid in his arms. Unyielding madness added to the pounding in his brain, tears welling into his eyes.
[291:05]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
I'll show you.
[291:06]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
I'll kill her, then I'll have money. The hands clutching his shoulders shook her drunkenly.
[291:12]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
You wait.
[291:13]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Sure.
[291:13]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
I'll go home and kill her. Then I'll be back.
[291:17]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
Silly boy.
[291:19]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Her low laughter rang hollowly in his ears. And just who is it you are going to kill? My wife. He cried. My wife. I'll. A sudden, sobering thought struck him. He was talking too much and he wasn't making sense. He shouldn't be telling her this. Anyway, he couldn't get the money tonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you're going to kill your wife. He blinked the tears from his eyes. His chest was heaving, his heart pounding. He looked at her shimmering form. Yes? He whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in the light of the moon. Her handbag glinted as she opened it, and something she took from from it glittered coldly in her hand.
[292:13]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Fool.
[292:15]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
The first shot tore squarely through his heart, and while he stood staring at her, mouth agape, a second shot burned its way through his bewildered brain. Mrs. Herbert Hirrel removed the Telophus from her head and laid it carefully aside. She uncoiled her long legs from beneath her, walked to her husband's chair, and stood for a long moment looking down at him, her lips drawn back in contempt. Then she bent over him and reached down his thigh until her fingers contacted the small switch. Seconds later a slight tremor shook Hill's body. His eyes snapped open, air escaped his lungs, his lower jaw sagged inanely, and his head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer, watching his eyes become glazed and sightless. Then she walked to the telephone. Police, she said. This is Mrs. Herbert Hirrel. Something horrible has happened to my husband. Please come over immediately. Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom, stripped off her clothing, and slid carefully out of her teleporter suit. This she folded neatly and tucked away into the false back of the medicine cabinet. She found a fresh pair of blue Plastifur pyjamas and got into them. She was arriving back into the living room, tying the cord of her dressing gown about her slim waist, when she heard the sound of the police siren out front. End of a bottle of old wine By Richard O. Lewis.
[294:10]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
The Mathematicians by Arthur Feldman this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. Domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the mathematicians by Arthur Feldman they were in the garden now, Zoe, said Xenia Hawkins to her nine year old daughter. Quit fluttering around and Papa will tell you a story. Zoe settled down in the hammock. A true story, Papa. It all happened exactly like I'm going to tell you, said Drake Hawkins, pinching Zoe's rosy cheek. Now, 2011 years ago, in 1985, figuring by the earthly calendar of that time, a tribe of beings from the Dog Star Sirius invaded the Earth. And what did these beings look like, Father? Like humans in many, many respects. They each had two arms, two legs and all the other organs that humans are endowed with. Wasn't there any difference at all between the star beings and the humans, Papa? There was the newcomers. Each and all had a pair of wings covered with green feathers growing from their shoulders and long purple tails. How many of these beings were there, Father? Exactly 3,000,041 male adults and 3 female adults. These creatures first appeared on Earth on the island of Sardinia in five weeks time. They were the masters of the entire globe. Didn't the Earthlings fight back, Papa? The humans warred against the invaders using bullets, ordinary bombs, super atom bombs and gases. What were those things like, Father? Oh, they've passed out of existence long ago. Ammunition, they were called. The humans fought each other with such things and not with ideas like we do now, Father. No, with guns. Just like I told you. But the invaders were immune to the ammunition. What does immune mean? Proof against harm. Then the humans tried germs and bacteria against the star beings. What were those things? Tiny, tiny bugs that the humans tried to inject into the bodies of the invaders to make them sicken and die. But the bugs had no effect at all on the star beings. Go on, Papa. These beings overran all Earth. Go on from there. You must know these newcomers were vastly more intelligent than the earthlings. In fact, the invaders were the greatest mathematicians in the system. What's the system? And what does mathematician mean? The Milky Way. A mathematician is one who is good at figuring, weighing, measuring, clever with numbers. Then, Father, the invaders killed off all the Earthlings? Not all. They killed many. But many others were enslaved. Just as the humans had used horses and cattle, the newcomers so used the humans. They made workers out of some others they slaughtered for food. Papa. What sort of language did these star beings talk? A very simple language, but the humans were never able to master it. So the invaders, being so much smarter, mastered all the languages of of the globe. What did the earthlings call the invaders, Father? Anvils. Half angels, half devils then, Papa. Everything was peaceful on Earth after the anvils enslaved the humans for a little while. Then some of the most daring of humans, led by a man named Knowal, escaped into the interior of Greenland. This know all was a psychiatrist, the foremost on Earth. What's a psychiatrist? A dealer in ideas. Then he was very rich. He'd been the richest human on earth. After some profound thought, Know all figured a way to rid the Earth of the anvils. How, Papa? He perfected a method called the Noel Hughes Ilinsky technique of imbuing these anvils with human emotions. What does imbuing mean? He filled them full of and made them aware of. Xenia interrupted. Aren't you talking a bit above the child's understanding, Drake? No, Mama, said Zoe. I understand what Papa explained. Now don't interrupt. So Know all continued Drake filled the anvils with human feelings such as love, hate, ambition, jealousy, malice, envy, despair, hope, fear, shame, and so on. Very soon the Anvils were acting like humans. And in 10 days, terrible civil wars wiped out the anvils population population by 2/3. Then, Papa, the anvils finally killed off each other, almost until among them a being named Zalabar, full of saintliness and persuasion, preached the brotherhood of all anvils. The invaders quickly converted, quit their quarrels, and the Earthlings were even more enslaved. Oh, Papa, weren't Knowal and his followers in Greenland awfully sad the way things had turned out for a while. Then Know all came up with the final payoff. Is that slang, Papa? Payoff? Yes, the coup de grace. The ace in the hole that he'd saved if all else failed. I understand, Papa. The idea that would out trump anything the other side had to offer. What was it, Father? What did they have? Know all imbued the anvils with nostalgia. What is nostalgia? Homesickness? Oh, Papa wasn't knowal smart. That meant the anvils were all things filled with the desire to fly back to the star from where they had started. Exactly. So one day, all the anvils, an immense army flapping their great wings, assembled in the Black Hills of North America. And at a given signal, they all rose up from Earth. And all the humans chanted, glory, glory, the day of our deliverance. So then, Father, all the anvils flew away from Earth. Not all. There were two child anvils, one male and one female aged two years, who had been born on Earth. And they started off with all the other anvils and flew up into the sky. But when they reached the upper limits of the stratosphere, they hesitated, turned tail and fluttered back to Earth, where they had been born. Their names were Zizo and Ziza. And what happened to Zizo and Zizza, Papa? Well, like all the Anvils, they were great mathematicians, so they multiplied. Oh, Papa, laughed Zoe, flapping her wings excitedly. That was A very nice story. End of the Mathematicians by Arthur Feldman Read by D. Searles.
[303:00]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Turn Backward O Time by Walter Kubelius 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 Kelly Wilcox Baird Turn Backward O Time by Walter Kubelius the one hope for Donovan was to escape into the past, become a citizen of the early 20th century. But he overlooked the aftermath. Del W. Crane CD Donovan held the Identoplast in his hands, the fingers trembling slightly. What do the letters CD stand for? He asked, determined to play the part of an honest citizen who had no interest in unlicensed rejuvenation or time travel. The chalk faced young man with the fixed smile told him, cyclic Detection. You may have heard our more dramatic nickname name. Criminal Destroyers. I've been an agent since 2452. High strung, Donovan moistened his lips. Of course he had heard of the cd. In an age when cyclic travel backward through the centuries was an established science, the Komitet that governed the home planet had to employ ruthless measures to cope with any expense. Experimenters whose uncontrolled work might threaten to change past temporal cycles. The CD were the scavengers of the world Komitet. They scoured the past centuries, eliminating illegal and unlicensed cyclic travelers in a rigidly controlled solar system. There were thousands of lawbreakers, political disappointees, and even youth seekers like like Donovan, who hoped for life extensions in past ages. The cd, with terror and all the resources of the solar system, hunted them down and exterminated them quietly, ruthlessly and painfully. The criminal Blascomb, crane said, the fixed smile still on the thin lips, has been observed near the Donovan metallurgical plant. The Comitet suspects that someone close to your office may have established contact with him for illegal rejuvenation. His eyes left Donovan's taut face and scanned the office walls. Control boards, recording operations, and extraterrestrial metal implants lined two sides of the office. The only break in the sternness of the walls was an antique piece painting, a still life abstraction that must have dated way back to the 20th century. Crane stared at its flashes of color, the fixed smile turning to amused contempt. Donovan dare not ask for additional details. The word or whim of the Komitet was law. Criminal, destroyer. Donovan shuddered. He had spent the past six months in quietly transferring ownership of the trust to various fronts for Blascombe, a fortune worth several erg units squared to the sixth power had already changed hands. Had the CD caught him before Blascomb could deliver on the Rejuvenation and Time escape deal? We have nothing to hide, donovan said. My staff will cooperate with the cd. I assume you want access to the psycho record files. Adele W. Crane, contemptuous eyes turning away from the still life, reached a bony hand for the approval slip. I will let you know what I find. Donovan stood up, and when the CD agent left, he frantically sent out a conscious call to Blasco. Thought frequency number by the commitet. Blascomb's wave induced voice rang in Donovan's ears. I told you never to call me unless it was most urgent. This is urgent, Donovan thought desperately. Crane, a CD agent was here a minute ago. He's going to look over the books of the Trust. He won't find a thing. Blascomb's thoughts were confident in Donovan's mind. They haven't caught a single one of the men I've sent back into the 17th century. Just be patient and we'll cyclic you out within a week. Then hurry. My heart's in bad shape and I can't last much longer. I'm practically being kept alive by that rotten Castellan serum. Stay alive for one more week, Blascombe thought encouragingly, and you'll be young for centuries. Turn backward, turn backward, O time in thy flight. The song sped through Donovan's mind, lifting his spirits to be young again and to be free from the constant supervision and threat of the terrifying sea cd. As for Crane, Blascom went on, it's part of the service I'm giving you. We've arranged a false lead case in your office. Crane has his talons set for your brother in law shortly before the CD annihilates him. Your escape will be arranged to throw suspicion upon him. We will make it seem that your brother in law killed you for denouncing him to the C cd. Crane will never see through the subterfuge. You'll be safe. Perhaps forever. His brother in law's life was a cheap price to pay for youth. Donovan stared at his stiff corpse like cans. All he needed was one more week. He would make one more effort to secure a life extension. And then the examiner for the Board of Life waited while Donovan dressed. The answer could already be seen in the official's eyes. No, I'm sorry, the examiner said, but the laws of the Kami tet are fairly stringent. Only those whose social value is above par 195 may be rejuvenated. Not much value is placed upon engineers and trust managers who can easily be replaced. Replaced from each year's birth quota. The application is denied and there is no use appealing it. It's unjust. Donovan exclaimed, ignoring the alarming pain in his failing heart. All I want is 10 more years. Not even a full return to youth if there's no room on home planet. Let me go to the extraterrestrials or even some asteroid. I'll make any contribution required to. The examiner, who had often heard such vain pleas, wrapped his desk with the blood analyst. The comatet is far too wise to permit socially unnecessarily extension of the lifespan, just as it does not permit unlicensed time travel. What would happen if we allowed you to be rejuvenated and then permitted extraterrestrial immigration? There would be millions of old or sick people like you demanding equal treatment and equal consideration. Before long the planets and asteroids would be overpopulated and independent colonies set up there on which would eventually come in conflict with with the home planet Kamitet. No, my friend. The Kamitet is wise in decreeing that rejuvenation and human birth are mutually contradictory. Rather than sacrifice birth with the consequent stagnation of the human species, the Kamitet has decided rigidly to control youth extensions and grants those periods of additional life only to the socially valuable. Yes, donovan said bitterly. The Komitek keeps itself immortal while the rest of us have to die. The examiner's voice was hard. Shall I denounce you to the cd? I beg forgiveness, donovan said. Your decision is a just one, and I shall make no appeal. Blascomb had a very persistent thought call. Donovan relaxed in the office chair and let his consciousness level sync to the call number. This is the moment the thought patterns registered. The CD is about to close in with the faked evidence we've prepared. Your brother in law is about to call. Trust in me. All is ready. Do not become frightened, for the excessive adrenaline might upset the request acquired endocrine balance. Before he could frame a reply, Blascomb's thought faded away. The office door slid open and Edel W. Crane walked in. Donovan's heart throbbed painfully. Was this an unexpected crisis in their plans? Or had Blascom prepared even this? The CDs finished its analysis, crane said. I thought you might be interested. Naturally, I the case is very simple. I wish citizens would realize that they cannot fight against the enormous resources of the cd. We will destroy the public screen flashed urgently. Donovan excused himself and turned the knob. His brother in law's angry face switched into view. Donovan, that was a dirty, rotten thing to do. What right did you have to denounce me to the cd? I should kill you for this. Donovan's bewilderment was genuine. He felt Crane's eyes upon him, and a thrill of admiration for Blascomb's genius suddenly swept through him. What do you want? He managed to say. I've got to see you immediately. I Downstairs in back of the Pillow Cab station.
[313:52]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
Later.
[313:54]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Now. The image snapped off. Donovan turned to the CD agent. Excuse me for a moment, he stammered. Some family trouble. I'll be back in a short while. Crane glanced up. I'll wait. Donovan walked through his office, conscious that he was doing this for the last time. Rejuvenation was like death. You put an end to a lifetime. Casually and without haste. At the Pillow Cab station, the wind cutting down from the whir of swooping cabs, Donovan met Blascomb. There were two bright flashes, and then the smell of disintegrated flesh. Blascomb gestured toward the graying pools on the plasticized floor in back of them. Murder and suicide, he said, obviously pleased with himself. The CD will think you're dead. The murderer's body is also there to provide a motive for the transfer of the trust funds in the event Crane becomes too thorough. He'll be here soon. We work fast now. The special Pillow Cab dropped them into a gravity shielded warehouse above the European desert. It housed Blascombe's laboratory. The rejuvenation process was even simpler than Donovan had expected. Not the fountain of youth, exactly, Blascomb explained as he plunged in the needle, but a selective antibody that attacks only aging tissue and forces replacement practically on an embryonic level of activity. Unlike the Calistan Serum, which is merely a stimulant, this antibody creates from its destroyed tissue a catalyst capable of stimulating chromosomes and genes. By the very process of feeding upon itself, the body grows younger. The net result is a reversal of the life process, an anabolism making you grow younger year by year, eventually to disappear as a single cell? Ultimately, yes. Long before that period, probably. When you're a young man, you'll have to return to 2482 for a reversion to normal metabolism. Can the process be repeated indefinitely? Donovan breathed deeply. Immortality. Blascom did not smile. Only if the CD does not find you. Unlicensed rejuvenation is punishable by execution in an extremely painful manner. You're a doomed man now. If the CD even finds you. The worst tortures of the Middle Ages would be nothing compared to what Crane would do to you or me if he tracks us down. You can stay in the present time cycle, donovan said. But I'm tired of control and supervision. Send me to some period where an individual had a chance to work and live without state control. Give me the times of individualism. CD agents are everywhere in the time cycles, tracking down illegal immigrants. Quite a number of men I've rejuvenated chose the Renaissance for escape. But I'm afraid that a good part of that cycle's carnage was the work of such CD agents as our friend Crane. I'd recommend another period. The Golden Age of Greece. Blascombe shook his head. Already taken. Aristotle, Plato, and a few others are 25th century men. Archimedes was murdered by a CD agent, and Socrates sent to his death by a group of them. Their fates were known to history. Why did those men leave the 25th century to live in that cycle? He shrugged his shoulders. They probably felt that the few years of extra life were worth it. Well, into what period would you want to go, and what would you do there? I do not understand the paradoxes, donovan said. What if I chose to build gravity deflectors in ancient Rome? It would be impossible because there were no such manufacturers. Then it would mean that you were either promptly killed by a CD agent who recognized the anachronistic attempt, or you had changed your mind. But if I choose any period, it means that I can alter history at will, which presumes that the present can also be changed. That is what the Kami Tech believes, and that is why the CD is so ruthless and brutal with unlicensed time travelers. The real answer is that in the final analysis, your decision to choose a certain time period is already made, and the things you will do are already determined. Free will is an illusion. It is synonymous with incomplete perception. Then send me into the 20th century as an engineer. I would be able to make some sort of living there. Dangerous. Don't practice your profession. Study some field which is completely alien to you, so that should you come across a CD agent, he would not recognize the work of a 25th century man. You mean like an artist or a writer? Why not? Donovan laughed. I've never held a paintbrush or written more than a one page letter. But why not unloose the cyclic band? Blascomb, set me loose in the 20th century and give my regards to the CD. In the dimly lighted garret above the tavern, Donovan stood before his easel. His face was no longer lined, for the past 25 years had made him a much younger man. He had taken Blascombe's advice and had studied a field completely alien to him in his own time, the 25th century. His paintings would have been considered laughably amateurish, but for 1926 they were infinitely superior to anything produced by 20th century artists. Why can't they see? He asked his agent angrily when his third show passed without the sale of a single painting. I can see them, the agent said, standing in front of a still life abstraction with flashes of color. But your way of working is far too advanced for our time. Believe me, a few hundred years from now your paintings will be regarded as the work of a great genius. In the meantime, I starve. I can help you. Donovan threw down the paint brushes. No, no. There's no use being ahead of one's time. I can't make a living as an artist. I may as well go back to digging ditches. Maybe you can work part time and paint at night. What did you do before you started painting? He hesitated. But what was there to be afraid of? I. I was an engineer. I can get you a job with a construction company.
[321:21]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
No.
[321:22]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
No. I want nothing to do with engineering. Nothing. In the 25 years that he had lived in the 20th century, he had turned from a man of 65 to a healthy, robust 40. For a long time he had lived in fear that the dreaded arms of the CD would reach out for him and that he would stand face to face with terror inspiring Crane. But he had never met anyone who seemed to be a cd, a criminal destroyer. Sometimes he felt the avenging sword of the Kamitet hanging over his head. There were some statesmen and philosophers mentioned in the newspapers whose ideas seemed to indicate a 25th century origin. But he avoided them in the fear that they might be plants to draw out the illegals in. It was probably that the CD would never find out the deception. And if they did, there was little chance of locating him among the 2 billion people on home planet. You have to make a living somehow. The agent persisted. I know nothing but engineering, donovan said. And that I will never do. Maybe there's some other field in which you could use engineering skills. He thought, thought for a moment, and then reached into his briefcase. I picked this up for you on a newsstand. Thought you might like it. Donovan glanced at the magazine's cover. It's the latest thrill. Science fiction. Maybe with your engineering knowledge you could write a story or two. When the agent left, Donovan read through the magazine, then went out to look up other stories of the same nature. One story offered A time travel theory which was absurdly inaccurate. Another purported to deal with the inhabitants of Mars, none of which looked at all the way the writers imagined them to be. Donovan read as many as he could find and was fascinated by the hopeless incompetence and scientific inaccuracy of the so called writers. The time travel story was laughable. Even a child could produce a far more exciting, exciting tale by describing the Watson Gorshevich experiments that led to the discovery of repetitive time cycles back in 2364. Why not, he thought to himself, why not write these stories of the future? Who could do them better than a man who had come from the future? These were not engineering journals where accuracy was required, nor would anyone ever act upon the scientific discoveries he might record. Above all, no one would attempt to build any machines which would immediately attract the attention of the cd. He would do nothing which would in the slightest way affect historic development. Pressed by the need for money and fascinated by the possibilities in science fiction, Donovan began to write a story. He employed a pen name and avoided the general theory of retrograde cycle travel backward above time time, but limited himself to traveling spirally into the future. He described the mechanism he himself would have to produce in order to get back to Blascombe for anabolism correction and produced a fanciful tale regarding life in the year 3000. The letter from the editor came within a week. Dear Mr. Donovan, enclosed fine check for your story Turn Backward o Time. I have seldom read a more convincing fantasy. One could almost believe that the apparatus you described would actually work. I believe this story will be a science fiction classic, and I'm placing your original manuscript in my collection. I would appreciate seeing other examples of your work. When the story appeared in print, several paragraphs describing the construction of the time machine were omitted by the editor. Technically unconvincing, they told him they mar up the verisimilitude of a great story. Turn Backward o Time became an instant success. A few days later, Donovan contributed another story, this time based on actual events on Jupiter, which he simply transferred to a different time cycle on Vega, vaguely recalling some warning of Blascombe's that while the future could not be changed, it was best to play safe and not draw attention of the cd. He twisted and changed all the specific facts involved. The check for the second story was promptly sent. Within a few months, Donovan, under his pseudonym, which was kept secret, was launched upon a career as a writer of science fiction. Readers praised him for his convincing fantasy, and editors competed for his services. Memory of the 25th century gradually faded from his mind as years passed. At times he awoke in horror after nightmares that Crane of the CD had finally caught him. But these terrifying dreams became rarer. He had exposed himself repeatedly in fiction. Time and time again he had described actual historical events of the space colony wars in his stories. On one occasion he described the technique for the cure of cancer discovery discovered in 2019. The reader section of the magazine soon carried letters from doctors who were amused that a writer could present such a simple household remedy and dare suggest that it might be efficacious for cancer. Donovan was amused by the thought that Crane might be diligently searching for him somewhere in the Renaissance. If so, the CD agent's fury must be mounting. He changed his name and identity every 10 years to conceal his gradual return to youth. He had the pleasure of seeing himself hailed as his successor in popularity as he established new names and let the older ones die out. His excuse to the editors was that he wanted to enter into competition anew, make sure that his name alone was not carrying the stories. He was happy. Sometimes, however, later stories were panned by fans as quote imitations of the classics by the greatest STF writer the world has ever known. End quote. Only the aging gentleman who had bought Donovan's first manuscript knew. But the old man signed the checks and said nothing. In his happiness and self satisfaction, Donovan became more careless with his stories. If he had been able to outwit Crane and the dreaded cd, surely he could dash off stories good enough for the poor minds of the 20th century Science fiction readers. Then the tide turned. Fan letters in the magazines began really to tear into his fiction. They were third rate. They lacked imagination. They were ordinary stories written by an ordinary mind. And science fiction required tales written by men whose minds were well ahead of the 20th century thought. The day finally came when all the editors began rejecting his stories. First one, then another, and finally every story written received a rejection slip. Donovan could not understand the reason for the change. A few years ago, or was it decades? Each story of his was labeled a classic. Now they were not even acceptable. Had science fiction changed so much since his decision to become a writer in 1929? He dared not discuss it with anyone, for he had no friends and he trusted no one. The CD was everywhere. But there was one man with whom he had the deepest concern confidence. Donovan visited the aging editor and felt sorry for the worn out old man. He himself had once been like this, but was now free from death. He thought of taking his benefactor with him to the 25th century and saving the editor's life. But suppose Blascomb's laboratory had been captured? Donovan could manage for himself, but it would be cruel to leave the old man in the deadly hands of the sea. CD no, it was best to say nothing about rejuvenation to the editor. He would only think Donovan was trying out a story idea. I've been your editor for 30 years. The old man's voice cracked. His half blind eyes loomed through thick lenses. It's been a long time, Donovan said. My. My eyes are not what they used to be, the other said. A man about 50 years old wrote that great classic Turn Backward O Time. He must be about 80 now. But you look only 20. Ah, Laddie, you're trying to fool me. You must be his son. That's right, Donovan said quickly. We have the same name. Then that explains it, the other said wearily. It would break my old heart if a talent like your father's disintegrated. But we came to talk about your stories. No, son, you're not the writer your father was. Your tales lack imagination. There's no originality in them. The ideas are hackneyed, the writing third rate. They sound like poor imitations of the great tales told by your father. There was a man. There was a writer. Donovan left him, keeping the secret of his identity. When he returned to his home, he looked in the mirror and the face of a rose cheeked 20 year old youngster stared back at him. 50 years of happy living in the 20th century. It would soon be necessary to return to the 25th century century so that Blascomb could reverse the antibiotic catalytic process that had set him growing younger. It was impossible to stay in his present youthful state much longer. In a few years he would be a child. With a sigh, he walked to his desk, took out paper and pen and began to draw the diagrams for the apparatus which would send him Forward into the 25th century. For three hours he worked confidently and then the sweat began to drip from his forehead and his heart began to pound fearfully. It's not possible, he said uneasily. It will all come back to me soon. Now, what did that devil Blascomb tell me? He had become lazy and his brain would not be used to hard work. He said this to himself, but he could not shake off the sense of fear. He took a cold shower, rubbing himself briskly, then shot a stimulant into his bloodstream. Preparing the desk once more, he began to work. The papers gathered, the pencils broke, and the night gradually turned to morning. The finished sketch of the cycle travelers was basically correct. But the most important operating mechanism was still missing. Try as he could, he was unable to bring it up from his memory. By the solar system, he swore. What is the matter with me? I have forgotten every detail. He tried to think back. At one time he had known the mechanism thoroughly. As an engineer, he was completely familiar with every single plate and tube. But now he couldn't remember anything but the general appearance of the finished machine. Fear spurred his mind as he hunted for a solution. Something was happening to his mind. He began to think of his stories. The same thing had happened there at one time. He remembered every detail of life in the 25th century and could describe them easily now. Events were dim and he knew now why. His recent stories were poor. They were not written from actual memory of the future, but were the ordinary stories one might expect from a 20 year old boy. The past was dim and memory faded. Blascomb and Crane. Crane and Plascom. Which was the CD agent and what was the cd? Anyway, enough of the details remained to shock him into an awareness of his desperate plight. The rejuvenation process had worked to too well, for Donovan had waited dangerously long. As the body grew younger, the tissue cells were consumed and youthful cells replaced them. The process that had worked for body cells did the same for the cells of the brain. Those portions of the brain containing the knowledge and ability of a 70 year old man were gradually being replaced with new, untrained cells. He failed to re educate himself as new cells replaced the old and had come to the brink of disaster. Sufficient intelligence and manual dexterity remained to compensate for that. But in a few years the task would be hopeless. Excitedly, for he knew his life depended on it. He rummaged through his bookshelves, looking for a copy of his first story turned backward. O Time Time it contained, he remembered a concise, accurate description of the mechanism for the time machine. The magazine itself was old, the sheets turning brown and the pages breaking. He read the story in haste, vaguely remembering the plot. The actual description of the operating mechanism he found, to his consternation, was missing. I will cut out one or two paragraphs, the editor had said. They are not convincing. Technically, they lack verisimilitude. Not convincing. If he did not find them, he was doomed to become a child and then a babbling idiot of a baby and would disappear entirely within 20 years. He telephoned the magazine's office and asked for the editor. Sorry, the secretary said. Mr. O' Sloane's quite ill. The doctors are afraid he might not pass through the night. He's very old, you know. Can he speak? Donovan asked desperately. He's had a stroke. Can't say a word. Completely paralyzed. Sorry. Donovan cursed the carelessness that had led him to this difficult position. He knew that o' Sloan kept the originals of his favorite stories in a collection in his office. If o' Sloan died, it was possible that some enterprising youthful editor would destroy the old manuscripts in a fit of house cleaning. This is Donovan, he said quickly. I'm trying to locate the original copy of Turn Backward O Time, which o' Sloan had in his files. I must study the original papers. It's extremely important. If there is a substitute editor, will you ask him to keep an eye out for it? Certainly. He sighed and took a taxi to the editorial office. It would be best to get it as quickly as possible. The original manuscript was quite safe. Donovan need only copy the original description. Even if he were no longer able to grasp the theory of it. The machine was still easy enough to build from the description. Within a few hours he would be back in the 25th century for a reversal. For his next trip back, he would choose ancient Egypt. The 20th century was heading for the atomic wars, and he was fortunate in being able to escape. After Egypt, he would choose the Inca civilization. Did they not have legends of white gods that ruled them? The world was his and he would be forever young. Immortality was within his grasp. No one could stop him now. He arrived at the building and rushed up the steps to the editorial office. We found the manuscript, Mr. Donovan, the secretary told him brightly. Looking twice at the flushed, handsome face. Donovan stepped into O. Sloan's office. Practically nothing had been touched as yet, for one of the staff editors had just begun to sort a pile of stacked papers from several cabinets. Donovan recognized the original manuscript of Turn Backward O Time upon the desk and hurriedly skimmed through the pages. The description was intact, and while he could not remember why such a machine would work, he knew that it could be built and he could escape. With a sigh he pocketed the manuscript and introduced himself to the young editor who would probably succeed O. Sloan upon his death. Oh, yes, the editor with the curious thin smile said. I have heard, heard quite a bit about you and have been waiting a long time for this meeting. We've met before, you know. Really? Donovan said. The face did appear familiar, but he could not recall the occasion. My name is Edel W. Crane. CD Donovan felt a cold tremor of fear shake his body. He moistened his leg. What do the letters CD Stand for? The pasty faced young man closed and then locked the door of the office, walking towards Donovan, the smile no longer there, he told him. Then he did what he had come to do. End of turn backward O time By Walter Cubilius.
[339:29]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Our Town by Jerome Bixby 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 Ben Tucker Our Town by Jerome Bixby A jet bomber and four fighters had appeared low over Bald Ridge out of the east. They'd curved up as one to clear Lawson's Hill, their stubby wings almost brushing the treetops, their hiss and thunder rolling back and forth between the valley walls like a giant's derision. They dipped into the valley proper, obviously informed that Smoky Creek, Tennessee, population 123, had no anti aircraft installations, and circled the town at about 500ft. They circled and looked down, broad Slavic faces with curious expressions seen through plexiglasses, if thinking, so, this is an American small town. Then they took altitude and got to work. The first bomb was aimed at the big concrete railway bridge spanning the upper end of the valley that was the main objective of the attack. The bomb exploded 400 yards north of the bridge at about 600ft altitude, the ideal point from which to flatten Smoky Creek. Low altitude bombing can be tricky, of course, especially in mountain column country. A bombs were cheap, though turned out by the carload, not like 20 years before when they were first developed. So it was likely the bombardier tripped a bomb over the town just for the hell of it. The next bomb got the bridge. The next tore up a quarter mile of track, the next tore up a quarter mile of road. That was the mission. The bombers circled while the fighters strafed Smoky Creek for good measure, and then they roared away past Lawson's Hill, over Baldridge into the east, toward their invasion coast base. Everybody died. The bombs were midget as designed for tactical use, so Smoky Creek wasn't reduced to dust, just to sticks. There wasn't much heat from the bomb and there was hardly any residual radiation, but everybody in town died. Concussion. Smoky Creek had been comprised of one main street and three cross streets, and that's not much area. The wave had thumped down from right above like a giant fist. Everybody died except 21 old men and women who had been off in the woods at the far end of the valley on their annual grand folks picnic. They didn't die except inside. Three months later an enemy jet came out of the sky and over the Valley. A scoop arrangement under its belly was sniffing Tennessee and Alabama air for radioactive particles. It sniffed low over the town, and then again, a ruined town might hide an underground lab and converter. And then it barrel rolled and crashed. Nine rifle bullets had hit the motor straight back through the jet intake into the blades. A year after that another jet came low over the town and it crashed too. Only three bullets this time, but a jet motor's like a turbine. You get a blade or two and it goes crazy. Two years after that, Ben Bates, no longer Mayor Ben because a mayor has to have a town. But still the man in charge knocked off playing horseshoes in what had been the town hall. Now the building served as a recreation hall. There were horseshoe pits at one end of the long room, there were tables for checkers and cards, and a short ten pin alley along one wall. Three years ago the alley had been twice as long as it was now. But then there were young men around who could peg the length of it without tiring every time. Overhead the roof sagged, and in one place you could see quite a piece of sky. But under the hole the old men had rigged a slanted board watershed that led to a drainage ditch, and scattered through the room were a lot of supporting posts and timber braces. Actually, the building was about as safe as it had ever been. There were other buildings like it, buildings that the bomb hadn't pounded flat or made too risky. They were propped up and nailed together and buttressed and practically glued so they'd stay up from outside. You'd think they were going to crumble any minute. Walls slanted, all cockeyed, boards peeled off and hanging, and roofs buckling in. But they were safe, fixed up every which way from the inside, all from the inside, not an inch of repair on the outside. It had to be that way because the town had to look like a dead town. After the men had finished propping, the women had come along with all the furniture and things they'd salvaged, and they swept and scrubbed and did a hundred jobs the men never would have thought of. And so the old people ended up with half a dozen buildings to live in secretly and comfortably in the town that had to look dead. Arthritis is bad, Ben Bates told his teammates and opponents. Hell, I'm just giving away points. Maybe next week I'll rest up and kick you all around. Next week. He lit a cigar, a big gray man with long legs and a good humored mouth, and he watched Dan Pare throw one short. Then he strolled over to Kibbets at the Checker game between Fat Sam Hogan and Wendy Harris at one of the tables near the door. Late morning sunlight slanted in through the window by the table and struck light off Wendy's glasses as he leaned across the board, thumped a checker three times, and said triumphantly, king me, Sam, you're getting blind. I swear. Or dumber. Behind his back Ben Bates heard a shoe ringing against the stake. Then he heard it spin off and he grinned at Owen Urie's bullfrog. Cussing, Tom Pace was saying urgently, look, look, Jim, damn it, you didn't no more shoot down that plane single handed than I did. We was all shooting. God almighty, where you get off claiming you brung it down? Ben turned and sat down at the table next to the checker game and stretched his legs in the sunlight. He raised thick brows like clumps of steel wool at Tom and at old Jim Lytell, who sat in his pillowed armchair like a thin, scowling, bald man sized spider. You keep talking so high and mighty, tom said, we'll carry you out of here and take you and dump you in the creek. You can tell the fish about who got the plane. Still arguing over who planted the shot, huh? Ben grinned. Regular feud, you two. Well, help Ben, tom said, and bit down on his gum so his whiskers almost hid the end of his nose. I just get filled up on this old windbag holler and how he you gonna call me a windbag once more, Tom Pace, Jim Lydell said, and he stirred his all but helpless body in the armchair. You're gonna have a sore eye, you 70 year old whippersnapper. I brung it down and a hog's behind. You brung it down, Mr. Daniel Boone? It was just after I let loose it started smoking, old Jim snarled. Nobody else was shooting right then. You're going to get a sore eye, I swear. Tobacco in it. I can spit to where you sit, and I can spit faster than you can move, I bet. Unless you're faster than a fly. And you ain't, you just ask anybody who was there. It was just after I shot. It started. Tom Pace thumped the table. I was there. You old. Now, now, Jim, don't spit, for God's sake. Hold on what I mean, I was there too, and maybe somebody's shot from a second or two before was what done the trick. Maybe even my shot. Takes a plane a while to know it's hurt, don't it? Ever think of that? Maybe, Ben Bates said. Maybe. Maybe. And maybe let it go, you two it ain't important who done it. We ought to just be grateful we got it. Grateful I got it, Jim Lydell grunted. Tom Pace said, now looky here, Jim. Ben Bates nudged Tom's leg under the table, and then, slowly fingering his jaw, he said, well, now, Jim, I figure maybe you did hit that. Like you said, it smoked and crashed right after you shot, so I always kind of figured it was you brought it down. But that's a hard thing to prove. Jim snorted. Can't prove it, but I got it all right. A man knows when he's sunk a shot in a varmint. Maybe Tom Pace objected, or a man, but you claiming to know where to hit a plane the worst. We was all shooting at the front, up where they put the motor. Jim said nastily, don't know about planes, but I know my aim. I got it square on. Well, ben said, why don't you just let it lay, eh, Tom? Jim's got a lot on his side. He looked sideways at old Jim and saw that Jim was still scowling at Tom. Old Jim was 98 and some settin his notions. Mmm, hell, tom said reluctantly after a second, I ain't saying you didn't, Jim. That ain't my intent. I just get burned when you yell you did, like no man dared say you was wrong. Sure, maybe you're right, but you ain't willing to admit you might be wrong, too.
[348:05]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
No, Jim.
[348:06]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Lydell yelled, and from the checker table came Wendy Harris's encouraging, you tell him who got that plane, Jim. Ben Bates scraped an inch of ash off his cigar against the table edge, sighed, and got up. He looked down at the glowering pair and said, well, come the next plane, if there is one, we'll shove a rifle in your hand, Jim, and see how good your eye is. You too, Tom. Till that time. Reckon this is no place for a reasoning man. Sit down, Ben Bates, old Jim snarled. If you're a reasoning man, sit down. Be glad to talk to him. One after Tom here goes away, you go to hell. I ain't going no place, tom said, and he picked up the cards and started shuffling them in his stiff hands. Ben sat down and stretched out his legs again. After a second Old Jim said wistfully, you know, I wish I could still handle a rifle, Ben, or do anything but sit. No way for a man to live to have dead legs and dying arms. He shifted in his cushions. You know, I reckon when I started to really die, die all over, I'm going to get up out of this chair. I'll stand up somehow, even if it kills me faster. A man ought to fall when he dies, like a tree, so they know he stood up in his time. A man oughtn't to die sitting down. Sure, Jim Ben said. You're right about that. Never had a sick day in my life until they dropped that bomb. Why, I could out pitch and out chop and out shoot any of you whippersnappers until they old Jim walloped the chair arm. Damn, I made up for it, though, didn't I? They put me in a chair, I sat in it, and I got me an airyplane, and that's more than they could do to me. By golly, they couldn't kill me. Sure, Jim, Ben said. And when my time comes, I'll be up and out of this chair. Man ought to fall and make a noise when he dies. Sure, Jim Ben said. But that's a long ways off, ain't it? Jim closed his eyes and his face looked like a skull. You squirt always thinks a man lives forever. From outside came the late morning sounds, the murmuring of Smoky Creek at the edge of town under its cool tunnel of willows, the twittering of a flock of robins circling above the constant soft rustle of the trees that crowded the green hills around. From the warehouse down by the tracks came the faint sounds of livestock and the voices of the men whose job it was to look after them this week, to feed them, turn them out into the big pens for an hour's sunlight, then drive them back into the warehouse again. Lucky the warehouse had stood the bomb. It was perfect for the use. Wonder how the war is going, Tom Pace said. He dropped some cards and bent painfully to retrieve them. His voice was muffled. I just wonder how it's going, you know? Wonder who's killing more than who today. Maybe, tom continued, coming up. It's all over. Ain't seen no planes for a couple years now. Maybe somebody won. Ben shrugged. Who knows? Don't matter none to us. We're ready as we can be if another plane comes around. Other than that, it ain't our concern. Dar Tootin, tom said, and pushed the cards together and started shuffling again. Jim Lydell said war and looked like he'd bitten to spoiled meat. Never settled nothing. Just makes the biggest dog top dog for a while so he can get his way. Man, I wish I could still lift a rifle. If an airyplane come around, I'd love to get me another one. He put his thin back against the cushions and pushed at the edge of the table with his hands. Jim's fingers didn't move so well anymore. Some were curled and some were straight out and the joints were different sizes, and now they were trembling a little. Sometimes when I think, oh, Johnny and Helen and all the kids, when I think of that day and those damn bombs and that white tower of smoke up over the town, oh, God Almighty, I'd love to see another airyplane. I'd shout and yell and pray. I pray Almighty God, for you to get it. Ben pulled on his cigar with stiff lips and said slowly, well, we might, Jim. We just might. Two out of seven ain't bad. He puffed out smoke. We've been running in luck so far, what with nobody ever coming back loaded for bear. Reckon that means the other five didn't see as low as they was. Probably didn't even know they were being shot at. They must have found bullet holes, though, tom Pace said afterwards. Not a chance. We'd all missed. He bobbed his beard at old Jim. Especially with Daniel Boone here plugging away. They'd know they was shot at, all right. Might even find rifle bullets. Maybe they did, ben said. Nobody ever comes snooping back, though. Wouldn't know where to, would they? Wendy Harris said. He and Fat Sam Hogan had stopped playing checkers and had been listening. Smoky Creek looks dead as Sodom. Buildings all down and stuff. Knee deep in the streets. Bridge down and the road out, and the valley is way the hell out of the way. No call for them to suspect it more than any place else. Less even. They likely figure somebody took a potshot from a hill, and there's a pack of hills between here and outside. Looks like, Ben said. We just got to keep it that way. Anyway, we got a good plan. If the plane's up high, we just freeze under cover. If it comes down low a time or two, we figure we're likely spotted and start shooting. We shoot, and maybe it shoots too, and we pray. That's a good plan, Jim Lydell said, looking out the window. We got two. Wendy Harris got up and stretched out his arms. Two ain't enough, old Jim said bitterly. Well, said Wendy. I hope we keep on getting them as sees us anyway. Hope nobody ever knows we're here. It's peaceful here, way off by ourselves. Nothing to do but get up and go to bed and do what we want in between. He sent tobacco juice into the cuspidora by the door. Right now me, I guess I'll go fishing down by the creek, promised Maud. I'd bring home a cat or two for supper. Anybody come along? Tom Pace shook his head and old Jim looked like he'd like to go, if only he could, and Ben said, maybe I'll go down a little while later. Wendy, keep to the trees. Wendy left, and Tom Pace shuffled the cards and looked over at Jim. Lydell, you gonna play with Ben and me, you old windbag, or you gonna keep braggin so loud a man can't stand your company? Why, you whippersnapper, jim growled. You just go ahead and run him, Reggin. A reasoning man and a nitwit's about the best I can do right now. Tom dealt out two cards and said more without dealing out the rest. He looked at Ben, his eyes cloudy. Got a cigar, Ben? Ben handed one over and held a match, and Tom got it going, puffing longer than he had to, like he didn't want to talk yet. Then he said, it didn't have to happen. He worked the cigar over to the corner of his mouth and settled it in the nest of stained whiskers there. None of it had to happen. What happened here and whatever happened outside the valley, it just didn't have to happen. Course it didn't, Ben said. Never has to. It just always does. Some people got reasons to let it happen, and some ain't got the sense not to. Fat Sam Hogan said, I don't figure there's anything in the world a man can't sit down and talk out instead of reaching for a gun. Don't know why that oughtn't a hole for countries. Ben Bates looked at one of the two cards Tom Pace had dealt his hole, a card. It was a four, and he lost interest. Yep, he said. It holds all right. They'll just both reach half the time anyway. One war on top of another. Even one right after this one. Ten years or so if this one's over. I just bet every country wants a of piece piece out of the next one's hide or his poke, and they won't give an inch except in talk. They won't really buckle down to stop a war, never. Not if they can't get what they want by talk. He looked at the card again, just in case before. Sure enough, only time there's never war is when everybody has what they want or figure they can get it without killing somebody. But the second they see that's the only way, then it's war, war, war, war. It's a rotten way to run a world, killing to decide who's right or wrong, especially killing people who got damn little to say about it. But I seen three, four wars now, and they don't look to stop soon judging. He shook his head wonderingly. Put half the money they spend on killing towards curing instead, and help them that wants and finding out all about diseases and such. Why, shucks, it'd be a brand new world. I seen five, jim Lydell said. I seen wars come and go. I fought in one afterwards. Every time they say everything's fine. The war to save this or that's over and things are fine. Then somebody wants something somebody else has, and they're at it again like two bulls trying to hump the same heifer. Bulls don't have enough sense to know there's enough cows to go around. But people ought to big enough world. He worked those hands of his together until they were clasped, and he pushed them that way against the table edge until the overgrown knuckles looked like chonk. When I think of that noise and that cloud, how we come running and screaming back here into all the dust and mess and all them bodies. Ben, you lost heavy, Jim, Ben said. He let smoke out of his lungs and it curled off into the broad beam of sunlight that came through the window, and it looked like the smoke that had shadowed a murdered town.
[357:54]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Heavy.
[357:55]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
You lost heavier than any of us. You can't count it, old Jim said, and the chalk was whiter. We all lost the same. I just had more of it. Our kids and their kids and their kids lost heavy. What can a man lose more than his life? And if you're as old as us, what's your life except a family you made out of your own flesh? What else has a man got when he's 80 or a hundred? Tom Pace said. Ruth and Dave and their kids. I remember little Davey. He called me Tom Peach. I bought him a toy plane for his birthday. That was a couple days before the real planes come. I buried it with him, I said. I think it was him I put it with. It might have been Joey. They looked alike. A man ain't nothing when he's as old as us, jim Lyedell said, his skull sockets closed. Except what he's done. He ain't much anymore himself. He's mostly what he done with his life. Whatever he done and left around that, he can point to and say, I did that, that's all. And what's he got left? If they take that away, we can't make it again. We made Smoky Creek built it. Wasn't a thing here that didn't come out of us or ours. We made the valley after God give it to us. Wasn't a thing here. We didn't let live or help live or make live. We made our families and watched them fit into the town in the valley like the valley fits into the world, and we watched them go on doing what we done before them, building and working and planting and raising farm families, going on like people got to go on. That's the way it was. That's what we had until they dropped a bomb and killed it, killed all we done that made us men. Tears were squeezing out of the skull sockets and Ben Bates caught Tom's payside and looked away out the window at the green walls of the valley that was a coffin. I just wish an ary plane would come around again, old Jim said. I just wish. You know, Ben. Ben tried to talk and had to clear his throat. He put out his cigar in the ashtray as if that was what was wrong with his throat, and said, I know, Jim. Sure. Maybe you'll get your wish. He pushed back his chair and tried to grin, but it came out sour. Maybe you will, you old fire eater. And what if one comes and we get spotted and it shoots us up or goes back and tells everybody we're here? That's one wish we don't want the good Lord to grant, ain't it? Ain't it, now? Jim didn't say anything. Ben got up and said, bout noon. Guess I'll go home for a bite and then go down and fish with Wendy, jim said thinly. I meant I wish one would come and we'd get it. Well, maybe one will, ben said, turning toward the door. They built a slew of them, and maybe we will if it does. He stopped by the door of the town hall to listen carefully, his sharp old eyes half shut. Behind him, at the far end of the room, somebody made a ringer and Dave Mason said, nice Owen in his reedy voice. Ben listened and didn't hear what he was listening for. He stepped past the rifle that leaned beside the door and made his way to the end of the porch, walking closely to the wall. The summer sun stood at noon and the porch was in shadow. Beyond the street was a jumble of boards and broken glass, its canyon walls of leaning building fronts and sagging porches, its caverns of empty windows and doorways shimmering in the heat. You couldn't see much dirt along the way. Where the debris didn't come to your knees, it reached over your head. At the end of the porch Ben stopped and listened again, heard nothing. He stepped down and walked as fast as he could. Damn arthritis again, to the porch of the next building. This had been Fat Sam Hogan's hardware store, and about all that was left of it was the porch. The rest was a twisted mess of wood that slumped away to the ground at the rear. The porch had been down too, right after the bombing, but the old men working at night had raised it and braced it up something to walk under. A Springfield stood oiled and waiting against the wall. Ben paused and touched the barrel. It was his own, or rather it had once been his own. Now it was the town's, strictly speaking, to be used by whoever was nearest it when the time came. It was a good gun, a straight shooter, one of the best, which was why it was here instead of at his house. A man could get a better shot from here. He went on, hugging the wall. He passed a rifle wedged up between the fender and hood of Norm Henley's old Model A, and he remembered how the bomb had flipped the car right over on its top and how the car must have protected Norm from the blast just a little, enough so they found him two blocks up the street in front of his mashed house, trailing blood from every hole in him to get to his family before he died. Bend past rifles leaned against walls and chairs on porches, rifles standing behind trees and leaned in the cracks between what buildings still stood to provide cracks. Even old Jim's carbine lying under the ledge of the pump trough in front of Mason's general store. All of them in places where they were protected from rain or snow but where they were easy to get at. He passed 16 rifles walking as everybody walked, when they were out of doors, as close to the walls of the buildings as possible. When you had to cross open spaces, you ran as fast as your 70 or 80 year old legs would take you. And if you couldn't run, you walked real fast, and always you listened while you walked. Particularly you listened before you went out for planes so you wouldn't be spotted from the air. At the end of the porch of the last building on the street, Ben paused in the shade and looked out across the creek to where the first plane they'd shot down had crashed, the one Jim claimed to have got by is lonesome. They'd buried what they found in the pilot and cleared away every last bolt and nut and stuff, scrap of aluminum, but the long scar in the ground remained. Ben looked at it all broken up by rocks and flowers and bushes. The old people had transplanted so it wouldn't show from the air, and he looked at the cemetery a hundred feet beyond, at which the scar pointed like an arrow. The cemetery that wasn't a cemetery because it didn't have headstones, just bodies. A town that was dead shouldn't have a lot of new graves. The dead don't bury themselves. A pilot might see a hundred graves he hadn't seen before and wonder and strafe. So Ben looked at the flat ground where those hundred bodies lay, with only small rocks the size of a man's fist, with names scratched on them to mark who lay beneath, and he thought of his daughter May and Owen Yuri's son George, who had married May and their three kids, and he remembered burying them here. He remembered their faces, the blood from eyes, nose, ears, mouth. His blood. It was part of it. Then Ben looked up. We ain't looking for trouble, he said to the empty blue bowl of sky, but if you do come, we're ready. Every day we're ready. If you stay up high we'll hide, but if you come down low we'll try to get you, you crazy murderers. His house was only a few yards further on. He got there by sticking under the trees, walking quickly from one to the next, his ears cocked for the jet sound that would flatten him against a trunk. Way off to his left, across a long flat of sunflowers and goldenrod, he saw Wendy Harris down on the creek bank by the bridge. He yelled, they biting? And Wendy's faint got to reminded him of all old Jim had said, and he shook his head. He left the trees and walked fast up his front path. His house was in pretty good shape. All four houses on the outskirts had come off standing, his and Wendy's and Jim's and Owen Ury's. They'd needed just a little bracing here and there, and they were fine except Owen's. Owen had stomped around in his and listened to the sounds of it and said he didn't trust it, and sure enough, the first big storm it had gone down. Now Ben and his wife Susan lived downstairs in his house, joking. Cade and his wife, Anna lived on the second floor and Tom Pace lived in the attic, claiming that climbing the stairs was good for his innards. Anakin Cade was sitting on the porch swing, peeling potatoes. Ben said, afternoon, Anna, and saw her pale bright eyes flicker up at him, and that scared smile touched her mouth for just a second. Then she hunched her shoulders and kept on with the potatoes like he wasn't even there. Ben thought it must be lonely to be that way. And he attracted her attention again, his voice a little louder. Hope you're feeling fine, Anna. Again the flicker of eyes. Just fine, Ben. Thanks, she said, almost in a whisper. Peeling spuds, I see. Her knife sped over a potato, removing a spiral of skin. She popped an eye out with a twist of the point. Think Keith'll be back from the war today, Ben? It's been so long. I hate to think of my boy fightin out there so long. Will they let him come home soon, Ben? They will, Hannah. I think they will. Real soon. Maybe tomorrow. Will they? Sure. Keith Kincaid was under one of those fist sized rocks out in the cemetery that wasn't a cemetery next to his wife June Hogan, and their four kids. But Anna Kincaid didn't know that. Since the bomb, Anna hadn't known much of anything except what the old people told her, and they told her only things that would make her as happy as she could be. That Keith was in the army and June was off with the kids having a nice time in Knoxville, and that they'd all be back home in a day or so. Anna never wondered about that day or so. She didn't remember much from day to day. Joe Kincaid sometimes said that helped a little, as much as anything could. He could tell her the same nice things every day and her eyes would light up all over again. He spent a lot of time with her doing that. He was pretty good at it, too. Joke and cade had been Dr. Joe before the bomb. He still doctored some when he could, but he was almost out of supplies, and what with his patients being so old, he mostly just prayed for them. In the kitchen, Susan had lunch ready and waiting, some chicken from last night, green beans, boiled potatoes, and a salad from the tiny gardens the women tended off in the weedy ground and around the base of trees where they wouldn't be seen. On the way in, Ben had noticed that the wood box was about empty. He'd have to bring home another bag of charcoal from the general store, which was Wendy's barn, all braced up into it. The people had taken every bit of clothing, canned food, hardware, anything at all they could use in the way of housekeeping and everyday living, and there it all stood. When somebody needed something, they went and took it. Only the canned foods and tobacco and liquor were rationed every week or so. Around midnight Fat Sam Hogan and Dan Parret went into the big cave in Lawson's Hill, right near where the second plane had crashed, and set up a lot of small fires back where the light wouldn't be seen. They made charcoal, and when it was cooled they brought it down to the store for cooking and such a charcoal fire doesn't give off much smoke over coffee. Ben said, reckon I'll fish some this afternoon, honey. How's a cat or two for supper sound? Why, goodness, Ben, not for tonight. Susan smiled. You know, tonight's a social. Me and Anna are fixing a big dinner. Steaks and all the trimmings. Mm, ben said, draining his cup. Forgot today was Sunday. We're gonna have some music, and Owen Yuri's going to read Shakespeare. Ben pursed his lips, tasting the coffee. It was rationed to two cups a day. He always took his with his lunch, and sometimes he'd have sold a leg to dive into a full pot. Well, I might as well fish anyway. Take in some fun. Fish'll keep till tomorrow, won't it? You can have it for breakfast. She sat down across the table and picked up the knitting she'd been on when Ben came home. He had a hunch it was something for his birthday, so he tried not to look interested. Too early to tell what it was anyway. Ben, she said, before you go, the curtain pole in the bay window come down when I was fixing the blankets over it for tonight. The socket's loose. You better fix it before you go. You'll maybe get home after. Anna and me want to light the lamps and we can't do it till it's fixed, Ben said. Sure, hon. He got the hammer and some nails from the toolbox and went into the parlor and dragged the piano bench over in front of the bay window. The iron rod was leaning by the phonograph. He took it up with him on the chair and fitted the other end of it into the far socket, then fitted the near end into the loose socket and drove nails around the base of the socket until the thing was solid as a rock. Then he got the blanket from the couch and hung it down double over the rod and fitted the buttonholes sewn all along its edge over the nails driven around the window casing and patted it here and there until not a speck of light would escape. When the lamps were lit, he inspected the blankets draped over the windows. They were all right. The parlor was pretty dark now, so he struck a match to the oil lamp on the mantel just so Susan and Anna could see to set the table. When the others arrived, they'd light the other lamps, but not until oil was precious. The only time anybody in town ever lit a lamp was on social Night. Then the old people stayed up till around midnight for eats and entertainment. Otherwise everybody got to bed at 8 or so and climbed out with the dawn. He went back into the kitchen and put away the hammer and said, my second cup still hot, honey. She started to put down her knitting and get up, and he said, just asking, and pressed her shoulder till she sat again. He went around her and filled his cup at the stove. Ben, she said when he sat down again, I wish you'd take a look at the phonograph too. Last time the turntable made an awful lot of noise. I wish it could sound better for tonight. I know, honey. Ben sighed. That motor's going. There ain't much I can do about it, though. It's too old. I'm scared to take it apart. Might not get it back together right when it really quits. Then I guess I'll fool around and see what I can do. Heck, it didn't sound too bad. It rattled during the soft parts of the music. Ben shook his head. If I try, I might ruin it for good. He smiled a little. It's like us, Suze. Too old to really fix up much. Just gotta keep crankin it and let it go downhill at its own pace. Susan folded her knitting and got up. She came around the table and he put an arm around her waist and pulled her into the chair beside him. It'll go soon, won't it, Ben? She said softly. Then we won't have any music. It's a shame. We all like to listen so much. It's peaceful. I know. He moved his arm up and squeezed her thin shoulders. She put her head on his shoulder and her gray hair tickled his cheek. He closed his eyes and her hair was black and shining again and he put his lips against it and thought he smelled a perfume they didn't even make anymore. After a moment he said, we got so much else, though, Suze. We got peaceful music you can't play on a machine. Real peace, a funny kind of peace in a funny looking town. This one a rag town, but it's ours and it's quiet and there's nothing to bother us. And just pray God we can keep it that way outside the war's going on someplace. Probably people fighting each other over God knows what if even he knows. Here it's peaceful. She moved her head on his shoulder. Ben, will it ever come here, what's going on outside, even the war, if it's still going on? Well, we were talking about that this morning down at the hall, Suze. I guess it won't if rifles can stop it, it won't. If they see us from the air, we'll shoot at them, and if we get them, we'll clean up the mess. So if anybody comes looking for a missing plane, they won't give Smoky Creek a second look. That's the only way anything can come, honey. If they see us from the air, nobody's going to come hiking over these mountains. There's no place they'd want to get to, and it's sure no country for fighting. If the war is over, they'll likely be around to fix up the bridge and the road, won't they? Maybe so, sooner or later. Oh, I hope they leave us alone. Don't worry, honey. Been about the phonograph, Suze? He turned his head to look at her eyes. It's good for longer than we are. That motor. So's the bridge. The way it is in the road will be gone first, but they get around to fix em before the phonograph gives out. What we want is going to last us, and what we don't want will come too late to hurt us. Nothing's going to hurt our peace, I know that. Somehow we got it. And it'll be like this for as long as we're here to enjoy it. I know, Ben. If I want to go fishing, ben said, and pressed her head against his shoulder again, I go. If I want to relax with the men, I do it. If I want to just walk and breathe deep, I do it. Keep him to the trees. Of course. If I want to just be with you, I do it. It's quiet. It's real quiet in our ragtown. It's a world for old people. It's just the way we want it to live. Like we want to live. We got enough gardens and livestock and all the canned stuff in the store to last us for a for as long as we got. And no worries about who's fighting who over what, about who won. About how the international mess is getting worse again and we better make more bombs for the next one about who's winning here and losing there and running neck and neck some place. We don't know any things like that and we don't want to know. It don't matter none to us. We're too old and we seen too much of it and it's hurt us too bad and we know it just don't matter at all. Ben, I got to cryin today about May and Georgia and the children. I was crying and thinking about that day. So did I. Think none of us ever forgets for a minute. For a second, his lips thinned. That's part of why we do what we do, rest, is we just want to be left alone. They sat in silence for a moment, his arm around her shoulders, his other hand holding hers. Then he released her hand and thumped his own on the table, grinned at her and said, life goes on now. Reckon I'll go down and get that cat or go walking or just go soak in some sun. What time are the folks showing up for? Jet sound slammed across the peaceful valley. Ben got up and walked as fast as he could to the door, picked up the rifle leaning there, cocked it, looking toward town. He saw that Tom Pace had been on his way home and the sound had caught him between trees. Tom hesitated, then turned and dived toward the tree he had just left, because a rifle was there. Ben saw men pour out of the doorways of the two habitable buildings on Main Street. They stuck close to the walls under the porches, and they picked up rifles, motionless, hidden in shadows under trees and doorways, behind knotholes. They waited to see if the plane would buzz the town again.
[377:26]
Jake Stauch (Cervel Commercial) / Narrator (Third Planet)
It did.
[377:27]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
It came down low over Main street while the thunders of its first pass still echoed and rolled, frightening birds out of trees, driving a hare frantically along the creek bank, blotting out the murmur of the creek and the tree sounds, driving away peace. They saw the pilot peering through the plexiglass down at the buildings. He was past the town in four winks, but in two they knew he was curious and would probably come back for a third look. He circled wide off over the end of the valley, a vertical bank that brought a blinding flash of sunlight from one wing, and he came back. Ben leveled his rifle and centered the nose of the plane in his sights. For some reason, probably because the valley walls crowded the town on both sides, the planes always lined up with Main Street. When they flew low over the town, the plane grew at startling speed. In Ben's sights it loomed, and the oval jet intake was a growling mouth, and he waited till it was about two seconds and a thousand feet from him. Then he sent his bullet up into that mouth, a bullet aimed by a man who had handled a rifle for 60 years, who could pop the head off a squirrel at a hundred feet, a running squirrel. That was the signal Ben's shot from under the tree. Tom Pace's rifle spoke. The jet was past town then, and he wheeled to follow it with his eyes. Its whining thunder lashed down and pressed his ears, lowering suddenly in pitch as it receded, and though he couldn't hear them for the thunder, he knew that 19 rifles had roared before it completed its turn, each aimed head on at the plane, aimed by men and women who could shoot with Ben and even outshoot him. The plane coughed, lurched. It had time to emit a fuzzy thread of black smoke before it nosed down and melted into the ground and became a long ugly smear of mounds and shreds and tatters of flame. The sounds of the crash died. Ben heard men shouting. Loudest of all was old Jim Lyttle's got him, by God, I prayed, and we got him. Behind him, Susan was crying. Ben saw men and women head for the crash site. Immediately they'd start to carry away what debris wasn't too hot to handle. Then they'd wait, and as soon as anything was cool enough it would be carried off and hidden and there'd be a burial. Tonight. Ben saw that some of the men had carried old Jim's chair out onto the porch of the town hall, and he saw that Jim was half standing out of his cushions, propped up on his fists and still shouting, and Ben wondered if the maker wasn't on the porch there with Jim, waiting for Jim to fall and make his noise. He turned away. At 70 you don't want to see a man die and went inside and put his rifle on the kitchen table. He crossed to the cabinet under the sink to get his reamer and oiling rag. Every rifle was taken care of that way. Right now Tom Pace and Dan Perret were hurrying around gathering rifles to clean them, load them. No rifle must misfire or throw bullet and inch off aim, because that might be the rifle whose aim was right lucky we got that one, he said. I think he saw us, Suze. He come in low and sudden and I think he saw us. Was it one of theirs, Ben, or one of ours? Don't know. I didn't even look. I can't tell them apart. No one'll be around to tell me when they find out. But I reckon it was one of ours. If he saw us and didn't shoot, then I reckon it was one of ours, like the last one. Oh, Ben, susan said. Ben, ain't it against God? Ben stood looking out the window over the sink, watching a cloud of yellow dust settle over the wreckage of the plain and a cloud of black smoke rising from the wreckage to darken the yellow. He knew some of the men would be passing buckets from the well and spading dirt on the flames where they weren't too hot to get to. That's the way it is, he said. That's how we decided God didn't stop the bomb dropping, Suze, for whatever reasons he had. It don't seem he'd deny us the right to shoot rifles for the reasons we got. If we get turned away at the gates, we'll know we was wrong. But I don't think so. Quiet was returning to the valley. The birds had already started singing again. You could hear the trees. From the direction of the creek came Wendy Harris running, and he broke the quiet with a shout as he saw Ben by the window. Got it, huh? Ben sure did, ben said, and Wendy ran on. Ben looked toward the porch of the town hall. Old Jim had sunk back into his pillowed chair and he was shaking his fist, and Ben could hear him yelling.
[382:14]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Got it.
[382:15]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Got it.
[382:16]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
We did.
[382:17]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
He'll be around for a while yet, Old Jim, Ben thought, and turned back to the table. He sat down and listened to the sounds of the valley, and his eyes were the eyes of the valley. They'd seen a lot and understood enough of. Don't matter whose it was, he said. All of a cloth. He slid the reamer into the barrel of the rifle and worked it. The hell with the war. Even if it's over, the hell with it, with any war. Nothing's ever going to give us back what we lost. Let em stay away. All them that's to blame. Them and their planes and wars and bombs. They're crazy. His lips curled as he worked the reamer. Let em stay out of what they left us for. Lives. Don't wanna hear what they're doing or how or why or who. Don't wanna hear about it. It'd be crazy. The hell with em. All of them. The hell with the whole 20th century. End of Our Town By Jerome.
[383:22]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Blind Play by Chan Davis 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 Nick Pappas, hired killer from Callisto, was strictly out for Pappus. Out for number one, as they used to say. And now those fools in the vanishing spaceship thought that number was up. Blind Play by Chan Davis Nick Pappas had just crossed to the instrument panel of the Tang Chu Chi's lifeboat when he heard a sound behind him. He turned quickly. He had left the the airlock between the lifeboat and the ship open. That had been stupid, he realized, but it was Too late to correct it now. One of the Tang's two other crew members was approaching down the corridor just beyond the airlock. If he saw the door slide shut now, he'd be immediately suspicious. That would leave Pappus inside the lifeboat and and before he could drain enough fuel from the ship's tanks into the lifeboats, the other two would have the airlock cut open. He still had a chance to hide, but before he could propel himself to the other end of the lifeboat, out of sight, Arn Brickenrod appeared at the other side of the open airlock. Brickenrod smiled. Pappus stood still, gripping the pilot seat in front of him. Hello, Arn, said Pappus. I was just checking over the Good morning, Nick. Or Good evening, if you like. Let's go up to the control cabin and see Garcia. For a very brief moment, Pappas considered. Although the Tang was in free fall, he was still very conscious of the weight of the gun concealed inside his jacket. He might use it now, but the sound would bring Garcia. Better to bluff it through. The other two might not be suspicious yet, and in a pinch he had the advantage that they weren't armed. Sure, he said, and pushed himself across to where Brickenrod stood. After you, said Brickenrod, much more politely than usual. Pappus smiled uncertainly. He planted both feet against the side of the airlock opening, then jumped off. He floated down the ship's corridor to where it took a sharp bend. There he grabbed a rung of a ladder bolted to the corridor wall. Brickenrod had pushed off harder than Pappus had. He arrived at the ladder at the same time. After you, he said again. Pappus saw at the end of the long corridor ahead, the open door to the control cabin. He pushed off in that direction. Yusef Garcia was in the ship's pilot's seat. Garcia was half Brazilian and half Malagastes. His eyes had a strong green tint that looked strange against the deep brown black of his face. Pappus had always been a little afraid of him, and the present situation didn't help that any. There was a gun in Garcia's hand. Brickenrod followed Pappas in, taking a seat, facing Garcia. What did you find, Yusuf? He asked casually. Well, Arne, I haven't finished checking up on our little conjecture. The calculator over there is still working on it. But while I was waiting, I looked through our friend Pappas locker. You might already have noticed what I found. He waved the gun. Where did you find our friend by the way, Birkenrod smiled. First place I looked. The lifeboat. Yeah. What was he doing? Nothing. I think I know how our little conjecture's going to turn out, though. He turned to Pappus, who was following the exchange tensely. You know, Nick, my father was a fellow countryman of yours back on Earth. Countryman? That's right. He lived just north of Winnipeg. My mother was a Canadian, too. Both of them were in the second batch of colonists that left for Callisto. But it doesn't mean much to call you a Canadian any more, does it, Garcia? And you and I were all Calistans now. Sure, said Pappus wonderingly. Callisto. A cold world, A small new world, and a cold world, and incredibly distant from the planet that had evolved its settlers in the 30 years since the exploration of Jupiter's satellites had begun. Callisto had had a very different history from the rest on Ganymede. A hundred or so engineers had been working all that time on the tremendous task of raising the satellite's mean temperature to the point where an atmosphere could be provided and open air, cities and farms built in which the Earthmen could live. The smaller satellites had been largely ignored, but it had been found that Callisto had large deposits of ore of such quality that, in spite of the tremendously long hull required to carry anything from there to the inner planets, it was worth while beginning mining operations. Up went the insulated, airtight domes. Out came the colonists. Down went the mine shafts. It was a hard life. Crystalline rock was cut by machines at the mine faces, and by the time other machines had brought it up the shafts to the surface level in the domes, it had become amorphous and powdery, its crystalline structure destroyed by being heated to 20 degrees below 0 centigrade. When you repaired machinery below the surface, you wore 60 kg of spacesuit, and the failure of any item of equipment or a fumble by any member of your crew might mean sudden death. The walls of the dome shut you in from the sky, for the vacuum out there was death too. When you did get up to the observatory to see the sky, you saw Jupiter weirdly streaked with brilliant color if your dome was on the side of Callisto toward Jupiter. Otherwise you looked across 20 million km of vacuum to the nearest star. It was a hard life, and no life for a lone wolf. There were no homestead farms to be settled by lonely pioneer families. Callisto was a sterile place, and to keep life going there at all, men had to work together. Cooperation was a lesson Earth's civilization had taught. Only after thousands of Years of oppression and war. A lesson that had to be learned before men could cross space. And a lesson that was very difficult to forget on Callisto, at least for most people. Rita and Cliff Belden had control of the trade between Callisto and the inner planets. It didn't start as control though. The way it began was. Once the colony had been well established, its operation was left completely up to the Callistons, who shipped as much of their goods to Earth as they could manage and requisitioned as much food and supplies from Earth as as they needed, which was really the best way. The inner planets could not very well take part in the planning of Callisto's activities, since there was no radio contact and the trip took over two months by freighter, even when the relative position of the planets in their orbits was most favorable. One freighter shuttled back and forth between two dome on Callisto at one end and any of several interplanet ports on the other. Rita and Cliff Belden were the two Callistons whose job it was to run that freighter. The little colony was absolutely dependent on the supplies they brought. This fact was obvious to everyone. But the Beldons made a deduction from it which was unprecedented on Callisto. They could threaten to withhold the supplies and thereby force the rest of the colonists to agree to whatever they asked. Provided they could make the threat stick. They made the attempt on one of their trips back from Earth. They put the ship into orbit around Callisto instead of landing and announced they would not land until their henchmen on Callisto were in control. And the henchmen did a thorough job of taking control. All the details were taken care of. They quickly seized the radio transmitters that maintained contact with Ganymede. They confiscated all the reserves of spaceship fuel they could find. They clamped down as tightly as they could on communications between the domes. Then they started keeping a close check on every tool that could be used as a weapon. There was just one place they slipped up. Their search for fuel wasn't good enough. The people of the number four dome pooled the fuel they had hidden from the Beldens. They seized from the Beldens guard the dome's tiny spaceship which had been assembled on Callisto and which had never been intended to leave the Jupiter system. And they sent the ship off to Venus with Garcia and Birkenrod aboard. Venus was the only possible destination with the planets positions in their orbit as they were then. To reach Earth or Mars would have taken either more fuel than they had or much more time than they could spare. As it was, the trip took eight months. On Venus there was no hitch. Garcia and Birkenrod went to the liaison offices in Kringrad as planned, and were provided with the Tang chu chi with a load of supplies, and with Nick Pappas, a former Calliston who wanted to return there. They followed the liaison officer's suggestion and took Pappas aboard. We're all Callistons now, Burke, androd repeated. I wonder, Nick, how did you happen to leave Callisto in the first place? Just felt like visiting good old Saskatchewan. I doubt it. Let's see, you left before that business started with the Beldens, didn't you? Pappus licked his lips nervously. Garcia answered for him. Yes, about 10 months before, according to what they told us on Venus. Yeah, birkenrod mused. You know the Beldons, of course. Yes, said Pappus. Of course. I came to Earth on their freighter. Not their freighter, Garcia put in Callisto's freighter, which they operate. It's only more recently that it became their freighter. Birkenrod smiled and went on. It's interesting, Mr. Pappas, that you left Callisto about the time the Belden's plan must have been taking shape. I wonder why you did. Pappus ignored the question. A moment before, the red signal light had flashed on above the calculator set in the opposite bulkhead. The computations had been finished on Garcia and Birkenrod's little conjecture. Garcia, who was closest to the machine, filled in the silence. Let's find out what the calculator has to say. It may clear things up a little. There was a row of spring clamps set in the bulkhead next to him for holding objects stationary while the ship was in free fall. Garcia put his gun in one of these, slipped out of the safety belt that had held him in the pilot's seat in spite of the lack of gravity, and turned to the calculator. Pappas sprang not toward Garcia but toward the side of the cabin that would have been the ceiling if there had been an up. He snatched his gun from his jacket. Something crashed into Pappus, spun him around. Birkenrod had jumped too, hitting him hard in mid air. The cabin whirled around them. He felt Birkenrod's powerful grip on around the hand that held the gun. Simultaneously they reached the ceiling. Pappas head hit metal with a crack. The gun fell free. Weightless, the two of them wrestled desperately. Suddenly, Birkenrod pulled loose and jumped away. Pappas found himself alone in the middle of the cabin, drifting slowly from the pilot's seat. In the pilot seat, Garcia was again sitting calmly, his gun leveled. Birkenrod had the other gun. There was silence while Pappus reached the bulkhead, pushed back to his seat, and belted himself in. Garcia said, suppose I try to answer some of those questions. When Arne and I left Callisto, the Beldons learned our orbit and hightailed it into the inner planets with plenty of fuel. They arrived before us and got you their agent on the job. You got yourself included in our return trip on the Tang. Then you calculated an orbit for us that would run us smack into Earth at a relative velocity of 30 odd kilometers a second. The next thing was to divert the fuel from the Tang's tanks to the lifeboats and take off yourself in the lifeboat. That would have left us in a collision orbit with no fuel to pull ourselves out of it. Not such a good plan, Nick. You should have planned just to kill us both as soon as the Tang was in space. You'd have had a better chance that way. Your overeagerness to compute our orbit just didn't look natural. No, listen, pappus protested feebly. I didn't calculate a collision orbit. I Sorry, said Garcia. That's what the machine just finished checking for us. The orbit we're on meets the Earth dead center, and it wouldn't take us to Callisto even if Earth wasn't there. Arne, what'll we do with this character? Birkenrod smiled. I like the suggestion you made when we discussed it before. I was just joking. No, I think it's the best idea. He turned to Pappus, who flinched in spite of himself. Look, Nick, the Beltons have no chance of winning on Callisto. No chance. Men had to learn to cooperate before they could get to the planets at all, and by this time they've learned good and thoroughly. The individual who's out for himself is an anachronism. You and the Beldons. A hundred years ago you'd have felt right at home. Then everybody was out for the last buck, as they used to say. In this century everybody works together, and darn near everyone likes it that way. But, Nick, the Beldons are still dangerous. They can't win. But they can hold up the developments of Callisto for years and make the Callistons pretty miserable in the process. The inner planets won't interfere. Their policy for years has been Callisto is so far away that it's their concern how they run things. We'll send them supplies. They'll send us minerals, and that's that. So the people of Callisto have got to lick the Beldens. This ship is absolutely essential because it's the means of breaking the Beldens monopoly. We have to get to Callisto, and when we get there we'll be in the middle of a pretty critical situation. The Tang will be just as essential to the Beldons as to us for the opposite reason. Therefore, garcia put in, we can't afford to have you around. What are you going to do? Pappus murmured. To you, said Birkenrod. Well, we can't take you with us, and we don't want to kill you if we can help it. We can't turn you loose in a lifeboat, even if we kept most of the fuel, because we may need the lifeboat on Callisto. There's one thing left. If it's all right with Yusef, we're going to put you all together completely on your own. You're not going to work for anybody else, not even stinkers like the Beldens. You're going to be all by yourself, and you're going to have to do a good job of looking out for yourself. Not for anyone else. Just for Nick Pappas. Number one, as people used to say. We're not going to give you a word of advice either. If we did, you wouldn't be independent enough. Now how does that sound, Yusuf? Appropriate. Garcia smiled. Sounds about right, Arne. Maybe I'm too angry at the Beltons to think straight, but it sounds like a pretty appropriate way to handle Mr. Pappas. He'll be all on his own. And if he doesn't work things out just right, he'll get the most spectacular finish any individual could ask for. Nick Pappas hung weightless in interplanetary space. Ten meters away floated the Tangtu chi. One side of it glared white in the sunlight. The other side was jet black, visible only as a shadow across the stars. It floated there motionless, very close to him, but he knew he didn't dare try to reach it because it was going to start accelerating any second. The faceplate of Papa's space suit fogged slightly. He moved a hand inside the suit, adjusted the humidity control. When the faceplate had cleared, he saw that the Tang's rockets were already firing. The ship still floated there, within shouting distance if there had been an atmosphere. But now from its jets there extended long, perfectly straight streaks of shimmering blue violet. It seemed to Pappus as though he were drifting slowly, parallel to the ship in the direction of the jets. He shook his head to get rid of the illusion. He was remaining perfectly still. The ship's hull was sliding past him. When the jets were abreast of him, they cut off. He watched the ship recede rapidly. Now, a minute or so later, there were two short blasts on the steering jets. Pappas realized they were swinging the ship around so he wouldn't be caught in the rocket blast. Then the main jet started up again. Pappas followed the ship with his eyes as long as he could distinguish it, which wasn't long, then he was alone. Not only were there no walls around him, there wasn't even anything under his feet. There was nothing anywhere. So this was what all the talk added up to. Papus thought. They simply set me out here in the middle of the vacuum to stay until the suit's food and air give out. He thought he might as well make himself at home. He checked over the suit. It was nicely equipped. In addition to standard items. There were several things strapped onto the back of the suit on the outside, which pleased him until he realized how little difference they made. There was a reel of light strong cable with magnetic grapples which could be clamped onto it. There was a hand reaction motor the size of a Stilson wrench and 10 containers of fluid, each the size of a fountain pen. There was a large mirror for signaling. Also, for the same purpose, there was a powerful, highly directional searchlight. He checked the cells which powered it. They were low, but he knew they were charging at that moment from the sunlight falling on them. The searchlight would work for what that was worth. So much for his suit. Next. Where was he? His position couldn't be given in latitude and longitude because there wasn't anything for it to be latitude and longitude on. He was somewhere between the orbits of Venus and Earth. The direction of the sun, he could tell by glancing at the arm of his spacesuit and seeing where the sunlight fell. The sun was behind him and to the right and a little downward. As for Earth, that would be the next brightest body in his sky. He craned his head in all directions, searching. Then he took out the hand reaction motor and gave a blast to start himself spinning so he could search in the directions he hadn't been able to see in before. Even the short blast he used made the motor tug at his hand and started the universe whirling around him frighteningly. He turned the control on the motor down as low as it would go, then pressed the button several more times. Finally he had cancelled out Most of his rotation, and the Milky Way was wheeling calmly about him. He got himself oriented again and after a short time had identified Earth, which was close enough to appear as a blue green disk. Earth. The thought suddenly struck him. The Tang had been heading straight for Earth when it had let him off. He was still going exactly in the Tang's former orbit. He could reach Earth. There was one more thing he should check. Yes, he had a parachute. It was on the back of his spacesuit, underneath the gear he'd investigated before. Now, if he could land safely, he was all set. Birkenrod and Garcia must not have thought of this. One thing still bothered him. He had been headed for Earth when he was put off the Tang. But had anything happened since to put him off course? How about those times he'd used the reaction motor to set himself swinging? Well, the several small blasts would probably not have had any net effect on his direction of motion. And if they had, there wasn't anything that could be done about it. But the single strong blast at the beginning. He could remember which constellation he'd been facing at the time, where he had held the reaction motor and how strong a blast he'd given. That meant he could give an approximately equal blast now in the opposite direction. This he did, being careful to aim directly away from his center of gravity so as not to start spinning again. Now he should be back on course, he figured. Assuming, that is, that he'd ever been off. The small thrust of his reaction motor applied for such a short time might not be enough to make any appreciable difference to where he ended up. He didn't bother trying to calculate it. Nothing to do now but wait. He spent the time thinking about what he would do when he got to Earth. It was hard to figure out. He'd had a racket on Earth for a year and a half after the Beldons brought him there. Everyone had assumed he was doing something important to Callisto's welfare, and all he'd had to do was go through the motions. Now he didn't know. It was probably true that the Beldons were through with the Tang Chu Chi arriving on Callisto, the odds were against them. He'd have to find something else, Pappas decided. The whole Belden business was pretty provincial anyway. And as for Birkenrod, Garcia, and those people. Papus dismissed Callisto from his thoughts completely. There would have to be some angle on the inner planets. After several hours of thought on the subject, he took stock of his situation again. The disk of Earth was a little larger, he thought, but not enough so you'd notice it. He pulled the semi opaque visor over his faceplate and went to sleep. He slept for 10 days. Not Earth days, however. When Pappas went to sleep, the sun was behind him. He thought he had eliminated his rotation, but actually he was tumbling head over heels, extremely slowly. Thus, for him, the sun rose between his feet and set directly above him. The 11th of these sunrises woke him. He stayed awake because as soon as he flipped his visor up and looked around him, the Earth caught his eye. It was much bigger. He did not know how to measure its angular diameter, so he couldn't calculate his distance from it even approximately, but it looked enormous. How long had his nap lasted? The spacesuit's chronometer was running, its minute hand indicating 37, its hour hand 15 its day hand 3. That would have told him how long he'd slept if he'd read the chronometer before he went to sleep. But he hadn't. All he knew was that he'd slept much longer than he'd expected, and long enough to get painfully stiff. In any case, he'd covered a lot of distance, as much as the Tang would have covered. In the same time, he realized he was approaching Earth pretty fast. Too fast, he added aloud nervously. He'd have to decelerate before he got there, or the parachute wouldn't do him any good now. Was it time yet to start decelerating? If he directed the hand reaction motor in the wrong direction now, could it cause him to miss Earth? He guessed not. The planet looked so close, any small sideways push he gave himself would hardly hurt. Once he killed his speed, Earth's gravitational field would gather him in. Pappus took out the reaction motor. Using low power, he turned himself until he faced Earth. The planet seemed to have swelled just in the time since he'd waked up. He set the reaction motor to full power, grasped it with both hands, held it up in front of his chest, and pointed it straight at Earth. Then he pressed the button and held it down. The force of the hand jet pushed in at his midriff, made his legs and head swing forward. Well, that was okay as long as they didn't get into the exhaust. He stopped blasting a moment to get a better grip on the reaction motor, then fired continuously. Occasionally he would find he'd started himself spinning. Then he'd shift the motor just a trifle to keep himself facing the planet. He kept the button firmly pressed down and the cylinder in his hands sent a Continuous jet of intense blue toward Earth. When the first fuel cartridge was exhausted, he put in the second and kept it up. Twice he stopped for a food pellet and a little water. The rests were welcome. His arms and chest were stiff and aching. But he didn't rest long because he was getting really scared. Now he was sure he was dangerously close to his destination and his speed hadn't been cut enough. The continents and oceans of Earth's dayside were clearly visible and grew noticeably larger as he looked at them. He now thought of the direction he was going as down. He thought of himself as falling. Something bothered him. America had not been in sight a while ago, but now he could see the corner of Brazil appearing at the edge of the disk of Earth. Did that mean he was passing by Earth instead of falling straight at it? No, he realized in a moment it just meant Earth was rotating, for he could see the sunset line. The line between the night side and day side had not changed in its apparent position on the disk. No, he was still falling. And he was falling too fast. A suspicion began to form that Birkinrod and Garcia had anticipated this. And suddenly, terrifyingly, he thought of what Garcia's last remark might have meant. Still, they said there was a way he could save himself. And the only way he could think of was to break his fall. He had a certain quantity of fuel to do it with. He was using it for all it was worth, no matter how much his body ached with fatigue. If those two on the tang had figured this all out ahead of time, then they must have left him enough fuel to avoid being killed. Otherwise they might as well have shot him on the tang. Ok, if he had enough fuel, he'd use it all, one after another. Fuel cartridges burned out. Pappus longed for another rest, but he didn't dare take one now. He kept firing, and still the Earth kept growing larger and brighter below him. Finally, there was no more fuel. After a short breather, Pappus took the reaction motor, detached it from the cord which bound it to his spacesuit, and flung it downward with all his strength. Then he did the same with the mirror, the searchlight and the reel of cable. It was all he could do. Then there was an instant when he saw where he had gone wrong. He had not had enough fuel to do what he tried to do. That was clear by one look at the Earth's face, which still grew alarmingly fast below him, and he could probably have figured it out before. But there was still a way which would have given him some chance. He should have used his fuel not in a hopeless attempt to decelerate, but in deflecting himself so he would miss the Earth. He would have passed by Earth relatively close. He'd have passed fast, but not too fast to signal with his mirror to Earth's several satellites. Natural and artificial spaceports on Those satellites kept 24 hour watches for signals of distress. When they saw a faint blinking light, they would have sent a ship which would have tried to locate its source. They were good at it too, and if he kept his mirror spinning, they might have picked him up. But he hadn't thought of, had never occurred to him that even when he was alone, as thoroughly alone as anyone can ever be, his life could depend on dozens of other people. He thought only of reaching safety by himself and seeing only the one possibility, he'd played it blindly. There was that instant of sickening realization. Then a little later, came an instant when Earth ballooned out grotesquely below him, suddenly filling most of his field of vision, and he saw lakes, islands, desert. He felt all over him an abrupt final flash of heat, and Nick Pappas became a meteor. The end of Blind Play by Chan DAV.

