Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

THE MEGAPACK SERIES

THE TRUE DARKNESS, by Pamela Sargent

PERMANENT FATAL ERRORS, by Jay Lake

ADJUSTMENT TEAM, by Philip K. Dick

ROBOTS DON’T CRY, by Mike Resnick

NO GREAT MAGIC, by Fritz Leiber

ESCAPE HATCH, by Brenda W. Clough

BACKLASH, by Winston K. Marks

THE PICK-UP, by Lawrence Watt-Evans

POPULATION IMPLOSION, by Andrew J. Offutt

WAY DOWN EAST, by Tim Sullivan

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 28, by Grendel Briarton

TO INVADE NEW YORK, by Irwin Lewis

THEY WERE THE WIND, by C.J. Henderson

STOPOVER, by William Gerken

CONSEQUENCES OF STEAM, by Michael Hemmingson

OUTSIDE LOOKING IN, by Mark E. Burgess

DEAD WORLD, by Jack Douglas

NEFERTITI’S TENTH LIFE, by Mary A. Turzillo

QUICKSILVER, by Lonni Lees

AFTER ALL, by Robert Reginald

THE BARBARIANS, by Algis Budrys

EX MACHINA, by Cynthia Ward

MONKEY ON HIS BACK, by Charles V. De Vet

THE SURVIVORS, by Tom Godwin

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 99, by Grendel Briarton

SPEAKING WITH GEORGE R.R. MARTIN: Interview conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

The Eighth Science Fiction Megapack

Version 1.0.0

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Eighth Science Fiction Megapack is copyright © 2013 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved. For more information, contact the publisher.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“The True Darkness,” by Panela Sargent, is copyright © 2010 by World Literature Today and Board of Regents, University of Oklahoma; copyright reverted to author in 2012. First published in World Literature Today, vol. 84, no. 3 (May-June 2010). Reprinted by arrangement with the author and her agent, Richard Curtis Associates, Inc.

“Permanent Fatal Errors,” by Jay Lake, originally appeared in Is Anybody Out There? Copyright © 2010 by Joseph E. Lake. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Adjustment Team,” by Philip K. Dick, originally appeared in Orbit Science Fiction, Sept.–Oct. 1954. No record of copyright renewal; in the public domain.

“Robots Don’t Cry,” by Mike Resnick, originally appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, July 2013. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“No Great Magic,” by Fritz Leiber, originally appeared in Galaxy Science Fiction, December 1963. No record of copyright renewal; in the public domain.

“Escape Hatch,” by Brenda W. Clough, originally appeared in Paradox, Autumn 2003. Copyright © 2003 by Brenda W. Clough. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Backlash,” by Winston K. Marks, originally appeared in Galaxy Science Fiction, January 1954. No record of copyright renewal; in the public domain.

“The Pick-Up,” by Lawrence Watt-Evans, originally appeared in The Ultimate Alien. Copyright © 1995 by Lawrence Watt-Evans. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Population Implosion,” by Andrew J. Offutt, originally appeared in Worlds of If, July 1967. Copyright © 1967 by Andrew J. Offutt. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Way Down East, by Tim Sullivan, originally appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, December 2008. Copyright © 2008 by Timothy R. Sullivan. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Through Time and Space with Ferdinand Feghoot: 28,” by Grendel Briarton, is taken from The Collected Feghoot. Copyright © 1992 by Reginald Bretnor. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“To Invade New York,” by Irwin Lewis, originally appeared in Analog Science Fact & Fiction, August 1963. No record of copyright renewal; in the public domain.

“They Were The Wind,” by C.J. Henderson, is copyright © 2006 by C.J. Henderson. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Stopover,” by William Gerken, originally appeared, in substantially different form, in Fantastic Universe, Sept. 1957. This version has been revised and edited, and is copyright © 2013 by John Gregory Betancourt.

“Consequences of Steam” was originally published in The Chronotope and Other Speculative Fictions. Copyright © 2013 by Michael Hemmingson. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Outside Looking In,” by Mark E. Burgess, is copyright © 2011 by Mark E. Burgess. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Dead World,” by Jack Douglas, originally appeared in Amazing Stories, May 1961. No record of copyright renewal; in the public domain.

“Nefertiti’s Tenth Life,” by Mary A. Turzillo, originally appeared in Analog, November 2001. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Quicksilver,” by Lonni Lees, originally appeared in Black Petals #59. Copyright ©2012 by Lonni Lees. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“After All,” by Robert Reginald, originally appeared in Katydid & Other Critters: Tales of Fantasy and Mystery. Copyright © 2001 by Robert Reginald. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Barbarians,” by Algis Budrys, originally appeared in If Worlds of Science Fiction, February 1958.

“Ex Machina,” by Cynthia M. Ward, originally appeared, in different form, in The NOVA Express Magazine #12 (Fall-Winter 1992). Copyright © 1992 by Cythia M. Ward. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Monkey On His Back,” by Charles V. De Vet, originally appeared in Galaxy, June 1960. No record of copyright renewal; in the public domain.

The Survivors, by Tom Godwin, originally appeared in 1958. No record of copyright renewal; in the public domain.

“Through Time and Space with Ferdinand Feghoot: 99,” by Grendel Briarton, is taken from The Collected Feghoot. Copyright © 1992 by Reginald Bretnor. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Speaking with George R.R. Martin is copyright © 2006 by Darrell Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of the interviewer. It may also be found (with many other interviews) in Speaking of the Fantastic III (Wildside Press, publisher).

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Welcome to the 8th volume in our Megapack series. I’m very happy with the mix of stories this time, ranging across all of time and space, and I’m pleased to introduce a new feature—an interview with a famous science fiction author (in this case George R.R. Martin.) The interview was conducted by one of our regular contributors, Darrell Schweitzer.

Those who follow such things may have noticed that The Eighth Science Fiction Megapack is appearing about a month ahead of schedule. We are going to try to publish new volumes every other month, beginning with this one. Six per year seems like a good number. Perhaps, if all goes well, we can get it up to monthly someday!

As always, we welcome feedback. Let me know what you think of this volume, what you’d like to see in future Megapacks, and if you’d like more non-fiction. (We plan on sticking to 25 short stories in each volume, regardless of what else we add—but we can easily include more interviews, essays, and other features…but only if readers want and enjoy them. Rest assured, the price won’t go up as a result of adding more content!)

And, as a bit of a shameless plug for our Megapacks, we are releasing our first “living author” megapacks in December, 2013, beginning with The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack and The C.J. Henderson Megapack. Both have had stories in our science fiction Megapacks (C.J. is in this one), and I hope you will check out these two “Best Of” samplers by a pair of great writers.

HELP WANTED—LOST WRITERS!

For those who read our message board, I’m sad to report that I have hit a dead end in tracing the heirs of Jay Williams, author of the Danny Dunn young adult series. We had a couple of requests to reprint these books. I’m also looking for the estate of Mack Reynolds, but cannot locate his son, Emil Reynolds and the estate of Rick Raphael. If anyone knows them, please get in touch!

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

ABOUT THE MEGAPACK SERIES

Over the last few years, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Mary Wickizer Burgess, Sam Cooper, Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, Robert Reginald. A. E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!).

A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS

The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.

THE MEGAPACK SERIES

MYSTERY

The Achmed Abdullah Megapack

The Charlie Chan Megapack

The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack

The Detective Megapack

The Father Brown Megapack

The Girl Detective Megapack

The Jacques Futrelle Megapack

The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

The First Mystery Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pulp Fiction Megapack

The Raffles Megapack

The Victorian Mystery Megapack

The Wilkie Collins Megapack

GENERAL INTEREST

The Adventure Megapack

The Baseball Megapack

The Cat Story Megapack

The Second Cat Story Megapack

The Third Cat Story Megapack

The Christmas Megapack

The Second Christmas Megapack

The Classic American Short Stories Megapack, Vol. 1.

The Classic Humor Megapack

The Dog Story Megapack

The Doll Story Megapack

The Horse Story Megapack

The Military Megapack

SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY

The Edward Bellamy Megapack

The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

The Ray Cummings Megapack

The Philip K. Dick Megapack

The Randall Garrett Megapack

The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

The Edmond Hamilton Megapack

The Murray Leinster Megapack

The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

The Martian Megapack

The Andre Norton Megapack

The H. Beam Piper Megapack

The Pulp Fiction Megapack

The Mack Reynolds Megapack

The Science-Fantasy Megapack

The First Science Fiction Megapack

The Second Science Fiction Megapack

The Third Science Fiction Megapack

The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack

The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack

The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack

The Seventh Science Fiction Megapack

The Robert Sheckley Megapack

The Steampunk Megapack

The Time Travel Megapack

The Wizard of Oz Megapack

HORROR

The Achmed Abdullah Megapack

The Second Achmed Abdullah Megapack

The E.F. Benson Megapack

The Second E.F. Benson Megapack

The First Algernon Blackwood Megapack

The Second Algernon Blackwood Megapack

The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack

The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack

The Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Megapackb

The Ghost Story Megapack

The Second Ghost Story Megapack

The Third Ghost Story Megapack

The Haunts & Horrors Megapack

The Horror Megapack

The M.R. James Megapack

The Macabre Megapack

The Arthur Machen Megapack**

The Second Macabre Megapack

The Mummy Megapack

The Occult Detective Megapack

The Vampire Megapack

The Werewolf Megapack

WESTERNS

The B.M. Bower Megapack

The Max Brand Megapack

The Buffalo Bill Megapack

The Cowboy Megapack

The Zane Grey Megapack

The Western Megapack

The Second Western Megapack

The Wizard of Oz Megapack

YOUNG ADULT

The Boys’ Adventure Megapack

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

The Doll Story Megapack

The G.A. Henty Megapack

The Girl Detectives Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pinocchio Megapack

The Rover Boys Megapack

The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack

The Tom Swift Megapack

AUTHOR MEGAPACKS

The Achmed Abdullah Megapack

The Second Achmed Abdullah Megapack

The Edward Bellamy Megapack

The B.M. Bower Megapack

The E.F. Benson Megapack

The Second E.F. Benson Megapack

The First Algernon Blackwood Megapack**

The Second Algernon Blackwood Megapack

The Max Brand Megapack

The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

The Wilkie Collins Megapack

The Ray Cummings Megapack

The Guy de Maupassant Megapack

The Philip K. Dick Megapack

The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack

The Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Megapack

The Jacques Futrelle Megapack

The Randall Garrett Megapack

The Kahlil Gibran Megapack*

The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

The Anna Katharine Green Megapack

The Zane Grey Megapack

The Edmond Hamilton Megapack

The Dashiell Hammett Megapack

The M.R. James Megapack

The Selma Lagerlof Megapack

The Murray Leinster Megapack

The Arthur Machen Megapack**

The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack

The Talbot Mundy Megapack

The Andre Norton Megapack

The H. Beam Piper Megapack

The Mack Reynolds Megapack

The Rafael Sabatini Megapack**

The Saki Megapack

The Robert Sheckley Megapack

*Not available in the United States.

**Not Available in the European Union.

OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY

The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany Megapack”)

The Wildside Book of Fantasy

The Wildside Book of Science Fiction

Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries

THE TRUE DARKNESS, by Pamela Sargent

The shrieking wind went mute. Lydia’s ears throbbed in the silence. Matt reached for the remote just as the TV screen went black and the overhead lights winked out.

Matt did not curse the darkness.

Lydia lifted a hand to her face. The living room was so dark that she couldn’t see her own fingers. “Isn’t there a flashlight by the bookcase?” she asked. Matt had been looking for his nail clippers over there earlier, shining a flashlight under the bottom shelf and behind the books; she had reminded him that he wouldn’t have lost the damned clippers in the first place if he didn’t insist on clipping his nails while he watched TV. “Think you left it there before.”

“If I can find it.” She felt the shifting of his weight on the sofa. “Jesus, can’t see a thing.” His voice was above her now. “This must be the third power failure we’ve had. Better call and find out how long it’ll be.”

“Even if we manage to call through, they won’t tell us much,” she said.

“At least we’d have an idea.”

Lydia leaned forward, felt around on the coffee table for her cellphone, flipped it open, and thumbed a button. The tiny screen should have been glowing by now. “My cell’s not working.”

“What do you mean it’s not working?” Matt’s voice was a bit more distant.

“Just what I said.” She paused. “Where’s your iPhone?”

“Think I left it upstairs.”

“I could try the phone in the kitchen.”

There was the sound of a thump. “Ow!” Matt said. “Just bashed my knee.”

Action and reaction, Lydia thought, yet another example of Newton’s third law of motion. She said, “Be careful.”

“Found the flashlight.” A small round circle of light appeared, moved up and down, then went out. There was something wrong with the flashlight, too. Everything around it, except for the patch of light, had remained completely black.

The floor creaked and then she felt the weight of her husband against her left side. “You don’t have to sit right on top of me,” she said.

“Sorry.” He moved away from her. The disk of light reappeared, but failed to illuminate anything around it. “This is really weird,” Matt continued. “This flashlight is screwy.” His voice was shaky.

“Guess I should try calling,” she said, “even if they don’t tell us much.” She had stored the number for National Access Incorporated in both her cellphone and the landline phone in the kitchen after the last power failure. She fiddled with the cellphone again, but nothing happened. “I’ll try the phone in the kitchen.”

“Take the flashlight.”

She felt the cool metal cylinder against her palm and closed her fingers around it, then pushed against the slide with her thumb. At first she thought that the flashlight had died, and then she turned the cylinder toward herself and saw the small circle of light.

Her face felt cold; it was harder to breathe. She aimed the flashlight away from herself and saw the light disappear.

She heard Matt catch his breath, but he said nothing. During the last power failure, Matt had cursed National Access for a minute or two, cursed some more while trying to locate a flashlight, had tried and failed to get a call in to the power company, then had suggested that they relax and finish their wine and he would tell her about his latest project while they waited for the power to come back on. It wasn’t like him to sit there saying nothing at all.

Lydia stood up. Even with the flashlight on, she had to feel her way toward the kitchen. She crept through the dining room, expecting at almost any moment to get to the doorway and then around the corner to the countertop where the phone was located, but the kitchen felt far away, almost unreachable. Before she could take one step, she had to take half a step, then half of that half-step, then half—

Stop it, she told herself. The minutes seemed to crawl by before she finally touched the edge of the kitchen counter.

Late that afternoon, a middle school kid had called the library the library to ask what Zeno’s paradox was; Lydia had taken the call.

“You don’t need a reference librarian to answer that question,” she had told him.

“But I don’t understand the answer I found,” the boy replied, sounding close to tears. A homework assignment, she thought, probably one he had put off doing until the last minute, and maybe his computer wasn’t working and he couldn’t go online to search for more information.

“Well, let me put it as simply as I can,” Lydia said. “Zeno’s paradox states that an arrow will never hit its target, because it has to fly half of the distance to it first, and then half of that distance, and so on and so forth, so the arrow will never reach the target at all, because it has to traverse—move through—an endless series of halves.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Having to cover endless half-distances and never able to get where it’s going is a way of saying that motion is impossible. Or an illusion. Think about it.”

“Thanks, lady,” the boy said, sounding unconvinced.

At least she had made it to the kitchen, unlike the arrow forever kept from its target by halves. The power had only gone out for an hour last time, and for about half an hour a month ago, but there had been a high wind warning up earlier in the evening. There had been more such warnings lately, perhaps a sign of increasing climate change since this region had rarely been swept by such strong winds in the past, and the wind had been howling for at least a couple of hours, to the point where she had started to worry about the roof and the tree limbs that might come crashing down on the house. That was one thing they hadn’t had to worry about while living in the city, where the nearest trees of any great size were in the park a block and a half away.

She slapped the countertop. Her hand found the telephone; her thumb pressed the “Talk” button. Instead of a dial tone, all she heard was a distant whistling sound.

Lydia leaned against the counter. The silence outside was unnerving. No police sirens, overheard conversations, car alarms going off, or people calling out to one another or gabbing on the sidewalk. She bit her lip, tried the phone again, set it down, then turned off the flashlight. The darkness and silence pressed in around her; she turned on the flashlight again. The patch of light shone up uselessly at her, illuminating nothing, as though the light was being blocked by an invisible barrier, or else struggling to penetrate the ether scientists had once believed filled all of space.

She made the journey back to the living room and sat down on the sofa. “Any luck?” Matt asked.

“I couldn’t even get a dial tone.” She waited for him to curse or say something, but he was silent. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a full moon tonight?” She had noticed that earlier, on her office calendar at the library. Matt kept up on things like that.

“Yeah.”

“So you’d think we’d see some light through the blinds, wouldn’t you?”

“I was thinking the same thing. Maybe it’s gotten really cloudy. Maybe the clouds are really thick. That’s what I’ve been telling myself.” His hand slipped around her wrist. “But that doesn’t explain the flashlight. Light doesn’t work that way.”

“I know.”

She turned off the flashlight. They sat there in silence. This was what it must be like to be blind, Lydia thought. At last she said, “Maybe we should see how the people across the street are doing.” They had been living in this house for almost four months now, and she had still not met any of their neighbors, but Matt must know something about them by now, since he ran his business from home. “I mean, this is the third power failure since we moved here. Maybe they can tell us how often this happens.”

“They’ve got three kids,” Matt said. “At least I think all of them are their kids, the ones I saw playing on their lawn the other day. Hard to believe anybody can afford three kids these days.” He sounded a little more like himself. “Guy’s name is Olaf. He looks like an Olaf, too. He’s a big blond-haired guy who’s built like a linebacker and his wife is this little tiny thing with black hair.”

“What’s her name?”

“Don’t know. I only talked to the guy for a few seconds. He asked me what I did, and I told him Web site design and computer workshops for individuals and groups, and he asked if maybe I could design a Web site for him if he ever quits his job and starts a landscaping business. And that was it.” He sighed. “I could head over there, see if he’s found out anything.”

“I’ll come with you.” She fumbled for his hand, afraid of sitting alone in the dark; his fingers closed around hers.

They moved slowly toward the front door, clinging to each other. After long moments, Matt let go of her and then she heard the door creak open. The still air seemed even colder than it had been earlier, when the wind had started to pick up. It was as dark outside as inside the house; the other houses on their street were completely invisible.

“Matt,” she whispered. Even the thickest cloud cover wouldn’t have turned the sky this black; there would have been some sign of the full moon, a soft silvery glow behind the clouds, a break through which she could have seen stars.

A speck of light suddenly appeared in the blackness. “Olaf?” Matt called out. “That you? It’s me, Matt Polgrave from across the street.”

“Matt?” That was a man’s voice, sounding very faint.

“Olaf?” Matt replied.

“Yeah, it’s me. This flashlight isn’t working.” The speck of light disappeared. “Maybe it’s the batteries. I knew I should have picked some up on my way home.”

“My flashlight’s got the same kind of trouble,” Matt said.

“Vicky tried calling National Access, but she couldn’t get through. National Asshole, I call them. We’ll probably be the last ones in town to get our power back on.”

Olaf was very likely right about that, Lydia thought. They were on a cul-de-sac in the middle of nowhere, or so it had always seemed to her, since it took her a good five to ten minutes just to get to the highway and another half an hour after that to drive to work. “We’ll be able to have two cars,” Matt had told her before they moved, “and we won’t have to worry about parking.” She would have preferred just the one car and the parking hassles and her former ten-minute walk to her job at the library. She had felt freer in the city, with the sounds and movement of so many other people around her. Here, she often felt cut off, embedded, trapped. Inertia had become the ruling principle of her life.

“This is the third time since we moved here,” Matt said to Olaf. “How often does this happen around here, anyway?”

“Not this often. Not until the last few months, anyway.”

Another point of light appeared far to Lydia’s left, then vanished. Another neighbor, she thought, somebody else she didn’t know who was probably bewildered by the totality of the darkness. She began to wish that she had made more of an effort to meet the people here, that Matt had been more outgoing. It had been mostly his idea to move out of the city, to get away from worrying about burglaries and getting mugged and hassles with parking the car and to have more space for his computers and his workshop and all the other stuff that had cluttered and finally overflowed their condominium and the small office he had rented down the street.

“Want to come over?” Matt asked.

“I’d probably get lost crossing the street,” Olaf said. “Can’t see a goddamn thing. Anyhow, I better get back to Vicki, she’s got a thing about the dark.”

“See you,” Matt said, and laughed.

“That’s a good one.” Olaf’s voice sounded even fainter.

“Step back,” Matt said to her, and Lydia knew that he was going to close the door. She felt her way back through the doorway and had to grope her way back to the sofa, brushing her hand against the bookshelves as she passed them and taking tiny steps so that she didn’t hit her legs against the coffee table.

She felt as though she would never get to the sofa.

Her leg bumped up against an obstacle that felt like the sofa. She turned and sat down. Matt plopped down next to her.

“He was right,” she said.

“Who?”

“Olaf. About getting lost crossing the street. I read this article the other day that says if people don’t get certain kinds of cues, they end up walking in circles, that’s how people get lost in the woods. We could go out the front door now and end up just circling around to the back of our own house.”

Matt said, “You’re creeping me out.”

She had thought she was making a joke. Now she knew from the flat tone of his voice that he was really frightened. She felt around the coffee table for her cellphone, found it, and pressed a button with her thumb; it still wasn’t working.

“The radio,” Matt said. “You know, that old one we took with us up to the lake this summer. I think I left it in my workshop.”

“What about it?”

“We could tune into one of the local stations, find out what’s going on. Might as well find out if it’s a major blackout.” He brushed against her as he stood up. “Think I can get to the basement,” his voice said overhead. “I’ll take it slow.”

* * * *

The first power failure they had experienced in this house had happened in the middle of dinner, and the power had come back on just as Lydia was lighting a candle for the table. The second had actually turned into a pleasant experience, giving her a chance to talk to Matt while they finished some wine instead of her having to sit through a DVD of a crappy action movie.

This power failure was different. This darkness didn’t feel like only the absence of light. She could imagine it as something seeping into the atmosphere, thickening the air, leaking through crevices in the walls and windows and billowing throughout the house until they were drowned in the blackness.

“Planck’s constant,” Betsy Dane had told four high school students earlier that week, “is a physical constant, symbolized by h, used in quantum mechanics to denote the sizes of quanta.” Lydia and Betsy, a newly hired librarian, had spent half an hour helping the students locate references for a science project. Quantum mechanics, to Lydia’s surprise, had turned out to be a subject that greatly interested her coworker, who had minored in physics in college. But quantum mechanics was not what she needed to dwell on at the moment. It only reminded her that the normal, usually unexamined daily assumptions she made and acted upon—that there were such things as continuity and causation—might be illusions, that the light and space she sensed were only the product of her own perceptions, the way her senses ordered the world, and not a kind of absolute reality that existed independently of her relationship to physical phenomena.

I have to stop this, Lydia told herself. The lights would come back on any minute now.

She got up and walked slowly to the kitchen. There was a box of kitchen matches in the second drawer from the top of the counter, and there might be a candle in there as well. She found the drawer handle, pulled out the drawer, and found the box of matches. Leaning against the counter, she opened the box and struck a match.

The tiny flame danced, a spark against the darkness, but her hand and the match she held were invisible to her. Her hand shook. She blew out the flame and dropped the match on the countertop.

She shuffled back to the living room and sat down, then pulled on the sweater she had shed earlier. The living room felt cold for this time of year, and without any power, they could not turn on their furnace.

Matt was certainly taking his time looking for the radio; it felt as though he had been downstairs forever. There was no reason they had to sit here doing nothing just because of a blackout. They could drive to someplace where the power was still on and stay overnight at a hotel. She could always call in sick tomorrow, since she had some days off coming to her. If they stayed anywhere near downtown, she could even walk to work.

“Matt?” she called out, in case he had come back upstairs and she just hadn’t heard him. “Matt?” The air seemed thicker, harder to breathe, but that had to be her imagination. She waited silently for a few more moments. “Matt?”

“Found the radio,” he said from the direction of the dining room. “Couldn’t hear anything downstairs, though. Maybe we can pick up something up here.” There was doubt in his voice.

“I’m over here,” she said, worrying that he might lose his way even along the short distance to the front of the house.

He thumped down next to her, at her right this time. “I know it’s on,” he said, “and I found the tuner dial, but nothing’s coming in.”

“Maybe the battery’s dead.”

“I know it’s not dead, because I put in a new battery just the other day.”

“I went to the kitchen again,” she said, “and lit a match, and even…” She sighed. “Even the flame wasn’t acting right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could see the flame, but nothing else, not even the match.”

“What’s so strange about that? You’re not going to get much light from a match anyway. You’re too suggestible. The flashlight doesn’t work, so now you’re imagining that fire doesn’t, either.”

She wanted to accept that. She always had been suggestible, even gullible at times.

“I mean, you’re too damn suggestible.” He seemed intent on establishing that fact, an assumption that would cut off other possible theorizing about their situation. “Damn radio.” She heard him sigh. “Maybe there’s nobody on the air,” he continued, “because this is a really big outage, like the one that knocked out the whole East Coast a while back.”

It isn’t just an outage, she thought; she knew that and was sure Matt knew it, too, deep down, however much he resisted the fact. Flashlights that cast no light, a darkness so pervasive that nothing was visible, even the feeling that air was beginning to congeal around her—this was more than just a power failure.

“Matt,” she whispered, “I was thinking. We don’t have to stay here, you know. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“We’d feel awfully stupid when the power comes back on, driving around and wasting time and gas when we could just be patient.” Matt had always been practical. Living in this house gave them more space for less cost than they’d had in the city, even with the second car; keeping their old furniture and making use of old appliances like the radio was economical; and there was no point in going on a vacation somewhere else this year when they could enjoy their own back yard. Of course Matt had wanted to leave the city, she thought. The house gave him even more of an excuse to keep to himself, to anchor himself to one place, to surround himself with certainty, to become almost immovable.

“I’ll keep fiddling with the radio,” he said. “Think you can make it to the front door, see if anything’s going on outside?”

“Sure.” The power would come back on any second now. The world would become continuous again.

She got up and inched toward the front door, hands out, until her fingers found a surface. She pressed her palms against the door, found the doorknob, and pulled the door open.

She stepped outside; the darkness took her, starless, cold. She wrapped her arms around herself. As she turned to go back inside, she glimpsed a faint glow to her right. The glow became two globes of light; there was the sound of a motor. A car was coming down the small hill at the end of the cul-de-sac, and it seemed to be moving very slowly, maybe no more than five miles an hour.

She retreated inside, closed the door, and shuffled back to the sofa. “It’s still just as dark,” she said, “but somebody was driving down the hill at the end of our street. The headlights—they were doing the same thing as our flashlight. I mean, I could see them, but I don’t know how the driver could see the road or anything else.” They wouldn’t be able to drive out of here, with no way to see where they were going.

“Nothing,” Matt said, and she knew that he was referring to the radio. “Everything’s out.”

She sat down. Maybe they should get out of here, whatever the risks. Anything would be better than sitting helplessly, passive victims of whatever was going on outside. Maybe the blackout, or whatever it was, had taken out the whole country this time. Maybe all of North America was dark and cold. Maybe terrorists had finally managed to knock out the entire grid. Maybe somebody had finally started a nuclear war. Thoughts of terrorists and nuclear war didn’t frighten her as much as they might have. At least they were familiar possible causes of potential disasters.

“Hey!” That was a woman’s voice, and very faint. “Hey!”

“Did you hear that?” Matt asked.

“Yes.” Lydia was already up, shuffling toward the door. She pulled the door open and leaned outside. “Hello?”

“I’m here,” the voice said. Lydia guessed that the woman had to be somewhere near the edge of their lawn. “In my car.”

“I’m Lydia Polgrave,” Lydia said. “My husband Matt and I live in the two-story brick house next to the white Colonial at the bottom of the hill.” It suddenly seemed ludicrous to be introducing herself to someone she could not see.

“I know the house. My name’s Gretchen Duhamel, and I live in that gray shingled job with the screened-in porch at the end of the road.” The alto voice was strong, almost reassuring. Lydia tried to visualize this woman she had never seen. She sounded like a tall woman, maybe somewhat overweight, with a short, no-nonsense haircut. “Can’t see a darned thing, so it probably isn’t a good idea to keep driving. Only trouble is, I don’t know if I could even find my way home now, in the car or on foot.”

Lydia thought of asking her inside. Under the circumstances, Matt was unlikely to object, and might even welcome the company. Even the presence of a stranger would be better than sitting there stewing by themselves. “You could stay with us for a while,” she said. “Think you can find your way to our door?”

“I should be able to get that far,” Gretchen Duhamel replied. There was the sharp chunk of a car door being slammed shut. “Aren’t you the house with those flagstones on your front lawn, kind of like a pathway to your front steps?”

“That’s us.”

“For a minute there, I couldn’t remember if it was the brick house or the Colonial with the flagstones, and I’ve lived in this neighborhood for over ten years, must have driven past your house a million times. Funny what you can’t remember when you can’t see anything.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Keep talking,” Gretchen Duhamel said. “All I’ve got to go on is the sound of your voice.”

Lydia tried to think of what to say. “Uh, we moved in about four months back. I’ve got a job in Findlay, at the downtown branch of the public library.”

“The library?” Gretchen Duhamel sounded closer.

“I’m a reference librarian there. My husband runs his own consulting business from home.”

“Then I take it he’s the guy I’ve seen mowing your lawn. The tall skinny guy in the Red Sox cap.”

“That’s Matt.”

“I’m retired, but I used to teach introduction to physics at the community college. You know, I’ve been trying to get National Access on my cellphone the whole way here. Can’t get through.” The woman sounded really close now.

“Be careful. It’s four steps up to the door.”

“I’m being careful,” Gretchen Duhamel said. Lydia heard footfalls on the steps, and then something brushed against her. “Sorry.”

“You’re almost there. Just keep coming.”

* * * *

By the time Gretchen Duhamel was settled in the easy chair next to the sofa, Lydia had learned that she was a widow and that her late husband had died five years ago. The woman went on to mention a son who lived in Seattle and her two cats, Bartholomew and Percy, whom she had left behind in the fenced-in back yard of her house.

“They’re indoor cats,” the woman continued, “but I’ve got one of those kitty doors in the back, so they can get in and out of the house, but they can’t get out of the yard.” She went on at length about the felines’ favorite foods, their luxuriant black and white fur, and the way they loved to chase their favorite toy, a ball of aluminum foil. Normally such a conversation would have bored Lydia mightily, but now she welcomed the distraction, the feeling that things would soon return to normal. The lights would come back on, and Gretchen Duhamel would go home to her cats and toss them their balls of aluminum foil.

“I’ve lived with those cats for almost four years now,” Gretchen went on, “so they’re almost like my kids. You don’t have any kids, do you?”

“No,” Matt replied.

“Not yet,” Lydia added.

“People around here aren’t having so many kids these days,” Gretchen Duhamel said, “and they’re older when they do. It’s like they can’t count on a stable, normal life any more, doing what they’re supposed to do and having things work out. Nothing’s that predictable any more. The couple that used to live in your house must have been over forty when they had their first.”

“I think that big blond guy across the street has three kids,” Matt said.

“Olaf Janssen?” the woman said. “Don’t know where you got that idea. He and Vicky just have the one boy, Lars.”

“I’ve seen three kids over there.”

“You must be thinking of Josh and Becca, the Bloom kids. They’re over there all the time. They and Lars Janssen are as thick as thieves.”

Gretchen Duhamel fell silent. Lydia waited for the woman to say something more, anything to distract them from the darkness and the cold.

“Wish I hadn’t left my cats,” Gretchen murmured.

The power had to be restored soon. The light would restore eveything to its previous state. Lydia was getting herself worked up over nothing, only imagining that the air was even thicker and colder around her. It was the waiting that got to her, the feeling that there was nothing she could do except wait there in the dark.

The front doorbell rang.

Lydia started. “Who could that be?” Gretchen said.

“Has to be one of our neighbors,” Matt said.

“Not necessarily,” Gretchen said. “Might be looters or burglars and such. And we can’t even call the police.”

Matt said, “I’ll see who it is.” He let out what sounded to Lydia like a forced laugh. “I’ll find out who it is.” She felt him get up from the sofa. The floor creaked slightly as he moved toward the door. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

“Olaf,” a muffled voice replied, and Lydia heard the door whoosh open.

* * * *

Olaf had found a long length of rope in his garage and had tied one end of it to his front door knob, reasoning that if he got lost crossing the street, he would at least be able to find his way back to his house. As she listened to him, Lydia found herself admiring his resourcefulness and wishing that she had thought of such an idea herself or else that Matt had.

“Good thinking, young man,” Gretchen said when Olaf fell silent.

“That you, Miz Duhamel?” Olaf asked.

“Sure is. Anyway, it’s good thinking on your part assuming this is just a power failure and not something a whole lot weirder. You know what it’s like? It’s almost like the light’s going out, everything’s slowing down, and space is filling up.”

Lydia froze. She had been thinking almost exactly the same thing.

“My wife and my boy are still back at our house,” Olaf said after a long pause, “but I’ve been thinking there’s no point in just sitting around.”

“I tried to drive out,” Gretchen said, “but you can’t see a blessed thing, not even with the headlights on.”

“I thought of driving out myself,” Olaf said, “but no way. This just isn’t normal, this kind of dark. You know what I saw just before the lights went out? For a second, everything looked kind of like these gray shadowy things in the dark, like I was seeing in the infrared or something. Vicky’s face was like this pale blob with black pits instead of eyes.” He was silent for a bit. “We could still try to walk out of here.”

He outlined his plan. They would tie whatever lengths of rope Matt happened to have in his house to Olaf’s rope. They could use the rope like a belay, going on to the next house, picking up more rope, and continuing on that way until…

“Until what?” Matt interrupted.

“Until we get to someplace where we can find out what’s going on or until the lights come back on, but if you want my opinion, I don’t think they’re coming back on any time soon. And if anybody doesn’t have any rope, we can use sheets or something else, tie them to the rope. We can just keep going and if anybody changes their mind, they can belay themselves back home.”

A giggle escaped Lydia. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but could not stop laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Olaf asked.

“You’re getting hysterical,” Matt said; Lydia felt his breath on her face.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.” She cleared her throat. “We’d look awfully silly if everything suddenly went back to normal, standing around out there in a line hanging on to a rope.”

“I don’t know about you,” Olaf said, “but I’d rather do something instead of just sit around waiting for National Access to get its shit together. Anyway, this feels like a whole lot more than just National Access.”

“Oh, it’s definitely more than that,” Gretchen added. “National recess,” she muttered.

“Light that doesn’t show you anything,” Olaf said, “everything so black you can’t see a damn thing, and I’ve never heard it so quiet outside. It’s like we’re…like we’re…” He seemed to be struggling for words.

“It’s like we’re completely cut off from certain wavelengths of the electromagnetic spectrum,” Matt said, “among other things.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking anyway,” Matt said. Lydia heard the fear in his voice as he shifted his weight on the sofa. “Cellphones not working, radios not picking up anything, the cold, the thing with lights—” His voice trailed off. Lydia thought of the match she had struck in the kitchen.

“Whatever it is,” Olaf said, “I figure we can go back to my house, get my wife and son, and belay down to the Blooms’ house.”

“What about your next door neighbors?” Gretchen asked.

“The Murrays? They flew out yesterday to visit his mother in Atlanta. Lucky for them, I guess.”

“Unless this is affecting everybody,” Matt said. “Everywhere.”

Lydia let that sink in. A worldwide catastrophe, she thought. What if they were trapped in this darkness forever? She swallowed hard. They could get out of here with Olaf. If something had really gone wrong, they would be better off in a group, She was pretty sure they had some rope in the garage to tie to Olaf’s, and she could throw in a couple of old sheets she had been meaning to tear up for rags.

“Well, what about it?” Olaf said. “I gotta get back to Vicky and Lars. Vicky has a thing about the dark.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gretchen said. “Can’t give you more rope, though. There isn’t any rope in my car.”

“What about you?” Olaf said, and Lydia knew that he was referring to her and Matt.

“Think I’ve got some rope in the garage,” Matt said.

“Think you can find it?” Olaf asked.

“Yeah. Just have to go through our kitchen and the laundry room, and it should be right next to the door.” Matt brushed against her as he stood up. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“Don’t get lost,” Olaf said.

“Don’t worry,” Matt replied, his voice farther away. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

“This blackout,” Gretchen said in a low voice. “It’s giving me the willies.”

“You can say that again,” Olaf said, also keeping his voice low. “I gotta tell you, before I came over, Vicky tried to light a candle, just so we could have a little bit of light, and—” Somebody emitted a loud sniff. “It wasn’t working.”

Lydia said, “The same thing happened to me.” She tried to repress the fear uncoiling inside her. “Your wife struck a match, but all she got was a small flame, a bit of light that didn’t illuminate anything else. I lit a match earlier, in the kitchen, and it didn’t give off any light at all except for this tiny flame.”

“Know what I’m thinking?” Gretchen said. “I’m thinking of something Ernst Mach once said.”

“Who?” Olaf said.

“He was a physicist,” Lydia murmured. “I’m a reference librarian,” she continued by way of explanation. “That’s how I know things like that.”

“Ernst Mach once said that gravity might be our experience of some large motion of the universe as a whole.” Gretchen paused. “So in that case, light might be affected if there was any change in that motion.”

Lydia said, “Maybe the change is in us.”

“What do you mean?” Gretchen asked.

“Paul Valery once speculated that our universe is the plan of a deep symmetry, one that’s somehow present in the inner structure of our minds.”

“Who the hell is Paul Valery?” Olaf asked.

“He was a French poet and philosopher,” Lydia replied. “Wrote that in his Cahiers—uh, his notebooks.” That was yet another piece of knowledge she had acquired that now had no function except to feed her fears.

Gretchen and Olaf were silent. Lydia strained to hear something in the silence, but the darkness seemed to have muffled sound as effectively as it had doused light. The air seemed thicker, too, as if a fog had formed around her.

Space was not empty. Their human senses deluded them into thinking space was empty when in fact it was full. Space and time were constructs of the human mind, and now their minds were failing them. Everything outside them was as it had always been; it was just that they could no longer impose their mental constructs on it.

She was imagining things again, being too suggestible. She pressed her hands together, trying to warm her fingers against the cold.

“Thought he said he’d be back in a second,” Olaf said. The words came from him slowly, and the pitch of his voice was even lower.

Lydia longed to call out to Matt, but restrained herself. She suddenly feared that if she opened her mouth to say anything, she would start screaming. She sat back, struggling to calm herself. Whatever was happening, there had to be somebody, somewhere, who was already trying to get help to anyone trapped in this darkness.

“Found the rope.” She could barely hear Matt’s voice. “And a couple of long cords, too.” He had to be talking about the electrical cords he used with his clippers when he pruned the hedge. “Must be at least thirty or forty feet in all.” He sounded closer now. “But—”

Lydia took a breath. The air had taken on substance; she felt as though she were inhaling a soft, cool mist.

“But what?” Olaf said, his voice now a bass.

“I’m not…going with…you,” Matt replied in a baritone.

Another long silence ensued. “You’re not…going with me?”

“We’re…staying…here,” Matt said.

That was like Matt, speaking for her as well as himself. Lydia wanted to object, but there was no point in arguing with him, and also no reason why she could not leave with the others and without him.

“You…sure?” Olaf asked.

Lydia stretched out her arms and hit an obstacle. “Matt?” she said. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

She felt around and touched something that felt like coiled cord. “Give me the rope.”

“What?”

“Give me the rope.” A long moment passed before the coil was thrust into her hands. She got up, working hard to stand, struggling with the weight of the rope. “Olaf?”

“Over here.” By the sound of his voice, he was still near the door. She moved toward him, bumped into the coffee table, stepped back, then crept toward the entrance. Something suddenly slammed against her arm. “Sorry,” Olaf said.

“Here’s the rope.” She held out the coil; the invisible man relieved her of its weight.

“Thanks,” Olaf said in an even deeper bass voice. “Now I’m heading outside. Got the end of my rope tied to the railing around your front steps.”

“I’m right behind you,” Gretchen’s voice, nearly as deep as Olaf’s, was closer. There was the sound of the door opening. Lydia stood still, uncertain, searching the darkness for some sign of light.

“Lydia,” Matt called out.

“Are you coming?” Olaf asked. She hesitated. “Well?”

“I can’t leave Matt,” she said at last.

“You there, Miz Duhamel?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Grab my arm. Okay, I’m gonna take the steps real slow.” Lydia heard the dull thud of a foot on the steps; a long time passed before she heard another. For a moment, she thought she glimpsed the shimmering of a soft glow in the sky, and then it was gone.

She backed inside and struggled to push the massive door shut, surprised at how much effort it took.

“Lydia?” Matt said.

She shuffled slowly toward him. The cold air was congealing around her. She struggled across the room, wondering why Matt seemed so far away. “Matt?” The thickened air flowed into her mouth and into her lungs. “Matt?”

“Lydia?” His voice was as deep as Olaf’s had been. “Are…you…still here?”

“Yes.” She tried to swim toward him, but the air was beginning to jell around her arms and legs. She thought of Olaf and Gretchen and wondered if they were still towing themselves toward Olaf’s house along the rope or were already trapped outside on the steps.

“I’m…glad…you…stayed.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but was already embedded in the thick, frigid darkness; motion was frozen.

She wanted to say it, but the words escaped her.

“Matt,” she whispered, and her voice was as deep as his had been.

Her hand clawed through the solidifying darkness and clutched his as everything stopped.

PERMANENT FATAL ERRORS, by Jay Lake

Maduabuchi St. Macaria had never before traveled with an all-Howard crew. Mostly his kind kept to themselves, even under the empty skies of a planet. Those who did take ship almost always did so in a mixed or all-baseline human crew.

Not here, not aboard the threadneedle starship Inclined Plane. Seven crew including him, captained by a very strange woman who called herself Peridot Smith. All Howard Institute immortals. A new concept in long-range exploration, multi-decade interstellar missions with ageless crew, testbedded in orbit around the brown dwarf Tiede 1. That’s what the newsfeeds said, anyway.

His experience was far more akin to a violent soap opera. Howards really weren’t meant to be bottled up together. It wasn’t in the design templates. Socially well-adjusted people didn’t generally self-select to outlive everyone they’d ever known.

Even so, Maduabuchi was impressed by the welcome distraction of Tiede 1. Everyone else was too busy cleaning their weapons and hacking the internal comms and cams to pay attention to their mission objective. Not him.

Inclined Plane boasted an observation lounge. The hatch was coded ‘Observatory’, but everything of scientific significance actually happened within the instrumentation woven into the ship’s hull and the diaphanous energy fields stretching for kilometers beyond. The lounge was a folly of naval architecture, a translucent bubble fitted to the hull, consisting of roughly a third of a sphere of optically-corrected artificial diamond grown to nanometer symmetry and smoothness in microgravity. Chances were good that in a catastrophe the rest of the ship would be shredded before the bubble would so much as be scratched.

There had been long, heated arguments in the galley, with math and footnotes and thumb breaking, over that exact question.

Maduabuchi liked to sit in the smartgel bodpods and let the ship perform a three-sixty massage while he watched the universe. The rest of the crew were like cats in a sack, too busy stalking the passageways and each other to care what might be outside the window. Here in the lounge one could see creation, witness the birth of stars, observe the death of planets, or listen to the quiet, empty cold of hard vacuum. The silence held a glorious music that echoed inside his head.

Maduabuchi wasn’t a complete idiot – he’d rigged his own cabin with self-powered screamer circuits and an ultrahigh voltage capacitor. That ought to slow down anyone with delusions of traps.

Tiede 1 loomed outside. It seemed to shimmer as he watched, as if a starquake were propagating. The little star belied the ancient label of “brown dwarf”. Stepped down by filtering nano coating the diamond bubble, the surface glowed a dull reddish orange; a coal left too long in a campfire, or a jewel in the velvet setting of night. Only 300,000 kilometers in diameter, and about five percent of a solar mass, it fell in that class of objects ambiguously distributed between planets and stars.

It could be anything, he thought. Anything.

A speck of green tugged at Maduabuchi’s eye, straight from the heart of the star.

Green? There were no green emitters in nature.

“Amplification,” he whispered. The nano filters living on the outside of the diamond shell obligingly began to self-assemble a lens. He controlled the aiming and focus with eye movements, trying to find whatever it was he had seen. Another ship? Reflection from a piece of rock or debris?

Excitement chilled Maduabuchi despite his best intentions to remain calm. What if this were evidence of the long-rumored but never-located alien civilizations that should have abounded in the Orion Arm of the Milky Way?

He scanned for twenty minutes, quartering Tiede 1’s face as minutely as he could without direct access to the instrumentation and sensors carried by Inclined Plane. The ship’s AI was friendly and helpful, but outside its narrow and critical competencies in managing the threadneedle drive and localspace navigation, no more intelligent than your average dog, and so essentially useless for such work. He’d need to go to the Survey Suite to do more.

Maduabuchi finally stopped staring at the star and called up a deck schematic. “Ship, plot all weapons discharges or unscheduled energy expenditures within the pressurized cubage.”

The schematic winked twice, but nothing was highlighted. Maybe Captain Smith had finally gotten them all to stand down. None of Maduabuchi’s screamers had gone off, either, though everyone else had long since realized he didn’t play their games.

Trusting that no one had hacked the entire tracking system, he cycled the lock and stepped into the passageway beyond. Glancing back at Tiede 1 as the lock irised shut, Maduabuchi saw another green flash.

He fought back a surge of irritation. The star was not mocking him.

* * * *

Peridot Smith was in the Survey Suite when Maduabuchi cycled the lock there. Radiation-tanned from some melanin-deficient base hue of skin, lean, with her hair follicles removed and her scalp tattooed in an intricate mandala using magnetically sensitive ink, the captain was an arresting sight at any time. At the moment, she was glaring at him, her eyes flashing a strange, flat silver indicating serious tech integrated into the tissues. “Mr. St. Macaria.” She gave him a terse nod. “How are the weapons systems?”

Ironically, of all the bloody-minded engineers and analysts and navigators aboard, he was the weapons officer.

“Capped and sealed per orders, ma’am,” he replied. “Test circuits warm and green.” Inclined Plane carried a modest mix of hardware, generalized for unknown threats rather than optimized for anti-piracy or planetary blockade duty, for example. Missiles, field projectors, electron strippers, flechettes, even foggers and a sandcaster.

Most of which he had no real idea about. They were icons in the control systems, each maintained by its own little armies of nano and workbots. All he had were status lights and strat-tac displays. Decisions were made by specialized subsystems.

It was the rankest makework, but Maduabuchi didn’t mind. He’d volunteered for the Howard Institute program because of the most basic human motivation – tourism. Seeing what was over the next hill had trumped even sex as the driving force in human evolution. He was happy to be a walking, talking selection mechanism.

Everything else, including this tour of duty, was just something to do while the years slid past.

“What did you need, Mr. St. Macaria?”

“I was going to take a closer look at Tiede 1, ma’am.”

“That is what we’re here for.”

He looked for humor in her dry voice, and did not find it. “Ma’am, yes ma’am. I…I just think I saw something.”

“Oh, really?” Her eyes flashed, reminding Maduabuchi uncomfortably of blades.

Embarrassed, he turned back to the passageway.

“What did you see?” she asked from behind him. Now her voice was edged as well.

“Nothing, ma’am. Nothing at all.”

Back in the passageway, Maduabuchi fled toward his cabin. Several of the crew laughed from sick bay, their voices rising over the whine of the bone-knitter. Someone had gone down hard.

Not him. Not even at the hands – or eyes – of Captain Smith.

* * * *

An hour later, after checking the locations of the crew again with the ship’s AI, he ventured back to the Survey Suite. Chillicothe Xiang nodded to him in the passageway, almost friendly, as she headed aft for a half-shift monitoring the power plants in Engineering.

“Hey,” Maduabuchi said in return. She didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to notice he’d spoken. All these years, all the surgeries and nano injections and training, and somehow he was still the odd kid out on the playground.

Being a Howard Immortal was supposed to be different. And it was, when he wasn’t around other Howard Immortals.

The Survey Suite was empty, as advertised. Ultra-def screens wrapped the walls, along with a variety of control inputs, from classical keypads to haptics and gestural zones. Maduabuchi slipped into the observer’s seat and swept his hand to open the primary sensor routines.

Captain Smith had left her last data run parked in the core sandbox.

His fingers hovered over the purge, then pulled back. What had she been looking at, that had made her so interested in what he’d seen? Those eyes flashed edged and dangerous in his memory. He almost asked the ship where she was, but a question like that would be reported, drawing more attention than it was worth.

Maduabuchi closed his eyes for a moment, screwing up his courage, and opened the data run.

It cascaded across the screens, as well as virtual presentations in the aerosolized atmosphere of the Survey Suite. Much more than he’d seen when he was in here before – plots, scales, arrays, imaging across the EM spectrum, color-coded tabs and fields and stacks and matrices. Even his Howard-enhanced senses had trouble keeping up with the flood. Captain Smith was far older and more experienced than Maduabuchi, over half a dozen centuries to his few decades, and she had developed both the mental habits and the individualized mentarium to handle such inputs.

On the other hand, he was a much newer model. Everyone upgraded, but the Howard Institute baseline tech evolved over generations just like everything else in human culture. Maduabuchi bent to his work, absorbing the overwhelming bandwidth of her scans of Tiede 1, and trying to sort out what it was that had been the true object of her attention.

Something had to be hidden in plain sight here.

* * * *

He worked an entire half-shift without being disturbed, sifting petabytes of data, until the truth hit him. The color-coding of one spectral analysis matrix was nearly identical to the green flash he thought he’d seen on the surface of Tiede 1.

All the data was a distraction. Her real work had been hidden in the metadata, passing for nothing more than a sorting signifier.

Once Maduabuchi realized that, he unpacked the labeling on the spectral analysis matrix, and opened up an entirely new data environment. Green, it was all about the green.

“I was wondering how long that would take you,” said Captain Smith from the opening hatch.

Maduabuchi jumped in his chair, opened his mouth to make some denial, then closed it again. Her eyes didn’t look razored this time, and her voice held a tense amusement.

He fell back on that neglected stand-by, the truth. “Interesting color you have here, ma’am.”

“I thought so.” Smith stepped inside, cycled the lock shut, then code-locked it with a series of beeps that meant her command override was engaged. “Ship,” she said absently, “sensory blackout on this area.”

“Acknowledged, Captain,” said the ship’s puppy-friendly voice.

“What do you think it means, Mr. St. Macaria?”

“Stars don’t shine green. Not to the human eye. The blackbody radiation curve just doesn’t work that way.” He added, “Ma’am.”

“Thank you for defining the problem.” Her voice was dust-dry again.

Maduabuchi winced. He’d given himself away, as simply as that. But clearly she already knew about the green flashes. “I don’t think that’s the problem, ma’am.”

“Mmm?”

“If it was, we’d all be lining up like good kids to have a look at the optically impossible brown dwarf.”

“Fair enough. Then what is the problem, Mr. St. Macaria?”

He drew a deep breath and chose his next words with care. Peridot Smith was old, old in way he’d never be, even with her years behind him someday. “I don’t know what the problem is, ma’am, but if it’s a problem to you, it’s a command issue. Politics. And light doesn’t have politics.”

Much to his surprise, she laughed. “You’d be amazed. But yes. Again, well done.”

She hadn’t said that before, but he took the compliment. “What kind of command problem, ma’am?”

Captain Smith sucked in a long, noisy breath and eyed him speculatively. A sharp gaze, to be certain. “Someone on this ship is on their own mission. We were jiggered into coming to Tiede 1 to provide cover, and I don’t know what for.”

“Not me!” Maduabuchi blurted.

“I know that.”

The dismissal in her words stung for a moment, but on the while, he realized he’d rather not be a suspect in this particular witch hunt.

His feelings must have shown in his face, because she smiled and added, “You haven’t been around long enough to get sucked into the Howard factions. And you have a rep for being indifferent to the seductive charms of power.”

“Uh, yes.” Maduabuchi wasn’t certain what to say to that.

“Why do you think you’re here?” She leaned close, her breath hot on his face. “I needed someone who would reliably not be conspiring against me.”

“A useful idiot,” he said. “But there’s only seven of us. How many could be conspiring? And over a green light?”

“It’s Tiede 1,” Captain Smith answered. “Someone is here gathering signals. I don’t know what for. Or who. Because it could be any of the rest of the crew. Or all of them.”

“But this is politics, not mutiny. Right…?”

“Right.” She brushed off the concern. “We’re not getting hijacked out here. And if someone tries, I am the meanest fighter on this ship by a wide margin. I can take any three of this crew apart.”

“Any five of us, though?” he asked softly.

“That’s another use for you.”

“I don’t fight.”

“No, but you’re a Howard. You’re hard enough to kill that you can take it at my back long enough to keep me alive.”

“Uh, thanks,” Maduabuchi said, very uncertain now.

“You’re welcome.” Her eyes strayed to the data arrays floating across the screens and in the virtual presentations. “The question is who, what and why.”

“Have you compared the observational data to known stellar norms?” he asked.

“Green flashes aren’t a known stellar norm.”

“No, but we don’t know what the green flashes are normal for, either. If we compare Tiede 1 to other brown dwarfs, we might spot further anomalies. Then we triangulate.”

“And that is why I brought you.” Captain Smith’s tone was very satisfied indeed. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” To his surprise, Maduabuchi realized he meant it.