Summary8 min read

Science Fiction Books - Daily: Short Science Fiction Collection 092 - Various (August 5, 2026)

Overview

This supersized episode of Science Fiction Books - Daily presents a rich audio anthology: the “Short Science Fiction Collection 092.” Read by various narrators and curated from public domain works, this episode takes listeners on an imaginative journey through time travel, dystopian societies, cosmic explorations, and ethical conundrums. Each story, rooted in early-to-mid 20th-century speculative fiction, raises questions about technology, humanity, and destiny while delivering plot twists, irony, and memorable characters.

The episode covers an array of sci-fi classics and curios, including stories by Alfred Bester, Philip K. Dick, Lester Del Rey, and Murray Leinster. The collection features:

Writers debating the nature and purpose of science fiction and time travel.
Apocalyptic machines and Martian colonists.
Dystopias where duplicity, propaganda, or conformity rule.
Stark warnings about war's devastation and the unpredictable consequences of technology.

Below, key stories are summarized with major themes, standout moments, and memorable quotes, with timestamps to help navigate the episode.

Episode Standouts & Quotes

"Is that all you people can think of? Killing and cutting?"
— The Wub (96:43) (Beyond Lies the Wub)
"The hell with the war. Even if it's over, the hell with it, with any war. Nothing's ever going to give us back what we lost. Let em stay away. All them that's to blame ... Let em stay out of what they left us for. Lives. Don't wanna hear what they're doing... The hell with the whole 20th century."
— Ben Bates (383:17) (Our Town)
"Time machines work in one direction. They can't go back. Your time traveler found that out too late. No trips to the past, no return from the future, and no paradoxes."
— Pete Lanfranc (256:25) (Absolutely No Paradox)

Tone and Language

The tone throughout the stories is a mix of dry wit, dark irony, philosophical musing, and the occasional comic or tragic flourish. Dialogue is firmly rooted in the characters' cultures and periods—sometimes pulpy, sometimes literary, often direct.

Why Listen?

This episode is a treasure trove for anyone interested in golden-age science fiction, thought experiments on the ethics of progress and technology, or simply well-crafted, bite-sized speculative tales that linger in the mind. Whether you crave time travel twists, cautionary dystopias, or philosophical aliens, you’re bound to find something that sparks wonder—or unease—about humanity's future and frailties.

Navigation Guide

Ad blocks and commercials recur throughout (Grainger, Cervel, Figs), but all major story segments are uninterrupted readings, each starting with a clear title announcement and a Librivox/reader credit (e.g., 01:30, 22:36, 42:48, etc).

Conclusion

Short Science Fiction Collection 092 offers a panoramic view of classic speculative fiction's range: satire, horror, humor, tragedy, and moral dilemma. As the podcast promises, it "sparks your imagination and expands your horizons"—and also reminds us, through the follies and triumphs of its characters, that the boundary between what is possible and what is wise remains forever in flux.

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Transcript132 lines

[00:01]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
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[00:38]
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[00:43]
motors, sensors, belts and hard to find parts, you can get what you need fast and all in one place so nothing gets in the way of getting the job done. Call 1-800-GRAINGER clickranger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done. Grainger knows when you're a procurement manager for an office park, you're not managing one building, you're managing all of them. And to stay ahead, you need to see through walls and around corners. Lights about to fail, filters ready to clog H Vac on its last leg. If you wait until something breaks, you're already behind. Count on Grainger for quality products, easy reordering and 24. 7 support. Call 1-800-GRAINGER click grainger.com or just stop by Granger for the ones who get it done.
[01:31]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
The Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester 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 Dan Grazinski the Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester with all kinds of plots twisting in my head, I hadn't slept well the night before. For one thing, I'd worked too late on a yarn that wasn't worth it. For another, there'd been a high wind howling through the streets. It made me restless and did a lot more damage than that. When I got up, I found it had blown a lot of paper and junk in the window and most of the story out. Only a part of the carbon was left. I wasn't especially sorry. I got dressed and hustled down to the luncheon. That luncheon's something special. We meet every Tuesday in a second rate restaurant and gossip and talk story and editors and mostly beef about the mags that won't pay until publication. Some of us, the high class ones, won't write for them. Maybe I ought to explain. We're the unromantic writers, what they call pulp writers. We're the boys who fill the pulp magazines with stories that have sent a word Westerns, mystery, wonder, weird adventure. You know them. Not all of us are hacks. A couple have graduated to the movies. A few have broken the slicks and try to forget the lean years. Some get 4 cents a word and try to feel important to literature. The rest come to the luncheon and either resign themselves to the $0.01 rate or nurse a secret Pulitzer Prize in their bosoms. There wasn't much of a turnout when I got there. Belcher sat at the head of the table as usual, playing the genial host. He specializes in what they call science fiction. It's fantastic stuff about time machines in the fourth dimension. Belcher talks too much in a Southern drawl. As I eased into a chair, he called, ah, the poor man's Orson Wells, and crinkled his big face into a showy laugh. I said, your dialogue's getting as lousy as your stories. I don't like to be reminded that I look like a celebrity. Belcher ignored that. He turned to Black, the chap who agents our stuff, and began complaining. He said, land's sake, Joey, can't you sell that Martian story? I think it's good. Before Joey could answer, Belcher turned to the rest of us and said, reminds me of my granddaddy. He got shut up at Vicksburg before his father could locate him and drag him back home.
[04:15]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Home.
[04:16]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
Granny used to say, all my life I've believed in the Solid south and the Democratic Party. I believe they were good, and if they aren't, I don't want to know about it. Belcher laughed and shook his head. I gave Joey a frantic sos. When Belcher gets going on the Civil War, no one else gets a word in for solid hours. Joey didn't move, but he said, what story? Very incredulously, and then he glanced at me and winked. That Martian story, belcher said. The one about the colony on Mars and the new race of Earth Mars men that springs up. I've forgotten the title. They say Fitz James o' Brien never could remember the title of his stories either. Joey said, you never gave me any such yarn. And this time he really meant it. Belcher said, you're crazy. Down at the other end of the table, someone wanted to know who o' Brien wrote for. I said, he's dead. He wrote the Diamond Lens. He was the first pulp writer. Belcher said. Most folks believe Poe invented the short story. Land sake. Poe never wrote a short story. He wrote mood pieces. O' Brien was the first. He wrote great short stories and great pulp stories. I said, if you're looking for the father of the pulp industry, why don't you go back far enough? There was a boy named Greene in the late 16th century. You mean Groatsworth of Wit Greene? The very same. Only forget that piece of junk. It was his last grab at a dollar. Get hold of a catalogue some day and see the quantity of pulpy poured out to make a living. Pamphlets and plays and whatnot. Someone said, green. A pulp writer. He sounded shocked. I said, brother, when he turned that stuff out, it was pulp. Passes 300 years and it turns into literature. You figure it out. Belcher waved his hand. I was talking about the invention of the short story. He said, o'. Brien. I tried to cut him off. I thought o' Brien predated Poe. It was a mistake, Belcher said. Not at all. O' Brien fought in the Civil War. He was with the 37th Georgian Rifles, I believe. A captain.
[06:40]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
He.
[06:41]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
I nudged Joey so hard he yelped. But he said, I tell you, I never received any such story. Then Mallison grunted and sipped his drink. He started to talk and we missed the first few words. It's always that way with Mallison. He's white haired, incredibly ancient looking, and he acts half dead. He used to be in the Navy, so he writes sea stories now. They say he acquired a peculiar disease in the tropics that makes him mumble Most of the time he turns out a damn good yarn. Finally we figured out Mallison was calling Joey a liar. Say, what is this? Joey said indignantly. Are you kidding? Alison mumbled something about Joey stealing a story of his that never got paid for and never showed up. Belcher nodded and poured wine from a bottle. He always drinks a cheap kind of stuff with the greatest ostentation. He acts as though it makes you more important if your drink comes out of a bottle instead of from a glass on a tray. He said, I'll bet some mag paid 2 cents for it. Joey, and you're holding out. Joey snorted. You better look in your desk, Belcher. You probably forgot to give me the yarn. Belcher shook his head. I know I haven't got it. I can't think how I lost it. He broke off and glanced up at some people who were threading through the restaurant toward our table. There came a man followed By a couple. The lone man I knew, although I never remember his name. He's a quiet little fellow who. Who smokes what looks like his father's pipe. Joey says he's past 40 and still lives with his folks who treat him like a child. One of the pair was Jinx McDougal. He turns out a fantastic quantity of detective fiction. None of his yarns are outstanding. In fact, they're all on a consistent pulp level. That happens to be why he sells so much. Editors can always depend on Jinx never to fail them. Jinx had a stranger with him. He was a tall, slender young man with scanty tow colored hair. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look blurry, and he was dressed in a sweater and ridiculously tight little knickers. He smiled shyly and I could swear his teeth were false. They were so even. I said, you've got a hell of a nerve, Jinx. If this guy's an editor, and I really meant it, editors are taboo at the luncheon, it being the only chance we get to knock them in unison. Jenks said, hi, everybody. This here's a white man that'll interest you, name of Dugan. Found him up in one of the publishing offices trying to locate the pulp slaves. Says he's got a story. I said, pass, friend, and have a drink on us. Jinks sat and Dugan sat. He smiled again and gazed at us eagerly, as though we were the flower of American letters. Then he studied the table and it looked as though he were itemizing the plates and glasses. All the while, Jinx was making introductions. Belcher said, another customer for you, Joey. Even if Jinx hadn't given it away, I could have told you he was a writer. Land sakes, I can smell the manuscript in his back pocket. Dugan looked embarrassed. He said, oh, no, really. I've just got a story idea, so to speak. I. He said a lot more, but I couldn't understand him. He mumbled something like Mallison, only his speech was very sharp and clipped. It sounded like a phonograph record with every other syllable cut out. Jenks said, dugan comes from your home town, Malleson. Whereabouts? Mallison asked. Knights Road. Knights Road? You sure? Dugan nodded. Malison said, hell, man, that's impossible. Knights Road starts outside the town and runs through the old quarry. Oh. Dugan looked flustered. Well, there's a new Vention. A new what? Vention. Dugan stopped. Then he said, a new development. That's a slang word. Malleson said, why, man, I was back home less than a month ago. Wasn't any development. Then Belcher said, maybe it's very new. Dugan didn't say anything more. I hadn't listened much because I was busy watching his fingers. He had one hand partially concealed under the table, but I could see that he was fumbling nervously with an odd contraption that looked like a piece of old clock. It was a square of metal the size of a matchbox, and at one end was a coil of wire like a watch spring. On both faces of the box were tiny buttons, like adding machine keys. Doughan kept jiggling the thing absently and pressing the buttons. I could hear the syncopated clicks. I thought, this guy is really soft in the head. He plays with things. Belcher said, sure you're not a rider? Dugan shook his head, then glanced at Joey. Joey smiled a little and turned away. Because he's very shy about ethics and such. He doesn't want people to think he runs around trying to get writers on his string. Mallison said to Jenks, well, what in hell is this story? Jenks said, I don't know. Ask him. They all looked at Junior G Man. I wanted to warn him not to spill anything because pulp writers are leeches. They'll suck the blood right out of your brain. You have to copyright your dialogue at the Tuesday luncheon, Dugan said, it' sit's about a time machine. We all groaned, and I didn't worry about Dugan's ideas anymore after that. Joey said, oh, God. Not that the market's sick of time stories. You couldn't sell one with Shakespeare's name on it. Dugan actually looked startled. What's the matter? Belcher asked, showing off his erudition. You got a manuscript with Shakespeare's name on it? Discover a Shakespeare autograph on a pulp story? He laughed uproariously, as though he'd cracked a joke at my expense. Dugan said, no, only that's the story I mean. He faltered, and then said, I wish you'd let me just tell you this story. We said, sure, go ahead. Well, dugan began, perhaps it isn't very original at that, but it's what you might call provocative. The scene is the 23rd century, over 300 years from now, at a great American university, physicists have devised a time machine. It's a startling invention, of course, just as the invention of electric light was startling, but its operation is based more on sane physical laws. Never mind the explanations, belcher interrupted. We've all alibi to time machine at one time or another. Land sakes. You don't even have to anymore. You just write time machine, and the readers take the rest for granted. When the story begins, Dugan continued, the machine has been in use for several years, but for the first time it is to be used for literary purposes. This is because back in the first half of the 20th century there lived a great writer. He was so great that modern critics call him the New Shakespeare. He is called that not only for his genius, but because, like the original Shakespeare, almost nothing is known of his life. Mallison said, that's impossible. Not altogether, I argued. It's conceivable that wars and unprecedented bombings and fires could destroy records. Why, even today there are gaps in the lives of contemporary artists that will never be filled up. Tell with that, Malison said, I still say it's impossible. Dugan gave me a grateful look. He he said, anyway, that's about what happened. The literature department of the university is going to send one of its research men back through time to gather material on the life of the New Shakespeare. This man is an expert in ancient English. He shuttled back into the 20th century equipped with camera and stenographic devices and all that. In the short period at his disposal he attempts to get hold of his man. I said. It's a cute idea. Imagine going back to the old Mermaid Tavern and buying Marlo a drink. Malleson said, it's a hell of a dull story. I don't know about that, belcher said. I did something of the sort a couple of years ago. Got a cent and a half for it, eh, Joey? Also a bonus, joey said. Say, Dugan, you're not cribbing Belcher's yarn, are you? Certainly not. Dugan looked shocked. Well, the research man had less than a day. There was some trouble locating the New Shakespeare's address, and when he did it was already late at night. Now here's the first little surprise. The man lived in the Bronx. We smile back at him because most of us live in the Bronx. Maybe it was a kind of sour smile, but we appreciated the irony. No bohemian Greenwich Village, no romantic New England retreat. Just unadulterated Bronx. Dugan said he lived in an ordinary apartment house, one like a million others. The research man hadn't time enough for formality, so at three in the morning he learned how to operate the self service elevator, went up to the apartment, and broke in to snoop around. He expected at least to find something different to see in the furniture and decorations and books and an outward sign of the New Shakespeare's great talent. But it was just a plain apartment, so plain that it needs no description. When I say that there are a million others like it, I've described it down to the ultimate detail. What did he expect? Joey asked. Genius. Isn't that what we all expect of genius? Dugan countered. Certainly the research man was disappointed. He sneaked a look at the sleeping genius and saw a dull, undistinguished person thrashing ungracefully about on the bed. Nevertheless, he crept about silently taking motion pictures. And at 3am oh, well, Dugan said. Cameras of the 23rd century and all that, you know, could be, Jinx said. Infrared photography. The little guy with the pipe bobbed his head as though he'd invented infrared rays. Then Dugan went. He went to the New Shakespeare's desk and gathered all the manuscripts he could find, because in his time there were no surviving manuscripts from his hand and nowhere's the final surprise. Don't tell me, Chenk said he'd gone to the wrong apartment. Belcher said, no, that's what I used. The surprise is, dugan said, that the research man is doing this work for his doctorate and he knows he'll never get his degree because even coming back to the time of the New Shakespeare, he can't gather enough material. Dugan looked around expectantly, but it had laid an egg. There was an uncomfortable pause while Mallison mumbled bitterly to himself. Jenks was very unhappy and tried to say complimentary things. I suppose he felt responsible. Only I wasn't doing much supposing because I had the most peculiar sensation. I believe Dugan's story. I was thinking of that manuscript that had blown out the window, and I was trying to remember whether I'd used a paperweight to anchor it down. I was thinking of that gadget with buttons, and I was realizing how this mysterious Dugan slipped from one tense to another, which is a thing all writers are conscious of and which began to have psychological import for me. But the most convincing thing of all was how the others were looking at Dugan. Belcher was staring keenly from under his black eyebrows. Belcher, who wrote that sort of stuff and who should have been sophisticated. The little guy with the pipe was absolutely electrified. I knew it couldn't be the story because the story was lousy even for pulp. Finally Dugan said, it's all there is. How'd you like it? Malison said it stinks, and probed in his pockets, her cigarettes. What was this New Shakespeare's name? Belcher asked. Slowly, Dugan said, I haven't decided yet. The little guy took the pipe out of his mouth. What was the name of the story he took? Belcher said, yes. What was it? Dugan shrugged and smiled. I haven't decided yet. It's not really important, is it? I said, Dugan, when was that manuscript taken? I know it was foolish, but I had to ask, and none of the others seemed to think it peculiar. They leaned forward with me and waited for Dugan's answer. He looked at me, still smiling, and as I stared at those blurry eyes behind the vast thick lenses, I began to shake with uncertainty. In all that blur there was a strangeness, a something. Oh, hell. Suddenly Belcher began to laugh. He laughed so hard he overturned his wine bottle and we all had to scurry out of the wet. When it came time to sit down again, the spell was broken. Anyway, the luncheon was over. When I got outside, Joey was standing there with Dugan. He was saying, I'm afraid you haven't got much of a yarn there. Dugan said, I suppose so. Only he didn't seem put out. He shook hands with us cheerfully, said he hoped he'd see us again, and turned toward Broadway. We all waved once just to be polite, and then lost all interest. We turned on Joey to see if we could get the price of that lunch out of him, and we kidded Jinx about the lousy stories he picked up. Maybe it was because some of us felt a little self conscious. I know. I glanced over my shoulder and felt guilty when I noticed Dugan standing on the corner. He was watching us intently and adjusting his glasses with both hands. Then I stopped haggling with Joey and turned around because. Well, because it occurred to me that cameras of the 23rd century could be so small you couldn't see them at that distance. All that flash and glitter couldn't be coming just from Dugan's glasses. Yes, brother. I turned around while Gray's elegy went thrumming through my head. It could be Belcher or Jinx or Malison or the little guy with the pipe, but I don't think so. I've got a pretty good idea who it is, because something suddenly occurred to me. I turned around to give Dugan a nice full face, and I waved because one of those scraps of paper I thought had been blown in my window was marked very peculiarly in red load only in total darkness. Expires December 18, 2241 end of the Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester.
[22:37]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
In his image By Bryce Walton from planet stories Winter 1948 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 Towering and invulnerable, they stood on the hills, patiently waiting their master. Meanwhile, they slew the vermin that crawled below in his image. By Bryce Walton John ran down the long corridor and into the old man's room. He was breathless as he threw himself on his face. Beneath the old man's chair, made from gypsum, a kind of savage eagerness lighted his face. But the old man's face, a frozen pallid ball, crackled into a million lines, was sad and hopelessly resigned. I seen em. John cried. I seen em. His unhealthy pallid body, though big and raw boned, was slender and writhed with a leathery strength that comes with constant effort and exercise rather than diet and sun. The old man struggled. His voice was a hoarse whisper in that one cavern among the hundred and fifty miles of corridors, interlocking levels and rivers that made up the underground hideaway. So you seen em, John? Many have seen the Mecs. And the Mecs might have seen you too, if they ever find us here. Well, they'd probe us out like we were grubs. And they'd burn us with those red ray eyes. Why'd you go up on top? You know it's against the rules. Jon got up. His chest heaved. His eyes were polished beads in a thick nest of reddish beard. Cause I don't like living in this cave like a grub. I been up twice and now I can't stay down here any more. Nobody else got guts enough to go up. Let em stay down here and rot. But I'm going back on top, Chief, and I'm staying up there. The old man leaned back. He couldn't hide the gleam of gruff respect in his eyes. Go ahead, John, but don't come back down. Once they get on your trail. You can't shake em and you'd lead em right back here and then they'd get the rest of us. As far as I know, John, we're the only humans left. John's hands clenched. And so might all of us be dead too, living down here in this cave where there ain't no sun, eating lizards and snakes and dying off one by one? Anyway, we're all going to be dead in another year. What's so great about spending a year crawling and grubbing down here, scared to even take one last look at the sun? It's not for me, Chief. I'm leaving the old man shrugged again. Go ahead, I said. Just promise not to ever come back and lead them down here. You'll promise that, John? Something thickened in his throat, but he managed to say yes. He turned, then twisted back toward the old man. You're smart, he said. You're supposed to know about when they took over. I ask others. No one seems to know, and they care less. Would you tell me, Chief? What are they? The mechs? The old man's voice echoed strangely against the surrounding grotesque bars of limestone stalactites and stalagmites in multicolored hues of fusing reds and orange, purple and browns. A pinched face peered at them from between the ancient bars.
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[28:22]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
then withdrew its tired eyes. Maybe there's 50 humans left down here in the Mammoth hole, the old man said softly. Maybe there ain't nobody else left in the world. Just them with their silent machinery driving over the wastes and their red death eyes sweeping the dark, grubbing for us. The big war went on and on, nobody knows how long, but humans couldn't fight it too much deadly radiation. So they made the machines to fight for them. The sky and the land were just masses of machines, throwing out clouds and streamers and explosions. The land became nothing but pools and seas of deadly dust and fire. The sky was clouded with it and people went underground. They had to go deep down, and they couldn't come back up what was left of them for hundreds of years and more. The old man was gazing with a distant, haunted expression at the small blind lizard crawling up the painted wall. John listened. His skin was cold. A shiver ran down his back. Then they started grubbing the humans out and killing them. I don't suppose anyone knows how long it's been since they took over. That's wrong. I wasn't around then. Nor my father, nor my father's father's father. It was long, long before that. It was so long ago that the old man's eyes widened, his voice choked off with a cloud of unconscious fear that had slipped through. They're godly, he whispered. You seen em? They're all shapes and angles, cubes and small smooth running things. They all shine like metal. And I guess they are metal. Nobody knows what they are. I heard tell when I was a boy that they were just machines, machines built by humans a long time before, and somehow or other the hard radiation put a spark in em that made em able to think and move around and organize like humans used to do. But I reckon they're more intelligent than any humans ever were. Jon backed away, Sweat popped out coldly on his face and chest. I seen em, he choked. I sneaked on top. I went down to the river. It took me hours to get used to the sun. I waited until the sun started going down. Then I sneaked out and looked down the big hill that goes into the valley. I seen two of them. They must have been a hundred foot high. They was smooth. They had long snaky arms, single eyes that shot out red beams like fire. They stood on top of the hill against the sun. The sun was red all around them. They looked like they were made of metal all right, Chief. But how can they move by themselves and think if they're metal? The old man sighed. How? He peered at John with tired, retreating eyes. What is? Thought he said. Then. What is life? Ever Floods of gamma rays bathed them for centuries, and then they were living and they had thoughts of their own. Humans never got a chance to find out what life was before he took it away from himself. He took it and gave it to them. The old man dropped his face in his Shaking hands, Jon had never heard a man cry before. He backed away slowly, then turned and ran out of the great cavern. A gray, dusky afternoon was dying when John crawled out of the small hall between rocks and started writhing down the hill. His eyes stayed open in fearful wonderment until tears rolled down his cheeks, the soft greens and browns of the great forest that thinned up into the hills. There was not the slightest hint that beneath this vast, silent beauty stretched the enormous, grotesque underworld of Mammoth Hole. Nor that in those nameless caverns and corridors along the cold and rushing and naked rivers, a few unkempt savages clung to dim memories of centuries lost power and surface civilization. Jon stopped. An intangible yet powerful emotion surged in him. I'm crawlin, he gritted as he sat up. I said I was sick at crawlin'. I ain't a grub. I'm not crawlin any more. Not for those damned machines, not for anything. They can't do nothing but kill me. And what's life down in that hole. He stood up. He stood up straight and started walking down the rocky trail and finally along the smooth greenness beside the river. His strides were long and unhesitating, but inside him was a deep, growing horror as he remembered those shiny silver giants that had stood so silently on the hill against the red sunset, the huge, attentive, waiting stillness and the sudden terrible sweep of the red beam eyes and the reaching of the metal arms. He stopped and looked down at his thin white legs, starved of sun, knotted and scarred from crawling over the harsh underground paths. He looked at his gnarled, pallid fingers quivering in the cold. He looked up at the sky. A few stars were showing dimly, palely. Oh God, give me a quick ending when my time comes, that's all I ask. Don't let me crawl any more on my belly. Give me the guts to keep walking straight up like I'm walkin now. There was no answer. There was no sound except the cry of birds in the forest, the drone of insects and other louder noises from the river. He was alone. He walked faster, but soon he tired because he had never walked far at a time. Underground people crawled a lot of the time through narrow holes, and under there no one could walk far unless they went in circles. He sat down to rest beneath the canopy of stars. He lay back and looked at them, a feeling of frightful awe pressing down upon him. The night around him was colder now, and the sounds of the night had risen to a hungry song. And then he rolled over with a quick, terrible cry, leapt Crouching to his feet. There were at least a dozen of them, great, shiny, angular and cubed monsters sliding noiselessly down the hill. A peculiar bluish radiance pushed out around them, bathed the surrounding night in a deadly seeming pall. With a pathetic defiance, John picked up a heavy stone, stood with legs wide apart, holding the rock in front of him. Every nerve in him shrieked, pulling his muscles away. But he couldn't run. He couldn't run nor crawl any more. A kind of dark, resigned courage replaced the first impulses of flight, and he hurled the rock. There was a futile thud and the rock bounded from the great unruffled wall of metal. Then, for an instant, he didn't think the thoughts, the voices were anything but his own. Strange, alien, terrifying, inspired by his own fears. Then he realized it was the mechs. A grub. Yes. I thought they were all gone. No, there are some remaining deep in the soil. Central files say they are no longer of any danger. But Files also retains the order to kill all organic things. John moved toward them. He moved stiffly, a strange and intangible bulwark of purpose shielding him from the screaming horror. Something of the awful indignity of his position shook him, sent a hot rage throbbing blindly past his temples. He heard his breath coming hard from Titan throat. These great nameless things, machines, intelligent metal, it didn't matter what. They had no idea of what he was, that he had a brain, that he could think. And yet their gigantic thoughts were plain to him. Sometime so very long ago, he, his kind, humans, had made these things, had built them up from molten stuff, had put intricate interlocking machinery within them so that they could move, think for themselves, repair themselves. And then humans had launched the big war, had released seething seas of basic energy, and somehow these gigantic shining silver things had begun to live. But to them, John, a human, a descendant of the humans that had made them and given them life, was less than the dirt under their towering, invulnerable radiance, less than the dust beneath their sweeping red death eyes. They had no conception that he was anything but a pale, crawling cave worm. John walked closer. He was not so much afraid for himself now. There was more of a sweeping terror of the whole situation, the terrible futility and irony. He wasn't afraid to die. And he knew that he had to die now, and that there was no escape, no defense. He shook his fist at the silent, towering forms. Damn you. It's me. A man. Man. I'm human. I'm not crawlin', see? I'm not crawling. I'm talkin to you. I'm talking. I'm thinking too. See? It's making noises.
[40:02]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Yes.
[40:03]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
All the various species of organic life make noises peculiar to their type. Have you not seen a grub before?
[40:12]
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[40:13]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Let us kill it now. We must report back to central file. How long will it take to kill all organic life? Central file says it may take many more years, even though now most organic life has been destroyed. We must complete the task soon. You know man will return Glorious Man God, Mighty Man God. Man God the Creator. Man God the Eternal. Ah yes, Mighty Man God. How long will it be before the Man God's coming? Jon shivered, reaching out a shaking hand as though to support himself against the air. He tried to speak, but his facial muscles seemed frozen. He wanted to say, I'm Man. I'm your Creator. I made you long ago. But he could say nothing, nothing at all. That is not known. Man God made us in his own image, then departed, promising to return. Return to bring us glory and eternity. May the great Man God who created us from the lifeless stuff of the dirt return soon, for only then may our destiny be fulfilled. Yes, may Man God return soon. Meanwhile, Central files demands immediate action in preparation for that day. Kill this scrub. Soon all organic life that stands in the way of the Man God's coming will be eradicated. A thunderous impact of telepathic power roared in Jon's head as he staggered forward, fists clenched. For thee, Great Man God for whom we wait. Return, O Man God, to bring us glory. John laughed. Hot tears scalded his face as he laughed. He was still laughing as the red death eye brightened, leapt out and silently swept him away. The End of In His Image by Bryce Walton.
[42:49]
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Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey 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 Kelly Wilcox Baird Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey Councilman Curtis would never cooperate with Max Flea's plans for overthrow. But a duplicate of Curtis, a simulacrum which could not be distinguished from the real man, would follow Flea's orders to perfection. And one man, Jeremiah Greek, knew the secret of making the duplications. Max Flea's heavy jowls relaxed, and he chuckled without humor as he examined the knots that bound the man at his feet. Quite impersonally, he planted the toe of his boot in Curtis's ribs, listened to the muffled grunt of pain, and decided that the gag was effective, for once Slim had done a good job and there was nothing wrong. It was probably unnecessary anyway, but there could be no bungling when the future of the Plutarchy was at stake. Incompetence had cost them an empire once, and there would be no third opportunity. The stupid democracies that had called themselves a world union had colonized the planets and ruled them without plan. And when Mars, Venus, and the Jovian worlds had revolted and set up a Planet Planet Council, all that Earth could do was to come crawling to it, begging polite permission to join what they should have owned. But that had been before practical realists had kicked out the Dreamers and set up the Plutarchy under an iron discipline that could implement its plans. Now they were heading back toward their lost empire, colonizing the asteroids and establishing claims that gave them a rough rule of over the outlaws who had retreated there. With the Council softened up by years of cautious propaganda, they were in a position to ask and receive a mandate over the scattered planetoids. It was the opening wedge and all they needed. Once the asteroids could be given spurious independence to seek a council seat, they would be ready to strike at the Jovian worlds with proper incidents, propaganda, and quislings, plus the planetoids to separate Jupiter from Mars, there could be no question of the outcome. Earth would gain a majority of three votes, and the Council would be the basis of a new and greater Plutarchy. Flea gave the bound body of Curtis another careless kick and went forward to the cabin, where the lanky form of his companion was hunched dourly over the controls of the little spacecraft. How's it going, Slim? So so. Slim ejected a green stream of narcotic juice and grinned sourly. But I still say we've been crowding our luck too. Hard rot. Lay out the right moves, cover all possibilities, outmaneuver your enemies, and you don't need luck. Ever play chess? Nope. Can't say I did. Played the horses on Mars, though. Time we heisted the Euphemeron one two after I bought my lucky ghost charm. Been in the chips ever since. Slim's grin widened, but his face remained stubbornly unconvinced. Flea chuckled. If the planetoid outlaws depended on magic while the Council visionaries spouted sentimental twaddle, so much the better for the realists. Charms don't work in politics, Slim. We have to anticipate resistance. And you saw what happened to our fine Martian Counselor Curtis when he decided to expose us and ruin the mandate.
[46:40]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
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Slim's yellow teeth chewed thoughtfully on his cud. S' pose he'd stood on Mars, though we'd have dropped hints and just the information he needed on Ceres and trapped him there as we did. Checkmate or check out so when he don't come back they smell a rat and I ain't planning on being around to chew rat poison. My grandpappy killed a counselor once. Poor grandpappy. Hey, there's the rock. There was no outward sign of life on the barren little planetoid, but as the ship came to a grinding stop in a narrow gorge, a concealing shield snapped over them and a crudely painted sign blazed out in phosphorescent gaudiness on one Rocky Wall. Simulacra Ltd. Jeremiah Greek proprietor. A line in Greek characters Specialist and another line in Greek characters Flea came out of the lock first and paused while he waited for Slim to shoulder the tarpaulin, covered Curtis and follow. He grinned and pointed at the Greek characters in the sign. Magician and Wonder Worker Specialist in imitation and mockery. He translated. I looked it up on Mars, so don't go thinking it's some kind of spell now if the old fool will open up. Max remembered his own preconceptions of Greek's process, pictured various impressive looking apparatus which included a large tube through which some sort of lightning zigzagged and a beautiful woman taking form from stream of transmuted elements streaming from the top. It was nothing like such cinematic ledger domain, of course. Why ain't English good enough for him? Complained Slim. I don't go for that magic stuff, Max. We've been but the Sigma was already swinging back on its tips to reveal a passage through the rock. A little shriveled man and tattered shorts and thick lensed glasses stood motioning them in impatiently, and the door closed silently. When they obeyed his summons they headed down a side passage toward a ramp and the sound of busy humming Greek threw open a door and pointed to a table where the duplicate of Counselor Curtis lay. With the duplicate Jeremiah Greek fussing over it and humming through his nose, the guide dropped to a bench and began removing his chest and inserting a fresh power pack between two terminals. Slim's mouth dropped open and his burden slipped from his back to the floor with a sudden thump while he stared from one Greek to the other and back to the first. His fingers were stretched in the ancient sign of the horns as he watched the changing of accumulators and his voice was hoarse and uncertain. A damned robot. Not a robot, a simulacrum denied the owl eyed man who must have been the original of the metal Creature? I'm a mimist, not a creator. A robot has independent life, but that's only a limited copy of my memories and habits. Like this phony Curtis and those tapes you brought me, Flea. They stink. He gestured toward the spools of the marvelous wire that could record electromagnetic waves of any type of frequency, up to several million megacycles. In one corner, a stereo player was running one off, but the vision screen was fuzzy and and the voice part was a mass of gibberish. Flea scowled at it and turned back suspiciously to Greek. Sure you know how to use them? Those were made by by a fool who had a shield leak in his scanner. Only a few were any good. I was using pan cyclic tape before you ever saw a stereo record. Where do you think I impress my simulacrum's memory on a real brain? It takes miles of tape to feed the selectrons. I did the best I could, but here, take a look. He reached into the false Curtis's mouth and did something that made the figure sit up. Suddenly Max went over and muttered into the thing's ear, but after the first few answers it lapsed into sullen silence and he swung back towards Greek. I told you Curtis had to be perfect. This wouldn't fool a Jovian. And I told you I wasn't Jehovah. I specialize in mechanical imitations, greek answered shortly. Bum tape, bum simulacrum. If you brought me some decent reels, I'll see what I can do, though. Fleet grunted and yanked the tarpaulin off the real Curtis. At the site, new interest appeared on Greek's face, and he came over to examine the counselor, but stopped after a cursory look had shown that the man was still alive. He nodded. That's more like it, Flea. I'll set up an encephalograph and idea form analyzer and record directly off his mind. It's better than feeding impressions from tapes anyway, though I always used an editing circuit before. Okay, you'll get something his own mother would swear was perfect. When? Depends. Narrowband analysis would take a couple weeks, but it'd be permanent. If I run an all wave impressor in, the tapes will be barely affected. I can do it in 10, 12 hours, but your simulacrum will begin to fade in a week and wash out completely in a month. Suits me, Flea decided. We don't need them more than a few days. Any place where Slim and I can catch up on her sleep while you finish? Greek's double came to life at a signal and led them down a series of rock corridors to a room that lacked nothing in comfort. The then went silently out and left them alone, to Flea's relief. Slim tested the bed in sour displeasure, pulled a blanket off, and rolled up on the floor, leaving the flotation mattress unoccupied. He had as little use for such luxuries as his boss had for his presence in the same bed. Max climbed in and adjusted the sprigy dial to perfect comfort with a relaxed grunt of pleasure. He had no intention of sleeping, though, while things that concerned him were going on. Three hours later, he heaved out and slipped silently down the rocky halls on sponge rubber slippers. But his training had covered the stupidity of spy stereos, and there was nothing stealthy about his entry into the laboratory. Greek looked up from a maze of wires and gadgets with faint surprise but no suspicion. Couldn't sleep, flea volunteered apologetically. I was wondering if he had any barbiturates. A few minutes later he took the tablet from Greek's double and turned back down the hallway with a muttered thanks. He had learned all he wanted to know. Both Greeks and Curtises were present and accounted for where they belonged, and the mimemist was busy about his work. There was no funny business involved. Actually, he had expected none, but it never did any harm to make sure of such things when dealing with men who were outside the law of either the plutarchy or the Council.
[53:48]
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[55:17]
Slim was snoring and kicking about on the floor when he returned, and he grinned as he plopped back onto the mattress. The outlaws were useful enough now, but once Earth took over the mandate, something would have to be done about them. Too many were the wrong sort to fit into the Plutarchy. Flea stretched with a self satisfied yawn and slipped into well earned sleep. Greek simulacrum wakened them in the morning and led them back to the laboratory where the scientist was waiting beside the imitation Curtis. The real counselor must have been drugged, for he lay unconscious on one of the tables. Flea wasted only a casual glance at him and then turned to the new simulacrum as Greek flash flipped it on. This time his tests were longer and there were no sullen silences from the imitation. Its response was quick, sure, and completely correct. The real Curtis could have done no better, and Flea stepped back at last and nodded his approval. He demanded a perfect simulacrum and it had been delivered. You're sure it has a good strong desire to live? He asked briefly as he fished into his bag for the little prepared relay that was ready. Greek smiled faintly. They all have that. They couldn't pass as normal men without it, and if your dimensions were correct, you should have no trouble installing your relay. He stripped aside the blouse to reveal a small cavity in the back of the simulacrum with a bundle of little wires which Flea hooked into the relay. It slipped in and locked firmly. Greek unclipped the tiny switch from inside the machine's mouth. The animation within the simulacrum disappeared at once to snap back again as a switch on Flea's bag was pressed. A little circle of the pansilic strip moved over a scanner inside the bag, sending out a complex wave while a receiver in the simulacrum's back responded by closing the relay. Then the animation was cut off again and came back at once on a second pressure of the switch. Attempted removal of the relay will destroy all circuits, just as you ordered, greek assured the operative. Well. Flea's face mirrored complete satisfaction. You get the fire emeralds as promised. He reached into the bag and came out with a little bundle. A grin stretched across his face. It stayed there while Greek moved forward quickly to stagger back with a chopped off scream as the slugs poured into his face and exploded his head into a mangled mess of blood and gray tissue. For a second the Greek double moved forward, but it turned with a shriek and went down the hall at a clumsy run. As Flea ripped the smoking gun from the package, he let it go. Curtis's head dissolved under a second series of slugs and only the simulacrum of the counselor was left in the laboratory with the church two men. Slim closed his mouth slowly and reached for his green narcotic, but he made no protest. The other moved about, gathering up combustibles and stacking them in a corner, then setting fire to the pile. Which takes care of almost everything, Slim, flea said calmly. They headed out and down the hall toward their ship with the imitation Curtis moving quietly along behind. Another slug from the gun destroyed the lock on the big Sigma and they pushed through, out into the rocky gorge. Nothing left a chance and a perfect red herring to cover up Curtis's disappearance. Slim ducked into the lock and went forward to the controls. Uh huh. Grandpappy'd sure have admired you. Max used to look just the same when he drilled somebody he didn't like. All set for takeoff. Forgetting anything, Slim? The outlaw looked up in puzzled surprise while Flea shook his head and went over to the receiver. There was no sense in trying to teach the fool anything, apparently, but at least he might have learned elementary caution from his mode of life. The Plutarch operative ripped out the tape from the illegal all wave recorder and slipped it into a playback slot while slow comprehension crossed the other's face. But everything was in order, with the usual hash of faint signals on various frequencies. There were no signs of a strong response such as would have been made by an attempt on Greek's part to double cross him with a call to the outside. He set the receiver to record and went toward the rear cabin with the simulacrum while the ship blasted off and headed toward Mars. The false Curtis was already at a table and and groping through a bag of notes the original counselor had carried. It looked up as Flea came in, grimaced, and went on organizing the papers before it. The operative dropped to a chair with his familiar humorless chuckle. You realize your life is dependent on obedience, Curtis. Would I have let you kill myself otherwise? The thing asked grimly. Leave that control gadget of yours where I can get it, and you'll feel the difference between my hands and mere flesh ones. But meantime, I'll cooperate Since I have no choice, I suppose you intend helping me with my speech before the Council. Flea's appreciation for the peculiar genius of Greek went up several points as he assented tersely. The thing was perfect, or so nearly so that it seemed to consider itself the real man. There would be no trouble on that score. As for the control bag, he had no intention of letting that out of his hands until the simulacrum was turned off. It gestured toward the notes with a motion peculiar to Curtis. You'd only ruin anything you edited, Flea. I'm perfectly capable of writing the thing myself, and it'll sound like me, but if I'm going to give you a clean sheet and not make the whole Council suspicious, I'll need more information than I have. I must have the whole picture so that I can take care of all objections without running counter to what some other Counselors may know already. Also, I think you'd better learn to address me as Counselor Curtis. Quite so, Counselor Flea agreed, and this time the amusement in his laugh was genuine. Now, if you'll tell me what you know of our plans and methods, I'll fill in the blanks, but I want to see that speech when you're finished. It was amazing the amount of evidence Curtis had managed to accumulate in a brief week, or perhaps much of it had been in his hands before and only needed organizing against what they had let him find on Ceres. It was enough to have ruined all hopes of Earth's getting the mandate and seriously endangered her relations with the Planet Council. In addition, Flea made a mental note to press for an investigation of some of the Outland operatives. As he began filling in the missing links in the other's information, Curtis took the facts down in a notebook, grim faced and silent, checked them back, and reached for the typewriter. The first part of the speech he had meant to deliver needed but slight modification, and Flea read it over the simulacrum's shoulder as it operated the machine. Then the going grew tougher, and there were long pauses while the thing considered revising a word here or changing a paragraph there. It disregarded Flea's suggestion with the same disdain that would have been on the real Counselor's face, and the operative began to realize that it was justified when it came to writing speeches. He was only an amateur, and this was professional work. He was beginning to regret that the thing could have a life of only from a week to ten days. When it finished, Earth could have used such a propagandist, particularly one accepted on the Council as Mars Chief Representative Curtis's speeches had always been good, but but he had never realized that the man's talents would have been equally good on propaganda. It was hard to believe that this was fiction as he listened to the calm, assured voice running through it, apparently reciting only the simple truth and yet coloring every word with some trick of oratory that seemed to make it glow with virtue and integrity. Perfect, he commented. When it was finished, he cut off the relay signal, watched the simulacrum slip to the floor, and went forward to the control cabin with a full measure of satisfaction. Earth could not fail, and already the red disk of Mars was large and close in the viewplate. Flea hadn't realized the time the writing of the speech had taken, but he did not regret a second of it as Slim began nursing the ship down through the thin atmosphere toward the solar center. The taste of coming victory was strong in Max Flee as he waited outside the Martian house the the next day, but Slim was still glum and morose. Part of that was probably due to his orders to stay out of the usual outlaw haunts on the planet where the police might have picked him up and ruined the whole plan. The rest, Flea decided, was just his natural fear of what he could not understand. The outlaw was grumbling and turning his lucky ghost charm over and over in his palms, leaving the thing run around this way. We've been lucky, Max, but taint reasonable to figure it a hold. You should have let me tail him. Sure, Slim. People expect him to go around with you at his heels. No doubt. Fleece spat dango seeds out of the open car window and took another bite of the cool fruit before going on. We have to let him circulate. No, Counselor, just back from a two week trip would hole up before this meeting when he had instructions to pick up any last minute details piling in or Besides, we're not dealing with Curtis now, but with a machine, and it knows who its master is. The minute I cut the relay or it gets 10 miles away from me, no life. He spotted the simulacrum coming down the steps and jumped out to open the car door. Slim grunted dourly, pulling his chauffeur's cap further down over his forehead, but he took the curt order from Curtis with no other protest and headed the big car toward the council chambers. The counselor passed over two slips of elaborate pasteboard and leaned back against the seat. Passes for the two of you. Are you sure Slim knows what he's to do? There was a disgusted sound from the front, but Flea ignored it. He'd better. We've been over it often enough, but go ahead and make sure the the simulacrum ticked off the points with incisive authority. The council chamber was radiation proof, and since Curtis would not be trusted with the relay signal, the success of the whole thing depended on Slim's behavior. Max had secured a duplicate of his signal generator, which the outlaw was to use outside the assembly while Flea went inside with his and waited. The operative had developed complete confidence in the ability of the false Curtis, and he was sure of his own part. It was all up to Slim, but there was no reason for him to fail, and he had always taken orders well enough before. Actually, it all went off with perfect smoothness. The guards passed him in after a careful scrutiny of his permit, and he carried the briefcase that held the generator up to the gallery and turned it on. Seconds later the simulacrum came through the big doorway with only a slight flicker of uncertainty as the anti radiation shield touched him and he passed from one generator to the other. Curtis walked along the aisle with the proper confidence and attention to his friends, presented his credentials for the purely perfunctory examination, and turned off into one of the little council rooms. Two of the other Martian counselors followed him and passed out of Flea's field of view, but he was not worried about that. Slim came slouching down the gallery stairs and dropped into a seat beside the operative, putting the duplicate generator between his feet. Satisfied? Perfect, Flea assured him they would reverse it going out. After that, Curtis would announce that he was leaving on a long trip to Ganymede, and they would be able to dispose of the simulacrum without any parts left to show what he was. Then Curtis came back into the main chamber. Apparently the council had been waiting for his return, for the sergeant at arms waved for order, and the meeting began with almost no preliminaries. Earth brought up the subject of the mandate, and the head of the Venus Council began to come to his feet. But Curtis was up first, and the chair recognized him. Flea relaxed completely as the familiar words of the speech began to come to him, while the Venusians glanced about in surprise and then began to listen. A moment later they were under the sway of his oratory. The single speech should do it, since the question had been tentatively decided in favor of Earth at the last meeting, pending Curtis's investigation. By night the mandate should be a fait de camp, Li and Earth could begin moving out her mercenary legions in the squat mining freighters. Flea had a pretty good idea of who would lead them? He'd been in line for promotion for some time already, and the Plutarch had dropped hints of the outcome of success. It would be good to leave the dubious position of operative and become a legally recognized governor of the Mandate planetoids to settle down and begin organizing his own private little plans for the Plutarch's job. Slim nudged him with the bony knee, but Flea was too wrapped in his own thoughts to bother until the other seized his elbow and hissed at him. Then he came out of his daydreams. Something was going on. The counselors were paying too careful attention, and the Earth delegation didn't look right. In a second his mind was back on the speech, and the words came to a chilling focus in his ears. Found the organization inconceivably complex, and yet the basic pattern is old. Old is barbarism that prompted it. Gentlemen. I have only my word as evidence now, but I can name names and give exact locations that will enable our planetary police to confirm every word of it before night falls on this meeting. The Plutarch of Earth, on 20 April, 42 years ago, gave the following orders, which I quote Flea grabbed for Slim's generator and yanked the button savagely. But still the damning words went on, detail piling on, exact detail, while secret servicemen moved forward to cut the speaker off from the Earth delegates. Their rudeness was an open declaration that Earth was immediately severed from the Council.
[70:30]
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[72:00]
Max ripped out the generator, crushing the delicate tubes in his hands. He was stamping on his own device at the same time, but the voice went on unchecked. Down on the floor, Curtis looked upwards without pausing in his detailed list of evidence, found the operative's eye, and grinned. Then he resumed his normal gravity and went on. Slim's hands were trembling and fumbling over his charm. Flea practically carried him to the aisle and dragged him along as he made his way up the infinite distance to the gallery door. Every step was made with the expectation of a shouted order from Curtis that would send the big explosive slugs tearing through him. But it did not come. Instead, there was only the quiet continuance of the speech and Slim's hoarse prayers to the ghosts of the Charm to save them. Surprisingly, the doors opened in the hands of the courteous guards, and the hall was before them with no police in sight. Max cut Slim's babbled relief off with a crisp whisper. We're not out of it, you fool. 10 to 1 it's cat and mouse with us, the losers. But if we're going to make use of the 10th chance, shut up. Walk, damn it, and grin. There was another flight of stairs leading down a long hall and a second door that opened promptly and politely as they neared it. Then the main steps led down to the street. It was impossible that the simulacrum could have given no orders for their arrest, as impossible as the relay could be tampered with. But the big car waited on the curb, and there were still no police reaction left Slim drooling narcotic juice over the hands that were caressing and kissing the charm. Flea yanked him savagely into the car and gunned the electros. It went tearing out into the street under full power while a wild yellow despair ripped out of the outlaw's throat. My ghost charm. He was pawing frantically at the door lock with his face swiveled around toward the bright, receding twinkle of the metal piece on the sidewalk behind Max. Max, shut up and stay put. There must be a hundred more of those things you can buy if we get out of this, Flea freed a hand and forced the cringing fool back into the seat, where he relaxed woodenly, terror fading out to sullen despair that gradually mingled with doubt. Then let's get out quick, Max. Oncet we hit Earth, I know a guy's got another taint as good a ghost with it as mine, but it ain't no fake neither. You gotta give me enough to get it, Max. Flea hid his thin grin from the other. They'd need more than a ghost charm or even planning if they ever went to Earth. He'd seen what happened to failures there, and he knew that it would be better to walk into the nearest Planet Police bureau. But he reached over soothingly and patted the outlaw's shoulder. Sure, Slim. We'll get you another maybe before we leave here. It shouldn't be hard to find one of the charm peddlers and dope up a story. There was a place on Venus where they could hide once Slim worked up his nerve to pilot them there and provided that their luck held long enough to keep the police from impounding the little craft. But the hideout would take money, and that had to come first. Planning took care of that. He'd always been careful to avoid tying his personal fortune up in the Earth operative strongholds. He swung the car around a corner, glanced up at a jeweler's sign, and cursed without slowing down. The red light was on, warning that it had been raided. One of his secret quarters gone. He stopped obediently for a through highway and roared on. But the second was no better. There was sweat on his forehead and his hands were slippery with it. When he headed out Marr's Center Canal into the suburbs. Damn Curtis. It was impossible for him to have found the hideout, or should have been. But there was no warning light in the window of the third and last place. The lawyer's faded sign swung in the thin wind, and everything was serenely peaceful. Flea jerked Slim out of the car, set its automatic chauffeur, and let it go rolling off. Then he moved up the stairs with the outlaw at his heels, listened cautiously at the door, and nodded. The steady click of a typewriter indicated that the scrawny little secretary was doing the routine office work, and Sammy must have been undisturbed. He opened the door eagerly to a louder clicking from the typewriter above it. Curtis looked up with an assured smile and waved the grandfather of all hand weapons at him in genial greeting. Come in, Max, he said cordially. Like my double speech. Slim's trembling hand fumbled out automatically in a Sign of the horns. His blanched mouth worked furiously, but the words refused to come until Curtis turned to him, then jerked back, waving his fingers. He couldn'ta. We'd a beat him, Max. He's dead. He's a ghost. Flea's hand groped for him and missed. Another apparition came from the room from the inner office. This one was a shriveled little man without eyes that blinked at them out of thick lensed spectacles. Jeremiah Greek picked up a pencil with a contented grin, drew it across the bare flesh of his arm, and held the red mark that rose on the skin out toward the outlaw. In the flesh, he stated, but Slim was no longer listening. Slowly, as if moved by worn down clockworks, he slid down the wall and his dead faced head bent forward to meet the knees that drew upwards. There he stayed motionless. If that's catatonic, return to the fetal position. It's an all time record for speed, curtis commented with quiet interest. Sit down, Max. You seem to have overestimated your companion's moral fiber and underestimated your opponents. Never count on luck. It takes planning to get anywhere in this universe. By the way, Jeremiah Greek is the original inventor of the Pan Cyclic Tate. You should have checked up on him before you trusted him and found out the way your plutarchy gypped him out of his invention, he wasn't the sort of man who'd cooperate very well with Earth. In fact, he was the sort who could and would fake a tape for your recorder to cover up the call he put in under my code to the Martian Council. Flea moved towards the chair as the gun commanded. Only half conscious of the words, he sank into a sitting position, his eyes churning savagely and getting nowhere. Play along. Keep your eyes open. If you let the other guy make the moves, he'll slip up somewhere. It was basic training to operatives, though there was uncertainty in even that logic now. But there was nothing else to do. Greek picked up the account. With the promise of secrecy from Counselor Curtis and a chance to do legitimate research here, I felt quite free to drop my very doubtful loyalty to my native planet. Mr. Flea, those two simulacra you shot were crude, and the brain and blood imitation was quite poor, I thought. But fortunately you didn't investigate thoroughly. I didn't think the relay control could fail, so you simply let the surmulicrum collapse and took its place. Flea was forcing himself to casualness while his brain hashed over all the rules for upsetting a trap, but it returned inevitably to the basic need of Stalling for time and keeping them talking. Not at all, curtis corrected him. We were late returning, so they simply used an all wave receiver to record your control signal on pancyclic tape, inserted it into the generator, and the simulacrum had his freedom in his pocket Two minutes after you turned on your control in the council chamber. You really didn't think I'd leave my speech in the middle to chase you when I had a perfectly good double, Surely. Flea's eyes darted to Slim, but there would be no help from that quarter. Not a muscle had moved since the outlaw had collapsed on the floor. He forced himself to relax, deliberately relax. As long as he was tensed up in the chair, they'd watch him. But they d be less cautious if he seemed to abandon hope. And he was younger and faster than they were, in spite of his fat Greek's amused cackle broke his chain of thought. So simple a solution, Max. But of course an involute brain would miss just that. That's fine. Relax. And when you start anything, you'll be surprised to find how quickly and efficiently a couple of sentimental visionary fools can shoot. Or do you think, Counselor, that we're really such fools? I doubt it, curtis answered with the same hard amusement in his voice. As I see it, a reactionary is simply unable to adapt to new conditions. He's filled with a blind, stubborn dependence on the rude past. The brute force is an admission of that intellectual poverty, Max. You should have studied history better. The addle padded idealists have a particular habit of winning. They stood there grinning and studying their captive with the one thing in the universe he had never encountered open contempt. Flea wet his lips, glancing from one to another and considering the hopeless distance to the door, and suddenly the beginnings of an idea permeated through the hard knot of fear in his brain. They didn't believe in brute force. They wouldn't kill him without provocation. They couldn't turn him into the police. He swung back to Curtis, and this time there was a grin on his own lips. You said you promised Mr. Greek secrecy, counselor, not immunity. Because the old law against making robots is too strong and simulacra would be considered robots. Well, just how do you figure you can turn me over to the authorities without breaking that promise and and having him strung up beside me?
[82:20]
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[84:20]