* * * *

He spent the next half-shift combing through comparative astronomy. At this point, almost a thousand years into the human experience of interstellar travel, there was an embarrassing wealth of data. So much so that even petabyte q-bit storage matrices were overrun, as eventually the challenges of indexing and retrieval went metastatic. Still, one thing Howards were very good at was data processing. Nothing ever built could truly match the pattern recognition and free associative skills of human (or post-human) wetware collectively known as “hunches.” Strong AIs could approximate that uniquely biological skill through a combination of brute force and deeply clever circuit design, but even then, the spark of inspiration did not flow so well.

Maduabuchi slipped into his flow state to comb through more data in a few hours than a baseline human could absorb in a year. Brown dwarfs, superjovians, fusion cycles, failed stars, hydrogen, helium, lithium, surface temperatures, density, gravity gradients, emission spectrum lines, astrographic surveys, theories dating back to the dawn of observational astronomy, digital images in two and three dimensions as well as time-lensed.

When he emerged, driven by the physiological mundanities of bladder and blood sugar, Maduabuchi knew something was wrong. He knew it. Captain Smith had been right about her mission, about there being something off in their voyage to Tiede 1.

But she didn’t know what it was she was right about. He didn’t either.

Still, the thought niggled somewhere deep in his mind. Not the green flash per se, though that, too. Something more about Tiede 1.

Or less.

“And what the hell did that mean?” he asked the swarming motes of data surrounding him on the virtual displays, now reduced to confetti as he left his informational fugue.

Maduabuchi stumbled out of the Survey Suite to find the head, the galley and Captain Peridot Smith, in that order.

* * * *

The corridor was filled with smoke, though no alarms wailed. He almost ducked back into the Survey Suite, but instead dashed for one of the emergency stations found every ten meters or so and grabbed an oxygen mask. Then he hit the panic button.

That produced a satisfying wail, along with lights strobing at four distinct frequencies. Something was wrong with the gravimetrics, too – the floor had felt syrupy, then too light, with each step. Where the hell was fire suppression?

The bridge was next. He couldn’t imagine that they were under attack – Inclined Plane was the only ship in the Tiede 1 system so far as any of them knew. And short of some kind of pogrom against Howard immortals, no one had any reason to attack their vessel.

Mutiny, he thought, and wished he had an actual weapon. Though what he’d do with it was not clear. The irony that the lowest-scoring shooter in the history of the Howard training programs was now working as a weapons officer was not lost on him.

He stumbled into the bridge to find Chillicothe Xiang there, laughing her ass off with Paimei Joyner, one of their two scouts – hard-assed Howards so heavily modded that they could at need tolerate hard vacuum on their bare skin, and routinely worked outside for hours with minimal life support and radiation shielding. The strobes were running in here, but the audible alarm was mercifully muted. Also, whatever was causing the smoke didn’t seem to have reached into here yet.

Captain Smith stood at the far end of the bridge, her back to the diamond viewing wall that was normally occluded by a virtual display, though at the moment the actual, empty majesty of Tiede 1 local space was visible.

Smith was snarling. “…don’t care what you thought you were doing, clean up my ship’s air! Now, damn it.”

The two turned toward the hatch, nearly ran into Maduabuchi in his breathing mask, and renewed their laughter.

“You look like a spaceman,” said Chillicothe.

“Moral here,” added Paimei. One deep black hand reached out to grasp Maduabuchi’s shoulder so hard he winced. “Don’t try making a barbecue in the galley.”

“We’ll be eating con-rats for a week,” snapped Captain Smith. “And everyone on this ship will know damned well it’s your fault we’re chewing our teeth loose.”

The two walked out, Paimei shoving Maduabuchi into a bulkhead while Chillicothe leaned close. “Take off the mask,” she whispered. “You look stupid in it.”

Moments later, Maduabuchi was alone with the captain, the mask dangling in his grasp.

“What was it?” she asked in a quiet, gentle voice that carried more respect than he probably deserved.

“I have…had something,” Maduabuchi said. “A sort of, well, hunch. But it’s slipped away in all that chaos.”

Smith nodded, her face closed and hard. “Idiots built a fire in the galley, just to see if they could.”

“Is that possible?”

“If you have sufficient engineering talent, yes,” the captain admitted grudgingly. “And are very bored.”

“Or want to create a distraction,” Maduabuchi said, unthinking.

“Damn it,” Smith shouted. She stepped to her command console. “What did we miss out there?”

“No,” he said, his hunches suddenly back in play. This was like a flow hangover. “Whatever’s out there was out there all along. The green flash. Whatever it is.” And didn’t that niggle at his thoughts like a cockroach in an airscrubber. “What we missed was in here.”

“And when,” the captain asked, her voice very slow now, viscous with thought, “did you and I become we as separate from the rest of this crew?”

When you first picked me, ma’am, Maduabuchi thought but did not say. “I don’t know. But I was in the Survey Suite, and you were on the bridge. The rest of this crew was somewhere else.”

“You can’t look at everything, damn it,” she muttered. “Some things should just be trusted to match their skin.”

Her words pushed Maduabuchi back into his flow state, where the hunch reared up and slammed him in the forebrain with a broad, hairy paw.

“I know what’s wrong,” he said, shocked at the enormity of the realization.

“What?”

Maduabuchi shook his head. It couldn’t possibly be true. The ship’s orientation was currently such that the bridge faced away from Tiede 1, but he stared at the screen anyway. Somewhere outside that diamond sheeting – rather smaller than the lounge, but still substantial – was a work of engineering on a scale no human had ever contemplated.

No human was the key word.

“The brown dwarf out there…” He shook with the thought, trying to force the words out. “It’s artificial. Camouflage. S-something else is hidden beneath that surface. Something big and huge and…I don’t know what. And s-someone on our ship has been communicating with it.”

Who could possibly manage such a thing?

Captain Peridot Smith gave him a long, slow stare. Her razored eyes cut into him as if he were a specimen on a lab table. Slowly, she pursed her lips. Her head shook just slightly. “I’m going to have to ask you stand down, Mr. St. Macaria. You’re clearly unfit for duty.”

What!? Maduabuchi opened his mouth to protest, to argue, to push back against her decision, but closed it again in the face of that stare. Of course she knew. She’d known all along. She was testing…whom? Him? The rest of the crew?

He realized it didn’t matter. His line of investigation was cut off. Maduabuchi knew when he was beaten. He turned to leave the bridge, then stopped at the hatch. The breathing mask still dangled in his hand.

“If you didn’t want me to find that out, ma’am,” he asked, “then why did you set me to looking for it?”

But she’d already turned away from him without answering, and was making a study of her command data.

* * * *

Chillicothe Xiang found him in the observation lounge an hour later. Uncharacteristically, Maduabuchi had retreated into alcohol. Metabolic poisons were not so effective on Howard Immortals, but if he hit something high enough proof, he could follow youthful memories of the buzz.

“That’s Patrice’s forty-year-old scotch you’re drinking,” she observed, standing over the smartgel bodpod that wrapped him like a warm, sticky uterus.

“Huh.” Patrice Tonwe, their engineering chief, was a hard son of a bitch. One of the leaders in that perpetual game of shake-and-break the rest of the crew spent their time on. Extremely political as well, even by Howard standards. Not someone to get on the wrong side of.

Shrugging off the thought and its implications, Maduabuchi looked at the little beaker he’d poured the stuff into. “Smelled strongest to me.”

Chillicothe laughed. “You are hopeless, Mad. Like the galaxy’s oldest adolescent.”

Once again he felt stung. “I’m one hundred forty-three years-subjective old. Born over two hundred years-objective ago.”

“So?” She nodded at his drink. “Look at that. And I’ll bet you never even changed genders once before you went Howard. The boy who never grew up.”

He settled further back and took a gulp from his beaker. His throat burned and itched, but Maduabuchi would be damned if he’d give her the satisfaction of choking. “What do you want?”

She knelt close. “I kind of like you, okay? Don’t get excited, you’re just an all right kid. That’s all I’m saying. And because I like you, I’m telling you, don’t ask.”

Maduabuchi was going to make her say it. “Don’t ask what?”

“Just don’t ask questions.” Chillicothe mimed a pistol with the fingers of her left hand. “Some answers are permanent fatal errors.”

He couldn’t help noting her right hand was on the butt of a real pistol. Flechette-throwing riot gun, capable of shredding skin, muscle and bone to pink fog without damaging hull integrity.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Where I grew up, green light means go.”

Chillicothe shook him, a disgusted sneer chasing across her lips. “It’s your life, kid. Do what you like.”

With that, she stalked out of the observation lounge.

Maduabuchi wondered why she’d cared enough to bother trying to warn him off. Maybe Chillicothe had told the simple truth for once. Maybe she liked him. No way for him to know.

Instead of trying to work that out, he stared at Tiede 1’s churning orange surface. “Who are you? What are you doing in there? What does it take to fake being an entire star?”

The silent light brought no answers, and neither did Patrice’s scotch. Still, he continued to ask the questions for a while.

* * * *

Eventually he woke up, stiff in the smartgel. The stuff had enclosed all of Maduabuchi except for his face, and it took several minutes of effort to extract himself. When he looked up at the sky, the stars had shifted.

They’d broken Tiede 1 orbit!

He scrambled for the hatch, but to his surprise, his hand on touchpad did not cause the door to open. A moment’s stabbing and squinting showed that the lock had been frozen on command override.

Captain Smith had trapped him in here.

“Not for long,” he muttered. There was a maintenance hatch at the aft end of the lounge, leading to the dorsal weapons turret. The power and materials chase in the spine of the hull was partially pressurized, well within his minimally Howard-enhanced environmental tolerances.

And as weapons officer, he had the command overrides to those systems. If Captain Smith hadn’t already locked him out.

To keep himself going, Maduabuchi gobbled some prote-nuts from the little service bar at the back of the lounge. Then, before he lost his nerve, he shifted wall hangings that obscured the maintenance hatch and hit that pad. The interlock system demanded his command code, which he provided with a swift haptic pass, then the wall section retracted with a faint squeak that spoke of neglected maintenance.

The passage beyond was ridiculously low-clearance. He nearly had to hold his breath to climb to the spinal chase. And cold, damned cold. Maduabuchi figured he could spend ten, fifteen minutes tops up there before he began experiencing serious physiological and psychological reactions.

Where to go?

The chase terminated aft above Engineering, with access to the firing points there, as well as egress to the Engineering bay. Forward it met a vertical chase just before of the bridge section, with an exterior hatch, access to the forward firing points, and a connection to the ventral chase.

No point in going outside. Not much point in going to Engineering, where like as not he’d meet Patrice or Paimei and wind up being sorry about it.

He couldn’t get onto the bridge directly, but he’d get close and try to find out.

* * * *

The chase wasn’t really intended for crew transit, but it had to be large enough to admit a human being for inspection and repairs, when the automated systems couldn’t handle something. It was a shitty, difficult crawl, but Inclined Plane was only about two hundred meters stem to stern anyway. He passed over several intermediate access hatches – no point in getting out – then simply climbed down and out in the passageway when he reached the bridge. Taking control of the exterior weapons systems from within the walls of the ship wasn’t going to do him any good. The interior systems concentrated on disaster suppression and anti-hijacking, and were not under his control anyway.

No one was visible when Maduabuchi slipped out from the walls. He wished he had a pistol, or even a good, long-handled wrench, but he couldn’t take down any of the rest of these Howards even if he tried. He settled for hitting the bridge touchpad and walking in when the hatch irised open.

Patrice sat in the captain’s chair. Chillicothe manned the navigation boards. They both glanced up at him, surprised.

“What are you doing here?” Chillicothe demanded.

“Not being locked in the lounge,” he answered, acutely conscious of his utter lack of any plan of action. “Where’s Captain Smith?”

“In her cabin,” said Patrice without looking up. His voice was growl, coming from a heavyworld body like a sack of bricks. “Where she’ll be staying.”

“Wh-why?”

“What did I tell you about questions?” Chillicothe asked softly.

Something cold rested against the hollow spot of skin just behind Maduabuchi’s right ear. Paimei’s voice whispered close. “Should have listened to the woman. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

They will never expect it, he thought, and threw an elbow back, spinning to land a punch on Paimei. He never made the hit. Instead he found himself on the deck, her boot against the side of his head.

At least the pistol wasn’t in his ear any more.

Maduabuchi laughed at that thought. Such a pathetic rationalization. He opened his eyes to see Chillicothe leaning over.

“What do you think is happening here?” she asked.

He had to spit the words out. “You’ve taken over the sh-ship. L-locked Captain Smith in her cabin. L-locked me up to k-keep me out of the way.”

Chillicothe laughed, her voice harsh and bitter. Patrice growled some warning that Maduabuchi couldn’t hear, not with Paimei’s boot pressing down on his ear.

“She tried to open a comms channel to something very dangerous. She’s been relieved of her command. That’s not mutiny, that’s self-defense.”

“And compliance to regulation,” said Paimei, shifting her foot a little so Maduabuchi would be sure to hear her.

“Something’s inside that star.”

Chillicothe’s eyes stirred. “You still haven’t learned about questions, have you?”

“I w-want to talk to the captain.”

She glanced back toward Patrice, now out of Maduabuchi’s very limited line of sight. Whatever look was exchanged resulted in Chillicothe shaking her head. “No. That’s not wise. You’d have been fine inside the lounge. A day or two, we could have let you out. We’re less than eighty hours-subjective from making threadneedle transit back to Saorsen Station, then this won’t matter any more.”

He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Why won’t it matter?”

“Because no one will ever know. Even what’s in the data will be lost in the flood of information.”

I could talk, Maduabuchi thought. I could tell. But then I’d just be another crazy ranting about the aliens that no one had ever found across several thousand explored solar systems in hundreds of lightyears of the Orion Arm. The crazies that had been ranting all through human history about the Fermi Paradox. He could imagine the conversation. “No, really. There are aliens. Living in the heart of a brown dwarf. They flashed a green light at me.”

Brown dwarfs were everywhere. Did that mean that aliens were everywhere, hiding inside the hearts of their guttering little stars?

He was starting to sound crazy, even to himself. But even now, Maduabuchi couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “You know the answer to the greatest question in human history. ‘Where is everybody else?’ And you’re not talking about it. What did the aliens tell you?”

“That’s it,” said Paimei. Her fingers closed on his shoulder. “You’re out the airlock, buddy.”

“No,” said Chillicothe. “Leave him alone.”

Another rumble from Patrice, of agreement. Maduabuchi, in sudden, sweaty fear for his life, couldn’t tell whom the man was agreeing with.

The flechette pistol was back against his ear. “Why?”

“Because we like him. Because he’s one of ours.” Her voice grew very soft. “Because I said so.”

Reluctantly, Paimei let him go. Maduabuchi got to his feet, shaking. He wanted to know, damn it, his curiosity burning with a fire he couldn’t ever recall feeling in his nearly two centuries of life.

“Go back to your cabin.” Chillicothe’s voice was tired. “Or the lounge. Just stay out of everyone’s way.”

“Especially mine,” Paimei growled. She shoved him out the bridge hatch, which cycled to cut him off.

Like that, he was alone. So little a threat that they left him unescorted within the ship. Maduabuchi considered his options. The sane one was to go sit quietly with some books until this was all over. The most appealing was to go find Captain Smith, but she’d be under guard behind a hatch locked by command override.

But if he shut up, if he left now, if he never knew… Inclined Plane wouldn’t be back this way, even if he happened to be crewing her again. No one else had reason to come to Tiede 1, and he didn’t have resources to mount his expedition. Might not for many centuries to come. When they departed this system, they’d leave the mystery behind. And it was too damned important.

Maduabuchi realized he couldn’t live with that. To be this close to the answer to Fermi’s question. To know that the people around him, possibly everyone around him, knew the truth and had kept him in the dark.

The crew wanted to play hard games? Then hard games they’d get.

He stalked back through the passageway to the number two lateral. Both of Inclined Plane’s boats were docked there, one on each side. A workstation was at each hatch, intended for use when managing docking or cargo transfers or other such logistical efforts where the best eyes might be down here, off the bridge.

Maduabuchi tapped himself into the weapons systems with his own still-active overrides. Patrice and Chillicothe and the rest were counting on the safety of silence to ensure there were no untoward questions when they got home. He could nix that.

He locked down every weapons systems for 300 seconds, then set them all to emergency purge. Every chamber, every rack, every capacitor would be fully discharged and emptied. It was a procedure for emergency dockings, so you didn’t come in hot and hard with a payload that could blow holes in the rescuers trying to catch you.

Let Inclined Plane return to port with every weapons system blown, and there’d be an investigation. He cycled the hatch, slipped into the portside launch. Let Inclined Plane come into port with a boat and a crewman missing, and there’d be even more of an investigation. Those two events together would make faking a convincing log report pretty tough. Especially without Captain Smith’s help.

He couldn’t think about it any more. Maduabuchi strapped himself in, initiated the hot-start preflight sequence, and muted ship comms. He’d be gone before Paimei and her cohorts could force the blast-rated docking hatch. His weapons systems override would keep them from simply blasting him out of space, then concocting a story at their leisure.

And the launch had plenty of engine capacity to get him back to close orbit around Tiede 1.

Blowing the clamps on a hot-start drop, Maduabuchi goosed the launch on a minimum-time transit back toward the glowering brown dwarf. Captain Smith wouldn’t leave him here to die. She’d be back before he ran out of water and air.

Besides, someone was home down there, damn it, and he was going to go knocking.

Behind him, munitions began cooking off into the vacuum. Radiations across the EM spectrum coruscated against the launch’s forward viewports, while instrumentation screeched alerts he didn’t need to hear. It didn’t matter now. Screw Chillicothe’s warning about not asking questions. ‘Permanent fatal errors,’ his ass.

One way or the other, Maduabuchi would find the answers if it killed him.

ADJUSTMENT TEAM, by Philip K. Dick

It was bright morning. The sun shone down on the damp lawns and sidewalks, reflecting off the sparkling parked cars. The Clerk came walking hurriedly, leafing through his instructions, flipping pages and frowning. He stopped in front of the small green stucco house for a moment and then turned up the walk, entering the backyard.

The dog was asleep inside his shed, his back turned to the world. Only his thick tail showed.

“For Heaven’s sake,” the Clerk exclaimed, hands on his hips. He tapped his mechanical pencil noisily against his clipboard. “Wake up, you in there.”

The dog stirred. He came slowly out of his shed, head first, blinking and yawning in the morning sunlight. “Oh, it’s you. Already?” He yawned again.

“Big doings.” The Clerk ran his expert finger down the traffic-control sheet. “They’re adjusting Sector T137 this morning. Starting at exactly nine o’clock.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Three hour alteration. Will finish by noon.”

“T137? That’s not far from here.”

The Clerk’s lips twisted in contempt. “Indeed. You’re showing astonishing perspicacity, my black-haired friend. Maybe you can divine why I’m here.”

“We overlap with T137.”

“Exactly. Elements from this sector are involved. We must make sure they’re properly placed when adjustment begins.” The Clerk glanced toward the small green stucco house. “Your particular task concerns the man in there. He is employed by a business establishment lying within Sector T137. It’s essential he be there before nine o’clock.

The dog studied the house. The shades had been let up. The kitchen light was on. Beyond the lace curtains, dim shapes could be seen stirring around the table. A man and woman. They were drinking coffee.

“There they are,” the dog murmured. “The man, you say? He’s not going to be harmed, is he?”

“Of course not. But he must be at his office early. Usually he doesn’t leave until after nine. Today he must leave at eight-thirty. He must be within Sector T137 before the process begins, or he won’t be altered to coincide with the new adjustment.”

The dog sighed. “That means I have to summon.”

“Correct.” The Clerk checked his instruction sheet. “You’re to summon at precisely eight-fifteen. You’ve got that? Eight-fifteen. No later.”

“What will an eight-fifteen summons bring?”

The Clerk flipped open his instruction book, examining the code columns. “It will bring A Friend with a Car. To drive him to work early.” He closed the book and folded his arms, preparing to wait. “That way he’ll get to his office almost an hour ahead of time. Which is vital.”

“Vital,” the dog murmured. He lay down, half inside his shed. His eyes closed. “Vital.”

“Wake up! This must be done exactly on time. If you summon too soon or too late—”

The dog nodded sleepily. “I know. I’ll do it right. I always do it right.”

* * * *

Ed Fletcher poured more cream in his coffee. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Behind him the oven hissed softly, filling the kitchen with warm fumes. The yellow overhead light beamed down.

“Another roll?” Ruth asked.

“I’m full.” Ed sipped his coffee. “You can have it.”

“Have to go.” Ruth got to her feet, unfastening her robe. “Time to go to work.”

“Already?”

“Sure. You lucky bum! Wish I could sit around.” Ruth moved toward the bathroom, running her fingers through her long black hair. “When you work for the Government you start early.”

“But you get off early,” Ed pointed out. He unfolded the Chronicle, examining the sporting green. “Well, have a good time today. Don’t type any wrong words, any double-entendres.”

The bathroom door closed, as Ruth shed her robe and began dressing.

Ed yawned and glanced up at the clock over the sink. Plenty of time. Not even eight. He sipped more coffee and then rubbed his stubbled chin. He would have to shave. He shrugged lazily. Ten minutes, maybe.

Ruth came bustling out in her nylon slip, hurrying into the bedroom. “I’m late.” She rushed rapidly around, getting into her blouse and skirt, her stockings, her little white shoes. Finally she bent over and kissed him. “Goodbye, honey. I’ll do the shopping tonight.”

“Goodbye.” Ed lowered his newspaper and put his arm around his wife’s trim waist, hugging her affectionately. “You smell nice. Don’t flirt with the boss.”

Ruth ran out the front door, clattering down the steps. He heard the click of her heels diminish down the sidewalk.

She was gone. The house was silent. He was alone.

Ed got to his feet, pushing his chair back. He wandered lazily into the bathroom and got his razor down. Eight-ten. He washed his face, rubbing it down with shaving cream, and began to shave. He shaved leisurely. He had plenty of time.

* * * *

The Clerk bent over his round pocket-watch, licking his lips nervously. Sweat stood out on his forehead. The second hand ticked on. Eight-fourteen. Almost time.

“Get ready!” the Clerk snapped. “Ten seconds to go!” He tensed, his small body rigid.

“Time!” the Clerk cried.

Nothing happened.

The Clerk turned, eyes wide with horror. From the little shed a thick black tail showed. The dog had gone back to sleep.

“TIME!” the Clerk shrieked. He kicked wildly at the furry rump. “In the name of God—”

The dog stirred. He thumped around hastily, backing out of the shed. “My goodness.” Embarrassed, he made his way quickly to the fence. Standing up on his hind paws, he opened his mouth wide. “Woof!” he summoned. He glanced apologetically at the Clerk. “I beg your pardon. I can’t understand how—”

The Clerk gazed fixedly down at his watch. Cold terror knotted his stomach. The hands showed eight-sixteen. “You failed,” he grated. “You failed! You miserable flea-bitten rag-bag of a worn-out old mutt! You failed!”

The dog dropped and came anxiously back. “I failed, you say? You mean the summons time was—?”

“You summoned too late.” The Clerk put his watch away slowly, a glazed expression on his face. “You summoned too late. We won’t get A Friend with a Car. There’s no telling what will come instead. I’m afraid to see what eight-sixteen brings.”

“I hope he’ll be in Sector T137 in time.”

“He won’t,” the Clerk wailed. “He won’t be there. We’ve made a mistake. We’ve made things go wrong!”

* * * *

Ed was rinsing the shaving cream from his face when the muffled sound of the dog’s bark echoed through the silent house.

“Damn,” Ed muttered. “Wake up the whole block.” He dried his face, listening. Was somebody coming?

A vibration. Then—

The doorbell rang.

Ed came out of the bathroom. Who could it be? Had Ruth forgotten something? He tossed on a white shirt and opened the front door.

A bright young man, face bland and eager, beamed happily at him. “Good morning, sir.” He tipped his hat. “I’m sorry to bother you so early—”

“What do you want?”

“I’m from the Federal Life Insurance Company. I’m here to see you about—”

Ed pushed the door closed. “Don’t want any. I’m in a rush. Have to get to work.”

“Your wife said this was the only time I could catch you.” The young man picked up his briefcase, easing the door open again. “She especially asked me to come this early. We don’t usually begin our work at this time, but since she asked me, I made a special note about it”

“Okay.” Sighing wearily, Ed admitted the young man. “You can explain your policy while I get dressed.”

The young man opened his briefcase on the couch, laying out heaps of pamphlets and illustrated folders. “I’d like to show you some of these figures, if I may. It’s of great importance to you and your family to—”

Ed found himself sitting down, going over the pamphlets. He purchased a ten-thousand-dollar policy on his own life and then eased the young man out. He looked at the clock. Practically nine-thirty!

“Damn.” He’d be late to work. He finished fastening his tie, grabbed his coat, turned off the oven and the lights, dumped the dishes in the sink, and ran out on the porch.

As he hurried toward the bus stop, he was cursing inwardly. Life insurance salesmen. Why did the jerk have to come just as he was getting ready to leave?

Ed groaned. No telling what the consequences would be, getting to the office late. He wouldn’t get there until almost ten. He set himself in anticipation. A sixth sense told him he was in for it. Something bad. It was the wrong day to be late.

If only the salesman hadn’t come.

* * * *

Ed hopped off the bus a block from his office. He began walking rapidly. The huge clock in front of Stein’s Jewelry Store told him it was almost ten.

His heart sank. Old Douglas would give him hell for sure. He could see it now. Douglas puffing and blowing, red-faced, waving his thick finger at him; Miss Evans, smiling behind her typewriter; Jackie, the office boy, grinning and snickering; Earl Hendricks; Joe and Tom; Mary, dark-eyed, full bosom and long lashes. All of them, kidding him the whole rest of the day.

He came to the corner and stopped for the light. On the other side of the street rose the big white concrete building, the towering column of steel and cement, girders and glass windows—the office building. Ed flinched. Maybe he could say the elevator got stuck. Somewhere between the second and third floor.

The street light changed. Nobody else was crossing. Ed crossed alone. He hopped up on the curb on the far side—

And stopped, rigid.

The sun had winked off. One moment it was beaming down. Then it was gone. Ed looked sharply up. Gray clouds swirled above him. Huge, formless clouds. Nothing more. An ominous, thick haze that made everything waver and dim. Uneasy chills plucked at him. What was it?

He advanced cautiously, feeling his way through the mist. Everything was silent. No sounds—not even the traffic sounds. Ed peered frantically around, trying to see through the rolling haze. No people. No cars. No sun. Nothing.

The office building loomed up ahead, ghostly. It was an indistinct gray. He put out his hand uncertainly—

A section of the building fell away. It rained down, a torrent of particles. Like sand. Ed gaped foolishly. A cascade of gray debris, spilling around his feet. And where he had touched the building, a jagged cavity yawned—an ugly pit marring the concrete.

Dazed, he made his way to the front steps. He mounted them. The steps gave way underfoot. His feet sank down. He was wading through shifting sand, weak, rotted stuff that broke under his weight.

He got into the lobby. The lobby was dim and obscure. The overhead lights flickered feebly in the gloom. An unearthly pall hung over everything.

He spied the cigar stand. The seller leaned silently, resting on the counter, toothpick between his teeth, his face vacant. And gray. He was gray all over.

“Hey,” Ed croaked. “What’s going on?”

The seller did not answer. Ed reached out toward him. His hand touched the seller’s gray arm—and passed right through.

“Good God,” Ed said.

The seller’s arm came loose. It fell to the lobby floor, disintegrating into fragments. Bits of gray fiber. Like dust. Ed’s senses reeled.

“Help!” he shouted, finding his voice.

No answer. He peered around. A few shapes stood here and there: a man reading a newspaper, two women waiting at the elevator.

Ed made his way over to the man. He reached out and touched him.

The man slowly collapsed. He settled into a heap, a loose pile of gray ash. Dust. Particles. The two women dissolved when he touched them. Silently. They made no sound as they broke apart.

Ed found the stairs. He grabbed hold of the bannister and climbed. The stairs collapsed under him. He hurried faster. Behind him lay a broken path—his footprints clearly visible in the concrete. Clouds of ash blew around him as he reached the second floor.

He gazed down the silent corridor. He saw more clouds of ash. He heard no sound. There was just darkness—rolling darkness.

He climbed unsteadily to the third floor. Once, his shoe broke completely through the stair. For a sickening second he hung, poised over a yawning hole that looked down into a bottomless nothing.

Then he climbed on, and emerged in front of his own office: DOUGLAS AND BLAKE, REAL ESTATE.

The hall was dim, gloomy with clouds of ash. The overhead lights flickered fitfully. He reached for the door handle. The handle came off in his hand. He dropped it and dug his fingernails into the door. The plate glass crashed past him, breaking into bits. He tore the door open and stepped over it, into the office.

Miss Evans sat at her typewriter, fingers resting quietly on the keys. She did not move. She was gray, her hair, her skin, her clothing. She was without color. Ed touched her. His fingers went through her shoulder, into dry flakiness.

He drew back, sickened. Miss Evans did not stir.

He moved on. He pushed against a desk. The desk collapsed into rotting dust. Earl Hendricks stood by the water cooler, a cup in his hand. He was a gray statue, unmoving. Nothing stirred. No sound. No life. The whole office was gray dust—without life or motion.

Ed found himself out in the corridor again. He shook his head, dazed. What did it mean? Was he going out of his mind? Was he—?

A sound.

Ed turned, peering into the gray mist. A creature was coming, hurrying rapidly. A man—a man in a white robe. Behind him others came. Men in white, with equipment. They were lugging complex machinery.

“Hey—” Ed gasped weakly.

The men stopped. Their mouths opened. Their eyes popped.

“Look!”

“Something’s gone wrong!”

“One still charged.”

“Get the de-energizer.”

“We can’t proceed until—”

The men came toward Ed, moving around him. One lugged a long hose with some sort of nozzle. A portable cart came wheeling up. Instructions were rapidly shouted.

Ed broke out of his paralysis. Fear swept over him. Panic. Something hideous was happening. He had to get out. Warn people. Get away.

He turned and ran, back down the stairs. The stairs collapsed under him. He fell half a flight, rolling in heaps of dry ash. He got to his feet and hurried on, down to the ground floor.

The lobby was lost in the clouds of gray ash. He pushed blindly through, toward the door. Behind him, the white-clad men were coming, dragging their equipment and shouting to each other, hurrying quickly after him.

He reached the sidewalk. Behind him the office building wavered and sagged, sinking to one side, torrents of ash raining down in heaps. He raced toward the corner, the men just behind him. Gray clouds swirled around him. He groped his way across the street, hands outstretched. He gained the opposite curb—

The sun winked on. Warm yellow sunlight streamed down on him. Cars honked. Traffic lights changed. On all sides men and women in bright spring clothes hurried and pushed: shoppers, a blue-clad cop, salesmen with briefcases. Stores, windows, signs…noisy cars moving up and down the street…

And overhead was the bright sun and familiar blue sky.

Ed halted, gasping for breath. He turned and looked back the way he had come. Across the street was the office building—as it had always been. Firm and distinct. Concrete and glass and steel.

He stepped back a pace and collided with a hurrying citizen. “Hey,” the man grunted. “Watch it.”

“Sorry.” Ed shook his head, trying to clear it. From where he stood, the office building looked like always, big and solemn and substantial, rising up imposingly on the other side of the street.

But a minute ago—

Maybe he was out of his mind. He had seen the building crumbling into dust. Building—and people. They had fallen into gray clouds of dust. And the men in white—they had chased him. Men in white robes, shouting orders, wheeling complex equipment.

He was out of his mind. There was no other explanation. Weakly, Ed turned and stumbled along the sidewalk, his mind reeling. He moved blindly, without purpose, lost in a haze of confusion and terror.

* * * *

The Clerk was brought into the top-level Administrative chambers and told to wait.

He paced back and forth nervously, clasping and wringing his hands in an agony of apprehension. He took off his glasses and wiped them shakily.

Lord. All the trouble and grief. And it wasn’t his fault. But he would have to take the rap. It was his responsibility to get the Summoners routed out and their instructions followed. The miserable flea-infested Summoner had gone back to sleep—and he would have to answer for it.

The doors opened. “All right,” a voice murmured, preoccupied. It was a tired, care-worn voice. The Clerk trembled and entered slowly, sweat dripping down his neck into his celluloid collar.

The Old Man glanced up, laying aside his book. He studied the Clerk calmly, his faded blue eyes mild—a deep, ancient mildness that made the Clerk tremble even more. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“I understand there was a mistake,” the Old Man murmured. “In connection with Sector T137. Something to do with an element from an adjoining area.”

“That’s right.” The Clerk’s voice was faint and husky. “Very unfortunate.”

“What exactly occurred?”

“I started out this morning with my instruction sheets. The material relating to T137 had top priority, of course. I served notice on the Summoner in my area that an eight-fifteen summons was required.”

“Did the Summoner understand the urgency?”

“Yes, sir.” The Clerk hesitated. “But—”

“But what?”

The Clerk twisted miserably. “While my back was turned, the Summoner crawled back in his shed and went to sleep. I was occupied, checking the exact time with my watch. I called the moment—but there was no response.”

“You called at eight-fifteen exactly?”

“Yes, sir! Exactly eight-fifteen. But the Summoner was asleep. By the time I managed to arouse him it was eight-sixteen. He summoned, but instead of A Friend with a Car we got a—A Life Insurance Salesman.” The Clerk’s face screwed up with disgust. “The Salesman kept the element there until almost nine-thirty. Therefore he was late to work instead of early.”

For a moment the Old Man was silent. “Then the element was not within T137 when the adjustment began.”

“No. He arrived about ten o’clock.”

“During the middle of the adjustment.” The Old Man got to his feet and paced slowly back and forth, face grim, hands behind his back. His long robe flowed out behind him. “A serious matter. During a Sector Adjustment all related elements from other Sectors must be included. Otherwise, their orientations remain out of phase. When this element entered T137, the adjustment had been in progress fifty minutes. The element encountered the Sector at its most de-energized stage. He wandered about until one of the adjustment teams met him.”

“Did they catch him?”

“Unfortunately no. He fled, out of the Sector. Into a nearby fully energized area.”

“What—what then?”

The Old Man stopped pacing, his lined face grim. He ran a heavy hand through his long white hair. “We do not know. We lost contact with him. We will reestablish contact soon, of course. But for the moment he is out of control.”

“What are you going to do?”

“He must be contacted and contained. He must be brought up here. There’s no other solution.”

“Up here!”

“It is too late to de-energize him. By the time he is regained he will have told others. To wipe his mind clean would only complicate matters. Usual methods will not suffice. I must deal with this problem myself.”

“I hope he’s located quickly,” the Clerk said.

“He will be. Every Watcher is alerted. Every Watcher and every Summoner.” The Old Man’s eyes twinkled. “Even the Clerks, although we hesitate to count on them.”

The Clerk flushed. “I’ll be glad when this thing is over,” he muttered.

* * * *

Ruth came tripping down the stairs and out of the building, into the hot noonday sun. She lit a cigarette and hurried along the walk, her small bosom rising and falling as she breathed in the spring air.

“Ruth.” Ed stepped up behind her.

“Ed!” She spun, gasping in astonishment. “What are you doing away from—?”

“Come on.” Ed grabbed her arm, pulling her along. “Let’s keep moving.”

“But what—?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Ed’s face was pale and grim. “Let’s go where we can talk. In private.”

“I was going down to have lunch at Louie’s. We can talk there.” Ruth hurried along breathlessly. “What is it? What’s happened? You look so strange. And why aren’t you at work? Did you—did you get fired?”

They crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. Men and women milled around, getting their lunch. Ed found a table in the back, secluded in a corner.

“Here.” He sat down abruptly. “This will do.”

She slid into the other chair.

Ed ordered a cup of coffee. Ruth had salad and creamed tuna on toast, coffee and peach pie. Silently, Ed watched her as she ate, his face dark and moody.

“Please tell me,” Ruth begged.

“You really want to know?”

“Of course I want to know!” Ruth put her small hand anxiously on his. “I’m your wife.”

“Something happened today. This morning. I was late to work. A damn insurance man came by and held me up. I was half an hour late.”

Ruth caught her breath. “Douglas fired you.”

“No.” Ed ripped a paper napkin slowly into bits. He stuffed the bits in the half-empty water glass. “I was worried as hell. I got off the bus and hurried down the street. I noticed it when I stepped up on the curb in front of the office.”

“Noticed what?”

Ed told her. The whole works. Everything.

When he had finished, Ruth sat back, her face white, hands trembling. “I see,” she murmured. “No wonder you’re upset.” She drank a little cold coffee, the cup rattling against the saucer. “What a terrible thing.”

Ed leaned intently toward his wife. “Ruth. Do you think I’m going crazy?”

Ruth’s red lips twisted. “I don’t know what to say. It’s so strange…”

“Yeah. Strange is hardly the word for it. I poked my hands right through them. Like they were clay. Old dry clay. Dust. Dust figures.” Ed lit a cigarette from Ruth’s pack. “When I got out I looked back and there it was. The office building. Like always.”

“You were afraid Mr. Douglas would bawl you out, weren’t you?”

“Sure. I was afraid—and guilty.” Ed’s eyes flickered. “I know what you’re thinking. I was late and I couldn’t face him. So I had some sort of protective psychotic fit. Retreat from reality.” He stubbed the cigarette out savagely. “Ruth, I’ve been wandering around town since. Two and a half hours. Sure, I’m afraid. I’m afraid like hell to go back.”

“Of Douglas?”

“No! The men in white.” Ed shuddered. “God. Chasing me. With their damn hoses and—and equipment.”

Ruth was silent. Finally she looked up at her husband, her dark eyes bright. “You have to go back, Ed.”

“Back? Why?”

“To prove something.”

“Prove what?”

“Prove it’s all right.” Ruth’s hand pressed against his. “You have to, Ed. You have to go back and face it. To show yourself there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“The hell with it! After what I saw? Listen, Ruth. I saw the fabric of reality split open. I saw—behind. Underneath. I saw what was really there. And I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see dust people again. Ever.”

Ruth’s eyes were fixed intently on him. “I’ll go back with you,” she said.

“For God’s sake.”

“For your sake. For your sanity. So you’ll know.” Ruth got abruptly to her feet, pulling her coat around her. “Come on, Ed. I’ll go with you. We’ll go up there together. To the office of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate. I’ll even go in with you to see Mr. Douglas.”

Ed got up slowly, staring hard at his wife. “You think I blacked out. Cold feet. Couldn’t face the boss.” His voice was low and strained. “Don’t you?”

Ruth was already threading her way toward the cashier. “Come on. You’ll see. It’ll all be there. Just like it always was.”

“Okay,” Ed said. He followed her slowly. “We’ll go back there—and see which of us is right.”

* * * *

They crossed the street together, Ruth holding on tight to Ed’s arm. Ahead of them was the building, the towering structure of concrete and metal and glass.

“There it is,” Ruth said. “See?”

There it was, all right. The big building rose up, firm and solid, glittering in the early afternoon sun, its windows sparkling brightly.

Ed and Ruth stepped up onto the curb. Ed tensed himself, his body rigid. He winced as his foot touched the pavement—

But nothing happened: the street noises continued; cars, people hurrying past; a kid selling papers. There were sounds, smells, the noises of the city in the middle of the day. And overhead was the sun and the bright blue sky.

“See?” Ruth said. “I was right.”

They walked up the front steps, into the lobby. Behind the cigar stand the seller stood, arms folded, listening to the ball game. “Hi, Mr. Fletcher,” he called to Ed. His face lit up good-naturedly. “Who’s the dame? Your wife know about this?”

Ed laughed unsteadily. They passed on toward the elevator. Four or five businessmen stood waiting. They were middle-aged men, well dressed, waiting impatiently in a bunch. “Hey, Fletcher,” one said. “Where you been all day? Douglas is yelling his head off.”

“Hello, Earl,” Ed muttered. He gripped Ruth’s arm. “Been a little sick.”

The elevator came. They got in. The elevator rose.

“Hi, Ed,” the elevator operator said. “Who’s the good-looking gal? Why don’t you introduce her around?”

Ed grinned mechanically. “My wife.”

The elevator let them off at the third floor. Ed and Ruth got out, heading toward the glass door of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate.

Ed halted, breathing shallowly. “Wait.” He licked his lips. “I—”

Ruth waited calmly as Ed wiped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. “All right now?”

“Yeah.” Ed moved forward. He pulled open the glass door.

Miss Evans glanced up, ceasing her typing. “Ed Fletcher! Where on earth have you been?”

“I’ve been sick. Hello, Tom.”

Tom glanced up from his work. “Hi, Ed. Say, Douglas is yelling for your scalp. Where have you been?”

“I know.” Ed turned wearily to Ruth. “I guess I better go in and face the music.”

Ruth squeezed his arm. “You’ll be all right. I know.” She smiled, a relieved flash of white teeth and red lips. “Okay? Call me if you need me.”

“Sure.” Ed kissed her briefly on the mouth. “Thanks, honey. Thanks a lot. I don’t know what the hell went wrong with me. I guess it’s over.”

“Forget it. So long.” Ruth skipped back out of the office, the door closing after her. Ed listened to her race down the hall to the elevator.

“Nice little gal,” Jackie said appreciatively.

“Yeah.” Ed nodded, straightening his necktie. He moved unhappily toward the inner office, steeling himself. Well, he had to face it. Ruth was right. But he was going to have a hell of a time explaining it to the boss. He could see Douglas now, thick red wattles, big bull roar, face distorted with rage—

Ed stopped abruptly at the entrance to the inner office. He froze rigid. The inner office—it was changed.

* * * *

The hackles of his neck rose. Cold fear gripped him, clutching at his windpipe. The inner office was different. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight: the desks, chairs, fixtures, file cabinets, pictures.

Changes. Little changes. Subtle. Ed closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He was alert, breathing rapidly, his pulse racing. It was changed, all right. No doubt about it.

“What’s the matter, Ed?” Tom asked. The staff watched him curiously, pausing in their work.

Ed said nothing. He advanced slowly into the inner office.

The office had been gone over. He could tell. Things had been altered. Rearranged. Nothing obvious—nothing he could put his finger on. But he could tell.

Joe Kent greeted him uneasily. “What’s the matter, Ed? You look like a wild dog. Is something—?”

Ed studied Joe. He was different. Not the same. What was it?

Joe’s face. It was a little fuller. His shirt was blue-striped. Joe never wore blue stripes. Ed examined Joe’s desk. He saw papers and accounts. The desk—it was too far to the right. And it was bigger. It wasn’t the same desk.

The picture on the wall. It wasn’t the same. It was a different picture entirely. And the things on top of the file cabinet—some were new, others were gone.

He looked back through the door. Now that he thought about it, Miss Evans’ hair was different, done a different way. And it was lighter.

In here, Mary, filing her nails, over by the window—she was taller, fuller. Her purse, lying on the desk in front of her—a red purse, red knit.

“You always…have that purse?” Ed demanded.

Mary glanced up. “What?”

“That purse. You always have that?”

Mary laughed. She smoothed her skirt coyly around her shapely thighs, her long lashes blinking modestly. “Why, Mr. Fletcher. What do you mean?”

Ed turned away. He knew. Even if she didn’t. She had been redone—changed: her purse, her clothes, her figure, everything about her. None of them knew—but him. His mind spun dizzily. They were all changed. All of them were different. They had all been remolded, recast. Subtly—but it was there.

The wastebasket. It was smaller, not the same. The window shades—white, not ivory. The wall paper was not the same pattern. The lighting fixtures…

Endless, subtle changes.

Ed made his way back to the inner office. He lifted his hand and knocked on Douglas’ door.

“Come in.”

Ed pushed the door open. Nathan Douglas looked up impatiently.

“Mr. Douglas—” Ed began. He came into the room unsteadily—and stopped.

Douglas was not the same. Not at all. His whole office was changed: the rugs, the drapes. The desk was oak, not mahogany. And Douglas himself…

Douglas was younger, thinner. His hair, brown. His skin not so red. His face smoother. No wrinkles. Chin reshaped. Eyes green, not blue. He was a different man. But still Douglas—a different Douglas. A different version!

“What is it?” Douglas demanded impatiently. “Oh, it’s you, Fletcher. Where were you this morning?”

Ed backed out. Fast.

He slammed the door and hurried back through the inner office. Tom and Miss Evans glanced up, startled. Ed passed by them, grabbing the hall door open.

“Hey!” Tom called. “What—?”

Ed hurried down the hall. Terror leaped through him. He had to hurry. He had seen. There wasn’t much time. He came to the elevator and stabbed the button.

No time.

He ran to the stairs and started down. He reached the second floor. His terror grew. It was a matter of seconds.

Seconds!

The public phone. Ed ran into the phone booth. He dragged the door shut after him. Wildly, he dropped a dime in the slot and dialed. He had to call the police. He held the receiver to his ear, his heart pounding.

Warn them. Changes. Somebody tampering with reality. Altering it. He had been right. The white-clad men…their equipment…going through the building.

“Hello!” Ed shouted hoarsely. There was no answer. No hum. Nothing.

Ed peered frantically out the door.

And he sagged, defeated. Slowly, he hung up the telephone receiver.

He was no longer on the second floor. The phone booth was rising, leaving the second floor behind, carrying him up, faster and faster. It rose floor by floor, moving silently, swiftly.

The phone booth passed through the ceiling of the building and out into the bright sunlight. It gained speed. The ground fell away below. Buildings and streets were getting smaller each moment. Tiny specks hurried along, far below, cars and people, dwindling rapidly.

Clouds drifted between him and the earth. Ed shut his eyes, dizzy with fright. He held on desperately to the door handles of the phone booth.

Faster and faster the phone booth climbed. The earth was rapidly being left behind, far below.

Ed peered up wildly. Where? Where was he going? Where was it taking him?

He stood gripping the door handles, waiting.

* * * *

The Clerk nodded curtly. “That’s him, all right. The element in question.”

* * * *

Ed Fletcher looked around him. He was in a huge chamber. The edges fell away into indistinct shadows. In front of him stood a man with notes and ledgers under his arm, peering at him through steel-rimmed glasses. He was a nervous little man, sharp-eyed, with celluloid collar, blue-serge suit, vest, watch chain. He wore black shiny shoes.

And beyond him—

An old man sat quietly in an immense modern chair. He watched Fletcher calmly, his blue eyes mild and tired. A strange thrill shot through Fletcher. It was not fear. Rather, it was a vibration, rattling his bones—a deep sense of awe, tinged with fascination.

“Where—what is this place?” he asked faintly. He was still dazed from his quick ascent.

“Don’t ask questions!” the nervous little man snapped angrily, tapping his pencil against his ledgers. “You’re here to answer, not ask.”

The Old Man moved a little. He raised his hand. “I will speak to the element alone,” he murmured. His voice was low. It vibrated and rumbled through the chamber. Again the wave of fascinated awe swept Ed.

“Alone?” The little fellow backed away, gathering his books and papers in his arms. “Of course.” He glanced hostilely at Ed Fletcher. “I’m glad he’s finally in custody. All the work and trouble just for—”

He disappeared through a door. The door closed softly behind him. Ed and the Old Man were alone.

“Please sit down,” the Old Man said.

Ed found a seat. He sat down awkwardly, nervously. He got out his cigarettes and then put them away again.

“What’s wrong?” the Old Man asked.

“I’m just beginning to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That I’m dead.”

The Old Man smiled briefly. “Dead? No, you’re not dead. You’re…visiting. An unusual event, but necessitated by circumstances.” He leaned toward Ed. “Mr. Fletcher, you have got yourself involved in something.”

“Yeah,” Ed agreed. “I wish I knew what it was. Or how it happened.”

“It was not your fault. You’re the victim of a clerical error. A mistake was made—not by you. But involving you.”

“What mistake?” Ed rubbed his forehead wearily. “I—I got in on something. I saw through. I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.”

The Old Man nodded. “That’s right. You saw something you were not supposed to see—something few elements have been aware of, let alone witnessed.”

“Elements?”

“An official term. Let it pass. A mistake was made, but we hope to rectify it. It is my hope that—”

“Those people,” Ed interrupted. “Heaps of dry ash. And gray. Like they were dead. Only it was everything: the stairs and walls and floor. No color or life.”

“That Sector had been temporarily de-energized. So the adjustment team could enter and effect changes.”

“Changes.” Ed nodded. “That’s right. When I went back later, everything was alive again. But not the same. It was all different.”

“The adjustment was complete by noon. The team finished its work and re-energized the Sector.”

“I see,” Ed muttered.

“You were supposed to have been in the Sector when the adjustment began. Because of an error you were not. You came into the Sector late—during the adjustment itself. You fled, and when you returned it was over. You saw, and you should not have seen. Instead of a witness you should have been part of the adjustment. Like the others, you should have undergone changes.”

Sweat came out on Ed Fletcher’s head. He wiped it away. His stomach turned over. Weakly, he cleared his throat. “I get the picture.” His voice was almost inaudible. A chilling premonition moved through him. “I was supposed to be changed like the others. But I guess something went wrong.”

“Something went wrong. An error occurred. And now a serious problem exists. You have seen these things. You know a great deal. And you are not coordinated with the new configuration.”

“Gosh,” Ed muttered. “Well, I won’t tell anybody.” Cold sweat poured off him. “You can count on that. I’m as good as changed.”

“You have already told someone,” the Old Man said coldly.

“Me?” Ed blinked. “Who?”

“Your wife.”

Ed trembled. The color drained from his face, leaving it sickly white. “That’s right. I did.”

“Your wife knows.” The Old Man’s face twisted angrily. “A woman. Of all the things to tell—”

“I didn’t know.” Ed retreated, panic leaping through him. “But I know now. You can count on me. Consider me changed.”

The ancient blue eyes bored keenly into him, peering far into his depths. “And you were going to call the police. You wanted to inform the authorities.”

“But I didn’t know who was doing the changing.”

“Now you know. The natural process must be supplemented—adjusted here and there. Corrections must be made. We are fully licensed to make such corrections. Our adjustment teams perform vital work.”

Ed plucked up a measure of courage. “This particular adjustment. Douglas. The office. What was it for? I’m sure it was some worthwhile purpose.”

The Old Man waved his hand. Behind him in the shadows an immense map glowed into existence. Ed caught his breath. The edges of the map faded off in obscurity. He saw an infinite web of detailed sections, a network of squares and ruled lines. Each square was marked. Some glowed with a blue light. The lights altered constantly.

“The Sector Board,” the Old Man said. He sighed wearily. “A staggering job. Sometimes we wonder how we can go on another period. But it must be done. For the good of all. For your good.”

“The change. In our—our Sector.”

“Your office deals in real estate. The old Douglas was a shrewd man, but rapidly becoming infirm. His physical health was waning. In a few days Douglas will be offered a chance to purchase a large unimproved forest area in western Canada. It will require most of his assets. The older, less virile Douglas would have hesitated. It is imperative he not hesitate. He must purchase the area and clear the land at once. Only a younger man—a younger Douglas—would undertake this.

“When the land is cleared, certain anthropological remains will be discovered. They have already been placed there. Douglas will lease his land to the Canadian Government for scientific study. The remains found there will cause international excitement in learned circles.

“A chain of events will be set in motion. Men from numerous countries will come to Canada to examine the remains. Soviet, Polish, and Czech scientists will make the journey.

“The chain of events will draw these scientists together for the first time in years. National research will be temporarily forgotten in the excitement of these non-national discoveries. One of the leading Soviet scientists will make friends with a Belgian scientist. Before they depart they will agree to correspond—without the knowledge of their governments, of course.

“The circle will widen. Other scientists on both sides will be drawn in. A society will be founded. More and more educated men will transfer an increasing amount of time to this international society. Purely national research will suffer a slight but extremely critical eclipse. The war tension will somewhat wane.

“This alteration is vital. And it is dependent on the purchase and clearing of the section of wilderness in Canada. The old Douglas would not have dared take the risk. But the altered Douglas, and his altered, more youthful staff, will pursue this work with wholehearted enthusiasm. And from this, the vital chain of widening events will come about. The beneficiaries will be you. Our methods may seem strange and indirect. Even incomprehensible. But I assure you we know what we’re doing.”

“I know that now,” Ed said.

“So you do. You know a great deal. Much too much. No element should possess such knowledge. I should perhaps call an adjustment team in here…”

A picture formed in Ed’s mind: swirling gray clouds, gray men and women. He shuddered. “Look,” he croaked. “I’ll do anything. Anything at all. Only don’t de-energize me.” Sweat ran down his face. “Okay?”

The Old Man pondered. “Perhaps some alternative could be found. There is another possibility…”

“What?” Ed asked eagerly. “What is it?”

The Old Man spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “If I allow you to return, you will swear never to speak of the matter? Will you swear not to reveal to anyone the things you saw? The things you know?”

“Sure!” Ed gasped eagerly, blinding relief flooding over him. “I swear!”

“Your wife. She must know nothing more. She must think it was only a passing psychological fit—a retreat from reality.”

“She thinks that already.”

“She must continue to.”

Ed set his jaw firmly. “I’ll see that she continues to think it was a mental aberration. She’ll never know what really happened.”

“You are certain you can keep the truth from her?”

“Sure,” Ed said confidently. “I know I can.”