I never meant to turn you in, Curtis answered. And you said yourself the brute force was stupid. Quite true. It was Greek who answered this time. But the rules of justice sometimes invoke it. The penalty for treason like that, for robbery, is still death, though we've abandoned most other reasons for capital punishment. Then turn me in or kill me yourselves, and you'll find that brute force really is stupid on Mars. The police here are the best in the system, which is why I always preferred to do my little jobs elsewhere. You amateurs wouldn't have a chance. Well. But he knew he had them, and the taste of freedom in his mouth was sweet after the fear and hopelessness of their gloating power. He did not wait for an answering nod from them, but turned from his chair in calm assurance, and headed for the door. Greek's voice interrupted his exit. Just a minute, Max. You really should know all your mistakes. And there's one we forgot. Never use a perfect simulacrum. It can't be perfect without thinking exactly like its original. The same mind must operate the same way. Your simulacrum was limited only by the time it could exist, and it knew that as well as knowing it was useless among real men. So what? Flea asked jauntily and reached for the door. And so long steel hands grabbed him, and a pair of arms with inhuman strength picked him up and turned him around to face the two men. Curtis dropped his gun onto the table with a slow, deliberate motion, holding the struggling operative with a single hand while he stretched the other out to Jeremiah Greek. Then he turned toward the door, dragging the fat body of Flea along without effort. So when you're found dead in your house, killed by the robot, you are having built in some fiendish plot against Counselor Curtis, I don't think the police will worry beyond seeing that both you and the robot are thoroughly beyond repair. There was bitterness in the voice of the simulacrum, but it was resolute and determined bitterness. When the real Curtis replaced me in the council chamber, he meant to make my few days of existence as pleasant as possible. But even a limited simulacrum likes to be useful. Come along, Max. Max Flea went along. There was nothing else he could do as the duplicate of Curtis tossed him into a small car and began driving back toward the town and the house that had been his Martian home and would soon be his tomb. He couldn't even think straight, for his head insisted on dwelling on nonsense. Slim had been right, after all, and his ghost charm had brought him luck even after he lost it. But for a man who had refused to believe in it, there was no hope for such insane oblivion. There was simply no hope of any kind. End of Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey.
[87:35]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Beyond Lies the WUB 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 the loading. Outside stood the Optis, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning. What's the matter? He said. You're getting paid for all this? The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his his robes. The captain put his boot on the hem of the robe. Just a minute. Don't go off. I'm not finished. Oh. The Optus turned with dignity. I am going back to the village. He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. I must organize new hunts. Franco lit a cigarette. Why not? You people can go out into the veld 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. He looked at his watch. We 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 toward 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 toward him. What is it? The wub stood sagging. It's its gray body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail. 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. A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed on 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 spite of 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 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. Said 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. You got this for 50 cents? Yes, sir, peterson said. It eats almost every anything. I fed it on grain, and it liked that. And then potatoes and mash and scraps from the table, and milk. It seemed to enjoy eating. 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 anymore. 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 small, silent. What was that? Franco said. Just now? The wub, sir, peterson said. It spoke. They all looked at the wub. What did it say? What did it say? It suggested we talk about other matters. Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Side. Then he came back over and stood with the men. I wonder if there is a native inside it, he said thoughtfully. Maybe we should open it up and have a look. Oh goodness. The wub cried.
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[96:43]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
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 wub waited, good naturedly, licking the water from its jowls. Coming to my office, the captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub 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 hear. 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. All right, he said. Said, let's get started. You're a wub, is that 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?
[99:07]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
No.
[99:08]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
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. I see, the captain said. Telepathy. Of course. We are a very old race, the Wubs 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. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run. Too soft to fight. Too good natured to hunt for game. How do you live? Plants? Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very Catholic. Tolerant. Eclectic Catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten a 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 the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle. A bit for your pet cat. So you read minds, The Captain 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 them. Indeed. The captain nodded. But to get back to the problem.
[101:34]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
Quite so.
[101:35]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact 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 will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage, I know. The Wub 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 infinite infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote. The captain walked to the door. Nuts to you, he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth. He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his 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. Ishtar, Odysseus. Peterson sat silently staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair. Go on, he said. Please go on. I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wonders as an individual aware of himself, himself as such. This is the idea 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 over here. There was silence. Go ahead, the wub said. It doesn't matter. Peterson stood up. What for? 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 toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the the wall. It is interesting, the wub said, that you are 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, french said. For God's sake. Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray 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.
[106:27]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
Who?
[106:27]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
The captain. 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 of the way. The men pulled aside toward the door. You are quite afraid, aren't you? The wub said. Have I done anything to you? I. I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being, like yourselves. I am curious to see your ship, learn about you, I suggested to the native. The gun jerked. See, Franco Sa said. I thought so. The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it. It is very warm, the wub said. I understand that we are close to the Jed's 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. I'll do it. You can watch. French nodded. Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib cage 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 have 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. Franko walked toward 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 savior related. It stopped, staring at the gun. Can you look 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 around 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. More. And some wine perhaps? Not me, french said. I think I'll go back 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 staring down at him, his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat. He opened his mouth. No sound came. The captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder. It is 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 is 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 he said. I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true. The taste of wub very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past. He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson and 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, said Odysseus, as I understand him. End of Beyond Lies the Wub by Philip K. Dick Read by D. Searles.
[112:26]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
The Terror by Alfred Koppel this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the Wars of Nerves the cold wars of the early 20th century pale into insignificance beside the fear that beset humanity when Jan Carvill returns from space. The Terror by Alfred copple from Quintus Bland's History of Mankind, chapter 24 the Terror these are the Halcyon years. The awful goad of the Terror is gone and men can look into the sky without fear. The new colonies thrive among the low red hills of Mars, in the icy moraines of IO, Europa, and Titan. Starships are poised on the outer moons. Perhaps soon Earth will wear a diadem of stars. Yet some of the bitterness of the fear ridden years is with us still. Forgiveness does not come easily to those who have suffered the humiliation of the Terror. There are the blighted lives to remember and the unfortunates who lived and died under the threat of annihilation from the sky. Jan Carvel's memory is accused, for it was Carvel who brought the terror of the man himself. Little is known he lived and died in the first decade of the conquest of space or in the last decade of the nationalist era. Since they coincide. A few short years have passed since the first successful moon flights and the establishment of the space stations and the tensions that had been mounting among the nations of Earth were nearing the breaking point. Lunaris was moon base then and the launching racks were pointed back toward Earth and not toward the planets. Intense activity had turned the moon into an atomic arsenal, a focal point of all the destructive arts man had learned during and since the Second World War. The old countries, mainly the Soviet Union of socialist republics and the United States of America, stood with weapons poised and seemingly eternal Cold War steadily growing hotter. The moon base was American and the space stations were Russian. A parity of weapons had been reached and jingoists cried for war. History does not record the exact date of Jan Carville's departure from the Earth moon system. It is known that he was an American, a qualified moon pilot and a fanatic on the subject of planetary exploration. It is also known that he boarded an experimental long range rocket bomber without authorization and vanished from the arsenal in Tycho. Some have suggested that he did not steal the craft and that he was actually ordered on his epoch making flight, presumably in search of military useful information. This is unlikely. Having reached the moon and turned it into a fortress, the United States lost interest in space travel. Carvel chafed under the restraints placed upon him and the Bureau of Security. It is therefore more than just probable that he took it upon himself to press the cause of exploration without authority or sanction. The result of this irresponsible course of action was predestined. Carvel lost his ship and his life, but he left a legacy that was to shake the world. On the evening of January 17, 1971, some six years after Carvel's disappearance from Moon Base, the Pacific Radar watch detected an approaching missile. It was tracked for routine interception and one ground to air missile was actually launched at it before its erratic course identified the unknown rocket as a spacecraft in distress. Fortunately, the GTA missile was caught and neutralized before the interception occurred and the approaching spacecraft was allowed to crash in the middle of California's Central Valley, near what was then the city of Fresno. Jan Carville's ship crashed and burned. When he came back, search crews found the wreckage and it was immediately established as an experimental rocket bomber stolen six years before by Jan Carvill. It was badly smashed by the crash and in addition seemed to have sustained a considerable amount of battle damage. A charred body was removed from the rocket and identified as Jan Carville, the Craft's papers, however, were in an excellent state of preservation, it being indicated that Carvel sacrificed his own life to protect them. These papers, consisting of some photographs, some crudely drawn planetary maps, and a diary, were contained in a steel box addressed to the Secretary of Defense. They were rushed to his office without delay. Fortunately, he was at the time in New Washington, somewhere under the Great Lakes. Within 12 hours, a meeting was held among the chiefs of state of all the Western powers. Two hours later, a special courier plane was dispatched to Karabishev, the new Russian capital beyond the Urals, and the greatest joint effort in the history of mankind was begun. The terror had come to Earth. From the text of the President of the United States Message to Marshal Vasily Kimpov, the Russian dictator. In spite of our differences, therefore, I urgently request that you personally authorize the dispatching of qualified Russian experts to join in the Scientific Council now convening here to evaluate these terrifying documents. If you desire, hostages may be exchanged to assure the safety of your personnel. From the Carvel diary. I stood on the thin snowdrifts and looked westward into the setting sun. The vastness of the silent desert was red with faintly visible plumes of sand that rode high on the icy air. Above me, the sky was cobalt and the stars shone brightly and unwinking. The nearer moon rode low on the horizon, almost touching the tiny disc of the sun. I was alone, as I have been since leaving Earth. Nowhere on this world is there life, but here men might have lived and thrived, for there is beauty and peace. Later. I have found a rich vein of uranium ore. The ship's converter will serve to refine it. I can go on. When I return, I will build a cairn to prove that one man at least, was sane. Later. The landing was difficult, for the heat of the rocket blast volatilized the frozen methane under me. As I let her settle, the ship dug a pit in the glacier, and now she lies half buried in the yellowish ice. I slept and fed myself and put on a pressure suit. Outside, the cold and black sky pressed in on me, making me afraid. It is never dark here, for the planet fills the sky like a bloated yellow balloon. In the far distance, I can see a fault in the glacier, and the black rock of this moonlet shows through. I think there is silver in the rock. It streaks it like a pattern of filigree. There is little here, but the challenge of keeping alive. The cold depresses me, and the giant in the sky fills me with vertigo. I shall go on later. A giant ahead and a giant behind. The blackness of space is all around me. I grow used to it. I sleep and eat little now and weightlessness is beginning to sicken me. I have come a long way. The system ahead shows promise. Later, I landed the ship on a wide plain. Rubble is everywhere. Perhaps this was once a moraine. But even the glacier is gone now. In the light of the sun I can see the rising fault like a palisade. Some low hills and a talus flank it. Bright colors are sparkling there. I think the cliff is thick with gem deposits. Later, I do not like to leave this moonlet. It is small and friendly. The air is thin, but it makes the sky blue and not black. And that makes me think of Earth. Perhaps I should be thinking of going back. The fuel is getting low and the air in the ship is fouling. It will take a long time to reach home. Later, I will go on for a little while longer. I cannot help thinking that I will be the only one of my race to ever have seen these worlds. It is a godlike thought, but sad. At home there is nothing but hate and thoughts of killing. A great pity. The sky could be ours if we united. God have mercy on me. I have seen the face of doom. The great cratered plain that spread out below me is lined with ships. Great towering machines of war. We have waited too long. And now they have come. I am a soldier. A bad one, but still a soldier. I know the look of an invasion base when I see one. This is what I have seen. I will take pictures. I must return and warn them at home. They have so little time to prepare. Where have they come from? From the stars. They do not belong here. This tiny moonlet never gave them birth. Then whence have they come? And why, I am afraid? From the report of the UN Psychometry Evaluation Board. Careful study of the Carvel diary indicates that it is in fact authentic. Apparently, the loneliness of the protracted deep space flight shattered his mind. But his observations are in no wise to be discredited. For this reason it is highly possible that the invasion base was the culminating cause rather than the effect of Carvill's obvious psychosis. Further investigation is most definitely called for. From the statement of Representative L. Lewis, Frank, House Minority Leader, after meeting with administration officials. Unquestionably, the people must be told. From Pravda, official organ of the CP of the ussr the authenticity of the so called Carvel diary, at first doubted, has been established by Soviet experts. From the joint resolution of the General assembly of the UN the nations of Earth in general concourse assembled, do hereby proclaim a state of grave emergency and for the preservation of safety declare that the United nations shall be considered a world government with all necessary powers to command the massed armed forces of the member nations. The principle of unanimity among the major powers is indefinitely suspended. And a terrible year began with the return of Carvill's ship with its dread discovery. And people dreamed nightly of death from the skies. From the files of UNESCO fleet of 20 spacecraft under UN authority will depart from the UN moon base for Mars, there to establish a military and scientific base. Personnel will include Hanson White, astronomer Ivan Dieglishevsky, ecologist George Washington Lee, radiologist Consuelo Dias, cartographer Jules Feldman, physicist Kendo Higashi, psychologist. From the report of the first UN Martian expedition. Radar and watch stations established and garrisoned According to directive 2533. Bimonthly transportation service has been established between Kannapolis settlement and Luna. Combined efforts by UNESCO and UT armed forces personnel are being made to establish satellite stations. It is strongly urged by the project Committee that more personnel be sent to Mars. However, as a serious shortage of manpower has developed due to the feverish pace of this settlement's growth, colonization may be the answer. Nowhere have the UN patrols discovered any identifications of previous occupation by alien forces. Nothing resembling the invasion fleet discovered by Jan Carville has been located. However, the karn mentioned in the diary has been found, further supporting the authenticity of that document. Addendum in manuscript Higashi suggests that the message found in the CARN confirms the original findings of the UN Psychometry Evaluation Board concerning Jan Carvill's sanity. From the message found written in pencil on a shipping tag in the Martian cairn built by James Carvill. Welcome, my brothers. From the founding directive of the new UN Planetary Colonization and Development Committee, it is established that Mars and Europa are free of alien occupation. Colonization of the areas immediately surrounding the UN military and scientific bases on these planets immediately begun. From a statement by Delegate L. Lewis Frank, assembly minority Leader to the world. Simply because we have not yet been attacked, I stand foursquare on my record as a public servant. If I am returned to the assembly as delegate from the southwest area, I will continue to support the expanding military program. We cannot rest until all the habitable planets and satellites in the solar system are bases for our mighty cruisers. Only then can we be safe from this terror. From a memorandum written by Kei Higashi to the Psychometric Evaluation Board's subcommittee in Canalopolis, Mars. Since I have been on Titan, both Here and on IO and Europa, we have found cairns. Each time they contained the same. Welcome, my brothers. Has it occurred to any member of the board that these messages were all written after Carvill's supposed flight in panic from the place where he spotted the invasion fleet? From a memorandum to K. Hagashi, Base Psychologist, Titan Colony. From the Secretary of the Psychometric Evaluation Board Subcommittee in Canalopolis, Mars. It has. The pictures were faked too, were they not? From a memorandum to Secretary, Psychometric Evaluation Board Subcommittee, Canalopolis, Mars. From Kei Hagashi, Senior Staff Psychologist, first UN Triton Expedition. Yes, the pictures were taken on Titan. I think we found a plane there similar to the one in his prints. You'll recall that the plates were all fogged conveniently by cosmic ray radiation. A little time and touching up took care of the rest. He must have been quite a natural psychologist himself, you know, he understood that people at home would just be looking for an excuse to abandon their suicidal hysteria. What he gave them was a common enemy. Had a lot of courage, too. Must have shot up his own ship and then wrecked himself deliberately, leaving the papers and the trail of Carnes. People will hate him when they find out that he made fools of them. But I don't think they'll go back to the old life before the Terror. They will find out, of course. I suggest you break it to them back home. I'd like to be there to see it, but I'm too busy out here. We're building a staging base for the stars. I think Carvel would have liked that, don't you? The End of the Terror by Alfred Koppel.
[131:46]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
Keep out by Frederick Brown this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Record by Ryan Lohner Keep out by Frederick Brown with no more room left on Earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the red planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants. But that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered, except one of the flaws of human nature. Dapteen is the secret of it. Adaptee, they called it first. Then it got shortened to Dap Teen. It let us adapt. They explained it all to us when we were 10 years old. I guess they thought we were too young to understand before then. Although we knew a lot of it already. They told us just after we landed on Mars. Ya, home, children, the head teacher told us after we had gone into the glassite dome they'd built for us there, and he told us there'd be a special lecture for us that evening, an important one that we must all attend. And that evening he told us the whole story and the whys and wherefores. He stood up before us. He had to wear a heated spacesuit and helmet, of course, because the temperature in the dome was comfortable for us, but already freezing cold for him, and the air was already too thin for him to breathe. His voice came to us by radio from inside his helmet. Children, he said, you are home. This is Mars, the planet on which you will spend the rest of your lives. You are Martians, the first Martians. You have lived five years on earth and another five in space. Now you will spend 10 years until you are adults in this dome, although toward the end of that time you will be allowed to spend increasingly long periods outdoors. Then you will go forth and make your own homes, live your own lives as Martians. You will intermarry and your children will breed true. They too will be Martians. It is time you are told the history of this great experience experiment of which each of you is a part. Then he told us. Man, he said, had first reached Mars in 1985. It had been uninhabited by intelligent life. There is plenty of plant life and a few varieties of non flying insects, and he had found it, by terrestrial standards, uninhabitable. Man could survive on Mars only by living inside glassite domes and wearing spacesuits when he went outside of them, except by day. In the warmer seasons, it was too too cold for him. The air was too thin for him to breathe, and long exposure to sunlight, less filtered of rays, harmful to him than on Earth because of the lesser atmosphere, could kill him. The plants were chemically alien to him and he could not eat them. He had to bring all his food from Earth or grow it in hydroponic tanks. For 50 years he had tried to colonize Mars, and all his efforts had failed. Besides this dome, which had been built for us, there was only one other output outpost, another glassite dome much smaller and less than a mile away. It had looked as though mankind could never spread to the other planets of the solar system besides Earth, for of all of them, Mars was the least inhospitable. If he couldn't live here, there was no use even trying to colonize the others. And then, in 2034, 30 years ago, a brilliant biochemist named Weymouth had discovered Daptein, a miracle drug that worked not on the animal or person to whom it was given given, but on the progeny he conceived during a limited period of time after inoculation. It gave his progeny almost limitless adaptability to changing conditions, provided the changes were made gradually. Dr. Weymouth had inoculated and then mated a pair of guinea pigs. They had borne a litter of five, and by placing each member of the litter under different and gradually changing conditions, he had obtained amazing results. When they attained maturity, one of those guinea pigs was living comfortably at a temperature of 40 below zero Fahrenheit. Another was quite happy at 150 above. A third was thriving on a diet that would have been deadly poison for an ordinary animal. And a fourth was contended under a constant X ray bombardment that would have killed one of its parents within minutes. Subsequent experiments with many litters show that animals who had been adapted to similar conditions bred true and their progeny was conditioned from birth to live under those conditions ten years later. Ten years ago, the headteacher told us, you children were born born of parents carefully selected from those who volunteered for the experiment. And from birth you have been brought up under carefully controlled and gradually changing conditions. From the time you were born, the air you have breathed has been very gradually thinned and its oxygen content reduced. Your lungs have compensated by becoming much greater in capacity, which is why your chests are so much larger than those of your teachers and attendance. When you are fully mature and are breathing air like that of Mars, the difference will be even greater. Your bodies are growing fur to enable you to stand the increasing cold. You are comfortable now under conditions which would kill ordinary people quickly. Since you were 4 years old, your nurses and teachers have had to wear special protection to survive conditions that seem normal to you. In another 10 years at maturity, you will be completely acclimated to Mars. Its air will be your air, its food, plants, your your food. Its extremes of temperature will be easy for you to endure, and its median temperatures pleasant to you. Already. Because of the five years we spent in space under gradually decreased gravitational pull, the gravity of Mars seems normal to you. It will be your planet to live on and to populate. You are the children of Earth, but you are the first Martians. Of course, we had known a lot of those things already. The last year was the best. By then, the air inside the dome, except for the pressurized parts where our teachers indicate attendants live, was almost like that outside. And we were allowed out for increasingly long periods. It is good to be in the open. The last few months they relaxed segregation of the sexes, so we could begin choosing mates. Although they told us there is to be no marriage until after the final day, after our full clearance, choosing was not difficult in my case. I had made my choice long since, and I'd felt sure that she felt the same way. I was right. Tomorrow is the day of our freedom. Tomorrow we will be Martians. The Martians. Tomorrow we shall take over the planet. Some among us are impatient, have been impatient for weeks now. But wiser counsel prevailed. And we are waiting. We have waited 20 years, and we can wait until the final day. And tomorrow is the final day. Tomorrow, at a signal, we will kill the teachers and the other Earthmen among us before we go forth. They do not suspect, so it will be easy. We have dissimulated for years now, and they do not know how. How we hate them. They do not know how disgusting and hideous we find them with their ugly, misshapen bodies, so narrow shouldered and tiny chested, their weak, sibilant voices that need amplification to carry in our Martian air, and above all, their white, pasty, hairless skins. We shall kill them. And then we shall go and smash the other dome so all the Earthmen there will die too. If more Earthmen ever come to punish us, we can live and hide in the hills where they'll never find us. And if they try to build more domes here, we'll smash them. We want no more to do with Earth. This is our planet. And we want no aliens. Keep off. End of Keep Out By Frederick Brown Recording by Ryan Loner.
[138:56]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
The Mightiest man by Patrick Fay 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 PJ Vandercoy
[139:16]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
the
[139:16]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
mightiest man by Patrick Fay they caught up with him in Belgrade. The aliens had gone by then, only a few shining metal huts in the Siberian tundra, giving mute evidence that they had been anything other than a nightmare. It had seemed exactly like that, a nightmare in which all of Earth stood helpless, unable to resist or flee, while the obscene shapes slithered and flopped all over her green fields and fair cities. And the awakening had not brought the reassurance that it had all been a bad dream, that if it happened in reality, the people of Earth would have been capable of dealing with a terrible menace. It had been real, and they had been no more capable of resisting the giant intelligences than a child of killing the ogre in his favorite fairy story. It was an ironic parallel, because that was what finally saved Earth for its own people. A fairy story, the old fable of the lion and the mouse. When the lion had exhausted his atomic armor in proud science against the invincible and immortal invaders of Earth, for they could not be killed by any means, the mouse attacked and vanquished them. The mouse, the lowest form of life. The fungoids, the air of earth, swarming with millions of their spores, attacked. The monstrous bodies, grew and entwined within the gray convolutions that were their brain centers. And as the tiny thread roots probed and tightened, the aliens screamed soundlessly, the intelligences toppled and fell, and at last that few among them who retained sanity gathered their lunatic brethren and fled as they had come. If he had known the effect the fungoids would have on them, he would have told them that too. He had told them everything else when he had been snatched from a busy city street, a random specimen of humanity to be probed and investigated. They had chosen well for the payment they offered him. He was willing to barter the whole human race as far as it lay in his power. He did just that. He was not an educated man, though he was intelligent. It was child's play to them to strip his mind bare. But they had to know the intangibles too, the determined will of humanity to survive, the probabilities of the pattern of human behavior. In a situation which humanity had never before faced, he told them all he could. Gladly and willingly. He would have descended to any treachery for the vast, glittering reward they tempted him with. It wasn't easy for the Yugoslavs to guard him, and anyway, their hearts weren't in the task. His treachery, the ultimate treason, the betrayal of the whole human race, was commonly known. Inevitably, the mob got him and killed three policemen in the process. When they had sated their anger a little and the traitor had lost most of his clothes in the thumb of his right hand, they dragged him to the junction where the Danube meets the Sava and held him under the gray waters with long poles, as if he was some poisonous reptile. He lay supinely on the bed of the river and smiled evilly while a hundred thousand people writhed in neural agony. 24 hours later, the neural plague had spread to Zagreb and into Albania, as far as Tirana when it crossed to Leghorn in Italy. The Balkans held 20 million lunatics, and the Danube was an artificial lake a hundred miles wide. They had used a clean bomb, so they were able to bring a loudspeaker van to its edge and boom at him to come out. He allowed them to do that for some inscrutable reason, perhaps to demonstrate that his powers were selective. Then it seemed he got tired of the farce, and cruel fingers twined themselves into the nerve centers of the President of Italy and the Prime Minister of the Government of United Europe. He made them dance a horribly twisted pas de deux on the banks of the Danube for his perverted amusement. Then he released them and released the millions of gibbering, twitching idiots that inhabited southern Europe. And he came out of the river bed in which he had lain for 48 hours. He walked alone through the deserted streets of Belgrade until he came to the United nations building. There he told a very brave lieutenant that he was willing to stand trial any place in the world they wished. For three days nobody came to arrest him. He sat alone with the lieutenant in the People as city of Belgrade and waited for his captors. They came then, timidly reassured by his nonviolence. While he talked to them pleasantly, the citizens of London and Paris suddenly began to dance jerky and grotesque jigs on the pavement of their cities. In the same moment, the Chief justice of the Court of the nations at a cocktail party in Washington writhed in the exquisite pain of total muscle cramp. His august features twisted into a mask of abject fear. The trial itself was a legal farce. The prisoner promptly pleaded guilty to the charge of betraying mankind to an alien race. But he didn't allow them to question him. When one lawyer persisted in face of his pleasant refusals, he died suddenly in a cramped ball of screaming agony. The gray faced Chief justice inquired whether he wished to be sentenced, and he answered, yes, but not to death. They couldn't kill him, he explained. That was part of the reward the aliens had given him. The other part was that he could kill or immobilize anybody in the world or everybody from any distance. He sat back and smiled at the stricken courtroom. Then he lost his composure and his mouth twitched. He laughed uproariously and slapped his knees in ecstasy. It was plain that he was fond of a joke. An anonymous lawyer stood up and waited patiently for his merriment to subside. If this was true, he asked, why had not the aliens used this power? Why had they not simply killed off the inhabitants and taken over the vacant planet? The traitor gazed kindly at him, and a court stenographer who had cautiously picked up a pencil, returned agonizingly to her fetal position and that way died. The traitor looked at his fingers and shrugged. The thumb that had been snapped off in the mob's frenzy was more than half grown again. They needed slaves, he said simply, and that's the end. While some of them were still sane, the traitor raised his eyebrows, giving him his full, courteous attention. The lawyer sat down abruptly, his question unfinished. The creature who had betrayed his own race smiled at him and permitted him to live. He even completed his question for him and answered it. Why did they not kill then? They had something else on their minds. Fungoids. He laughed uproariously at his macabre joke, and in their minds too. The lawyer's blue eyes gazed at him steadily, and he stopped laughing. In the bated hush of the courtroom, he said softly, what a pity I'm not an alien too. You could have the fungoids destroy me. He laughed again helplessly, the tears running down his cheeks. The Chief justice adjourned the court then, and the prisoner sauntered to his comfortable quarters in front of the frightened guards. That night, in his own living room, the Chief justice danced an agonized fandango in front of his horror stricken wife, and the anonymous lawyer sat in his apartment staring at the blank wall. He was glad the aliens had not made their traitor telepathic too. He had found the chink in his armor, the neural paralysis. The murders by remote control were acts of a conscious will. He had himself admitted that if his mind were destroyed, his powers would be destroyed with it. The aliens had not sought revenge because their minds were totally occupied with saving themselves. The stricken ones had simply lost the power. The knowledge was useless to him. There was no way they could attack his mind without his knowing it. Possibly they could steal away his consciousness by drugging or bludgeoning, but it would be racial suicide to attempt it. In the split moment of realization, he would kill every human being on earth. There would be nobody left to operate on his brain to make him a mindless, powerless idiot for the rest of time. For any period of time, he corrected himself, his brain would heal again. It was useless to think about it. There was nothing they could use against his invincibility. The only hope was to attack him unawares. And if that hope was a fraction less than a certainty, it could only mean final and absolute catastrophe. The lawyer looked at his watch. It was four in the morning. He went into the kitchenette and then shrugged himself into his coat. He walked through the silent streets, past the city hospital where the Chief justice lay in agony while the motor impulses from his nerve centers ran wrenched and twisted his body. He entered the foyer of the luxury hotel where the race betrayer was held prisoner and took the elevator to the sixth floor. Two sleepy guards jerked erect outside the unlocked door. He put his finger to his lips, enjoining them to silence. Then he entered the room and stood for a moment over the man who was invincible and immortal and human. Human and subject to the involuntary unconsciousness which nature demands from all men. He slept. The eyelids fluttered. The lawyer took the steel meat skewer from his pocket. He thrust it through a half opened eye and rotated it methodically reducing the soft brain to formless mush. After that, the trial proceeded normally. The prisoner stared vacantly in front of him and all of his movements had to be directed. But he was alive and his thumb was full grown again. It was the lawyer that noticed this and pointed out the implications. The thumb had grown to full size in less than six weeks. They must regard that as their maximum period of immunity. They ruminated over it for another four days. The question was a tricky one, for malignant immortality was beyond human solution. It was not just a matter of dealing up punishment. The problem now was the protection of the race from sudden annihilation. An insolvable problem, but one that must be solved. They could only do their best. He was sentenced to life imprisonment with a special feature. It was decided that he should be guillotined once a month as long as he lived. End of the Mightiest man by Patrick Fay Recording by PJ Vandercoy.
[150:59]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Egocentric Orbit by John Corey this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org it took a long time for human beings to accept that our little piece of meteoric rubble wasn't the exact and absolute state center of the universe. It does appear that way, doesn't it? It may not take so long for a spaceman to learn. Near the end of his 15th orbit, as Greenland slipped by noiselessly below, he made the routine measurements that tested the operation of his space capsule and checked the automatic instrument instruments which would transmit their stored data to Earth on his next passover control everything normal. All mechanical devices were operating perfectly. This information didn't surprise him. In fact, he really didn't even think about it. The previous orbits and the long simulated flights on Earth during training had made such checks routine and perfect results expected. The capsules were developed by exhaustive testing both on the ground and as empty satellites, before entrusting them to carry animals. And then the first human. He returned to contemplation of the panorama passing below and above Although, as he noted idly above and below had lost some of their usual meaning, since his capsule, like all heavenly bodies, was stable in position with respect to the entire universe, and thanks to Sir Isaac Newton and his laws never changed. The Earth and the stars alternated over his head during each orbit. Up now meant whatever was in the direction of his head. He remembered that even during his initial orbit, when the Earth first appeared overhead, he accepted the fact as normal. He wondered if the other two had accepted it as easily. For there had been two men hurled into orbit before he ventured into space. Two others who had also passed the rigorous three year training period and were selected on the basis of overall performance to precede him. He had known them both well and wondered again what had happened on their flights. Of course they had both returned. Depending upon what your definition of return was, the capsules in which they had ventured beyond Earth had returned them living. But this was to be expected, for even the considerable hazards of descent, descent through the atmosphere and the terrible heating which occurred were successfully surmounted by the capsule. Naturally, it had not been expected that the satellites would have to be brought down by command from the ground. But this too was part of the careful planning. Radio control of the retrorockets that moved the satellite out of orbit by reducing its velocity. Of course, ground control was to be used only if the astronaut failed to ignite the retrorockets himself. He remembered everyone's surprise and relief when the first capsule was recovered and its occupant found to be alive. They had assumed that in spite of all precautions, he was dead because he had not fired the rocket on the 15th orbit and it was necessary to bring him down on the 65th. Recovery alive, only partially solved the mystery for the rescuers and all others were met by a haughty stony silence from the occupant. Batteries of tests confirmed an early diagnosis, complete and utter withdrawal, absolute refusal to communicate. Therapy was unsafe. Successful. The second attempt was similar in most respects, except that command return was made on the 31st orbit after the astronauts failure to deorbit at the end of the 30th. His incoherent babble of moons, stars and worlds was no more helpful than the first. Test after test confirmed that no obvious organic damage had been incurred by exposure outside of the Earth's protective atmosphere. Biopsy of even selected brain tissue seemed to show that microscopic cellular changes due to the prolonged weightlessness or primary cosmic ray bombardment which had been suggested by some authorities were unimportant. Somewhat reluctantly, it was decided to repeat the experiment. A third time the launching was uneventful. He was sent into space with the precision he expected. The experience was exhilarating, and although he had anticipated each event in advance, he could not possibly have foreseen the overpowering feeling that came over him. Weightlessness he had experienced for brief periods during training, but nothing could match the a heady impression of continuous freedom from gravity. Earth passing overhead was also to be expected from the simple laws of celestial mechanics. But his feeling as he watched it now, was inexpressible. It occurred to him that perhaps this was indeed why he was there, because he could appreciate such experiences best. He had been told the stars would be bright, unblinking, and an infinitude in extent. But could mere descriptions or photographs convey the true seeing? On his 21st orbit he completed his overseeing the entire surface of the planet in daylight. He had seen more of Earth than anyone able to tell about it, but only he had the true feature feeling of it. The continents were clearly visible, as were the oceans and both polar ice caps. The shapes were familiar, but in only a remote way. A vague distinctness born of distance served to modify the outlines, and he alone was seeing and understanding. On the dark side of the planet, large cities were marked by indistinct light, areas which paled to insignificance compared to the stars and his sun. He speculated about the others who had only briefly experienced these sights. Undoubtedly they weren't as capable of fully grasping or appreciating any of these things as he was. It was quite clear that no one else but he could encompass the towering fear, feeling of power and importance generated by being alone in the universe. At the end of the 25th orbit, he disabled the radio control of the retrorockets and sat back with satisfaction to await the next circuit of his Earth around him. End of Egocentric Orbit by John Corey Read by D. Searles.
[158:58]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Reaching for the Moon by SA Lambino 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 it was no longer a question of theory, but of money. Man could reach the moon if Saunders could persuade someone to finance him. Reaching for the Moon by S.A. lombino the laboratory was brightly lit, and four men in business suits surrounded a large table. They stared down at the blueprints on the table, some scratching their heads, others rubbing their chins in spite of speculation. A thin man in gray tweeds eyed them cautiously, his breath coming in short, anxious rushes the big man at the head of the table adjusted his eyeglasses. His hand lingered on the rim for a second. Then he cleared his throat. And it won't work, Dr. Saunders. The little man in gray tweeds darted impatient eyes at the man who had just spoken. Spoken? Why won't it work? Why not? It can't be done, the big man stated simply. Maybe some time in the future, but certainly not now. Saunders stretched a bony hand out from the cuff of his tweeds. It can be done, he said, slapping that hand on the table. It's all here. You've just seen it. You've studied it. Damn it. This isn't a fly by night affair. I've worked on these plans for more than eight years. I know it will work. A man in blue serge shrugged. And I'm afraid Bragg is right, Dr. Sanders. He tugged at his collar, the fat hanging in loose folds around his neck. Saunders turned to eye the newcomer. You agree, he said defiantly. Even after studying my work, you agree that my proposed rocket can't possibly reach the moon? It might, the man in the blue serge admitted. But we can't speculate on a thing of this nature. After all, Dr. Saunders, there'll be money involved. And money. Sanders snorted in disgust. Is that all you're worried about? You're one of the richest men on earth, Mr. Peterson. How can you let money stand in the way of what may well be man's greatest achievement? Bragg spoke again, peering from behind the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. Peterson is right. This thing would cost millions more than any of us would be willing to risk. We appreciate your considering us, but. Sanders cut in sharply. Does that go for all of you? Is Mr. Bragg speaking for all of you? A heavy silence crowded into the room. Saunders confronted Peterson again. He speaks for me, peterson said. And you, Mr. Thorpe? Saunders asked. Yes, yes, I'm inclined to agree. A balding man in Glenn Plaid announced. Mr. Slade. Saunders turned to a weasel like man dressed in solemn black. Slade nodded, his face chalky white against the black of his garb. I've asked you four men because you were probably the richest men on Earth. I've asked you because I thought perhaps you would see the significance of. Of such a project. To reach the moon? Saunders eyes gleamed with an intense light. To reach the moon. And when we reach it? Peterson asked. Then what? Unlimited space, saunders answered with feeling. New worlds. Worlds beyond the imagination of man. The moon is only the first step, the experimental step. From there, Mars or Venus or a new solar system, bragg said. Rubbish. Even if this should work. I'm not at all convinced it will. But even if it should, what's on the Moon for us? Bare crags and lonely craters? Cold, bleak atmosphere? Nothing. Nothing that would bring in money. True, saunders said. But look at Copernicus and Galileo. Look at Pasteur and Edison and Curie. Look at. Oh, I could go on all night. What these men contributed to mankind could never be measured in terms of gold or silver. Can't you see that? Who wants to go to the Moon, anyway? Thorpe asked, passing a hand over his bald head. We've got troubles of our own right here on Earth. Plenty to settle right here, man. Plenty. In a little while. Perhaps sometime in the future. 20, 25 years. But now? Unthinkable. We've been saying that too long, sanders snapped. Now is the time. Not 20 or 25 years from now, but right now. Science has given us the means. It's up to us to take the opportunity and use. Couldn't be done profitably, peterson said dryly. Profitably, saunders said bitterly. Are your wars profitable? He suddenly shouted, bringing his bony fist crashing to the tabletop. Lets not get violent, slade said. It was the first thing he'd said all night. Saunders somehow had a feeling that a corpse had spoken. Exactly, he said. Let's not get violent. Let's spend some of the money that's been buying munitions and lives. Instead of raising cities to the ground. Let's go up to the skies. We'll spend that money for a project that's worthwhile. For once, forget the profit and think of the meaning to mankind. He paused, and his voice grew lower. We've been ravaged by too many wars, gentlemen. Can't we stop this useless butchery and devote our time and energy to something constructive? Can't we? I know my rocket will work. It's scientifically sound. I know, too, that I can get a crew of scientists and technicians to take it to the moon and back. All I need is the money and a little time. Just a little time. There's a war going on, Saunders, Bragg reminded him. He had lit a cigar with a gold lighter and was sitting now, puffing leisurely, blowing smoke at the ceiling. I know, saunders said. Two wars in the past 30 years, and now another one. But consider this a a trip to the moon would probably end all hostilities on Earth. It would probably unify this planet as no other force has ever done. It will galvanize humanity to constructive action. It will open new vistas that cannot possibly admit plans for war. Peterson yawned openly. Um, I must say, you're an idealist, Saunders. I doubt very much if anything short of a trip to the sun would unite the people of Earth. He chuckled a little at this and looked to the others for approval. That's right, brag agreed. There'll always be wars, Saunders. The Earth is overpopulated. Always will be more reason to find new worlds, saunders said tiredly. The only solution is war, bragg insisted. Survival of the fittest. Forget your crazy ideas about new worlds. There's plenty of room right here for the people who win. And suppose we lose this time? Saunders asked. We'll never lose, said Bragg with certainty. Slade smiled a thin, wry smile. Exactly, Bragg, he said. As for me, whenever people are ready for a fight, I'll be ready to supply them with the goods they'll need. In the meantime, the moon can wait for a year, maybe two, saunders pleaded. And the universe will be open to us. Think of it. Think of it again. His eyes lit with intense ardor. You think of it, brag said. I'm going home. The other men nodded and began bustling into their overcoats. Saunders stood by helplessly, feeling his last ounce of strength seep from his body. Nice of you to think of us, thorpe said cheerily. Business is business, though. Yes, said Sanders quietly. If you can figure out a way to put a warhead on that rocket of yours, slade suggested. Not a bad idea, bragg admitted. Well, Saunders, peterson said, we've got to be running. No hard feelings, of course. In fact, I wish you lots of luck. He chuckled again and opened the door. Good night. The rest of the men filed out after him, nodding their farewells. Saunders watched them through the window of his laboratory, watched chauffeurs opening the doors to long limousines, watched tail lights disappear into the blackness of the night, little red pinpoints emphasizing his failure. He walked back to the table and sat, cradling his head in his arms, leaning on the blueprints of his ship. All I needed was money, he thought. Money and a little time. A year or two at the most. A year or two. Slowly he rose and brushed a thin hand over his wet eyes. There was work to be done, and tomorrow was another day. He walked to the door leading to his inner laboratory and paused. It was past midnight, and being a punctilious person, Saunders ripped the day's page from the calendar, exposing the new day to view. The day was September 21, the year 3951. He snapped off the lights and stepped quickly into the other room. The End of Reaching for the Moon by S.A. lombino.
[170:49]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
And all the Girls were Nude by Richard Magruder 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 quartertone and all the Girls Were Nude by Richard Magruder Appearances oftentimes can be deceiving, and things most certainly aren't always as they seem. Take the case of Nathaniel Evergood, for instance. The nature of this old man was such that nobody ever called him Nat, not even his closest working companions in the company's bookkeeping department. As long as any of them had ever known Nathaniel Evergood, there had never been the slightest indication of any desire for his intimacy or even friendship. Not once had he shared a drink or lunch or relaxed conversation with anyone so far as his associates knew. To say Nathaniel was reserved is putting it mildly. It would be more accurate to describe this little old man as dull completely and absolutely dull in his appearance, his dress, his speech, in every way imaginable. But in addition to being quite dull, as everyone knew, Nathaniel Evergood was also a thoroughly evil and obscene old man, as no one knew. Likely the main reason no one had ever seen the inside of Nathanael's rooms was the fear within him that his evilness and obscenity might be discovered. For Nathaniel Evergood might be called a connoisseur. To slightly distort the meaning of that word, he could be called a connoisseur of femininity from afar and in secret, a course, an arbiter of the well turned thigh, the rounded dimpled bottom, the tight waist and the high firm bosom. Oh, Nathaniel Evergood was a connoisseur all right. At the investigation he ventured a very rough but conservative guess that he had collected at least 50,000 pictures of girls in whole or in part, horizontal or vertical, semi nude or nude. Over the years. Upon entering his living room, if that were possible, the first thing a casual observer would have noted would be the point of saturation reached by his walls in their photographic content. There were photographs of blondes and brunettes and red heads. There were pictures of thin girls, fat girls, girls with ample bosoms, and girls lacking girls holding telephones, books and ice cream cones. Girls 16, girls 25, and girls no longer girls. There were shots in glorious color by the hundreds, originals and prints alike, but there wasn't among them one single view of the Grand Canyon, nor even a solitary Indian astride a tired horse looking pensively out over the prairie. There was a red skinned maiden, mind you, but she wasn't sitting on a horse.
[173:47]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Horse.
[173:48]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
And she certainly wasn't staring laconically out over any prairie either. Rather, she appeared to be testing with her toe the water temperature of a tree shaded brook somewhere. And she was clad in a lone strategically located feather. On the tea table, in the bookshelves, in the magazine racks and all throughout his rooms one might find other evidence of this evil and obscene old man's preoccupation with womankind mind. But the kind of woman he was preoccupied with often wasn't the kind that married dear old dad. He subscribed to every girlie publication in the country and to several in France. So you see, Nathaniel Evergood was not only a connoisseur, he was also an avid collector. There were books and there were magazines and there was even a deck of playing cards backed with the most astounding set of pictures you ever saw. That anyone could sit down to a game of old Maid or snap with that deck of cards is inconceivable to say the least. But such an evil and obscene old man as Nathaniel Evergood likely never played games with his cards anyway. He would much prefer to just sit and look at them. The reverse side. Of course, he later said he probably spent almost half his really quite meager earnings for up to date additions to his extension extensive collection. The girlie magazines, playing cards and prints he received from various mail order houses sent as the advertisements testified in a plain unmarked envelope. But the other half of his collection, the photographs mounted unmounted mat and glossy enlargements and contact prints. Nathaniel Evergood came by in an entirely different and somewhat novel manner. These resulted from his ability as a fairly advanced amateur photographer. Over the years Nathaniel had acquired three fine cameras, an excellent enlarger, two contact printers, electronic flash units, interchangeable lenses, filters, sunshades and lens caps, extension tubes and tripods. In short, Nathaniel Evergood was well equipped to take photographs of just about everything. He had the equipment and he had the necessary technical knowledge and facility. But invariably he passed up the usual pictorial, architectural, human interest, interpretive and abstract photographs, even when the opportunities for truly fine shots were there. Instead, he took roll after roll, pack after pack and cartridge upon cartridge of girls. Nothing but girls. All sorts of girls. Just girls. At the investigation Nathaniel suggested that the presence of a camera introduced on the scene in a gentlemanly and courteous manner was enough to cause almost frenzied unlocking and unzipping by even the most demure and prudish female ladies, Nathaniel said wisely, love to have their bodies recorded for posterity. Oh, he was certainly a very evil and highly obscene old man was Nathaniel Evergood, if ever you saw one. But the full import of what his evil old soul and obscene little mind contained would probably escape the casual observer unless he happened onto a tiny cubbyhole at the back of the rooms occupied by Nathanael. This was the sanctum sanctorum, so to speak, of. Of his thin little heart. For here, Nathaniel Evergood guarded jealously a secret utterly beyond belief. He fancied himself to be something of an inventor, and he was too, of a sort. His ardent and relentless pursuit of photographic subject matter during the years had led him into situations demanding full knowledge of his craft from a technical rather than from an artistic point of view. Thus, this inventive turn of mind was given an able assist by his understanding of the theory, optics and chemistry of photography. And now he was just putting the finishing touches to the most important project in his entire life. Basing his plan of action on the simple optical theory of astigmatism, Nathaniel designed a lens. Astigmatism, he had learned results in the human eye as well as in manufactured lenses of certain formulae in the failure of horizontal and vertical target lines to reach a common focus. So his lens was designed intentionally astigmatic, allowing focus to be brought on one group of target lines or another, but never on both simultaneously. To the front of the lens mount he added a front surface prism and a filter, carefully ground and tinted internally the precise color complement of human flesh. He reasoned, quite accurately as it turned out, that the prism would gather all the colours of light together and converge them at the focal plane of the lens as pure white, thus eliminating all colour. But at the same instant, the complement filter replaced last the flesh colour of the object focused upon and subsequently recorded on film. Then, in one fell swoop, the lens allowed Nathaniel to focus, focused carefully on one group of target lines, in his case, the female form underneath its covering, automatically throwing an opposing group of lines out of focus, the covering over the female body. In his case, the prism was busily gathering together all color and converting it into pure white light. While lastly, the complementary filter replaced the color of flesh to the image and finally to the photograph. You see the possibilities, of course. Course, by replacing the normal lens of one fine camera with his invention, Nathaniel Evergood was now equipped to photograph in rich natural color the female form, divine, unfettered by any or all clothing. Well, this day in particular, Nathaniel Evergood stationed himself poised like a pointer at his window, camera in hand, invention in place, waiting impatiently for the first likely subject to appear. And shameful as it must seem, this evil and obscene old man was quite noticeably drooling right from one side of his pinched little mouth. He heard the saucy click of her heels on the pavement a full 30 seconds before she swung gracefully into his myopic line of sight. She was blondish. Not too blond, understand, but just blond enough. And she was a true blue blond at heart, if you know what I mean. Shutter set at 1200th of a second. Diaphragm F 5.6 film. Real life color rangefinder superimposed.
[180:29]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
Click, click, click, click.
[180:32]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Four shots. Four beautiful pictures in color too. Before she was gone on down the street with incredible speed, this evil and obscene old man descended from his window purse perch and scuttered back to his little cubbyhole. He darkened the room and unloaded the automatic sheet film holder. No attempt can be made to describe the gnawing impatience that Nathaniel Evergood felt as he sloshed the sensitized emulsions through the series of solutions for the precise time required for true color rendition. As after 90 long minutes he washed the sheets and finally held them up to the light for a first wide eyed look. She was there all right, his swaying blonde. She was there. All of her. Well, sir, after filling his eyes and his evil little mind with the four lovely images of the girl, Nathaniel Evergood rushed to the downtown camera shop and wrote out a large check for their entire supply of real life color film. Then back on the street, madly clicking, clicking, clicking every pretty girl that came along. Every single one. Oh, he had a time for himself, did this evil, obscene old man. The next day was Sunday, happily for his designing brain, and there was no work. After a full night in his cubbyhole developing sheet after sheet of colour film, Nathaniel went to the beach and as you must know by now, set his camera shutter clicking like a miniature machine gun. And again. The results were spectacular, to put it mildly. The collection grew and grew and grew, and Nathaniel Evergood was never wearier or never happier. What an evil, obscene man he was. Now, if Nathaniel had stuck to his camera and to his wonderful invention, this story might never have been written. But evil and obscene as he was, he soon began to dream of new worlds to conquer. Simple as it had been to apply the principle of astigmatism to photography. And with such marvellous results, why not apply this same principle to his eyeglasses? This would eliminate the annoying delay of taking pictures, then developing and viewing them, to say nothing of the terrific expense involved. Usually when writers say no sooner said than done, it is often a gross exaggeration, but Nathaniel was quick about it. Nevertheless, in short order, the problem of focus, image distortion and aberrations were ironed out, and Nathaniel ventured once again out into the streets to give his newest brainchild its dry run, so to speak. The glasses worked all right. They worked just fine. And Nathaniel Evergood, in a leering ecstasy to see, raced up and down the streets, peering with his watery and overworked eyes this way and that, up and down, all around and back again. For the next day or so, Nathaniel was busy as a bee, attending every beauty contest and fashion show in town, and even found time for a quick run out to the girls school. The third day, following the initial test of his new seeing eye glasses, Nathaniel suddenly observed there were an uncommon lot of nicely constructed young ladies right in his own department at the office. An opportunist if ever there was one, Nathaniel thought it just might be fun to give the remarkable spectacles a chance to separate the women from the girls and the girls from the children. This he did, and although his work suffered, he spent the better part of the day classifying the office help in various categories and learning there were at least two. Two ladies who fell in no classification whatsoever. It was the nicest day he had spent at the office in quite some time, he decided. Not long after that, the strain brought on by the frequent changes from his normal reading glasses to the prism spectacles became so intense that he decided there was really no good reason why he shouldn't just wear them, the new ones, of course, all the time, the better to preserve his vision and the better to pursue his avocation. So he did. And therein lay the downfall of Nathaniel Evergood. For, you see, the climax of our story comes a month later, on a sunny July day when Nathaniel made his decision to take a short stroll among the midday lady shoppers downtown. Understand, with those glasses of his, Nathaniel had become so accustomed to seeing his fellow creatures, au naturel, as it were, that it was on the verge of becoming almost commonplace. But evil and obscene as he was, it was still highly diverting. Yet at any rate, on this particular day, Nathaniel had made his way no more than a couple of hundred feet from his front door when a heavy hand was clamped on his shoulder and a rough voice growled, where do you think you're going, you scrawny old buzzard? You ought to know better. Nathaniel Evergood spun about, suddenly petrified. The uniform, of course, was invisible, and the man was no raving beauty. He'd have said, but there was no mistaking the ugly gun and the shiny badge and the authoritative tone of voice. I beg your pardon, Nathaniel sputtered indignantly.