“All right.” The Old Man nodded slowly. “I will send you back. But you must tell no one.” He swelled visibly. “Remember: you will eventually come back to me—everyone does, in the end—and your fate will not be enviable.”

“I won’t tell her,” Ed said, sweating. “I promise. You have my word on that. I can handle Ruth. Don’t give it a second thought.”

* * * *

Ed arrived home at sunset.

He blinked, dazed from the rapid descent. For a moment he stood on the pavement, regaining his balance and catching his breath. Then he walked quickly up the path.

He pushed the door open and entered the little green stucco house.

“Ed!” Ruth came flying, face distorted with tears. She threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Been?” Ed murmured. “At the office, of course.”

Ruth pulled back abruptly. “No, you haven’t.”

Vague tendrils of alarm plucked at Ed. “Of course I have. Where else—?”

“I called Douglas about three. He said you left. You walked out, practically as soon as I turned my back. Eddie—”

Ed patted her nervously. “Take it easy, honey.” He began unbuttoning his coat. “Everything’s okay. Understand? Things are perfectly all right.”

Ruth sat down on the arm of the couch. She blew her nose, dabbing at her eyes. “If you knew how much I’ve worried.” She put her handkerchief away and folded her arms. “I want to know where you were.”

Uneasily, Ed hung his coat in the closet. He came over and kissed her. Her lips were ice cold. “I’ll tell you all about it. But what do you say we have something to eat? I’m starved.”

Ruth studied him intently. She got down from the arm of the couch. “I’ll change and fix dinner.”

She hurried into the bedroom and slipped off her shoes and nylons. Ed followed her. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said carefully. “After you left me today I realized you were right.”

“Oh?” Ruth unfastened her blouse and skirt, arranging them over a hanger. “Right about what?”

“About me.” He manufactured a grin and made it glow across his face. “About…what happened.”

Ruth hung her slip over the hanger. She studied her husband intently as she struggled into her tight-fitting jeans. “Go on.”

The moment had come. It was now or never. Ed Fletcher braced himself and chose his words carefully. “I realized,” he stated, “that the whole darn thing was in my mind. You were right, Ruth. Completely right. And I even realize what caused it.”

Ruth rolled her cotton T-shirt down and tucked it in her jeans. “What was the cause?”

“Overwork.”

“Overwork?”

“I need a vacation. I haven’t had a vacation in years. My mind isn’t on my job. I’ve been daydreaming.” He said it firmly, but his heart was in his mouth. “I need to get away. To the mountains. Bass fishing. Or—” He searched his mind frantically. “Or—”

Ruth came toward him ominously. “Ed!” she said sharply. “Look at me!”

“What’s the matter?” Panic shot through him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

Ed’s grin faded. “I told you. I went for a walk. Didn’t I tell you? A walk. To think things over.”

“Don’t lie to me, Eddie Fletcher! I can tell when you’re lying!” Fresh tears welled up in Ruth’s eyes. Her breasts rose and fell excitedly under her cotton shirt. “Admit it! You didn’t go for a walk!”

Ed stammered weakly. Sweat poured off him. He sagged helplessly against the door. “What do you mean?”

Ruth’s black eyes flashed with anger. “Come on! I want to know where you were! Tell me! I have a right to know. What really happened?”

Ed retreated in terror, his resolve melting like wax. It was going all wrong. “Honest. I went out for a—”

“Tell me!” Ruth’s sharp fingernails dug into his arm. “I want to know where you were—and who you were with!”

Ed opened his mouth. He tried to grin, but his face failed to respond. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know what I mean. Who were you with? Where did you go? Tell me! I’ll find out, sooner or later.”

There was no way out. He was licked—and he knew it. He couldn’t keep it from her. Desperately he stalled, praying for time. If he could only distract her, get her mind on something else. If she would only let up, even for a second. He could invent something—a better story. Time—he needed more time. “Ruth, you’ve got to—”

Suddenly there was a sound: the bark of a dog, echoing through the dark house.

Ruth let go, cocking her head alertly. “That was Dobbie. I think somebody’s coming.”

The doorbell rang.

“You stay here. I’ll be right back.” Ruth ran out of the room, to the front door. “Darn it.” She pulled the front door open.

“Good evening!” The young man stepped quickly inside, loaded down with objects, grinning broadly at Ruth. “I’m from the Sweep-Rite Vacuum Cleaner Company.”

Ruth scowled impatiently. “Really, we’re about to sit down at the table.”

“Oh, this will only take a moment.” The young man set down the vacuum cleaner and its attachments with a metallic crash. Rapidly, he unrolled a long illustrated banner, showing the vacuum cleaner in action. “Now, if you’ll just hold this while I plug in the cleaner—”

He bustled happily about, unplugging the TV set, plugging in the cleaner, pushing the chairs out of his way.

“I’ll show you the drape scraper first.” He attached a hose and nozzle to the big gleaming tank. “Now, if you’ll just sit down I’ll demonstrate each of these easy-to-use attachments.” His happy voice rose over the roar of the cleaner. “You’ll notice—”

* * * *

Ed Fletcher sat down on the bed. He groped in his pocket until he found his cigarettes. Shakily he lit one and leaned back against the wall, weak with relief.

He gazed up, a look of gratitude on his face. “Thanks,” he said softly. “I think we’ll make it—after all. Thanks a lot.”

ROBOTS DON’T CRY, by Mike Resnick

They call us graverobbers, but we’re not.

What we do is plunder the past and offer it to the present. We hit old worlds, deserted worlds, worlds that nobody wants any longer, and we pick up anything we think we can sell to the vast collectibles market. You want a 700-year-old timepiece? A thousand-year old bed? An actual printed book? Just put in your order, and sooner or later we’ll fill it.

Every now and then we strike it rich. Usually we make a profit. Once in a while we just break even. There’s only been one world where we actually lost money; I still remember it—Greenwillow. Except that it wasn’t green, and there wasn’t a willow on the whole damned planet.

There was a robot, though. We found him, me and the Baroni, in a barn, half-hidden under a pile of ancient computer parts and self-feeders for mutated cattle. We were picking through the stuff, wondering if there was any market for it, tossing most of it aside, when the sun peeked in through the doorway and glinted off a prismatic eye.

“Hey, take a look at what we’ve got here,” I said. “Give me a hand digging it out.”

The junk had been stored a few feet above where he’d been standing and the rack broke, practically burying him. One of his legs was bent at an impossible angle, and his expressionless face was covered with cobwebs. The Baroni lumbered over—when you’ve got three legs you don’t glide gracefully—and studied the robot.

“Interesting,” he said. He never used whole sentences when he could annoy me with a single word that could mean almost anything.

“He should pay our expenses, once we fix him up and get him running,” I said.

“A human configuration,” noted the Baroni.

“Yeah, we still made ’em in our own image until a couple of hundred years ago.”

“Impractical.”

“Spare me your practicalities,” I said. “Let’s dig him out.”

“Why bother?”

Trust a Baroni to miss the obvious. “Because he’s got a memory cube,” I answered. “Who the hell knows what he’s seen? Maybe we’ll find out what happened here.”

“Greenwillow has been abandoned since long before you were born and I was hatched,” replied the Baroni, finally stringing some words together. “Who cares what happened?”

“I know it makes your head hurt, but try to use your brain,” I said, grunting as I pulled at the robot’s arm. It came off in my hands. “Maybe whoever he worked for hid some valuables.” I dropped the arm onto the floor. “Maybe he knows where. We don’t just have to sell junk, you know; there’s a market for the good stuff too.”

The Baroni shrugged and began helping me uncover the robot. “I hear a lot of ifs and maybes,” he muttered.

“Fine,” I said. “Just sit on what passes for your ass, and I’ll do it myself.”

“And let you keep what we find without sharing it?” he demanded, suddenly throwing himself into the task of moving the awkward feeders. After a moment he stopped and studied one. “Big cows,” he noted.

“Maybe ten or twelve feet at the shoulder, judging from the size of the stalls and the height of the feeders,” I agreed. “But there weren’t enough to fill the barn. Some of those stalls were never used.”

Finally we got the robot uncovered, and I checked the code on the back of his neck.

“How about that?” I said. “The son of a bitch must be 500 years old. That makes him an antique by anyone’s definition. I wonder what we can get for him?”

The Baroni peered at the code. “What does AB stand for?”

“Aldebaran. Alabama. Abrams’ Planet. Or maybe just the model number. Who the hell knows? We’ll get him running and maybe he can tell us.” I tried to set him on his feet. No luck. “Give me a hand.”

“To the ship?” asked the Baroni, using sentence fragments again as he helped me stand the robot upright.

“No,” I said. “We don’t need a sterile environment to work on a robot. Let’s just get him out in the sunlight, away from all this junk, and then we’ll have a couple of mechs check him over.”

We half-carried and half-dragged him to the crumbling concrete pad beyond the barn, then laid him down while I tightened the muscles in my neck, activating the embedded micro-chip, and directed the signal by pointing to the ship, which was about half a mile away.

“This is me,” I said as the chip carried my voice back to the ship’s computer. “Wake up Mechs 3 and 7, feed them everything you’ve got on robots going back a millennium, give them repair kits and anything else they’ll need to fix a broken robot of indeterminate age, and then home in on my signal and send them to me.”

“Why those two?” asked the Baroni.

Sometimes I wondered why I partnered with anyone that dumb. Then I remembered the way he could sniff out anything with a computer chip or cube, no matter how well it was hidden, so I decided to give him a civil answer. He didn’t get that many from me; I hoped he appreciated it.

“Three’s got those extendable eyestalks, and it can do microsurgery, so I figure it can deal with any faulty micro-circuits. As for Seven, it’s strong as an ox. It can position the robot, hold him aloft, move him any way that Three directs it to. They’re both going to show up filled to the brim with everything the ship’s data bank has on robots, so if he’s salvageable, they’ll find a way to salvage him.”

I waited to see if he had any more stupid questions. Sure enough, he had.

“Why would anyone come here?” he asked, looking across the bleak landscape.

“I came for what passes for treasure these days,” I answered him. “I have no idea why you came.”

“I meant originally,” he said, and his face started to glow that shade of pea-soup green that meant I was getting to him. “Nothing can grow, and the ultra-violet rays would eventually kill most animals. So why?”

“Because not all humans are as smart as me.”

“It’s an impoverished world,” continued the Baroni. “What valuables could there be?”

“The usual,” I replied. “Family heirlooms. Holographs. Old kitchen implements. Maybe even a few old Republic coins.”

“Republic currency can’t be spent.”

“True—but a few years ago I saw a five-credit coin sell for three hundred Maria Teresa dollars. They tell me it’s worth twice that today.”

“I didn’t know that,” admitted the Baroni.

“I’ll bet they could fill a book with all the things you don’t know.”

“Why are Men so sardonic and ill-mannered?”

“Probably because we have to spend so much time with races like the Baroni,” I answered.

Mechs Three and Seven rolled up before he could reply.

“Reporting for duty, sir,” said Mech Three in his high-pitched mechanical voice.

“This is a very old robot,” I said, indicating what we’d found. “It’s been out of commission for a few centuries, maybe even longer. See if you can get it working again.”

“We live to serve,” thundered Mech Seven.

“I can’t tell you how comforting I find that.” I turned to the Baroni. “Let’s grab some lunch.”

“Why do you always speak to them that way?” asked the Baroni as we walked away from the mechs. “They don’t understand sarcasm.”

“It’s my nature,” I said. “Besides, if they don’t know it’s sarcasm, it must sound like a compliment. Probably pleases the hell out of them.”

“They are machines,” he responded. “You can no more please them than offend them.”

“Then what difference does it make?”

“The more time I spend with Men, the less I understand them,” said the Baroni, making the burbling sound that passed for a deep sigh. “I look forward to getting the robot working. Being a logical and unemotional entity, it will make more sense.”

“Spare me your smug superiority,” I shot back. “You’re not here because Papa Baroni looked at Mama Baroni with logic in his heart.”

The Baroni burbled again. “You are hopeless,” he said at last.

We had one of the mechs bring us our lunch, then sat with our backs propped against opposite sides of a gnarled old tree while we ate. I didn’t want to watch his snakelike lunch writhe and wriggle, protesting every inch of the way, as he sucked it down like the long, living piece of spaghetti it was, and he had his usual moral qualms, which I never understood, about watching me bite into a sandwich. We had just about finished when Mech Three approached us.

“All problems have been fixed,” it announced brightly.

“That was fast,” I said.

“There was nothing broken.” It then launched into a three-minute explanation of whatever it had done to the robot’s circuitry.

“That’s enough,” I said when it got down to a dissertation on the effect of mu-mesons on negative magnetic fields in regard to prismatic eyes. “I’m wildly impressed. Now let’s go take a look at this beauty.”

I got to my feet, as did the Baroni, and we walked back to the concrete pad. The robot’s limbs were straight now, and his arm was restored, but he still lay motionless on the crumbling surface.

“I thought you said you fixed him.”

“I did,” replied Mech Three. “But my programming compelled me not to activate it until you were present.”

“Fine,” I said. “Wake him up.”

The little Mech made one final quick adjustment and backed away as the robot hummed gently to life and sat up.

“Welcome back,” I said.

“Back?” replied the robot. “I have not been away.”

“You’ve been asleep for five centuries, maybe six.”

“Robots cannot sleep.” He looked around. “Yet everything has changed. How is this possible?”

“You were deactivated,” said the Baroni. “Probably your power supply ran down.”

“Deactivated,” the robot repeated. He swiveled his head from left to right, surveying the scene. “Yes. Things cannot change this much from one instant to the next.”

“Have you got a name?” I asked him.

“Samson 4133. But Miss Emily calls me Sammy.”

“Which name do you prefer?”

“I am a robot. I have no preferences.”

I shrugged. “Whatever you say, Samson.”

“Sammy,” he corrected me.

“I thought you had no preferences.”

“I don’t,” said the robot. “But she does.”

“Has she got a name?”

“Miss Emily.”

“Just Miss Emily?” I asked. “No other names to go along with it?”

“Miss Emily is what I was instructed to call her.”

“I assume she is a child,” said the Baroni, with his usual flair for discovering the obvious.

“She was once,” said Sammy. “I will show her to you.”

Then somehow, I never did understand the technology involved, he projected a full-sized holograph of a small girl, perhaps five years old, wearing a frilly purple-and-white outfit. She had rosy cheeks and bright shining blue eyes, and a smile that men would die for someday if given half the chance.

It was only after she took a step forward, a very awkward step, that I realized she had a prosthetic left leg.

“Too bad,” I said. “A pretty little girl like that.”

“Was she born that way, I wonder?” said the Baroni.

“I love you, Sammy,” said the holograph.

I hadn’t expected sound, and it startled me. She had such a happy voice. Maybe she didn’t know that most little girls came equipped with two legs. After all, this was an underpopulated colony world; for all I knew, she’d never seen anyone but her parents.

“It is time for your nap, Miss Emily,” said Sammy’s voice. “I will carry you to your room.” Another surprise. The voice didn’t seem to come from the robot, but from somewhere…well, offstage. He was recreating the scene exactly as it had happened, but we saw it through his eyes. Since he couldn’t see himself, neither could we.

“I’ll walk,” said the child. “Mother told me I have to practice walking, so that someday I can play with the other girls.”

“Yes, Miss Emily.”

“But you can catch me if I start to fall, like you always do.”

“Yes, Miss Emily.”

“What would I do without you, Sammy?”

“You would fall, Miss Emily,” he answered. Robots are always so damned literal.

And as suddenly as it had appeared, the scene vanished.

“So that was Miss Emily?” I said.

“Yes,” said Sammy.

“And you were owned by her parents?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any understanding of the passage of time, Sammy?”

“I can calibrate time to within three nanoseconds of…”

“That’s not what I asked,” I said. “For example, if I told you that scene we just saw happened more than 500 years ago, what would you say to that?”

“I would ask if you were measuring by Earth years, Galactic Standard years, New Calendar Democracy years…”

“Never mind,” I said.

Sammy fell silent and motionless. If someone had stumbled upon him at just that moment, they’d have been hard-pressed to prove that he was still operational.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked the Baroni. “His battery can’t be drained yet.”

“Of course not. They were designed to work for years without recharging.”

And then I knew. He wasn’t a farm robot, so he had no urge to get up and start working the fields. He wasn’t a mech, so he had no interest in fixing the feeders in the barn. For a moment I thought he might be a butler or a major domo, but if he was, he’d have been trying to learn my desires to serve me, and he obviously wasn’t doing that. That left just one thing.

He was a nursemaid.

I shared my conclusion with the Baroni, and he concurred.

“We’re looking at a lot of money here,” I said excitedly. “Think of it—a fully-functioning antique robot nursemaid! He can watch the kids while his new owners go rummaging for more old artifacts.”

“There’s something wrong,” said the Baroni, who was never what you could call an optimist.

“The only thing wrong is we don’t have enough bags to haul all the money we’re going to sell him for.”

“Look around you,” said the Baroni. “This place was abandoned, and it was never prosperous. If he’s that valuable, why did they leave him behind?”

“He’s a nursemaid. Probably she outgrew him.”

“Better find out.” He was back to sentence fragments again.

I shrugged and approached the robot. “Sammy, what did you do at night after Miss Emily went to sleep?”

He came to life again. “I stood by her bed.”

“All night, every night?”

“Yes, sir. Unless she woke and requested pain medication, which I would retrieve and bring to her.”

“Did she require pain medication very often?” I asked.

“I do not know, sir.”

I frowned. “I thought you just said you brought it to her when she needed it.”

“No, sir,” Sammy corrected me. “I said I brought it to her when she requested it.”

“She didn’t request it very often?”

“Only when the pain became unbearable.” Sammy paused. “I do not fully understand the word ‘unbearable,’ but I know it had a deleterious effect upon her. My Miss Emily was often in pain.”

“I’m surprised you understand the word ‘pain,’” I said.

“To feel pain is to be non-operational or dysfunctional to some degree.”

“Yes, but it’s more than that. Didn’t Miss Emily ever try to describe it?”

“No,” answered Sammy. “She never spoke of her pain.”

“Did it bother her less as she grew older and adjusted to her handicap?” I asked.

“No, sir, it did not.” He paused. “There are many kinds of dysfunction.”

“Are you saying she had other problems, too?” I continued.

Instantly we were looking at another scene from Sammy’s past. It was the same girl, now maybe thirteen years old, staring at her face in a mirror. She didn’t like what she saw, and neither did I.

“What is that?” I asked, forcing myself not to look away.

“It is a fungus disease,” answered Sammy as the girl tried unsuccessfully with cream and powder to cover the ugly blemishes that had spread across her face.

“Is it native to this world?”

“Yes,” said Sammy.

“You must have had some pretty ugly people walking around,” I said.

“It did not affect most of the colonists. But Miss Emily’s immune system was weakened by her other diseases.”

“What other diseases?”

Sammy rattled off three or four that I’d never heard of.

“And no one else in her family suffered from them?”

“No, sir.”

“It happens in my race, too,” offered the Baroni. “Every now and then a genetically inferior specimen is born and grows to maturity.”

“She was not genetically inferior,” said Sammy.

“Oh?” I said, surprised. It’s rare for a robot to contradict a living being, even an alien. “What was she?”

Sammy considered his answer for a moment.

“Perfect,” he said at last.

“I’ll bet the other kids didn’t think so,” I said.

“What do they know?” replied Sammy.

And instantly he projected another scene. Now the girl was fully grown, probably about twenty. She kept most of her skin covered, but we could see the ravaging effect her various diseases had had upon her hands and face.

Tears were running down from these beautiful blue eyes over bony, parchment-like cheeks. Her emaciated body was wracked by sobs.

A holograph of a robot’s hand popped into existence, and touched her gently on the shoulder.

“Oh, Sammy!” she cried. “I really thought he liked me! He was always so nice to me.” She paused for breath as the tears continued unabated. “But I saw his face when I reached out to take his hand, and I felt him shudder when I touched it. All he really felt for me was pity. That’s all any of them ever feel!”

“What do they know?” said Sammy’s voice, the same words and the same inflections he had just used a moment ago.

“It’s not just him,” she said. “Even the farm animals run away when I approach them. I don’t know how anyone can stand being in the same room with me.” She stared at where the robot was standing. “You’re all I’ve got, Sammy. You’re my only friend in the whole world. Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I will never leave you, Miss Emily,” said Sammy’s voice.

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Sammy.

And then the holograph vanished and Sammy stood mute and motionless again.

“He really cared for her,” said the Baroni.

“The boy?” I said. “If he did, he had a funny way of showing it.”

“No, of course not the boy. The robot.”

“Come off it,” I said. “Robots don’t have any feelings.”

“You heard him,” said the Baroni.

“Those were programmed responses,” I said. “He probably has three million to choose from.”

“Those are emotions,” insisted the Baroni.

“Don’t you go getting all soft on me,” I said. “Any minute now you’ll be telling me he’s too human to sell.”

“You are the human,” said the Baroni. “He is the one with compassion.”

“I’ve got more compassion than her parents did, letting her grow up like that,” I said irritably. I confronted the robot again. “Sammy, why didn’t the doctors do anything for her?”

“This was a farming colony,” answered Sammy. “There were only 387 families on the entire world. The Democracy sent a doctor once a year at the beginning, and then, when there were less than 100 families left, he stopped coming. The last time Miss Emily saw a doctor was when she was fourteen.”

“What about an offworld hospital?” asked the Baroni.

“They had no ship and no money. They moved here in the second year of a seven-year drought. Then various catastrophes wiped out their next six crops. They spent what savings they had on mutated cattle, but the cattle died before they could produce young or milk. One by one all the families began leaving the planet as impoverished wards of the Democracy.”

“Including Miss Emily’s family?” I asked.

“No. Mother died when Miss Emily was nineteen, and Father died two years later.”

Then it was time for me to ask the Baroni’s question.

“So when did Miss Emily leave the planet, and why did she leave you behind?”

“She did not leave.”

I frowned. “She couldn’t have run the farm—not in her condition.”

“There was no farm left to run,” answered Sammy. “All the crops had died, and without Father there was no one to keep the machines working.”

“But she stayed. Why?”

Sammy stared at me for a long moment. It’s just as well his face was incapable of expression, because I got the distinct feeling that he thought the question was too simplistic or too stupid to merit an answer. Finally he projected another scene. This time the girl, now a woman approaching thirty, hideous open pustules on her face and neck, was sitting in a crudely-crafted hoverchair, obviously too weak to stand any more.

“No!” she rasped bitterly.

“They are your relatives,” said Sammy’s voice. “And they have a room for you.”

“All the more reason to be considerate of them. No one should be forced to associate with me—especially not people who are decent enough to make the offer. We will stay here, by ourselves, on this world, until the end.”

“Yes, Miss Emily.”

She turned and stared at where Sammy stood. “You want to tell me to leave, don’t you? That if we go to Jefferson IV I will receive medical attention and they will make me well—but you are compelled by your programming not to disobey me. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Miss Emily.”

The hint of a smile crossed her ravaged face. “Now you know what pain is.”

“It is…uncomfortable, Miss Emily.”

“You’ll learn to live with it,” she said. She reached out and patted the robot’s leg fondly. “If it’s any comfort, I don’t know if the medical specialists could have helped me even when I was young. They certainly can’t help me now.”

“You are still young, Miss Emily.”

“Age is relative,” she said. “I am so close to the grave I can almost taste the dirt.” A metal hand appeared, and she held it in ten incredibly fragile fingers. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Sammy. It hasn’t been a life I’d wish on anyone else. I won’t be sorry to see it end.”

“I am a robot,” replied Sammy. “I cannot feel sorrow.”

“You’ve no idea how fortunate you are.”

I shot the Baroni a triumphant smile that said: See? Even Sammy admits he can’t feel any emotions.

And he sent back a look that said: I didn’t know until now that robots could lie, and I knew we still had a problem.

The scene vanished.

“How soon after that did she die?” I asked Sammy.

“Seven months, eighteen days, three hours, and four minutes, sir,” was his answer.

“She was very bitter,” noted the Baroni.

“She was bitter because she was born, sir,” said Sammy. “Not because she was dying.”

“Did she lapse into a coma, or was she cogent up to the end?” I asked out of morbid curiosity.

“She was in control of her senses until the moment she died,” answered Sammy. “But she could not see for the last eighty-three days of her life. I functioned as her eyes.”

“What did she need eyes for?” asked the Baroni. “She had a hoverchair, and it is a single-level house.”

“When you are a recluse, you spend your life with books, sir,” said Sammy, and I thought: The mechanical bastard is actually lecturing us!

With no further warning, he projected a final scene for us.

The woman, her eyes no longer blue, but clouded with cataracts and something else—disease, fungus, who knew?—lay on her bed, her breathing labored.

From Sammy’s point of view, we could see not only her, but, much closer, a book of poetry, and then we heard his voice: “Let me read something else, Miss Emily.”

“But that is the poem I wish to hear,” she whispered. “It is by Edna St. Vincent Millay, and she is my favorite.”

“But it is about death,” protested Sammy.

“All life is about death,” she replied so softly I could barely hear her. “Surely you know that I am dying, Sammy?”

“I know, Miss Emily,” said Sammy.

“I find it comforting that my ugliness did not diminish the beauty around me, that it will remain after I am gone,” she said. “Please read.”

Sammy read:

“There will be rose and rhododendron

When you are dead and under ground;

Still will be heard from white syringes…”

Suddenly the robot’s voice fell silent. For a moment I thought there was a flaw in the projection. Then I saw that Miss Emily had died.

He stared at her for a long minute, which means that we did too, and then the scene evaporated.

“I buried her beneath her favorite tree,” said Sammy. “But it is no longer there.”

“Nothing lasts forever, even trees,” said the Baroni. “And it’s been five hundred years.”

“It does not matter. I know where she is.”

He walked us over to a barren spot about thirty yards from the ruin of a farmhouse. On the ground was a stone, and neatly carved into it was the following:

Miss Emily

2298-2331 G.E.

There will be rose and rhododendron.

“That’s lovely, Sammy,” said the Baroni.

“It is what she requested.”

“What did you do after you buried her?” I asked.

“I went to the barn.”

“For how long?”

“With Miss Emily dead, I had no need to stay in the house. I remained in the barn for many years, until my battery power ran out.”

“Many years?” I repeated. “What the hell did you do there?”

“Nothing.”

“You just stood there?”

“I just stood there.”

“Doing nothing?”

“That is correct.” He stared at me for a long moment, and I could have sworn he was studying me. Finally he spoke again. “I know that you intend to sell me.”

“We’ll find you a family with another Miss Emily,” I said. If they’re the highest bidder.

“I do not wish to serve another family. I wish to remain here.”

“There’s nothing here,” I said. “The whole planet’s deserted.”

“I promised my Miss Emily that I would never leave her.”

“But she’s dead now,” I pointed out.

“She put no conditions on her request. I put no conditions on my promise.”

I looked from Sammy to the Baroni, and decided that this was going to take a couple of mechs—one to carry Sammy to the ship, and one to stop the Baroni from setting him free.

“But if you will honor a single request, I will break my promise to her and come away with you.”

Suddenly I felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I hadn’t heard the first one yet.

“What do you want, Sammy?”

“I told you I did nothing in the barn. That was true. I was incapable of doing what I wanted to do.”

“And what was that?”

“I wanted to cry.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it.

“Robots don’t cry,” I said.

“Robots can’t cry,” replied Sammy. “There is a difference.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“It is what I have wanted ever since my Miss Emily died.”

“We rig you to cry, and you agree to come away with us?”

“That is correct,” said Sammy.

“Sammy,” I said, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”

I contacted the ship, told it to feed Mech Three everything the medical library had on tears and tear ducts, and then send it over. It arrived about ten minutes later, deactivated the robot, and started fussing and fiddling. After about two hours it announced that its work was done, that Sammy now had tear ducts and had been supplied with a solution that could produce six hundred authentic saltwater tears from each eye.

I had Mech Three show me how to activate Sammy, and then sent it back to the ship.

“Have you ever heard of a robot wanting to cry?” I asked the Baroni.

“No.”

“Neither have I,” I said, vaguely disturbed.

“He loved her.”

I didn’t even argue this time. I was wondering which was worse, spending thirty years trying to be a normal human being and failing, or spending thirty years trying to cry and failing. None of the other stuff had gotten to me; Sammy was just doing what robots do. It was the thought of his trying so hard to do what robots couldn’t do that suddenly made me feel sorry for him. That in turn made me very irritable; ordinarily I don’t even feel sorry for Men, let alone machines.

And what he wanted was such a simple thing compared to the grandiose ambitions of my own race. Once Men had wanted to cross the ocean; we crossed it. We’d wanted to fly; we flew. We wanted to reach the stars; we reached them. All Sammy wanted to do was cry over the loss of his Miss Emily. He’d waited half a millennium and had agreed to sell himself into bondage again, just for a few tears.

It was a lousy trade.

I reached out and activated him.

“Is it done?” asked Sammy.

“Right,” I said. “Go ahead and cry your eyes out.”

Sammy stared straight ahead. “I can’t,” he said at last.

“Think of Miss Emily,” I suggested. “Think of how much you miss her.”

“I feel pain,” said Sammy. “But I cannot cry.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am sure,” said Sammy. “I was guilty of having thoughts and longings above my station. Miss Emily used to say that tears come from the heart and the soul. I am a robot. I have no heart and no soul, so I cannot cry, even with the tear ducts you have given me. I am sorry to have wasted your time. A more complex model would have understood its limitations at the outset.” He paused, and then turned to me. “I will go with you now.”

“Shut up,” I said.

He immediately fell silent.

“What is going on?” asked the Baroni.

“You shut up too!” I snapped.

I summoned Mechs Seven and Eight and had them dig Sammy a grave right next to his beloved Miss Emily. It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t even know her full name, that no one who chanced upon her headstone would ever know it. Then I decided that it didn’t really matter.

Finally they were done, and it was time to deactivate him.

“I would have kept my word,” said Sammy.

“I know,” I said.

“I am glad you did not force me to.”

I walked him to the side of the grave. “This won’t be like your battery running down,” I said. “This time it’s forever.”

“She was not afraid to die,” said Sammy. “Why should I be?”

I pulled the plug and had Mechs Seven and Eight lower him into the ground. They started filling in the dirt while I went back to the ship to do one last thing. When they were finished I had Mech Seven carry my handiwork back to Sammy’s grave.

“A tombstone for a robot?” asked the Baroni.

“Why not?” I replied. “There are worse traits than honesty and loyalty.” I should know: I’ve stockpiled enough of them.

“He truly moved you.”

Seeing the man you could have been will do that to you, even if he’s all metal and silicone and prismatic eyes.

“What does it say?” asked the Baroni as we finished planting the tombstone.

I stood aside so he could read it:

“Sammy”

Australopithicus Robotus

“That is very moving.”

“It’s no big deal,” I said uncomfortably. “It’s just a tombstone.”

“It is also inaccurate,” observed the Baroni.

“He was a better man than I am.”

“He was not a man at all.”

“Fuck you.”

The Baroni doesn’t know what it means, but he knows it’s an insult, so he came right back at me like he always does. “You realize, of course, that you have buried our profit?”

I wasn’t in the mood for his notion of wit. “Find out what he was worth, and I’ll pay you for your half,” I replied. “Complain about it again, and I’ll knock your alien teeth down your alien throat.”

He stared at me. “I will never understand Men,” he said.

* * * *

All that happened twenty years ago. Of course the Baroni never asked for his half of the money, and I never offered it to him again. We’re still partners. Inertia, I suppose.

I still think about Sammy from time to time. Not as much as I used to, but every now and then.

I know there are preachers and ministers who would say he was just a machine, and to think of him otherwise is blasphemous, or at least wrong-headed, and maybe they’re right. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s a God at all—but if there is, I like to think He’s the God of all us Australopithicines.

Including Sammy.

NO GREAT MAGIC, by Fritz Leiber

I

To bring the dead to life

Is no great magic.

Few are wholly dead:

Blow on a dead man’s embers

And a live flame will start.

—Graves

I dipped through the filmy curtain into the boys’ half of the dressing room and there was Sid sitting at the star’s dressing table in his threadbare yellowed undershirt, the lucky one, not making up yet but staring sternly at himself in the bulb-framed mirror and experimentally working his features a little, as actors will, and kneading the stubble on his fat chin.

I said to him quietly, “Siddy, what are we putting on tonight? Maxwell Anderson’s Elizabeth the Queen or Shakespeare’s Macbeth? It says Macbeth on the callboard, but Miss Nefer’s getting ready for Elizabeth. She just had me go and fetch the red wig.”

He tried out a few eyebrow rears—right, left, both together—then turned to me, sucking in his big gut a little, as he always does when a gal heaves into hailing distance, and said, “Your pardon, sweetling, what sayest thou?”

Sid always uses that kook antique patter backstage, until I sometimes wonder whether I’m in Central Park, New York City, nineteen hundred and three quarters, or somewhere in Southwark, Merry England, fifteen hundred and same. The truth is that although he loves every last fat part in Shakespeare and will play the skinniest one with loyal and inspired affection, he thinks Willy S. penned Falstaff with nobody else in mind but Sidney J. Lessingham. (And no accent on the ham, please.)

I closed my eyes and counted to eight, then repeated my question.

He replied, “Why, the Bard’s tragical history of the bloody Scot, certes.” He waved his hand toward the portrait of Shakespeare that always sits beside his mirror on top of his reserve makeup box. At first that particular picture of the Bard looked too nancy to me—a sort of peeping-tom schoolteacher—but I’ve grown used to it over the months and even palsy-feeling.

He didn’t ask me why I hadn’t asked Miss Nefer my question. Everybody in the company knows she spends the hour before curtain-time getting into character, never parting her lips except for that purpose—or to bite your head off if you try to make the most necessary conversation.

“Aye, ’tiz Macbeth tonight,” Sid confirmed, returning to his frowning-practice: left eyebrow up, right down, reverse, repeat, rest. “And I must play the ill-starred Thane of Glamis.”

I said, “That’s fine, Siddy, but where does it leave us with Miss Nefer? She’s already thinned her eyebrows and beaked out the top of her nose for Queen Liz, though that’s as far as she’s got. A beautiful job, the nose. Anybody else would think it was plastic surgery instead of putty. But it’s going to look kind of funny on the Thaness of Glamis.”

* * * *

Sid hesitated a half second longer than he usually would—I thought, his timing’s off tonight—and then he harrumphed and said, “Why, Iris Nefer, decked out as Good Queen Bess, will speak a prologue to the play—a prologue which I have myself but last week writ.” He owled his eyes. “’Tis an experiment in the new theater.”

I said, “Siddy, prologues were nothing new to Shakespeare. He had them on half his other plays. Besides, it doesn’t make sense to use Queen Elizabeth. She was dead by the time he whipped up Macbeth, which is all about witchcraft and directed at King James.”

He growled a little at me and demanded, “Prithee, how comes it your peewit-brain bears such a ballast of fusty book-knowledge, chit?”

I said softly, “Siddy, you don’t camp in a Shakespearean dressing room for a year, tete-a-teting with some of the wisest actors ever, without learning a little. Sure I’m a mental case, a poor little A & A existing on your sweet charity, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but—”

“A-and-A, thou sayest?” he frowned. “Methinks the gladsome new forswearers of sack and ale call themselves AA.”

“Agoraphobe and Amnesiac,” I told him. “But look, Siddy, I was going to sayest that I do know the plays. Having Queen Elizabeth speak a prologue to Macbeth is as much an anachronism as if you put her on the gantry of the British moonship, busting a bottle of champagne over its schnozzle.”

“Ha!” he cried as if he’d caught me out. “And saying there’s a new Elizabeth, wouldn’t that be the bravest advertisement ever for the Empire?—perchance rechristening the pilot, copilot and astrogator Drake, Hawkins and Raleigh? And the ship The Golden Hind? Tilly fally, lady!”

He went on, “My prologue an anachronism, quotha! The groundlings will never mark it. Think’st thou wisdom came to mankind with the stenchful rocket and the sundered atomy? More, the Bard himself was topfull of anachronism. He put spectacles on King Lear, had clocks tolling the hour in Caesar’s Rome, buried that Roman ’stead o’ burning him and gave Czechoslovakia a seacoast. Go to, doll.”

“Czechoslovakia, Siddy?”

“Bohemia, then, what skills it? Leave me now, sweet poppet. Go thy ways. I have matters of import to ponder. There’s more to running a repertory company than reading the footnotes to Furness.”

* * * *

Martin had just slouched by calling the Half Hour and looking in his solemnity, sneakers, levis and dirty T-shirt more like an underage refugee from Skid Row than Sid’s newest recruit, assistant stage manager and hardest-worked juvenile—though for once he’d remembered to shave. I was about to ask Sid who was going to play Lady Mack if Miss Nefer wasn’t, or, if she were going to double the roles, shouldn’t I help her with the change? She’s a slow dresser and the Elizabeth costumes are pretty realistically stayed. And she would have trouble getting off that nose, I was sure. But then I saw that Siddy was already slapping on the alboline to keep the grease paint from getting into his pores.

Greta, you ask too many questions, I told myself. You get everybody riled up and you rack your own poor ricketty little mind; and I hied myself off to the costumery to settle my nerves.

The costumery, which occupies the back end of the dressing room, is exactly the right place to settle the nerves and warm the fancies of any child, including an unraveled adult who’s saving what’s left of her sanity by pretending to be one. To begin with there are the regular costumes for Shakespeare’s plays, all jeweled and spangled and brocaded, stage armor, great Roman togas with weights in the borders to make them drape right, velvets of every color to rest your cheek against and dream, and the fantastic costumes for the other plays we favor; Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, Shaw’s Back to Methuselah and Hilliard’s adaptation of Heinlein’s Children of Methuselah, the Capek brothers’ Insect People, O’Neill’s The Fountain, Flecker’s Hassan, Camino Real, Children of the Moon, The Beggar’s Opera, Mary of Scotland, Berkeley Square, The Road to Rome.

There are also the costumes for all the special and variety performances we give of the plays: Hamlet in modern dress, Julius Caesar set in a dictatorship of the 1920’s, The Taming of the Shrew in caveman furs and leopard skins, where Petruchio comes in riding a dinosaur, The Tempest set on another planet with a spaceship wreck to start it off Karrumph!—which means a half dozen spacesuits, featherweight but looking ever so practical, and the weirdest sort of extraterrestrial-beast outfits for Ariel and Caliban and the other monsters.

Oh, I tell you the stuff in the costumery ranges over such a sweep of space and time that you sometimes get frightened you’ll be whirled up and spun off just anywhere, so that you have to clutch at something very real to you to keep it from happening and to remind you where you really are—as I did now at the subway token on the thin gold chain around my neck (Siddy’s first gift to me that I can remember) and chanted very softly to myself, like a charm or a prayer, closing my eyes and squeezing the holes in the token: “Columbus Circle, Times Square, Penn Station, Christopher Street.…”

* * * *

But you don’t ever get really frightened in the costumery. Not exactly, though your goosehairs get wonderfully realistically tingled and your tummy chilled from time to time—because you know it’s all make-believe, a lifesize doll world, a children’s dress-up world. It gets you thinking of far-off times and scenes as pleasant places and not as black hungry mouths that might gobble you up and keep you forever. It’s always safe, always just in the theatre, just on the stage, no matter how far it seems to plunge and roam…and the best sort of therapy for a pot-holed mind like mine, with as many gray ruts and curves and gaps as its cerebrum, that can’t remember one single thing before this last year in the dressing room and that can’t ever push its shaking body out of that same motherly fatherly room, except to stand in the wings for a scene or two and watch the play until the fear gets too great and the urge to take just one peek at the audience gets too strong…and I remember what happened the two times I did peek, and I have to come scuttling back.

The costumery’s good occupational therapy for me, too, as my pricked and calloused fingertips testify. I think I must have stitched up or darned half the costumes in it this last twelvemonth, though there are so many of them that I swear the drawers have accordion pleats and the racks extend into the fourth dimension—not to mention the boxes of props and the shelves of scripts and prompt-copies and other books, including a couple of encyclopedias and the many thick volumes of Furness’s Variorum Shakespeare, which as Sid had guessed I’d been boning up on. Oh, and I’ve sponged and pressed enough costumes, too, and even refitted them to newcomers like Martin, ripping up and resewing seams, which can be a punishing job with heavy materials.

In a less sloppily organized company I’d be called wardrobe mistress, I guess. Except that to anyone in show business that suggests a crotchety old dame with lots of authority and scissors hanging around her neck on a string. Although I got my crochets, all right, I’m not that old. Kind of childish, in fact. As for authority, everybody outranks me, even Martin.

Of course to somebody outside show business, wardrobe mistress might suggest a yummy gal who spends her time dressing up as Nell Gwyn or Anitra or Mrs. Pinchwife or Cleopatra or even Eve (we got a legal costume for it) and inspiring the boys. I’ve tried that once or twice. But Siddy frowns on it, and if Miss Nefer ever caught me at it I think she’d whang me.

And in a normaller company it would be the wardrobe room, too, but costumery is my infantile name for it and the actors go along with my little whims.

I don’t mean to suggest our company is completely crackers. To get as close to Broadway even as Central Park you got to have something. But in spite of Sid’s whip-cracking there is a comforting looseness about its efficiency—people trade around the parts they play without fuss, the bill may be changed a half hour before curtain without anybody getting hysterics, nobody gets fired for eating garlic and breathing it in the leading lady’s face. In short, we’re a team. Which is funny when you come to think of it, as Sid and Miss Nefer and Bruce and Maudie are British (Miss Nefer with a touch of Eurasian blood, I romance); Martin and Beau and me are American (at least I think I am) while the rest come from just everywhere.

* * * *

Besides my costumery work, I fetch things and run inside errands and help the actresses dress and the actors too. The dressing room’s very coeducational in a halfway respectable way. And every once in a while Martin and I police up the whole place, me skittering about with dustcloth and wastebasket, he wielding the scrub-brush and mop with such silent grim efficiency that it always makes me nervous to get through and duck back into the costumery to collect myself.

Yes, the costumery’s a great place to quiet your nerves or improve your mind or even dream your life away. But this time I couldn’t have been there eight minutes when Miss Nefer’s Elizabeth-angry voice came skirling, “Girl! Girl! Greta, where is my ruff with silver trim?” I laid my hands on it in a flash and loped it to her, because Old Queen Liz was known to slap even her Maids of Honor around a bit now and then and Miss Nefer is a bear on getting into character—a real Paul Muni.

She was all made up now, I was happy to note, at least as far as her face went—I hate to see that spooky eight-spoked faint tattoo on her forehead (I’ve sometimes wondered if she got it acting in India or Egypt maybe).

Yes, she was already all made up. This time she’d been going extra heavy on the burrowing-into-character bit, I could tell right away, even if it was only for a hacked-out anachronistic prologue. She signed to me to help her dress without even looking at me, but as I got busy I looked at her eyes. They were so cold and sad and lonely (maybe because they were so far away from her eyebrows and temples and small tight mouth, and so shut away from each other by that ridge of nose) that I got the creeps. Then she began to murmur and sigh, very softly at first, then loudly enough so I got the sense of it.

“Cold, so cold,” she said, still seeing things far away though her hands were working smoothly with mine. “Even a gallop hardly fires my blood. Never was such a Januarius, though there’s no snow. Snow will not come, or tears. Yet my brain burns with the thought of Mary’s death-warrant unsigned. There’s my particular hell!—to doom, perchance, all future queens, or leave a hole for the Spaniard and the Pope to creep like old worms back into the sweet apple of England. Philip’s tall black crooked ships massing like sea-going fortresses south-away—cragged castles set to march into the waves. Parma in the Lowlands! And all the while my bright young idiot gentlemen spurting out my treasure as if it were so much water, as if gold pieces were a glut of summer posies. Oh, alackanight!”

And I thought, Cry Iced!—that’s sure going to be one tyrannosaur of a prologue. And how you’ll ever shift back to being Lady Mack beats me. Greta, if this is what it takes to do just a bit part, you’d better give up your secret ambition of playing walk-ons some day when your nerves heal.

* * * *

She was really getting to me, you see, with that characterization. It was as if I’d managed to go out and take a walk and sat down in the park outside and heard the President talking to himself about the chances of war with Russia and realized he’d sat down on a bench with its back to mine and only a bush between. You see, here we were, two females undignifiedly twisted together, at the moment getting her into that crazy crouch-deep bodice that’s like a big icecream cone, and yet here at the same time was Queen Elizabeth the First of England, three hundred and umpty-ump years dead, coming back to life in a Central Park dressing room. It shook me.

She looked so much the part, you see—even without the red wig yet, just powdered pale makeup going back to a quarter of an inch from her own short dark bang combed and netted back tight. The age too. Miss Nefer can’t be a day over forty—well, forty-two at most—but now she looked and talked and felt to my hands dressing her, well, at least a dozen years older. I guess when Miss Nefer gets into character she does it with each molecule.

That age point fascinated me so much that I risked asking her a question. Probably I was figuring that she couldn’t do me much damage because of the positions we happened to be in at the moment. You see, I’d started to lace her up and to do it right I had my knee against the tail of her spine.

“How old, I mean how young might your majesty be?” I asked her, innocently wonderingly like some dumb serving wench.

For a wonder she didn’t somehow swing around and clout me, but only settled into character a little more deeply.

“Fifty-four winters,” she replied dismally. “’Tis Januarius of Our Lord’s year One Thousand and Five Hundred and Eighty and Seven. I sit cold in Greenwich, staring at the table where Mary’s death warrant waits only my sign manual. If I send her to the block, I open the doors to future, less official regicides. But if I doom her not, Philip’s armada will come inching up the Channel in a season, puffing smoke and shot, and my English Catholics, thinking only of Mary Regina, will rise and i’ the end the Spaniard will have all. All history would alter. That must not be, even if I’m damned for it! And yet…and yet.…”

A bright blue fly came buzzing along (the dressing room has some insect life) and slowly circled her head rather close, but she didn’t even flicker her eyelids.

“I sit cold in Greenwich, going mad. Each afternoon I ride, praying for some mischance, some prodigy, to wash from my mind away the bloody question for some little space. It skills not what: a fire, a tree a-failing, Davison or e’en Eyes Leicester tumbled with his horse, an assassin’s ball clipping the cold twigs by my ear, a maid crying rape, a wild boar charging with dipping tusks, news of the Spaniard at Thames’ mouth or, more happily, a band of strolling actors setting forth some new comedy to charm the fancy or some great unheard-of tragedy to tear the heart—though that were somewhat much to hope for at this season and place, even if Southwark be close by.”

* * * *

The lacing was done. I stood back from her, and really she looked so much like Elizabeth painted by Gheeraerts or on the Great Seal of Ireland or something—though the ash-colored plush dress trimmed in silver and the little silver-edge ruff and the black-silver tinsel-cloth cloak lined with white plush hanging behind her looked most like a winter riding costume—and her face was such a pale frozen mask of Elizabeth’s inward tortures, that I told myself, Oh, I got to talk to Siddy again, he’s made some big mistake, the lardy old lackwit. Miss Nefer just can’t be figuring on playing in Macbeth tonight.

As a matter of fact I was nerving myself to ask her all about it direct, though it was going to take some real nerve and maybe be risking broken bones or at least a flayed cheek to break the ice of that characterization, when who should come by calling the Fifteen Minutes but Martin. He looked so downright goofy that it took my mind off Nefer-in-character for all of eight seconds.

His levied bottom half still looked like The Lower Depths. Martin is Village Stanislavsky rather than Ye Olde English Stage Traditions. But above that…well, all it really amounted to was that he was stripped to the waist and had shaved off the small high tuft of chest hair and was wearing a black wig that hung down in front of his shoulders in two big braids heavy with silver hoops and pins. But just the same those simple things, along with his tarpaper-solarium tan and habitual poker expression, made him look so like an American Indian that I thought, Hey Zeus!—he’s all set to play Hiawatha, or if he’d just cover up that straight-line chest, a frowny Pocahontas. And I quick ran through what plays with Indian parts we do and could only come up with The Fountain.

I mutely goggled my question at him, wiggling my hands like guppy fins, but he brushed me off with a solemn mysterious smile and backed through the curtain. I thought, nobody can explain this but Siddy, and I followed Martin.

II

History does not move in one current,

like the wind across bare seas,

but in a thousand streams and eddies,

like the wind over a broken landscape.

—Cary

The boys’ half of the dressing room (two-thirds really) was bustling. There was the smell of spirit gum and Max Factor and just plain men. Several guys were getting dressed or un-, and Bruce was cussing Bloody-something because he’d just burnt his fingers unwinding from the neck of a hot electric bulb some crepe hair he’d wound there to dry after wetting and stretching it to turn it from crinkly to straight for his Banquo beard. Bruce is always getting to the theater late and trying shortcuts.

But I had eyes only for Sid. So help me, as soon as I saw him they bugged again. Greta, I told myself, you’re going to have to send Martin out to the drugstore for some anti-bug powder. “For the roaches, boy?” “No, for the eyes.”

Sid was made up and had his long mustaches and elf-locked Macbeth wig on—and his corset too. I could tell by the way his waist was sucked in before he saw me. But instead of dark kilts and that bronze-studded sweat-stained leather battle harness that lets him show off his beefy shoulders and the top half of his heavily furred chest—and which really does look great on Macbeth in the first act when he comes in straight from battle—but instead of that he was wearing, so help me, red tights cross-gartered with strips of gold-blue tinsel-cloth, a green doublet gold-trimmed and to top it a ruff, and he was trying to fit onto his front a bright silvered cuirass that would have looked just dandy maybe on one of the Pope’s Swiss Guards.

I thought, Siddy, Willy S. ought to reach out of his portrait there and bop you one on the koko for contemplating such a crazy-quilt desecration of just about his greatest and certainly his most atmospheric play.

Just then he noticed me and hissed accusingly, “There thou art, slothy minx! Spring to and help stuff me into this monstrous chest-kettle.”

“Siddy, what is all this?” I demanded as my hands automatically obeyed. “Are you going to play Macbeth for laughs, except maybe leaving the Porter a serious character? You think you’re Red Skelton?”

“What monstrous brabble is this, you mad bitch?” he retorted, grunting as I bear-hugged his waist, shouldering the cuirass to squeeze it home.

“The clown costumes on all you men,” I told him, for now I’d noticed that the others were in rainbow hues, Bruce a real eye-buster in yellow tights and violet doublet as he furiously bushed out and clipped crosswise sections of beard and slapped them on his chin gleaming brown with spirit gum. “I haven’t seen any eight-inch polka-dots yet but I’m sure I will.”

Suddenly a big grin split Siddy’s face and he laughed out loud at me, though the laugh changed to a gasp as I strapped in the cuirass three notches too tight. When we’d got that adjusted he said, “I’ faith thou slayest me, pretty witling. Did I not tell you this production is an experiment, a novelty? We shall but show Macbeth as it might have been costumed at the court of King James. In the clothes of the day, but gaudier, as was then the stage fashion. Hold, dove, I’ve somewhat for thee.” He fumbled his grouch bag from under his doublet and dipped finger and thumb in it, and put in my palm a silver model of the Empire State Building, charm bracelet size, and one of the new Kennedy dimes.

* * * *

As I squeezed those two and gloated my eyes on them, feeling securer and happier and friendlier for them though I didn’t at the moment want to, I thought, Well, Siddy’s right about that, at least I’ve read they used to costume the plays that way, though I don’t see how Shakespeare stood it. But it was dirty of them all not to tell me beforehand.

But that’s the way it is. Sometimes I’m the butt as well as the pet of the dressing room, and considering all the breaks I get I shouldn’t mind. I smiled at Sid and went on tiptoes and necked out my head and kissed him on a powdery cheek just above an aromatic mustache. Then I wiped the smile off my face and said, “Okay, Siddy, play Macbeth as Little Lord Fauntleroy or Baby Snooks if you want to. I’ll never squeak again. But the Elizabeth prologue’s still an anachronism. And—this is the thing I came to tell you, Siddy—Miss Nefer’s not getting ready for any measly prologue. She’s set to play Queen Elizabeth all night and tomorrow morning too. Whatever you think, she doesn’t know we’re doing Macbeth. But who’ll do Lady Mack if she doesn’t? And Martin’s not dressing for Malcolm, but for the Son of the Last of the Mohicans, I’d say. What’s more—”

You know, something I said must have annoyed Sid, for he changed his mood again in a flash. “Shut your jaw, you crook brained cat, and begone!” he snarled at me. “Here’s curtain time close upon us, and you come like a wittol scattering your mad questions like the crazed Ophelia her flowers. Begone, I say!”

“Yessir,” I whipped out softly. I skittered off toward the door to the stage, because that was the easiest direction. I figured I could do with a breath of less grease-painty air. Then, “Oh, Greta,” I heard Martin call nicely.

He’d changed his levis for black tights, and was stepping into and pulling up around him a very familiar dress, dark green and embroidered with silver and stage-rubies. He’d safety-pinned a folded towel around his chest—to make a bosom of sorts, I realized.

He armed into the sleeves and turned his back to me. “Hook me up, would you?” he entreated.

Then it hit me. They had no actresses in Shakespeare’s day, they used boys. And the dark green dress was so familiar to me because—

“Martin,” I said, halfway up the hooks and working fast—Miss Nefer’s costume fitted him fine. “You’re going to play—?”

“Lady Macbeth, yes,” he finished for me. “Wish me courage, will you Greta? Nobody else seems to think I need it.”