[185:52]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Just what is the meaning of this ridiculous outrage?
[185:56]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
The beefy Irish copy was even more indignant, though. Now just look at yourself. I've seen absent minded old timers parading down the street with no shoes on or even no pants on, but just look at yourself.
[186:09]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Not a stitch on.
[186:11]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Nathaniel Evergood looked down at himself in sudden horrified realization and looked back up as quickly. But. But. He began.
[186:20]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Everybody else.
[186:22]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
But then of course, you he had to stop. Well, the upshot of it all was that the officer hauled him back into his rooms to get some clothes on before carting him down to the station house. As it was before they entered the apartment, Nathaniel stood to get 10 days probation or a token fine for forgetting all his clothes, Irish cops being ordinarily an understanding lot. But when confronted by the staggering array of unclad femininity, this Irishman flushed a deep red, spewed an amazing Irish blasphemy, and then roared like a lion. And don't think the officer didn't check the evidence carefully with the proper degree of loathing, of course, before shoving Nathaniel unceremoniously down the street to call the paddy wagon. Of a certainty things went much worse for the evil, obscene Nathaniel Evergood than they might have, had not this righteously outraged plain policeman done his duty as he saw it. Matter of fact, they threw the book at the old boy, but not until a thorough investigation was made and not until several hundred outraged members of every morals, anti delinquency and anti vice committee in town had carefully checked and gasped all over the collected evidence. Never in the history of the city had there been such a hue and cry aroused for the punishment of an offense offender. So Nathaniel Evergood, evil and obscene as ever, got five years for possession of pornography, indecent exposure and other charges. In the words of the presiding jurist at the climax of the spectacular, such a sentence is far too lenient a punishment for a crime of such enormity. And to this very day there rests in the files of the local constabulary the voluminous collection of Nathaniel Evergood, occupying 14 huge well worn cabinets and always on display for the indignant and affronted eyes of any anti sin committee man who wishes to examine it. Also taken as evidence was Nathaniel's wonderful prismatic lens and his marvelous glasses. Anytime you're by the station house, drop into the chief's office and there in the open cabinet opposite his desk you can see the venal objects now, though the lenses are pretty scratched and worn, but they're still the same two inventions of that ingenious but evil and obscene old man, Nathaniel Evergood, number 504-9870 and not that it makes much difference, since the case is long past and closed, but it might be interesting to point out that the Chief is often seen at beauty contests, in fashion shows, wearing thick lensed glasses, which, he explains, the optometrist prescribed for his failing sight. And I don't know if it's true or not, but they say the Chief is also the biggest customer the local camera shops have for a certain product called Real Life Color Film. Not that it makes much difference. Now Nathaniel Evergood is serving his sentence out evil and obscene as ever, and the case seems is long past and closed. End of and all the Girls were Nude.
[189:38]
Jake Stauch (Cervel Commercial) / Narrator (Third Planet)
Third Planet by Murray Leinster 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 John D. Parker Third Planet by Murray Leinster the aliens had lost their lives to nuclear war, but their loss might be the salvation of Earth One. It was, as usual, a decision on which the question of peace or atomic war depended. The Council of the Western Defense alliance, as usual, had made the decision, and as usual, the WDA coordinator had to tell the COM ambassador that the COMs had won again. The WDA would not risk atomic war over a 30 mile shift of a national border in Southeast Asia. Perhaps, said the Comm ambassador politely, it will be easier for you personally if I admit that our intelligence service has reported the decision of your Council. He paused and added in detail. The coordinator asked wearily, how much detail? First, said the ambassador, you are to insist that no decision has been reached. You are to play for time. If I do not agree, you are to offer to compromise. If I do not agree, you are to accept the settlement we suggested, but you are to ask urgently for time in which to remove the citizens we might fill ought to be shot. This is not an absolute condition, but you are to use every possible means to persuade me to grant it. The coordinator ground his teeth. But the Council wouldn't go to war for a few thousand citizens of an Asiatic country who would probably be killed in the war anyhow. There would be millions killed in Western countries if the war did come. I have much respect for you, said the ambassador politely. So I agree to three days of delay during which you may evacuate Disloyal citizens by helicopter. On the fourth day our troops will move up to the new border. It would be unfortunate if there were clashes on the way. We can't get them out of there in three days, protested the coordinator. It's impossible. We haven't enough copters with warning to flee, said the ambassador. Many can reach the new border on foot. The coordinator ground his teeth again. That would be a public disgrace, and not the first one for the WDA for not protecting its friends. But the public in the Western nations did not want war. It would not allow its governments to fight over trivial matters. Its alliance could not make threats. On the other hand, the public in the com nations had no opinions. Its governments had not decreed the comm nations could threaten. They could even carry out threats, though made for trivialities. So the WDA found itself yielding upon one point after another. Eventually it would fight and fight bravely, but too late, the coordinator said heavily. You will excuse me, Mr. Ambassador. I have to see about getting as many copters as possible to Southeast Asia. Some hundreds of light years away, the survey ship Lotus floated in space a discrete number of millions of miles from the local sun. It was on a strictly scientific mission, so it would not be subject to calm suspicion of having undesirable political intentions. At least they hadn't demanded to have an observer on board. Calm intelligence reports were notoriously sound, however, and possibly spies had assured their employers that the Lotus mission was bona fide. Her errand was the mapping and first examination of a series of Sol type solar systems. This was the ninth such system on the list, the third planet out from the sun. Here, lay off to starboard. It was near enough to have a visible disk to the naked eye, and moderate magnification showed ice caps and permanent surface markings that could be seas and continents. As was to be expected, it was very much like a more familiar third planet outearth. The skipper gave Nolan the job of remote inspection while the gross examination of the system went on. Nolan had a knack for such work, and much of it, naturally, fell to him. Ok, he said resignedly. Another day, another world. My private nightmare, said the skipper with humor, is bug eyed monsters. Try not to find him here, Nolan, eh? He'd said that eight times before. On this voyage, nolan said, my private nightmare is getting home and finding out that while we've been finding new worlds for men to live on, they've started a war and made Earth a place to die on. Try to arrange that it doesn't happen before we get home, eh? He'd said that eight times before on this voyage too. I wish us both luck, Nolan, said the skipper, but that ball out yonder looks plausible as a nest for bug eyed monsters. He shook his head and went out. He was still being humorous. Nolan set up his instruments and went to work. As he worked, he tried to thrust away the thoughts that came to everybody on Earth every day. They were as haunting some light centuries from Earth as back at home. There was the base that comms were building on the moon. The WDA had an observatory there, but the comms were believed to be mounting many more rockets than telescopes. And there was the unsatisfying agreement made between the coms and WDA just before the Lotus took off. Each promised solemnly to notify the other of all space takeoffs before they happened. The idea was to prevent a mistake by which a Pearl harbor style attack might be inferred when it wasn't really happening. The fact that it could be prepared against was evidence of the kind of tension back on Earth. But the Lotus was far from home. She lay some 70 odd millions of miles out from the Sol type star Fanwell Alpha, whose third planet Nolan was to look over. He sent off a distance pulse and took angular measurements of the planet's disk. The ratio of polar to equatorial diameters was informative. The polar flattening said that the day lasted about 30 hours, almost like Earth's. The equatorial diameter of 8,200 miles was much like Earth's. The inclination of the axis of rotation indicated seasons not exaggerated, but much like the seasons on the third planet of Sol. The size of the ice caps indicated the overall planetary temperature. There were clouds. In fact there was a cloud mass in the southern hemisphere that looked just like an earthly tropic storm undergoing the usual changes as it went away from the equator. This was very much like Earth. And the dark masses which were seas. Nolan frowned. Those mud colored patches were water. Undoubtedly a narrow band light filter proved it. But the areas which were neither sea nor cloud mass. There were three levels of brightness to be seen on the disk outside the polar areas. One was sea bottom, one was cloud, the other. Nolan fretted a little. There was something wrong. The solid ground surface of the planet was too light in color. It was such items that a person with a knack for it would notice sooner than a man without the knack. Vegetation should be more nearly midway between sea bottom and cloud mass in color. Nolan fitted the chlorophyll filter on the planet of a Sol type sun. Vegetation had to use chlorophyll or Else. Through this filter the clouds would show. Of course they were white and reflected all colors of light, but no color that chlorophyll didn't reflect could pass through the filter. The cloud masses showed clearly. Nothing else appeared. The filters would have shown vegetation. It didn't. It said there wasn't any. Nolan stepped up to magnification. He saw other things. He didn't like them. He got some maximum magnification pictures and interpreted them with increasing grimness. He went to make his report just as the system constants began to reach the skipper. The local Sun's mass was 1.3 sols. The solar rotation period was 34 days. There were sunspots of perfectly familiar kinds. The lauriac laws about the size and distribution of planets in a Sol type system were borne out. One was small and its sunward side was probably at a low red heat. This was like Mercury. Planet two, like its analog Venus in the home system, would be resolutely unoccupiable by man. Planet 4, analogous to Mars, was smaller than 3 and had a very thin atmosphere. There were gas giants in orbit 6 and 7, then a novelty. Lauriac's laws predicted things about fifth planets too. But they'd never been verified. Because fifth planets were unstable, they blew up only fragments. Asteroids had so far been noted where fifth planets of Sol type suns ought to be. But there was a fifth planet here, rolling magnificently through emptiness. It matched the lauriac predictions. It had an atmosphere which should contain oxygen. It was the first Sol system fifth planet ever observed. There was a babble in the skipper's office as the discoverers of the fifth plan planet told him about it. Nolan said curtly, I've something more urgent to report. Planet 3 ought to be like Earth. It was. It isn't any longer. It's dead. Nobody paid attention. There was a fifth planet. It was unparalleled. All the theories about the absence of fifth planets could now be checked. I'm telling you, said Nolan sharply, that the third planet's dead. It was alive and something happened to it. It has seas and clouds and ice caps and they're water. But its land surface is pure desert. Where life can exist, it does always. Life did exist here. Now it doesn't. He turned to the skipper. Maybe bug eyed monsters killed it. Skipper. It looks to me like murder. Then they stared at him. He spread out his pictures. He pointed out this item and that. They were conclusive. Nobody else might have realized the facts behind them quite so soon. But when put together, they fitted. Familiar, eh? Asked Nolan sardonically. You recognize the pictures? Like them before, they weren't made with cameras like these, but artists drew them from descriptions of what would happen here. It's happened. I think, he added, looking at the skipper, that this is more important than fifth planets. I think we'd better go over and get what information we can and take it home. Death like this implies life a lot like men. If non human creatures can do something as human as this, we'd better get the word back home so something can be done to get ready before we find them or they find us. The skipper went carefully over the pictures. On one he put his finger on a feature Nolan hadn't mentioned. He seemed to wince. I think you win, Nolan, he said painfully. We'll send a drone down. I doubt we can land, but this ought to be checked immediately. Maybe I should add inconspicuously. Confidentially, said the comm ambassador to the coordinator of the wda, confidentially, I agree that it is a trivial matter, but we are a new nation. Our people lack perspective. They rejoice in the strength and vigor of the nation of which which they are citizens. They will not allow that nation to display what they consider weakness in any matter. One has to allow for a certain exuberance in the people of a nation newly freed from the tyranny of capitalists and warmongers such as still enslave the people of your countries. We cannot yield in this matter, the coordinator said, to be confidential in my turn. We both know that what you just said simply isn't true. Your government decides what its public shall think. It makes sure they don't think anything it doesn't want them to. The common ambassador shrugged his shoulders. He was very polite. He did not even pretend to resent being called a liar. Now my country intends to move forward in this matter in 10 days, he observed, and it would be deplorable if our soldiers were fired on two. It turned out that it wouldn't have mattered if the Lotus had sent screaming notifications of its presence throughout all nearby space. There were detectors out, of course, but they reported absolutely nothing. As the Lotus moved on toward Planet Three, there was static from storms upon the planet. It grew louder as the survey ship approached, but there was no sign of anything alive. The lotus cruised some 200 miles above seas and cloud masses and deserted photographing as she followed a search pattern that covered all the sunlit hemisphere. There were mountains in the tropics which by all the rules of meteorology, should have had rainforest at their feet. They didn't There was a river system which ran like the Nile for a thousand miles or more through deserts like those of Egypt. There should have been at least a ribbon of vegetation along its banks. There wasn't. Where it reached the sea was an enormous delta. A drone went down and reported temperatures and humidity and the composition of the atmosphere and the radiation background count. One would have thought the records those of Earth. The background count was a trifle high, 3.9 instead of 3.6, but there was 18% of oxygen in the atmosphere. The only oddity there was nearly a full percent of helium. When the drone came up, it brought samples of soil and seawater. There was no life in either. The soil was mostly mineral dust, but an electron microscope disclosed abraded fractions of pollen grains and the like. The seawater sample had evidently been picked up by the drone's dredge from some shallow there were tiny siliceous cells in it. Plankton. They had been alive but were so no longer. I think, said Nolan, that I make a landing. Right, the skipper said crossly. Yes, you're the best man for it. You notice things, but I doubt you'll learn very much. He tapped the written report that the radiation background count was 3.9. It happened a long time ago. A long, long time ago. Then, he said, with a totally unsuccessful attempt at humor, try and find out that it was bug eyed. Monsters, eh? It looks too much like Earth. I'd rather blame monsters than men, nolan growled and went to prepare for the landing. Two other men would go with him, of course. The lotus wouldn't descend. It cost fuel to make landings. Unless there was some remarkable specimen that a drone couldn't handle. The ship would stay aloft. So a drone took three of them down to the ground, a second drone following with equipment. They had weapons, of course. Men never land anywhere without weapons. They had the material for a foam house camp. They had a roller jeep running on huge inflated bags. It would run efficiently on anything from sand to swamp mud and float itself across bogs or rivers. They had cameras and communicators. Nolan had picked Crawford for geology and Kelly for communications. They could get other specialists from the ship if desirable. The ground where they landed was desert, nothing more. There were enormous dunes, like gigantic frozen swells of sand. Sometimes there were miles between crests. They landed close to the mud bank's northern ice cap to avoid the deep gorges in which rivers ran farther south. On the first day they set up their camp. Mountains reared to the north of them, covered almost to their bases with ice These they need not explore. Instruments would do most of the landing party work in any case. But they inflated small balloons and sent them skyward to learn about currents of the upper air. And Crawford took painstaking photographs of dune formations. And they set up a weather radar. They checked the water recovery from the camp's air conditioner. It would supply their needs when night drew near. With all instruments recording, they watched the sunset. It was amazing how splendid and how magnificent a sunset could be. Not many men see sunsets these days. The three of them aground at the ice cap's edge saw enormous mile long dunes reaching away as far as it was possible to see. They cast black shadows. Then glories of crimson and gold rose from the western horizon of this dead and empty world. There was ice and snow upon the mountains and unbelievable tints and blends of colors appeared there. After a long, long time, the light faded away. Then there was nothing to see but the stars and nothing to listen to at all. This world was dead. They went in their camphouse and shut out the dark and the silence. On the second day, Nolan went in search of permafrost. Their instruments faithfully recorded everything they needed, except such items as this. Nolan found permanent ice in a valley of the northern mountains. It was perpetually frozen ground which might not have thawed in a thousand thousand years. He dug down through surface ice to the permanently frozen soil beneath it. That soil was not desert sand and preserved in it Nolan found the blackened roots of plants and the blackened blades of something like grass and even some small indefinite objects which had been seeds or fruit. They hadn't died with the planet. They were far older than that catastrophe. But they were proof that once this world lived and throve during what was left of the daylight. Nolan and Kelly went south to a river gorge and photographed it for the record. The river had cut a GORGE A full 200ft deep in the wind, deposited dust which was everywhere. There were now dry gullies which undercut the dune sides and at times dumped mud into the slowly flowing liquid of the river. There were no colorings save dust and mud. The river itself was mud. It flowed very, very slowly and without elation. They came back depressed. An airless planet holds no life, but it defies life to establish itself. A methane ammonia planet fights the intrusion of men with monstrous frigid storms. But this world was designed for life. That it was dead was tragedy. Its rivers float sullen syrupy mud which moved reluctantly toward the lifeless seas. Kelly wouldn't look at the sunset this second night. He went into the camp and turned on music. Crawford watched for a little while only. There were clouds. There were breezes. One knew that here and there rain fell, and gentle showers which should have nourished grasses and flowers and filled the air with fragrance, but instead it fell upon impalpable dust and turned it to mud, which flowed slowly into gullies and into rivers which were also mud, and moved onward until perhaps after years, the soil would become part of a mud bank in the ocean. Nolan came into the foam walled house and said shortly. We'll finish up tomorrow and leave, Kelly said abruptly. Nobody's made any guess about why everything died here. But we all know, crawford said reflectively, it must have taken a lot of intelligence to murder this planet. When do you suppose it happened? 10,000, 20,000 years ago, said Nolan. The whole place must have been radioactive air and all, but if they used cobalt, the background count could be down to 3.9 in 10 or 20,000 years. We haven't, said Kelly, seen any craters. Even the pictures from out in space didn't show bomb craters. When everything died and turned to dust, said Nolan, there'd be dust storms. There still must be. They'd cover anything. There was a terrific civilization in part of what's now the Sahara back on Earth, by pure accident, they've found a patch of highway and a post house. Everything else is covered up. Cities, highways, dams, canals. And that's heavy sand instead of fine dust. The Lotus found some shadows on a photo. They want us to look and see what cast them. We'll look at it tomorrow and then leave, crawford said deliberately. We three have had a preview of what Earth will look like before too long. I wonder if it would do any good on Earth to show them what we've found. It's being argued on the ship, said Nolan. Some say we'd better suppress the whole business. Crawford considered. The Coms aren't a very believing people, he said slowly. But our people are. If we report this, our people will believe it, but the Coms can tell their people it is lies. Our people will want peace more than ever if they see what a war will mean. But the big shot comms will just take that as a reason to demand some more concessions, and more and more like demanding to build a base on the moon. I'm going to bed, said Nolan. He added ironically, I hope you have pleasant dreams. He did go to bed, but he slept very badly. The others slept no better. All three of them were up before sunrise. They saw it, and to Nolan, the coming of the light seemed somehow like an eager arrival of the new day, anxious to see if some tiny thread of green somewhere lifted proudly from brown earth to greet it. But none ever did, or would. We should be through by noon, said Nolan. They set out in the jeep. They abandoned the camp. They would abandon the jeep too, presently. When they went up to the ship that waited in orbit, they headed west, and Kelly took over the microwave set that sent a wide fanning beacon skyward. The Lotus was in orbit now. Every 90 minutes she was overhead, she'd completed the mapping of the planet. Every square foot of its surface had been photographed. From aloft they drove. The ungainly inflated bags which took the place of wheels rolled unweariedly at first over dew wetted dust, and then over the minor gullies which, so near the ice cap, were not yet gorges. They went on for 20 miles, and the abomination of the desolation was all about them. We shouldn't tell about this back home, said Kelly abruptly. If the calm people saw it, they'd know that. No. His tone was ironic. National aspiration justified the risk of this. But they wouldn't see it. And our people might look at it and decide that anything was better than this. But it isn't. Nolan said nothing. He didn't believe that the discovery of this dead planet could be kept a secret for very long. The mountains drew back to northward and the desert took their place. The Lotus went by overhead, unseen, but it gave a message to Kelly. We're on course, he reported. The ship just said so. 10 miles more. In 10 miles they came upon a city, or what had been one. It was partly buried in the omnipresent dust. That is, they saw part of a city's remnants showing in the mile wide trough between dunes hundreds of feet high. There were other remnants. Between two other dunes and still more in yet other troughs beyond, structures of stone had existed and portions of them remained. They had cast shadows, the Lotus had discovered from aloft. The stone remains were abraded by the dust carrying winds of a hundred centuries. The roofs had been crushed when monster dunes formed over them. They had been re exposed to the sunshine when winds moved the dunes away. There was no metal left, no glass, no artifacts. They had been buried tens or hundreds of times and uncovered as many. There was nothing left but skeletons of stone which cast angular shadows, though their fragments were rounded by centuries of patient wind erosion. It had been a very great city, but Nolan made the only observation that could tell anything about its occupants, the builders of this city he said tonelessly, use doors about the same size we do. And that was all they could find out presently. New York will be like this eventually, said Crawford. And Chicago and everywhere else. Kelly spoke suddenly into the microwave transmitter. He said sharply to the ship invisibly overhead. Yes, Send down the drone. We've had it. The council member from Brazil made an impassioned speech in the supposedly secret meeting of the Western Defense Alliance. He pointed out with bitter factuality that no past yielding to calm demands had gained. Anything further yielding would be suicidal. He made a fierce demand that the WDA present a united front against this fresh diplomatic pressure, that it refuse flatly and firmly and with finality to make a single concession on a single point. It was a good speech. It was an excellent speech. It and others like it should have been made a long time before. The coordinator of the Western Defensive alliance nodded at its end. I agree, he said. With every word the representative from Brazil has spoken. I think we all agree. The practical thing to do, of course, is to send a combined expeditionary force to maintain the independence of Sierra Le. This force should be formed of contingents from every Western Defense alliance nation and it should have orders to prevent the entry of Comm troops into Sierra Leone territory. I do not think that anything else will prevent the extinction of another member nation of the Western Defense Alliance. Will any council member propose such an action for a vote? There was a pause, then babblings. It would mean war. It would mean atomic war. Tens or hundreds of millions of human beings would die over a matter affecting less than 200,000. It was ridiculous public opinion. The council meeting ended with no vote upon the matter, without even a proposal on which a vote could be taken. Two days later, Comm troops from one of the African COM nations moved in and occupied Sierra Leone. A great many of its citizens were shot, some for opposing the new state of affairs, but some seemingly just on general principles. 3. The Lotus went on toward Planet Five, leaving a world which should have been alive and wasn't to go to a world which should not exist but did. On the way. There was argument which became embittered. In theory, the discoveries made by a survey ship became automatically available to all the world. But the discovery of three in the state it was in would have political results on Earth. It was and is a fact that nobody really believes in death until he sees a dead man. And nobody can believe in the destruction of a planet unless he's seen the corpse or color photographs of it. But that was precisely what the Lotus had to carry back to Earth. The WDA nations would see those pictures and read the facts. They would believe an atomic war and the complete sterilization of a world. Com nations would not see the pictures. They would continue to believe that the west, the wdawas decadent and enslaved to tyrannical warmongers and obviously could not resist the splendid armed forces of the COM Association. And they wouldn't really believe there could be more than isolated, crazy resistance to their valiant troops. So they'd back their leaders with enthusiasm, and the western peoples at most would be merely desperate. The Lotus arrived at Planet 4, which by the Lauriac laws should have been similar to Mars. It was almost its twin. It had ice caps of hoar frost and its atmosphere was thin and barely contaminated by oxygen. A base could be maintained here, of course, provided one had a source of supply. A base here, incidentally, would have much the value of the Comm base on Luna. The Lotus did not find that base. It found no cities or signs of settlement. But it did find a bomb crater. Miles across and it seemed miles deep. There was an accumulation of reddish dust at its bottom, trapped from the thin winds that blew over this half frozen world. The Lotus went on to planet five. The sun, so far out, was very small and its warmth was barely perceptible. But there was vegetation. The surface temperature was above freezing. The Lauriac laws had predicted that the central metallic core would be small and the greater part of its mass should be stony. The radioactives in Earth's thin rocky crust produced a constant flow of heat from the interior to the surface. It is considered that it is enough heat to melt a fraction of an inch of ice in a year. On this planet, with a crust of many hundreds instead of mere scores of miles thickness, the internal heat was greater. The world was not frozen and life existed here. It was a pallid, unnatural sort of life which had developed to live in starlight with a feeble assist from a very bright nearby star which happened to be its sun. There was a base here too. Kelly located it when he found a resonant return of certain frequencies from the ground. It was not a reflection, but resonance. And so they found the base. It had been built by engineers the humans on the Lotus could only admire. There were gigantic doors which could admit the Lotus herself. They were rusted shut and had to be opened with explosives. There were galleries and tunnels and laboratories. There were missile launchers and missile storage chambers. There was a giant dome housing a telescope men had not even dreamed of equaling. It was not an optical telescope. Ultimately, they found A mortuary where the members of the garrison were placed when they died. The Lotus was not equipped for the archaeological and technological studies the base called for. Its function was to scout out things for especially qualified expeditions to study. And of course, there was the political situation back on Earth. On the fourth day after landing, the skipper sent for Nolan. The skipper sweated a little. Nolan, he said querulously, we've found something. A bug eyed monster? Asked Nolan, dourly. No. The skipper mopped his forehead. Back yonder. On three. You took a few looks from 20 million miles and figured out what had happened there. We'd have worked it out eventually, but you saw it at once. You're lucky that way. Now we've found something. It's an instrument. We're short on time. Come with me and make some guesses. He led the way, explaining jerkily as he went. The thing was in a room by itself, with its own air system and apparently its own food store. It was inside four successive systems of locked doors, all of them inches thick, stainless steel. It was intended that the last door could be opened from inside. It was evidently the very heart of the armed base on Planet Five. Anything sealed up like that would have to be either incredibly valuable or incredibly dangerous. Nolan followed through the shattered doors and presently the skipper made a helpless gesture. There was the discovery. It looked more like an old fashioned telescope than anything else. It had a brass barrel and it was very solidly mounted. And there were micro, micro adjustments to point it at with almost infinite exactitude. It had been sealed in a completely airtight environment and what moisture was present had combined with other metals. It wasn't rusted. There was an eye piece placed in an improbable position. And there was a trigger. It wasn't like a gun trigger, but it couldn't have any other purpose. There was no porthole for it to fire through. The compartment in which it had been sealed was deep underground. Nolan said uneasily, it's a weapon. Of course. Of course, said the skipper. He mopped his forehead. I. I think we should take it home. It might make a difference to wda, but we don't know what it does. It could be a mistake. Nolan walked around it. He saw that it could be aimed in almost any direction, but not quite. There was a direction that stops prevented it from pointing to. Nolan said, what's in that direction? The skipper jumped when Nolan asked the question. He began to suspect many answers. He said in a stricken voice, that's where the missiles were launched and where the others are stored. Nolan stared at the thing. It looked hateful. It had the savage feel of a frozen snarl. The power pile. The skipper nodded. He mopped his face again right alongside. We figured they'd want it to shield the rest of the base from radioactives, Nolan said carefully. It could be that they wanted to shield the radioactives from something in the base. Maybe something that would act on radioactives is involved, he said painfully. Men can't change the rate of fission except by building up a critical mass. But maybe, possibly. Bug eyed monsters could. The skipper perspired. He'd have worked out the same thing in the long run. But Nolan saw it right away. He went away and got the ship's engineers. They brought an X ray for finding flaws in metal. They took pictures of the inwards of the brass barreled instrument. In its place they traced two separate incomprehensible circuits. But they were separate. At long last the skipper nodded permission for Nolan to try the eyepiece to see what it showed. With heavy metal and much soil and vegetation atop it, they taped the trigger so it could not be moved. The controls affecting the eyepiece they left free. The skipper almost dripped sweat as Nolan turned on the eyepiece circuit, peering in. For a long time he saw nothing whatever. Then a tiny disk moved slowly into the eyepiece's field. It was barely larger than a point. Nolan moved one of the eyepiece controls. The disk enlarged. It enlarged again. A tiny red dot appeared in the center of the field of vision. As the disk enlarged, the red dot grew larger and became a tiny red circle. Nolan fumbled. He shifted the position of the instrument with the microcontrol. He moved the faintly glowing disk until it was enclosed in the red circle. He enlarged. Presently the disk was very large and the red circle ceased to enlarge. It enclosed only a part of the disk. Nolan felt cold chills down his spine. He swallowed and asked for the angular relationship of planet 4 to 3. The skipper sent someone to find it out, but Nolan had found planet four before the answer came. The first disk was in some fashion a representation of Planet 3, the Earth like world which was dead. The second was a representation of 4. There was a bright spot near the equator of 4, the equator being located by the flattening of the poles. It would be just about where a gigantic atomic bomb crater still existed. Nolan drew back and took a deep breath. Apparently, he said unsteadily, this eyepiece detects radioactives converting something that I can't imagine into visible light after it's passed through a few feet of metal and a Good. Many more of dirt. There's a red ring which makes me think of a gun sight. And there's a trigger. Skipper, would you send half an ounce or so of ship fuel out to space in a drone? I think we're going to have to pull this trigger. The skipper wrung his hands. He went away, and Nolan stood staring at nothing in particular, appalled and sickened by the thoughts that came to him presently. The skipper came back and mumbled that a drone was on the way up. Nolan searched for it with the eyepiece. He found it. The sensitivity of the eyepiece was practically beyond belief. What it worked on, what it transmuted and amplified to light, was wholly beyond his imagination. The drone went 4,000 miles out. Nolan absently asked for somebody to be posted out of doors. Watching the sky, he got the vivid spark that was the half ounce of ship fuel in the center of the red luminous ring. He turned his eyes away and pulled the trigger. There was no sound. There was no vibration. There was no indication in the underground room that anything at all had happened. There was only a violent flare in the eyepiece from which Nolan had just drawn back. Someone came shouting from out of doors that there had been an intolerable flash of brilliance in the sky. A few moments later the word came that the drone control bore indicated that the drone had ceased to exist. The Comm Ambassador sighed a little when he saw the expression on the coordinator's face. Interviews with the titular head of the alliance of All Western nations became increasingly a strain on his politeness. But the coordinator said grimly, I think I can guess what you're here to tell me. The Comm Ambassador said politely, it is painful to beat around the bush. May I speak plainly? Do, said the coordinator. Our base on the Moon, said the ambassador with a fine air of frankness, some time ago reported military preparations on Earth among the WDA nations. Those preparations could have no purpose other than an unwarned attack upon us. We felt it necessary then to take countermeasures of preparation only. We modified the plans of our moon base to have it contain not only the telescopes and such observational equipment, but to have an adequate armament of missiles. It is now so armed. The coordinator whitened a little, but he did not look surprised. Well, I have to inform you, said the Comm Ambassador, that any military action directed against any Comm Nation or its troops or the Union of Calm Republics will be met by atomic bombardment from the Moon as well as our standard military establishments. This, of course, does not mean war. To the contrary, we hope that it will end the possibility of war. We trust that all causes of tensions between our nations will one by one be removed, and that an era of perpetual peace and prosperity will follow. The coordinator's lips twisted in an entirely mirthless smile. Military action against com troops, he observed, means resistance to invasion or occupation. Doesn't would be wiser, said the ambassador carefully, to protest than to resist. At least so it seems to me, the coordinator of the Western Defense alliance said. Tell me something confidentially, Mr. Ambassador. How long before you expect no, you wouldn't answer that.
[228:49]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Ah.
[228:50]
Jake Stauch (Cervel Commercial) / Narrator (Third Planet)
How long do you think it will be before I am shot? The Comm ambassador said politely. I would hesitate to guess. The Lotus started back to Earth with the enigmatic weapon fastened firmly in its cargo hold. Great pains had been taken to keep it from being knocked or shocked or battered in its transfer to the ship firmly anchored. Nolan had insisted that the stops which prevented it from being aimed below the horizon or toward the radioactives in the base be adjusted so it could not be aimed at the Lotus own engines or fuel stores. There were no missiles to worry about, of course. Even this precaution, however, roused doubt and uneasiness, especially among the scientific staff. It was highly probable that when the Lotus reported in from space, the Coms would ask to examine such specimens as she brought back. The request would be expressed as scientific interest, but a refusal would be treated as a concealment of dire designs. There were those on the ship who felt that the weapon should be dismantled and made to seem meaningless, to avoid any chance of a humiliating squabble with the Coms. The skipper roared at them. It was the only time on the voyage when he displayed anger, but he glared at those who proposed the act of discretion. He drove them out of the cabin in which the suggestion was made. He turned to Nolan, who definitely was not a party to it. His manner changed. He said querulously, nolan, why do you want that thing mounted? So it could be used if necessary. That's the way it was mounted on Planet 5. To box it or case it might injure it. To take it apart might mean that it could never be got together in working order again. Is that the real reason? Demanded the skipper. It's a good reason. But is it the real one? No, admitted Nolan, it isn't. The skipper fumed to himself. We might get home, he said fretfully, and find things just as we left em. Then there'd be no harm in the mounting. We'd at least try to diddle the coms and get it ashore without their knowing it was important we might get home and find that war'd broken out and Earth was dead like the third planet back yonder, only not all yet turned to desert. Then the mounting wouldn't matter. Nothing would. Or we could find that the comms had smashed the west and were all cockapoop about what they'd managed to do in a sneak attack, so it had better stay mounted. I covered everything, didn't I? Nolan wasn't feeling any better than anybody else on the Lotus, the jitters that affected everybody but conditioned comms had been bad when the Lotus went about its business. But when the ship headed for home, nerves got visibly worse. They didn't know what they'd find there. With the third planet of Fanua in mind, it was all too easy to believe in disaster. There's one thing, said Nolan painfully, that bothers me. I've been trying to think like a Com top brass. The WDA is a well meaning organization, and it's gained time, no doubt. But aside from the Kalm missiles, 95% of the atomic warheads on Earth are in the hands of just one WDA nation. It happens to be ours. It's been bearing most of the load of defense costs for the West. It's the richest country in the world. There's practically no poverty in it. What has poverty to do with a possible war? Demanded the skipper. Everything, nolan said uncomfortably. The comms take over a country. They march in. There are rich people and poor people. The Koms start to humiliate and destroy the rich. The poor people hated them. So the coms are popular long enough to get things going right. But if they tried that in our country it wouldn't work, said the skipper. Not for a minute it wouldn't, agreed Nolan. Most of our people think of themselves as well to do, and the rest can hope to become so. So the Coms would have to try to govern 200 million indignant and subversive underground resisters. They couldn't hold down such a country. They wouldn't try. The skipper blinked. If you mean they'd leave our country alone. I don't, said Nolan. They'd destroy it. They'd have to. So they might as well destroy it out of hand and destroy most of the fighting potential and a lot of resolution in the West. A well handled atomic missile bombardment and some luck, and they can take over the rest of the world without trouble. I think that's the practical thing for them to do. I think they'll do it if they can. The skipper grimaced. Then he said, almost ashamedly. Maybe we're talking nonsense, Nolan. Maybe we've just got bad cases of nerves. Maybe things have gotten better since we left. We could arrive back home and find nobody even dreaming of war anymore. That, said Nolan, would scare me to death. That would be the time to make a sneak attack. Which was pessimism, but nothing else seemed justified. It was not even easy to be hopeful about the value of the fifth Planet Weapon to the Western Defense Alliance. The WDA couldn't use it in a preventive war. Their people wouldn't allow it. The initiative would always remain with the comms. The Lotus moved earthward. She carried a more deadly instrument for war than men had ever dreamed of. But the ship's company daily jittered a little more violently. The war might have been fought and be over by now. If it had, the Coms would have won it. The coordinator for the WDA handed the Comm ambassador his passport. I'm sorry you've been recalled, he said heavily, because I think I see the meaning of the move. I am only called home for conference and instructions, said the ambassador politely. I shall miss our friendly chats. We have had a very fine personal relationship, though we have disagreed so often. The coordinator absently shifted objects on his desk. He said suddenly, Mr. Ambassador, have I ever lied to you? The ambassador raised his eyebrows. Then he smiled. Never, he said pleasantly. I have marveled. The coordinator took a quick, sharp breath. I shall not lie now, he said abruptly. I hope you will believe me, Mr. Ambassador, when I tell you one of our best kept military secrets. The Ambassador blinked and then shrugged politely. You always astonish me, he said mildly. Your High Command, said the coordinator grimly, has decided not to try to take over the nation around us. It is considered impractical. So this nation is to be destroyed to shatter the backbone of the WDA and to make resistance anywhere else unthinkable? The ambassador said reproachfully. Ah, but you begin to believe your own propaganda. No, said the coordinator. I have simply told you the facts you undoubtedly already know. Now I tell you our best kept military secret. We know that we cannot deal with you. We know that you might be successful in an overwhelming unwarned attack. We know that if you decide upon war, it will be directed primarily at this nation. So we have set up some very special atomic bombs where it is extremely unlikely that you will find them. They are dirty bombs. They are designed to make the maximum possible amount of radioactive dust of fallout. Timing mechanisms are set to detonate them. Every day a man goes and sets back the timing mechanism in each place where a bomb is established, on the day that a man fails to do so, the bombs will certainly explode. The coordinator said almost briskly. We calculate that the bombs will make the atmosphere of the whole Earth lethally radioactive, that they will raise the background count on Earth to the point where nothing can live. No plant, no animal, no fish in any sea. This will only happen if this nation is destroyed. It will fight if it is attacked, of course, but your chances of substantial success are good. But if you are successful, the Earth will die. I may add that the people of the calm nations will die also. To the last individual. The ambassador started to his feet. But you could not do that, he protested. White lipped. You cannot. The coordinator shrugged and shook his head. I have not lied to you before, Mr. Ambassador. I do not lie to you now. Then, he said formally, I hope you have a pleasant journey home. 4 the Lotus came out of the usual sequence of arrival hops, no more than six light seconds from Earth. A million miles more or less, perhaps four times the distance of the moon. Nolan examined the planet's sunlit face and said steadily, nothing's happened yet. There was almost agonized relief. Only the skipper did not seem to relax. He went stolidly to the control room and got out the scrambler card that matched just one other scrambler card in the world. He put it in the communicator. To speak to Earth by scrambler would be an offense. It would be protested by the comms. They would insist that a survey ship should have nothing secret to report and that anything secret must be inimical to the Comm association of Nations. The skipper formally reported in in the clear and then insisted on completing his report by scrambler. He did complete it, over the agitated protest of the ground. Then there was silence. He mopped his forehead. Nolan, better get down to the eyepiece. The comms could send something up to blast us. I'll get the detectors out. You be ready. You're sure you can handle things? This is a little bit late to raise the question, said Nolan. I think I can do it, though. He went down to the hold. He turned on the eyepiece. He saw the distinct luminous disk, which was Earth. In the not at all believable field of the impossible instrument. He saw points, not dots, of extremely vivid light. Obviously the size of a radioactive object did not determine the brightness of its report to the weapon from Planet 5 of Fanua. Something else controlled the brilliance. He saw the groupings of many dimensionless points of light. There were the patterns which meant the silos holding the monster atomic missiles of the West. He could distinguish them from the much more concentrated firing points of the calm nations. The oceans had few or no bright points at all. There were only so many atomic powered ocean going vessels. No one could tell well enough which were the western accumulations of radioactives for defense purposes and which were the calm stores of warheads. His throat went dry as he realized the power in his hands. Neither he nor anyone else could make one blade of grass grow, but he could turn the third planet of this sun into a desert and a dreariness like the third planet of another sun far, far away. The skipper came into the hold. He locked the entrance door behind him. I got to the coordinator, he said in a shaking voice. I started enough trouble by reporting by scrambler. He talked to me. I showed him pictures. He's telling the comms most of what I reported, saying that if they like, they can try to blast us. If they try and don't succeed, we can try to figure out what to do next. The com premiership was in some ways the equivalent of the office of Coordinator of the Western Defense Alliance. But the men who held the two posts were quite unlike, and the amount of authority they could exercise was vastly different. The compremier read again the newly arrived message from the coordinator. The high officials he'd sent for came streaming into the room. Most of them had flimsies of the message in their hands. The Premier beamed at them. You have the news, he said humorously. The WDA coordinator first threatened to make all Earth's air radioactive if we attacked the a leading member of the WDA and destroyed it. He was evidently decided that this threat is not strong enough. So he assures us that a Western survey ship has come back from an exploring voyage with a cargo of artifacts from a non human civilization. Among the artifacts there is what he says is the absolute weapon. He says that the skipper who has brought it back claims that it can end the tension between the WDA and us by ending us. The Premier chuckled. He invites us to verify the skipper's claim by attempting to blast the survey ship whose coordinates of position he gives us. I think he has made a rather substantial error of judgment. His eyes twinkled as he looked from one to another of the high officials he had summoned. We accept the invitation, said the premier. Naturally, General. He looked at the tall general officer with twin silver rockets in his lapels. The general said proudly, yes, Excellency. Our space radar located an object at the survey ship's stated position. We sent six Rockets with atomic warheads at it. We used satellite placing rockets for maximum acceleration. They are well on their way now. Of course, they can be disarmed or destroyed as well as maneuvered to intercept this survey ship. If it attempts to flee. They will reach the target area in just under three hours. The premier nodded very humorously. Since we accept their invitation, naturally, the Western Staff concludes that we are disturbed, that we will wait to see what our rockets learn. It would be interesting. But our scientists tell me that the alleged weapon is impossible, utterly impossible. So it is merely a trick. And we will not wait for our rockets to arrive. We might be late for our dinners and we would not like that. The high officials made sounds of amusement. So we put our own ending to the comedy, said the Premier blandly. The circuits are joined. He asked the question of a craggy faced service of supply Colonel. The colonel managed to nod and was stricken numb by the importance of the gesture. Then, said the premier humorously, we will destroy our enemy. He waddled across the room. He put a pudgy forefinger on a button. He pushed it. Even here, deep underground, there were roaring sounds as rockets took off for the West. All over the calm nations, carefully distributed rocket firing sites received signals from from the one push button. They sent bellowing monsters up into the sky. Three COM rockets reached their targets, and Nolan never quite forgave himself for it. They were murderous. They wiped out cities. But that was all. The rest of the rockets went off prematurely. A spread of half a hundred crossing the North Pole detonated just out of atmosphere. Others went off over the Atlantic. Not a few made temporary suns above the Pacific. Nolan brought moving specks within the thin red circle of his instrument and pulled the trigger. The points flamed momentarily and left patches of luminosity behind them, and that was that. But they continued to rise. On Earth. They made noises like dragons. There was panic from their starting points. Those first out had not reached their targets. So the comm launching sights flung more and more missiles skyward. One of them reached a city of the West, a second, a third. The only possible answer was to blast them as they rose. Then to blast them before they rose. Nolan's task became the terrible necessary one of preventing radioactives from moving away from the COM territory and into WDA nations, specifically one WDA nation. He did not think of the consequences of his actions except in terms of preventing excessively bright mathematical points of light from getting to the areas where there were so many fewer points of similar light which did not move at all. He tried to stop only Those that moved but three got by him and he could do nothing but detonate all the radioactives in calm territory. He had to. When that was done, there were six warheads coming up from Earth. He detonated them. There were massed warheads moving toward Earth from the moon. It seemed that they practically tore space apart, that they went off together. Then the moon base began to fire rockets hysterically at the Lotus. And it was necessary to detonate the radioactives in the moon base. It had been estimated that an atomic war might be over in three hours. But prophecies are usually underestimates. Between the first and last explosions on Earth, in space and on the Moon, there was a truly gigantic crater where the comm base had been some 37 minutes elapsed. Then the war was over. There were some survivors in COM territory, of course, but they couldn't retaliate for the destruction of their nations. Their own bombs had done the destruction. They couldn't even gloat that the rest of Earth shared their catastrophe. It didn't. Most of the bombs exploded high and over ocean. No less than 3/5 of all fallout landed in the sea and sank immediately. For the rest, the background count on Earth Nowhere went above 4.9 and people could be protected against that. The survey ship Lotus came gingerly down to ground. There was no longer any reason for tension. Its crew reported in and scattered to the various places they called home. They were very glad to be back. In the course of time they were all suitably bemettled and admired and told that their names would live forever. Of course it was not true. Nolan didn't pay much attention to this. He left a survey. He went to live in a small town. He married a small town girl and he never, never, never took anyone to the excursion so many WDA people took to see the result of atomic explosions in COM territory when their attempt to murder one western nation backfired. Nolan had caused the backfiring. He very passionately did not want to see its results. He'd seen all he wanted of that sort of thing on the third planet of a soul type sun, some light centuries from Earth. End of third Planet by Murray Leinster Recording by John d. Parker john parkerauthor.com Foreign.
[247:43]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
Say hello For Me by Frank W. Coggins this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org say hello for Me by Frank W. Coggins this was to be the day. But of course Professor Pettibone had no way of knowing it. He arose as he had been doing for the previous 20 years, donned the tattered remnants of his space suit and went out into the open. He stood erect, bronzed, magnificent, faced distant Earth and recited, Good morning, bright sunshine. We're glad you are here. You make the world happy and bring us good cheer. It was something he had heard as a child and isolated here on Mars, he had remembered it and used it to keep from losing his power of speech. The ritual finished, he walked to the edge of the nearest canal and gathered a bushel or so of drink, dried Martian moss. He returned and began polishing the shiny exterior of the wrecked spaceship. It had to really glitter if it was to be an effective beacon in guiding the rescue ship. Professor Pettibone knew, had known for years that a ship would come. It was just a matter of time. And as the years slipped by, his faith diminished not a whit it. With his task half completed, he glanced up at the sun and quickened the polishing. It was a long walk to the place the berry bushes grew, and if he arrived too late, the sun would have dried out the night's crop of fragile berries and he would wait until the morrow for nourishment. But on this day he was fated to arrive at the bush area not at all, because in an alien sound from above again drew the professor's eye from his work and he knew that the day had arrived. The ship was three times as large as any he had ever visualized and its futuristic design told him sharply how far he had fallen behind in his dreaming. He smiled and said, quite calmly, I dare say I. I am about to be rescued. And he experienced a thrill as the great ship set down and two men emerged therefrom. A thrill tinged with a guilt sense because emotional experiences were rare in an isolated life and seemed somehow indecent. The two men held weapons. They advanced upon Professor Pettibone, looked up into his face. Face reflected a certain wary hostility. That the hostility was tinged with instinctive respect, even awe made it no less potent. One of them asked, fella man came in ship skyboat. Long time ago. Him dead. Where appropriate gestures accompanied the words, Professor Pettibone smiled down at the little men and bowed. You are of course referring to me. I came in the ship. I am Professor Pettibone. It was nice of you to hunt me up. The eyes of the two Terran spacemen met and locked in startled inquiry. One of them voiced the reaction of both when he said, what the hell? You no doubt are curious as to the fate of the other members of the XP expedition, they were killed. All save Fletcher, who lasted a week. Professor Pettibone waved a hand there in the graveyard. But their eyes remained on the only survivor of that ill fated first expedition. It was hard to accept him as the man they sought. But faced with undeniable similarity between what they expected and what they had found, the two spacemen had no alternative. I hope your food supply is ample and varied, Professor Pettibone said. This seemed to bring them out of their bemusement. Of course, professor. Would you care to come aboard? The other made a try at congenial levity. You must be pretty hungry after 20 years. Really? Has it been that long? I tried to keep track at first. We can blast off anytime. You say you're probably pretty anxious to get back. Indeed I am. The changes in 20 years must be breathtaking. I wonder if they'll remember me. A short time later the professor said, it's amazing. A ship of this size handled by only two men. Then he sat down to a repast laid out by one of the odd styles spacemen. But after nibbling a bit of this, a forkful of that, he found that satisfaction lay in the anticipation more so than in the eating. We'll look around and see what we can find in the way of clothing for you, professor, one of the spacemen said. Then the man's bemusement returned. His eyes traveled over the magnificent physique before afford him the perfect giant of a man. The great Apollo like head with the calm clear eyes, the expression of complete contentment and serenity. The spaceman said, professor, to what do you attribute the changes in your body? What is there about this planet? I really don't know. Professor Pettibone looked down his torso with an impersonal eye. I think the greenish skin pigmentation is a result of mineral heavy vapors that occur during certain seasons. The growth as to my body, I really don't know. But the two spacemen, though they didn't refer to it, were not concerned with the body so much as the aura of completeness. The radiation of contentment which came came from somewhere within and it was passing. Strange that nothing more was said about the professor returning to Earth. No great revelation suddenly arrived at that he would not go. Rather they discussed various things that three gentlemen meeting casually would discuss. Then Professor Pettibone arose from his chair and said, it was kind of you to drop off and see me. And one of the spacemen replied, a pleasure, sir, a real pleasure indeed. Then the professor left the ship and watched it lift up on a tail of red fire and go away. He raised an arm and waved. Say hello for me, he called. Then he turned away, and from force of habit he began again to polish the hull, knowing that he would keep it shining and be proud of it for many years to come. Almost beyond reach of the planet, one of the spacemen flipped a switch and put certain sensitive communication mechanisms to work, so sensitive they could pick up etheric vibrations far away and make them audible, but only faintly came the pleasant voice of a contented man. Good morning, bright sunshine. We're glad you are here. You make the world end of say hello for Me by Frank W. Coggins Read by D. Searles.
[255:47]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Absolutely no Paradox by Lester Del Rey this is 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 if time travel is possible, then why haven't we been visited by people from the Future? But Pete LaFranc found the answer to that Absolutely no Paradox by Lester Del
[256:23]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
Rey
[256:25]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
the old men's section of the Arts and Science Club was always the best ordered. The robots somehow managed to avoid clanking there, and the greenswards beyond the veranda were always just right, and the drinks were the best for six counties. Old Ned Brussels touched his glass to his lips apprehensively, sighed in contentment, and waited for some of the other oldsters to break the silence. Finally, Lem Hardy took the plunge. He did it, he announced, referring to a conversation of weeks before. Then, at their puzzled looks, he amplified my grandson, damn it. He's got a time machine. It works. Sent a cat four days up and it came through unharmed. The glass fell from old Ned's hand, bouncing on the floor and spilling good liquor. A robot came forward silently to clean it up, but Ned didn't look at it. Four days does not mean a thing. Lamb, Is that kid planning on trying it out? He's going to try it next week. Then for the Lord's sake, stop him. Look, does it work like this? His fingers slipped over the pencil smoothly, as they had always done when he worked drafting robot bodies in the old days. A rude schematic seemed to grow almost instantly on the paper. Lamb looked at it, then stiffened suddenly. Who told you? A youngster named Pete Lanfranc. And it was 40 years. No, over 50 years ago. Lamb, if you like your grandson, keep him out of the machine. Four days, four weeks. They don't mean anything. Time machines don't work, however well they seem to. A bustle from behind them pulled their eyes around. One of the robots was quietly restraining a nervous young man who was trying to break free and join the group. His face was tense, excited with an odd, bitter fear behind it. His words were seemingly cut out of steel. He told me I'd find him there, damn it. Sorry, sir, you'll have to wait. The robot's voice was adamant under its smoothness. Ned grunted, and then impulse led him to look again. He'd seen the man somewhere. He'd hunted for it, then dismissed it, knowing that his memory was tricky these days. But he motioned the robot aside. We don't allow interruptions from junior members, he told the man, letting his voice soften the words. Still, if you want to sit down and listen quietly, nobody'll stop you. But quietly, the robot stressed the word. The man looked at it, then swiveled to Ned Brussel. For a moment the bitterness halted as if frozen, then gave place place to a sudden, sharp amusement. His eyes searched Ned's and he nodded. Dropping into a chair, Lamb took up the conversation again. It worked. And if it works for four days, it should work for four centuries. You're just scared of paradoxes, Ned. Going back and killing your grandfather or such rot. You've been reading too many stories on it. Fifty years ago, Pete Lanfranc said the same thing. Young man, either sit down or get out. This is an old man section. He had answers for all the paradoxes, too, except one question. Ned had been young then, just getting started at synthanatomy drafting, and not rich enough for wine of the type Pete always kept. He sipped it with relish. He looked at the old cage Pete was displaying. All the same, it won't work. Pete laughed. Reality doesn't mean a thing to an artist, does it? Be damned to your paradoxes. There's some answer to em. It did work. The dog appeared exactly four weeks later, just finishing his bark. Then why haven't time machines come back from the future? Ned shot at him. He'd been saving that as his final argument, and he sat back to watch the bomb explode for a second. Pete blinked. You never figured that out for yourself? Nope. I got it from a science fiction story. But why haven't they? If yours works, there'll be a lot more machines built. With more built, they'll be improved. They'll get to be commonplace. People'd use em, and someone would turn up here with one. Or in the why haven't we met Time travellers, Pete. Maybe we have met them and didn't know it. Nonsense. You get in that machine and go back to Elizabethan England. Try to pass yourself off as being native to that time. Even an hour. No, there'd be slip ups. Pete considered it, poured more wine. An idea, but you're right. Maybe I hadn't tried going back. If I'd sent the dog backward, I couldn't have checked up on it while I could be waiting in the future. Okay, you've convinced me then you're not going in the contraption. Pete's laughter was spontaneous and loaded with amusement. I'm going forward and find out why no one has come back. I've got a nice collection of rare coins I can trade off up there. Should be more valuable. I'll bring you back a working invention from the next century. With luck I'll bring you the answer. And after that maybe I can go back and kill an ancestor just to see what happens. Don't be a fool. But Pete was grinning and opening the door to the cage that rested in the middle of his laboratory. 50 years this trip, he said, spinning the dials, and you won't have long to wait. I'll come back just about in no time. Ned started to yell something, but there was a curious flicker such as he'd seen when Pete sent the dog forward. The time machine blurred over its surface, seemed to stretch into infinity while contracting to nothing at the same time. Then it was gone. Ned groped for the wine bottle, cursing, and drained the contents. Then he sat down to wait. Three days later the police came looking for Pete on some mysterious tip, perhaps from a fellow worker. It was a pretty rough time for a while, though. They finally decided it was just another mystery and that Ned's yarn of having been there only to keep the appointment was true. Ned had influential friends, even if he didn't have any money. Then for three years he rented Pete's laboratory before he made enough to buy it. For a decade he lived in it, but by then he'd begun to know that Pete wasn't coming back. The building's still there, old Ned finished. The diagrams of his machine are still in the drawers. But Pete never showed up. I tell you. Keep your fool grandson out of the time machine, Lem. They don't work. Too many paradoxes. If they worked, you could steal a future invention, get credit for inventing it, and nobody would ever have to invent it. When things have that many angles that can't work, the thing itself can't work. Lamb shook his head stubbornly. It worked. The kid got the cat back. Something just happened to your friend. Maybe his power failed. Then he wouldn't have gotten all the way and he'd have reappeared. Years ago, Pete measured things and there was no displacement in space. If something had happened to him, the machine would have been there anyhow. Besides, I had alarms wired to call the police, intold them it was to protect the safe the minute he showed up. He never showed up, he never came back. So I suppose he just disappeared. Time ate him up. Lemm's stubbornness was cracking a bit, though his voice was higher than even an old man's should be. I don't know, but time machines don't work otherwise. Where are the time travellers from the future? They sat quietly for a second. Ned was remembering the years up to the time he'd given up, disconnected the alarms, and came here to the Arts and Science Club to live. He'd been stubborn, maybe a little bit, but Pete hadn't reappeared. Behind him, a young man cleared his throat and the robot moved forward, but there was no rule against the intrusion. When no one was speaking and the robot came to a stop, Ned looked back just as the man decided the robot wouldn't interfere. There was more amusement on the man's face now, but the bitterness still lay there. He grinned at Ned, a familiar grin, and his voice was flat and positive. Time machines work, and there are no paradoxes. Absolutely no paradoxes. Lem stirred, craning back, and Ned bristled, but something about the young man caught back the words as he picked up the thin thread of memory. The other grinned again, wryly. It's simple. Time machines work in one direction. They can't go back. Your time traveler found that out too late. No trips to the past, no return from the future, and no paradoxes. Ned Brussels. He came to his feet, moving over to drop into the chair beside Ned. The older man nodded, stretching out his hand. I told you not to try that damn machine, Pete, ned told him. Then he chuckled as the oldest cliche among old friends meeting again came to his lips. 50 years and you haven't changed a bit. Pete Lanfranc the End of Absolutely no Paradox by Lester Del Rey.
[268:09]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
A Bottle of Old Wine by Richard O. Lewis 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 Craig Franklin A Bottle of Old Wine by Richard O. Lewis Herbert Hirrell settled himself more comfortably in his easy chair, extending his short legs further towards the fireplace and let his eyes travel cautiously in the general direction of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, her long legs curled up beneath her, the upper half of her face hidden in the bulk of her personalised three dimensional telovis. The telovis of a stereoscopic nature seemingly brought the performers with, with all their tinsel and colours directly into the room of the watcher. Hyrule had no way of seeing into the plastic affair she wore, but he guessed from the expression on the lower half of her face that she was watching one of the newer black market sex operas. In any event, there would be no sound, movement or sign of life from her for the next three hours. To break the thread of the play for even a moment would ruin all the previous emotional build up. There had been a time when he hated her for those long and silent evenings, lonely hours during which he was completely ignored. It was different now, however, for those hours furnished him with time for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smile and his right hand fondled the unobtrus obtrusive switch beneath his trouser leg. He did not press the switch. He would wait a few minutes longer, but it was comforting to know that it was there, exhilarating to know that he could escape for a few hours by a mere flick of his finger. He let his eyes stray to the dim light of the artificial flames in the fireplace. His hate for her was not bounded merely by those lonely hours she had forced upon him. No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burning savagery that was deadly in its passion. He hated her for her money, the money she kept securely from him. He hated her for the paltry allowance she doled out to him as if he were an irresponsible child. It was as if she was. She were constantly reminding him in every glance and gesture. I made a bad bargain when I married you. You wanted me, my money, everything, and had nothing to give in return except your own doltish self. You set a trap for me, baited with lies and a false front. Now you are caught in your own trap and will remain there like a mouse to eat from my hand, whatever crumbs I stoop to give you. But someday his hate would be appeased. Yes, someday soon he would kill her. He shot a sideways glance at her, wondering if, by chance, she suspected she hadn't moved. Her lips were pouted into a half smile. The sex opera had probably reached one of its more pleasurable moments. Hiroll let his eyes shift back to the fireplace again. Yes, he would kill her. Then he would claim a rightful share of her money, be rid of her debasing dominance. He let the thought run through his head, savouring it with mental taste buds. He would not kill her tonight. No. Nor the next night. He would wait. Wait until he had sucked the last measure of pleasure from the thought. It was like having a bottle of rare old wine on a shelf where it could be viewed daily. It was like being able to pause again and again before the bottle, hold it up to the light and say to some day when my desire for you has reached the ultimate, I. I shall unstopper you quietly and sip you slowly to the last soul satisfying drop. As long as the bottle remained there upon the shelf. It was symbolic of that pleasurable moment. He snapped out of his reverie and realised he had been wasting precious moments. There would be time enough to morrow for gloating tonight there were other things to do. Pleasurable things. He remembered the girl he had met the night before and smiled smugly. Perhaps she would be awaiting him even now. If not, there would be another one. He settled himself deeper into the chair, glanced once more at his wife, then let his head lean comfortably back against the chair's headrest. His hand upon his thigh, felt the thin mesh that cloaked his body beneath his clothing like a sheer stocking. His fingers went again to the tiny switch. Again he hesitated. Herbert Hiroll knew no more about the teleporter suit he wore than he did about the radio at the corner, the TV set against the wall, or the personalised Talovis his wife was wearing. You pressed one of the buttons on the radio. Music came out. You pressed a button and clicked a dial on the tv. Music and pictures came out. You pressed a button and made an adjustment on the telovis. Three dimensional emotion coloured pictures leapt into the room. You pressed a tiny switch on the teleporter suit. You were whisked away to a receiving statue at present previously set up in secret. He knew that the music and the images of the performers on the TV in telovis were brought to his room by some form of electrical impulse or wave, while the actual musicians and performers remained in the studio. He knew that when he pressed the switch on his thigh, something within him, his ectoplasm, higher self, the thing spirits use for materialization, whatever its real name, streamed out of him along an invisible channel, leaving his body behind in the chair in a conscious but dreamlike state. His other self materialised in a small cabin in a hidden nook between a highway and a river where he had installed the receiver set a month ago. He thought once more of the girl who might be waiting for him, smiled and pressed the switch. The dank air of the cabin was chill to Herbert Hirald's naked flesh. He fumbled through the darkness for the clothing he kept there, found his shorts and trousers, got hurriedly into them, then flicked on a pocket lighter and ignited a stub of candle upon the table. By the wavering light he finished dressing in the black satin clothing, the white shirt, the flowing necktie and tam. He invoiced the contents of his billfold. Not much, and his monthly pittance was still two weeks away. He had skimped for six months to salvage enough money from his allowance to make a down payment on the teleporter suit. Since then, his expenses, monthly payments for the suit, cabin rent, costly liquor had forced him to place his nights of escape on strict ration. He could not go on this way, he realised, not now, not since he had met the girl. He had to have more money. Perhaps he could not afford the luxury of leaving the wine bottle longer upon the shelf. Riverside Club, where Hiral arrived by bus and a hundred yards of walking, was exclusive. It catered to a clientele that had but three things in money, a desire for utter self abandonment and a sales slip indicating ownership of a teleporter suit. The club was of necessity expensive for self. Teleportation was speaking strictly illegal, and police protection came high. Herbert Hiroll adjusted his white silken mask carefully at the door and shoved his sail slip through a small aperture where it was thoroughly scanned by unseen eyes. A buzzer sounded an instant later, the lock of the door clicked and Hirald pushed through into the exhilarating warmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hidden lights along the walls sent slow beams of red, blue, vermilion, green, yellow and pink trailing across the dome ceiling in a heterogeneous pattern. The coloured beams mingled, diffused, spread, were caught up by mirrors of various tints which diffused and mingled the lights once more until the whole effect was an ever changing panorama of softly melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes of the masked revellers on the dance floor and at the tables, unearthly in themselves, were made even more so by the altering light. Music flooded the room from unseen sources. Laughter, hysterical, drunken, filled with utter abandonment, came from the dance floor, the tables and the private booths and rooms hidden cleverly within the walls. Hyrrol pushed himself to an unoccupied table sat down and ordered a bottle of cheap whisky. He would have preferred champagne, but his depleted finances forbade the more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, he poured, poured a glass tumbler half full, and consumed it eagerly while his eyes scanned the room in search of the girl. He couldn't see her in the dim swirl of colour. Had she arrived? Perhaps she was wearing a different costume than she had the night before. If so, recognition might prove difficult. He poured himself another drink, promising himself he would go in search of her. When the liquor began to take effect, a woman clad in the revealing garb of a Persian dancer threw an arm about him from behind and kissed him on the cheek through the veil which covered the lower part of her face.
[279:22]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
Hi, honey.
[279:23]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
She giggled into his ear. Having a time, he reached for the white arm to pull her to him, but she eluded his cry grasp and reeled away into the waiting arms of a tall toreador. Hiroll gulped his whisky and watched her nestle into the arms of her partner and begin with him a sinuous, suggestive dance. The whisky had begun its warming effect, and he laughed. This was the land of the lotus eaters, the sanctuary of the escape escapists, the haven of all who wished to cast off their shell of inhibition and become the thing they dreamed themselves to be. Here one could be, among his own kind, an actor upon a gay stage, a gaudy butterfly metamorphosed from the slug, a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl was probably the wife of a boorish oaf whose idea of romance was spending an evening telling his wife how he came to be a successful bank president. But she had found her means of escape. Perhaps she had pleaded a sick headache and had retired to her room. And there, upon the bed now reposed her shell of reality, while her inner self, the shadowy one, completely materialized, became an exotic thing, thing from the east in this never never land. The man, the toreador, had probably closeted himself within his library with a set of account books and had left strict orders not to be disturbed until he had finished with them. Both would have terrific hangovers in the morning, but that, of course, would be fully compensated for by the memories of the evening. Hirald chuckled. The situation struck him as being funny. The shadowy self got drunk and had a good time, and the outer husk suffered the hangover in the morning. Strange. Strange how a device such as the teleporter suit could cause the shadow of each bodily cell to leave the body, materialise and become a reality in its own right. And yet. He looked at the heel of his left hand. There was a long, irregular scar there. It was the result of a cut he had received nearly three weeks ago when he had fallen over this very table and had rammed his hand into a sliver of broken champagne glass. Later that evening, upon reteleporting back home, the pain of the cut had remained in his hand, but there was no sign of the cut itself. Himself, on the hand of his outer self, the scar was peculiar to the shadowy body only there was something about the shadowy body that carried the hurts to the outer body, but not the scars. Sudden laughter broke out near him and he turned quickly in that direction. A group of gaily costumed revellers were standing in a semicircle about a small mound of clothing upon the floor. It was the costume of the toreador. Hirill laughed too. It had happened many times before. A costume suddenly left empty as its owner, due to a threat of discovery at home, had had to press the switch in haste to bring his shadowy self and complete consciousness back to his outer self. In a hurry. A waiter picked up the clothing. He would put it safely away so that the owner could claim it upon his next visit to the club. Another waiter placed a fresh bottle of whisky on the table before Hirald and Hyrrol paid him for it. The whisky, reaching his head now in surges of warm cheerfulness, was filling him with abandonment, courage and a desire for merriment. He pushed himself up from the table, joined the merry throng, threw his arm about. The Persian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly to the throbbing rhythm. Dancing and holding on to each other tightly. Hiroll could feel her hot breath through her veil upon his neck, adding to the headiness of the liquor. His feeling of depression and inferiority flowed suddenly from him. Once again he was the all conquering male. His arm trembled as it drew her still closer to him and he began dancing directly and purposefully towards the shadows of a clump of artificial palms near one corner of the room. There was an exit to the garden behind the palms. Halfway there they passed a secluded booth from which protruded a long leg clad in black mesh stocking. Hirald paused as he recognized that part of the costume. It was she, the girl. The one he had met so briefly the night before. His arm slid away from the Persian dancer, took hold of the mesh clad leg and pulled. A female form followed the leg from the booth and fell into his arms. He held her tightly, kissed her white neck, let her perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey? She whispered her voice deep and throaty. You know it. He began whisking her away towards the palms. The Persian girl was pulled into the booth. Yes. She was wearing the same costume she had worn the night before, that of a can can dancer of the 90s. The mesh hose that encased her shapely legs were held up by flowered supporters in such a manner as to leave 4 inches of white leg exposed between hose top and lacy panties. Her skirt, frilled to suggest innumerable petticoats, fell away at each hip, leaving the front open to expose the full length of legs. She wore a wig of platinum hair encrusted with jewels that sparkled in the light. Her jewel studded mask was as white as her hair and covered the upper half of her face except for the large almond slits for her eyes. A white purse jewel crusted dangled from one arm. He stopped once before reaching the palms drew her closer, kiss kissed her long and ardently. Then he began pulling her on again. She drew back when they reached the shelter of the fronds. Champagne first, she whispered huskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very little money left. Well, it might buy a cheap brand. She sipped her champagne slowly and provocatively across the table from him. Her eyes sparkled behind the almond slits of her mask, caught the colour changes and cast them back. She was wearing contact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry with her drink. He had horrible visions of his wife at home taking off her televis and coming to his chair. He would then have to press the switch that would jerk his shadowy self back along its invisible connected cord, jerk him back and leave but a small mound of clothes upon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold of him. He would not be able to see her after to night until he received his monthly dole two weeks hence. She wouldn't wait that long. Someone else would have her. Unless. Yes. He knew now that he was going to kill his wife as soon as the opportunity presented itself. It would be a simple matter. With the aid of the teleporter suit he could establish an iron clad alibi. He took a long drink of whisky and looked at the dancers about him. Sight of their gay costumes heightened his depression. He was wearing a cheap suit of satin, all all he could afford. But some day soon he would show them. Sometime soon he would be dressed as gaily.
[287:57]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Something troubling you, honey?
[287:59]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
His gaze shot back to her and she blurred slightly before his eyes. No, nothing at all. He summoned a sickly smile and clutched her Hands in his. Come on, let's dance. He drew her from the chair into his arms. She melted towards him as if desiring to become part of him. A tremor of excitement surged through him and threatened to turn his knees into quivering jelly. He could not make his feet conform to the flooding rhythm of the music. He half stumbled, half pushed her along past the booths, in the shelter of the palms. He drew her savagely to him. Let's. Let's go outside. His voice was little more than a croak.
[288:51]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
But honey.
[288:52]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
She pushed herself away, her low voice maddening him.
[288:56]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Don't you have a private room?
[288:59]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
A girl doesn't like to be taken outside. Her words bit into his brain like the blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a private room at the club like the others. A private room for his teleporter receiver. A private room where he could take a willing guest. No, he couldn't afford it. No, no, no. His lot was a cheap suit of satin. Cheap whisky, cheap champagne. A cheap shack by the river. An inarticulate cry escaped his twisted lips. He clutched her roughly to him and dragged her through the door and into the moonlight. Whiskey and anger lending him brutal strength. He pulled her through the deserted garden. All the others had private rooms. He pulled her to the far end behind a clump of squatty furs. His hands, clothed, applauded her. He tried to smother her mouth with kisses. She eluded him deftly.
[290:05]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
But honey.
[290:07]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Her voice had gone deeper into her throat.
[290:10]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
I just want to be sure about things.
[290:12]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
If you can't afford one of the private rooms, if you can't afford to show me a good time, if you can't, come here real often. The whiskey pounded and throbbed at his brain like blows from an unseen club. His ego curled and twisted within him like a headless serpent. I'll have money. He shouted, struggling to hold her. I'll have plenty of money after tonight. Then we'll wait, she said.
[290:40]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
We'll wait until tomorrow night.
[290:43]
Narrator (Beyond Lies the Wub)
No.
[290:44]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
He screamed. You don't believe me. You're like the others. You think I'm no good. But I'll show you. I'll show all of you. She had gone coldly rigid in his arms. Unyielding madness added to the pounding in his brain, tears welling into his eyes.
[291:05]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
I'll show you.
[291:06]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
I'll kill her, then I'll have money. The hands clutching his shoulders shook her drunkenly.
[291:12]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
You wait.
[291:13]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Sure.
[291:13]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
I'll go home and kill her. Then I'll be back.
[291:17]
Narrator (The Unseen Blushers)
Silly boy.
[291:19]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
Her low laughter rang hollowly in his ears. And just who is it you are going to kill? My wife. He cried. My wife. I'll. A sudden, sobering thought struck him. He was talking too much and he wasn't making sense. He shouldn't be telling her this. Anyway, he couldn't get the money tonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you're going to kill your wife. He blinked the tears from his eyes. His chest was heaving, his heart pounding. He looked at her shimmering form. Yes? He whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in the light of the moon. Her handbag glinted as she opened it, and something she took from from it glittered coldly in her hand.
[292:13]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Fool.
[292:15]
Narrator (A Bottle of Old Wine)
The first shot tore squarely through his heart, and while he stood staring at her, mouth agape, a second shot burned its way through his bewildered brain. Mrs. Herbert Hirrel removed the Telophus from her head and laid it carefully aside. She uncoiled her long legs from beneath her, walked to her husband's chair, and stood for a long moment looking down at him, her lips drawn back in contempt. Then she bent over him and reached down his thigh until her fingers contacted the small switch. Seconds later a slight tremor shook Hill's body. His eyes snapped open, air escaped his lungs, his lower jaw sagged inanely, and his head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer, watching his eyes become glazed and sightless. Then she walked to the telephone. Police, she said. This is Mrs. Herbert Hirrel. Something horrible has happened to my husband. Please come over immediately. Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom, stripped off her clothing, and slid carefully out of her teleporter suit. This she folded neatly and tucked away into the false back of the medicine cabinet. She found a fresh pair of blue Plastifur pyjamas and got into them. She was arriving back into the living room, tying the cord of her dressing gown about her slim waist, when she heard the sound of the police siren out front. End of a bottle of old wine By Richard O. Lewis.
[294:10]
Narrator (Say Hello For Me / The Mathematicians)
The Mathematicians by Arthur Feldman this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. Domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the mathematicians by Arthur Feldman they were in the garden now, Zoe, said Xenia Hawkins to her nine year old daughter. Quit fluttering around and Papa will tell you a story. Zoe settled down in the hammock. A true story, Papa. It all happened exactly like I'm going to tell you, said Drake Hawkins, pinching Zoe's rosy cheek. Now, 2011 years ago, in 1985, figuring by the earthly calendar of that time, a tribe of beings from the Dog Star Sirius invaded the Earth. And what did these beings look like, Father? Like humans in many, many respects. They each had two arms, two legs and all the other organs that humans are endowed with. Wasn't there any difference at all between the star beings and the humans, Papa? There was the newcomers. Each and all had a pair of wings covered with green feathers growing from their shoulders and long purple tails. How many of these beings were there, Father? Exactly 3,000,041 male adults and 3 female adults. These creatures first appeared on Earth on the island of Sardinia in five weeks time. They were the masters of the entire globe. Didn't the Earthlings fight back, Papa? The humans warred against the invaders using bullets, ordinary bombs, super atom bombs and gases. What were those things like, Father? Oh, they've passed out of existence long ago. Ammunition, they were called. The humans fought each other with such things and not with ideas like we do now, Father. No, with guns. Just like I told you. But the invaders were immune to the ammunition. What does immune mean? Proof against harm. Then the humans tried germs and bacteria against the star beings. What were those things? Tiny, tiny bugs that the humans tried to inject into the bodies of the invaders to make them sicken and die. But the bugs had no effect at all on the star beings. Go on, Papa. These beings overran all Earth. Go on from there. You must know these newcomers were vastly more intelligent than the earthlings. In fact, the invaders were the greatest mathematicians in the system. What's the system? And what does mathematician mean? The Milky Way. A mathematician is one who is good at figuring, weighing, measuring, clever with numbers. Then, Father, the invaders killed off all the Earthlings? Not all. They killed many. But many others were enslaved. Just as the humans had used horses and cattle, the newcomers so used the humans. They made workers out of some others they slaughtered for food. Papa. What sort of language did these star beings talk? A very simple language, but the humans were never able to master it. So the invaders, being so much smarter, mastered all the languages of of the globe. What did the earthlings call the invaders, Father? Anvils. Half angels, half devils then, Papa. Everything was peaceful on Earth after the anvils enslaved the humans for a little while. Then some of the most daring of humans, led by a man named Knowal, escaped into the interior of Greenland. This know all was a psychiatrist, the foremost on Earth. What's a psychiatrist? A dealer in ideas. Then he was very rich. He'd been the richest human on earth. After some profound thought, Know all figured a way to rid the Earth of the anvils. How, Papa? He perfected a method called the Noel Hughes Ilinsky technique of imbuing these anvils with human emotions. What does imbuing mean? He filled them full of and made them aware of. Xenia interrupted. Aren't you talking a bit above the child's understanding, Drake? No, Mama, said Zoe. I understand what Papa explained. Now don't interrupt. So Know all continued Drake filled the anvils with human feelings such as love, hate, ambition, jealousy, malice, envy, despair, hope, fear, shame, and so on. Very soon the Anvils were acting like humans. And in 10 days, terrible civil wars wiped out the anvils population population by 2/3. Then, Papa, the anvils finally killed off each other, almost until among them a being named Zalabar, full of saintliness and persuasion, preached the brotherhood of all anvils. The invaders quickly converted, quit their quarrels, and the Earthlings were even more enslaved. Oh, Papa, weren't Knowal and his followers in Greenland awfully sad the way things had turned out for a while. Then Know all came up with the final payoff. Is that slang, Papa? Payoff? Yes, the coup de grace. The ace in the hole that he'd saved if all else failed. I understand, Papa. The idea that would out trump anything the other side had to offer. What was it, Father? What did they have? Know all imbued the anvils with nostalgia. What is nostalgia? Homesickness? Oh, Papa wasn't knowal smart. That meant the anvils were all things filled with the desire to fly back to the star from where they had started. Exactly. So one day, all the anvils, an immense army flapping their great wings, assembled in the Black Hills of North America. And at a given signal, they all rose up from Earth. And all the humans chanted, glory, glory, the day of our deliverance. So then, Father, all the anvils flew away from Earth. Not all. There were two child anvils, one male and one female aged two years, who had been born on Earth. And they started off with all the other anvils and flew up into the sky. But when they reached the upper limits of the stratosphere, they hesitated, turned tail and fluttered back to Earth, where they had been born. Their names were Zizo and Ziza. And what happened to Zizo and Zizza, Papa? Well, like all the Anvils, they were great mathematicians, so they multiplied. Oh, Papa, laughed Zoe, flapping her wings excitedly. That was A very nice story. End of the Mathematicians by Arthur Feldman Read by D. Searles.
[303:00]
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Turn Backward O Time by Walter Kubelius 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 Kelly Wilcox Baird Turn Backward O Time by Walter Kubelius the one hope for Donovan was to escape into the past, become a citizen of the early 20th century. But he overlooked the aftermath. Del W. Crane CD Donovan held the Identoplast in his hands, the fingers trembling slightly. What do the letters CD stand for? He asked, determined to play the part of an honest citizen who had no interest in unlicensed rejuvenation or time travel. The chalk faced young man with the fixed smile told him, cyclic Detection. You may have heard our more dramatic nickname name. Criminal Destroyers. I've been an agent since 2452. High strung, Donovan moistened his lips. Of course he had heard of the cd. In an age when cyclic travel backward through the centuries was an established science, the Komitet that governed the home planet had to employ ruthless measures to cope with any expense. Experimenters whose uncontrolled work might threaten to change past temporal cycles. The CD were the scavengers of the world Komitet. They scoured the past centuries, eliminating illegal and unlicensed cyclic travelers in a rigidly controlled solar system. There were thousands of lawbreakers, political disappointees, and even youth seekers like like Donovan, who hoped for life extensions in past ages. The cd, with terror and all the resources of the solar system, hunted them down and exterminated them quietly, ruthlessly and painfully. The criminal Blascomb, crane said, the fixed smile still on the thin lips, has been observed near the Donovan metallurgical plant. The Comitet suspects that someone close to your office may have established contact with him for illegal rejuvenation. His eyes left Donovan's taut face and scanned the office walls. Control boards, recording operations, and extraterrestrial metal implants lined two sides of the office. The only break in the sternness of the walls was an antique piece painting, a still life abstraction that must have dated way back to the 20th century. Crane stared at its flashes of color, the fixed smile turning to amused contempt. Donovan dare not ask for additional details. The word or whim of the Komitet was law. Criminal, destroyer. Donovan shuddered. He had spent the past six months in quietly transferring ownership of the trust to various fronts for Blascombe, a fortune worth several erg units squared to the sixth power had already changed hands. Had the CD caught him before Blascomb could deliver on the Rejuvenation and Time escape deal? We have nothing to hide, donovan said. My staff will cooperate with the cd. I assume you want access to the psycho record files. Adele W. Crane, contemptuous eyes turning away from the still life, reached a bony hand for the approval slip. I will let you know what I find. Donovan stood up, and when the CD agent left, he frantically sent out a conscious call to Blasco. Thought frequency number by the commitet. Blascomb's wave induced voice rang in Donovan's ears. I told you never to call me unless it was most urgent. This is urgent, Donovan thought desperately. Crane, a CD agent was here a minute ago. He's going to look over the books of the Trust. He won't find a thing. Blascomb's thoughts were confident in Donovan's mind. They haven't caught a single one of the men I've sent back into the 17th century. Just be patient and we'll cyclic you out within a week. Then hurry. My heart's in bad shape and I can't last much longer. I'm practically being kept alive by that rotten Castellan serum. Stay alive for one more week, Blascombe thought encouragingly, and you'll be young for centuries. Turn backward, turn backward, O time in thy flight. The song sped through Donovan's mind, lifting his spirits to be young again and to be free from the constant supervision and threat of the terrifying sea cd. As for Crane, Blascom went on, it's part of the service I'm giving you. We've arranged a false lead case in your office. Crane has his talons set for your brother in law shortly before the CD annihilates him. Your escape will be arranged to throw suspicion upon him. We will make it seem that your brother in law killed you for denouncing him to the C cd. Crane will never see through the subterfuge. You'll be safe. Perhaps forever. His brother in law's life was a cheap price to pay for youth. Donovan stared at his stiff corpse like cans. All he needed was one more week. He would make one more effort to secure a life extension. And then the examiner for the Board of Life waited while Donovan dressed. The answer could already be seen in the official's eyes. No, I'm sorry, the examiner said, but the laws of the Kami tet are fairly stringent. Only those whose social value is above par 195 may be rejuvenated. Not much value is placed upon engineers and trust managers who can easily be replaced. Replaced from each year's birth quota. The application is denied and there is no use appealing it. It's unjust. Donovan exclaimed, ignoring the alarming pain in his failing heart. All I want is 10 more years. Not even a full return to youth if there's no room on home planet. Let me go to the extraterrestrials or even some asteroid. I'll make any contribution required to. The examiner, who had often heard such vain pleas, wrapped his desk with the blood analyst. The comatet is far too wise to permit socially unnecessarily extension of the lifespan, just as it does not permit unlicensed time travel. What would happen if we allowed you to be rejuvenated and then permitted extraterrestrial immigration? There would be millions of old or sick people like you demanding equal treatment and equal consideration. Before long the planets and asteroids would be overpopulated and independent colonies set up there on which would eventually come in conflict with with the home planet Kamitet. No, my friend. The Kamitet is wise in decreeing that rejuvenation and human birth are mutually contradictory. Rather than sacrifice birth with the consequent stagnation of the human species, the Kamitet has decided rigidly to control youth extensions and grants those periods of additional life only to the socially valuable. Yes, donovan said bitterly. The Komitek keeps itself immortal while the rest of us have to die. The examiner's voice was hard. Shall I denounce you to the cd? I beg forgiveness, donovan said. Your decision is a just one, and I shall make no appeal. Blascomb had a very persistent thought call. Donovan relaxed in the office chair and let his consciousness level sync to the call number. This is the moment the thought patterns registered. The CD is about to close in with the faked evidence we've prepared. Your brother in law is about to call. Trust in me. All is ready. Do not become frightened, for the excessive adrenaline might upset the request acquired endocrine balance. Before he could frame a reply, Blascomb's thought faded away. The office door slid open and Edel W. Crane walked in. Donovan's heart throbbed painfully. Was this an unexpected crisis in their plans? Or had Blascom prepared even this? The CDs finished its analysis, crane said. I thought you might be interested. Naturally, I the case is very simple. I wish citizens would realize that they cannot fight against the enormous resources of the cd. We will destroy the public screen flashed urgently. Donovan excused himself and turned the knob. His brother in law's angry face switched into view. Donovan, that was a dirty, rotten thing to do. What right did you have to denounce me to the cd? I should kill you for this. Donovan's bewilderment was genuine. He felt Crane's eyes upon him, and a thrill of admiration for Blascomb's genius suddenly swept through him. What do you want? He managed to say. I've got to see you immediately. I Downstairs in back of the Pillow Cab station.
[313:52]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
Later.
[313:54]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
Now. The image snapped off. Donovan turned to the CD agent. Excuse me for a moment, he stammered. Some family trouble. I'll be back in a short while. Crane glanced up. I'll wait. Donovan walked through his office, conscious that he was doing this for the last time. Rejuvenation was like death. You put an end to a lifetime. Casually and without haste. At the Pillow Cab station, the wind cutting down from the whir of swooping cabs, Donovan met Blascomb. There were two bright flashes, and then the smell of disintegrated flesh. Blascomb gestured toward the graying pools on the plasticized floor in back of them. Murder and suicide, he said, obviously pleased with himself. The CD will think you're dead. The murderer's body is also there to provide a motive for the transfer of the trust funds in the event Crane becomes too thorough. He'll be here soon. We work fast now. The special Pillow Cab dropped them into a gravity shielded warehouse above the European desert. It housed Blascombe's laboratory. The rejuvenation process was even simpler than Donovan had expected. Not the fountain of youth, exactly, Blascomb explained as he plunged in the needle, but a selective antibody that attacks only aging tissue and forces replacement practically on an embryonic level of activity. Unlike the Calistan Serum, which is merely a stimulant, this antibody creates from its destroyed tissue a catalyst capable of stimulating chromosomes and genes. By the very process of feeding upon itself, the body grows younger. The net result is a reversal of the life process, an anabolism making you grow younger year by year, eventually to disappear as a single cell? Ultimately, yes. Long before that period, probably. When you're a young man, you'll have to return to 2482 for a reversion to normal metabolism. Can the process be repeated indefinitely? Donovan breathed deeply. Immortality. Blascom did not smile. Only if the CD does not find you. Unlicensed rejuvenation is punishable by execution in an extremely painful manner. You're a doomed man now. If the CD even finds you. The worst tortures of the Middle Ages would be nothing compared to what Crane would do to you or me if he tracks us down. You can stay in the present time cycle, donovan said. But I'm tired of control and supervision. Send me to some period where an individual had a chance to work and live without state control. Give me the times of individualism. CD agents are everywhere in the time cycles, tracking down illegal immigrants. Quite a number of men I've rejuvenated chose the Renaissance for escape. But I'm afraid that a good part of that cycle's carnage was the work of such CD agents as our friend Crane. I'd recommend another period. The Golden Age of Greece. Blascombe shook his head. Already taken. Aristotle, Plato, and a few others are 25th century men. Archimedes was murdered by a CD agent, and Socrates sent to his death by a group of them. Their fates were known to history. Why did those men leave the 25th century to live in that cycle? He shrugged his shoulders. They probably felt that the few years of extra life were worth it. Well, into what period would you want to go, and what would you do there? I do not understand the paradoxes, donovan said. What if I chose to build gravity deflectors in ancient Rome? It would be impossible because there were no such manufacturers. Then it would mean that you were either promptly killed by a CD agent who recognized the anachronistic attempt, or you had changed your mind. But if I choose any period, it means that I can alter history at will, which presumes that the present can also be changed. That is what the Kami Tech believes, and that is why the CD is so ruthless and brutal with unlicensed time travelers. The real answer is that in the final analysis, your decision to choose a certain time period is already made, and the things you will do are already determined. Free will is an illusion. It is synonymous with incomplete perception. Then send me into the 20th century as an engineer. I would be able to make some sort of living there. Dangerous. Don't practice your profession. Study some field which is completely alien to you, so that should you come across a CD agent, he would not recognize the work of a 25th century man. You mean like an artist or a writer? Why not? Donovan laughed. I've never held a paintbrush or written more than a one page letter. But why not unloose the cyclic band? Blascomb, set me loose in the 20th century and give my regards to the CD. In the dimly lighted garret above the tavern, Donovan stood before his easel. His face was no longer lined, for the past 25 years had made him a much younger man. He had taken Blascombe's advice and had studied a field completely alien to him in his own time, the 25th century. His paintings would have been considered laughably amateurish, but for 1926 they were infinitely superior to anything produced by 20th century artists. Why can't they see? He asked his agent angrily when his third show passed without the sale of a single painting. I can see them, the agent said, standing in front of a still life abstraction with flashes of color. But your way of working is far too advanced for our time. Believe me, a few hundred years from now your paintings will be regarded as the work of a great genius. In the meantime, I starve. I can help you. Donovan threw down the paint brushes. No, no. There's no use being ahead of one's time. I can't make a living as an artist. I may as well go back to digging ditches. Maybe you can work part time and paint at night. What did you do before you started painting? He hesitated. But what was there to be afraid of? I. I was an engineer. I can get you a job with a construction company.
[321:21]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Keep Out / A Bottle of Old Wine)
No.
[321:22]
Grainger Commercial Announcer
No. I want nothing to do with engineering. Nothing. In the 25 years that he had lived in the 20th century, he had turned from a man of 65 to a healthy, robust 40. For a long time he had lived in fear that the dreaded arms of the CD would reach out for him and that he would stand face to face with terror inspiring Crane. But he had never met anyone who seemed to be a cd, a criminal destroyer. Sometimes he felt the avenging sword of the Kamitet hanging over his head. There were some statesmen and philosophers mentioned in the newspapers whose ideas seemed to indicate a 25th century origin. But he avoided them in the fear that they might be plants to draw out the illegals in. It was probably that the CD would never find out the deception. And if they did, there was little chance of locating him among the 2 billion people on home planet. You have to make a living somehow. The agent persisted. I know nothing but engineering, donovan said. And that I will never do. Maybe there's some other field in which you could use engineering skills. He thought, thought for a moment, and then reached into his briefcase. I picked this up for you on a newsstand. Thought you might like it. Donovan glanced at the magazine's cover. It's the latest thrill. Science fiction. Maybe with your engineering knowledge you could write a story or two. When the agent left, Donovan read through the magazine, then went out to look up other stories of the same nature. One story offered A time travel theory which was absurdly inaccurate. Another purported to deal with the inhabitants of Mars, none of which looked at all the way the writers imagined them to be. Donovan read as many as he could find and was fascinated by the hopeless incompetence and scientific inaccuracy of the so called writers. The time travel story was laughable. Even a child could produce a far more exciting, exciting tale by describing the Watson Gorshevich experiments that led to the discovery of repetitive time cycles back in 2364. Why not, he thought to himself, why not write these stories of the future? Who could do them better than a man who had come from the future? These were not engineering journals where accuracy was required, nor would anyone ever act upon the scientific discoveries he might record. Above all, no one would attempt to build any machines which would immediately attract the attention of the cd. He would do nothing which would in the slightest way affect historic development. Pressed by the need for money and fascinated by the possibilities in science fiction, Donovan began to write a story. He employed a pen name and avoided the general theory of retrograde cycle travel backward above time time, but limited himself to traveling spirally into the future. He described the mechanism he himself would have to produce in order to get back to Blascombe for anabolism correction and produced a fanciful tale regarding life in the year 3000. The letter from the editor came within a week. Dear Mr. Donovan, enclosed fine check for your story Turn Backward o Time. I have seldom read a more convincing fantasy. One could almost believe that the apparatus you described would actually work. I believe this story will be a science fiction classic, and I'm placing your original manuscript in my collection. I would appreciate seeing other examples of your work. When the story appeared in print, several paragraphs describing the construction of the time machine were omitted by the editor. Technically unconvincing, they told him they mar up the verisimilitude of a great story. Turn Backward o Time became an instant success. A few days later, Donovan contributed another story, this time based on actual events on Jupiter, which he simply transferred to a different time cycle on Vega, vaguely recalling some warning of Blascombe's that while the future could not be changed, it was best to play safe and not draw attention of the cd. He twisted and changed all the specific facts involved. The check for the second story was promptly sent. Within a few months, Donovan, under his pseudonym, which was kept secret, was launched upon a career as a writer of science fiction. Readers praised him for his convincing fantasy, and editors competed for his services. Memory of the 25th century gradually faded from his mind as years passed. At times he awoke in horror after nightmares that Crane of the CD had finally caught him. But these terrifying dreams became rarer. He had exposed himself repeatedly in fiction. Time and time again he had described actual historical events of the space colony wars in his stories. On one occasion he described the technique for the cure of cancer discovery discovered in 2019. The reader section of the magazine soon carried letters from doctors who were amused that a writer could present such a simple household remedy and dare suggest that it might be efficacious for cancer. Donovan was amused by the thought that Crane might be diligently searching for him somewhere in the Renaissance. If so, the CD agent's fury must be mounting. He changed his name and identity every 10 years to conceal his gradual return to youth. He had the pleasure of seeing himself hailed as his successor in popularity as he established new names and let the older ones die out. His excuse to the editors was that he wanted to enter into competition anew, make sure that his name alone was not carrying the stories. He was happy. Sometimes, however, later stories were panned by fans as quote imitations of the classics by the greatest STF writer the world has ever known. End quote. Only the aging gentleman who had bought Donovan's first manuscript knew. But the old man signed the checks and said nothing. In his happiness and self satisfaction, Donovan became more careless with his stories. If he had been able to outwit Crane and the dreaded cd, surely he could dash off stories good enough for the poor minds of the 20th century Science fiction readers. Then the tide turned. Fan letters in the magazines began really to tear into his fiction. They were third rate. They lacked imagination. They were ordinary stories written by an ordinary mind. And science fiction required tales written by men whose minds were well ahead of the 20th century thought. The day finally came when all the editors began rejecting his stories. First one, then another, and finally every story written received a rejection slip. Donovan could not understand the reason for the change. A few years ago, or was it decades? Each story of his was labeled a classic. Now they were not even acceptable. Had science fiction changed so much since his decision to become a writer in 1929? He dared not discuss it with anyone, for he had no friends and he trusted no one. The CD was everywhere. But there was one man with whom he had the deepest concern confidence. Donovan visited the aging editor and felt sorry for the worn out old man. He himself had once been like this, but was now free from death. He thought of taking his benefactor with him to the 25th century and saving the editor's life. But suppose Blascomb's laboratory had been captured? Donovan could manage for himself, but it would be cruel to leave the old man in the deadly hands of the sea. CD no, it was best to say nothing about rejuvenation to the editor. He would only think Donovan was trying out a story idea. I've been your editor for 30 years. The old man's voice cracked. His half blind eyes loomed through thick lenses. It's been a long time, Donovan said. My. My eyes are not what they used to be, the other said. A man about 50 years old wrote that great classic Turn Backward O Time. He must be about 80 now. But you look only 20. Ah, Laddie, you're trying to fool me. You must be his son. That's right, Donovan said quickly. We have the same name. Then that explains it, the other said wearily. It would break my old heart if a talent like your father's disintegrated. But we came to talk about your stories. No, son, you're not the writer your father was. Your tales lack imagination. There's no originality in them. The ideas are hackneyed, the writing third rate. They sound like poor imitations of the great tales told by your father. There was a man. There was a writer. Donovan left him, keeping the secret of his identity. When he returned to his home, he looked in the mirror and the face of a rose cheeked 20 year old youngster stared back at him. 50 years of happy living in the 20th century. It would soon be necessary to return to the 25th century century so that Blascomb could reverse the antibiotic catalytic process that had set him growing younger. It was impossible to stay in his present youthful state much longer. In a few years he would be a child. With a sigh, he walked to his desk, took out paper and pen and began to draw the diagrams for the apparatus which would send him Forward into the 25th century. For three hours he worked confidently and then the sweat began to drip from his forehead and his heart began to pound fearfully. It's not possible, he said uneasily. It will all come back to me soon. Now, what did that devil Blascomb tell me? He had become lazy and his brain would not be used to hard work. He said this to himself, but he could not shake off the sense of fear. He took a cold shower, rubbing himself briskly, then shot a stimulant into his bloodstream. Preparing the desk once more, he began to work. The papers gathered, the pencils broke, and the night gradually turned to morning. The finished sketch of the cycle travelers was basically correct. But the most important operating mechanism was still missing. Try as he could, he was unable to bring it up from his memory. By the solar system, he swore. What is the matter with me? I have forgotten every detail. He tried to think back. At one time he had known the mechanism thoroughly. As an engineer, he was completely familiar with every single plate and tube. But now he couldn't remember anything but the general appearance of the finished machine. Fear spurred his mind as he hunted for a solution. Something was happening to his mind. He began to think of his stories. The same thing had happened there at one time. He remembered every detail of life in the 25th century and could describe them easily now. Events were dim and he knew now why. His recent stories were poor. They were not written from actual memory of the future, but were the ordinary stories one might expect from a 20 year old boy. The past was dim and memory faded. Blascomb and Crane. Crane and Plascom. Which was the CD agent and what was the cd? Anyway, enough of the details remained to shock him into an awareness of his desperate plight. The rejuvenation process had worked to too well, for Donovan had waited dangerously long. As the body grew younger, the tissue cells were consumed and youthful cells replaced them. The process that had worked for body cells did the same for the cells of the brain. Those portions of the brain containing the knowledge and ability of a 70 year old man were gradually being replaced with new, untrained cells. He failed to re educate himself as new cells replaced the old and had come to the brink of disaster. Sufficient intelligence and manual dexterity remained to compensate for that. But in a few years the task would be hopeless. Excitedly, for he knew his life depended on it. He rummaged through his bookshelves, looking for a copy of his first story turned backward. O Time Time it contained, he remembered a concise, accurate description of the mechanism for the time machine. The magazine itself was old, the sheets turning brown and the pages breaking. He read the story in haste, vaguely remembering the plot. The actual description of the operating mechanism he found, to his consternation, was missing. I will cut out one or two paragraphs, the editor had said. They are not convincing. Technically, they lack verisimilitude. Not convincing. If he did not find them, he was doomed to become a child and then a babbling idiot of a baby and would disappear entirely within 20 years. He telephoned the magazine's office and asked for the editor. Sorry, the secretary said. Mr. O' Sloane's quite ill. The doctors are afraid he might not pass through the night. He's very old, you know. Can he speak? Donovan asked desperately. He's had a stroke. Can't say a word. Completely paralyzed. Sorry. Donovan cursed the carelessness that had led him to this difficult position. He knew that o' Sloan kept the originals of his favorite stories in a collection in his office. If o' Sloan died, it was possible that some enterprising youthful editor would destroy the old manuscripts in a fit of house cleaning. This is Donovan, he said quickly. I'm trying to locate the original copy of Turn Backward O Time, which o' Sloan had in his files. I must study the original papers. It's extremely important. If there is a substitute editor, will you ask him to keep an eye out for it? Certainly. He sighed and took a taxi to the editorial office. It would be best to get it as quickly as possible. The original manuscript was quite safe. Donovan need only copy the original description. Even if he were no longer able to grasp the theory of it. The machine was still easy enough to build from the description. Within a few hours he would be back in the 25th century for a reversal. For his next trip back, he would choose ancient Egypt. The 20th century was heading for the atomic wars, and he was fortunate in being able to escape. After Egypt, he would choose the Inca civilization. Did they not have legends of white gods that ruled them? The world was his and he would be forever young. Immortality was within his grasp. No one could stop him now. He arrived at the building and rushed up the steps to the editorial office. We found the manuscript, Mr. Donovan, the secretary told him brightly. Looking twice at the flushed, handsome face. Donovan stepped into O. Sloan's office. Practically nothing had been touched as yet, for one of the staff editors had just begun to sort a pile of stacked papers from several cabinets. Donovan recognized the original manuscript of Turn Backward O Time upon the desk and hurriedly skimmed through the pages. The description was intact, and while he could not remember why such a machine would work, he knew that it could be built and he could escape. With a sigh he pocketed the manuscript and introduced himself to the young editor who would probably succeed O. Sloan upon his death. Oh, yes, the editor with the curious thin smile said. I have heard, heard quite a bit about you and have been waiting a long time for this meeting. We've met before, you know. Really? Donovan said. The face did appear familiar, but he could not recall the occasion. My name is Edel W. Crane. CD Donovan felt a cold tremor of fear shake his body. He moistened his leg. What do the letters CD Stand for? The pasty faced young man closed and then locked the door of the office, walking towards Donovan, the smile no longer there, he told him. Then he did what he had come to do. End of turn backward O time By Walter Cubilius.