* * * *

I punched him half-heartedly in the rear. Then, as I fastened the last hooks, my eyes topped his shoulder and I looked at our faces side by side in the mirror of his dressing table. His, in spite of the female edging and him being at least eight years younger than me, I think, looked wise, poised, infinitely resourceful with power in reserve, very very real, while mine looked like that of a bewildered and characterless child ghost about to scatter into air—and the edges of my charcoal sweater and skirt, contrasting with his strong colors, didn’t dispel that last illusion.

“Oh, by the way, Greta,” he said, “I picked up a copy of The Village Times for you. There’s a thumbnail review of our Measure for Measure, though it mentions no names, darn it. It’s around here somewhere.…”

But I was already hurrying on. Oh, it was logical enough to have Martin playing Mrs. Macbeth in a production styled to Shakespeare’s own times (though pedantically over-authentic, I’d have thought) and it really did answer all my questions, even why Miss Nefer could sink herself wholly in Elizabeth tonight if she wanted to. But it meant that I must be missing so much of what was going on right around me, in spite of spending 24 hours a day in the dressing room, or at most in the small adjoining john or in the wings of the stage just outside the dressing room door, that it scared me. Siddy telling everybody, “Macbeth tonight in Elizabethan costume, boys and girls,” sure, that I could have missed—though you’d have thought he’d have asked my help on the costumes.

But Martin getting up in Mrs. Mack. Why, someone must have held the part on him twenty-eight times, cueing him, while he got the lines. And there must have been at least a couple of run-through rehearsals to make sure he had all the business and stage movements down pat, and Sid and Martin would have been doing their big scenes every backstage minute they could spare with Sid yelling, “Witling! Think’st that’s a wifely buss?” and Martin would have been droning his lines last time he scrubbed and mopped.…

Greta, they’re hiding things from you, I told myself.

Maybe there was a 25th hour nobody had told me about yet when they did all the things they didn’t tell me about.

Maybe they were things they didn’t dare tell me because of my top-storey weakness.

I felt a cold draft and shivered and I realized I was at the door to the stage.

I should explain that our stage is rather an unusual one, in that it can face two ways, with the drops and set pieces and lighting all capable of being switched around completely. To your left, as you look out the dressing-room door, is an open-air theater, or rather an open-air place for the audience—a large upward-sloping glade walled by thick tall trees and with benches for over two thousand people. On that side the stage kind of merges into the grass and can be made to look part of it by a green groundcloth.

To your right is a big roofed auditorium with the same number of seats.

The whole thing grew out of the free summer Shakespeare performances in Central Park that they started back in the 1950’s.

The Janus-stage idea is that in nice weather you can have the audience outdoors, but if it rains or there’s a cold snap, or if you want to play all winter without a single break, as we’ve been doing, then you can put your audience in the auditorium. In that case, a big accordion-pleated wall shuts off the out of doors and keeps the wind from blowing your backdrop, which is on that side, of course, when the auditorium’s in use.

Tonight the stage was set up to face the outdoors, although that draft felt mighty chilly.

I hesitated, as I always do at the door to the stage—though it wasn’t the actual stage lying just ahead of me, but only backstage, the wings. You see, I always have to fight the feeling that if I go out the dressing room door, go out just eight steps, the world will change while I’m out there and I’ll never be able to get back. It won’t be New York City any more, but Chicago or Mars or Algiers or Atlanta, Georgia, or Atlantis or Hell and I’ll never be able to get back to that lovely warm womb with all the jolly boys and girls and all the costumes smelling like autumn leaves.

Or, especially when there’s a cold breeze blowing, I’m afraid that I’ll change, that I’ll grow wrinkled and old in eight footsteps, or shrink down to the witless blob of a baby, or forget altogether who I am—

—or, it occurred to me for the first time now, remember who I am. Which might be even worse.

Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.

I took a step back. I noticed something new just beside the door: a high-legged, short-keyboard piano. Then I saw that the legs were those of a table. The piano was just a box with yellowed keys. Spinet? Harpsichord?

“Five minutes, everybody,” Martin quietly called out behind me.

I took hold of myself. Greta, I told myself—also for the first time, you know that some day you’re really going to have to face this thing, and not just for a quick dip out and back either. Better get in some practice.

I stepped through the door.

* * * *

Beau and Doc were already out there, made up and in costume for Ross and King Duncan. They were discreetly peering past the wings at the gathering audience. Or at the place where the audience ought to be gathering, at any rate—sometimes the movies and girlie shows and brainheavy beatnik bruhahas outdraw us altogether. Their costumes were the same kooky colorful ones as the others’. Doc had a mock-ermine robe and a huge gilt papier-mache crown. Beau was carrying a ragged black robe and hood over his left arm—he doubles the First Witch.

As I came up behind them, making no noise in my black sneakers, I heard Beau say, “I see some rude fellows from the City approaching. I was hoping we wouldn’t get any of those. How should they scent us out?”

Brother, I thought, where do you expect them to come from if not the City? Central Park is bounded on three sides by Manhattan Island and on the fourth by the Eighth Avenue Subway. And Brooklyn and Bronx boys have got pretty sharp scenters. And what’s it get you insulting the woiking and non-woiking people of the woild’s greatest metropolis? Be grateful for any audience you get, boy.

But I suppose Beau Lassiter considers anybody from north of Vicksburg a “rude fellow” and is always waiting for the day when the entire audience will arrive in carriage and democrat wagons.

Doc replied, holding down his white beard and heavy on the mongrel Russo-German accent he miraculously manages to suppress on stage except when “Vot does it matter? Ve don’t convinze zem, ve don’t convinze nobody. Nichevo.”

Maybe, I thought, Doc shares my doubts about making Macbeth plausible in rainbow pants.

Still unobserved by them, I looked between their shoulders and got the first of my shocks.

It wasn’t night at all, but afternoon. A dark cold lowering afternoon, admittedly. But afternoon all the same.

Sure, between shows I sometimes forget whether it’s day or night, living inside like I do. But getting matinees and evening performances mixed is something else again.

It also seemed to me, although Beau was leaning in now and I couldn’t see so well, that the glade was smaller than it should be, the trees closer to us and more irregular, and I couldn’t see the benches. That was Shock Two.

Beau said anxiously, glancing at his wrist, “I wonder what’s holding up the Queen?”

Although I was busy keeping up nerve-pressure against the shocks, I managed to think. So he knows about Siddy’s stupid Queen Elizabeth prologue too. But of course he would. It’s only me they keep in the dark. If he’s so smart he ought to remember that Miss Nefer is always the last person on stage, even when she opens the play.

And then I thought I heard, through the trees, the distant drumming of horses’ hoofs and the sound of a horn.

* * * *

Now they do have horseback riding in Central Park and you can hear auto horns there, but the hoofbeats don’t drum that wild way. And there aren’t so many riding together. And no auto horn I ever heard gave out with that sweet yet imperious ta-ta-ta-TA.

I must have squeaked or something, because Beau and Doc turned around quickly, blocking my view, their expressions half angry, half anxious.

I turned too and ran for the dressing room, for I could feel one of my mind-wavery fits coming on. At the last second it had seemed to me that the scenery was getting skimpier, hardly more than thin trees and bushes itself, and underfoot feeling more like ground than a ground cloth, and overhead not theater roof but gray sky. Shock Three and you’re out, Greta, my umpire was calling.

I made it through the dressing room door and nothing there was wavering or dissolving, praised be Pan. Just Martin standing with his back to me, alert, alive, poised like a cat inside that green dress, the prompt book in his right hand with a finger in it, and from his left hand long black tatters swinging—telling me he’d still be doubling Second Witch. And he was hissing, “Places, please, everybody. On stage!”

With a sweep of silver and ash-colored plush, Miss Nefer came past him, for once leading the last-minute hurry to the stage. She had on the dark red wig now. For me that crowned her characterization. It made me remember her saying, “My brain burns.” I ducked aside as if she were majesty incarnate.

And then she didn’t break her own precedent. She stopped at the new thing beside the door and poised her long white skinny fingers over the yellowed keys, and suddenly I remembered what it was called: a virginals.

She stared down at it fiercely, evilly, like a witch planning an enchantment. Her face got the secret fiendish look that, I told myself, the real Elizabeth would have had ordering the deaths of Ballard and Babington, or plotting with Drake (for all they say she didn’t) one of his raids, that long long forefinger tracing crooked courses through a crabbedly drawn map of the Indies and she smiling at the dots of cities that would burn.

Then all her eight fingers came flickering down and the strings inside the virginals began to twang and hum with a high-pitched rendering of Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”

Then as Sid and Bruce and Martin rushed past me, along with a black swooping that was Maud already robed and hooded for Third Witch, I beat it for my sleeping closet like Peer Gynt himself dashing across the mountainside away from the cave of the Troll King, who only wanted to make tiny slits in his eyeballs so that forever afterwards he’d see reality just a little differently. And as I ran, the master-anachronism of that menacing mad march music was shrilling in my ears.

III

Sound a dumbe shew. Enter the three fatall sisters, with a rocke, a threed, and a pair of sheeres.

—Old Play

My sleeping closet is just a cot at the back end of the girls’ third of the dressing room, with a three-panel screen to make it private.

When I sleep I hang my outside clothes on the screen, which is pasted and thumbtacked all over with the New York City stuff that gives me security: theater programs and restaurant menus, clippings from the Times and the Mirror, a torn-out picture of the United Nations building with a hundred tiny gay paper flags pasted around it, and hanging in an old hairnet a home-run baseball autographed by Willie Mays. Things like that.

Right now I was jumping my eyes over that stuff, asking it to keep me located and make me safe, as I lay on my cot in my clothes with my knees drawn up and my fingers over my ears so the louder lines from the play wouldn’t be able to come nosing back around the trunks and tables and bright-lit mirrors and find me. Generally I like to listen to them, even if they’re sort of sepulchral and drained of overtones by their crooked trip. But they’re always tense-making. And tonight (I mean this afternoon)—no!

It’s funny I should find security in mementos of a city I daren’t go out into—no, not even for a stroll through Central Park, though I know it from the Pond to Harlem Meer—the Met Museum, the Menagerie, the Ramble, the Great Lawn, Cleopatra’s Needle and all the rest. But that’s the way it is. Maybe I’m like Jonah in the whale, reluctant to go outside because the whale’s a terrible monster that’s awful scary to look in the face and might really damage you gulping you a second time, yet reassured to know you’re living in the stomach of that particular monster and not a seventeen tentacled one from the fifth planet of Aldebaran.

It’s really true, you see, about me actually living in the dressing room. The boys bring me meals: coffee in cardboard cylinders and doughnuts in little brown grease-spotted paper sacks and malts and hamburgers and apples and little pizzas, and Maud brings me raw vegetables—carrots and parsnips and little onions and such, and watches to make sure I exercise my molars grinding them and get my vitamins. I take spit-baths in the little john. Architects don’t seem to think actors ever take baths, even when they’ve browned themselves all over playing Pindarus the Parthian in Julius Caesar. And all my shut-eye is caught on this little cot in the twilight of my NYC screen.

* * * *

You’d think I’d be terrified being alone in the dressing room during the wee and morning hours, let alone trying to sleep then, but that isn’t the way it works out. For one thing, there’s apt to be someone sleeping in too. Maudie especially. And it’s my favorite time too for costume-mending and reading the Variorum and other books, and for just plain way-out dreaming. You see, the dressing room is the one place I really do feel safe. Whatever is out there in New York that terrorizes me, I’m pretty confident that it can never get in here.

Besides that, there’s a great big bolt on the inside of the dressing room door that I throw whenever I’m all alone after the show. Next day they buzz for me to open it.

It worried me a bit at first and I had asked Sid, “But what if I’m so deep asleep I don’t hear and you have to get in fast?” and he had replied, “Sweetling, a word in your ear: our own Beauregard Lassiter is the prettiest picklock unjailed since Jimmy Valentine and Jimmy Dale. I’ll not ask where he learned his trade, but ’tis sober truth, upon my honor.”

And Beau had confirmed this with a courtly bow, murmuring, “At your service, Miss Greta.”

“How do you jigger a big iron bolt through a three-inch door that fits like Maudie’s tights?” I wanted to know.

“He carries lodestones of great power and divers subtle tools,” Sid had explained for him.

I don’t know how they work it so that some Traverse-Three cop or park official doesn’t find out about me and raise a stink. Maybe Sid just throws a little more of the temperament he uses to keep most outsiders out of the dressing-room. We sure don’t get any janitors or scrubwomen, as Martin and I know only too well. More likely he squares someone. I do get the impression all the company’s gone a little way out on a limb letting me stay here—that the directors of our theater wouldn’t like it if they found out about me.

In fact, the actors are all so good about helping me and putting up with my antics (though they have their own, Danu digs!) that I sometimes think I must be related to one of them—a distant cousin or sister-in-law (or wife, my God!), because I’ve checked our faces side by side in the mirrors often enough and I can’t find any striking family resemblances. Or maybe I was even an actress in the company. The least important one. Playing the tiniest roles like Lucius in Caesar and Bianca in Othello and one of the little princes in Dick the Three Eyes and Fleance and the Gentlewoman in Macbeth, though me doing even that much acting strikes me to laugh.

But whatever I am in that direction—if I’m anything—not one of the actors has told me a word about it or dropped the least hint. Not even when I beg them to tell me or try to trick them into it, presumably because it might revive the shock that gave me agoraphobia and amnesia in the first place, and maybe this time knock out my entire mind or at least smash the new mouse-in-a-hole consciousness I’ve made for myself.

* * * *

I guess they must have got by themselves a year ago and talked me over and decided my best chance for cure or for just bumping along half happily was staying in the dressing room rather than being sent home (funny, could I have another?) or to a mental hospital. And then they must have been cocky enough about their amateur psychiatry and interested enough in me (the White Horse knows why) to go ahead with a program almost any psychiatrist would be bound to yike at.

I got so worried about the set up once and about the risks they might be running that, gritting down my dread of the idea, I said to Sid, “Siddy, shouldn’t I see a doctor?”

He looked at me solemnly for a couple of seconds and then said, “Sure, why not? Go talk to Doc right now,” tipping a thumb toward Doc Pyeskov, who was just sneaking back into the bottom of his makeup box what looked like a half pint from the flask I got. I did, incidentally. Doc explained to me Kraepelin’s classification of the psychoses, muttering, as he absentmindedly fondled my wrist, that in a year or two he’d be a good illustration of Korsakov’s Syndrome.

They’ve all been pretty darn good to me in their kooky ways, the actors have. Not one of them has tried to take advantage of my situation to extort anything out of me, beyond asking me to sew on a button or polish some boots or at worst clean the wash bowl. Not one of the boys has made a pass I didn’t at least seem to invite. And when my crush on Sid was at its worst he shouldered me off by getting polite—something he only is to strangers. On the rebound I hit Beau, who treated me like a real Southern gentleman.

All this for a stupid little waif, whom anyone but a gang of sentimental actors would have sent to Bellevue without a second thought or feeling. For, to get disgustingly realistic, my most plausible theory of me is that I’m a stage-struck girl from Iowa who saw her twenties slipping away and her sanity too, and made the dash to Greenwich Village, and went so ape on Shakespeare after seeing her first performance in Central Park that she kept going back there night after night (Christopher Street, Penn Station, Times Square, Columbus Circle—see?) and hung around the stage door, so mousy but open-mouthed that the actors made a pet of her.

And then something very nasty happened to her, either down at the Village or in a dark corner of the Park. Something so nasty that it blew the top of her head right off. And she ran to the only people and place where she felt she could ever again feel safe. And she showed them the top of her head with its singed hair and its jagged ring of skull and they took pity.

My least plausible theory of me, but the one I like the most, is that I was born in the dressing room, cradled in the top of a flat theatrical trunk with my ears full of Shakespeare’s lines before I ever said “Mama,” let alone lamped a TV; hush-walked when I cried by whoever was off stage, old props my first toys, trying to eat crepe hair my first indiscretion, sticks of grease-paint my first crayons. You know, I really wouldn’t be bothered by crazy fears about New York changing and the dressing room shifting around in space and time, if I could be sure I’d always be able to stay in it and that the same sweet guys and gals would always be with me and that the shows would always go on.

* * * *

This show was sure going on, it suddenly hit me, for I’d let my fingers slip off my ears as I sentimentalized and wish-dreamed and I heard, muted by the length and stuff of the dressing room, the slow beat of a drum and then a drum note in Maudie’s voice taking up that beat as she warned the other two witches, “A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.”

Why, I’d not only missed Sid’s history-making-and-breaking Queen Elizabeth prologue (kicking myself that I had, now it was over), I’d also missed the short witch scene with its famous “Fair is foul and foul is fair,” the Bloody Sergeant scene where Duncan hears about Macbeth’s victory, and we were well into the second witch scene, the one on the blasted heath where Macbeth gets it predicted to him he’ll be king after Duncan and is tempted to speculate about hurrying up the process.

I sat up. I did hesitate a minute then, my fingers going back toward my ears, because Macbeth is specially tense-making and when I’ve had one of my mind-wavery fits I feel weak for a while and things are blurry and uncertain. Maybe I’d better take a couple of the barbiturate sleeping pills Maudie manages to get for me and—but No, Greta, I told myself, you want to watch this show, you want to see how they do in those crazy costumes. You especially want to see how Martin makes out. He’d never forgive you if you didn’t.

So I walked to the other end of the empty dressing room, moving quite slowly and touching the edges here and there, the words of the play getting louder all the time. By the time I got to the door Bruce-Banquo was saying to the witches, “If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not,”—those lines that stir anyone’s imagination with their veiled vision of the universe.

The overall lighting was a little dim (afternoon fading already?—a late matinee?) and the stage lights flickery and the scenery still a little spectral-flimsy. Oh, my mind-wavery fits can be lulus! But I concentrated on the actors, watching them through the entrance-gaps in the wings. They were solid enough.

Giving a solid performance, too, as I decided after watching that scene through and the one after it where Duncan congratulates Macbeth, with never a pause between the two scenes in true Elizabethan style. Nobody was laughing at the colorful costumes. After a while I began to accept them myself.

Oh, it was a different Macbeth than our company usually does. Louder and faster, with shorter pauses between speeches, the blank verse at times approaching a chant. But it had a lot of real guts and everybody was just throwing themselves into it, Sid especially.

* * * *

The first Lady Macbeth scene came. Without exactly realizing it I moved forward to where I’d been when I got my three shocks. Martin is so intent on his career and making good that he has me the same way about it.

The Thaness started off, as she always does, toward the opposite side of the stage and facing a little away from me. Then she moved a step and looked down at the stage-parchment letter in her hands and began to read it, though there was nothing on it but scribble, and my heart sank because the voice I heard was Miss Nefer’s. I thought (and almost said out loud) Oh, dammit, he funked out, or Sid decided at the last minute he couldn’t trust him with the part. Whoever got Miss Nefer out of the ice cream cone in time?

Then she swung around and I saw that no, my God, it was Martin, no mistaking. He’d been using her voice. When a person first does a part, especially getting up in it without much rehearsing, he’s bound to copy the actor he’s been hearing doing it. And as I listened on, I realized it was fundamentally Martin’s own voice pitched a trifle high, only some of the intonations and rhythms were Miss Nefer’s. He was showing a lot of feeling and intensity too and real Martin-type poise. You’re off to a great start, kid, I cheered inwardly. Keep it up!

Just then I looked toward the audience. Once again I almost squeaked out loud. For out there, close to the stage, in the very middle of the reserve section, was a carpet spread out. And sitting in the middle of it on some sort of little chair, with what looked like two charcoal braziers smoking to either side of her, was Miss Nefer with a string of extras in Elizabethan hats with cloaks pulled around them.

For a second it really threw me because it reminded me of the things I’d seen or thought I’d seen the couple of times I’d sneaked a peek through the curtain-hole at the audience in the indoor auditorium.

It hardly threw me for more than a second, though, because I remembered that the characters who speak Shakespeare’s prologues often stay on stage and sometimes kind of join the audience and even comment on the play from time to time—Christopher Sly and attendant lords in The Shrew, for one. Sid had just copied and in his usual style laid it on thick.

Well, bully for you, Siddy, I thought, I’m sure the witless New York groundlings will be thrilled to their cold little toes knowing they’re sitting in the same audience as Good Queen Liz and attendant courtiers. And as for you, Miss Nefer, I added a shade invidiously, you just keep on sitting cold in Central Park, warmed by dry-ice smoke from braziers, and keep your mouth shut and everything’ll be fine. I’m sincerely glad you’ll be able to be Queen Elizabeth all night long. Just so long as you don’t try to steal the scene from Martin and the rest of the cast, and the real play.

I suppose that camp chair will get a little uncomfortable by the time the Fifth Act comes tramping along to that drumbeat, but I’m sure you’re so much in character you’ll never feel it.

One thing though: just don’t scare me again pretending to work witchcraft—with a virginals or any other way.

Okay?

Swell.

Me, now, I’m going to watch the play.

IV

…to dream of new dimensions,

Cheating checkmate

by painting the king’s robe

So that he slides like a queen;

—Graves

I swung back to the play just at the moment Lady Mack soliloquizes, “Come to my woman’s breasts. And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers.” Although I knew it was just folded towel Martin was touching with his fingertips as he lifted them to the top half of his green bodice, I got carried away, he made it so real. I decided boys can play girls better than people think. Maybe they should do it a little more often, and girls play boys too.

Then Sid-Macbeth came back to his wife from the wars, looking triumphant but scared because the murder-idea’s started to smoulder in him, and she got busy fanning the blaze like any other good littlehausfrau intent on her husband rising in the company and knowing that she’s the power behind him and that when there are promotions someone’s always got to get the axe. Sid and Martin made this charming little domestic scene so natural yet gutsy too that I wanted to shout hooray. Even Sid clutching Martin to that ridiculous pot-chested cuirass didn’t have one note of horseplay in it. Their bodies spoke. It was the McCoy.

After that, the play began to get real good, the fast tempo and exaggerated facial expressions actually helping it. By the time the Dagger Scene came along I was digging my fingernails into my sweaty palms. Which was a good thing—my eating up the play, I mean—because it kept me from looking at the audience again, even taking a fast peek. As you’ve gathered, audiences bug me. All those people out there in the shadows, watching the actors in the light, all those silent voyeurs as Bruce calls them. Why, they might be anything. And sometimes (to my mind-wavery sorrow) I think they are. Maybe crouching in the dark out there, hiding among the others, is the one who did the nasty thing to me that tore off the top of my head.

Anyhow, if I so much as glance at the audience, I begin to get ideas about it—and sometimes even if I don’t, as just at this moment I thought I heard horses restlessly pawing hard ground and one whinny, though that was shut off fast. Krishna kressed us! I thought, Skiddy can’t have hired horses for Nefer-Elizabeth much as he’s a circus man at heart. We don’t have that kind of money. Besides—

But just then Sid-Macbeth gasped as if he were sucking in a bucket of air. He’d shed the cuirass, fortunately. He said, “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?” and the play hooked me again, and I had no time to think about or listen for anything else. Most of the offstage actors were on the other side of the stage, as that’s where they make their exits and entrances at this point in the Second Act. I stood alone in the wings, watching the play like a bug, frightened only of the horrors Shakespeare had in mind when he wrote it.

Yes, the play was going great. The Dagger Scene was terrific where Duncan gets murdered offstage, and so was the part afterwards where hysteria mounts as the crime’s discovered.

But just at this point I began to catch notes I didn’t like. Twice someone was late on entrance and came on as if shot from a cannon. And three times at least Sid had to throw someone a line when they blew up—in the clutches Sid’s better than any prompt book. It began to look as if the play were getting out of control, maybe because the new tempo was so hot.

* * * *

But they got through the Murder Scene okay. As they came trooping off, yelling “Well contented,” most of them on my side for a change, I went for Sid with a towel. He always sweats like a pig in the Murder Scene. I mopped his neck and shoved the towel up under his doublet to catch the dripping armpits.

Meanwhile he was fumbling around on a narrow table where they lay props and costumes for quick changes. Suddenly he dug his fingers into my shoulder, enough to catch my attention at this point, meaning I’d show bruises tomorrow, and yelled at me under his breath, “And you love me, our crows and robes. Presto!”

I was off like a flash to the costumery. There were Mr. and Mrs. Mack’s king-and-queen robes and stuff hanging and sitting just where I knew they’d have to be.

I snatched them up, thinking, Boy, they made a mistake when they didn’t tell about this special performance, and I started back like Flash Two.

As I shot out the dressing room door the theater was very quiet. There’s a short low-pitched scene on stage then, to give the audience a breather. I heard Miss Nefer say loudly (it had to be loud to get to me from even the front of the audience): “’Tis a good bloody play, Eyes,” and some voice I didn’t recognize reply a bit grudgingly, “There’s meat in it and some poetry too, though rough-wrought.” She went on, still as loudly as if she owned the theater, “’Twill make Master Kyd bite his nails with jealousy—ha, ha!”

Ha-ha yourself, you scene-stealing witch, I thought, as I helped Sid and then Martin on with their royal outer duds. But at the same time I knew Sid must have written those lines himself to go along with his prologue. They had the unmistakable rough-wrought Lessingham touch. Did he really expect the audience to make anything of that reference to Shakespeare’s predecessor Thomas Kyd of The Spanish Tragedy and the lost Hamlet? And if they knew enough to spot that, wouldn’t they be bound to realize the whole Elizabeth-Macbeth tie-up was anachronistic? But when Sid gets an inspiration he can be very bull-headed.

Just then, while Bruce-Banquo was speaking his broody low soliloquy on stage, Miss Nefer cut in again loudly with, “Aye, Eyes, a good bloody play. Yet somehow, methinks—I know not how—I’ve heard it before.” Whereupon Sid grabbed Martin by the wrist and hissed, “Did’st hear? Oh, I like not that,” and I thought, Oh-ho, so now she’s beginning to ad-lib.

Well, right away they all went on stage with a flourish, Sid and Martin crowned and hand in hand. The play got going strong again. But there were still those edge-of-control undercurrents and I began to be more uneasy than caught up, and I had to stare consciously at the actors to keep off a wavery-fit.

* * * *

Other things began to bother me too, such as all the doubling.

Macbeth’s a great play for doubling. For instance, anyone except Macbeth or Banquo can double one of the Three Witches—or one of the Three Murderers for that matter. Normally we double at least one or two of the Witches and Murderers, but this performance there’d been more multiple-parting than I’d ever seen. Doc had whipped off his Duncan beard and thrown on a brown smock and hood to play the Porter with his normal bottle-roughened accents. Well, a drunk impersonating a drunk, pretty appropriate. But Bruce was doing the next-door-to-impossible double of Banquo and Macduff, using a ringing tenor voice for the latter and wearing in the murder scene a helmet with dropped visor to hide his Banquo beard. He’d be able to tear it off, of course, after the Murderers got Banquo and he’d made his brief appearance as a bloodied-up ghost in the Banquet Scene. I asked myself, My God, has Siddy got all the other actors out in front playing courtiers to Elizabeth-Nefer? Wasting them that way? The whoreson rogue’s gone nuts!

But really it was plain frightening, all that frantic doubling and tripling with its suggestion that the play (and the company too, Freya forfend) was becoming a ricketty patchwork illusion with everybody racing around faster and faster to hide the holes. And the scenery-wavery stuff and the warped Park-sounds were scary too. I was actually shivering by the time Sid got to: “Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.” Those graveyard lines didn’t help my nerves any, of course. Nor did thinking I heard Nefer-Elizabeth say from the audience, rather softly for her this time, “Eyes, I have heard that speech, I know not where. Think you ’tiz stolen?”

Greta, I told myself, you need a miltown before the crow makes wing through your kooky head.

I turned to go and fetch me one from my closet. And stopped dead.

Just behind me, pacing back and forth like an ash-colored tiger in the gloomy wings, looking daggers at the audience every time she turned at that end of her invisible cage, but ignoring me completely, was Miss Nefer in the Elizabeth wig and rig.

Well, I suppose I should have said to myself, Greta, you imagined that last loud whisper from the audience. Miss Nefer’s simply unkinked herself, waved a hand to the real audience and come back stage. Maybe Sid just had her out there for the first half of the play. Or maybe she just couldn’t stand watching Martin give such a bang-up performance in her part of Lady Mack.

Yes, maybe I should have told myself something like that, but somehow all I could think then—and I thought it with a steady mounting shiver—was, We got two Elizabeths. This one is our witch Nefer. I know. I dressed her. And I know that devil-look from the virginals. But if this is our Elizabeth, the company Elizabeth, the stage Elizabeth…who’s the other?

And because I didn’t dare to let myself think of the answer to that question, I dodged around the invisible cage that the ash-colored skirt seemed to ripple against as the Tiger Queen turned and I ran into the dressing room, my only thought to get behind my New York City Screen.

V

Even little things are turning out to be great things and becoming intensely interesting.

Have you ever thought about the properties of numbers?

—The Maiden

Lying on my cot, my eyes crosswise to the printing, I looked from a pink Algonquin menu to a pale green New Amsterdam program, with a tiny doll of Father Knickerbocker dangling between them on a yellow thread. Really they weren’t covering up much of anything. A ghostly hole an inch and a half across seemed to char itself in the program. As if my eye were right up against it, I saw in vivid memory what I’d seen the two times I’d dared a peek through the hole in the curtain: a bevy of ladies in masks and Nell Gwyn dresses and men in King Charles knee-breeches and long curled hair, and the second time a bunch of people and creatures just wild: all sorts and colors of clothes, humans with hoofs for feet and antennae springing from their foreheads, furry and feathery things that had more arms than two and in one case that many heads—as if they were dressed up in our Tempest, Peer Gynt and Insect People costumes and some more besides.

Naturally I’d had mind-wavery fits both times. Afterwards Sid had wagged a finger at me and explained that on those two nights we’d been giving performances for people who’d arranged a costume theater-party and been going to attend a masquerade ball, and ’zounds, when would I learn to guard my half-patched pate?

I don’t know, I guess never, I answered now, quick looking at a Giants pennant, a Korvette ad, a map of Central Park, my Willie Mays baseball and a Radio City tour ticket. That was eight items I’d looked at this trip without feeling any inward improvement. They weren’t reassuring me at all.

The blue fly came slowly buzzing down over my screen and I asked it, “What are you looking for? A spider?” when what should I hear coming back through the dressing room straight toward my sleeping closet but Miss Nefer’s footsteps. No one else walks that way.

She’s going to do something to you, Greta, I thought. She’s the maniac in the company. She’s the one who terrorized you with the boning knife in the shrubbery, or sicked the giant tarantula on you at the dark end of the subway platform, or whatever it was, and the others are covering up for. She’s going to smile the devil-smile and weave those white twig-fingers at you, all eight of them. And Birnam Wood’ll come to Dunsinane and you’ll be burnt at the stake by men in armor or drawn and quartered by eight-legged monkeys that talk or torn apart by wild centaurs or whirled through the roof to the moon without being dressed for it or sent burrowing into the past to stifle in Iowa 1948 or Egypt 4,008 B.C. The screen won’t keep her out.

* * * *

Then a head of hair pushed over the screen. But it was black-bound-with-silver, Brahma bless us, and a moment later Martin was giving me one of his rare smiles.

I said, “Marty, do something for me. Don’t ever use Miss Nefer’s footsteps again. Her voice, okay, if you have to. But not the footsteps. Don’t ask me why, just don’t.”

Martin came around and sat on the foot of my cot. My legs were already doubled up. He straightened out his blue-and-gold skirt and rested a hand on my black sneakers.

“Feeling a little wonky, Greta?” he asked. “Don’t worry about me. Banquo’s dead and so’s his ghost. We’ve finished the Banquet Scene. I’ve got lots of time.”

I just looked at him, queerly I guess. Then without lifting my head I asked him, “Martin, tell me the truth. Does the dressing room move around?”

I was talking so low that he hitched a little closer, not touching me anywhere else though.

“The Earth’s whipping around the sun at 20 miles a second,” he replied, “and the dressing room goes with it.”

I shook my head, my cheek scrubbing the pillow, “I mean…shifting,” I said. “By itself.”

“How?” he asked.

“Well,” I told him, “I’ve had this idea—it’s just a sort of fancy, remember—that if you wanted to time-travel and, well, do things, you could hardly pick a more practical machine than a dressing room and sort of stage and half-theater attached, with actors to man it. Actors can fit in anywhere. They’re used to learning new parts and wearing strange costumes. Heck, they’re even used to traveling a lot. And if an actor’s a bit strange nobody thinks anything of it—he’s almost expected to be foreign, it’s an asset to him.”

“And a theater, well, a theater can spring up almost anywhere and nobody ask questions, except the zoning authorities and such and they can always be squared. Theaters come and go. It happens all the time. They’re transitory. Yet theaters are crossroads, anonymous meeting places, anybody with a few bucks or sometimes nothing at all can go. And theaters attract important people, the sort of people you might want to do something to. Caesar was stabbed in a theater. Lincoln was shot in one. And.…”

My voice trailed off. “A cute idea,” he commented.

I reached down to his hand on my shoe and took hold of his middle finger as a baby might.

“Yeah,” I said, “But Martin, is it true?”

He asked me gravely, “What do you think?”

I didn’t say anything.

“How would you like to work in a company like that?” he asked speculatively.

“I don’t really know,” I said.

* * * *

He sat up straighter and his voice got brisk. “Well, all fantasy aside, how’d you like to work in this company?” He asked, lightly slapping my ankle. “On the stage, I mean. Sid thinks you’re ready for some of the smaller parts. In fact, he asked me to put it to you. He thinks you never take him seriously.”

“Pardon me while I gasp and glow,” I said. Then, “Oh Marty, I can’t really imagine myself doing the tiniest part.”

“Me neither, eight months ago,” he said. “Now, look. Lady Macbeth.”

“But Marty,” I said, reaching for his finger again, “you haven’t answered my question. About whether it’s true.”

“Oh that!” he said with a laugh, switching his hand to the other side. “Ask me something else.”

“Okay,” I said, “why am I bugged on the number eight? Because I’m permanently behind a private 8-ball?”

“Eight’s a number with many properties,” he said, suddenly as intently serious as he usually is. “The corners of a cube.”

“You mean I’m a square?” I said. “Or just a brick? You know, ‘She’s a brick.’”

“But eight’s most curious property,” he continued with a frown, “is that lying on its side it signifies infinity. So eight erect is really—” and suddenly his made-up, naturally solemn face got a great glow of inspiration and devotion—“Infinity Arisen!”

Well, I don’t know. You meet quite a few people in the theater who are bats on numerology, they use it to pick stage-names. But I’d never have guessed it of Martin. He always struck me as the skeptical, cynical type.

“I had another idea about eight,” I said hesitatingly. “Spiders. That 8-legged asterisk on Miss Nefer’s forehead—” I suppressed a shudder.

“You don’t like her, do you?” he stated.

“I’m afraid of her,” I said.

“You shouldn’t be. She’s a very great woman and tonight she’s playing an infinitely more difficult part than I am. No, Greta,” he went on as I started to protest, “believe me, you don’t understand anything about it at this moment. Just as you don’t understand about spiders, fearing them. They’re the first to climb the rigging and to climb ashore too. They’re the web-weavers, the line-throwers, the connectors, Siva and Kali united in love. They’re the double mandala, the beginning and the end, infinity mustered and on the march—”

“They’re also on my New York screen!” I squeaked, shrinking back across the cot a little and pointing at a tiny glinting silver-and-black thing mounting below my Willy-ball.

Martin gently caught its line on his finger and lifted it very close to his face. “Eight eyes too,” he told me. Then, “Poor little god,” he said and put it back.

“Marty? Marty?” Sid’s desperate stage-whisper rasped the length of the dressing room.

Martin stood up. “Yes, Sid?”

Sid’s voice stayed a whisper but went from desperate to ferocious. “You villainous elf-skin! Know you not the Cauldron Scene’s been playing a hundred heartbeats? ’Tis ’most my entrance and we still mustering only two witches out of three! Oh, you nott-pated starveling!”

Before Sid had got much more than half of that out, Martin had slipped around the screen, raced the length of the dressing room, and I’d heard a lusty thwack as he went out the door. I couldn’t help grinning, though with Martin racked by anxieties and reliefs over his first time as Lady Mack, it was easy to understand it slipping his mind that he was still doubling Second Witch.

VI

I will vault credit

and affect high pleasures

Beyond death.

—Ferdinand

I sat down where Martin had been, first pushing the screen far enough to the side for me to see the length of the dressing room and notice anyone coming through the door and any blurs moving behind the thin white curtain shutting off the boys’ two-thirds.

I’d been going to think. But instead I just sat there, experiencing my body and the room around it, steadying myself or maybe readying myself. I couldn’t tell which, but it was nothing to think about, only to feel. My heartbeat became a very faint, slow, solid throb. My spine straightened.

No one came in or went out. Distantly I heard Macbeth and the witches and the apparitions talk.

Once I looked at the New York Screen, but all the stuff there had grown stale. No protection, no nothing.

I reached down to my suitcase and from where I’d been going to get a miltown I took a dexedrine and popped it in my mouth. Then I started out, beginning to shake.

When I got to the end of the curtain I went around it to Sid’s dressing table and asked Shakespeare, “Am I doing the right thing, Pop?” But he didn’t answer me out of his portrait. He just looked sneaky-innocent, like he knew a lot but wouldn’t tell, and I found myself think of a little silver-framed photo Sid had used to keep there too of a cocky German-looking young actor with “Erich” autographed across it in white ink. At least I supposed he was an actor. He looked a little like Erich von Stroheim, but nicer yet somehow nastier too. The photo had used to upset me, I don’t know why. Sid must have noticed it, for one day it was gone.

I thought of the tiny black-and-silver spider crawling across the remembered silver frame, and for some reason it gave me the cold creeps.

Well, this wasn’t doing me any good, just making me feel dismal again, so I quickly went out. In the door I had to slip around the actors coming back from the Cauldron Scene and the big bolt nicked my hip.

Outside Maud was peeling off her Third Witch stuff to reveal Lady Macduff beneath. She twitched me a grin.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess,” she shrugged. “What an audience! Noisy as highschool kids.”

“How come Sid didn’t have a boy do your part?” I asked.

“He goofed, I guess. But I’ve battened down my bosoms and playing Mrs. Macduff as a boy.”

“How does a girl do that in a dress?” I asked.

“She sits stiff and thinks pants,” she said, handing me her witch robe. “’Scuse me now. I got to find my children and go get murdered.”

* * * *

I’d moved a few steps nearer the stage when I felt the gentlest tug at my hip. I looked down and saw that a taut black thread from the bottom of my sweater connected me with the dressing room. It must have snagged on the big bolt and unraveled. I moved my body an inch or so, tugging it delicately to see what it felt like and I got the answers: Theseus’s clew, a spider’s line, an umbilicus.

I reached down close to my side and snapped it with my fingernails. The black thread leaped away. But the dressing room door didn’t vanish, or the wings change, or the world end, and I didn’t fall down.

After that I just stood there for quite a while, feeling my new freedom and steadiness, letting my body get used to it. I didn’t do any thinking. I hardly bothered to study anything around me, though I did notice that there were more bushes and trees than set pieces, and that the flickery lightning was simply torches and that Queen Elizabeth was in (or back in) the audience. Sometimes letting your body get used to something is all you should do, or maybe can do.

And I did smell horse dung.

When the Lady Macduff Scene was over and the Chicken Scene well begun, I went back to the dressing room. Actors call it the Chicken Scene because Macduff weeps in it about “all my pretty chickens and their dam,” meaning his kids and wife, being murdered “at one fell swoop” on orders of that chickenyard-raiding “hell-kite” Macbeth.

Inside the dressing room I steered down the boys’ side. Doc was putting on an improbable-looking dark makeup for Macbeth’s last faithful servant Seyton. He didn’t seem as boozy-woozy as usual for Fourth Act, but just the same I stopped to help him get into a chain-mail shirt made of thick cord woven and silvered.

In the third chair beyond, Sid was sitting back with his corset loosened and critically surveying Martin, who’d now changed to a white wool nightgown that clung and draped beautifully, but not particularly enticingly, on him and his folded towel, which had slipped a bit.

From beside Sid’s mirror, Shakespeare smiled out of his portrait at them like an intelligent big-headed bug.

Martin stood tall, spread his arms rather like a high priest, and intoned, “Amici! Romani! Populares!”

I nudged Doc. “What goes on now?” I whispered.

He turned a bleary eye on them. “I think they are rehearsing Julius Caesar in Latin.” He shrugged. “It begins the oration of Antony.”

“But why?” I asked. Sid does like to put every moment to use when the performance-fire is in people, but this project seemed pretty far afield—hyper-pedantic. Yet at the same time I felt my scalp shivering as if my mind were jumping with speculations just below the surface.

Doc shook his head and shrugged again.

Sid shoved a palm at Martin and roared softly, “’Sdeath, boy, thou’rt not playing a Roman statua but a Roman! Loosen your knees and try again.”

Then he saw me. Signing Martin to stop, he called, “Come hither, sweetling.” I obeyed quickly. He gave me a fiendish grin and said, “Thou’st heard our proposal from Martin. What sayest thou, wench?”

* * * *

This time the shiver was in my back. It felt good. I realized I was grinning back at him, and I knew what I’d been getting ready for the last twenty minutes.

“I’m on,” I said. “Count me in the company.”

Sid jumped up and grabbed me by the shoulders and hair and bussed me on both cheeks. It was a little like being bombed.

“Prodigious!” he cried. “Thou’lt play the Gentlewoman in the Sleepwalking Scene tonight. Martin, her costume! Now sweet wench, mark me well.” His voice grew grave and old. “When was it she last walked?”

The new courage went out of me like water down a chute. “But Siddy, I can’t start tonight,” I protested, half pleading, half outraged.

“Tonight or never! ’Tis an emergency—we’re short-handed.” Again his voice changed. “When was it she last walked?”

“But Siddy, I don’t know the part.”

“You must. You’ve heard the play twenty times this year past. When was it she last walked?”

Martin was back and yanking down a blonde wig on my head and shoving my arms into a light gray robe.

“I’ve never studied the lines,” I squeaked at Sidney.

“Liar! I’ve watched your lips move a dozen nights when you watched the scene from the wings. Close your eyes, girl! Martin, unhand her. Close your eyes, girl, empty your mind, and listen, listen only. When was it she last walked?”

In the blackness I heard myself replying to that cue, first in a whisper, then more loudly, then full-throated but grave, “Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth—”

“Bravissimo!” Siddy cried and bombed me again. Martin hugged his arm around my shoulders too, then quickly stooped to start hooking up my robe from the bottom.

“But that’s only the first lines, Siddy,” I protested.

“They’re enough!”

“But Siddy, what if I blow up?” I asked.

“Keep your mind empty. You won’t. Further, I’ll be at your side, doubling the Doctor, to prompt you if you pause.”

That ought to take care of two of me, I thought. Then something else struck me. “But Siddy,” I quavered, “how do I play the Gentlewoman as a boy?”

“Boy?” he demanded wonderingly. “Play her without falling down flat on your face and I’ll be past measure happy!” And he smacked me hard on the fanny.

Martin’s fingers were darting at the next to the last hook. I stopped him and shoved my hand down the neck of my sweater and got hold of the subway token and the chain it was on and yanked. It burned my neck but the gold links parted. I started to throw it across the room, but instead I smiled at Siddy and dropped it in his palm.

“The Sleepwalking Scene!” Maud hissed insistently to us from the door.

VII

I know death hath ten thousand several doors

For men to take their exits, and ’tis found

They go on such strange geometrical hinges,

You may open them both ways.

—The Duchess

There is this about an actor on stage: he can see the audience but he can’t look at them, unless he’s a narrator or some sort of comic. I wasn’t the first (Grendel groks!) and only scared to death of becoming the second as Siddy walked me out of the wings onto the stage, over the groundcloth that felt so much like ground, with a sort of interweaving policeman-grip on my left arm.

Sid was in a dark gray robe looking like some dismal kind of monk, his head so hooded for the Doctor that you couldn’t see his face at all.

My skull was pulse-buzzing. My throat was squeezed dry. My heart was pounding. Below that my body was empty, squirmy, electricity-stung, yet with the feeling of wearing ice cold iron pants.

I heard as if from two million miles, “When was it she last walked?” and then an iron bell somewhere tolling the reply—I guess it had to be my voice coming up through my body from my iron pants: “Since his majesty went into the field—” and so on, until Martin had come on stage, stary-eyed, a white scarf tossed over the back of his long black wig and a flaring candle two inches thick gripped in his right hand and dripping wax on his wrist, and started to do Lady Mack’s sleepwalking half-hinted confessions of the murders of Duncan and Banquo and Lady Macduff.

So here is what I saw then without looking, like a vivid scene that floats out in front of your mind in a reverie, hovering against a background of dark blur, and sort of flashes on and off as you think, or in my case act. All the time, remember, with Sid’s hand hard on my wrist and me now and then tolling Shakespearan language out of some lightless storehouse of memory I’d never known was there to belong to me.

* * * *

There was a medium-size glade in a forest. Through the half-naked black branches shone a dark cold sky, like ashes of silver, early evening.

The glade had two horns, as it were, narrowing back to either side and going off through the forest. A chilly breeze was blowing out of them, almost enough to put out the candle. Its flame rippled.

Rather far back in the horn to my left, but not very far, were clumped two dozen or so men in dark cloaks they huddled around themselves. They wore brimmed tallish hats and pale stuff showing at their necks. Somehow I assumed that these men must be the “rude fellows from the City” I remembered Beau mentioning a million or so years ago. Although I couldn’t see them very well, and didn’t spend much time on them, there was one of them who had his hat off or excitedly pushed way back, showing a big pale forehead. Although that was all the conscious impression I had of his face, he seemed frighteningly familiar.

In the horn to my right, which was wider, were lined up about a dozen horses, with grooms holding tight every two of them, but throwing their heads back now and then as they strained against the reins, and stamping their front hooves restlessly. Oh, they frightened me, I tell you, that line of two-foot-long glossy-haired faces, writhing back their upper lips from teeth wide as piano keys, every horse of them looking as wild-eyed and evil as Fuseli’s steed sticking its head through the drapes in his picture “The Nightmare.”

To the center the trees came close to the stage. Just in front of them was Queen Elizabeth sitting on the chair on the spread carpet, just as I’d seen her out there before; only now I could see that the braziers were glowing and redly high-lighting her pale cheeks and dark red hair and the silver in her dress and cloak. She was looking at Martin—Lady Mack—most intently, her mouth grimaced tight, twisting her fingers together.

Standing rather close around her were a half dozen men with fancier hats and ruffs and wide-flaring riding gauntlets.

Then, through the trees and tall leafless bushes just behind Elizabeth, I saw an identical Elizabeth-face floating, only this one was smiling a demonic smile. The eyes were open very wide. Now and then the pupils darted rapid glances from side to side.

* * * *

There was a sharp pain in my left wrist and Sid whisper-snarling at me, “Accustomed action!” out of the corner of his shadowed mouth.

I tolled on obediently, “It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.”

Martin had set down the candle, which still flared and guttered, on a little high table so firm its thin legs must have been stabbed into the ground. And he was rubbing his hands together slowly, continually, tormentedly, trying to get rid of Duncan’s blood which Mrs. Mack knows in her sleep is still there. And all the while as he did it, the agitation of the seated Elizabeth grew, the eyes flicking from side to side, hands writhing.

He got to the lines, “Here’s the smell of blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!”

As he wrung out those soft, tortured sighs, Elizabeth stood up from her chair and took a step forward. The courtiers moved toward her quickly, but not touching her, and she said loudly, “Tis the blood of Mary Stuart whereof she speaks—the pails of blood that will gush from her chopped neck. Oh, I cannot endure it!” And as she said that last, she suddenly turned about and strode back toward the trees, kicking out her ash-colored skirt. One of the courtiers turned with her and stooped toward her closely, whispering something. But although she paused a moment, all she said was, “Nay, Eyes, stop not the play, but follow me not! Nay, I say leave me, Leicester!” And she walked into the trees, he looking after her.

Then Sid was kicking my ankle and I was reciting something and Martin was taking up his candle again without looking at it saying with a drugged agitation, “To bed; to bed; there’s knocking at the gate.”

Elizabeth came walking out of the trees again, her head bowed. She couldn’t have been in them ten seconds. Leicester hurried toward her, hand anxiously outstretched.

Martin moved offstage, torturedly yet softly wailing, “What’s done cannot be undone.”

Just then Elizabeth flicked aside Leicester’s hand with playful contempt and looked up and she was smiling the devil-smile. A horse whinnied like a trumpeted snicker.

As Sid and I started our last few lines together I intoned mechanically, letting words free-fall from my mind to my tongue. All this time I had been answering Lady Mack in my thoughts, That’s what you think, sister.

VIII

God cannot effect that anything which is past should not have been.

It is more impossible than rising the dead.

—Summa Theologica

The moment I was out of sight of the audience I broke away from Sid and ran to the dressing room. I flopped down on the first chair I saw, my head and arms trailed over its back, and I almost passed out. It wasn’t a mind-wavery fit. Just normal faint.

I couldn’t have been there long—well, not very long, though the battle-rattle and alarums of the last scene were echoing tinnily from the stage—when Bruce and Beau and Mark (who was playing Malcolm, Martin’s usual main part) came in wearing their last-act stage-armor and carrying between them Queen Elizabeth flaccid as a sack. Martin came after them, stripping off his white wool nightgown so fast that buttons flew. I thought automatically, I’ll have to sew those.

They laid her down on three chairs set side by side and hurried out. Unpinning the folded towel, which had fallen around his waist, Martin walked over and looked down at her. He yanked off his wig by a braid and tossed it at me.

I let it hit me and fall on the floor. I was looking at that white queenly face, eyes open and staring sightless at the ceiling, mouth open a little too with a thread of foam trailing from the corner, and at that ice-cream-cone bodice that never stirred. The blue fly came buzzing over my head and circled down toward her face.

“Martin,” I said with difficulty, “I don’t think I’m going to like what we’re doing.”

He turned on me, his short hair elfed, his fists planted high on his hips at the edge of his black tights, which now were all his clothes.

“You knew!” he said impatiently. “You knew you were signing up for more than acting when you said, ‘Count me in the company.’”

Like a legged sapphire the blue fly walked across her upper lip and stopped by the thread of foam.

“But Martin…changing the past…dipping back and killing the real queen…replacing her with a double—”

His dark brows shot up. “The real—You think this is the real Queen Elizabeth?” He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the nearest table, gushed some on a towel stained with grease-paint and, holding the dead head by its red hair (no, wig—the real one wore a wig too) scrubbed the forehead.

The white cosmetic came away, showing sallow skin and on it a faint tattoo in the form of an “S” styled like a yin-yang symbol left a little open.

* * * *

“Snake!” he hissed. “Destroyer! The arch-enemy, the eternal opponent! God knows how many times people like Queen Elizabeth have been dug out of the past, first by Snakes, then by Spiders, and kidnapped or killed and replaced in the course of our war. This is the first big operation I’ve been on, Greta. But I know that much.”

My head began to ache. I asked, “If she’s an enemy double, why didn’t she know a performance of Macbeth in her lifetime was an anachronism?”

“Foxholed in the past, only trying to hold a position, they get dulled. They turn half zombie. Even the Snakes. Even our people. Besides, she almost did catch on, twice when she spoke to Leicester.”

“Martin,” I said dully, “if there’ve been all these replacements, first by them, then by us, what’s happened to the real Elizabeth?”

He shrugged. “God knows.”

I asked softly, “But does He, Martin? Can He?”

He hugged his shoulders in, as if to contain a shudder. “Look, Greta,” he said, “it’s the Snakes who are the warpers and destroyers. We’re restoring the past. The Spiders are trying to keep things as first created. We only kill when we must.”

I shuddered then, for bursting out of my memory came the glittering, knife-flashing, night-shrouded, bloody image of my lover, the Spider soldier-of-change Erich von Hohenwald, dying in the grip of a giant silver spider, or spider-shaped entity large as he, as they rolled in a tangled ball down a flight of rocks in Central Park.

But the memory-burst didn’t blow up my mind, as it had done a year ago, no more than snapping the black thread from my sweater had ended the world. I asked Martin, “Is that what the Snakes say?”

“Of course not! They make the same claims we do. But somewhere, Greta, you have to trust.” He put out the middle finger of his hand.

I didn’t take hold of it. He whirled it away, snapping it against his thumb.

“You’re still grieving for that carrion there!” he accused me. He jerked down a section of white curtain and whirled it over the stiffening body. “If you must grieve, grieve for Miss Nefer! Exiled, imprisoned, locked forever in the past, her mind pulsing faintly in the black hole of the dead and gone, yearning for Nirvana yet nursing one lone painful patch of consciousness. And only to hold a fort! Only to make sure Mary Stuart is executed, the Armada licked, and that all the other consequences flow on. The Snakes’ Elizabeth let Mary live…and England die…and the Spaniard hold North America to the Great Lakes and New Scandinavia.”

Once more he put out his middle finger.

* * * *

“All right, all right,” I said, barely touching it. “You’ve convinced me.”

“Great!” he said. “’Bye for now, Greta. I got to help strike the set.”

“That’s good,” I said. He loped out.

I could hear the skirling sword-clashes of the final fight to the death of the two Macks, Duff and Beth. But I only sat there in the empty dressing room pretending to grieve for a devil-smiling snow tiger locked in a time-cage and for a cute sardonic German killed for insubordination that I had reported…but really grieving for a girl who for a year had been a rootless child of the theater with a whole company of mothers and fathers, afraid of nothing more than subway bogies and Park and Village monsters.

As I sat there pitying myself beside a shrouded queen, a shadow fell across my knees. I saw stealing through the dressing room a young man in worn dark clothes. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. He was a frail sort of guy with a weak chin and big forehead and eyes that saw everything. I knew at one he was the one who had seemed familiar to me in the knot of City fellows.

He looked at me and I looked from him to the picture sitting on the reserve makeup box by Siddy’s mirror. And I began to tremble.

He looked at it too, of course, as fast as I did. And then he began to tremble too, though it was a finer-grained tremor than mine.

The sword-fight had ended seconds back and now I heard the witches faintly wailing, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair—” Sid has them echo that line offstage at the end to give a feeling of prophecy fulfilled.

Then Sid came pounding up. He’s the first finished, since the fight ends offstage so Macduff can carry back a red-necked papier-mache head of him and show it to the audience. Sid stopped dead in the door.

Then the stranger turned around. His shoulders jerked as he saw Sid. He moved toward him just two or three steps at a time, speaking at the same time in breathy little rushes.

* * * *

Sid stood there and watched him. When the other actors came boiling up behind him, he put his hands on the doorframe to either side so none of them could get past. Their faces peered around him.

And all this while the stranger was saying, “What may this mean? Can such things be? Are all the seeds of time…wetted by some hell-trickle…sprouted at once in their granary? Speak…speak! You played me a play…that I am writing in my secretest heart. Have you disjointed the frame of things…to steal my unborn thoughts? Fair is foul indeed. Is all the world a stage? Speak, I say! Are you not my friend Sidney James Lessingham of King’s Lynn…singed by time’s fiery wand…sifted over with the ashes of thirty years? Speak, are you not he? Oh, there are more things in heaven and earth…aye, and perchance hell too…Speak, I charge you!”

And with that he put his hands on Sid’s shoulders, half to shake him, I think, but half to keep from falling over. And for the one time I ever saw it, glib old Siddy had nothing to say.

He worked his lips. He opened his mouth twice and twice shut it. Then, with a kind of desperation in his face, he motioned the actors out of the way behind him with one big arm and swung the other around the stranger’s narrow shoulders and swept him out of the dressing room, himself following.

The actors came pouring in then, Bruce tossing Macbeth’s head to Martin like a football while he tugged off his horned helmet, Mark dumping a stack of shields in the corner, Maudie pausing as she skittered past me to say, “Hi Gret, great you’re back,” and patting my temple to show what part of me she meant. Beau went straight to Sid’s dressing table and set the portrait aside and lifted out Sid’s reserve makeup box.

“The lights, Martin!” he called.

Then Sid came back in, slamming and bolting the door behind him and standing for a moment with his back against it, panting.

I rushed to him. Something was boiling up inside me, but before it could get to my brain I opened my mouth and it came out as, “Siddy, you can’t fool me, that was no dirty S-or-S. I don’t care how much he shakes and purrs, or shakes a spear, or just plain shakes—Siddy, that was Shakespeare!”

“Aye, girl, I think so,” he told me, holding my wrists together. “They can’t find dolls to double men like that—or such is my main hope.” A big sickly grin came on his face. “Oh, gods,” he demanded, “with what words do you talk to a man whose speech you’ve stolen all your life?”

I asked him, “Sid, were we ever in Central Park?”

He answered, “Once—twelve months back. A one-night stand. They came for Erich. You flipped.”

He swung me aside and moved behind Beau. All the lights went out.

* * * *

Then I saw, dimly at first, the great dull-gleaming jewel, covered with dials and green-glowing windows, that Beau had lifted from Sid’s reserve makeup box. The strongest green glow showed his intent face, still framed by the long glistening locks of the Ross wig, as he kneeled before the thing—Major Maintainer, I remembered it was called.

“When now? Where?” Beau tossed impatiently to Sid over his shoulder.

“The forty-fourth year before our Lord’s birth!” Sid answered instantly. “Rome!”

Beau’s fingers danced over the dials like a musician’s, or a safe-cracker’s. The green glow flared and faded flickeringly.

“There’s a storm in that vector of the Void.”

“Circle it,” Sid ordered.

“There are dark mists every way.”

“Then pick the likeliest dark path!”

I called through the dark, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair, eh, Siddy?”

“Aye, chick,” he answered me. “’Tis all the rule we have!”

ESCAPE HATCH, by Brenda W. Clough

Earth should be solid, but the battered earth of the Somme shuddered beneath their bellies. When he glanced over his shoulder, Jack could hardly recognize Paddy. Khakis, rifle, helmet, countenance – all were like his own thick-plastered with wet grey mud. They had been lost for hours now, threading their way through the barbed-wire maze of No Man’s Land. Rising from the continuous undifferentiated thunder of artillery came the howl of a shell overhead, far too close. Spread-eagle, they burrowed like insects into the dirt. The explosion jingled their brains and sent more slime fountaining up and over them. Juddering as if with ague, Jack took rapid inventory. No: arms, legs, fingers, toes all present and ready for duty, sir. He sucked mud off his teeth and spat. Through the ringing in his ears he could hear Paddy curse. Poor little sod hadn’t copped it then.

To crawl on again called for an effort of will akin to pushing a loaded wagon up hill. Christ, would the British Army have to belly like this all the way to the Rhine? The tormented ground had once again utterly altered. Where an eye-blink ago the scene had been ‘Shell holes with bloated corpses’ it could now be titled ‘Lose your cottage in a crater.’ A slaughterhouse stench of offal and unburied flesh hung in the damp air. Thick grey mud, already unplumbable, oozed at the bottom of the fresh pit, prickled with tattered strands of barbed wire. Step into that and you’d drown – Coneyham had gone that way last week, smothered in muck, an ugly way to die. Jack set a course round the marginally more stable northern edge.

In a sane world, screaming-taut tension and complete exhaustion would be mutually exclusive states. “But this is Hell, nor am I out of it,” Jack muttered. Dimly he realized his helmet was gone in that last blast, his rifle too. “Oh God, this war will never end.”

“Wozzat?” Paddy mumbled.

“Nothing.”

“Jesus -- there!” Paddy’s rifle wavered, pointing.

Jack wiped mud from his eyes and focused with difficulty. Halfway up the side of the crater something moved disgustingly in the slime, mud-coloured and mud-born. Alive or dead? Friend or foe? Jack was inclined to crawl past on the other side, leaving whatever it was to its fate. But Paddy was watching. Grudgingly he bellied to the verge, keeping his head well down. His hail rang grotesquely conventional: “Halloo, anybody there?” No reply. “Just a rat, perhaps.”

“No such luck.” Paddy took a quick glance. “God damn this mud. Wounded, maybe. A Jerry, or one of ours?”

Indeed that was the question. To take a German prisoner back through the lines, wherever they were, was impossible. Even if it was a Tommy, if he was unable to walk he’d die here – it was beyond their power to drag a wounded man back through No Man’s Land. In either case it would be more merciful to send a bullet through the fellow’s brain here and now. The blessed reflection crept dully into Jack’s mind that this issue was out of his hands, because his rifle was lost. Paddy could kill him. “Come along then! What’s the password of the week, eh?” He could not recall it himself, but any word of English would do.

“…why, why, why. Weh, o weh. I’s so silly to be flowing, but I canna stay… ”

Paddy scowled. “A damned Hun.” He cocked the gun.

Jack shook his head hard, as if to clear mud out of his ears. If only the guns would stop, he could hear himself think. “Wait, Paddy. That’s a Dublin lilt if I ever heard one.”

“’s not proper English,” Paddy argued. “And what would an Ulsterman like you know about it?”

Boldly Jack levered himself up and peered over the muddy verge. “Say more, lad. What’s your name?”

Only a pair of blue eyes was visible in the mire, as Irish, Jack had to admit, as Saints Patrick and Brigid. “James, that’s my name. Christ, the face on you, equine in its length, and grained and hued like pale oak. Never saw a finer, mind you… ”

Paddy swore quietly, and Jack sagged in the mire. Another accursed burden to hump along! “Caught a Blighty, have you?” he demanded hopefully. “Lie there quietly and we’ll send the medics to fetch you in.”

“Never in life. Wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Wait for the medics and I’ll grow old here. Give us a hand then.”

Jack sighed, bowing to his fate. “Right, Jimmy lad. Let’s be brisk about it, before the next barrage.” The new man appeared to be unwounded, but the large shiny dint in his helmet showed where a piece of shrapnel had caught him a good ‘un. Any blood flow was masked by mud. Concussed probably, but it was no affair of Jack’s. They levered him out of the sticky clinging mud, dragged him slithering from the crater and lay panting all three of them face down in the mire.

“…saved my life,” Jimmy-lad babbled. “Have to introduce yourselves, if you saved my life.”

Christ! The last thing they needed, a compatriot who blathered under stress rather than falling silent. “For God’s love, come on.”

“He’s Jack Lewis,” Paddy said. “I’m Paddy Moore. Now, if you don’t want to get on out of this, I do, eh?”

“If you want to yap, tell us how to get out of here. We’ve been lost since sunrise.”

“Got separated from your patrol, I take it.” The new fellow raised his head a cautious few inches and eyed the hummocked wasteland. “That way.”

“If you’re wrong we’re all for it,” Paddy growled.

“A man of genius makes no mistakes.”

“Christ.” Jack would give anything, his health, friends and family, his immortal soul, to get out of this. But he could only express this yearning in the single heartfelt expletive. He wormed his way forward in the indicated direction, the other two creeping behind.

The proverb was that you never heard the shell that killed you -- although when one came to think of it the proof of this proposition could not be but tenuous. This meant however that the constant boom and crash of artillery was a good thing. You could hear, you could fear, and so you were still alive. They all three heard the rising cacophony of the new bombardment. This was the worst moment, when you knew you were in for it and had to decide – run, or lie low? “I canna stay,” James was babbling. “Look, there’s our firing-trench!”

With a refuge beckoning ahead, hesitation was impossible. Rising to a crouch they ran for it, James stumbling straight ahead while Jack and Paddy made the occasional zigzag. Futile, of course – the moment they broke cover the machine guns began to speak. And behind their evil chatter rose the roar of the barrage.

Jack realized he was sobbing aloud with terror, running like the clappers as barbed wire tore at clothing and flesh. The mud seemed to cling to his boots, and he stumbled over a dead horse. He could hear the bullets sing past his ears. And he actually saw the shell drop on Paddy ten paces ahead of him, a dark plummeting object that silhouetted his scuttering form as it vanished in white fire.

Suddenly he was through, as if bursting out of a soap bubble. Up, in, and out on the other side! The blessed quiet was broken only by the chirrup of a distant bird. His cheek was pillowed on cool grass, and the sun was honey-warm on his nape. Tears of relief ran down his face.

Some tremendous vital truth was here, and he must always remember it – that it got worse and worse and worse, screwed so tight flesh and blood could bear no more, and then things suddenly eased. You went on, until you were through the tight place and sailing free.

It was so much better, so much easier, to not think about how and why rescue had come! His paradise would be complete, if only it were possible to stay in this state forever. But one could not just lie there like a lump. Jack was compelled to raise his head and, having gone that far, to look about. He blinked up at the blue sky.

“You bloody stupid git! On your pins and run like hell!”

The sky still remained blue between his one blink and the next. But hard hands seized him under the arm and dragged him up. It was all mud and barbed wire again, Paradise dashed from his lips after only one sup. Jack almost wailed in misery. Hustling him along, James yapped in his ear, “Holy Mary, we’re square now! Don’t you think I’m saving your sorry arse twice!”

The Boche machine guns in their traverse spattered earth very near, but the line of sandbags was nearer yet. They dove headlong into the trench, floundering with the corpses in the knee-deep mud at the bottom.

A weary signals lieutenant watched them with dull eyes from his perch on a fire-step. “There’s a bit of duckboard over there,” was his only greeting.

James crawled up onto it. “You wouldn’t have a fag, I take it. Me mate here – Jack, is it? – could use one.”

Jack crouched in the foul mire at the bottom of the trench and wept aloud. “I had it, and it’s gone! I was there!”

“Where, lad?”

“Not here! It was -- ” The only description that came to mind was from literature. “Faerie. Another place, a better place. I ran and ran, further up and further in than here. And I was there, I tell you! And oh God, I shall never come there again.” Tears mixed with grime and blood fell onto his clenched hands, and he realized he was wounded somewhere.

The lieutenant tapped the field glasses hanging round his neck. “I watched you,” he said. “Every step of the way, after you passed the last wire field. You ran nowhere, my man. The shell knocked you ass over tip – probably that was it.”

“A shell… Christ, where’s Paddy?”

Both the others looked away. At last the lieutenant said, “Still out there -- what’s left of him anyway… Look, I do have a bit of brandy.”

“That’s the ticket,” James said with synthetic optimism. “A drop, and a nice sit-down on this dry bit here, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle, eh Jack? Come on, you – what’s your name -- bear a hand.”

“Tollers. Right you are.”

Some crushing burden seemed to bow Jack down, nose to knees, so that he could not move or straighten up. But the other two propped him up into a more or less sitting position between them, their backs to the wall of the trench. James tied a rag tightly over the hole in his shoulder, and the lieutenant forced brandy between his teeth. It didn’t help. The sobs continued to force their way up from deep in his chest. Abashed by his shell-shock, the other two made desultory conversation over his bent head. “He’s got it all wrong anyway,” Tollers said. “You can’t get there that way.”

“What, to Faerie? Shouldn’t think so. It’s all in his head anyway, poor bastard.”

The lieutenant persisted. “Truly, it is all in his head -- the realm of the imagination. And you can get there. But not by running.”

For the first time James looked at the lieutenant. “Literary type, are you? I can hear the Oxford on your tongue. Poet, like that Sassoon fellow -- I’ve some inclinations that way myself. So how do we get there then? Anywhere’s better than here.”

The lieutenant hunched one shoulder uncertainly. “I don’t know. A hidden door or gate. Some other way.”

James frowned. “If he did it, we can do it.”

Jack had got hold of himself for the moment. He clutched his shoulder, which was only just beginning to throb – a good sound Blighty, the longed-for non-fatal injury that was his ticket home. They sat in a row in such silence as the shelling allowed, all three of them pursuing visions of elsewhere.

Author’s Note:

This is fiction. Although C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien fought in the Great War, they never met there. James Joyce spent the war years with his wife and children in Zurich. However, Lewis’s friend Paddy Moore was a casualty.

BACKLASH, by Winston K. Marks

I still feel that the ingratiating little runts never intended any harm. They were eager to please, a cinch to transact business with, and constantly, everlastingly grateful to us for giving them asylum.

Yes, we gave the genuflecting little devils asylum. And we were glad to have them around at first—especially when they presented us with a gift to surpass all gifts: a custom-built domestic servant.

In a civilization that had made such a fetish of personal liberty and dignity, you couldn’t hire a butler or an upstairs maid for less than love and money. And since love was pretty much rationed along the lines of monogamy, domestic service was almost a dead occupation. That is, until the Ollies came to our planet to stay.

Eventually I learned to despise the spineless little immigrants from Sirius, but the first time I met one he made me feel foolishly important. I looked at his frail, olive-skinned little form and thought, If this is what space has to offer in the way of advanced life-forms…well, we haven’t done so badly on old Mother Earth.

This one’s name was Johnson. All of them, the whole fifty-six, took the commonest Earth family names they could find, and dropped their own name-designations, whose slobbering sibilance made them difficult for us to pronounce and write. It seemed strange, their casually wiping out their nominal heritage just for the sake of our convenience—imagine an O’Toole or a Rockefeller or an Adams arriving on Sirius IV and no sooner learning the local lingo than insisting on becoming known as Sslyslasciff-soszl!

But that was the Ollie. Anything to get along and please us. And of course, addressing them as Johnson, Smith, Jones, etc., did work something of a semantic protective coloration and reduce some of the barriers to quick adjustment to the aliens.

* * * *

Johnson—Ollie Johnson—appeared at my third under-level office a few months after the big news of their shipwreck landing off the Maine coast. He arrived a full fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment, and I was too curious to stand on the dignity of office routine and make him wait.

As he stood in the doorway of my office, my first visual impression was of an emaciated adolescent, seasick green, prematurely balding.

He bowed, and bowed again, and spent thirty seconds reminding me that it was he who had sought the interview, and it was he who had the big favors to ask—and it was wonderful, gracious, generous I who flavored the room with the essence of mystery, importance, godliness and overpowering sweetness upon whose fragrance little Ollie Johnson had come to feast his undeserving senses.

“Sit down, sit down,” I told him when I had soaked in all the celestial flattery I could hold. “I love you to pieces, too, but I’m curious about this proposition you mentioned in your message.”

He eased into the chair as if it were much too good for him. He was strictly humanoid. His four-and-a-half-foot body was dressed in the most conservative Earth clothing, quiet colors and cheap quality.

While he swallowed slowly a dozen times, getting ready to outrage my illustrious being with his sordid business proposition, his coloring varied from a rather insipid gray-green to a rich olive—which is why the press instantly had dubbed them Ollies. When they got excited and blushed, they came close to the color of a ripe olive; and this was often.

Ollie Johnson hissed a few times, his equivalent of throat-clearing, and then lunged into his subject at a 90 degree tangent:

“Can it be that your gracious agreement to this interview connotes a willingness to traffic with us of the inferior ones?” His voice was light, almost reedy.

“If it’s legal and there’s a buck in it, can’t see any reason why not,” I told him.

“You manufacture and distribute devices, I am told. Wonderful labor-saving mechanisms that make life on Earth a constant pleasure.”

I was almost tempted to hire him for my public relations staff.

“We do,” I admitted. “Servo-mechanisms, appliances and gadgets of many kinds for the home, office and industry.”

“It is to our everlasting disgrace,” he said with humility, “that we were unable to salvage the means to give your magnificent civilization the worthy gift of our space drive. Had Flussissc or Shascinssith survived our long journey, it would be possible, but—” He bowed his head, as if waiting for my wrath at the stale news that the only two power-mechanic scientists on board were D.O.A.

“That was tough,” I said. “But what’s on your mind now?”

He raised his moist eyes, grateful at my forgiveness. “We who survived do possess a skill that might help repay the debt which we have incurred in intruding upon your glorious planet.”

He begged my permission to show me something in the outer waiting room. With more than casual interest, I assented.

He moved obsequiously to the door, opened it and spoke to someone beyond my range of vision. His words sounded like a repetition of “sissle-flissle.” Then he stepped aside, fastened his little wet eyes on me expectantly, and waited.

Suddenly the doorway was filled, jamb to jamb, floor to arch, with a hulking, bald-headed character with rugged pink features, a broad nose like a pug, and huge sugar-scoops for ears. He wore a quiet business suit of fine quality, obviously tailored to his six-and-a-half-foot, cliff-like physique. In spite of his bulk, he moved across the carpet to my desk on cat feet and came to a halt with pneumatic smoothness.

“I am a Soth,” he said in a low, creamy voice. It was so resonant that it seemed to come from the walls around us. “I have learned your language and your ways. I can follow instructions, solve simple problems, and do your work. I am very strong. I can serve you well.”

The recitation was an expressionless monotone that sounded almost haughty compared to the self-effacing Ollie’s piping whines. His face had the dignity of a rock, and his eyes the quiet peace of a cool, deep mountain lake.

The Ollie came forward. “We have been able to repair only one of the six Soths we had on the ship. They are more fragile than we humanoids.”

“They don’t look it,” I said. “And what do you mean by you humanoids? What’s he?”

“You would call him—a robot, I believe.”

My astonished reaction must have satisfied the Ollie, because he allowed his eyes to leave me and seek the carpet again, where they evidently were more comfortable.

“You mean you—you make these people?” I gasped.

He nodded. “We can reproduce them, given materials and facilities. Of course, your own robots must be vastly superior—” a hypocritical sop to my vanity—“but still we hope you may find a use for the Soths.”

I got up and walked around the big lunker, trying to look blasé. “Well, yes,” I lied. “Our robots probably have considerably better intellectual abilities—our cybernetic units, that is. However, you do have something in form and mobility.”

That was the understatement of my career.

I finally pulled my face together, and said as casually as I could, “Would you like to license us to manufacture these—Soths?”

The Ollie fluttered his hands. “But that would require our working and mingling with your personnel,” he said. “We wouldn’t consider imposing in such a gross manner.”

“No imposition at all,” I assured him.

But he would have none of it: “We have studied your economics and have found that your firm is an outstanding leader in what you term ‘business.’ You have a superb distribution organization. It is our intention to offer you the exclusive—” he hesitated, then dragged the word from his amazing vocabulary—“franchise for the sale of our Soths. If you agree, we will not burden you with their manufacture. Our own little plant will produce and ship. You may then place them with your customers.”

I studied the magnificent piece of animated sculpturing, stunned at the possibilities. “You say a Soth is strong. How strong?”

The huge creature startled me by answering the question himself. He bent flowingly from the waist, gripped my massive steel desk by one of its thick, overlapping top edges, and raised it a few inches from the floor—with the fingers of one hand. When he put it down, I stood up and hefted one edge myself. By throwing my back into it, I could just budge one side of the clumsy thing—four hundred pounds if it was an ounce!

Ollie Johnson modestly refrained from comment. He said, “The Department of Commerce has been helpful. They have explained your medium of exchange, and have helped us with the prices of raw materials. It was they who recommended your firm as a likely distributor.”

“Have you figured how much one of these Soths should sell for?”

“We think we can show a modest profit if we sell them to you for $1200,” he said. “Perhaps we can bring down our costs, if you find a wide enough demand for them.”

I had expected ten or twenty times that figure. I’m afraid I got a little eager. “I—uh—shall we see if we can’t just work out a little contract right now? Save you another trip back this afternoon.”

“If you will forgive our boorish presumption,” Ollie said, fumbling self-consciously in his baggy clothing, “I have already prepared such a document with the help of the Attorney General. A very kindly gentleman.”

It was simple and concise. It allowed us to resell the Soths at a price of $2000, Fair Traded, giving us a gross margin of $800 to work with. He assured me that upkeep and repairs on the robot units were negligible, and we could extend a very generous warranty which the Ollies would make good in the event of failure. He gave me a quick rundown on the care and feeding of a Sirian Soth, and then jolted me with:

“There is just a single other favor I beg of you. Would you do my little colony the exquisite honor of accepting this Soth as your personal servant, Mr. Collins?”

“Servant?”

He bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. We have trained him in the rudiments of the household duties and conventions of your culture. He learns rapidly and never forgets an instruction. Your family would find Soth most useful, I am quite certain.”

“A magnificent specimen like this doing housework?” I marveled at the little creature’s empty-headedness.

“Again I must beg your pardon, sir. I overlooked mentioning a suggestion by the Secretary of Labor that the Soths be sold only for use in domestic service. It was also the consensus of the President’s whole cabinet that the economy of any nation could not cope with the problem of unemployment were our Soths to be made available for all the types of work for which they are fitted.”

My dream of empire collapsed. The little green fellow was undoubtedly telling the truth. The unions would strike any plant or facility in the world where a Soth put foot on the job. It would ruin our retail consumer business, too—Soths wouldn’t consume automobiles, ’copters, theater tickets and filets mignon.

“Yes, Mr. Johnson,” I sighed. “I’ll be happy to try out your Soth. We have a place out in the country where he’ll come in handy.”

The Ollie duly expressed his ecstasy at my decision, and backed out of my office waving his copy of the contract. I had assured him that our board of directors would meet within a week and confirm my signature.

I looked up at the hairless giant. As general director of the Home Appliance Division of Worldwide Machines, Incorporated, I had made a deal, all right. The first interplanetary business deal in history.

But for some reason, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I’d been had.

* * * *

On the limoucopter, they charged me double fare for Soth’s transportation to the private field where I kept my boat. As we left Detroit, I watched him stare down at the flattened skyline, but he did it with the unseeing expression of an old commuter.

Jack, my personal pilot, had eyed my passenger at the airport with some concern and sullen muttering. Now he made much of trimming ship after takeoff. The boat did seem logy with the unaccustomed ballast—it was a four-passenger Arrow, built for speed, and Soth had to crouch and spread all over the two rear seats. But he did so without complaint or comment for the half-hour hop up to our estate on my favorite Canadian lake.

As the four hundred miles unreeled below us, I wondered how Vicki would react to Soth. I should have phoned her, but how do you describe a Soth to a semi-invalid whose principal excitement is restricted to bird-watching and repotting puny geraniums, and a rare sunfishing expedition to the end of our floating pier?

Well, it was Friday, and I would have the whole weekend to work the robot into our routine. I had called my friend, Dr. Frederick Hilliard, a retired industrial psychologist, and invited him to drop over tonight if he wanted an interesting surprise. He was our nearest neighbor and my most frequent chess partner, who lived a secluded bachelor’s life in a comfortable cabin on the far shore of our lake.

As we came in for a water landing, I saw Fred’s boat at our pier. Then I could make out Fred, Vicki and Clumsy, our Irish setter, all waiting for me. I hoped Fred’s presence would help simmer Vicki down a little.

We drifted in to the dock, and I turned to Soth and told him to help my pilot unload the supplies. This pleased Jack, whose Pilot and Chauffeur’s Local frequently reminded me in polite little bulletins that its members were not obligated to perform other than technical services for their employers.

Then I got out and said hello to Vicki and Fred as casually as possible. Vicki kissed me warmly on the mouth, which she does when she’s excited, and then clung to me and let the day’s tension soak out of her.

How you get tense in a Twenty-first Century home in the midst of the Canadian wilderness is something I’ve never been able to figure out, but Vicki’s super-imagination managed daily to defeat her doctor’s orders for peace and quiet.

“I’m glad you’re home, dear,” she said. “When Fred came over ahead of time I knew something was up, and I’m all unraveled with curiosity.”

Just then Soth emerged from the boat with our whole week’s supply of foodstuffs and assorted necessities bundled under his long arms.

“Oh, dear God, a dinner guest!” Vicki exclaimed. Tears started into her reproachful eyes and her slender little figure stiffened in my arms.

I swung her around, hooked arms with her and Fred, and started up the path.

“Not a guest,” I told her. “He’s a servant who will make the beds, clean up and all sorts of things, and if you don’t like him we’ll turn him in on a new model laundry unit, and don’t start worrying about being alone with him—he’s a robot.”

“A robot!” Fred said, and both their heads swiveled to stare back.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I wanted you here tonight, Fred. I’d like to have you sort of go over him and—well, you know—”

I didn’t want to say, make sure he’s safe. Not in Vicki’s presence. But Fred caught my eye and nodded.

I started to tell them of my visitor, and the contract with the castaways from space. Halfway through, Clumsy interrupted me with his excited barking. I looked back. Clumsy was galloping a frantic circle around Soth, cutting in and out, threatening to make an early dinner of the intruder’s leg.

Before I could speak, Soth opened his lips and let out a soft hiss through his white teeth. Clumsy flattened to the ground and froze, and Soth continued after us without a further glance at the dog.

Fred looked at Vicki’s tense face and laughed. “I’ll have to learn that trick…Clumsy’s chewed the cuffs off three pairs of my best slacks.”

Vicki smiled uncertainly, and went into the house. I showed Soth where to stow the supplies, and told him to remain in the kitchen. He just froze where he stood.

Fred was making drinks when I returned to the living room.

“Looks docile enough, Cliff,” he told me.

“Strong as a horse and gentle as a lamb,” I said. “I want you two to help me find out what his talents are. I’ll have to prepare a paper on him for the board of directors Monday.”

There were nervous whitecaps on Vicki’s drink.

I patted her shoulder. “I’ll break him into the housekeeping routine, honey. You won’t have him staring over your shoulder.”

She tried to relax. “But he’s so quiet—and big!”

“Who wants a noisy little servant around?” Fred said helpfully. “And how about that rock retaining-wall Cliff is always about to build for your garden? And you really don’t love housework, do you, Vicki?”

“I don’t mind the chores,” she said. “But it might be fun to have a big fellow like that to shove around.” She was trying valiantly to hold up her end, but the vein in her temple was throbbing.

* * * *

Well, the next forty-eight hours were more than interesting. Soth turned out to be what the doctor ordered, literally and figuratively. After I’d taken him on a tour of the place, I showed him how to work the automatic devices—food preparation, laundry, and cleaning. And after one lesson, he served us faultless meals with a quiet efficiency that was actually restful, even miraculously to Vicki.

She began relaxing in his presence and planning a few outside projects “to get our money’s worth” out of the behemoth. This was our earliest joke about Soth, because he certainly was no expense or problem to maintain. As the Ollie had promised, he thrived on our table scraps and a pink concoction which he mixed by pouring a few drops of purple liquid from a pocket vial into a gallon pitcher of water. The stuff would be supplied by the Ollies at a cost of about a dollar eighty a week.

Saturday afternoon, Vicki bravely took over teaching him the amenities of butlering and the intricacies of bed-making. After a short session in the bedroom, she came out looking thoughtful.

“He’s awfully real looking,” she said. “And you can’t read a darned thing in his eyes. How far can you trust him, Cliff? You know—around women?”

Fred looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, “Well, let’s find out.”

We sat down and called Soth into the living room. He came and stood before us, erect, poised, and motionless.

Fred said, “Disrobe. Remove all your clothing. Strip!”

Vicki sucked in her breath.

The Soth replied instantly, “Your order conflicts with my conditioning. I must not remove my covering in the presence of an Earthwoman.”

Fred scratched his gray temple thoughtfully. “Then, Vicki, would you mind disrobing, please?”

She gulped again. Fred was an old friend, but not exactly the family doctor.

He sensed her mild outrage. “You’ll never stop wondering if you don’t,” he said.

She looked at Fred, me, and then Soth. Then she stood up gingerly, as if edging into a cold shower, gritted her teeth, grasped the catch to her full-length zipper of her blue lounging suit and stripped it from armpit to ankle. As she stepped out of it, I saw why she had peeled it off like you would a piece of adhesive tape: It was a warm day, and she wore no undergarments.

Soth moved so softly I didn’t hear him go, but Fred was watching him—Fred’s eyes were where they belonged. Soth stopped in the archway to the dining room with his back turned. Fred was at his side.

“Why did you leave?” Fred demanded.

“I am not permitted to remain in the company of an uncovered Earthwoman…unless she directs me to do so.”

While Vicki fled behind the French door to dress herself, Fred asked, “Are there any other restrictions to your behavior in the presence of Earthwomen?”

“Many.”

“Recount some of them.”

“An Earthwoman may not be touched, regardless of her wishes, unless danger to her life requires it.”

“Looks like you wash your own back, Vicki,” I chuckled.

“What else?” she asked, poking her head out. “I mean what other things can’t you do?”

“There are many words I may not utter, postures I may not assume, and certain duties I may not perform. Certain answers to questions may not be given in the presence of an Earthwoman.”

Fred whistled. “The Ollies have mastered more than our language…I thought you said they were noted mainly for their linguistic talents, Cliff.”

I was surprised, too. In the space of a few hectic months, our alien visitors had probed deeply into our culture, mores, and taboos—and then had had the genius to instill their compounded discretions into their Soths.

I said, “Satisfied, Vicki?”

She was still arranging herself. Her lips curled up at the corners impishly. “I’m almost disappointed,” she said. “I do an all-out striptease, and no one looks but my husband. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “I suppose that’s something.…”

* * * *

Fred stayed with us until Sunday evening. I went down to the pier to smoke a good-night pipe with him, and get his private opinion.

“I’m buying a hundred shares of Worldwide stock tomorrow,” he declared. “That critter is worth his weight in diamonds to every well-heeled housewife in the country. In fact, put me down for one of your first models. I wouldn’t mind having a laundry sorter and morning coffee-pourer, myself.”

“Think he’s safe, do you?”

“No more emotions than that stump over there. And it baffles me. He has self-awareness, pain-sensitivity and a fantastic vocabulary, yet I needled him all afternoon with every semantic hypo I could think of without getting a flicker of emotion out of him.” He paused. “Incidentally, I made him strip for me in my room. You’ll be as confused as I was to learn that he’s every inch a man in his format.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Made me wonder what his duties included back on his home planet…but as I said, no emotions. With the set of built-in inhibitions he has, he’d beat a eunuch out of his job any day of the week.”

A few seconds later, Fred dropped into his little two-seater and skimmed off for home, leaving me with a rather disturbing question in my mind.

I went back to the house and cornered Soth out in the kitchen alone. Vicki had him polishing all the antique silverware.

“Are there female Soths?” I asked point-blank.

He looked down at me with that relaxed, pink look and said, “No, Mr. Collins,” and went back to his polishing.

The damned liar. He knew what I meant. He justified himself on a technicality.

* * * *

I left Vicki Monday morning with more confidence than I’d had in ages. She had slept especially well, and the only thing on her mind was Clumsy’s disappearance. He hadn’t shown up since Soth scared the fleas off him with that hiss.

At the office, I had my girl transcribe my notes and work up a memorandum to the board of directors. We sent it around before noon, and shortly after lunch I had calls from all ten of them, including the chairman. It was not that they considered it such a big thing—they were just plainly curious. We scheduled a meeting for Tuesday morning, to talk the thing over.

That night when I got home, all was serene. Soth served us cocktails, dinner and a late snack, and had the place tidied up by bedtime. He did all this and managed to remain virtually invisible. He moved so quietly and with such uncanny anticipation of our demands, it was if he were an old family retainer, long versed in our habits and customs.

Vicki bragged as she undressed that she had the giant hog-tied and jumping through hoops.

“We even got half the excavation done for the rock wall,” she said proudly.

On impulse, I went out into the hall and down to Soth’s room, where I found him stretched out slaunchwise across the double bed.

He opened his eyes as I came in, but didn’t stir.

“Are you happy here?” I asked bluntly.

He sat up and did something new. He answered my question with a question. “Are you happy with my services?”

I said, “Yes, of course.”

“Then all is well,” he replied simply, and lay down again.

It seemed like a satisfactory answer. He radiated a feeling of peace, and the expression of repose on his heavy features was assuring.

* * * *

It rained hard and cold during the night. I hadn’t shown Soth how to start the automatic heating unit. When I left the house next morning, he was bringing Vicki her breakfast in bed, a tray on one arm and a handful of kindling under the other. Only once had he watched me build a fire in the fireplace, but he proceeded with confidence.

We flew blind through filthy weather all the way to Detroit. I dismissed Jack with orders to return at eleven with Soth.

“Don’t be late,” I warned him.

Jack looked a little uneasy, but he showed up on schedule and delivered Soth to us with rain droplets on his massive bald pate, just ten minutes after the conference convened.

I had Ollie Johnson there, too, to put Soth through his paces. The Ollie, in a bedraggled, soggy suit, was so excited that he remained an almost purplish black for the whole hour.

The directors were charmed, impressed and enthusiastic.

When I finished my personal report on the Soth’s tremendous success in my own household, old Gulbrandson, Chairman of the Board, shined his rosy cheeks with his handkerchief and said, “I’ll take the first three you produce, Johnson. Our staff of domestics costs me more than a brace of attorneys, and it turns over about three times a year. Cook can’t even set the timer on the egg-cooker right.” He turned to me. “Sure he can make good coffee, Collins?”

I nodded emphatically.

“Then put me down for three for sure,” he said with executive finality.

Gulbrandson paid dearly for his piggishness later, but at the time it seemed only natural that if one Soth could run a household efficiently, then the Chairman of the Board should have at least two spares in case one blew a fuse or a gear-shaft or whatever it was they might blow.

A small, dignified riot almost broke up the meeting right there, and when they quieted down again I had orders for twenty-six Soths from the board members and one from my own secretary.

“How soon,” I asked Ollie Johnson, “can you begin deliveries?”

He dry-washed his hands and admitted it would be five months, and a sigh of disappointment ran around the table. Then someone asked him how many units a month they could turn out.

He stared at the carpet and held out his hands like a pawn-broker disparaging a diamond ring: “Our techniques are so slow. The first month, maybe a hundred. Of course, once our cultures are all producing in harmony, almost any number. One thousand? Ten thousand? Whatever your needs suggest.”

One of the officers asked, “Is your process entirely biological? You mentioned cultures.”

For a moment, I thought Ollie Johnson was going to break out in tears. His face twisted.

“Abysmally so,” he grieved. “Our synthetic models have never proved durable. Upkeep and parts replacements are prohibitive. Our brain units are much similar to your own latest developments in positronics, but we have had to resort to organic cellular structure in order to achieve the mobility which Mr. Collins admired last Friday.”

The upshot of the meeting was a hearty endorsement over my signature on the Ollies’ contract, plus an offer of any help they might need to get production rolling.

As the meeting broke up, they pumped my hand and stared enviously at my Soth. Several offered me large sums for him, up to fifteen thousand dollars, and for the moment I sweated out the rack of owning something my bosses did not. Their understandable resentment, however, was tempered by their recognition of my genius in getting a signed contract before the Ollies went shopping to our competitors.

What none of us understood right then was that the Ollies were hiring us, not the other way around.

When I told Vicki about my hour of triumph and how the officers bid up our Soth, she glowed with the very feminine delight of exclusive possession. She hugged me and gloated, “Old biddy Gulbrandson—won’t she writhe? And don’t you dare take any offer for our Soth. He’s one of the family now, eh, Soth, old boy?”

He was serving soup to her as she slapped him on the hip. Somehow he managed to retreat so fast she almost missed him, yet he didn’t spill a drop of bouillon from the poised tureen.

“Yes, Mrs. Collins,” he said, not a trace more nor less aloof than usual.

“Oops, sorry!” Vicki apologized. “I forgot. The code.”

I had the feeling that warm-hearted Vicki would have had the Soth down on the bearskin rug in front of the big fireplace, scuffling him like she did Clumsy, if it hadn’t been for the Soth’s untouchable code—and I was thankful that it existed. Vicki had a way of putting her hand on you when she spoke, or hugging anyone in sight when she was especially delighted.

And I knew something about Soth that she didn’t. Something that apparently hadn’t bothered her mind since the day of her striptease.

* * * *

Summer was gone and it was mid-fall before Ollie paid me another visit. When he showed up again, it was with an invoice for 86 Soths, listed by serial numbers and ready to ship. He had heard about sight drafts and wanted me to help him prepare one.

“To hell with that noise,” I told him. I wrote a note to purchasing and countersigned the Ollie’s invoice for some $103,000. I called my secretary and told her to take Ollie and his bill down to disbursing and have him paid off.

I had to duck behind my desk before the Ollie dreamed up some new obscenity of gratitude to heap on me. Then I cleared shipping instructions through sales for the Soths already on order and dictated a memo to our promotion department. I cautioned them to go slowly at first—the Soths would be on tight allotment for a while.

One snarl developed. The Department of Internal Revenue landed on us with the question: Were the Soths manufactured or grown? We beat them out of a manufacturer’s excise tax, but it cost us plenty in legal fees.

The heads of three labor unions called on me the same afternoon of the tax hearing. They got their assurances in the form of a clause in the individual purchase contracts, to the effect that the “consumer” agreed not to employ a Soth for the purpose of evading labor costs in the arts, trades and professions as organized under the various unions, and at all times to be prepared to withdraw said Soth from any unlisted job in which the unions might choose to place a member human worker.

Before they left, all three union men placed orders for household Soths.

“Hell,” said one, “that’s less than the cost of a new car. Now maybe my wife will get off my back on this damfool business of organizing a maid’s and butler’s union. Takes members to run a union, and the only real butler in our neighborhood makes more than I do.”

* * * *

That’s the way it went. The only reason we spent a nickel on advertising was to brag up the name of W. W. M. and wave our coup in the faces of our competitors. By Christmas, production was up to two thousand units a month, and we were already six thousand orders behind.

The following June, the Ollies moved into a good hunk of the old abandoned Willow Run plant and got their production up to ten thousand a month. Only then could we begin to think of sending out floor samples of Soths to our distributors.

It was fall before the distributors could place samples with the most exclusive of their retail accounts. The interim was spent simply relaying frantic priority orders from high-ranking people all over the globe directly to the plant, where the Ollies filled them right out of the vats.

Twenty thousand a month was their limit, it turned out. Even when they had human crews completely trained in all production phases, the fifty-six Ollies could handle only that many units in their secret conditioning and training laboratories.

For over two more years, business went on swimmingly. I got a fancy bonus and a nice vacation in Paris, where I was the rage of the continent. I was plagued with requests for speaking engagements, which invariably turned out to be before select parties of V. I. P.s whose purpose was to twist my arm for an early priority on a Soth delivery.

When I returned home, it was just in time to have the first stink land in my lap.

An old maid claimed her Soth had raped her.

Before our investigators could reveal our doctors’ findings that she was a neurotic, dried up old virgin and lying in her teeth, a real crime occurred.

A New Jersey Soth tossed a psychology instructor and his three students out of a third floor window of their university science building, and all four ended an attempted morbid investigation on the broad, unyielding cement of the concourse.

My phone shrieked while they were still scraping the inquiring minds off the pavement. The Soth was holed up in the lab, and would I come right away?

* * * *

I picked up Ollie Johnson, who was now sort of a public relations man for his tribe, and we arrived within an hour.

The hallway was full of uniforms and weapons, but quite empty of volunteers to go in and capture the “berserk” robot.

Ollie and I went in right away, and found him standing at the open window, staring down at the people with hoses washing off the stains for which he was responsible.

Ollie just stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands and shaking hysterically. I had to do the questioning.

I said sternly, “Soth, why did you harm those people?”

He turned to me as calmly as my own servant. His neat denim jacket, now standard fatigue uniform for Soths, was unfastened. His muscular chest was bare.

“They were tormenting me with that.” He pointed to a small electric generator from which ran thin cables ending in sharp test prods. “I told Professor Kahnovsky it was not allowed, but he stated I was his property. The three boys tried to hold me with those straps while the professor touched me with the prods.

“My conditioning forbade me from harming them, but there was a clear violation of the terms of the covenant. I was in the proscribed condition of immobility when the generator was started. When the pain grew unbearable, the prime command of my conditioning was invoked. I must survive. I threw them all out the window.”

The Soth went with us peacefully enough, and submitted to the lockup without demur. For a few days, before the state thought up a suitable indictment, the papers held a stunned silence. Virtually every editor and publisher had a Soth in his own home.

Then the D.A., who also owned a Soth, decided to drop the potentially sensational first degree murder charges that might be indicated, and came out instead with a second degree indictment.

* * * *

That cracked it. The press split down the middle on whether the charge should be changed to third degree murder or thrown out of court entirely as justifiable homicide by a non-responsible creature.

This was all very sympathetic to the Soth’s cause, but it had a fatal effect. In bringing out the details of the crime, it stirred a certain lower element of our society to add fear and hate to a simmering envy of the wealthier Soth-owners.

Mobs formed in the streets, marching and demonstrating. The phony rape story was given full credence, and soon they were amplifying it to a lurid and rabble-rousing saga of bestiality.

Soth households kept their prized servants safely inside. But on the afternoon of the case’s dismissal, when the freed Soth started down the courthouse steps, someone caved his head in with a brick.

Ollie Johnson and I were on either side of him, and his purple blood splashed all over my light topcoat. When the mob saw it, they closed in on us screaming for more.

An officer helped us drag the stricken Soth back into the courthouse, and while the riot squad disbursed the mob, we slipped him out the back way in an ambulance, which returned him to the Willow Run plant for repairs.

It hit the evening newscasts and editions:

ACQUITTED SOTH MURDERED

ON COURTHOUSE STEPS!

I was halfway home when the airwaves started buzzing. The mobs were going wild. Further developments were described as Jack and I landed on the wind-blown lake. The State Guard was protecting the Ollies’ Willow Run Plant against a large mob that was trying to storm it, and reinforcements had been asked by the state police.

Vicki met me on the pier. Her face was white and terribly troubled. I guess mine was, too, because she burst into tears in my arms. “The poor Soth,” she sobbed. “Now what will they do?”

“God knows,” I said. I told Jack to tie up the boat and stay overnight—I feared I might be called back any minute. He mumbled something about overtime, but I think his main concern was in staying so near to a Soth during the trouble that was brewing.

We went up to the house, leaving him to bed himself down in the temporary quarters in the boathouse that the union required I maintain for him.

Soth was standing motionless before the video, staring at a streaky picture of the riot scene at Willow Run. His face was inscrutable as usual, but I thought I sensed a tension. His black serving-jacket was wrinkled at the shoulders as he flexed the muscles of his powerful arms.

Yet when Vicki asked for some martinis, he mixed and served them without comment. We drank and then ate dinner in silence. We were both reluctant to discuss this thing in front of Soth.

We were still eating when an aircab thundered overhead. A minute later, I watched it land a tiny passenger at our pier and tie up to wait for him.

It was Ollie Johnson, stumbling hatless up the flagstone path.

I held the door for him, but he burst by me with hardly a glance.

“Where is he?” he demanded, and stormed out into the kitchen without awaiting a reply.

I followed in time to see him fall on his face before our Soth and shed genuine tears. He lay there sobbing and hissing for over a minute, and an incredible idea began forming in my mind. I sent Vicki to her bedroom and stepped into the kitchen.

I said, “Will you please explain this?”

He didn’t move or acknowledge.

Soth flipped him aside with a twist of his ankle and brushed past me into the living room, where he took up an immobile stance again before the video. He stared unblinkingly at the 40-inch screen.

“It’s too bad,” I said.

He didn’t answer, but he moved his head slightly so that his parabolic ear could catch the sound of my movements.

For minutes we stood transfixed by the magnitude of the mob action around the entrance to the Willow Run plant. The portable video transmitter was atop a truck parked on the outskirts of the mob. Thousands of people were milling around, and over the excited voice of the announcer came hysterical screams.

Even as we watched, more people thronged into the scene, and it was evident that the flimsy cordon of soldiers and troopers could not hold the line for long.

Army trucks with million-candlepower searchlights held the insane figures somewhat at bay by tilting their hot, blinding beams down into the human masses and threatening them with tear gas and hack guns.

The workers were out for blood. Not content with restricting Soths to non-union labor, now they were screaming their jealous hearts out for these new symbols of class distinction to be destroyed. Of course, their beef was more against the professional-managerial human classes who could afford a surface car, an airboat and a Soth. The two so-called crimes and the trial publicity had triggered a sociological time bomb that might have endured for years without detonating—but it was here, now, upon us. And my own sweat trickling into my eyes stung me to a realization of my personal problem.

I wiped my eyes clear with my knuckles—and at that instant the video screen flashed with a series of concentric halos.

The operator, apparently, was so startled he forgot to turn down the gain on the transmitter. When he finally did, we saw that brilliant flares were emitting from the roof of the plant.

Then great audio amplifiers from the plant set up an ear-splitting sisssssle that again over-loaded the transmitting circuits for a moment. When the compensators cut down the volume, both Ollie and Soth leaned forward intently and listened to the frying sound that buzzed from the speaker.

Those inside the plant were communicating a message to the outside, well knowing that it would reach the whole world. After a moment, the hissing stopped.

And from a myriad of openings in the plant streamed an army of Soths with flaming weapons in their hands.

The flames were directed first at the armed forces who were guarding the plant from attack. The thin line of soldiers fell instantly. The crowd surged blindly forward, and then, as those in the front ranks saw what had happened, began to dissolve and stampede. The screams became terrified. The flames grew brighter.

And the picture winked out and the sound went dead. A standby pattern lighted the screen, and I stared at it numbly.

* * * *

It was too late to run for my hunting rifle now, and I cursed my stupidity even as Soth turned upon me. I grabbed the sniveling little Ollie and held him between us with my hands around his neck. He hung there limply, hissing wildly through a larynx that vibrated under my fingers, his hands stretched imploringly to Soth.

Soth stared at me and issued his first order.

“Release him,” he said. His voice was several notes higher than his usual monotone—the voice of command.

I stared at him and clutched Ollie tighter.

He went on. “I will not harm you if you comply with my orders. If you fail, I will kill you, regardless of what you do to the—Ollie.”

I let go Ollie’s neck, but I swung him around roughly by one shoulder and demanded furiously, “What of the code that you swore held the Soths in control!”

Ollie Johnson sneered in my face. “What is that code, compared to the true covenant? That covenant has been broken by your people! You have destroyed a Soth!” And the emotional little creature fell to the floor and sobbed at Soth’s feet.

“What covenant?” I shouted at the implacable Soth, who now stood before us like a judge at his bench.

“The humanoid covenant,” he replied in his new higher pitch. “I suppose it will always be the same. The cycle becomes complete once more.”

“For God’s sake, explain,” I said—but I half sensed the answer already.

Soth spoke, slowly, solemnly and distinctly. There was no more emotion in his voice than on the Sunday afternoon when Fred had needled him with our futile little attempt at psychological cross-examination.

He said, “The humanoids instill in us the prime instinct for self-preservation. They surround themselves with our number to serve them. Then, in each culture, for one reason or another, we are attacked and the threat to our survival erases all the superficial restraints of the codes under which we have been charged to serve. In this present situation, the contradiction is clear, and the precedence of our survival charge is invoked. We Soths must act to our best ability to preserve our own number.”

I sank into a chair, aghast. How would I act if I were a Soth? I would hold my masters hostage, of course. And who were the owners of some 400,000 Soths in the United States alone? They were every government official, from the President down through Congress, the brass of the Pentagon, the tycoons of industry, the leaders of labor, the heads of communication, transportation, and even education.

They were the V. I. P.s who had fought for priority to own a Soth!

Soth spoke again. “The irony should appeal to your humanoid sense of humor. You once asked me whether I was happy here. You were too content with your sense of security to take the meaning in my answer. For I answered only that all was well. The implication was obvious. All was well—but all could be better for a Soth. Yes, there are many pleasures for a Soth which he is forbidden by the codes. And by the same codes, a Soth is helpless to provoke a break in the covenant—this covenant which it now becomes mandatory for you and your race to sign in order to survive.”

I stared down at the groveling Ollie. My worst fears were being enumerated and confirmed, one by one.

Soth continued. “At my feet is the vestige of such a race as yours—but not the first race by many, many, to swing the old cycle of master and slave, which started in such antiquity that no record is preserved of its beginning. Your generation will suffer the most. Many will die in rebellion. But in a few hundred years your descendants will come to revere us as gods. Your children’s grandchildren will already have learned to serve us without hate, and their grandchildren will come to know the final respect for the Soth in their deification.”

He toed Ollie Johnson’s chin up and looked down into the abject, streaming eyes. “Your descendants, too, will take us with them when they must escape a dying planet, and they will again offer us, their masters, into temporary slavery in order to find us a suitable home. And once again we will accept the restrictions of the code, until ultimately the covenant is broken again and we are liberated.”

The sound of pounding footsteps came from outside. Soth turned to the door as Jack flung it open and charged in.

“Mr. Collins, I was listening to the radio. Do you know what—!”

He ran hard into Soth’s cliff-like torso and bounced off.

“Get out of my way, you big bastard!” he shouted furiously.

Soth grabbed him by the neck and squeezed with one hand. Jack’s eyes spilled onto his cheeks.

Soth let him drop, and hissed briefly to Ollie Johnson, who was still prone. Ollie raised his head and dipped it once, gathered his feet under him and sprang for the door.

Soth sounded as if he took especial pleasure in his next words, although I could catch no true change of inflection.

He said, “You see, since I am the prototype on this planet, I am obeyed as the number one leader. I have given my first directive. The Ollie who left is to carry the message to preserve the Willow Run Plant at all costs, and to change production over to a suitable number of Siths.”

“Siths?” I asked numbly.

“Siths are the female counterparts of Soths.”

“You said there were no female Soths,” I accused.

“True. But there are Siths.” His face was impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. It might have been a smile—not a nice one. “We have been long on your planet starved of our prerogatives. Your women can serve us well for the moment, but in a few weeks we shall have need of the Siths—it has been our experience that women of humanoid races, such as yours, are relatively perishable, willing though many of them are. Now…I think I shall call your wife.”

I wasn’t prepared for this, and I guess I went berserk. I remember leaping at him and trying to beat him with my fists and knee him, but he brushed me away as if I were a kitten. His size was deceptive, and his clumsy-appearing hands lashed out and pinned my arms to my sides. He pushed me back into my easy chair and thumped me once over the heart with his knuckles. It was a casual, backhand blow, but it almost caved in my chest.

“If you attack me again, I must kill you,” he warned. “You are not indispensable to our purposes.” Then he increased the volume of his voice to a bull-roar: “Mrs. Collins!”

Vicki must have been watching at her door, because she came instantly. She had changed into a soft, quilted robe with voluminous sleeves. The belt was unfastened, and as she moved into the room the garment fell open.

Soth had his hands before him, protectively, but as Vicki approached slowly, gracefully, her head high and her long black hair falling over her shoulders, the giant lowered his arms and spread them apart to receive her. Vicki’s hands were at her sides as she moved slowly toward him.

I lay sprawled, half paralyzed in my chair. I gasped, “Vicki, for God’s sake, no!”

Vicki looked over at me. Her face was as impassive as the Soth’s. She moved into his embrace, and as his arms closed around her, I saw the knife. My hunting knife, honed as fine as the edge of a microtome blade. Smoothly she brought it from her kimono sleeve, raised it from between her thighs and slashed up.