[339:29]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Our Town by Jerome Bixby 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 Ben Tucker Our Town by Jerome Bixby A jet bomber and four fighters had appeared low over Bald Ridge out of the east. They'd curved up as one to clear Lawson's Hill, their stubby wings almost brushing the treetops, their hiss and thunder rolling back and forth between the valley walls like a giant's derision. They dipped into the valley proper, obviously informed that Smoky Creek, Tennessee, population 123, had no anti aircraft installations, and circled the town at about 500ft. They circled and looked down, broad Slavic faces with curious expressions seen through plexiglasses, if thinking, so, this is an American small town. Then they took altitude and got to work. The first bomb was aimed at the big concrete railway bridge spanning the upper end of the valley that was the main objective of the attack. The bomb exploded 400 yards north of the bridge at about 600ft altitude, the ideal point from which to flatten Smoky Creek. Low altitude bombing can be tricky, of course, especially in mountain column country. A bombs were cheap, though turned out by the carload, not like 20 years before when they were first developed. So it was likely the bombardier tripped a bomb over the town just for the hell of it. The next bomb got the bridge. The next tore up a quarter mile of track, the next tore up a quarter mile of road. That was the mission. The bombers circled while the fighters strafed Smoky Creek for good measure, and then they roared away past Lawson's Hill, over Baldridge into the east, toward their invasion coast base. Everybody died. The bombs were midget as designed for tactical use, so Smoky Creek wasn't reduced to dust, just to sticks. There wasn't much heat from the bomb and there was hardly any residual radiation, but everybody in town died. Concussion. Smoky Creek had been comprised of one main street and three cross streets, and that's not much area. The wave had thumped down from right above like a giant fist. Everybody died except 21 old men and women who had been off in the woods at the far end of the valley on their annual grand folks picnic. They didn't die except inside. Three months later an enemy jet came out of the sky and over the Valley. A scoop arrangement under its belly was sniffing Tennessee and Alabama air for radioactive particles. It sniffed low over the town, and then again, a ruined town might hide an underground lab and converter. And then it barrel rolled and crashed. Nine rifle bullets had hit the motor straight back through the jet intake into the blades. A year after that another jet came low over the town and it crashed too. Only three bullets this time, but a jet motor's like a turbine. You get a blade or two and it goes crazy. Two years after that, Ben Bates, no longer Mayor Ben because a mayor has to have a town. But still the man in charge knocked off playing horseshoes in what had been the town hall. Now the building served as a recreation hall. There were horseshoe pits at one end of the long room, there were tables for checkers and cards, and a short ten pin alley along one wall. Three years ago the alley had been twice as long as it was now. But then there were young men around who could peg the length of it without tiring every time. Overhead the roof sagged, and in one place you could see quite a piece of sky. But under the hole the old men had rigged a slanted board watershed that led to a drainage ditch, and scattered through the room were a lot of supporting posts and timber braces. Actually, the building was about as safe as it had ever been. There were other buildings like it, buildings that the bomb hadn't pounded flat or made too risky. They were propped up and nailed together and buttressed and practically glued so they'd stay up from outside. You'd think they were going to crumble any minute. Walls slanted, all cockeyed, boards peeled off and hanging, and roofs buckling in. But they were safe, fixed up every which way from the inside, all from the inside, not an inch of repair on the outside. It had to be that way because the town had to look like a dead town. After the men had finished propping, the women had come along with all the furniture and things they'd salvaged, and they swept and scrubbed and did a hundred jobs the men never would have thought of. And so the old people ended up with half a dozen buildings to live in secretly and comfortably in the town that had to look dead. Arthritis is bad, Ben Bates told his teammates and opponents. Hell, I'm just giving away points. Maybe next week I'll rest up and kick you all around. Next week. He lit a cigar, a big gray man with long legs and a good humored mouth, and he watched Dan Pare throw one short. Then he strolled over to Kibbets at the Checker game between Fat Sam Hogan and Wendy Harris at one of the tables near the door. Late morning sunlight slanted in through the window by the table and struck light off Wendy's glasses as he leaned across the board, thumped a checker three times, and said triumphantly, king me, Sam, you're getting blind. I swear. Or dumber. Behind his back Ben Bates heard a shoe ringing against the stake. Then he heard it spin off and he grinned at Owen Urie's bullfrog. Cussing, Tom Pace was saying urgently, look, look, Jim, damn it, you didn't no more shoot down that plane single handed than I did. We was all shooting. God almighty, where you get off claiming you brung it down? Ben turned and sat down at the table next to the checker game and stretched his legs in the sunlight. He raised thick brows like clumps of steel wool at Tom and at old Jim Lytell, who sat in his pillowed armchair like a thin, scowling, bald man sized spider. You keep talking so high and mighty, tom said, we'll carry you out of here and take you and dump you in the creek. You can tell the fish about who got the plane. Still arguing over who planted the shot, huh? Ben grinned. Regular feud, you two. Well, help Ben, tom said, and bit down on his gum so his whiskers almost hid the end of his nose. I just get filled up on this old windbag holler and how he you gonna call me a windbag once more, Tom Pace, Jim Lydell said, and he stirred his all but helpless body in the armchair. You're gonna have a sore eye, you 70 year old whippersnapper. I brung it down and a hog's behind. You brung it down, Mr. Daniel Boone? It was just after I let loose it started smoking, old Jim snarled. Nobody else was shooting right then. You're going to get a sore eye, I swear. Tobacco in it. I can spit to where you sit, and I can spit faster than you can move, I bet. Unless you're faster than a fly. And you ain't, you just ask anybody who was there. It was just after I shot. It started. Tom Pace thumped the table. I was there. You old. Now, now, Jim, don't spit, for God's sake. Hold on what I mean, I was there too, and maybe somebody's shot from a second or two before was what done the trick. Maybe even my shot. Takes a plane a while to know it's hurt, don't it? Ever think of that? Maybe, Ben Bates said. Maybe. Maybe. And maybe let it go, you two it ain't important who done it. We ought to just be grateful we got it. Grateful I got it, Jim Lydell grunted. Tom Pace said, now looky here, Jim. Ben Bates nudged Tom's leg under the table, and then, slowly fingering his jaw, he said, well, now, Jim, I figure maybe you did hit that. Like you said, it smoked and crashed right after you shot, so I always kind of figured it was you brought it down. But that's a hard thing to prove. Jim snorted. Can't prove it, but I got it all right. A man knows when he's sunk a shot in a varmint. Maybe Tom Pace objected, or a man, but you claiming to know where to hit a plane the worst. We was all shooting at the front, up where they put the motor. Jim said nastily, don't know about planes, but I know my aim. I got it square on. Well, ben said, why don't you just let it lay, eh, Tom? Jim's got a lot on his side. He looked sideways at old Jim and saw that Jim was still scowling at Tom. Old Jim was 98 and some settin his notions. Mmm, hell, tom said reluctantly after a second, I ain't saying you didn't, Jim. That ain't my intent. I just get burned when you yell you did, like no man dared say you was wrong. Sure, maybe you're right, but you ain't willing to admit you might be wrong, too.
[348:05]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
No, Jim.
[348:06]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
Lydell yelled, and from the checker table came Wendy Harris's encouraging, you tell him who got that plane, Jim. Ben Bates scraped an inch of ash off his cigar against the table edge, sighed, and got up. He looked down at the glowering pair and said, well, come the next plane, if there is one, we'll shove a rifle in your hand, Jim, and see how good your eye is. You too, Tom. Till that time. Reckon this is no place for a reasoning man. Sit down, Ben Bates, old Jim snarled. If you're a reasoning man, sit down. Be glad to talk to him. One after Tom here goes away, you go to hell. I ain't going no place, tom said, and he picked up the cards and started shuffling them in his stiff hands. Ben sat down and stretched out his legs again. After a second Old Jim said wistfully, you know, I wish I could still handle a rifle, Ben, or do anything but sit. No way for a man to live to have dead legs and dying arms. He shifted in his cushions. You know, I reckon when I started to really die, die all over, I'm going to get up out of this chair. I'll stand up somehow, even if it kills me faster. A man ought to fall when he dies, like a tree, so they know he stood up in his time. A man oughtn't to die sitting down. Sure, Jim Ben said. You're right about that. Never had a sick day in my life until they dropped that bomb. Why, I could out pitch and out chop and out shoot any of you whippersnappers until they old Jim walloped the chair arm. Damn, I made up for it, though, didn't I? They put me in a chair, I sat in it, and I got me an airyplane, and that's more than they could do to me. By golly, they couldn't kill me. Sure, Jim, Ben said. And when my time comes, I'll be up and out of this chair. Man ought to fall and make a noise when he dies. Sure, Jim Ben said. But that's a long ways off, ain't it? Jim closed his eyes and his face looked like a skull. You squirt always thinks a man lives forever. From outside came the late morning sounds, the murmuring of Smoky Creek at the edge of town under its cool tunnel of willows, the twittering of a flock of robins circling above the constant soft rustle of the trees that crowded the green hills around. From the warehouse down by the tracks came the faint sounds of livestock and the voices of the men whose job it was to look after them this week, to feed them, turn them out into the big pens for an hour's sunlight, then drive them back into the warehouse again. Lucky the warehouse had stood the bomb. It was perfect for the use. Wonder how the war is going, Tom Pace said. He dropped some cards and bent painfully to retrieve them. His voice was muffled. I just wonder how it's going, you know? Wonder who's killing more than who today. Maybe, tom continued, coming up. It's all over. Ain't seen no planes for a couple years now. Maybe somebody won. Ben shrugged. Who knows? Don't matter none to us. We're ready as we can be if another plane comes around. Other than that, it ain't our concern. Dar Tootin, tom said, and pushed the cards together and started shuffling again. Jim Lydell said war and looked like he'd bitten to spoiled meat. Never settled nothing. Just makes the biggest dog top dog for a while so he can get his way. Man, I wish I could still lift a rifle. If an airyplane come around, I'd love to get me another one. He put his thin back against the cushions and pushed at the edge of the table with his hands. Jim's fingers didn't move so well anymore. Some were curled and some were straight out and the joints were different sizes, and now they were trembling a little. Sometimes when I think, oh, Johnny and Helen and all the kids, when I think of that day and those damn bombs and that white tower of smoke up over the town, oh, God Almighty, I'd love to see another airyplane. I'd shout and yell and pray. I pray Almighty God, for you to get it. Ben pulled on his cigar with stiff lips and said slowly, well, we might, Jim. We just might. Two out of seven ain't bad. He puffed out smoke. We've been running in luck so far, what with nobody ever coming back loaded for bear. Reckon that means the other five didn't see as low as they was. Probably didn't even know they were being shot at. They must have found bullet holes, though, tom Pace said afterwards. Not a chance. We'd all missed. He bobbed his beard at old Jim. Especially with Daniel Boone here plugging away. They'd know they was shot at, all right. Might even find rifle bullets. Maybe they did, ben said. Nobody ever comes snooping back, though. Wouldn't know where to, would they? Wendy Harris said. He and Fat Sam Hogan had stopped playing checkers and had been listening. Smoky Creek looks dead as Sodom. Buildings all down and stuff. Knee deep in the streets. Bridge down and the road out, and the valley is way the hell out of the way. No call for them to suspect it more than any place else. Less even. They likely figure somebody took a potshot from a hill, and there's a pack of hills between here and outside. Looks like, Ben said. We just got to keep it that way. Anyway, we got a good plan. If the plane's up high, we just freeze under cover. If it comes down low a time or two, we figure we're likely spotted and start shooting. We shoot, and maybe it shoots too, and we pray. That's a good plan, Jim Lydell said, looking out the window. We got two. Wendy Harris got up and stretched out his arms. Two ain't enough, old Jim said bitterly. Well, said Wendy. I hope we keep on getting them as sees us anyway. Hope nobody ever knows we're here. It's peaceful here, way off by ourselves. Nothing to do but get up and go to bed and do what we want in between. He sent tobacco juice into the cuspidora by the door. Right now me, I guess I'll go fishing down by the creek, promised Maud. I'd bring home a cat or two for supper. Anybody come along? Tom Pace shook his head and old Jim looked like he'd like to go, if only he could, and Ben said, maybe I'll go down a little while later. Wendy, keep to the trees. Wendy left, and Tom Pace shuffled the cards and looked over at Jim. Lydell, you gonna play with Ben and me, you old windbag, or you gonna keep braggin so loud a man can't stand your company? Why, you whippersnapper, jim growled. You just go ahead and run him, Reggin. A reasoning man and a nitwit's about the best I can do right now. Tom dealt out two cards and said more without dealing out the rest. He looked at Ben, his eyes cloudy. Got a cigar, Ben? Ben handed one over and held a match, and Tom got it going, puffing longer than he had to, like he didn't want to talk yet. Then he said, it didn't have to happen. He worked the cigar over to the corner of his mouth and settled it in the nest of stained whiskers there. None of it had to happen. What happened here and whatever happened outside the valley, it just didn't have to happen. Course it didn't, Ben said. Never has to. It just always does. Some people got reasons to let it happen, and some ain't got the sense not to. Fat Sam Hogan said, I don't figure there's anything in the world a man can't sit down and talk out instead of reaching for a gun. Don't know why that oughtn't a hole for countries. Ben Bates looked at one of the two cards Tom Pace had dealt his hole, a card. It was a four, and he lost interest. Yep, he said. It holds all right. They'll just both reach half the time anyway. One war on top of another. Even one right after this one. Ten years or so if this one's over. I just bet every country wants a of piece piece out of the next one's hide or his poke, and they won't give an inch except in talk. They won't really buckle down to stop a war, never. Not if they can't get what they want by talk. He looked at the card again, just in case before. Sure enough, only time there's never war is when everybody has what they want or figure they can get it without killing somebody. But the second they see that's the only way, then it's war, war, war, war. It's a rotten way to run a world, killing to decide who's right or wrong, especially killing people who got damn little to say about it. But I seen three, four wars now, and they don't look to stop soon judging. He shook his head wonderingly. Put half the money they spend on killing towards curing instead, and help them that wants and finding out all about diseases and such. Why, shucks, it'd be a brand new world. I seen five, jim Lydell said. I seen wars come and go. I fought in one afterwards. Every time they say everything's fine. The war to save this or that's over and things are fine. Then somebody wants something somebody else has, and they're at it again like two bulls trying to hump the same heifer. Bulls don't have enough sense to know there's enough cows to go around. But people ought to big enough world. He worked those hands of his together until they were clasped, and he pushed them that way against the table edge until the overgrown knuckles looked like chonk. When I think of that noise and that cloud, how we come running and screaming back here into all the dust and mess and all them bodies. Ben, you lost heavy, Jim, Ben said. He let smoke out of his lungs and it curled off into the broad beam of sunlight that came through the window, and it looked like the smoke that had shadowed a murdered town.
[357:54]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Heavy.
[357:55]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
You lost heavier than any of us. You can't count it, old Jim said, and the chalk was whiter. We all lost the same. I just had more of it. Our kids and their kids and their kids lost heavy. What can a man lose more than his life? And if you're as old as us, what's your life except a family you made out of your own flesh? What else has a man got when he's 80 or a hundred? Tom Pace said. Ruth and Dave and their kids. I remember little Davey. He called me Tom Peach. I bought him a toy plane for his birthday. That was a couple days before the real planes come. I buried it with him, I said. I think it was him I put it with. It might have been Joey. They looked alike. A man ain't nothing when he's as old as us, jim Lyedell said, his skull sockets closed. Except what he's done. He ain't much anymore himself. He's mostly what he done with his life. Whatever he done and left around that, he can point to and say, I did that, that's all. And what's he got left? If they take that away, we can't make it again. We made Smoky Creek built it. Wasn't a thing here that didn't come out of us or ours. We made the valley after God give it to us. Wasn't a thing here. We didn't let live or help live or make live. We made our families and watched them fit into the town in the valley like the valley fits into the world, and we watched them go on doing what we done before them, building and working and planting and raising farm families, going on like people got to go on. That's the way it was. That's what we had until they dropped a bomb and killed it, killed all we done that made us men. Tears were squeezing out of the skull sockets and Ben Bates caught Tom's payside and looked away out the window at the green walls of the valley that was a coffin. I just wish an ary plane would come around again, old Jim said. I just wish. You know, Ben. Ben tried to talk and had to clear his throat. He put out his cigar in the ashtray as if that was what was wrong with his throat, and said, I know, Jim. Sure. Maybe you'll get your wish. He pushed back his chair and tried to grin, but it came out sour. Maybe you will, you old fire eater. And what if one comes and we get spotted and it shoots us up or goes back and tells everybody we're here? That's one wish we don't want the good Lord to grant, ain't it? Ain't it, now? Jim didn't say anything. Ben got up and said, bout noon. Guess I'll go home for a bite and then go down and fish with Wendy, jim said thinly. I meant I wish one would come and we'd get it. Well, maybe one will, ben said, turning toward the door. They built a slew of them, and maybe we will if it does. He stopped by the door of the town hall to listen carefully, his sharp old eyes half shut. Behind him, at the far end of the room, somebody made a ringer and Dave Mason said, nice Owen in his reedy voice. Ben listened and didn't hear what he was listening for. He stepped past the rifle that leaned beside the door and made his way to the end of the porch, walking closely to the wall. The summer sun stood at noon and the porch was in shadow. Beyond the street was a jumble of boards and broken glass, its canyon walls of leaning building fronts and sagging porches, its caverns of empty windows and doorways shimmering in the heat. You couldn't see much dirt along the way. Where the debris didn't come to your knees, it reached over your head. At the end of the porch Ben stopped and listened again, heard nothing. He stepped down and walked as fast as he could. Damn arthritis again, to the porch of the next building. This had been Fat Sam Hogan's hardware store, and about all that was left of it was the porch. The rest was a twisted mess of wood that slumped away to the ground at the rear. The porch had been down too, right after the bombing, but the old men working at night had raised it and braced it up something to walk under. A Springfield stood oiled and waiting against the wall. Ben paused and touched the barrel. It was his own, or rather it had once been his own. Now it was the town's, strictly speaking, to be used by whoever was nearest it when the time came. It was a good gun, a straight shooter, one of the best, which was why it was here instead of at his house. A man could get a better shot from here. He went on, hugging the wall. He passed a rifle wedged up between the fender and hood of Norm Henley's old Model A, and he remembered how the bomb had flipped the car right over on its top and how the car must have protected Norm from the blast just a little, enough so they found him two blocks up the street in front of his mashed house, trailing blood from every hole in him to get to his family before he died. Bend past rifles leaned against walls and chairs on porches, rifles standing behind trees and leaned in the cracks between what buildings still stood to provide cracks. Even old Jim's carbine lying under the ledge of the pump trough in front of Mason's general store. All of them in places where they were protected from rain or snow but where they were easy to get at. He passed 16 rifles walking as everybody walked, when they were out of doors, as close to the walls of the buildings as possible. When you had to cross open spaces, you ran as fast as your 70 or 80 year old legs would take you. And if you couldn't run, you walked real fast, and always you listened while you walked. Particularly you listened before you went out for planes so you wouldn't be spotted from the air. At the end of the porch of the last building on the street, Ben paused in the shade and looked out across the creek to where the first plane they'd shot down had crashed, the one Jim claimed to have got by is lonesome. They'd buried what they found in the pilot and cleared away every last bolt and nut and stuff, scrap of aluminum, but the long scar in the ground remained. Ben looked at it all broken up by rocks and flowers and bushes. The old people had transplanted so it wouldn't show from the air, and he looked at the cemetery a hundred feet beyond, at which the scar pointed like an arrow. The cemetery that wasn't a cemetery because it didn't have headstones, just bodies. A town that was dead shouldn't have a lot of new graves. The dead don't bury themselves. A pilot might see a hundred graves he hadn't seen before and wonder and strafe. So Ben looked at the flat ground where those hundred bodies lay, with only small rocks the size of a man's fist, with names scratched on them to mark who lay beneath, and he thought of his daughter May and Owen Yuri's son George, who had married May and their three kids, and he remembered burying them here. He remembered their faces, the blood from eyes, nose, ears, mouth. His blood. It was part of it. Then Ben looked up. We ain't looking for trouble, he said to the empty blue bowl of sky, but if you do come, we're ready. Every day we're ready. If you stay up high we'll hide, but if you come down low we'll try to get you, you crazy murderers. His house was only a few yards further on. He got there by sticking under the trees, walking quickly from one to the next, his ears cocked for the jet sound that would flatten him against a trunk. Way off to his left, across a long flat of sunflowers and goldenrod, he saw Wendy Harris down on the creek bank by the bridge. He yelled, they biting? And Wendy's faint got to reminded him of all old Jim had said, and he shook his head. He left the trees and walked fast up his front path. His house was in pretty good shape. All four houses on the outskirts had come off standing, his and Wendy's and Jim's and Owen Ury's. They'd needed just a little bracing here and there, and they were fine except Owen's. Owen had stomped around in his and listened to the sounds of it and said he didn't trust it, and sure enough, the first big storm it had gone down. Now Ben and his wife Susan lived downstairs in his house, joking. Cade and his wife, Anna lived on the second floor and Tom Pace lived in the attic, claiming that climbing the stairs was good for his innards. Anakin Cade was sitting on the porch swing, peeling potatoes. Ben said, afternoon, Anna, and saw her pale bright eyes flicker up at him, and that scared smile touched her mouth for just a second. Then she hunched her shoulders and kept on with the potatoes like he wasn't even there. Ben thought it must be lonely to be that way. And he attracted her attention again, his voice a little louder. Hope you're feeling fine, Anna. Again the flicker of eyes. Just fine, Ben. Thanks, she said, almost in a whisper. Peeling spuds, I see. Her knife sped over a potato, removing a spiral of skin. She popped an eye out with a twist of the point. Think Keith'll be back from the war today, Ben? It's been so long. I hate to think of my boy fightin out there so long. Will they let him come home soon, Ben? They will, Hannah. I think they will. Real soon. Maybe tomorrow. Will they? Sure. Keith Kincaid was under one of those fist sized rocks out in the cemetery that wasn't a cemetery next to his wife June Hogan, and their four kids. But Anna Kincaid didn't know that. Since the bomb, Anna hadn't known much of anything except what the old people told her, and they told her only things that would make her as happy as she could be. That Keith was in the army and June was off with the kids having a nice time in Knoxville, and that they'd all be back home in a day or so. Anna never wondered about that day or so. She didn't remember much from day to day. Joe Kincaid sometimes said that helped a little, as much as anything could. He could tell her the same nice things every day and her eyes would light up all over again. He spent a lot of time with her doing that. He was pretty good at it, too. Joke and cade had been Dr. Joe before the bomb. He still doctored some when he could, but he was almost out of supplies, and what with his patients being so old, he mostly just prayed for them. In the kitchen, Susan had lunch ready and waiting, some chicken from last night, green beans, boiled potatoes, and a salad from the tiny gardens the women tended off in the weedy ground and around the base of trees where they wouldn't be seen. On the way in, Ben had noticed that the wood box was about empty. He'd have to bring home another bag of charcoal from the general store, which was Wendy's barn, all braced up into it. The people had taken every bit of clothing, canned food, hardware, anything at all they could use in the way of housekeeping and everyday living, and there it all stood. When somebody needed something, they went and took it. Only the canned foods and tobacco and liquor were rationed every week or so. Around midnight Fat Sam Hogan and Dan Parret went into the big cave in Lawson's Hill, right near where the second plane had crashed, and set up a lot of small fires back where the light wouldn't be seen. They made charcoal, and when it was cooled they brought it down to the store for cooking and such a charcoal fire doesn't give off much smoke over coffee. Ben said, reckon I'll fish some this afternoon, honey. How's a cat or two for supper sound? Why, goodness, Ben, not for tonight. Susan smiled. You know, tonight's a social. Me and Anna are fixing a big dinner. Steaks and all the trimmings. Mm, ben said, draining his cup. Forgot today was Sunday. We're gonna have some music, and Owen Yuri's going to read Shakespeare. Ben pursed his lips, tasting the coffee. It was rationed to two cups a day. He always took his with his lunch, and sometimes he'd have sold a leg to dive into a full pot. Well, I might as well fish anyway. Take in some fun. Fish'll keep till tomorrow, won't it? You can have it for breakfast. She sat down across the table and picked up the knitting she'd been on when Ben came home. He had a hunch it was something for his birthday, so he tried not to look interested. Too early to tell what it was anyway. Ben, she said, before you go, the curtain pole in the bay window come down when I was fixing the blankets over it for tonight. The socket's loose. You better fix it before you go. You'll maybe get home after. Anna and me want to light the lamps and we can't do it till it's fixed, Ben said. Sure, hon. He got the hammer and some nails from the toolbox and went into the parlor and dragged the piano bench over in front of the bay window. The iron rod was leaning by the phonograph. He took it up with him on the chair and fitted the other end of it into the far socket, then fitted the near end into the loose socket and drove nails around the base of the socket until the thing was solid as a rock. Then he got the blanket from the couch and hung it down double over the rod and fitted the buttonholes sewn all along its edge over the nails driven around the window casing and patted it here and there until not a speck of light would escape. When the lamps were lit, he inspected the blankets draped over the windows. They were all right. The parlor was pretty dark now, so he struck a match to the oil lamp on the mantel just so Susan and Anna could see to set the table. When the others arrived, they'd light the other lamps, but not until oil was precious. The only time anybody in town ever lit a lamp was on social Night. Then the old people stayed up till around midnight for eats and entertainment. Otherwise everybody got to bed at 8 or so and climbed out with the dawn. He went back into the kitchen and put away the hammer and said, my second cup still hot, honey. She started to put down her knitting and get up, and he said, just asking, and pressed her shoulder till she sat again. He went around her and filled his cup at the stove. Ben, she said when he sat down again, I wish you'd take a look at the phonograph too. Last time the turntable made an awful lot of noise. I wish it could sound better for tonight. I know, honey. Ben sighed. That motor's going. There ain't much I can do about it, though. It's too old. I'm scared to take it apart. Might not get it back together right when it really quits. Then I guess I'll fool around and see what I can do. Heck, it didn't sound too bad. It rattled during the soft parts of the music. Ben shook his head. If I try, I might ruin it for good. He smiled a little. It's like us, Suze. Too old to really fix up much. Just gotta keep crankin it and let it go downhill at its own pace. Susan folded her knitting and got up. She came around the table and he put an arm around her waist and pulled her into the chair beside him. It'll go soon, won't it, Ben? She said softly. Then we won't have any music. It's a shame. We all like to listen so much. It's peaceful. I know. He moved his arm up and squeezed her thin shoulders. She put her head on his shoulder and her gray hair tickled his cheek. He closed his eyes and her hair was black and shining again and he put his lips against it and thought he smelled a perfume they didn't even make anymore. After a moment he said, we got so much else, though, Suze. We got peaceful music you can't play on a machine. Real peace, a funny kind of peace in a funny looking town. This one a rag town, but it's ours and it's quiet and there's nothing to bother us. And just pray God we can keep it that way outside the war's going on someplace. Probably people fighting each other over God knows what if even he knows. Here it's peaceful. She moved her head on his shoulder. Ben, will it ever come here, what's going on outside, even the war, if it's still going on? Well, we were talking about that this morning down at the hall, Suze. I guess it won't if rifles can stop it, it won't. If they see us from the air, we'll shoot at them, and if we get them, we'll clean up the mess. So if anybody comes looking for a missing plane, they won't give Smoky Creek a second look. That's the only way anything can come, honey. If they see us from the air, nobody's going to come hiking over these mountains. There's no place they'd want to get to, and it's sure no country for fighting. If the war is over, they'll likely be around to fix up the bridge and the road, won't they? Maybe so, sooner or later. Oh, I hope they leave us alone. Don't worry, honey. Been about the phonograph, Suze? He turned his head to look at her eyes. It's good for longer than we are. That motor. So's the bridge. The way it is in the road will be gone first, but they get around to fix em before the phonograph gives out. What we want is going to last us, and what we don't want will come too late to hurt us. Nothing's going to hurt our peace, I know that. Somehow we got it. And it'll be like this for as long as we're here to enjoy it. I know, Ben. If I want to go fishing, ben said, and pressed her head against his shoulder again, I go. If I want to relax with the men, I do it. If I want to just walk and breathe deep, I do it. Keep him to the trees. Of course. If I want to just be with you, I do it. It's quiet. It's real quiet in our ragtown. It's a world for old people. It's just the way we want it to live. Like we want to live. We got enough gardens and livestock and all the canned stuff in the store to last us for a for as long as we got. And no worries about who's fighting who over what, about who won. About how the international mess is getting worse again and we better make more bombs for the next one about who's winning here and losing there and running neck and neck some place. We don't know any things like that and we don't want to know. It don't matter none to us. We're too old and we seen too much of it and it's hurt us too bad and we know it just don't matter at all. Ben, I got to cryin today about May and Georgia and the children. I was crying and thinking about that day. So did I. Think none of us ever forgets for a minute. For a second, his lips thinned. That's part of why we do what we do, rest, is we just want to be left alone. They sat in silence for a moment, his arm around her shoulders, his other hand holding hers. Then he released her hand and thumped his own on the table, grinned at her and said, life goes on now. Reckon I'll go down and get that cat or go walking or just go soak in some sun. What time are the folks showing up for? Jet sound slammed across the peaceful valley. Ben got up and walked as fast as he could to the door, picked up the rifle leaning there, cocked it, looking toward town. He saw that Tom Pace had been on his way home and the sound had caught him between trees. Tom hesitated, then turned and dived toward the tree he had just left, because a rifle was there. Ben saw men pour out of the doorways of the two habitable buildings on Main Street. They stuck close to the walls under the porches, and they picked up rifles, motionless, hidden in shadows under trees and doorways, behind knotholes. They waited to see if the plane would buzz the town again.
[377:26]
Jake Stauch (Cervel Commercial) / Narrator (Third Planet)
It did.
[377:27]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
It came down low over Main street while the thunders of its first pass still echoed and rolled, frightening birds out of trees, driving a hare frantically along the creek bank, blotting out the murmur of the creek and the tree sounds, driving away peace. They saw the pilot peering through the plexiglass down at the buildings. He was past the town in four winks, but in two they knew he was curious and would probably come back for a third look. He circled wide off over the end of the valley, a vertical bank that brought a blinding flash of sunlight from one wing, and he came back. Ben leveled his rifle and centered the nose of the plane in his sights. For some reason, probably because the valley walls crowded the town on both sides, the planes always lined up with Main Street. When they flew low over the town, the plane grew at startling speed. In Ben's sights it loomed, and the oval jet intake was a growling mouth, and he waited till it was about two seconds and a thousand feet from him. Then he sent his bullet up into that mouth, a bullet aimed by a man who had handled a rifle for 60 years, who could pop the head off a squirrel at a hundred feet, a running squirrel. That was the signal Ben's shot from under the tree. Tom Pace's rifle spoke. The jet was past town then, and he wheeled to follow it with his eyes. Its whining thunder lashed down and pressed his ears, lowering suddenly in pitch as it receded, and though he couldn't hear them for the thunder, he knew that 19 rifles had roared before it completed its turn, each aimed head on at the plane, aimed by men and women who could shoot with Ben and even outshoot him. The plane coughed, lurched. It had time to emit a fuzzy thread of black smoke before it nosed down and melted into the ground and became a long ugly smear of mounds and shreds and tatters of flame. The sounds of the crash died. Ben heard men shouting. Loudest of all was old Jim Lyttle's got him, by God, I prayed, and we got him. Behind him, Susan was crying. Ben saw men and women head for the crash site. Immediately they'd start to carry away what debris wasn't too hot to handle. Then they'd wait, and as soon as anything was cool enough it would be carried off and hidden and there'd be a burial. Tonight. Ben saw that some of the men had carried old Jim's chair out onto the porch of the town hall, and he saw that Jim was half standing out of his cushions, propped up on his fists and still shouting, and Ben wondered if the maker wasn't on the porch there with Jim, waiting for Jim to fall and make his noise. He turned away. At 70 you don't want to see a man die and went inside and put his rifle on the kitchen table. He crossed to the cabinet under the sink to get his reamer and oiling rag. Every rifle was taken care of that way. Right now Tom Pace and Dan Perret were hurrying around gathering rifles to clean them, load them. No rifle must misfire or throw bullet and inch off aim, because that might be the rifle whose aim was right lucky we got that one, he said. I think he saw us, Suze. He come in low and sudden and I think he saw us. Was it one of theirs, Ben, or one of ours? Don't know. I didn't even look. I can't tell them apart. No one'll be around to tell me when they find out. But I reckon it was one of ours. If he saw us and didn't shoot, then I reckon it was one of ours, like the last one. Oh, Ben, susan said. Ben, ain't it against God? Ben stood looking out the window over the sink, watching a cloud of yellow dust settle over the wreckage of the plain and a cloud of black smoke rising from the wreckage to darken the yellow. He knew some of the men would be passing buckets from the well and spading dirt on the flames where they weren't too hot to get to. That's the way it is, he said. That's how we decided God didn't stop the bomb dropping, Suze, for whatever reasons he had. It don't seem he'd deny us the right to shoot rifles for the reasons we got. If we get turned away at the gates, we'll know we was wrong. But I don't think so. Quiet was returning to the valley. The birds had already started singing again. You could hear the trees. From the direction of the creek came Wendy Harris running, and he broke the quiet with a shout as he saw Ben by the window. Got it, huh? Ben sure did, ben said, and Wendy ran on. Ben looked toward the porch of the town hall. Old Jim had sunk back into his pillowed chair and he was shaking his fist, and Ben could hear him yelling.
[382:14]
Narrator (And all the Girls were Nude / Our Town)
Got it.
[382:15]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Got it.
[382:16]
Narrator (The Mightiest Man)
We did.
[382:17]
Narrator / Minor Characters (Our Town / And all the Girls were Nude)
He'll be around for a while yet, Old Jim, Ben thought, and turned back to the table. He sat down and listened to the sounds of the valley, and his eyes were the eyes of the valley. They'd seen a lot and understood enough of. Don't matter whose it was, he said. All of a cloth. He slid the reamer into the barrel of the rifle and worked it. The hell with the war. Even if it's over, the hell with it, with any war. Nothing's ever going to give us back what we lost. Let em stay away. All them that's to blame. Them and their planes and wars and bombs. They're crazy. His lips curled as he worked the reamer. Let em stay out of what they left us for. Lives. Don't wanna hear what they're doing or how or why or who. Don't wanna hear about it. It'd be crazy. The hell with em. All of them. The hell with the whole 20th century. End of Our Town By Jerome.
[383:22]
Narrator (In His Image / Reaching for the Moon / Absolutely no Paradox / Blind Play)
Blind Play by Chan Davis 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 Nick Pappas, hired killer from Callisto, was strictly out for Pappus. Out for number one, as they used to say. And now those fools in the vanishing spaceship thought that number was up. Blind Play by Chan Davis Nick Pappas had just crossed to the instrument panel of the Tang Chu Chi's lifeboat when he heard a sound behind him. He turned quickly. He had left the the airlock between the lifeboat and the ship open. That had been stupid, he realized, but it was Too late to correct it now. One of the Tang's two other crew members was approaching down the corridor just beyond the airlock. If he saw the door slide shut now, he'd be immediately suspicious. That would leave Pappus inside the lifeboat and and before he could drain enough fuel from the ship's tanks into the lifeboats, the other two would have the airlock cut open. He still had a chance to hide, but before he could propel himself to the other end of the lifeboat, out of sight, Arn Brickenrod appeared at the other side of the open airlock. Brickenrod smiled. Pappus stood still, gripping the pilot seat in front of him. Hello, Arn, said Pappus. I was just checking over the Good morning, Nick. Or Good evening, if you like. Let's go up to the control cabin and see Garcia. For a very brief moment, Pappas considered. Although the Tang was in free fall, he was still very conscious of the weight of the gun concealed inside his jacket. He might use it now, but the sound would bring Garcia. Better to bluff it through. The other two might not be suspicious yet, and in a pinch he had the advantage that they weren't armed. Sure, he said, and pushed himself across to where Brickenrod stood. After you, said Brickenrod, much more politely than usual. Pappus smiled uncertainly. He planted both feet against the side of the airlock opening, then jumped off. He floated down the ship's corridor to where it took a sharp bend. There he grabbed a rung of a ladder bolted to the corridor wall. Brickenrod had pushed off harder than Pappus had. He arrived at the ladder at the same time. After you, he said again. Pappus saw at the end of the long corridor ahead, the open door to the control cabin. He pushed off in that direction. Yusef Garcia was in the ship's pilot's seat. Garcia was half Brazilian and half Malagastes. His eyes had a strong green tint that looked strange against the deep brown black of his face. Pappus had always been a little afraid of him, and the present situation didn't help that any. There was a gun in Garcia's hand. Brickenrod followed Pappas in, taking a seat, facing Garcia. What did you find, Yusuf? He asked casually. Well, Arne, I haven't finished checking up on our little conjecture. The calculator over there is still working on it. But while I was waiting, I looked through our friend Pappas locker. You might already have noticed what I found. He waved the gun. Where did you find our friend by the way, Birkenrod smiled. First place I looked. The lifeboat. Yeah. What was he doing? Nothing. I think I know how our little conjecture's going to turn out, though. He turned to Pappus, who was following the exchange tensely. You know, Nick, my father was a fellow countryman of yours back on Earth. Countryman? That's right. He lived just north of Winnipeg. My mother was a Canadian, too. Both of them were in the second batch of colonists that left for Callisto. But it doesn't mean much to call you a Canadian any more, does it, Garcia? And you and I were all Calistans now. Sure, said Pappus wonderingly. Callisto. A cold world, A small new world, and a cold world, and incredibly distant from the planet that had evolved its settlers in the 30 years since the exploration of Jupiter's satellites had begun. Callisto had had a very different history from the rest on Ganymede. A hundred or so engineers had been working all that time on the tremendous task of raising the satellite's mean temperature to the point where an atmosphere could be provided and open air, cities and farms built in which the Earthmen could live. The smaller satellites had been largely ignored, but it had been found that Callisto had large deposits of ore of such quality that, in spite of the tremendously long hull required to carry anything from there to the inner planets, it was worth while beginning mining operations. Up went the insulated, airtight domes. Out came the colonists. Down went the mine shafts. It was a hard life. Crystalline rock was cut by machines at the mine faces, and by the time other machines had brought it up the shafts to the surface level in the domes, it had become amorphous and powdery, its crystalline structure destroyed by being heated to 20 degrees below 0 centigrade. When you repaired machinery below the surface, you wore 60 kg of spacesuit, and the failure of any item of equipment or a fumble by any member of your crew might mean sudden death. The walls of the dome shut you in from the sky, for the vacuum out there was death too. When you did get up to the observatory to see the sky, you saw Jupiter weirdly streaked with brilliant color if your dome was on the side of Callisto toward Jupiter. Otherwise you looked across 20 million km of vacuum to the nearest star. It was a hard life, and no life for a lone wolf. There were no homestead farms to be settled by lonely pioneer families. Callisto was a sterile place, and to keep life going there at all, men had to work together. Cooperation was a lesson Earth's civilization had taught. Only after thousands of Years of oppression and war. A lesson that had to be learned before men could cross space. And a lesson that was very difficult to forget on Callisto, at least for most people. Rita and Cliff Belden had control of the trade between Callisto and the inner planets. It didn't start as control though. The way it began was. Once the colony had been well established, its operation was left completely up to the Callistons, who shipped as much of their goods to Earth as they could manage and requisitioned as much food and supplies from Earth as as they needed, which was really the best way. The inner planets could not very well take part in the planning of Callisto's activities, since there was no radio contact and the trip took over two months by freighter, even when the relative position of the planets in their orbits was most favorable. One freighter shuttled back and forth between two dome on Callisto at one end and any of several interplanet ports on the other. Rita and Cliff Belden were the two Callistons whose job it was to run that freighter. The little colony was absolutely dependent on the supplies they brought. This fact was obvious to everyone. But the Beldons made a deduction from it which was unprecedented on Callisto. They could threaten to withhold the supplies and thereby force the rest of the colonists to agree to whatever they asked. Provided they could make the threat stick. They made the attempt on one of their trips back from Earth. They put the ship into orbit around Callisto instead of landing and announced they would not land until their henchmen on Callisto were in control. And the henchmen did a thorough job of taking control. All the details were taken care of. They quickly seized the radio transmitters that maintained contact with Ganymede. They confiscated all the reserves of spaceship fuel they could find. They clamped down as tightly as they could on communications between the domes. Then they started keeping a close check on every tool that could be used as a weapon. There was just one place they slipped up. Their search for fuel wasn't good enough. The people of the number four dome pooled the fuel they had hidden from the Beldens. They seized from the Beldens guard the dome's tiny spaceship which had been assembled on Callisto and which had never been intended to leave the Jupiter system. And they sent the ship off to Venus with Garcia and Birkenrod aboard. Venus was the only possible destination with the planets positions in their orbit as they were then. To reach Earth or Mars would have taken either more fuel than they had or much more time than they could spare. As it was, the trip took eight months. On Venus there was no hitch. Garcia and Birkenrod went to the liaison offices in Kringrad as planned, and were provided with the Tang chu chi with a load of supplies, and with Nick Pappas, a former Calliston who wanted to return there. They followed the liaison officer's suggestion and took Pappas aboard. We're all Callistons now, Burke, androd repeated. I wonder, Nick, how did you happen to leave Callisto in the first place? Just felt like visiting good old Saskatchewan. I doubt it. Let's see, you left before that business started with the Beldens, didn't you? Pappus licked his lips nervously. Garcia answered for him. Yes, about 10 months before, according to what they told us on Venus. Yeah, birkenrod mused. You know the Beldons, of course. Yes, said Pappus. Of course. I came to Earth on their freighter. Not their freighter, Garcia put in Callisto's freighter, which they operate. It's only more recently that it became their freighter. Birkenrod smiled and went on. It's interesting, Mr. Pappas, that you left Callisto about the time the Belden's plan must have been taking shape. I wonder why you did. Pappus ignored the question. A moment before, the red signal light had flashed on above the calculator set in the opposite bulkhead. The computations had been finished on Garcia and Birkenrod's little conjecture. Garcia, who was closest to the machine, filled in the silence. Let's find out what the calculator has to say. It may clear things up a little. There was a row of spring clamps set in the bulkhead next to him for holding objects stationary while the ship was in free fall. Garcia put his gun in one of these, slipped out of the safety belt that had held him in the pilot's seat in spite of the lack of gravity, and turned to the calculator. Pappas sprang not toward Garcia but toward the side of the cabin that would have been the ceiling if there had been an up. He snatched his gun from his jacket. Something crashed into Pappus, spun him around. Birkenrod had jumped too, hitting him hard in mid air. The cabin whirled around them. He felt Birkenrod's powerful grip on around the hand that held the gun. Simultaneously they reached the ceiling. Pappas head hit metal with a crack. The gun fell free. Weightless, the two of them wrestled desperately. Suddenly, Birkenrod pulled loose and jumped away. Pappas found himself alone in the middle of the cabin, drifting slowly from the pilot's seat. In the pilot seat, Garcia was again sitting calmly, his gun leveled. Birkenrod had the other gun. There was silence while Pappus reached the bulkhead, pushed back to his seat, and belted himself in. Garcia said, suppose I try to answer some of those questions. When Arne and I left Callisto, the Beldons learned our orbit and hightailed it into the inner planets with plenty of fuel. They arrived before us and got you their agent on the job. You got yourself included in our return trip on the Tang. Then you calculated an orbit for us that would run us smack into Earth at a relative velocity of 30 odd kilometers a second. The next thing was to divert the fuel from the Tang's tanks to the lifeboats and take off yourself in the lifeboat. That would have left us in a collision orbit with no fuel to pull ourselves out of it. Not such a good plan, Nick. You should have planned just to kill us both as soon as the Tang was in space. You'd have had a better chance that way. Your overeagerness to compute our orbit just didn't look natural. No, listen, pappus protested feebly. I didn't calculate a collision orbit. I Sorry, said Garcia. That's what the machine just finished checking for us. The orbit we're on meets the Earth dead center, and it wouldn't take us to Callisto even if Earth wasn't there. Arne, what'll we do with this character? Birkenrod smiled. I like the suggestion you made when we discussed it before. I was just joking. No, I think it's the best idea. He turned to Pappus, who flinched in spite of himself. Look, Nick, the Beltons have no chance of winning on Callisto. No chance. Men had to learn to cooperate before they could get to the planets at all, and by this time they've learned good and thoroughly. The individual who's out for himself is an anachronism. You and the Beldons. A hundred years ago you'd have felt right at home. Then everybody was out for the last buck, as they used to say. In this century everybody works together, and darn near everyone likes it that way. But, Nick, the Beldons are still dangerous. They can't win. But they can hold up the developments of Callisto for years and make the Callistons pretty miserable in the process. The inner planets won't interfere. Their policy for years has been Callisto is so far away that it's their concern how they run things. We'll send them supplies. They'll send us minerals, and that's that. So the people of Callisto have got to lick the Beldens. This ship is absolutely essential because it's the means of breaking the Beldens monopoly. We have to get to Callisto, and when we get there we'll be in the middle of a pretty critical situation. The Tang will be just as essential to the Beldons as to us for the opposite reason. Therefore, garcia put in, we can't afford to have you around. What are you going to do? Pappus murmured. To you, said Birkenrod. Well, we can't take you with us, and we don't want to kill you if we can help it. We can't turn you loose in a lifeboat, even if we kept most of the fuel, because we may need the lifeboat on Callisto. There's one thing left. If it's all right with Yusef, we're going to put you all together completely on your own. You're not going to work for anybody else, not even stinkers like the Beldens. You're going to be all by yourself, and you're going to have to do a good job of looking out for yourself. Not for anyone else. Just for Nick Pappas. Number one, as people used to say. We're not going to give you a word of advice either. If we did, you wouldn't be independent enough. Now how does that sound, Yusuf? Appropriate. Garcia smiled. Sounds about right, Arne. Maybe I'm too angry at the Beltons to think straight, but it sounds like a pretty appropriate way to handle Mr. Pappas. He'll be all on his own. And if he doesn't work things out just right, he'll get the most spectacular finish any individual could ask for. Nick Pappas hung weightless in interplanetary space. Ten meters away floated the Tangtu chi. One side of it glared white in the sunlight. The other side was jet black, visible only as a shadow across the stars. It floated there motionless, very close to him, but he knew he didn't dare try to reach it because it was going to start accelerating any second. The faceplate of Papa's space suit fogged slightly. He moved a hand inside the suit, adjusted the humidity control. When the faceplate had cleared, he saw that the Tang's rockets were already firing. The ship still floated there, within shouting distance if there had been an atmosphere. But now from its jets there extended long, perfectly straight streaks of shimmering blue violet. It seemed to Pappus as though he were drifting slowly, parallel to the ship in the direction of the jets. He shook his head to get rid of the illusion. He was remaining perfectly still. The ship's hull was sliding past him. When the jets were abreast of him, they cut off. He watched the ship recede rapidly. Now, a minute or so later, there were two short blasts on the steering jets. Pappas realized they were swinging the ship around so he wouldn't be caught in the rocket blast. Then the main jet started up again. Pappas followed the ship with his eyes as long as he could distinguish it, which wasn't long, then he was alone. Not only were there no walls around him, there wasn't even anything under his feet. There was nothing anywhere. So this was what all the talk added up to. Papus thought. They simply set me out here in the middle of the vacuum to stay until the suit's food and air give out. He thought he might as well make himself at home. He checked over the suit. It was nicely equipped. In addition to standard items. There were several things strapped onto the back of the suit on the outside, which pleased him until he realized how little difference they made. There was a reel of light strong cable with magnetic grapples which could be clamped onto it. There was a hand reaction motor the size of a Stilson wrench and 10 containers of fluid, each the size of a fountain pen. There was a large mirror for signaling. Also, for the same purpose, there was a powerful, highly directional searchlight. He checked the cells which powered it. They were low, but he knew they were charging at that moment from the sunlight falling on them. The searchlight would work for what that was worth. So much for his suit. Next. Where was he? His position couldn't be given in latitude and longitude because there wasn't anything for it to be latitude and longitude on. He was somewhere between the orbits of Venus and Earth. The direction of the sun, he could tell by glancing at the arm of his spacesuit and seeing where the sunlight fell. The sun was behind him and to the right and a little downward. As for Earth, that would be the next brightest body in his sky. He craned his head in all directions, searching. Then he took out the hand reaction motor and gave a blast to start himself spinning so he could search in the directions he hadn't been able to see in before. Even the short blast he used made the motor tug at his hand and started the universe whirling around him frighteningly. He turned the control on the motor down as low as it would go, then pressed the button several more times. Finally he had cancelled out Most of his rotation, and the Milky Way was wheeling calmly about him. He got himself oriented again and after a short time had identified Earth, which was close enough to appear as a blue green disk. Earth. The thought suddenly struck him. The Tang had been heading straight for Earth when it had let him off. He was still going exactly in the Tang's former orbit. He could reach Earth. There was one more thing he should check. Yes, he had a parachute. It was on the back of his spacesuit, underneath the gear he'd investigated before. Now, if he could land safely, he was all set. Birkenrod and Garcia must not have thought of this. One thing still bothered him. He had been headed for Earth when he was put off the Tang. But had anything happened since to put him off course? How about those times he'd used the reaction motor to set himself swinging? Well, the several small blasts would probably not have had any net effect on his direction of motion. And if they had, there wasn't anything that could be done about it. But the single strong blast at the beginning. He could remember which constellation he'd been facing at the time, where he had held the reaction motor and how strong a blast he'd given. That meant he could give an approximately equal blast now in the opposite direction. This he did, being careful to aim directly away from his center of gravity so as not to start spinning again. Now he should be back on course, he figured. Assuming, that is, that he'd ever been off. The small thrust of his reaction motor applied for such a short time might not be enough to make any appreciable difference to where he ended up. He didn't bother trying to calculate it. Nothing to do now but wait. He spent the time thinking about what he would do when he got to Earth. It was hard to figure out. He'd had a racket on Earth for a year and a half after the Beldons brought him there. Everyone had assumed he was doing something important to Callisto's welfare, and all he'd had to do was go through the motions. Now he didn't know. It was probably true that the Beldons were through with the Tang Chu Chi arriving on Callisto, the odds were against them. He'd have to find something else, Pappas decided. The whole Belden business was pretty provincial anyway. And as for Birkenrod, Garcia, and those people. Papus dismissed Callisto from his thoughts completely. There would have to be some angle on the inner planets. After several hours of thought on the subject, he took stock of his situation again. The disk of Earth was a little larger, he thought, but not enough so you'd notice it. He pulled the semi opaque visor over his faceplate and went to sleep. He slept for 10 days. Not Earth days, however. When Pappas went to sleep, the sun was behind him. He thought he had eliminated his rotation, but actually he was tumbling head over heels, extremely slowly. Thus, for him, the sun rose between his feet and set directly above him. The 11th of these sunrises woke him. He stayed awake because as soon as he flipped his visor up and looked around him, the Earth caught his eye. It was much bigger. He did not know how to measure its angular diameter, so he couldn't calculate his distance from it even approximately, but it looked enormous. How long had his nap lasted? The spacesuit's chronometer was running, its minute hand indicating 37, its hour hand 15 its day hand 3. That would have told him how long he'd slept if he'd read the chronometer before he went to sleep. But he hadn't. All he knew was that he'd slept much longer than he'd expected, and long enough to get painfully stiff. In any case, he'd covered a lot of distance, as much as the Tang would have covered. In the same time, he realized he was approaching Earth pretty fast. Too fast, he added aloud nervously. He'd have to decelerate before he got there, or the parachute wouldn't do him any good now. Was it time yet to start decelerating? If he directed the hand reaction motor in the wrong direction now, could it cause him to miss Earth? He guessed not. The planet looked so close, any small sideways push he gave himself would hardly hurt. Once he killed his speed, Earth's gravitational field would gather him in. Pappus took out the reaction motor. Using low power, he turned himself until he faced Earth. The planet seemed to have swelled just in the time since he'd waked up. He set the reaction motor to full power, grasped it with both hands, held it up in front of his chest, and pointed it straight at Earth. Then he pressed the button and held it down. The force of the hand jet pushed in at his midriff, made his legs and head swing forward. Well, that was okay as long as they didn't get into the exhaust. He stopped blasting a moment to get a better grip on the reaction motor, then fired continuously. Occasionally he would find he'd started himself spinning. Then he'd shift the motor just a trifle to keep himself facing the planet. He kept the button firmly pressed down and the cylinder in his hands sent a Continuous jet of intense blue toward Earth. When the first fuel cartridge was exhausted, he put in the second and kept it up. Twice he stopped for a food pellet and a little water. The rests were welcome. His arms and chest were stiff and aching. But he didn't rest long because he was getting really scared. Now he was sure he was dangerously close to his destination and his speed hadn't been cut enough. The continents and oceans of Earth's dayside were clearly visible and grew noticeably larger as he looked at them. He now thought of the direction he was going as down. He thought of himself as falling. Something bothered him. America had not been in sight a while ago, but now he could see the corner of Brazil appearing at the edge of the disk of Earth. Did that mean he was passing by Earth instead of falling straight at it? No, he realized in a moment it just meant Earth was rotating, for he could see the sunset line. The line between the night side and day side had not changed in its apparent position on the disk. No, he was still falling. And he was falling too fast. A suspicion began to form that Birkinrod and Garcia had anticipated this. And suddenly, terrifyingly, he thought of what Garcia's last remark might have meant. Still, they said there was a way he could save himself. And the only way he could think of was to break his fall. He had a certain quantity of fuel to do it with. He was using it for all it was worth, no matter how much his body ached with fatigue. If those two on the tang had figured this all out ahead of time, then they must have left him enough fuel to avoid being killed. Otherwise they might as well have shot him on the tang. Ok, if he had enough fuel, he'd use it all, one after another. Fuel cartridges burned out. Pappus longed for another rest, but he didn't dare take one now. He kept firing, and still the Earth kept growing larger and brighter below him. Finally, there was no more fuel. After a short breather, Pappus took the reaction motor, detached it from the cord which bound it to his spacesuit, and flung it downward with all his strength. Then he did the same with the mirror, the searchlight and the reel of cable. It was all he could do. Then there was an instant when he saw where he had gone wrong. He had not had enough fuel to do what he tried to do. That was clear by one look at the Earth's face, which still grew alarmingly fast below him, and he could probably have figured it out before. But there was still a way which would have given him some chance. He should have used his fuel not in a hopeless attempt to decelerate, but in deflecting himself so he would miss the Earth. He would have passed by Earth relatively close. He'd have passed fast, but not too fast to signal with his mirror to Earth's several satellites. Natural and artificial spaceports on Those satellites kept 24 hour watches for signals of distress. When they saw a faint blinking light, they would have sent a ship which would have tried to locate its source. They were good at it too, and if he kept his mirror spinning, they might have picked him up. But he hadn't thought of, had never occurred to him that even when he was alone, as thoroughly alone as anyone can ever be, his life could depend on dozens of other people. He thought only of reaching safety by himself and seeing only the one possibility, he'd played it blindly. There was that instant of sickening realization. Then a little later, came an instant when Earth ballooned out grotesquely below him, suddenly filling most of his field of vision, and he saw lakes, islands, desert. He felt all over him an abrupt final flash of heat, and Nick Pappas became a meteor. The end of Blind Play by Chan DAV.