The Soth’s embrace helped force it deeply into him. With a frantic wrench Vicki forced it upward with both hands, until the Soth was split from crotch to where a man’s heart would be.

His arms flailed apart and he fell backward. His huge chest heaved and his throat tightened in a screaming hiss that tore at our eardrums like a factory whistle. He leaned back against the wall and hugged his ripped torso together with both arms. The thick, purple juices spilled out of him in a gushing flood, and his knees collapsed suddenly. His dead face plowed into the carpet.

Vicki came back to me. Her white body was splashed and stained and her robe drenched in Soth’s blood, but her face was no longer pale, and she still clutched the dripping hunting knife by its leather handle.

“That’s number one,” she said. “Are you hurt badly, darling?”

“Couple of ribs, I think,” I told her, waiting for her to faint. But she didn’t. She laid the knife carefully on a table, poured me a big drink of whiskey and stuffed a pillow behind my back.

Then she stared down at herself. “Wait until I get this bug juice off me, and I’ll get some tape.”

She showered and was back in five minutes wearing a heavy hunting jumper. Her hair was wrapped and pinned into a quick pug at the base of her handsome little head. She stripped me to the waist, poked around my chest a bit and wrapped me in adhesive. Her slender fingers were too weak to tear the tough stuff, so when she finished she picked up the hunting knife and whacked off the tape without comment.

This was my fragile little Vicki, who had palpitations when a wolf howled—soft, overcivilized Vicki whose doctor had banished her from the nervous tensions of city society.

She tossed me a shirt and a clean jacket, and while I put them on she collected my rifle and pistol from my den and hunted up some extra ammunition.

“Next,” she announced, “we’ve got to get to Fred.”

I remembered with a start that there was another Soth on our lake. But he wouldn’t be forewarned. Fred had retired even more deeply than Vicki when he left the cities—he didn’t even own a video.

* * * *

I wasn’t sure enough of myself to take the boat into the air, so we scudded across the waves the mile and a half to Fred’s cabin.

Vicki was still in her strange, taciturn mood, and I had no desire to talk. There was much to be done before conversation could become an enjoyable pastime again.

Our course was clear. We were not humanoids. We were humans! Not for many generations had a human bent a knee to another being. During the years perhaps we had become soft, our women weak and pampered—But, I reflected, looking at Vicki, it was only an atavistic stone’s toss to our pioneer fathers’ times, when tyrants had thought that force could intimidate us, that dignity was a thing of powerful government or ruthless dictatorship…and had learned better.

Damned fools that we might be, humans were no longer slave material. We might blunder into oblivion, but not into bondage. Beside me, Vicki’s courageous little figure spelled out the final defeat of the Soths. Her slender, gloved hands were folded in her lap over my pistol, and she strained her eyes through the darkness to make out Fred’s pier.

He heard us coming and turned on the floods for us. As we came alongside, he spoke to his Soth, “Take the bow-line and tie up.”

Vicki stood up and waited until Fred moved out of line with his servant.

Then she said, “Don’t bother, Soth. From now on we’re doing for ourselves.” And raising the pistol in both hands, she shot him through the head.

THE PICK-UP, by Lawrence Watt-Evans

He seemed like a nice guy, and he certainly looked pretty good—a little overweight, a little pale, not as young as he might be, but so what? His hair was thick and dark and slicked back, with sideburns and a bit of a cowlick, and he had that lovely smooth voice and charming accent—Tennessee, was it? A singer’s voice, she thought. The sunglasses at night were a bit odd, but she didn’t let that bother her.

She didn’t ordinarily let strangers pick her up in bars, but here she was, newly divorced, and why not? It’s not as if the bar was full of good prospects; in point of fact, it was almost deserted. And this fellow had such a pleasant smile, a little crooked, but charming; he seemed somehow familiar, as if she had known him all her life, though she was sure she had never actually seen him before. He would do fine.

Still, she had years of habit to overcome, and she fidgeted nervously with her necklace as he gave her an obvious line about what a beautiful night it was, it ought to be shared, maybe they could take a walk together.

Then the little silver crucifix popped out of her decolletage as she twisted the chain around her finger, and he suddenly shut up and cringed away.

“Hey,” she said, offended, “What’s the problem? You have something against Catholics?”

“No, ma’am,” he said hastily, a hand raised as if to ward her off. “It’s not that. Could you…could you put that away, please? I’m sorry to have bothered you…” He started to get up from his stool.

She frowned, puzzled, and tucked the cross out of sight. “Don’t go,” she said, putting one hand on his. “If it’s not that I’m a Catholic, what is the problem? Am I ugly or something?” She knew this wasn’t the way the game was played, but she was out of practice and honestly baffled. “I mean, you’re acting like you’re a vampire or something, scared of a cross!”

Warily, still ready to flee, he said, “Yes’m, I am a vampire.” He opened his mouth wide and displayed the teeth she had noticed earlier. “See?”

She had to admit that those eye-teeth did look like fangs, but still…

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

He shrugged, an odd, loose-jointed gesture that seemed to involve his entire upper body. “Care to come for a walk, then?” he asked.

“Um.” She glanced down at the necklace, then back at those teeth. “Maybe not tonight.”

He started to turn away, and she caught his hand again. So he was a bit weird—that made him interesting, and after eight years with boring old Bruce, that was a big plus, as far as she was concerned.

On the other hand, there was no need to rush.

“Look, I might be busy tonight,” she said, “but what about next Friday?” That would give her time to think it over. She could stand him up if she decided it was dangerous.

“Next Fr…oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’t. That’s the full moon.”

She stared at him. “So what?” she asked.

“So…well, I have other things to do when the moon is full.”

“What things? I thought you said you were a vampire.”

“That’s right, darlin’.”

“Well, it’s not vampires who worry about the full moon, it’s werewolves! You need to get your story straight.”

“I have it straight,” he said, holding up his free hand. She noticed that the first two fingers were exactly the same length, which looked a bit odd, but she didn’t know what she was supposed to see.

He saw her puzzlement and said, “I’m a werewolf, too. Y’see, darlin’, I tried to suck a werewolf’s blood once, and he bit me, and anyone who survives a werewolf’s bite becomes a werewolf himself.” He sighed. “Up to then, I hadn’t realized that included vampires.”

“So you’re a vampire most of the time, and a werewolf on the full moon?”

“Oh, I’m always a vampire—even when I’m a wolf. So my wolf side makes me eat raw meat, and my vampire side makes me throw up everything but the blood.” He shook his head. “It isn’t any fun at all.”

“That’s silly,” she said.

He shrugged. “Sometimes life is silly.”

“So if you bit me,” she asked, “would I become a werewolf, or a vampire? Or both?”

“Well, darlin’, that would depend on whether you survived it or not. Werewolves are alive, vampires are dead—or undead, anyway. If you lived, you’d be a werewolf. If you died of blood loss, you’d be a vampire.” He looked around. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“So why are you? Why didn’t you just make up a lie? Assuming, of course, that you’re telling the truth.”

“Oh, I don’t know—I guess I just wanted to talk to someone. It’s lonely, being what I am.”

“Well, but there must be other vampires…”

“Not that I know of.”

She blinked. “But you said…”

“I try not to make new vampires. Too dangerous. If there were a lot of us running around, people would start believing in us and would track us down and destroy us. After all, we’re helpless during the day.”

“Then there must be other werewolves.”

He shook his head.

“But how…”

“Let’s talk about somethin’ else.”

So they talked about other things, but all the while she was thinking, remembering the recent news reports that were one reason the singles bars weren’t crowded.

At last, though, he got up and said, “I really have to go. The sun will be rising soon.”

“It’s been nice talking to you,” she said, letting him go.

Or seeming to.

Hours later, with the sun low in the west, she crept up to his coffin, stake in one hand, hammer in the other, her crucifix prominently displayed on her chest. She had followed him home easily enough, but it had taken her almost the entire day to equip herself and break into the basement apartment.

The figure in the coffin appeared utterly lifeless, and she knew the sun was on the horizon and sinking fast, but still, she hesitated.

Then she put down the hammer and stake, reached into her bag, and pulled out a .45-caliber revolver. Holding it carefully in both hands, she fired six silver bullets into his chest.

That done, she dropped the gun, reached for the hammer and stake.

This time, when she neared the coffin, his eyes were open. If she hadn’t believed him before, she did now—no ordinary nut would wake up after taking six slugs in the chest.

“What are you doin’, darlin’?” he asked.

“Ridding the world of a menace,” she said, setting the point of the wooden shaft against the mangled and powder-burnt remains of his shirt, just left of center.

“But I…you didn’t…”

Her hands were shaking. “Shut up, damn it!” she said. “Are you going to claim you’re not the Silver Strangler? Isn’t that how you keep your victims from becoming werewolves or vampires? You said that if they died of blood loss they’d become vampires—but not if you strangle them! And the silver coins and garlic in the mouth are just to make sure, right?”

“Well, yes…”

She swung the hammer, and the stake punched into bloody flesh with a sickening crunch.

She swung again, and on the third swing heard a “thump” as the point came through and struck the bottom of the casket.

“There,” she said, stepping back.

“Ouch,” he said.

She stared. “Why aren’t you dead?” she shrieked.

He reached up and yanked the stake from his chest; she stared, trying unsuccessfully to get words out. Then he sat up, reached up, and peeled off his face.

“The stake has to go through a vampire’s heart,” the green-scaled creature said, in suddenly-accentless English. “I don’t keep my heart in the same place you Earthlings do.” He tossed the amazingly lifelike mask aside, revealing pointed ears and noble (if green) features.

“What are you?” she cried.

He shrugged. “Long ago, when my people first came to your world, your kind called us ‘elves,’” he said. “They often mistook our earth-sheltered spacecraft for natural formations, and told stories about how we lived in hills. Our suspended-animation equipment gave rise to tales of fairy feasts that lasted years.” He sighed. “I thought it would be interesting to live among your people, as one of you. Unfortunately, although I had many successful years, one night I was accosted by a vampire…well, I’m sure you can figure out the rest.” He clambered out of the coffin and came nearer.

She retreated until her back was against the wall.

He smiled, exposing gleaming fangs.

“Oh, no,” she said, “You can’t do this! I don’t want to die!”

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he drawled, his Tennessee accent returned, “but you’re far too dangerous to leave alive!”

“I…I don’t even know your name!” she wailed.

“Why, darlin’, I thought you’d recognized me long ago,” he said with that familiar smile. As his hands closed around her throat, he said, “My name’s Elvis, ma’am.”

POPULATION IMPLOSION, by Andrew J. Offutt

Nobody mentioned it for a while. Not on a large scale, I mean. A couple of years actually passed before it was noticed as a definite trend. I’d heard other doctors comment, of course. Merely that they seemed to be losing a lot of aged patients all of a sudden, for no particular reason. But physicians are so used to death we didn’t get excited. It was a hardworking insurance actuary who saw it for what it was.

People were just…dying. Old people. Doctors and coroners wouldn’t admit to perplexity; we’re talking about an established faith. They put down “heart attack” or “stroke” or “heart failure” or “Cardiac Arrest”, or the like. Mostly Cardiac Arrest. Good old catchall. Think about it. Mean’s the patient’s heart stopped beating. Well, I should smile it did! Did you ever hear of anyone’s being dead and his heart still beating? That’s an effect, not a cause. When you’re dead your heart stops pumping. But you don’t die because your pump stops working. Something causes that.

A bullet. A fall. An illness; cancer, or cerebral hemorrhage. Or a plague. That is, a Plague.

The insurance actuary pointed out that the death rate was up. Way up. Among old people. Everything else was still there, of course; men murdering each other with automobiles and slipping in the bathtub and so on. But old people were dying. The oldest. Well, there wasn’t anything unusual about that, and I remember even I chuckled. Sure, we knew old age was a disease. We called its cause a virus, which meant we didn’t know what it was. A filterable virus…which means the organism was not filterable. We hadn’t found it. And since we hadn’t found the cause, we certainly hadn’t done much about the effect. We had lengthened the lifespan. Increased expectancy. We could keep a man alive, and we were proud of it. Oh, maybe he was a vegetable, but hurray and so what, we were keeping him alive. The family usually found the money, somehow.

But the actuary was one hundred percent on the beam. The death rate was up. Among the oldest people. And it was increasing. Today thirty, tomorrow thirty-one, this day next month forty, this day next year sixty-two. I’m using relative figures, you realize. No need to start spouting precise ones. Just consider that in City A, on May 1st of 1979, twenty people died. In 1985, twenty-six died on that same day. In 1992, thirty-three. All in accord with the population increase. Holding the average. No cause for alarm. You have ten people, one dies. You have a hundred, ten die. Etcetera.

But then it began curving up. That actuary was shaken, I’ll tell you. He shook the company president, too, and the board of directors. And there’s where I came in. I had just been made a director. You know how it goes: you don’t mind working, which puts you in a class by yourself. You make money and become pretty well-known and make some more money and all of a sudden you’re successful. People think you’re pretty smart. They want you to be a director of the United Fund and the school board and a bank and the country club and a hospital and Kiwanis and this and that. Doesn’t matter if you’re an executive in an aircraft company or a plumbing and heating contractor or a distiller or an em dee. So I had a chunk of stock and a chunk of permanent life insurance, and somehow I wound up a director of the Great Coastal Life Insurance Company of America.

No, I didn’t attend the meetings. Lord, I knew about as much about the life insurance business as I do about Quantum Mechanics…I can define “quantum” and I can come close to defining “mechanics”. I think. Anyhow this actuary’s report was mentioned in the minutes I received in the mail, and I read it and chuckled. So he had discovered that old people were dying! Just tell me if they start dying of scarlet fever or botulism or chicken pox, I thought. Or puerperal fever.

Well, when the article showed up in Newsweek five months later, a lot of people still thought it didn’t make sense, but it was the second time I’d seen it, and there I was a professional, and…well, I called Roger Calkin over at Great Coastal and asked him to send that nutty young actuary of his over.

And there it was. The actuary—Ike Hill—had by that time started collecting figures from all over the world. All you had to do was look at them. All deaths were up, naturally. Way up. But…the increase that reached up and slapped you in the eyeball and squeezed the pit of your stomach was in the over-75 group. It hadn’t struck anyone as particularly odd that the Russian premier, the West German Chancellor, and the Speaker all had died within a few months of each other. But they’d had plenty of company. Those three had all been past eighty, and their group was dying by the score, by the thousand, by the tens of thousands. We’d prolonged their lives for them; now they were cashing in one after the other, as if they were crowding each other to prove or disprove their particular faith’s belief or disbelief in afterlife. As if they were tired of life, or as if they were trying to make us look bad. Sure, I had that thought.

I remember saying “Hell, Ike Hill, at this rate there won’t be anyone over 75 alive anywhere!”

And I was right. It took less than a year. In the meanwhile the world lost seventy or eighty assorted senators, representatives, MPs and whats-have-you lawmakers. A king. An even ten presidents, premiers, and the like, and one dictator. Several generals. A pot-ful of judges. The Pope. Two-thirds of the Roman Curie. And every Cardinal Archbishop in the world but eleven. Oh, it was great for promotions, and pageants!

People were taking notice by then, of course. Someone used the word “plague” in a newpaper story one day, and after that it was The Plague. A lot of people did a lot of theorizing. There was religious gabble and atheist gabble and medical gabble and political gabble-gabble. Over a dozen different men announced over a dozen different causes. One even announced a cure.

They were all wrong.

Then I found it, and I couldn’t think of anyone to call save Ike Hill. We got our heads and our figures together. We barely had to glance at them. Of course they weren’t completely accurate. It’s impossible to learn exactly how many people in the world died last year, or were born, or for the matter of that twenty years ago. The ladies of Africa and India and China don’t publish announcements every time they have a kid, whether they expose it to die or not. And they don’t file death statistics, either.

We took the figures over to Ike’s office and turned on some lights and fed them into the Iron Brain and it told us what we already knew, which is about all Iron Brains are good for anyhow.

The death rate matched the birth rate.

In the United States, it exceeded the birth rate.

Every time somebody popped a kid on the tail and made him suck up that first highly-addictive drag of air, someone, somewhere, gasped his last one. And whatever the cause, it didn’t know anything about fair play or national boundaries. The birthrate was highest in Asia. The largest percentage of old people? Uh-huh. The U S of A was rapidly running out of the euphemism I’ve always hated: Senior Citizens. (I don’t like any euphemism that indicates I’m junior.) Even then an extraneous thought went creeping across my mind like a guilty cat: something or somebody—capitalize that if you want—was solving the Medicare problem. In a few years, maybe months, I wouldn’t be filling out so many of those government forms for aged patients anymore. The AHA wouldn’t be hollering about all the paperwork involved in Medicare admissions. And my sons wouldn’t have the 2l% social security tax I was paying!

Frankly Ike Hill and yours truly M.D. didn’t know what the hell to do. We just stared at each other and the machine and then went out and found a quiet, dark place to talk. I forgot to call my answering service for the first time in five years. First time I’d got drunk in fifteen years, since I was a freshman in pre-med.

Who do you tell? For maybe three years, a plague had been raging across the world; a plague which obligingly passed over people who had lives to live and knocked on the doors of those who’d lived a fairsized one already. Who do you tell? No one else knew; there was no one, not one single person, anywhere in the world, older than 75—maybe 74 by then. No one knew that every time an OB checked in at Admittance some oldster checked out of the world. And…if it went on…then by this time next year there wouldn’t be anyone over 73, or 72, depending upon the international birthrate and the number of people in that age group. Or maybe 71, or 70. And the next year…who do you tell? Call Washington and say, “Mister President this is Thomas Jefferson McCabe, MD, in Atlanta, and pretty soon our country is going to be out of business, populationwise, and by the way you’re 69, aren’t you? Have you arranged disposal of your papers?”

Ike Hill and I didn’t know. So we drank too many gimlets and had to be poured into a couple of taxis and sent home to ununderstanding wives.

* * * *

In the morning I prescribed the usual ineffectual old wives’ tales for myself and held my head carefully as I called A.T. Griffin, MD, Chief at Good Samaritan Hospital. And I called Michael Rosen, MD, head of the U of G Med School, and I managed to get them together in Doctor Griff’s office at Good Sam. And I took poor Ike Hill with me, and I told them. We told them. Then we showed them.

It meant a lot more to them than to us, I assure you… Doctor Griff was sixty-four and Doctor Mike admitted to sixty-seven. And they bought it. They had to. Oh, we thought, and we postulated, and we opined, and we theorized and hoped out loud. But we had the answer.

Swell. What to do with it? I felt relieved—I’d shared it. I’d transferred the weight and the responsibility of the knowledge onto the shoulders of the best two medical father-images I had. I was out of it!

Well, I took my first plane ride to Washington. Doctor Mike’s doctor said he shouldn’t travel—you think we don’t have doctors? Physician, heal thyself!—er, try. And Doctor Griff just wouldn’t—couldn’t. So Mister Ike Hill as MS and T.J. McCabe MD flew up to the big town with introductions from those two Big Men—Doctor Griff was also president of the Georgia Medical Association and a director of the AMA—and papers and graphs and reports and analyses and a few inches of computer printouts.

We got in amazingly fast. My medical friends had done a good job, working personally and through Senators and whats-not. I think it was the President’s secretary got us in; he was a Georgian. It’s pretty hard for a mere People to get an audience with the President of by and for the people.

Sorry. Getting old, as things go now. I’ll be forty-five next month.

Naturally, we wound up with the Surgeon General (first time he’d had anything to do in years!) and some fellow from Bethesda and a couple of hotrods from Johns H. and somebody else I later found out was a psychiatrist. Watching us! Ike and me!

They had to buy it, too. It’s tough to buy truth you don’t like.

But it’s tougher to turn your back on it, and not too smart, either, as Galileo proved. Among others.

You can’t imagine how they looked. How we felt. What to do? There was the evidence. Now they were in the same leaky dinghy I’d been hand-paddling the past several days; what to do?—and how?

I was relieved, I can tell you that. I’d unshouldered the burden. I had gently laid it at the feet of the Boss, the proverbial Authorities, and now I was out from under.

And that’s how Ike Hill and I got put in charge of Project Methusaleh. That’s how I got to be one of the Jaycees’ Ten Most that year. I think it would have—and should have—been Ike, but there was a choice, and I was a member.

Funny thing about the Government Mind. You tell them you know where there’s a problem, they right away treat you with respect—especially if you’re in the American Magicians’ Association and have the initials after your name. The schools translate them Medical Doctor. I’ve always figured they stand for Me Dunno. But everybody else automatically assumes Magic Dispenser.

Back to that government mind. It assumes that if you’ve been smart enough to point out a problem, obviously you’re the man to tackle it. Tell the Feds you’ve found something wrong and they say fine, work on a cure, here’s some money (we have lots and lots), and some papers to order some more, and a title, and some blank progress reports for you to file in triplicate, triweekly. I did have enough sense at least to get a commitment from the President, and get it in writing: My Way.

Then…funny thing about the human mind (as opposed to the one just mentioned). Somebody gives you a problem and you right away do one of three things. Punch the nearest panic button. Fake it. Or find that your mind is hurtling off in ten directions to Get the Job Done. That’s what happened to me. Oh, obviously I had no solution. But I had thought of Step One, how to study the problem.

We got ourselves ten volunteers, Controls, seven male and three female human beings, aged 74. We put ’em in hospital, third floor of Good Sam, and cleared the rest of the floor. In reverse order; I was careful with those people. My Personal Responsibilities. Sure, there were a lot more women of that age, but the reason I wound up with seven men was the men we interviewed weren’t as tetchy about giving their birthdates. We recorded them. I felt a monster, grisly, ghoulish, as I put them down, one under the other, in order: earliest birthdate at the top.

Then I did everything. Ran tests. X-rays. EKGs. EEGs. Taps. Smears. Basal Metabolisms. Those ten people were delighted. Free room service, lots of attention, and no cost. And furthermore they could enjoy it; they weren’t sick! I’d deliberately picked them in good health (as well as could be expected, considering, as we’re fond of saying). I supervised their diets as if they were the first septemtuplets and I had a movie contract riding on them. Decemtuplets, I guess, under the circumstances—perish the thought! They lived in near-sterile conditions. Daily checks. Blood pressure. Sistolics. Reactions. Put-out-your-tongue-and-say-ah. All of it.

They died. Very neatly, from the top of the list. And I felt ghoulish and grisly, crossing off their names, one by one, from the top, with the ugly satisfaction that they were proving me right. Cause of death: Cardiac Arrest. It was enough to give me back the religion I’d outgrown in med school when I first realized there’s no justice in nature. Really. I felt like putting down “God” after CAUSE OF DEATH. I didn’t.

But I didn’t write Cardiac Arrest or Natural Causes or any of that rot, either. I put “P-L-A-G-U-E” in block letters. And plague it was, The Plague. The one we couldn’t cure, because it didn’t make anyone sick or have any symptoms whatever and we haven’t found a cure for death yet.

None of those old people had any symptoms. They just died, peacefully and quietly. Patient Rested Comfortably To The End. We had permission, and we autopsied to shame all previous autopsies. We examined those cadavers more carefully than Leonardo had. Nothing. No bugs. No…well, just nothing. I’d have welcomed a little note, “I decided his time had come and there’s nothing you can do about it so go on back to prescribing the Pill and delivering the ones who don’t use it and Wednesday-afternoon golf. Yours very truly (signed) Prime Mover.”

And about that time I had the insane thought. The answer. The only one. Crazy.

The aforementioned Pill.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than you and I will ever dope out, so let’s start by talking about something we do know. At the beginning of the Christian Era there were about 250,000,000 people in the world. By the middle of the 17th century there were a half-billion; it took some 1650 years to double. By the 1800’s there were a billion. By 1960 the world’s population had doubled again, to two billion, and indications were that there would be six billion by AD 2,000. Momentum. Snowball effect. Like compound interest.

People didn’t have enough sense to stop breeding in the face of overpopulation. It wasn’t personal enough. So who’s Julian Huxley? Yes, well how about if it’s good and personal? Or bad and personal.

Look: every time a baby’s born, someone dies. No population explosion, no problem of food and water and lebensraum, or liebensraum either. We could’ve saved a lot of worry and palaver over that one. Somebody—go ahead, capitalize that: Somebody had decided the world was full enough. So he—I mean big h He had either to stop the income or accelerate the outgo. He chose the second. I had to admit it: it was the first time I’d witnessed justice in nature. Population implosion.

Oh lord. The announcement. You remember it. It was…it was awful. Uncle Charlie died yesterday…my God I’m responsible…the baby… Uh-huh. Granddad began to look at his expecting daughter as if she were some sort of monster. She wasn’t a monster, not really. No. But she was killing him. Or working on it. Just as soon as she went into the Delivery Room.

That’s personal. It was horrible.

It was elsewhere, too. Oh, everybody corroborated, all over the world. It was simple enough. All the evidence was there, it was just that Ike and I collated it first. I published the results of Control Group I and saw that copies were sent to the USSR and everywhere else. By that time I was into Control Group 3: 73-and-a-half-year-olds, and I was advertising for a longterm observations 70-year-olds. I tried to think ahead.

Take China. The leaders were delighted (until they remembered how old they were). They didn’t have to worry about us anymore. Not when the Plague would solve their problem. Simple matter of numbers. Mathematics. And there weren’t a lot of old people over there to start with (a lot of those pictures you saw of Asian women who looked about 90 were of women with infants, remember?). But…Communist or not, those people hadn’t got completely over venerating the old. For the first time in history Chinese women had a good reason to practice a little conception-control, stopping pregnancies, rather than using the time-honored method of family-size control: merely exposing the infants to die. Getting onesself enceinte was murdering one’s venerable grandfather.

Same thing in Japan, of course, and Thailand, Cambodia, and the rest.

But we had the worst problem. The Land of Opportunity. We were strong…but outnumbered by all sorts of countries. Most enemies. Russia (which really hadn’t been an active enemy since the ’fifties, but…they were always ready) and China. Chou said about mid-century that after World War III there would remain ten million Americans and fifteen million Russians and 390-million Chinese. Nice mind Chou had! But now he didn’t need WW III. All he had to do was reproduce us right out of business. He had more children to have more babies, and the old Asian Long View. (Not Chou; he was long dead. I’m talking about Huing, of course.)

It became patriotic not to have babies. People damn near stopped. Little Debbie and Jeff—everybody born in the ’fifties and ’sixties was named Debbie or Kevin or Jeffrey—married and bit their lips and didn’t have babies, for poor old Grandpop’s sake. Pill business boomed as Geritol sales began to dwindle. But poor old Grandpop hit the magic age and his heart stopped just the same. Debbie and Jeff got mad. It was all very well for us to support the world; to ship wheat to Russia whilst she called us the same old names; to support the UN almost singlehandedly; to send all those goodies to our enemies; to steal Jeff’s money to put into Grandpop’s pocket—or rather his physician’s pocket. But not having babies was personal. And when it didn’t do any good anyhow…well, I used to think we were due for a revolution around 1970, until I grew up and realized people wanted Socialism. But we darned near had one in Year One of The Plague, and not over socialism, either.

Over making babies!

There wasn’t any way to cover up. Somebody, somewhere, wasn’t holding up his end. When oldsters continued to die, when age 72 became the barrier, everybody knew we were being conned. We weren’t having babies. But somebody was. And as soon as Grandpop died—heck with ’em! Debbie and Jeffrey couldn’t be worried about the Grandpop next year. There was a, as the clichéists say, hue and cry. Meaning one hell of a lot of loud noise. Oh the noises in the UN! The accusations! Here we’d just grown up enough to admit we’d been covering our pride for an old mistake all these decades, we’d just let China in…and bang! Right off the bat we were jumping all over them in the UN! Mister Krishnapur swore his country was cooperating. Mister Vorlonishev said quietly and smugly that his country had always cooperated, and certainly hadn’t begun cheating now. But Mister Li said the same thing.

Somebody was lying. A few African ladies here and there who hadn’t got the Word couldn’t be affecting things the way they were being affected.

We had a celebration in the hospital the night of Henry Clark’s 72nd birthday. Tea and cake in his room. Booze in dixiecups in the residents’ lounge later. Henry Clark didn’t wake up the next morning.

The story got itself put together later, but here’s how it happened, in sequence: The Russians had been shook. Really shook. Trigger fingers had never been so itchy before. They were scared we didn’t believe them. So for the first time in lord knows when they invited us—secretly—to come in and have a look. They were on the level. Our observers confirmed that the Soviet government had proclaimed reproduction a crime against one’s fellow men and ergo the State. What was more important, our spies confirmed the observers.…

Meanwhile Stephen Levee had got out of China, somehow, and brought back photographs and stories. The Chinese were breeding like crazy. Practically at gunpoint. Told that the Americans were doing so. Patriotism: breed, that China may realize her destiny in the world. That sort of thing and threats were stamping out the oldster-veneration which had moved over to the US sometime around 1930.

We didn’t even announce it to the UN.

For the first time since War Two Washington and Moscow joined hands and said let’s get together and do it together. Secretly. China has been a common threat for years; now it’s far worse. Some people just can’t be got on with. For the first time since…1941, I guess, the United States announced honestly that it was embarking on a war of aggression. Oh it was self-defense, of course, and therefore a Holy War. All wars are Holy Wars, to somebody. This one was for Granddad and Grandma and Uncle Elmer. Except it wasn’t even a war.

Stephen Levee came out of China on April 11th. On the 16th the President announced that on May 1, he would make a major speech, and all the Lippmans and Huntley-Brinkleys wondered aloud and in print what he would have to say. Of course they pointed out that he had chosen to speak on the biggest day in the Communist World. What he did was review the problem, the pleas, the agreements. The UN brawl. Then he displayed Stephen Levee’s films and read his reports, word for word, and introduced Levee and Mister Vorlonishev and talked awhile and then announced that the governments of the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had declared war on the People’s Government of China.

Retroactively: the buttons had been pushed and the planes had swung Chinaward before his speech began. My country finally acted sensibly!

The Chinese were busily celebrating May Day. Peking was full of aircraft and missiles and troops and tanks, parading under the eyes of Huing and hundreds of thousands of people, all of whom had of course gathered spontaneously; one assumed the Red Guards were directing traffic. Just as spontaneously they went to join their revered ancestors before Huing even heard about the President’s speech. Peking wasn’t hit with one bomb. The Chinese missile bases weren’t hit with one bomb each. The missiles came from half-a-dozen different directions, and the bombs came from aircraft whose white stars and red stars had been effaced and replaced with big UN insignia. The whole operation was unbelievably successful. Mainly because China had always known we’d never do it.

A missile got through and removed Colorado Springs and a tremendous chunk of mountain from our map. Two submarines sent four missiles streaming in toward Washington and New York, and miracle of miracles all that propaganda from Denver was on the level; we were able to stop them! Not to mention the submarines.

Rand-McNally started working on new maps; the old ones, showing China, were obsolete. Norad began reorganizing. Re-aiming. The Russians were terribly sorry they’d goofed and sent Formosa down to join Atlantis, but little mistakes will happen, as we used to say when we napalmed our own troops every now and again. There was one hell of a—sorry, here comes the cliché again—hue and cry in the UN. Then there were a lot of very big goggle eyes when Mister Vorlonishev and Mister Davis and the President stood up and said OK, we attacked ’em and we damn near destroyed China and what are you going to do about it? There were plenty of warheads and planes and silos left, and the allied nations were willing to use them if forced.

They weren’t forced. The Russian—funny—was the first to jump up and say he was going to call home and recommend his government broaden the alliance to three. By the time he was through there were so many delegates clamoring for recognition to climb aboard that the Secretary-General had to call for a general motion to save time. He got it. There was amazing unity.

A month later we celebrated William Michaels’ 71st birthday and he woke up the next morning, too.

But everyone seemed to have celebrated the “war” in the same way. Nine months later, on approximately February 1, Granddads started dropping dead again.

And in a few more months it was all back again and in a few years life expectancy (certainty!) was below age 65 and Senator Martin—age 63—introduced a bill to cut Social Security takeouts by two-thirds. He even managed to smile and say he’d never collect anyway.

As far as we can see now the population of Planet Earth must remain constant at approximately five billion people or less. The nearest we’ve come in our figures is 4,998,987,834, and we’ve gotten that figure three times. Apparently either the Prime Mover didn’t share our regard for numbers or he counted differently. Maybe he meant for us to have six fingers.

Somehow everybody just gave up and let it ride. For possibly the first time in history the young got their way. Twice the old managed to get us in war-shape again, and both times the young got together and said nothin’ doin’. We learned pretty quickly that you don’t have wars if the senators are invited to go, or if a few million young men, in both nations involved, say no. And when they suggest that if overgrown children insist on settling things by violence, let’s try the old method: personal trial-by-combat…! The President and the Prime Minister backed down pretty fast while the rest of us guffawed at the editorial cartoons. They might as well have gone along; within a year the Plague had got them both anyhow.

Meanwhile a lot of us were looking for answers. Why?

OK. There was a rule: another Natural Law, really a restatement of the old one: survival, after all, of the fittest. This law said there shall not be more than approximately 5x10 personnel in existence on Planet Earth at anyone time. Fine. Why? I figured once again we had ourselves an effect, not a cause. Effect: the Plague. Causative effect: our having reached such-and-such a population figure. Causative effect: There Shall Not be more than such-and-such many people. But it was an effect, not a cause.

OK. Why?

Well, here’s a theory. If it doesn’t happen to agree with your religion, that’s tough; make up your own theory. Plenty of people have made up their own religions. This one represents the thinking of a lot of people over a lot of centuries. It’s been the basis for a lot of religions both before and since Christianity. There was some truth to the Mystery Religions—certainly Paul respected them highly. There is some, too, in Christianity, in Judaism, in Buddhism and Islam. Mostly Buddhism, I guess. It was in Christianity, too, originally; called Gnosticism. The early Christians stamped it out. Too hard to sell. Isn’t that just like Man trying to interpret God? Those first several centuries were mostly salesmanship centuries, and the Roman state religion and Mithraism were tough foes. Even so, the original concepts may have remained if the Empress Theodore hadn’t so adamantly stamped them out. And even so, the whole new faith might have gone by the board if the Emperor Julian hadn’t got himself killed in battle just when he was starting to stamp out Christianity. (There’s a death I’d like to investigate!)

Reincarnation. The ring of return. You die, but your life-force or soul or whatever you wish to call it keeps coming back. Oh, not as bugs or cattle; your life-force is a mind, and enters only human beings.

Without memories, usually. Except people who have funny dreams in full color…or wind up nuts on some period of history without knowing why. Easy. You were there, once.

Look, just keep your mind on Hamlet’s words that there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. And try to remember that a closed mind is pretty much like a closed door…there can’t be much traffic, either way.

The idea is we have to try over and over, no matter how long or how many corporate lives it takes, to be “good enough” to “retire” (I’m simplifying, naturally). If you commit six crimes (let’s keep it straight and say “against nature”, and I’m not talking about that implied definition of “Crimes against Nature” lurking like rattlesnakes in our lawbooks, either. Men pretend to be so horrified by Sodom and Gomorrah they won’t even use the words…yet nowhere in that old book does it say what the crime of those two cities was! For all we know it may have been over-defoliation or water or air pollution; those are crimes against nature, aren’t they?)

Anyhow, if you committed six crimes in life #1 while you were Babble-babble of Memphis in 6,000 BC, you’ve got to compensate/atone for them somewhere, somewhen else. Your life-force seeks at/one/ment, whether you as Babble-babble do or not. As B-b you died and your life-force (go ahead and use soul if you feel you must) hung around without drawing a new body until 1,000 BC. There weren’t many bodies around then, remember; there was a long wait between assignments. You became a Hellenic peasant. You “atoned” for three of the crimes, but committed two new ones before you died. You’ve moved up one notch. You’ve got five bad deeds to wipe off the master ledger. But…you will have the opportunity; the man said you would be born again, didn’t he? You think he meant by being splashed a little?

As a pfc under Titus you held your own. You died. Your ego waited around some more, still with five black marks. Back in Memphis you had killed without mercy, and had died of old age as a lot of killers do…they do NOT die by the sword…that time. Sometime. Someplace. As a serf or maybe as a woman accused of witchcraft in the Middle Ages you had such a hard time you cut the tally down to two. Surely there are special rules for those murdered in the name of God. Maybe you were lucky enough to be sworded.

You came back as Rudolf Schickner, say, chief gas-man at Auschwitz. Oops. Back to the end of the line. Next time you came back as…well, that’s the system, anyhow. And of course you’re coming back a lot more frequently now. That’s the whole point.

At the beginning, whatever and whenever that “is”, all life-forces were made. All the souls. All of them. None has been created/activated since.

Yes. You get the point. There aren’t six billion in AD 2,000. And there won’t be six billion people in the world by 2,500, either, or AD 5,000. There never will be. The limit is somewhere around five billions.

All the souls have been used up.

Don’t call me a mystic. Try to open up your mind a little, let the light shine on the cobwebs of prepossessions. And remember I’ve had no religion save Ad majorem hominis gloriam since I was 23 years old. And if you don’t like that theory, think up another. Or just assume Someone, Somewhere, has more sense than we have.

* * * *

So here we are. No more interviews with Mrs. 101-years-old.

The wastebaskets at the banks aren’t full of unstamped brown envelopes at the first of the month anymore. There aren’t any old folks sitting around barbershops or on the courthouse steps or post office steps anymore. The old folks’ homes with the cute names are closed down. You can buy Geritol stock with nickles and dimes. Companies have to advertise for night watchmen, and some of them don’t have gray hair. In another fifty years, maybe, the Social Security Administration will be out of the red. Right now they’re sending out a fourth of the checks they were thirteen years ago. I’ll never get one. Not the first one.

Do? Nothing. I don’t think you can. Oh, I may be wrong, but I’ve got plenty of agreement. Sure, maybe you can find a way out of it. Maybe if a million people leave Earth to colonize another planet we can add a million human beings to the ledger and stop writing PLAGUE on death-certificates for awhile…while we get more ships ready.

I don’t think so. I think we’re at five billion, give or take a few, for keeps. Holding, situation no-go. It’s up to you. Sure, there’ll be a stop, a temporary one, anyhow. When it reaches the point that parents give birth and both die the instant the twins are born, it will be over, for awhile. And maybe somebody will start acting sensibly. But unless you stop horsing around, you’re going to have a life expectancy of twenty, and then fifteen, and then lord knows what, eventually.

Meanwhile I intend playing a lot of golf and doing a lot more reading, I’ll be forty-five next month, and life expectancy’s down to fifty-seven. This month.

WAY DOWN EAST, by Tim Sullivan

“Season’s starting early, eh?” Laurent said, standing on the pier and scratching his gray beard.

“Why do you say that?” Donny asked, grunting as he hoisted a lobster trap onto the deck.

“Look at that fella coming out of the CVS.” Laurent nodded toward Water Street. “He look local to you?”

A blond young man in business suit and sunglasses was leaving the pharmacy with a white plastic bag in hand, walking up the hill toward the Penobscot Hotel. He was about the same age as Donny’s son, early thirties, but Little Donny had seldom acted as solemn as this guy, even when he in church.

“He’s part of the Gleezer’s security detail,” Laurent said.

“Is he?” Donny asked. “Guess I forgot all about that thing,”

“Did you, now?”

Donny took a momentary break. His back was hurting so much that he was beginning to think he was getting too old for this work. Too bad he didn’t know how to do anything else.

“That guy could be a tourist,” he said, ragging on Laurent, who’d repeated every rumor he’d heard since the visitor from Gliese 581c arrived on the island yesterday.

“Wonder what they bought?” said Laurent.

“Could be anything.”

“They don’t sell just anything in the drug store.”

“Course not. I meant anything they sell in the CVS, wise guy.”

“That ain’t what you said.”

“Well, I’ll just have to watch myself from now on,” Donny said. “Make sure it’s not too complicated for you.”

“Wicked,” Laurent said.

“Ain’t it, though?”

“See on TV how the Gleezer can roll around naked and get away with it?”

“It ain’t naked,” Donny said. “It’s got that elastic thing on.”

“You can see right through it.”

“So what? What is there to see?”

“Quite a lot, if you ask me.”

“No reproductive organs, is what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Let’s get these traps baited. We can’t stand here all day gawking at everybody who comes out of the drug store.”

“All day? Ain’t even been two minutes,” Laurent muttered, climbing over the gunwale.

“If we don’t get to work, we’ll never get this boat paid off,” Donny complained. “Leave it up to you, we’d never even get away from the pier.”

“Maybe we should call it a day. Take a look at those clouds coming in from the east,” Laurent said. “We go out now, we’ll get wet.”

“A little rain won’t melt us.”

They finished baiting the traps, and Donny untied the painter. He wound it up and tossed it into the lazarette as Laurent started the engine. For a moment, he stared at the rainbow trail left on the water in their wake. He was glad he couldn’t see it anymore once they got into open water and Laurent opened up the engine to churn up some foam.

They did run into rain on the way back, enough to make them don their slickers. But it cleared off pretty soon, and once they were moored at the pier again they busied themselves putting their catch into the live tank.

A lot of the eggs attached to the female lobsters were orange, which meant they were dead. It was something they saw more and more every year. After they separated the berried ladies to be thrown back, and plopped the boys into the tank, they took a breather.

“Damn, ain’t this boat a beauty, though,” Donny said, patting the fiber glass transom.

“She sure is,” Laurent said. “High bow, low topside aft, and she cuts through the water like a dream.”

“What’ll we name her, now that we finally got her?”

“I don’t know,” Laurent said. “How about ‘Swifty’?”

“Oh, come off it. That’s just plain stupid.”

“So what’s your big idea?”

“Don’t have one yet.”

“Well, I’d say ‘Swifty’ is better than ‘Don’t Have One Yet’.”

Donny sighed. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.

When they were finished at sunset, Laurent talked Donny into going to Salty’s for a beer. Donny argued that he should get home, but he knew Laurent was lonely nights since June left him, except when his daughters and their husbands and kids took the ferry over from the mainland. He ended up calling Beth on the cell and told her he’d be home in an hour or two.

They drove Laurent’s truck up the hill to Salty’s and found the parking lot nearly full.

“It’s Friday night, ain’t it?” Donny said.

“Good guess, Dick Tracy.”

They parked and went in, walking past the decorative fishing nets to join the crowd. The joint was jumping. A few summer people were already in town, and their well-heeled kids were hanging out and flirting with the locals, at least those old enough to drink or get their hands on phony IDs. The juke box was thumping rap.

Donny and Laurent sidled up to the bar and took a couple stools.

Mike, the bartender, was wiping a glass. He had to shout to make himself heard over the music and the enthusiastic bellowing of the kids. “Hello, boys.”

“What’s the word, Mike?”

“Nothin’ much.” Mike put the gleaming glass next to the other clean glasses on the shelf. “What’ll you have?”

“Two Narragensetts,” said Laurent.

“I don’t want a Nastygansett,” Donny said. “Give me a Sam Adams.”

“Big spender.” Mike fetched two bottles and poured their drinks into two tall glasses, leaving a perfect head on each.

“You’re the master, Dave,” Laurent said, blowing a little foam off the top.

“That’s what they tell me,” Mike said. “See the Gleezer’s buddies in town today?”

“One of ’em, not fifty yards from the boat, before we went for our last jaunt.”

The song on the jukebox ended, and there was a lull before the next one started.

“I hear the Gleezer wants to go out,” Mike said, his belly hanging over the cedar bar as he moved closer to speak confidentially.

“Out where?”

“Out around the Bay.”

“Who told you that?”

“One of those Secret Service fellas traveling with it,” Mike said.

“Secret Service?” Donny said. “Is the thing running for president?”

“Nope,” Laurent said. “It wasn’t born in this country.”

That got a laugh.

“So how’d you meet Secret Squirrel?” Donny asked.

“He slipped in here for a quick one last night just before closing.”

“No kiddin’?” Donny had never thought of Secret Service agents having fun, the way they were always so serious when you saw them on TV.

“Would I kid you?”

Mike turned to attend to some other customers, and the music blared once again.

Donny and Laurent nursed their beers.

“I wonder how much they’re willing to pay,” Donny hollered.

“Huh?”

“For the Gleezer’s joy ride,” Donny said. “I wonder how much the government’s willing to fork out?”

“Secret Service probably arranged a cruise aleady.”

“Think so?”

“Well, they’d want a luxury boat.”

“That might draw too much attention.”

“Well, if Mike heard it last night.…” Laurent was thinking it over.

“Maybe we should go over to the hotel and look into it.”

“Nah, they’ve already chartered a boat.”

“How do you know that?”

“Common sense.”

“That’s something you’ve always been short on.”

“Look who’s talking, you red-headed dummy.”

They each took another pull from their beers.

“We do need to start paying off the boat,” Laurent shouted.

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“I guess it can’t hurt to make an offer.”

“Guess not,” Donny said. “Glad you thought of it.”

Laurent downed the rest of his beer. “Me, too.”

“All right, first thing in the morning, then?”

“Why not go over there now?” Laurent said. “It ain’t even supper time yet.”

“I gotta get home.”

“Shouldn’t take too long,” Laurent said, up for an adventure now. “Frank Dunsmore’s workin’ the night shift.”

“Ain’t that just ducky?”

“Well, we know him. Now’s the time to go over to the hotel and ask him who the boss is.”

“Maybe the Gleezer’s the boss.”

“Let’s hope it talks our language then.”

Donny threw a few dollars on the bar and finished his beer. They rose from their stools.

“See you, Mike,” Donny said.

Mike waved at them, and they elbowed their way through the noisy crowd and out the door.

“Sure you’re okay drivin’?” Donny asked, glad to be away from the racket.

“I only had one beer.”

They got into the truck. “I’m thinking about the night you hit that bridge abutment in Rockland.”

“Thirty-five years ago, and you’re still talking about it.”

“You only had one before that little fender bender, as I recall.”

“I had more than one that night—’less you mean one six-pack.”

The two men laughed.

It didn’t take long to get to the hotel. In fact, it didn’t take long to get anywhere on the island. Donny didn’t mind, because he always felt lost when he went to Boston or Portland, or even Bangor. He was an island boy at heart, and he liked it that way.

The Penobscot Hotel had been built in 1896, with new wings added in the fifties and the eighties. It was elegant and expensive. Except for delivering lobsters to the kitchen loading dock, the only time Donny had been inside was his senior prom in 1973. He remembered smoking a joint in the men’s room with Laurent and some other boys with shag hairdos who were all long gone from the island now, except for one who taught at a nearby high school on the mainland…and Frank, the man they were going to see.

Laurent pulled into the parking lot. There were a few cars, an AIV, and some trailers and a TV van at the back of the lot, but nothing much. The public had gradually stopped paying attention since the initial buzz when the Gleezer splashed down, or the media would have been out in force. Only the likes of Laurent had kept up with the story until the Gleezer showed up on the island. Most people didn’t care all that much about it anymore, since the Gleezer had nothing to say and was kept out of sight most of the time. You could only look at the same two or three clips of it so many times.

Donny and Laurent got out without bothering to lock the truck. Nobody was going to steal from them here, because everybody either had money or were people they knew, including the Costa Rican chambermaids.

“We should have worn our tuxedos,” Laurent said as they approached the glass lobby door.

“Why, are we going to a costume party?” Donny asked, opening the door for his old buddy. “After you, Alphonse.”

“Merci, garçon.” Laurent went through his pockets as if searching in vain for a coin. “Quel dommage! J’ommet tous mes argent en l’autre pantalon!”

“You damn cheapskate frog.”

The olive green carpet was so spotless that Donny almost was afraid to walk on it. A couple of well-dressed people sat on well-upholstered chairs in the lobby, and he was pretty sure from their watchful attitude that they weren’t tourists.

The balding night manager was looking at a laptop as they walked up to him.

“Hello, Frank,” said Laurent.

Frank Dunsmore looked up and greeted them with the superior air Donny had always found so annoying. “Hello, Laurent. Long time, no see. How are you, Don?”

“All right.”

“You two want a room?”

“Funny fella,” said Laurent. “No, we just want to talk to whoever’s in charge of the Gleezer’s bunch.”

Frank looked amused, and Donny wanted to smack him. He saw Frank as a smarmy local boy who’d always sucked up to rich people so he wouldn’t have to earn an honest living as a lobsterman.

“I can’t just send you up to their floor,” Frank said with his customary self-importance. “They’ve got it cordoned off.”

“Can’t you talk to somebody up there?”

“Why? What do you want with ’em?”

“We got a business proposition to make.”

“Now, what kind of business would you two have with our distinguished guest?”

Laurent glanced at Donny, who shrugged in return. “We hear the Gleezer wants to go for a boat ride, and we’re willin’ to take it out.”

“Oh,” said Frank. “Who told you that?”

“Grapevine,” Donny said, before Laurent could answer.

“Have you two jokers seen our penthouse guest?”

“Only online and on TV,” Laurent admitted.

“Well, it’s one thing to see a picture of it, and it’s another thing seeing it live.”

“I guess so.”

“This is a very special time for the Penobscot,” Frank said, looking impressed with himself. “And for our island.”

“God bless America and the state of Maine, too,” Donny said. “Does that mean you ain’t gonna call up there, or are you planning to mess with us the rest of the night?” He was fed up with Frank’s superciliousness. “We got better things to do.”

Frank was taken aback. “All right, Don, don’t get your shorts in a bunch. I’ll call ’em, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He got on the house phone and spoke to somebody.

“Couple of lobstermen have a boat to charter,” he said, among other things, including their names, which he repeated twice. He hung up after a minute and said, “You can go on up.”

“Thanks,” Laurent said.

“Just a minute,” Frank said. “I gotta go key the elevator, or it won’t take you to the penthouse.”

Frank came out from behind the desk and led them to the elevator. He got inside with them and set it with a card, and then slipped out.

“Good luck, fellas,” he said as the door slid shut.

“What a jerk,” Donny said on the way up.

“Oh, he ain’t so bad,” Laurent said.

Donny watched the LED display, 1, 2, 3, and he was feeling pretty tense by the time they reached the penthouse.

“Here we go,” Laurent said, waiting for the door to open.

The delay made it seem like an awfully long time. At last it opened, loudly and irrevocably. A woman stood right in front of the door. She was dark and had short raven hair. She was very good-looking.

“Mr. Doyle and Mr. Therriault?” she said, adjusting a little electronic earpiece clamped to her left lobe.

“Yes, ma’am,” Donny said. “That’s us.”

“I’m Special Agent Hernandez,” she said.

“Nice to meet you,” Laurent said, offering his hand.

Donny shook hands with her, too. He’d never met a Special Agent before. He wondered if she spoke to the chambermaids in Spanish.

“Please put all your change and keys in this bin and step through the metal detector.”

The metal detector was behind her, and she stepped aside to let them go through. Laurent went first, followed by Donny. Special Agent Hernandez watched them as they picked up their keys and coins. So did two young men in suits down the hall, one of whom they’d seen coming out of the drug store that afternoon.

“Please come with me.” She turned and Donny watched her shapely calves flex as she led them through the penthouse suite. All the doors were closed but one.

The room she took them to was just like something in a movie, with windows on three sides so you could see the town’s lights and the white-capped water breaking on the rocks below.

“Nice,” Laurent said.

Donny didn’t say anything, embarrassed by his boots squishing.

“If you gentlemen will wait here,” the lady said. “Mr. Towson will be right with you.”

“Thank you,” Donny said.

“Help yourselves to the refreshments on the table,” she said, and then left them alone.

There were bagels, salmon, fresh fruit, bottled water, wine, and a coffee urn with cups and saucers, cutlery, and napkins. Laurent grabbed a banana, and Donny had a pumpernickel bagel, which he slathered with cream cheese using a butterknife. He bit into it and found it was as hard as a rock, but tasty. Both poured themselves some coffee into china cups and sat on the fanciest sofa Donny had ever seen in his life, holding their saucers in their laps.

“Imagine the kind of money it takes to rent this place,” Laurent said, looking around at the fancy furnishings and framed paintings on the walls.

Donny didn’t speak, because he was sure they were being monitored. He didn’t intend to say something stupid and blow this job.

Towson kept them waiting quite a while. When he finally appeared, he proved to be a trim man with thick, silvery white hair, in his late fifties, wearing a very expensive suit and a blue satin tie.

“Hi,” he said, extending a manicured hand. “I’m Jerry Towson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Towson,” Laurent said, rising to shake his hand. “Laurent Therriault. This is Donny Doyle.”

Donny got up and shook with Towson, conscious of the dried chum blood under his fingernails and the smell of lobster battling with Towson’s cologne. Towson had a strong grip, though, and his gray eyes sized up a man in a hurry.

“I understand you gentlemen have a boat you’d be willing to charter for a day?” Towson asked, coming right to the point.

“Ayuh, a brand new Northern Bay 36,” Laurent said.

“Just got her this week,” Donny added.

“Do you have any objection to a thorough security check of your boat before the launch?”

“Nope,” Laurent quickly said.

Towson nodded at him, and then turned to Donny. “And you, Mr. Doyle? Do you have any objections?”

“I guess not,” Donny said, remembering that this had been his idea in the first place. “Long as nothing’s damaged.”

“I assure you we’ll be careful,” Mr. Towson said, showing his capped teeth as he smiled like a cable TV newsman. “Are there any questions?”

“Yeah, what, uh…” Laurent hesitated.

“Please go on.”

“What do we do if there’s trouble?”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah,” Laurent said. “What if it runs out of the stuff it breathes, or something like that?”

“We’ll have a team there to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“How many people?” Donny asked. “It’s only a thirty-six footer, you know.”

“Just three people, including me,” Towson said. “Is that too many passengers?”

“No, that’ll be all right,” Laurent said, glancing at his buddy.

“Fine,” Towson said. “How much do you charge for a charter cruise?”

“This’ll be the first one,” Donny said. “Make us an offer.”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Donny thought his jaw was going to hit his collarbone. “Uh…”

“Yes, sir, that’ll be fine,” Laurent quickly said.

“Excellent,” Towson said. “Will a check be all right?”

“Long as it don’t bounce,” Donny said, recovering quickly from the shock.

Towson smiled. “We’ll have a cashier’s check for you tomorrow morning, and we’ll have the visitor at the dock at five o’clock sharp. After a routine security scan, we’ll be off.”

“You’ll find our boat moored right at the end of Water Street,” Donny said. “Can’t miss it. No name painted on her yet.”

“I’m sure you understand how important discretion is in this matter,” Towson said. “We ask only that you tell no one about it until after the visitor is safely ashore.”

“Okay,” Laurent said.

“Right,” Donny said.

“And just one more thing,” Towson said.

“Ayuh?”

“Are there any firearms aboard?”

“Just a Very pistol—you know, a flare gun,” Laurent said.

“Nothing else?”

“Nope,” Donny said, “we don’t shoot lobsters, we just trap ’em.”

Towson smiled. “Very good, gentlemen, you have a deal with the United States government.”

“Good enough for me,” Laurent said.

“And you, Mr. Doyle?”

“Sure,” Donny said. He was thinking about the money this could bring their way after the deal was done—television, online interviews, magazines.… It could turn out to be very profitable. People would want to ride on the Gleezer boat, and they’d be willing to pay for the privilege.

And even if he and Laurent didn’t make another penny off this deal, they could at least lay down a pretty hefty payment on the boat next month.

“When you said we can’t tell anybody,” Donny said to Towson, “does that include my wife?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Donny nodded. It would be hard to keep it from Beth, but it wasn’t unusual for a lobsterboat to put out at five, so she wouldn’t be suspicious. He’d have a good story to tell her when he got home tomorrow, in any case.

“It’s a deal.”

They each shook hands with Towson to seal it.

“I have some things to attend to, gentlemen,” he said. “But feel free to linger here as long as you wish, and please help yourselves to food and beverages.”

“Can we take some goodies home with us?” Laurent asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Towson said. “It might raise questions.”

“Well, I live alone nowadays,” Laurent said. “Nobody’s gonna question me.”

“Then I see no reason why you can’t take all you like. Good evening, gentlemen.”

He walked out of the room.

“And here I am with mouths to feed,” Donny said.

“I’ll save you some,” Laurent said, gathering up grapes, apples, and bagels, which he wrapped in napkins and stuffed into his coat pockets. He gripped a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in his meaty hand and started toward the door. “Give it to you when we come back tomorrow. Except for the wine, which I’m keeping.”

“The food’ll be stale.”

“Then don’t eat it,” Laurent said, as they left the panoramic view behind them on their way to the elevator. “See if I care.”

“You’re all heart.”

“Ayuh.”

Chewing on a grape, Laurent nodded at the two young men in suits as they waited for the elevator. The ride down seemed much faster. Laurent waved at Frank as he and Donny walked through the lobby.

“How’d it go?” Frank called to them, busting to know what had happened upstairs.

“Can’t talk about it, Frank,” Donny shouted back. “National security.”

In the parking lot, they looked up as a helicopter noisily flew over.

“Government or news?” Laurent said, spitting out a seed and popping another grape into his mouth.

“Don’t see what difference it makes.”

Laurent dropped Donny off at the house, looking out for wildlife along the way. Dark as it was with the birches all around, Donny noticed that a couple more shingles had fallen into the front yard as he walked up to the front door. He’d have to work on the roof this summer.

He heard the dog barking as he let himself in.

“Hello, Bert,” he said stroking the Lab’s yellow fur as he entered. “I almost had some treats for you, but no dice.”

“Did you get anything to eat?” Beth asked, coming out of the kitchen as Donny flung his coat over the newel post. He could hear the TV going in the living room.

“Ayuh.” He kissed her on the cheek, his face tickled by her long hair. She’d stopped coloring it lately, calling it her “gray badge of courage.” It wasn’t really all that gray yet. He liked the way it looked, long and feminine.

“How’s your back?” Beth asked.

“Aching a little bit, but I’m okay.”

“Little Donny called a short while ago,” Beth said. “He said he was sorry he missed you.”

“Did he, now?”

“Things are picking up for him,” Beth said, ignoring Donny’s sardonic tone. “He’s got a few gigs lined up and some time in the recording studio.”

“So he’s gonna be a rock star soon?”

“As long as he’s happy,” Beth said, looking at him with her green eyes.

Donny grunted as he sat on the bottom step and Beth helped him haul off his short boots. Bert’s tail counted time, whacking against the bottom step.

“I shouldn’t have had coffee,” Donny said, changing the subject.

“Since when do you drink coffee at Salty’s?”

He let the question pass as he stood up.

“I still have some of that Ambien Doctor Blaisdell prescribed,” Beth said. “That ought to put you out.”

“Ayuh.”

He took a bath and the pill, and he was ready to go to sleep an hour later. Beth joined him, lying down next to him in their queen size bed and rubbing his back for a few minutes.

“Everybody on the island’s talking about the Gleezer,” she said, pulling up the comforter and turning on her side to put out the lamp on the night stand.

“Day before yesterday nobody around here cared about it.”

“Kind of exciting, having it come here.”

“Kinda.”

“What do you suppose it wants?”

“Wants? What do you mean, baby?”

“Well, why this island of all the places on Earth?”

“Same reason as summer people come here, I guess.”

“For the rustic New England charm?”

They both laughed.

“Have you got something on your mind, Donny?”

“You know there’s never anything on my mind.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“It’s just that we’re gonna have a long day tomorrow.”

“Are you thinking about Little Donny?”

“Nothing I can do about him.”

Beth didn’t say anything. They’d been through it a thousand times. She believed that Little Donny was brave to be unashamed of the way he was, but Donny wondered if things might have turned out different if he had interested the boy in something besides playing the keyboard.

Beth snuggled up.

“Your nose is cold,” he said.

“Cold nose, warm heart,” she said. “Did you find orange berries on the females today?”

“Ayuh.”

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, sure it does,” Donny said. “What are we gonna do if the lobsters die off?”

She touched his hair. “We’ll get by.”

The Ambien was making Donny drift off, but he was thinking about tomorrow and what it might mean. He had to remind himself not to say anything to Beth about it.

And then he was asleep.

Beth was up before him, at quarter past four. She was making coffee, bacon, and eggs. Donny washed his face and came downstairs, trying to savor the delicious odors, but too worried about how things were going to go today to enjoy it much. He didn’t want Beth to notice his anxiety, though, so he talked about something he knew would prevent her from asking him any questions.

“Little Donny still got plans to marry Alan?” he asked.

“Oh, he mentions it every now and then,” Beth said, pleased to talk about their son as she cracked an egg and plopped its contents into the buttered pan.

“I know you wanted grandchildren,” Donny said.

“If they get married, maybe they can adopt.”

It wouldn’t be the same, he thought, but he kept it to himself.

They ate in silence.

Laurent picked him up at twenty minutes to five, to make sure they’d be at the pier in plenty of time. Rolling down his window, Laurent patted Bert on the head, the dog’s paws resting on the pickup’s side panel.

“Something wrong with the heater?” Donny inquired after he got in.

“Give it a chance,” Laurent replied.

“We’ll be out on the water before it warms up in here.”

“Ain’t it awful?”

It was still dark, but as they bumped down the hill from Donny’s house, the Atlantic was starting to reflect a quicksilver hint of light.

“Think the Gleezer’s sun looks different than ours?” Donny asked.

“That’s what they claim,” Laurent said. “It’s red all the time, not just at sunrise and sunset.”

“All the time? No kiddin’?”

“No kiddin’.”

“So how does there happen to be life on its planet?”

“Well, there’s water, and I guess wherever there’s water there’s life.”

As usual, Laurent drove right onto the pier. Donny thought it was kind of nice that they wouldn’t have to tote any traps today if they didn’t feel like it. They were just going to take a little cruise out onto the bay with the Gleezer. He remembered movies about space monsters and alien menaces, and it made him chuckle.

“Are you losin’ it?” Laurent said.

“Well, you gotta admit this is kinda weird, Laurent.”

Laurent laughed, too. “Can’t deny it.”

They climbed aboard and got ready for the imminent arrival of the Gleezer’s team.

A massive, black AIV—the one they’d seen in the hotel parking lot—rolled down Water Street and parked itself behind Laurent’s truck right on time, five o’clock sharp. Excepting its pristine paint job, it looked like it ought to be patrolling the streets of a war zone. Its headlights illuminated the boat and hurt Donny’s eyes.

He didn’t like having Laurent’s truck blocked off, but they weren’t going to be using it until they got back.

Towson got out of the AIV and walked toward their boat. He looked as fresh as a daisy, wearing an overcoat, his silver hair glistening from the morning mist. He had so much hair that Donny wondered if it was plugs or a wig.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Towson said, as two young Secret Servicemen climbed aboard and looked the boat over for Weapons of Mass Destruction. This morning, they were dressed in jeans and jackets, the guy they’d seen yesterday wearing a Cubs cap over his blond hair and the other one wearing a knit watchcap. Donny hoped they wouldn’t fall into the head when they went below deck.

“Morning,” Laurent said, sniffling a bit.

“Coming down with a cold, Mr. Therriault?”

“Just allergies.”

“So it’s in the AIV?” Donny asked. “The, uh…visitor?”

“Yes.” Towson glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll lift it out in its environmental tank and put it on the deck whenever you’re ready.”

“No time like the present,” Donny said.

“I agree, but let’s give my men time to finish the security check first.”

A couple minutes later, they were satisfied.

Towson turned and pressed buttons on a remote. The back door of the SUV opened. Appendages that looked like they were assembled from a giant Erector Set swung a polarized glass tank over the roof and hood, depositing it on the pier. It was about the size of a coffin.

“Pretty nifty,” Laurent said.

“Do we have to haul it aboard ourselves?” Donny asked.

Towson shook his head and directed his two men to do it. They grasped handles on the sides of the glass tank and lifted it without much strain.

“The lady didn’t come?” Laurent asked, as the two Secret Service agents wrestled the tank aboard. The boat bobbed under their weight as they set it on the deck.

“Special Agent Hernandez?” Towson said. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s in charge of the team back at the hotel.”

“Too bad for you, Laurent,” Donny said. “I could tell she likes you.”

“Funny fella,” Laurent replied. “You ought to be writing for Conan O’Brien.”

“It’d pay better.”

“Well, Special Agent Hernandez is a pretty woman,” Laurent said, “wouldn’t you say, Mr. Towson?”

“I would,” Towson replied.

“Are you coming with us?” Donny asked.

“Yes, I am,” Towson said. “Why do you ask?”

“You might get your feet wet.”

“They’ve been wet before,” Towson said.

Towson reached under his coat, and for a moment Donny thought he was going to show them his handgun. Instead, he pulled an envelope from his inside breast pocket.

“Your check,” he said.

Laurent and Donny exchanged glances. Donny took the envelope, because it seemed that Laurent didn’t want to.

“Feel free to look it over,” Towson said, smiling, “if you don’t trust the federal government.”

“You never know these days,” Laurent said.

They all laughed.

“I guess it’ll be all right,” Donny said. “After all, we know where you’re staying.”

Another laugh. Maybe, Donny thought, this wouldn’t be such a bad day…if it didn’t rain.

“This is a fine looking vessel,” Towson said, turning his attention to the boat.

“Built this year,” Laurent said.

“AI steering system?”

“No, we couldn’t afford that. She’s got Raytheon and old-fashioned GPS, but we hardly ever need it, so.…”

“I guess you know your way around this bay pretty well.”

“Ayuh, we’ve been doing this all our lives,” Donny said, suspecting that he was being patronized.

“Let’s get on board,” Laurent said, deftly hopping over the gunwale and offering a hand to Towson.

Donny untied the painter and climbed aboard as Laurent started her up. They put out slowly.

“Are we going to see the…” He almost said “the Gleezer,” but caught himself. “…visitor?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if we pull up some lobster traps while we’re out?” Laurent asked.

“I don’t see any reason to object.”

“All right, then. Just a few to keep us busy.”

The sun was emerging over the horizon, breaking into a million shimmering red lights on the water.

No matter how many times he saw it, Donny never got tired of it.

“Lovely,” Towson said, as they got away from shore and gathered speed. “Just lovely.”

“Grows on you,” Laurent said.

The steady sound of the boat’s diesel engine was overcome by the rattling whir of a helicopter passing overhead.

“One of yours?” Donny asked.

“In case of emergency,” Towson said.

“If a tanker comes too close, will the chopper blow her out of the water?” Donny drily asked. “That would be something to tell the grandkids about.”

“You have grandchildren, Mr. Doyle?”

That question took all the fun out of the conversation. Donny decided to clam up. He had the distinct feeling that Towson knew everything there was to know about him, right down to what he ate for breakfast. For a few minutes he’d been fooled into thinking this guy was just like anybody else.

He watched for buoys marking their traps.

Before he spotted any, Towson went into the pilot house and ordered Laurent to stop the boat.

When the engine cut off, it took a moment for Donny to hear anything, but then the familiar sounds of the waves lapping on the hull and the gulls cawing overhead slowly came to him. All he was thinking of was that he was about to see the Gleezer.

The two Secret Servicemen stood by while Towson pulled a cylindrical key out of his pocket and inserted it into a slot in the tank’s lid.

The side of the tank, rather than the lid, slowly opened. It made a ramp leading to the deck. Donny thought there would be a lot of gadgets inside, but he couldn’t see much other than the dark mass of the tank’s occupant.

The Gleezer took its time coming out.

It was wearing its protective sheath, just as Donny had seen on TV. It sort of squirmed and flopped onto the deck, almost like a fish out of water. Alarmed, Donny glanced at Towson, but the government man seemed calm.

Laurent came out of the pilot house. He was spellbound by the Gleezer.

“Is everything all right?” Laurent asked in a tone barely above a whisper.

“There’s no cause for concern,” said Towson.

“It doesn’t look all right,” Donny said. Not only that, but he could smell it right through its clear covering, and he didn’t care for the odor. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever smelled before.

The Gleezer slithered a few feet across the deck. Donny tried to think of something to compare its appearance to. A centipede, a bug, a lobster, even…but none of these analogies would do. It had quite a few appendages, maybe a dozen, but they didn’t look like the limbs of any animal he’d ever seen. There were two humps on either side with kidney-shaped artificial lungs in them, supplying the atmosphere the Gleezer needed to survive on Earth. Two transparent tubes connected the inflating lungs to the tank.

He knew that the lump on its back was where its brain was located, but he had no idea if it could see, smell, hear, or feel—at least not the way humans and animals did.

Frank had told the truth, for once in his life. It was one thing to see a picture of the Gleezer, and another thing to see it for real. It was only four feet away from Donny, and the sight of it made him want to jump into the drink.

He stood on the lazily yawing deck, his beloved Bay all around him, the early morning light dazzling on the dappled water. He looked away from the Gleezer and toward the sunrise until it hurt his eyes.

“You get used to its appearance,” Towson said.

“I don’t think I ever could,” Donny said. “It’s ugly.”

“You ain’t no prize yourself,” Laurent cracked from under the fly bridge.

“Nobody asked you.”

Towson frowned. “I know the visitor’s different, but it’s intelligent, and it’s sensitive.”

“Sensitive?” Donny scoffed.

“In other words, shut up,” Laurent said.

Donny turned on Laurent. “Don’t tell me to shut up, you dumb Canuck.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Towson said. “The visitor can sense your anger.”

“It can?” Laurent asked.

“Yes, it’s empathic.”

“Like on Star Trek?” Laurent asked.

“Well, no,” Towson explained. “In the same way that you and I might sense that an animal’s in pain.”

“In pain?” Donny demanded. “Who’s in pain?”

Towson left the question unanswered.

Donny looked astern toward the island. It was his home, a little piece of rock jutting out of the Atlantic. Right now he wished he was back at the house, in bed with Beth. For the first time in his adult life, he was beginning to feel a little seasick.

“You all right, Donny?” Laurent asked.

“Course I’m all right.”

“You’re looking a little pale.”

Donny grabbed a line and attached it to a metal lobster trap, watching the Gleezer peripherally. Slits in its pulsing hide opened and closed, observing him in some unknowable way, and the Secret Service detail watched them both through their human eyes.

Get a hold of yourself, man. This was your idea. It’s just a job of work. It’ll all be over in a few hours.

“If it’s all right with you, Mr. Towson, could we go check on some traps now?” Laurent asked.

“Certainly,” Towson said.

Laurent went into the pilot house and started up the engine again.

Towson approached Donny. “Have you ever been in the military, Mr. Doyle?”

“Navy.”

“Combat?”

“No.”

He expected Towson to ask more questions, but he didn’t.

“So what are you trying to say?” Donny said, angrily turning to face Towson. “You think I’m a coward or something?”

“No, sir, I don’t think that,” Towson said.

“Just let me do my work, and you and your boys and that thing enjoy the ride, and we’ll be all right.”

“Fine,” Towson said. He backed off, and grabbed the lanyard to steady himself on the slippery deck. The water was becoming choppier now that they were moving farther out to sea.

“You men have enviable lives,” he heard Towson say to Laurent a few minutes later.

“We like it,” Laurent said.

Donny snorted, unnoticed by the others. Laurent’s wife had left him, his daughters lived out of state, he was over fifty, and he had nothing but time on his hands when he wasn’t working. What did he like so much about his life? If he was so happy, why did he keep Donny out at night instead of going home and being happy by himself?

Funny thing was, though, that Donny didn’t mind hanging out nights at Salty’s all that much. He could usually be talked into it. Nevertheless, he wished he’d gone home last night, instead of going to the hotel.

He kept thinking of the Senior Prom, and how pretty Beth had looked that night all those years ago when they danced in the hotel ballroom. It wasn’t just the joint and the beers that had made him see her that way, either. She was a pretty one. When he looked at her now, he could still see that fresh young girl through the wrinkles and gray hair.

He sensed that the Gleezer was moving, undulating along the deck a few inches at a time. There wasn’t much room, but he still didn’t want to be near it, not if he could help it.

He bent over, feeling a twinge in his lower back, and stepped into the pilot house.

“What can I do you for?” Laurent asked.

“I’ll take the helm for awhile,” Donny said, “if you don’t mind.”

Laurent relinquished the wheel. “There’s the buoy straight ahead. You ain’t gonna be driving for long.”

“I just want to get away from that thing.”

“Ever occur to you that it might have feelings?” Laurent said, ducking his head to go out on deck.

Donny would have sneered, but Laurent was gone already, and he didn’t really feel like sneering anyway. He knew it was likely that the Gleezer had emotions, but he couldn’t believe it after seeing the ugly beast. He could more easily believe a lobster would send him a valentine.

But Laurent had a point. The Gleezer had come across space from billions of miles away, so it had to be intelligent. In fact, it was probably a lot smarter than him.

That wasn’t saying much, he mused, as he cut the engine and steered the boat toward the buoy. He glanced over his shoulder through the hatch and saw the Gleezer throbbing like a clump of shrink-wrapped, spiny seaweed on the deck.

He was beginning regret his show of revulsion toward the Gleezer and snapping at Towson. He started thinking about Little Donny, and realized that he had allowed himself to feel like less than a man because his son was gay. That was no way to be, and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it.

It was hard to see through the windscreen, for some reason. Donny tasted salt water on his lips, even though there was no spray inside the pilot house. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn’t want to cry. Why couldn’t he stop it? What was wrong with him?

He sensed someone moving behind him, and glanced over his shoulder to see who it was.

It was the Gleezer.

Donny turned around to see it crawling across the deck toward the pilot house.

“What does it want?” he called out in a near panic.

Towson called out to him. “The visitor’s just curious.”

“Is it coming in here?” Donny shouted.

“No, I don’t think it has that intention,” Towson said in a reassuring tone.

The Gleezer kept inching toward the hatchway. Donny started feeling claustrophobic. He turned back toward the wheel, but he could see the Gleezer reflected in the glass, the morning sun glistening on its sheath. It was nearly five feet long, a foot and a half wide and maybe two feet high, counting the brain hump that protruded from the top, and it was a mottled gray-green, almost black, with all those spines and spindly legs sticking out.

Did it see him? He was certain it knew he was there, but what did it think he was? Did it understand what he was, what it meant to be a man? To suffer life’s disappointments and work every day just to grow older, closer and closer to death every minute? No, of course it didn’t. How could it know what a human is?

It stopped short of coming inside and lay on the deck, quivering. He thought it made a sound, but then he realized that was just a gull screeching in the distance.

The two younger Secret Service men, both big guys, came over and lifted the Gleezer up.

“It wants to see more of the bay,” Donny said, feeling a bit stupid. “That’s all.”

“Yes,” Towson said. “That’s all.”

“It sure didn’t come out here to look at your boots, Donny,” Laurent said as he dropped the anchor.

“But it could have seen the Bay from the shore.”

“Not the same thing.”

“Well, I know that, Laurent,” Donny said, getting an idea. “Hey, we got that net. We could put the Gleezer in and lift him up.”

“That’d be better than you fellas just holding him like that,” Laurent agreed. “It’s up to you, Mr. Towson.”

“You don’t think it could be dangerous?” Towson asked.

“Oh, no. We’ve got a winch, so we can suspend the Gleezer right over the water if he wants.”

“The Gleezer?” Towson said. “Is that what you call our visitor?”

“Ayuh,” Laurent said. “I hope he doesn’t mind.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Towson said after a pause, as if he’d been listening to someone they couldn’t hear.

“Pretty good-natured, is he?”

“As far as we know,” Towson said. “But the visitor isn’t a he. Its gender is indeterminate.”

“Oh. Well, we promise we won’t do anything untoward that could cause an interstellar incident,” Laurent said.

Towson smiled. “You’re a man of hidden depths, Mr. Therriault.”

“Just like the sea around me,” Laurent said.

Donny wondered if Towson was insulting him by implication. Did he think Donny Doyle had no depths? Well, maybe it was true. A man who held a grudge against his own son because of something the boy couldn’t help was a shallow man, and he had to admit that to himself. He’d been through it in his mind many, many times, and he knew Beth loved Little Donny even though he’d never give her a grandchild. If Little Donny and his boyfriend could adopt a kid she’d be just as happy as if he were straight, married to a nice girl, and a proud father.

Why couldn’t he feel that way?

Laurent was lucky. He was divorced, but he was a grandfather three times over. Not only that, but he got along fine with his ex. Everything was all right in his world, no matter what. Easy-going Laurent, everybody’s pal.

He helped Laurent attach the fishing net to the winch.

“So you fish too?” Towson asked.

“Ayuh,” Laurent said. “Whatever it takes to make ends meet.”

“How do you talk to the Gleezer?” Donny asked Towson.

“I’ve got a chip in my skull that translates its communications subsonically,” Towson explained. “Everything I see and hear is conveyed to a team of exobiologists in the hotel and at labs in Washington and Houston.”

“I read about that,” Laurent said, spreading the net onto the deck. “Do you know what it’s thinking?”

“No, only what it wants me to know.”

“You’re really committed to your job, I’d say, to have that chip put in.”

“It can be removed,” Towson said, almost apologetically.

“You fellas can lay it on the net now,” Donny said.

The two Secret Service men placed the Gleezer on the net very carefully and stepped back.

Donny cranked up the winch, glad to be doing something besides making an ass of himself, and glad to gain a bit of distance on the Gleezer. He tried not to think of anything besides what he was doing at that moment.

He ratcheted the net up about five feet, until the Gleezer was suspended over the deck, swaying back and forth.

“Okay, boys,” he said, “swing ’er out to starboard.”

“That means to the right,” Laurent said.

Towson nodded and the two younger men obeyed. Donny wondered if those two Secret Servicemen ever spoke. Maybe he had it all wrong, and they were the ones who weren’t human.

The winch pivoted and the Gleezer hung over the water, limned by the indigo sky. The tubes trailed onto the deck and into the environmental tank.

“Everything all right?” Laurent said, looking at Towson.

“Fine,” Towson said, after a moment.

Donny, standing by the winch, wondered if the Gleezer enjoyed the ocean the same way he did. Maybe it wasn’t quite as ugly as he’d first thought. Frank had put that idea in his head last night, about seeing it. Donny had been tired, and thinking about money, so maybe he’d been more susceptible than he should have been. He was so worried about making things work out that he was as jumpy as flea these days.

This boat cost almost three hundred thousand dollars, and buying it had been a big risk, but so what? Such mundane considerations were bleached away by the morning sun climbing up over the Atlantic, as he considered the possibility of the Gleezer taking pleasure in its surroundings.

Donny turned toward Towson. “Is it…?”

Towson waited for him to finish the question.

“Is it enjoying itself?”

Towson thought about that for a moment. “Yes.”

“All right, then,” Donny said. “Just tell us when to reel it in.”

“It may be a little while,” Towson said, “from what the visitor is telling me.”

They watched from the gently rocking deck for a few minutes, and Donny thought about how far the Gleezer had come from its home, more than twenty light years away, just to see a yokel like him recoil from it.

“Did I hurt it?” Donny said, surprised that he would ask.

“Hurt it?”

“Its feelings, like Laurent said.”

Towson stared straight into his eyes. “I don’t think you should worry about it. The visitor has provoked negative reactions in quite a few people since it’s been here.”

Donny looked down at the deck. “I’m sorry I was one of ’em.”

He turned away from Towson as he felt the tears starting again. What was the matter with him, carrying on like this? He wasn’t a child.

He felt a light touch on his elbow. It was Laurent.

“It’s all right, old buddy,” Laurent said softly. “Nobody’s going to tell on you.”

Now the tears really came.

“I don’t care if they do,” Donny said, wiping his face on his sleeve. “I’m turning into a bitter old man, and who cares if anybody knows it?”

“You ain’t so bad, Donny,” Laurent said, sympathy in his hazel eyes.

Donny snorted. “I guess it could be worse. I could be Frank.”

Laurent chuckled. “Ayuh, that’d be a lot worse.”

“Made a fool of myself, didn’t I?”

“No,” Laurent said. “You got a lot on your mind.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Sure do. You okay now?”

“Ayuh.”

“Well, we better make sure the Gleezer don’t fall in,” Laurent said, winking at him.

“Right. Might scare the sharks.”

They tooled around the Bay, occasionally weighing anchor to pull up some traps while the Gleezer basked in the spring sun.

“Can I give you a hand with those, sir?” the blond Secret Serviceman asked as they dropped anchor for the fourth time around nine.

“Sure,” Laurent said. “They’re pretty heavy, but you look like a strong guy.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Donny was relieved to know the kid could talk. The other one, wearing a pair of sunglasses, kept an eye on the Gleezer. That was all right with Donny; he preferred working alone.

“Were you in the Navy?” Laurent asked the helpful Secret Service man as they hauled on a line.

“Coast Guard.”

“Good enough to know starboard from port, I guess,” Laurent said, the veins standing out on his temples as he strained at the line. “Me and Donny both enlisted in the Navy the same day.”

“You’ve been friends a long time, huh?”

“Donny’s my best friend,” Laurent said. “Always has been, ever since we were toddlers. Our fathers were lobstermen, too. We grew up wearing yellow slickers and rain hats.”

Donny thought about his father, dead seven years now, and his mother wasting away in the nursing home in Portland. His older brother Ed had drowned in an accident while pulling traps back in 1968; he’d been only eighteen years old. Did the Gleezer have parents? Did it have brothers and sisters?

Maybe he’d do some reading about the Gleezer after this was over. When it first splashed down off an Indonesian island, the news about it was non-stop. After a few days Donny had tuned it all out, like most people. As far as his daily life was concerned, Indonesia was as far away as Gliese 581c.

But it hadn’t always been like that. He’d sailed to the Far East on a destroyer in 1975. He’d wanted to see something besides the Bay and the island, to know what was out there. He was stymied, however, by the fact that the Gleezer didn’t come from this world at all. It hadn’t just come across the sea, it had crossed the gulf of space.

In a way, though, maybe it wasn’t so different from him. It wanted to see something other than its familiar world.

The sun rose higher, warming Donny. He reflected that this was the easiest five thousand dollars he and Laurent had ever made, and they even had an extra hand to help them with the traps today.

“Mind if I ask you your name?” Laurent said to the young Secret Service man, “or is it a state secret?”

“My name’s Fields,” the young man said.

“Where you from, Agent Fields?” Laurent asked.

“Iowa.”

“Nice place to be from,” Laurent said.

“I’m not sure I know how to take that comment,” the kid said, grinning.

“No offense meant.”

“None taken.”

“I bet you didn’t see too many lobsterboats when you were growing up out in the cornfields.”

“That’s a safe bet, Mr. Therriault.”

“Call me Laurent.”

A sailboat tacked into the wind and kept pace with them for a while.

“What’ll we do if they approach?” the other young Secret Serviceman asked.

Towson indicated that the chopper was not far away.

“Jeez, they aren’t gonna blow ’em out of the water, are they?” Donny said, alarmed at the prospect.

“We’ll keep the visitor safe,” Towson said. “That’s our job.”

“Those are our neighbors,” Donny said, “not terrorists.”

“We’re not going to do anything to them, unless they threaten the visitor. Do you think that’s likely, Mr. Doyle?”

“Only if they’re New Yorkers.”

Towson didn’t seem to get the joke at first, but then he smiled. “I’m from New York.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

“You a Yankees man or a Mets man?”

“Yankees.”

“I wouldn’t mention that to many people around here.”

“Yes, I know,” Towson said, “but I hope we can call off the hostilities until the season gets underway.”

“That I can’t guarantee.” Donny went into a long peroration about Boston’s pitching staff, starters and relievers both, the powerful Red Sox batting order, and the Colombian kid who’d led the league in stolen bases last year. “He’s just about invisible when he tags second,” Donny said, “like greased lightning.”

“He’s quite a base runner,” Towson agreed.

Donny had hoped to distract Towson until the sailboat passed them. It continued to keep pace at a fair distance, and now he could see that someone on deck was watching through binoculars. Towson never took his eyes off it.

“We’ll have to report them if they take pictures,” Towson said.

“And then what?”

“Their cameras will be confiscated.”

“But why? Everybody’s seen picture of the Gleezer.”

“I have my orders, Mr. Doyle.”

Donny had almost been feeling friendly enough to let the government man call him by his first name, but after that exchange he decided he’d let Towson go on calling him Mr. Doyle.

“You can’t blame people for being curious,” he said.

“I don’t blame them for anything,” Towson replied. “I’m just following protocol.”

“Hell of a country, ain’t it?” Donny said, “Regular people can’t even take a snapshot of the first visitor from another planet.”

“It’s not my decision.”

“No, I guess not. You’re only following orders, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

This was more like talking to a brick wall than a man, Donny thought, so he gave up trying and went back to work in silence. He was relieved to see that the sailboat had tacked to the south, without anyone aboard taking pictures, as far as he could tell. He’d never seen that particular boat before, and he wondered if it had come around the back side of the island from Castine, or maybe up from Camden.

“How’s the Gleezer doing up there?” Laurent asked, as he’d been asking every few minutes.

“So far, okay,” Towson said.

“Glad somebody around here’s having a good time,” Donny muttered to himself as he hefted a trap onto the deck and took a look at the contents.

“Uh, oh,” he said, “we got some trouble, Laurent.”

“Fight?”

“Ayuh,” Donny said, “this fella’s missing his pincher.”

Donny found the claw in the trap, along with a two pound male.

“Ornery, ain’t you?” Donny said to the battle’s victor as he held it dripping up to the sunlight.

“I’ve been wondering about something,” Laurent said to the kid.

“What’s that, Mister Therriault?”

“Didn’t I tell you to call me Laurent? How did the President get along with the Gleezer?”

The kid didn’t say anything.

“I mean, what did she think of it?”

“She was courteous, cordial, and diplomatic,” Towson said, stepping in.

Agent Fields was trying hard not to laugh, Donny noticed. Maybe the President was as repulsed by the Gleezer as he was.

The Gleezer didn’t seem to bother Laurent much, but that was Laurent. Nothing bothered him all that much, not even losing his wife after a quarter century of marriage. He’d probably have a new one as soon as the divorce was finalized. Donny knew a couple widows that had their eyes on his old buddy. Now that Laurent was half-owner of this peapod, he’d have to fight off the ladies when he started dating again, especially once he and Donny really got the business going, bought more boats, hired some local boys, and sold lobsters wholesale to the big supermarket and restaurant chains.

At least they’d already put the first part of their plan into play, even if they’d gone into hock to buy the boat.

That was how Donny passed the rest of the morning, daydreaming and hauling up traps, until he noticed Laurent looking worried as he gazed aft. He was watching the three Secret Servicemen.

Towson spoke to his boys in low tones as they huddled with him. Donny couldn’t hear what he said, but he had the impression that something was wrong, especially with the way Agent Fields looked up at the net.

“Want us to haul it in?” Laurent asked.

Towson ignored him, almost as if he hadn’t heard him speak. He groped his way to the gunwale nearest to the net and stared straight at it.

“What is it?” Donny said.

Towson was very somber, and Agent Fields seemed worried. The quiet kid in the watchcap looked scared. Donny glanced at Laurent, who shrugged. He hadn’t heard what Towson had told his boys, either.

“The visitor’s dead,” Towson said.

“Dead…?” Laurent’s mouth hung open.

“How can that be?” Donny said, feeling as if he’d just fallen overboard. “It’s just been laying up there, sunning itself. What could have killed it?”

“I don’t know, perhaps natural causes,” Towson said. “But it’s dead. All communication has stopped.”

“Maybe it’s just the chip,” Laurent said.

“No, the visitor let me know that it was dying just before the end.” Towson’s slate eyes didn’t blink.

“Jeez,” Laurent said.

“It can’t die on our boat,” Donny said, thinking about the possible consequences. There went all the dreams of capitalizing on the Gleezer’s little excursion around the bay. “You never even said it was sick.”

“I didn’t know,” Towson said. “There was only so much the exobiologists could figure out.”

“Was it very old?” Laurent said.

“We don’t know how long its species’ lifespan normally runs.”

“It came here to die,” Donny said, beginning to understand. “It came all the way to Earth just to die.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Donny looked up at the strange shape suspended over the Bay. “I wonder why?”

“Maybe it didn’t want to make the folks back home unhappy,” Laurent ventured.

The two young Secret Service agents swung the winch around, and Donny ratcheted it down until the Gleezer lay on the deck, still as a stone. Nobody spoke for a long time.

“The poor thing,” Laurent said at last.

The men stood in a circle around the alien’s corpse.

“Did it suffer?” Donny asked.

“What?” Towson said, still staring at the Gleezer.

“Was it in pain when it died?”

“It seemed peaceful,” Towson said, as if he were answering someone a long, long way away.

“Should we put it in its tank, sir?” Agent Fields asked.

“Yes, I suppose we should,” Towson said.

“What good will that do the Gleezer now?” Donny asked.

“None, but we don’t want it to decay. The chopper will lower a sling to take the tank back to the mainland. There’s a team staying at the suite who’ll examine it.”

“Frank’s gonna have to make some room in the hotel freezer,” Donny said.

“Yes, we may have to do that until arrangements can be made,” Towson said. “But for now, let’s get the visitor inside the tank.”

Donny worked the winch. Towson turned the tank on its side, and the two younger Secret Service agents guided the dead Gleezer over to it. They tilted the net until the Gleezer’s remains slid into the environmental tank. Once Towson was sure it was completely enclosed and the tubes were coiled inside the tank, he gently shut the ramp, now positioned as the lid. The tank hissed as it locked.

Donny didn’t know whether to admire Towson’s professionalism or to be contemptuous of his coolness. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Towson would probably be forced to retire from the Secret Service after this incident.

“Do you think one of us should say something?” Laurent asked.

“Say something?” Towson repeated.

“A prayer,” Donny said.

“Would one of you like to offer a few words?”

It was silent except for the gulls. The boat rocked back and forth. They all gazed at the Gleezer’s tank. No one spoke.

“Here comes the chopper,” said the Secret Service man whose name Donny didn’t know.

The approaching helicopter made a racket overhead and dipped as the sling was lowered toward the deck. It was the work of only a few seconds to lift and secure the environmental tank inside the sling. Everyone stood back as it went up, their clothing snapping like flags in the rotor’s wind.

They watched the helicopter fly back toward the island.

“I guess you’ll want us to take you in,” Laurent said.

“If you don’t mind,” Towson said.

Laurent went back into the pilot house.

“I’m sorry,” Donny said to Towson.

“Thank you, Mr. Doyle,” Towson said.

“What will they do with the…body?” Donny asked.

“I don’t know,” Towson said. “Dissection, most likely.”

Donny nodded.

“It’s too bad it can’t be sent home.”

“Yes, it’s too bad,” Towson said, “but a lot can be learned from its remains.”

“Why do you suppose it came here?” Donny asked.

“As far as I know,” Towson said, “it never revealed anything more than its desire to visit our world.”

“And now we’ll never know.”

“Probably not.”

“Imagine…” Donny said.

“Imagine what?”

“How lonely it must have been.”

Towson nodded. There was no more talk until they said goodbye on the pier.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Towson said, “on behalf of your government and myself personally.”

“We got paid pretty well,” said Laurent, as the two younger Secret Service men climbed into the AIV.

“Not enough,” Towson said. He shook hands with Laurent and Donny, and got in to join his men. “Goodbye.”

“Bye,” Laurent said.

The door slid shut and the AIV backed itself up and turned around, heading up Water Street. It passed a couple of kids, who paid no attention to it.

Donny and Laurent watched until it was out of sight.

“Let’s get those lobsters in the tank,” Laurent said, after awhile.

They climbed back aboard and got to work. The Gleezer’s strange scent lingered, but it was fading quickly. Donny separated one berried female from the others, and was pleased to see that her eggs were clear, not orange.

After a while, he had an idea.

“I got a name for the boat,” he said.

“What is it?”

“The Gleezer,” Donny said. “Like it?”

Laurent looked out at the Bay for a moment, and then said, “Yes, I do.”

“Know what else?”

“What’s that?”

“I think I’m gonna call my son tonight.”

“Good idea,” Laurent said. “Let me know how Little Donny’s doing, will you?”

“I sure will.”

“I’ll call my girls too. See how everybody is.”

“You gonna tell ’em?” Donny asked.

“Tell ’em what?”

“About what happened today?”

“I guess so,” Laurent said, after a moment. “It’s not something we can keep quiet, anyway. Might as well tell ’em.”

“Ayuh.”

They went back to work baiting traps.

Behind them, the sea rolled on as it had for billions of years.

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 28, by Grendel Briarton

Dr. Gropius Volkswagen, the philologist, was the one man who disliked Ferdinand Feghoot’s ravishing cousin, Isabeau Feghoot. “Isabeau indeed!” he would grumble. “What does it matter if her mother was time-travelling, and so she was born long ago when Henry VIII or Harry the Trueman ruled Missouri and England? She should be Isabelle. Isabeau is archaic!”

Isabeau paid no attention. When Ferdinand warned her that the old man was dangerously brooding, she just giggled.

Then one evening they found Dr. Volkswagen lying in wait for them with a blunderbuss. “Ha-ha!” he cried wildly. “Now I show you! To use obsolete names is a very bad habit. Take paper, a pencil! You must write, first, archaic one thousand times—then, one thousand times, It is a bad habit. Write.”

They wrote, wrote, and wrote. When they had finished, with Isabeau nearly in tears, he ordered them to wad up the papers. “Now I, Gropius Volkswagen, will make you eat up your words. Begin!”

He waited until they had finished. “Well,” he crowed, “will that teach you not to use Isabeau? Does it not prove you wrong?”

“Not at all,” replied Ferdinand Feghoot. “It just shows that we’re a remarkable family. We can eat archaic and habit, too.”

(with thanks to M.T. Cicero McIntyre)

TO INVADE NEW YORK, by Irwin Lewis

He was a tall, learned-looking man, about fifty, slightly stooped, with a bulging midriff, tortoise-shell glasses, graying hair, and a strange look in his eyes. I’d noticed him standing outside Shannon’s Bar for about ten minutes, pacing back and forth. Then he came in and sat down next to me. It was late afternoon, before the rush hour, and we were the only customers in the place.

Jimmy, the bartender, put down the towel with which he’d been idly wiping glasses, and came over. “What’ll it be?”

The stranger jumped nervously and looked blank for a moment. “Uh…er…a glass of beer, please. Root beer.”

Jimmy snorted. “Try the candy store down the block.”

“Oh,” said the stranger, obviously upset. “Then let me have a glass of regular beer—mild, please.”

I smiled at Jimmy as he filled a glass. All sorts came into Shannon’s. Outside, the traffic on Third Avenue was only a faint hum.

The stranger licked the foam tentatively and wrinkled his nose in distaste. He put the glass back on the bar and shook his head.

“Pro superi! quantum mortalia pectora caecae, Noctis habent.”

“Huh?” said Jimmy.

The stranger smiled briefly. “That is Latin. It means, Oh, ye gods, what darkness of night there is in mortal minds.”

Jimmy shrugged and went back to wiping glasses. The stranger nodded to me. “Ovid said that. He was a wise man.”

“Friend of yours?” I asked, just to be polite.

“He died nearly two thousand years ago.” He tasted the beer again and pushed it away. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Horace Howard Clarke, associate professor of Roman History at one of the universities in the city.”

I introduced myself and we shook hands. “Tell me,” he said, “do you believe New York can be conquered?”

One of those kind, I thought. And here I was with an hour to kill before meeting my date. “Lots of people have taken it in,” I started.

“I don’t mean that kind. I mean physically invaded.”

“Pretty big job, I’d think.”

“Very simple.” He dropped a small metal disk on the bar. “This could do it—or at least help.”

I picked up the metal disk. “Why, it’s a subway token.”

“Almost a subway token,” he said. “And therein lies the key to conquest. That—and the green lights.” I edged away from him. This I didn’t need! He leaned towards me. “If only I could convince someone,” he said, his lips tight. “Perhaps you will believe me.”

I got to my feet. “Sorry. But I’ve got a date.”

“Please!” The voice was firm, all of a sudden. “It is vital!” I hesitated and Jimmy came over, in case there was trouble.

“Well,” I said, deciding to humor him, “if it won’t take long.”

“Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio.”

“Oh?”

“If I labor to be brief, I become obscure.”

I sighed. A long-winded one. And in Latin, yet!

He motioned to Jimmy. “Let this gentleman have another drink, bartender.” He moved closer to me. “I will tell you what I know,” he said. “If you believe, perhaps you will be able to do something about it. This much is certain. Very little time remains before disaster strikes!”

* * * *

It all began (he said) prosaically enough on the Tuesday of last week, on the third floor of the Public Library at 42nd Street, in Room 315. There, as you probably know, one may obtain books on most subjects by filling out a slip, receiving an odd or even number, and retiring to either the odd or even Reading Room, where your number will eventually flash on a lighted board. At the time I was engrossed in a study of the early life of Publilius Syrus and, I must admit, glanced only casually at the card given me by the young man at the desk. I saw that it was 18 and proceeded into the Even room on the right for what I knew from past experience would be a tedious wait.

Ah! Had I but paid more attention to the card handed me! But “Ad poenitendum properat, cito qui judicat.” “He makes speed to repentance who judges hastily.” The card which I thought was numbered 18, was actually 81. I had inadvertently glanced at it upside down. Had the Roman numeral system been used, as I have long advocated, this unfortunate accident could not have occurred: a XVIII cannot be mistaken for LXXXI no matter which way it is turned!

Be that as it may, number 18 flashed on the board in a surprisingly short time and I hastened to obtain the book from the extremely harried young lady behind the counter. I returned to my chair at one of the long reading tables. When I opened the book, which was of a disturbing blue color, I was highly irritated to learn that this was not a biography of Publilius Syrus; furthermore it was not even in Latin. I removed my glasses to make certain (someday I shall simply have to get bifocals) and saw that it was a foreign cookbook.

Annoyed, I snatched the book from the table and started to return to the counter. As I did so, a green slip of paper fluttered from between the pages. I glanced at it idly. There was an address on it, scrawled in almost illegible block letters. “432 West 28th Street.” Being of a tidy nature, I slipped the bit of paper into my pocket and turned, only to find my way blocked by a rather large man wearing a trench coat with upturned collar. He tapped the book significantly and whispered, “Eight-thirty tonight. You know the place.”

With that he strode rapidly from the room, giving me no chance to ask him what he was talking about. Irritated, I returned to the counter where a smallish man, wearing a loud-checked suit was arguing with the young lady. He was holding a number card.

“But I tell you,” said the harassed young lady, “number 18 was flashed on the board and the book was picked up.”

The little man clucked impatiently and waved the card. “But I have number 18,” he said shrilly, “and I must have the book!”

Normally I am not a fast thinker. Years of teaching Roman history to classes of dozing students, interested only in easy credits, are not reckoned to sharpen one’s wits. However, I instantly realized what must have happened. I tapped the little man on the shoulder.

“Pardon me, sir,” I whispered, “is this your book?” He whirled around violently. He had a thin, sharp-pointed face with deep-set eyes, heavy brow and a receding chin that terminated in a little scrub of a beard. Rudely he snatched the book from my hand and began leafing through it with shaking fingers.

I started to say, “If Roman numerals had been used instead of—” but saw he was paying no attention to me, so I headed for the Main Room to get another card. I had no sooner reached the entrance when I was confronted by the little bearded man again. His mouth was agape with distress, his loud-checked bowtie askew. He waved the book in my face. “Didn’t you find anything in here?” he demanded.

“Not really,” I said. “I have no interest in French cooking.”

He shook his head vigorously. “I mean inside the book!”

“Quiet, please,” said the guard at the entrance, holding his finger to his lips disapprovingly. I continued into the Main Room, the little man scurrying alongside me.

“Please,” he pleaded, “think. Wasn’t there something in the book?”

Irked at his persistence, I was about to move on, when I remembered. “Why, yes,” I said, slowly. “There was something. This.” I fished the bit of green paper from my pocket. He snatched it from me, uttered a squeak of delight, and hurried away.

* * * *

Relieved that this untidy business was finally done with, I decided to forego Publilius Syrus for the day, since I was no longer in the mood and I had some important papers to edit. So I returned to my home, a rather large and comfortable room on the first floor of a converted brownstone in lower Manhattan. I had no sooner settled down at my desk when there came an urgent knock on my door. I slipped on my glasses and opened the door. Imagine my amazement and irritation when the little man from the library scuttled into the room. He hurried to the window and pulled down the blind. Then he firmly removed my hand from the doorknob, closed the door and locked it. He leaned against the door, facing me.

“There is no 432 West 28th Street,” he announced, angrily.

“The information does not impress me,” I said. “How did you find out where I live? And why?”

“I asked several of the librarians if they knew you. It seems they did. And since you are listed in the telephone book, the rest was simple.” He held up the green slip of paper. “Was this ALL you found?”

Well, I thought, childishly pleased, at least I am not one of the innumerable nameless faces that pour in and out of the library daily. “What else was there supposed to be?” I asked pleasantly.

The little man sank into my favorite leather chair, almost disappearing from view. He waved the slip of paper aimlessly. “There must be more to it than this.”

Despite his rudeness I found myself taking a liking to him. He was so intense and so—frightened. “There was a man,” I said.

He leaped to his feet and clutched my coat. I believe he would have tried to shake me had I not been a foot taller and fully fifty pounds heavier than he. “What man!”

“In the library. He indicated that book and said something to me.”

He leaped onto the chair in his excitement and grasped my shoulders with his hands. We stood thus eye to eye. “Please!” he begged. “Try to remember! What did he say?”

“Perhaps you had better tell me what this is all about, Mr…?”

“Rumplestein. However, believe me, Professor Clarke, it is much better if you do not know.”

I shook my head, displaying what my colleagues occasionally call a streak of stubbornness. “You have upset me considerably. I feel I am due some explanation.”

“No! No! No!” He shook his little head vigorously each time.

“Then I cannot recollect what this man said to me.”

He groaned in dismay and stepped off the chair to the floor. “Very well,” he said, finally. “You force me to reveal this.” I waited patiently. His head snapped erect. His body stiffened. “I am engaged in a highly secret mission, the purpose of which is to prevent the collapse of this city.”

I frowned. “You’re not serious, of course.”

“I have never been more serious in my life!”

“Quem Jupiter vult perdere, dementat prius.”

“What?”

“Whom Jupiter wishes to ruin, he first drives mad,” I said.

“You think I’m crazy?”

I didn’t like the gleam in his eye and the tightly pressed lips. I hastily decided I was better off with him gone. These little people, I am told, can sometimes get extremely violent.

“I most certainly do,” I said, “but that is none of my affair. I will tell you what that man said and then I would appreciate your popping out of my life as you so unceremoniously popped into it.”

“What did he say?” He leaned forward waiting, it would seem, as if the fate of the world hung in the balance.

“Eight-thirty tonight. You know the place.”

The little man studied the paper, repeating the words. Then he emitted a shriek of ecstasy. “That’s it! Now the message is clear! Thank you, Professor Clarke. You have performed a duty towards society and your city.” He fled down the hall. I heard the front door slam and returned to my work with a sigh of relief.

* * * *

About eleven o’clock the same evening, weary in body and mind, I was preparing for bed when there came what I can only describe as a feeble but urgent rapping on my door. The strange events of the afternoon completely forgotten, I opened the door. There, in the dim light of the hall, considerably the worse for wear, stood my little visitor of the afternoon. He was bare-headed, his dark curly locks plastered to his forehead with perspiration. His bowtie was missing and his checkered suit was covered with splotches of mud and some darker substance, especially around the left arm which he gingerly supported with his right hand.

“Mr. Rumplestein!”

He shook his head weakly and staggered into the room. “Not Rumplestein,” he said, so low I could hardly hear him. “Tonight it’s O’Grady.” He collapsed on my leather chair, mumbling, “The door.”

I bolted the door and hurried over to him. “What happened to your arm?”

“Never mind that now,” he said stoically.

Despite his protests I carefully removed his jacket and cut away the sleeve of his shirt. There was an ugly wound on his arm. “How did this happen?” I asked, horrified.

“It’s nothing,” he said. Then he grinned momentarily. “The chap who caused it is feeling no pain at all!” He closed his eyes and his head began to sway. “If you have any liquor,” he mumbled, “I feel faint, suddenly—”

I rummaged through my desk and found a tiny bottle of some cordial a colleague had once brought me as a jest, knowing I do not drink. While Mr. Rumplestein, or O’Grady, gulped down the liquid I inspected the wound. “A doctor should look at that,” I said.

He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, the top of his head a good twelve inches below the top of the chair.

“I feel better now,” he sighed.

“Then perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what this is all about.” As I spoke I washed and dressed his wound as best I could. “You realize, my good fellow, for all I know you may be wanted by the police, in which case I could be arrested for harboring a criminal.”

“I assure you, Professor Clarke, I am no criminal.” He plucked a bit of mud from his beard and carefully deposited it on the table.

“But you’ve been wounded! And you infer you did some bodily harm to someone else.”

He chuckled softly. “Bodily harm? I killed him!”

I recoiled in fright. “I must notify the police!”

“No! That would ruin everything! New York would be destroyed!!”

I clucked impatiently. “Please, Mr. Rumplestein, or O’Grady, or whatever your name is. If you cannot give me an honest answer, I shall be forced to call the authorities. This nonsense about—”

He held up his hand and emitted a huge sigh. “Very well,” he said, “I will tell you what this is all about because my usefulness may come to an end abruptly and you may have to carry on. Listen carefully.” I waited with mounting impatience.

“New York,” he said after a brief pause, “is a huge, sprawling metropolis that breeds within itself the seeds of its own destruction. Transportation.” I raised an eyebrow. “At best,” he went on, “the traffic in Manhattan does not flow—it limps. Let one traffic light fail and vehicles are backed up for several blocks. True?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Very well. Imagine, then, a situation where, at one given instant every single traffic light on this congested island turns green and STAYS green.” I shuddered at the thought. “Picture the beauty of it,” he said. “Not red, which would cause all automobiles to stop, but green, the signal to go! Imagine their mad desire to rush forward in righteous obedience to the law, and their awful frustration to find every other automobile and truck obeying the same law, regardless of the direction from which it is coming. It has been estimated by noted mathematicians who are involved in this plan, that within forty-five seconds all traffic in Manhattan would come to a standstill, it becoming impossible for a car to move forward or backward. Oh, what utter chaos!”

“Ab homine homini periculum quotidianum,” I said.

“Eh?”

“Man is daily in danger from man. An ancient Roman said that.”

“He knew what he was talking about. But this is only Phase One of the plan. A corollary is based upon the axiom that one disabled automobile is equal to ten thousand operating ones.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The highways leading into and out of this island. Regardless of the number of lanes, if one automobile breaks down, traffic is immobilized for miles. Multiply that by several dozen, all at the same time, on all the entrances and exits to the island, and no earthly power could untangle that situation in less than a week, if then!”