Science Fiction Books - Daily: Short Science Fiction Collection 092 - Various (August 5, 2026)

Overview

Featured Stories (with Timestamps and Highlights)

1. The Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester

Plot & Themes

Notable Quote:

Memorable Moment:

Key Timestamped Segments:

2. In His Image by Bryce Walton

Plot & Themes

Notable Quotes:

3. Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey

Plot & Themes

Notable Quotes:

Memorable Moment:

4. Beyond Lies the Wub by Philip K. Dick

Plot & Themes

Notable Quote:

Memorable Moment:

5. The Terror by Alfred Koppel

Plot & Themes

6. Keep Out by Frederick Brown

Plot & Themes

7. The Mightiest Man by Patrick Fay

Plot & Themes

8. Egocentric Orbit by John Corey

Plot & Themes

9. Reaching for the Moon by S.A. Lombino

Plot & Themes

10. And All the Girls Were Nude by Richard Magruder

Plot & Themes

11. Third Planet by Murray Leinster

Plot & Themes

Notable Quote:

12. Say Hello For Me by Frank W. Coggins

Plot & Themes

13. Absolutely No Paradox by Lester Del Rey

Plot & Themes

Standout Quote:

14. A Bottle of Old Wine by Richard O. Lewis

Plot & Themes

15. The Mathematicians by Arthur Feldman

Plot & Themes

16. Turn Backward O Time by Walter Kubilius

Plot & Themes

17. Our Town by Jerome Bixby

Plot & Themes

18. Blind Play by Chan Davis

Plot & Themes

Episode Standouts & Quotes

Tone and Language

Why Listen?

Navigation Guide

Conclusion

Science Fiction Books - Daily: Short Science Fiction Collection 092 - Various (August 5, 2026)

Overview

Featured Stories (with Timestamps and Highlights)

1. The Unseen Blushers by Alfred Bester

Plot & Themes

Notable Quote:

Memorable Moment:

Key Timestamped Segments:

2. In His Image by Bryce Walton

Plot & Themes

Notable Quotes:

3. Imitation of Death by Lester Del Rey

Plot & Themes

Notable Quotes:

Memorable Moment:

4. Beyond Lies the Wub by Philip K. Dick

Plot & Themes

Notable Quote:

Memorable Moment:

5. The Terror by Alfred Koppel

Plot & Themes

6. Keep Out by Frederick Brown

Plot & Themes

7. The Mightiest Man by Patrick Fay

Plot & Themes

8. Egocentric Orbit by John Corey