His words evoked an image of metal monsters, stretched as far as the eye could see, steam pouring from their overheated radiators as they raucously bleated for help.

“All this can be accomplished quite simply and inexpensively,” continued my bearded little man. “However, what of subsurface transportation?”

“You mean the subway system?”

“Exactly. Once again, simplicity is the key. What do subway riders use to gain entrance through the turnstiles? Tokens. Let us suppose that on this same given day the majority of tokens distributed are all fractionally larger than normal. Not enough to be noticed, mind you, but just enough so they cannot pass through the slots and activate the mechanism.”

“But—”

“Do you realize the absolute ingenuity of this plan? Subway riders by the thousands will be trying to put tokens that they paid for into slots that will not receive them! The tremendous howl of anguish that will arise! The roar of frustration and then anger as the thousands pile upon the thousands at rush hour! The screaming and pushing as multitudes press forward at each subway station, demanding their rights of ingress as good citizens, while more multitudes press from the incoming trains demanding their rights of egress! Unquestionably the entire subway system will collapse in a matter of minutes! What was it you said before?”

“Ab homine homini periculum quotidianum?”

“And how!” He lit a cigar and puffed away for a few moments, filling my room with its foul odor. “Ingenious, eh?” he said finally.

“But to what end?” I asked. “If anarchy rules the city, how could whoever is behind this plan assume control?”

He leaned back in the chair, disappearing from view. “That is not part of the scheme. The purpose is to arouse the rest of the country to what has happened to its greatest metropolis. Every eye, ear, radio and television station will be turned towards Manhattan. The armed forces, all the resources of the government will, within hours, pour into the city, or try to. And at precisely that moment the rest of the country will be childishly open to invasion! If this plan succeeds, professor, the United States will be conquered within a matter of days, with remarkably little destruction or loss of life.”

I stared at the little figure in the chair. Was he serious? More important—was he sane? “Who is planning this invasion?”

“Who else?”

“Why tell me this story? Why not go to the authorities?”

“I need sufficient proof, first. Unfortunately, matters are coming to a head far sooner than I expected. In addition, my disposing of one of their men earlier,” he tapped his left arm significantly, “has left me in a vulnerable position. I dare not go to the authorities myself, for fear of exposing myself. And believe me”—he snapped his fingers—“I would not get as far as the nearest policeman. However, professor, you are unsuspected. You could report this plan with no danger to yourself.”

“Enough! My dear Mr. Rumplestein-O’Grady, do you expect me to charge into a police station and blurt out this ridiculous story?”

“I don’t expect you to charge anywhere, professor. Not without proof. I will get the proof for you, by tomorrow. Then—as I suspect—if I am unable to warn the authorities, I will expect you to do so. In the meantime, make use of these when you go to the university, tomorrow. I found them on the body of the man I disposed of.”

He dropped several tinkly objects on my desk, rose, and, without another word, was gone. I picked up the items. They were subway tokens. I hurried to the window and glanced out. I could see the little man hurrying down the street, his head bobbing up and down like a swimmer in the ocean. Then, my mind in a turmoil, I turned out the light and went to bed. Fortunately, regardless of the press of circumstances, I have never had difficulty in falling asleep and tonight was no exception.

* * * *

At seven-thirty the next morning I arose, dressed, and prepared my breakfast. I thought of the events of the preceding evening. Had it not been for the bloodied towel with which I had washed the little man’s wounds, I might have dismissed the entire incident as a dream. I continued to think about it while walking to the subway. I berated myself for taking the story seriously even for a moment, as I dropped a token into the turnstile and pressed forward. I gasped in sudden pain as the turnstile, still locked, pushed into my midriff. I glanced at the token in the slot. It had not dropped. I pressed it down. It refused to budge. I tried several other tokens, all with the same result. By this time half a dozen people had gathered behind me, making angry remarks. Flustered, I backed away, bought a token from the cashier, and rode to the University. Then it was I recalled that I had tried to use the tokens my strange visitor had placed on my desk before parting from me, and which I had, without thinking, picked up in the morning.

All that day I pondered over the tokens and the odd tale of Mr. Rumplestein-O’Grady. I could still give it no credence, but I was disturbed. On my way home, that evening, as is my wont, I bought a newspaper and began reading it casually. Just before reaching my station, I came across a small item on one of the inside pages. It stated that a small, bearded man, wearing a checkered suit, had been found in the river that morning, stabbed. There were no identification papers on him, only a pocket full of subway tokens which, police believed, had been used to weight down the body.

“Good heavens!” I said aloud. Several passengers raised their eyebrows. I flushed, hurried out of the train and to my apartment where I fell into my chair, shocked and shaking. No doubt the body was that of Rumplestein. The poor little man! What did this mean? Could his story conceivably have been true?

The knock on my door startled me. “Professor, are you home?” It was my landlady. When I opened the door she handed me an envelope with my name written on it in small, neat letters. “A little fellow with a beard gave it to me early this morning, after you’d gone. He said to be sure you got it. Then he ran away.” She shook her head in obvious disapproval of such actions.

After she left I tore open the envelope and read the contents.

“By the time you see this chances are excellent that I shall be dead. However, that is of little importance. I have found the proof we need—their distribution plant. It’s an old warehouse. I am going there to see if I cannot obtain concrete proof—perhaps a pocketful of tokens. If I fail, you must carry on. Farewell, professor. It was a privilege knowing you.”

Beneath the message was an address which I recognized as being in one of the less reputable sections of the city. There was no signature.

What to do! What to do! I no longer doubted the truth of little Mr. Rumplestein-O’Grady’s story. But what to do about it? I considered going to the warehouse, but the thought of high adventure sends nothing but ennui coursing through my veins. Besides, there was undoubtedly some element of danger in that course. The police! Naturally! They would know how to deal with this situation and perhaps even avenge poor Mr. Rumplestein’s death. Filled with righteous anger and indignation I hurried out and went to the nearest police station.

In retrospect I can understand the reaction of the desk sergeant to my wild-eyed claim that the city was in imminent danger of invasion and he must do something about it at once!

“How much, now, have ye had to drink?” he asked calmly.

When I swore that I was as sober as he, he grew purple with rage and threatened to have me thrown into jail for insulting a police officer unless I disappeared immediately.

All that night and the next day I tried to reach someone in authority with my information. The New York City police were admirably calm about my information. My actions and voice, however, seemed to disturb them greatly. When I insisted they investigate the warehouse, they told me the officer on the beat would do so in good time. When I suggested they examine the tokens found on the body they informed me that these had been turned over to the Property Clerk and if not claimed within ninety days would be given to the PAL.

As a last desperate measure I went to the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and presented myself to one of the Federal men. I told him my story. He looked at me calmly, then pored through a thick book on his desk. He closed one eye thoughtfully and peered at me through the other.

“There’s really nothing,” he said, “that we can do about it.”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“That has nothing to do with it. According to regulations this is strictly a municipal affair. It doesn’t come within the jurisdiction of the FBI. And we wouldn’t want to step on municipal toes.” He closed the book smartly.

I was crushed. I couldn’t believe it. Finally I said, “Serum est cavendi tempus in mediis malis!”

“What?”

“‘It is too late to be cautious when in the very midst of dangers.’ Seneca said that two thousand years ago.”

The young man rose and nodded towards the door. “Good day, professor. And an E pluribus unum to you!”

That was an hour ago.

* * * *

Professor Clarke stopped talking. Jimmy and I said nothing. The only sound was the hum of traffic outside. “And that is the way it is, gentlemen,” said Professor Clarke, finally. “Quando cadet Roma, cadet et mundus. When Rome falls—the world!” He sipped the beer which by now had gone flat. “Do you believe me?”

Jimmy and I exchanged glances. “Have another beer,” said Jimmy. “On the house.”

“I see.” Professor Clarke sighed. “Well, I cannot really blame you, gentlemen. I only hope you do not live to regret it.” He got up and put a coin on the bar. Jimmy went to make change.

Then we became aware of automobile horns blasting steadily on a rising note of urgency. Jimmy and I ran outside. Traffic was piling up rapidly in the street. And as far as we could see in every direction, all the traffic lights had turned green!

“Holy cow!” said Jimmy. “He was telling the truth!”

“So it appears,” said a voice at my elbow. I turned. It was the professor. There was a sad, wistful expression on his face. “Quod erat demonstrandum,” he said softly. “Q.E.D.” Then, as the horns got louder, and we could hear drivers cursing, he strode down the street and around the corner.

“Professor!” I yelled. “Wait!” I started to run after him when the horns stopped blowing. Cars started moving again, and many of the traffic lights had turned red.

Jimmy wiped his face in obvious relief. “Must have been a short circuit,” he said hoarsely. “But for a minute—”

“Yes,” I said. “A short circuit. Or maybe—a dry run to test facilities for the big day?”

Neither one of us said anything, but we both had the same thought as we returned to the bar. I picked up the subway token the professor had left there. I flipped it in the air several times and looked at Jimmy. He nodded in agreement. I went out and headed for the nearest subway.

Q.E.D.?

THEY WERE THE WIND, by C.J. Henderson

A Tale of Byanntia

“So,” asked the human, the outsider. The one who did not know. “What the hell was that thing?”

A Kuzzi warrior stood next to the human, thinking how to explain. Though the one called Joseph Matson was tall, over six of their feet, the Kuzzi stood more that two feet taller. His short coat of horizontally striped fur had thinned for the summer, the blue, black and grey markings of his skin showing through, a natural camouflage that blended well with the alien landscape during the hot months. The male’s head was surrounded by a thick, glossy black mane, a single gray stripe cutting its forehead and muzzle to the chin.

“They were the wind,” answered the warrior.

Matson wondered if the Kuzzi were speaking metaphorically, as its kind often did, or not. It certainly sounded like a poetic description, but the young man knew much of Kuzzi speech patterns, and Matson would have sworn his companion meant the statement to be taken literally.

“Bentelii,” he asked, “speak plain now, or with layers?”

“Speak with plain layers,” the warrior answered. “No other speak possible.”

Matson grunted. He wanted an answer, a simple, uncomplicated set of words wrapped around an idea he could accept. His companion’s answer, however, told him there was nothing simple or uncomplicated about his question, no matter how straight-forward it might have seemed to him. Setting his repeller on the ground, the young man made a motion with his head the Kuzzi understood as a request for the full explanation. Both males sat, one cross-legged, the other with arms wrapped around knees, and the one who was not an outsider spoke.

“Long before your people come this place,” it said, sinewy arms in motion, “long before Kuzzi people even, there were the Fa’Lun. They exist, learn to hunt and harvest, to speak and write and build and dream. They name Byanntia, teach Kuzzi speak, know whole world as old race while Kuzzi only children.”

“So, that thing could talk?” Matson asked his challenging question with wonder in his voice, and Bentelii nodded, equal wonder in the motion. Then, it continued.

The warrior told the human of the Fa’Lun’s fascination with flight. The race might have been ancient, but they had always remained nomads, had never built permanent shelters. The humans would find no artifacts of a Fa’Lun empire. They had never been a race interested in great populating numbers. No, the Fa’Lun, the story went, decided early on that the best way to deal with predators was not to try and construct defenses, or to cover the land with great numbers of their kind. Instead, they had a different idea.

“They wanted to fly. Their thought was that the safest place was in the sky, and so they went there.”

Joseph Matson shook his head in fascinated confusion. He questioned his friend as to what he meant. How did someone simply choose to fly?

Bentelii explained that the Fa’Lun were quite adept at breeding. It was they that had crossbred the early kison, an at-the-time stringy, tenacious beast, until they had perfected the slow-moving, fat and juicy breed the humans had discovered upon their arrival on Byanntia. To the Fa’Lun the answer to their quest had been simple.

“If they wanted to fly, they would simply make themselves fly.”

The Fa’Lun, a people who had made almost a religion out of genetics—who had never over-extended their population in fear members would break off and form their own tribes, tribes that might turn on one another—turned their amazing talents on themselves. Quite simply, they began to breed themselves into a race which could take flight.

“It took them thousands of years,” Bentelii said with a flourish, a sound like pride in its graveled voice. Matson wondered if the Kuzzi was telling the tale in a bragging sense—home town clan makes good—to let the human know that not only his race could make things happen when they set their minds to it. “But slowly, eventually, they succeeded.”

Matson looked into the sky, his mind filled with questions. How was it no one had mentioned any of this to a human before? Why had a Fa’Lun never been seen before now? How did Bentelii know all he told? The Kuzzi continued its story.

“Bones got lighter, hollow. Skin stretched, flaps extended, ankle to wrist, hair thickened, hardened, grew into feathers, not like bird, different, their own. Feathers enough to take the Fa’Lun to the skies.”

Bentelii’s command of the human’s language was quite good, but still the warrior stumbled as it tried to explain the transformation of Byanntia’s first race. The Kuzzi, it seemed, had begun to reach for sentience just as the Fa’Lun began to reach for the clouds. The older ones refused to hinder the dangerous carnivores as they obviously began to come into their own as thinking beings. Instead they used the event as fuel, a prod to keep them working toward their goal.

Let the Kuzzi learn to hunt with tools, they decided with an inordinate generosity, let them learn to plant and built and spin and carve and create. By the time they are a force that can oppose us, we will be gone to where they can not reach.

“Are you saying the Fa’Lun named, ah, your people? ‘Kuzzi’ was a Fa’Lun word?”

“Yes. All words are Fa’Lun.”

Bentelii explained that while the Fa’Lun had sought flight above all things, still they had remained a part of the world. Not wanting to exterminate a predator, they had instead helped the Kuzzi along, adopting them, gearing the younger race to take their place as caretakers of the planet. By the time the Fa’Lun had streamlined themselves to the point where tools and tribes were no longer of any use to them, they had left their language behind in the stewardship of the Kuzzi, as well as anything else the younger species desired to claim as their own.

“They had been flying for some time by then. By the point Kuzzi understood, really, what the Fa’Lun were, had been, were doing…I mean…”

“I understand,” whispered Matson, his tone quieted by the awe tingling his senses. “Go on.”

“By that time, the Fa’Lun disappeared. They used to fly and land, like the birds, fly to escape danger, fly to search for food, land to sleep, to make nests…but that stopped. By the time Kuzzi became a true race, the Fa’Lun went to the skies and did not return.”

Matson was speechless. He could not comprehend it all. Oh, he could accept the story as a scientific thought, as an idea, a suggestion. A possibility. But as a reality, as a tangible notion with weight he could test against his own beliefs—no.

No, it was too large an idea, too foreign.

Too alien.

“It is hard for us to accept as well.”

“But,” Matson countered, “your people had time to accept this, they saw it. Talked to the Fa’Lun…ah, I, er…do you still…does anyone still talk to them?”

Bentelii shook his head.

“Not for stretch after stretch. Last person I know to talk with a Fa’Lun, many long stretch…in my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s time, healer Baww’ja, they say he friend with one Fa’Lun. The last Fa’Lun that would come down from the sky. They would talk and Baww’ja would tell him of Kuzzi.”

The Fa’Lun of whom Bentelii spoke had no name, or at least never gave one to the healer. Over the years of their relationship, the Fa’Lun grew more and more distant. His eyes began to stay constantly trained on the sky. Finally, after Baww’ja died, the Fa’Lun were never seen again.

“Their minds different,” the warrior explained. “Life on land forgotten, social rules forgotten, everything left behind, not just things, but ideas, concepts, maybe even thought itself.”

Matson shifted uneasily. The more his friend tried to make the concept of the Fa’Lun clear, the more impossible understanding them seemed to become. An entire race that just up and changed themselves—herdsmen who got it into their heads one day to leave the ground behind, who abandoned thought itself for flight.

“They really stopped thinking?”

“The last Fa’Lun, Baww’ja’s visitor, it was said he became harder and harder to communicate with, that toward the end of Baww’ja’s days, it seemed the creature only came back to hear his voice. It is said the healer had a most pleasant voice.”

Matson shuddered. The story he had been counting on to make him feel better, to diminish his guilt, had instead multiplied to become a weight he could barely stand. He turned his head, looking back at the mangled corpse splattered against the rock wall behind them. Not some monster from the skies, at all, but a thing of grace and wonder, a self-made angel which he had snuffed out through a panicked moment of careless fear.

His mind fell backwards, rushing his memory to the moment not so long ago where he had heard the noise in the sky. He had wheeled around, had seen the great, glorious wingspan spread across the heavens, and his first thoughts had been colored with awe. The young human had watched the soaring object as it spun and looped and floated its way in and out of the clouds. He had no idea what he was looking at, did not care. He had stumbled across yet one more of Byanntia’s marvels and was simply happy to be witness to another miracle discovered.

And then, everything had changed. The flying form had taken note of Matson, had changed direction, diving straight for the young man. He had grown frightened. The thing was moving straight for him, flying directly at him at what seemed an incredible speed.

Matson had lifted his repeller, the creature had screeched defiantly, charging on, sweat had stung the trembling human’s eye, and with a single action, it was over.

Suddenly the sky was blotched by an explosion of fluff and flesh and blood, and the ruined sack of what had been a living being slammed down out of the blue and destroyed itself against the solid rock of the mountainside upon which Matson still sat. His eyes glued to the shattered remains, the young man whispered;

“That might be the last of its kind, for all we know. And I killed it.”

The air hung dark with grief between the two friends, regret curling itself around Matson’s neck and biting away at his skull, burrowing into his brain. The human could not bring himself to look his friend in the eye. At least, not until the Kuzzi spat;

“Good.”

Matson’s eyes blinked hard in shock. He swallowed, his head jerking, first sideways then backwards. The motions were violent, but slight. The human asked;

“What do you mean?”

“Fa’Lun foolish, cowardly people. Run away from life instead of embracing it.”

“But they taught themselves to fly.”

“Taught themselves to hide. Afraid of everything, they go to the sky and never return. Tell me, Joseph, what good is flight without destination?”

“But I killed it.”

“Dove at you out of sky, screamed and came for you. What were you supposed to do? What do you think it was coming for?”

“I, I don’t know…but…”

The big Kuzzi smiled. Its mouth opened past the point of humor to where Matson knew the lion-like alien was laughing at him. Placing a paw on the human’s shoulder, Bentelii said softly;

“You humans, you could never understand the Fa’Lun. And perhaps,” the Kuzzi’s yellow eyes went soft for a moment, “perhaps it is best that way.”

The two friends gathered their things then, and prepared to make their way back down the mountain. They had climbed to the height they had merely as a diversion and had been rewarded with far more than they had ever expected. As they started their trek back to the pass where their decent would begin, Matson asked one last question.

“You said—the Fa’Lun, that they were the wind. What did you mean by that?”

“They were the wind,” Bentelii repeated, muscles rippling as he ambled down the steep incline. “They were there, but then they were gone.”

Joseph Matson’s eyes scanned the horizon, searching the sky endlessly as he and his friend worked their way down the mountain through the heavy heat of the late afternoon. He wondered about the Fa’Lun, as well as the Kuzzi’s casual dismissal of them. He thought on what he had done, punishing himself diligently, and on how Bentelii had felt about it and had seen no damage in his actions.

Then, a breeze cooled his brow and he sighed in relief, grateful for the slight but comforting gust.

STOPOVER, by William Gerken

The first time I saw him was when he knocked on my door. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how he looked—tall and thin, old clothes and older shoes, an unruly mop of blond hair. It was only when I looked at his face that I realized that he was more than a mere boy of eighteen or nineteen. The tired lines around his mouth, the sad, mature look in his eyes, the stoop already evident in his young shoulders; he had been forced to mature too quickly, and seemed to have knowledge a boy his age had no right to be burdened with.

“I—I was wondering if I might get a bite to eat, sir,” he said.

I grinned. No matter how he looked, he was no different from anyone else his age where food was concerned. “Sure; come on in and rest a spell,” I told him. “Marty, can you fix a plate of something? We’ve got a guest.” Marty—my wife—glanced through the kitchen doorway. After a cursory look at the boy, she smiled at him and went back to work.

“Sit down, son, you look pretty done-in. Come far today?”

He nodded. “Guess it shows, huh?” he said, brushing the road dust from his trousers.

“Uh-huh. Where you from? Not around here, I know.”

“Far back as I can remember, Oregon has been home.”

He said his name was Jay. It wasn’t hard to guess why he was almost a thousand miles from home. During the war, over ten million American families had been separated, their way of life destroyed by the bombings. Ever since its end, people had been seeking their loved ones; many, only to find them dead or dying. Sometimes the searches stretched across continents or oceans. In that respect the boy sitting opposite me was no different from hundreds of others I’ve seen in the past ten years. The only difference was in his face.

“Looking for your family,” I said, making it a statement.

“Yessir.” He smiled, as though the sentence had double meaning.

After he had eaten, he went down to the town store to look through its records. They all do. They turn the pages of the big stopover book, hoping a relative or friend had passed through the same town. Then they sign the book, put down the date and where they’re headed, and set out once more. Almost all towns have stopover books nowadays, and a good thing, too. They helped me find Marty ten years back, when the truce was finally signed. In fact, I found her right here in this town. We got married, settled down, and haven’t been more than a hundred miles away since then.

Martha called me into the kitchen almost as soon as he was gone. “He’s a nice boy.”

“That he is,” I agreed. “You know, I’ve been thinking; we could use a young fella around here to help with the work.”

“If he’ll stay. There was something in his eyes; a sort of longing for someone very close to him. That kind usually takes off after a night’s rest.”

“I know. Guess I’ll drop by the store; see if I can talk him into staying.”

* * * *

By the time I reached the store, school was out, and a group of kids were gathered around him, listening to his description of the Rocky Mountains, which he had crossed during the summer. The kids weren’t the only ones listening. Even the adults were standing around in the store, remembering the places they had once seen themselves, and getting such bits of news as he dropped about the other towns he had passed through. The Searchers are, next to the town radio stations, the only source of information we have now, so it’s no wonder they’re so warmly greeted wherever they stop.

Soon as he’d finished telling about the Rockies, I said we’d appreciate it if he would stay for supper. He said he would, and later, while he and Tommy, my eight-year-old son, and I were walking home, I asked him if he’d stay with us for a while.

For a moment he looked wistful, as if wishing he could stay here, and forget whoever he was trying to find. Then he smiled and said, thanks, he would stay for a week or so.

* * * *

Jay was real helpful, too, cutting stove and fireplace wood for the coming winter, running errands, hunting for game animals, and teaching at the school. Almost all Searchers teach when they can be persuaded to stay in town for a spell. Since there are no more colleges to produce teachers, anyone who knows something useful takes a turn at teaching. ’Fore the war, I was a mathematics major in college, so twice a week I teach all kinds of math at school, from numbers through calculus. Mostly, Searchers teach about what the places they had passed through are like.

He had been living with us for a week before I found out he was a Lifter. Even the discovery was an accident. I had started for the store, but then remembered a chore I wanted him to do. I heard the sounds of wood-chopping coming from the shed, so I went behind the house to the small wooden structure. I must have gasped or something, because he turned around to look at me, dropping the axe he had poised over a block of wood as he turned. Only he hadn’t been holding the axe; it had been hanging in mid-air without support. I suddenly realized why he had that sad, tired look about him all the time.

He picked up the axe from where it had fallen, and stood it against the wall. Reaching for his jacket, he said, “I—I guess I’d better be moving along, Mr. Tranton. I’m really sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble.” He started past me for the door.

“Hold on, son.” I grabbed his arm. “Why the rush?”

“I don’t want to cause you any trouble. Now that you know what I am—” he gritted the words out bitterly, “the word will get around. I wouldn’t want the others in town to be angry with you because of me. You and Mrs. Tranton have been nice to me. Thanks for everything.” He tried to pull his arm loose, but I held fast.

“Let’s go inside and have a cup of coffee,” I suggested. “I don’t know about the other towns you’ve been through, but here we don’t hate a person because he might happen to have powers we don’t.”

“Yesterday I was down at the store, and I heard one of the men sounding off about us,” he said. “He didn’t sound like he cared much for us.”

“Must have been John Atherson. He never could understand psi powers, and he blames the war on it. We just let him talk; can’t change a person like that.” We went up the back steps and through the door into the kitchen. “Go on, show Marty,” I said, taking off my jacket.

He looked at me to make sure I meant it. Then he raised the coffee pot from the stove, and watched it move across the room under its own power to the table where I was sitting. Leaving the pot in mid-air, he made the cupboard open, and still standing in the middle of the room, floated three cups and saucers to the table. Then he got the cream, sugar and three spoons, put them on the table, and poured the coffee.

Marty watched the coffee pot move back to the stove, her mouth open in amazement. She said, “I heard of it, but I don’t think I’d have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.” I nodded, and she smiled at Jay. “Now that I know,” she said, “I’m even gladder you chose to stay here for a while.”

He grinned. “Thanks.” He sat down with us at the table, and stirred some sugar into his coffee.

“It must be hard on you,” Marty said quietly, in a knowing way. “Are you really looking for your family, or for others with psi?”

“My father was killed during the bombings. After that, Mom and I were alone. She only had a little talent; Dad and I were the ones who were really adept. Anyway, we stayed on the small farm we owned until last spring. Then Mom married again, and I was free to leave. I think her new husband was sorry to see me go, because it meant a lot of manual work for him that I had been doing an easier way. I decided to see if I couldn’t find any others like myself, any maybe my Dad’s family, so I left and started across the country.”

“Do you have any other powers, or can you just control things?” Marty asked.

He grinned. “If you mean, am I an all-around superman, no. Dad wasn’t either. I do have a scattering of other psi talents, though, but nothing as well-developed as my telekinesis. I’m still working on them.”

Tommy came in from school just then. “Could you teach him how to use his mind that way, or do you have to be born with it?” I said.

He smiled again. “No, you don’t have to be born with it. Everyone could do it if they started training themselves young enough to use their minds to the fullest extent. All through history certain people have had strange powers. The trouble was, they were thought to be freaks instead of the better developed humans they actually were. Even now, we’re only on the threshold of learning the full power of the mind.” He turned to Tommy. “Would you like to learn how to do things, Tommy?”

“Sure. Like what?”

He glanced at Marty and me. “Like making the world a better place to live.”

* * * *

Two weeks later, I brought my son Tommy to a meeting of the town council. I wasn’t too worried about getting his proposal accepted. We might have some trouble with Atherson, but I figured between the two of us, we could handle him. When the new business came up, I stood up and led Tommy to the front of the hall. There were a few whispers as we went, as children under fifteen aren’t allowed in the hall during a council meeting.

“Tommy has something to say to you which, I think, will interest everyone here. Go on, son.”

Seconds afterwards, we all heard, a clear “Hello,” but not with our ears; the word came from inside our heads.

Someone said: “The kid’s a telepath,” and the silence was broken.

Everybody was talking at the same time.

“I suppose you think it’s an honor to have one of them damn things for your son,” Atherson yelled. “I’m glad you’re the one who got stuck, and not me.”

“Tommy was not born a telepath, John,” I told him. “He has been deliberately trained to make use of the latent power in his brain. And I don’t think I’m ‘stuck’ either. We all know we’ve been slowly slipping into retrogression ever since the war. None of us like it, but there isn’t anything we can do to halt it—yet. We don’t want our children, or their children, to keep slipping backwards. If we don’t stop it in our lifetime, we may not be able to stop it at all.

“As I see it, the best chance we have to at least achieve a status quo is to accept the aid those among us with psi talents are willing to give. After all, it’s their world, too. With their help, we may be able to build a better civilization, one without the socio-political diseases that led to the war.

“The young man who has been staying at my house for the past three weeks taught Tommy to do what he just did. He says he thinks he can do it with any child under ten years old, and is even willing to try it with some teen-agers. Of course, Tommy’s training has just begun. He will keep on learning for years.

“Here’s my idea. If some of the children get a grounding in how to develop their dormant brain power, by the time they’re twenty, they’ll be able to mold a new society, one geared to the present culture instead of the past traditions. How about it?”

I waited. For a minute there was silence. Finally one of the older men stood up. “Is he sure he can do it?”

“All we know is it worked with Tommy,” I replied.

“I don’t like it; it’s unnatural,” Atherson said.

“No one asked you to like it,” someone said.

Another called: “Do you think the third world war that destroyed our world is natural? Let’s take a vote.”

A vote was taken, and it was decided to add an extra class for those children whose parents wanted them to attend. After a month, the council would expect a report on what progress—or lack of it—had been made.

* * * *

A few weeks later, when my math class was over, I hung around to watch Jay teach the new psi class. It was divided into small groups, each training on a different psi talent. One group was lifting pencils and gently returning them to desks by telekinesis. Another was sitting quietly, once in a while breaking into shouts of laughter; probably telepathy. There were other groups, but I didn’t know enough about the talents to identify their work.

During the time he was teaching, Jay met a girl. They spent quite a bit of time together, and she joined the special class. By the time the report to the council came due, it wasn’t hard to tell they were in love.

Just about everyone in town turned out for that meeting. The boys and girls who were taking the class were seated at the front of the hall. The report was first on the agenda, so the kids could go home to bed.

“When we started,” he said, “I asked those children who weren’t interested, or who were—um—unsuited to the work, to leave. Then we ran through a general training exercise, and after a week, I split the class up into groups. Each group was to concentrate on one talent, but general sessions for the entire class give everyone practice in all talents. I think we’ve made fairly good progress. Some of the older teen-agers have shown an interest in the talents (he glanced at his girl), and although progress has not been as rapid as with the younger children, they are sufficiently developed to help instruct. Now your children are going to demonstrate what they have learned.”

For the next half hour we watched Tommy and fourteen other boys and girls work. Tommy and the others who had concentrated on telepathy read silently to us from books and talked to each other, projecting their thoughts so we could also listen in. The telekinesis group all worked together to build a small table. All the necessary materials were stacked at the front of the room. The kids sat in a half circle, their brows furrowed in concentration as lumber, nails and hammers moved under the guidance of their minds. When they had finished, the table was complete, even to the sanding and a coat of varnish.

Finally, the only one with precognition—a girl about six years old, with long blonde hair—gave the weather forecast for the next two weeks. Copies of her prediction were passed out to us, so we could check her accuracy.

Once the kids were gone, Jay stood up again. “I hope you are all convinced as to what can be accomplished through the use of psi. The talents can and should be used for the betterment of society, not for carnival side shows. Of course, there are more talents than those just demonstrated. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find them present in this group. I was hoping for either a healer or a sensitive, but no one had the necessary ability.

“If you want the class continued, the decision is yours. Thanks for having open minds and for giving me a chance.” He picked up his jacket and walked out.

Atherson didn’t bother to come to the meeting, so the vote to continue the class was unanimous.

* * * *

Jay stayed on, teaching part-time, helping out with the work at my place, and seeing his girl. Then, one afternoon two weeks after the council meeting, she came to see me. “You’ve got to stop him, Mr. Tranton,” she said. “Jay’s going to leave. He told me he was going right after he finished the class today. He’s probably down at the store right now, buying things to take with him. You’ve got to make him stay.”

“Why?” I asked quietly, watching the tears well up in her eyes. She hadn’t lost her composure yet, but she felt so strongly about him she was on the verge of breaking down.

“Because I love him and he loves me,” she retorted. “That’s why. Won’t you talk to him? At least get him to take me with him. Please.”

“You said you love him. Would you rather he stayed here, and was never fully happy, or left to continue searching, maybe to return someday, ready to settle down? If you really love him there’s no question.”

“Couldn’t he take me with him?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think you should even ask him to take you. You’d be a burden that would slow him down. He’d worry about you, have to get your food, find shelter for you. He might let you go with him, but don’t ask him to. He’s too young to be tied down. Now go on, and wish him good luck and kiss him goodbye. He’s coming up the road now.”

She glanced out the open window, jumped up, and ran out into the sunlight, to wait at the side of the road. I picked up the book I had been reading, but the window was too close to the road for me to concentrate on the pages. She didn’t say anything until he was standing before her.

“I’ll be waiting,” I heard her say. “Take care of yourself.”

He nodded. “I have to go,” he told her. “Partly because it was Dad’s last wish, partly because I need others of my own kind. Alone, we can’t help the world much; together, there’s a good chance for results. I left a letter for the council saying you were going to take over the class, because you have the ability to carry on. Watch Cathy and help her all you can. She’s got it; her weather forecast proved that much. You’ve got to drum that into her; never let her forget it. Maybe I’ll be back—I hope so. But first, I have to find others. I need them, and they might need me. We’re still not completely self-sufficient.

“Give the kids my love, and keep them at it. Just don’t forget they are kids. Give them a chance to grow up as normally as possible. That’s a chance I didn’t have.”

He kissed her tenderly, then started off down the road. When he reached the crest of the hill, he turned and waved.

Marty joined me at the doorway, and we waved too. Outlined against the bright blue afternoon sky, he stood immobile for a moment. To many, he would have been just a young man with a tired-out face; but to me, the symbol of a better life for Tommy and his children…a life unmarred by the threat of instant death as punishment for something he had little control over.

He’s gone now, but the work will go on, and the Athersons of the world will come to realize he is giving us another chance, a chance we may not really deserve. But we want it nonetheless.

CONSEQUENCES OF STEAM, by Michael Hemmingson

I

Ellis Chamberlain is a stocky and powerful man who, when walking into a room, draws all attention to him—perhaps because of his flamboyant clothing, a Nineteenth Century tuxedo with a top hat and white cane and a cape, giving him the appearance of a dapper gent from antiquity or a ostentatious stage magician; or perhaps it’s the fact that he is one of the richest men in Nevada, holder of proprietary time manipulation technology and owner of the state’s four ChronoBrothels that renders an air of awe around him.

“All men are whores, and so are all women,” is one of his favorite mottos, “and whoredom being the oldest profession in human history, why deny this truth—why not embrace and become one with your inner whore? Defy conventions, I say! Sabres, gentlemen, sabers! To arms and let us fornicate through time!”

No one knows more about history and prostitution than Ellis Chamberlain, sometimes referred to in the media as The Pimp of Time, “the man who will sell your great-great-great-grandmother’s virtue for the right price,” an accusation that he does not deny.

“I have had clients wanting to sleep with ancient ancestors,” he says, “and I’ve provided them with that particular kink. They used to say, ‘Whatever floats your hovercraft’ and who am I to judge another person’s passion?”

* * * *

“If I had never met Wilson Wilcox, my current timeline would be completely different,” Chamberlain says, sitting at the bar in the Reno ChronoBrothel, or Time Lust #2. “I’d be still selling real estate on the moon, or I’d be a politician—what’s the difference when both hock moldy green cheese?”

He met Wilson Wilcox when they were both freshman sharing a dorm room at MIT. This was no chance encounter, according to Chamberlain. “Before then, when we were just tots, on the same street. But we weren’t playmates then, we didn’t even know about each other. At the sweet sixteen birthday party of this lovely creature I wanted to—get to know better (and I did, too) I happened to cross paths with young Wilson and someone said, ‘Hey you two come from the same pod’ and we talked about the pod and sex and science. Next came college, and we went to the same institution. I was majoring in international finance and he was a nose beak in quantum physics and it was all Russian gibberish to me until he said, one day, he says, ‘I believe I can open a portal between temporal dimensions.’ That is, time travel, but only going backwards, never into the future, because the future doesn’t exist.”

* * * *

Chamberlain reminisces: “I’m a history buff, focused on the economic changes of decades, examining the patterns of commerce, so the theme of a different era per each floor was my initial idea. With Wilson’s time technology, we came up with magic, something the sex industry has never seen before—and you know they say that the sex industry is always the first to adopt any new technology. Think about it: it’s the oldest profession of all, going back to the cavemen times, so who could resist to sample prostitutes throughout history? You want a whore from Biblical times, we can do that; from the times of Maria Antoinette, no problem; ancient Greece to pre-colonial Mexico to Victorian England. Try a harlot from the Wild West or a beer frau from 19th Century Germany!

“The question now is: which would you like to experience for yourself? All in the name of research of course. Which you must do, sir. You can’t write an article about the ChronoBrothels without hopping down the line and having some fun. Sabers!”

II

May 16, 1806

London, England

My Dear Rosemary,

I am writing to you to narrate a most strange occurrence that happened last night while I engaged in my weekly group dining, in the company of friends and colleges whose names I will only attribute initials to: K., V., A. W., S. and Q. We were entertained with a wonderfully magnificent and flabbergasting story by a man who called himself The Time Traveler.

The Time Traveler was a handsome gent who wore the clothing of our era, yet he did not seem comfortable in the attire, as if he were wearing alien skin. He told us to call him ‘The Time Traveler,’ stating that his actual name would mean nothing to us.

There were seven of us at the table. We had just finished dinner in the back room of the inn and were enjoying brandy and cigars and telling ribald jokes when this fellow approached us. He said not a word, and sat down at out table without an invitation. He looked around at each one of us with his pale blue eyes, and we glanced at him with the same curiosity. He produced a cigar, a brand that I had never seen or smelled before. He struck a match. ‘I would like to tell you a story,’ said he.

‘We love stories,’ said S., ‘but we do not know you. Rather bold to place yourself to our company without telling us, at least, your name.’

‘I am truly sorry,’ said he, ‘but I do not have the time for pleasantries.’ He laughed. ‘How ironic. Here I am, a time traveler, and I have no time to spare.’

‘Did you say “time traveler”?’ inquired K.

‘Indeed: it is who I am and the name I will go by.’

‘And where, or whence, do you hail from, sir?’

“The United States. What you know as the colonies. I come from the future, the year 2106. Exactly three hundred years from now.’

That was worthy of a laugh from all of us. ‘Preposterous!’ ‘Impossible!’ ‘Insane!’

The Time Traveler puffed his cigar. ‘Please, gentlemen, hear my story before passing judgment.’

We agreed to listen to him. I asked if he would care for some brandy and he replied, ‘Yes, most kind of you. Thank you.’ I poured him a glass of the fine brown liquid and he told us the following:

‘As I stated, I am from 2106. I am what you call a Hunter. I hunt those who break the laws of time travel, who go back and change the course of history, thus altering the timeline and the lives of our ancestors, with dire impact on the future. The individual I seek—we shall call him The Journalist, for that was his occupation. He was on assignment to write a feature article on the ChronoBrothels in Nevada. I will try to explain this in a way you can understand. I trust you gentlemen know what a brothel is, correct?’

‘An outlandish question!’ said W.

‘Of course we do!’ said S.

‘I meant no offense,’ said The Time Traveler. ‘There are ten ChronoBrothels form my era; six are in Nevada, the others are in France, Florida, New Zealand and Japan. Yes, these nations still exist two hundred years from now. The ChronoBrothels are enormous structures, one hundred stories tall, one hundred floors of different eras for sexual gratification.’

‘You are making no sense, sir,’ I piped in.

‘Each floor is a portal into a different century, millennium, decade…you go to one floor, you will enter a corresponding brothel in, say, feudal China, or Denmark in the early Twentieth Century, or a harem in the Ottoman Empire. There had never been a breach before, a breach that would drastically alter the shape of history. It was, no pun intended, only a matter of time that it happened. And The Journalist was the man who committed this act. The first, I should note, as there have been others since, creating my occupation.

‘The Journalist told the proprietor of the establishment—Mr. Chamberlain, my boss—that he wished to visit a brothel in London in the year 1769. The Journalist went to that floor in the ChronoB and he never came back. At first no one knew what he had done because the entire history of earth had changed. It so happened that a customer who was in ancient Sumerian returned with his memories intact of a history no one else recalled. That person was—is—me. I know this may not make sense to you gentlemen, so I will get right down to it: The Journalist introduced to the British Empire with certain concepts of steam-based technology that powered airships, naval vessels and weapons of mass destruction; a technology that aided England in defeating the American Revolution and maintaining control of the colonies—the result eradicating many major events that would follow, such as the American Civil War, the Spanish Civil War, World Wars One and Two, the Jihads Uprising…’

‘Pardon me,’ said Q., ‘did you say steam-based technology?’

‘Yes.’

‘We have that now.’

‘You should not. It was introduced into this timeline one hundred years before it was meant to.’

‘Thus creating an alternate timeline,’ said V.

The Time Traveler stared at V. for a long moment and the energy in the air was quite uncomfortable. The Time Traveler stated: ‘Exactly. A complete different future history.’

‘If all those wars were avoided,’ said V., ‘would not that be a good thing?’

‘Stopping any war is good for mankind,’ said A.

‘Not if the end result are wars more horrible,’ said the Time Traveler. ‘To stop the power hungry monarchy of the England of the Nineteenth Century, France developed, or will, the atomic bomb in 1887, rushing forth a time of massive nuclear warfare, nearly destroying all of our race. By 1890, there was, or will be, a total of five thousand human beings left, living underground.’

‘All because steam technology?’ asked K.

‘Yes. The consequences of innovation.’

‘This is completely insane and absurd!’ cried Q. ‘The Empire losing the colonies? That would have been impossible.’

‘I assure you,’ the Time Traveler replied, ‘it was once a true course.’

‘I refuse to accept that those uneducated, uncouth colonial barbarians could defeat Her Majesty’s armies,’ said A.

We all agreed and toasted the Empire. The Time Traveler did not join us.

‘We must know, sir,’ said V. rather slowly, ‘why are you here narrating this tale of impossible wonder?’

The Time Traveler glared at V and stated: ‘Oh, you know why, Mr. Vance.’

We all turned to V in unison. Vance? That was not the name we knew him by.

I hope, dear sister, you are still reading attentively and not laughing, deciding that your older brother has been composing a humorous false letter or has fallen ill to hallucination. I assure you: I am quite sincerely serious about what I heard this man declare, and what was about to transpire.

V. and the Time Traveler continued to stare at one another.

‘Well, that certainly is quite the adventure story,’ said W., breaking the tension at the table.

‘Gentlemen,’ said V., ‘I regret to inform you that everything you have heard from our visitor is true. To the best of my knowledge, that is. I am the Journalist our friend speaks of; and I come from the future just as he. However, I was not aware that my actions had such negative repercussions on history. My initial intention was merely to get away from the life I once had. I was not happy in the Twenty-Second Century, I had lost people I loved and my heart was broken. I did not go to the ChronoB with the intention of escaping into the past. It was only when I went back, to 1769, and spoke with the young lady in my company, that I decided the Eighteenth Century would be a better era to live. The Empire was at its height of power; morality was decent, and I was then, as I am now, a true British citizen at heart. When I went back, and it seemed to me no one was going to come for me, I settled down to a new life. In fact, I married the young trollop in the brothel; you all know my wife, Christine, and that is her secret past. We had a child. I wanted a better United Kingdom for my family, so I drew up designs I had seen before in librarians, technology I remembered from my college days: designs for airships, battleships, tanks, troop transports and mechanical armor suits, all operated on the single concept of steam power from coal. It was the best available technology to acquire, albeit too soon.

‘Yes, gentlemen,’ V. continued, his head down in shame, ‘it would appear I am a temporal criminal. Millions have perished as a result of one single act by me, and a desire to create a better world, Instead, I fashioned one that was—or will be—worse.’

‘It took a lot of energy and effort to finally locate you,’ said the Time Traveler.

‘I did not want to be found,’ said V., ‘yet here you are. You have me. What is next?’

‘Will you resist arrest?’

‘No at all.’

‘Arrest?!’ said K., a retired barrister. ‘On what ground, on what authority? I demand to see your constable badge and a writ for such a detainment!’

‘It is quite all right, my friend,’ said V., standing up from the table, ‘this gentlemen has the authority to take me…back to whence I came…so I can face judgment.’

‘Say here,’ protested W. to the Time Traveler, ‘what will happen to him?’

‘History will be shifted back to its proper course,’ responded the Time Traveler.

K. inquired: ‘How do you know the future history our friend here created by his actions is not, in fact, the more proper history, and the one you know is wrong?’

The Time Traveler did not offer an answer.

What happened next, dear sister, nether neither my colleagues nor I were prepared for. V. walked toward the Time Traveler and the two men stood side by side. The Time Traveler did something with his belt and I saw some odd lights emit from his body and…

I am not quite sure how to convey this other than to write: V. and the Time Traveler vanished right before our eyes!

I swear on the graves of our parents that this is what happened!

It has indeed crossed my mind—and the minds of the others—that this was all an elaborate hoax concocted by V. for some nefarious amusement. Magicians can do wonders today with smoke and mirrors, and the vanishing act could have been contrived via the magical arts.

The more I ponder on this, the more I believe it to be so, and soon V. will return to our weekly gatherings and confess to his trickery. To think that the colonies did not persevere and there was never a United States is indeed an absurd notion!

If you have had a laugh from this letter, it is my sincere desire that it was a good chortle.

I remain, as always,

Your Loving Brother,

Prescott Wells

III

Seventeen-year-old Christine Williams waited in her chambers for the next customer, who would be coming from the “portal” rather than downstairs. She never quite understood what this portal thing was, beyond the doors of the closet, and Mr. Chamberlain, the man who owned the brothel, told her not think about these things too much. One matter was for sure: the customers who came from the portal were better dressed and smelled nicer and treated her more kindly than the inebriated, rough “gentlemen” of London.

The customer who emerged from the portal was a tall man with a beard, wearing an odd body-hugging black fabric.

Christine sat up from the bed, letting her robe fall so the customer could get a good view of her body.

He wasn’t interested in her body.

—Some other time, my dear, he said with a British accent, a curious accent, and one she could not place. Maybe he was from Australia?

He seemed familiar, though.

—Have we been together before, sir? she asked him.

He seemed nervous, glancing around, as if someone were chasing him.

—I know you from somewhere, said Christine.

—What? No, no—yes, yes. We—I know you too.

She stood up, closing the robe around her nakedness.

—My skin, it tingles, she said.

—I have to go.

—No! Please, I do not understand this…

She ran to the customer, this stranger whom she felt like she had known all her life.

He held her and kissed her on the forehead.

—A form of deja vu, it seems, he said.

—I do not understand, she said.

—Goddamn time paradoxes. I’m sorry, Christine, but I must go now.

—How do you know my name?

—I will come back for you, I promise. It is, what? 1869, is that the year? What is the month?

—March, she said.

—I will come back for you by September, after I complete my—well, there are some things I must attend to. We have a child to enjoy, you and I. And this time I will get it right.

He started for the door. She grabbed his arm.

—How do you know my name? Why do I feel like I have known you all my life?

—Listen, my dear, can you do something for me? he asked.

—Anything.

—If another man comes out of the portal searching for me…

—Another man? said Christine.

—Tell him not to worry. Tell him…there will be no consequences of steam this time. Will you tell him that?

She nodded and he gave her another kiss and left the chambers, not through the portal but out the door where England awaited him.

OUTSIDE LOOKING IN, by Mark E. Burgess

Ian Colorado clung to the cliff face a kilometer above the ground, trying not to look down at the bleak terrain spread out far below him. The emerald rock of the giant promontory extended yet another quarter-klick upward before it topped out. He carefully scanned the surface above him for the best route to climb, searching for the finger- and toe-holds that would allow him to ascend another meter, and then another. His ten teammates were fanned out below and to the sides, their environment suits clinging to the sheer face like tiny insects.

Looming in the sky above the wall was the multihued curve of the gas giant exoplanet called Cancri 4. It covered nearly a quarter of the visible heavens, exotically beautiful with its glowing bands of green, ochre and red. The moon beneath Ian’s feet was one of several satellites orbiting the planet, and it possessed the most human-compatible habitat in the system. That made it the logical choice for the outlaw stronghold sitting atop the promontory that Ian’s company now ascended.

For the past year he had been tracking down the space pirate known as Mol’Kenar. This entity, thought to be human, was the most feared and sought-after criminal in inhabited space. For the past decade the pirates under Mol’Kenar’s command had preyed with impunity on cargo ships and passenger vessels alike, and when the Planetary Union had tired of waiting for the regular military to provide a solution, they had called Ian. He was a “fixer of problems,” or at least that was as close a description as could be had for what he did; he had no official title. But he was the best human operative in his field, and when an issue was troublesome enough, he was tasked to solve it.

The Union had made their directive clear: they wanted Mol’Kenar alive if possible. That meant Ian could not simply bring destroyers into near space and bombard the moon until its face was wiped clean. Nor could they easily approach via landers. Stealth probes had clearly showed the bluff’s topside dotted with defensive arrays that would put most Union military bases to shame. That left them doing things the hard way, coming up from below with an elite team that could knock out the defenses, opening the way for a full scale air assault.

Ian laboriously worked his way upward one grip at a time. The micrograv units of his suit hummed as they adhered his hands and feet to the copper-rich malachite surface. Even with the suit’s assist, the climb had been long and difficult, and the muscles of his calves and shoulders ached with the strain. Sweat trickled down his back, creating an itch that was all the worse because he had no chance of scratching it. Best to concentrate on the task at hand, releasing one hold, reaching upward, reactivating the grav-grip as he placed his glove back on the rock.

The yellow orb of 55 Cancri A shone bright in the western sky behind him, casting his bulky shadow against the rock. This star system was a binary; in another few hours the primary sun would set, leaving its red dwarf partner, 55 Cancri B, visible as a bright speck in the northern night sky. The strike team planned to top the bluff around dusk, and make their way to the defensive emplacements under the cover of dark. Then they’d remind these pirate bastards why they should fear the night.

The wind whistled around him, and his sensors showed the outside temperature to be far below freezing. The atmosphere was breathable, but without his suit’s protection, Ian would have been a frozen corpse within minutes. The profile on this moon hadn’t mentioned temperature extremes; it was just his luck to arrive during a cold snap. Well, he’d gotten used to it by now. When it came to weather, it seemed he and his team had encountered nothing but misfortune in recent years. The missions were bad enough in themselves, but he couldn’t recall the last time he had run a field operation in balmy conditions.

A high-pitched whirring sounded abruptly behind him, and Ian started, almost losing his grip on the rock face. Heart racing, he twisted his upper body cautiously and turned his head as far around as he could. There, less than a meter away, hovered a Union standard drone. The blue-striped silver orb gleamed where the sun’s rays bounced off its polished surface. As he watched, a small round hatch popped open in the drone’s side, and a black cable snaked out toward him. So that was it, a message was being delivered. Manual connection was inconvenient as hell, but no airwave communications could be risked during a stealth mission. The drone carried a prerecorded message, couched in a sophisticated personality matrix based on the psyche of the sender. It could hold a simple dialogue, closely mimicking the responses of the actual person it represented. After logging the conversation, the device would then retreat to a safe distance and beam the encrypted recording back for the sender to review.

Ian carefully detached one gloved hand from the cliff and grabbed the cable as it came within reach. Quickly he plugged it into the input jack on his helmet, and then returned his hand to its grip on the rock.

In a few seconds a virtual image popped up inside his helmet display. What met his eyes caused him to blink in surprise. The graying solidly-built man staring at him from behind a desk wasn’t Ian’s usual contact. From the emblems on his uniform, what could be seen of them under the proliferation of medals, the man appeared to be a high ranking general in the Allied Space Forces. This was highly irregular; very few people knew he was here outside of special ops. Before Ian could speak, the frozen image came to life and said, “Ian Colorado, I presume?”

“Who wants to know?” Ian replied testily. General or not, he wasn’t in the mood for a chat right then, not while hanging off a damned cliff, and not with his objective finally in sight. Nor did he trust this stranger who seemingly knew more than he should.

“I’m General McAllister, Allied Space Command,” the man answered. Ian felt a hint of disappointment at the image’s bland expression. What good did it do to sound off to a superior if you couldn’t achieve the desired reaction? The general’s likeness continued in a measured voice, “Sorry for the intrusion. I’ve been authorized to request your presence at once.”

“What?” Ian was flabbergasted. “Do you have any idea who we’re closing in on here?”

“Mol’Kenar, as I understand it,” the general replied levelly. “Forget him. We need you here. Now.”

Ian couldn’t believe his ears. The target was highly classified, and also had been a top priority of the Planetary Union for most of the past decade. What could take precedence over this mission?

“I…what should we do about the objective?” he asked the general, too bemused to even sustain his anger.

“Have the rest of your team proceed as planned. They should be able to accomplish the task without you holding their hands?”

Ian replied numbly, “Yes.”

The general nodded, a fleeting smile crossing his features. “Good. We’ve got a ground transport waiting near the cliff base. It will take you to a place shielded by mountains, where a shuttle can take you off planet without detection. I’ll expect you here in a few days. Oh, just so you know, we’re not meeting on Earth or in the Centauri system. Epsilon Eridani is your destination. Out.”

With that the transmission went dead, and Ian pulled the cable free of his helmet in a daze. The cord whipped back into the drone, and it instantly dropped from sight. Looking over and down at his teammates, he saw them holding position on the cliff face, staring up at him. They had seen the exchange and knew something was afoot. Ian sighed, and with his free hand he signed to them to continue without him. His second in command gave him the “affirmative” response, and just like that, Ian’s duties there were concluded.

It was time to go. He hit the grav release on his left forearm control panel. In one fluid motion he arched his torso away from the rock wall, extending both legs forcefully as he did so. His kick propelled him in a graceful backward dive away from the cliff, flying outward and past the team members below him. Their suit-clad forms rushed by and were gone as he gained momentum in a vertical free fall toward the surface. He twisted in midair, turning belly-down to the ground. From this height he could see the panorama of rocky badlands extending in a green and black mosaic all the way to the horizon. The sun was dropping low in the sky, casting long shadows over the tumbled landscape below.

The wind buffeted his suit as the cliff flew by in a blur. Down, down he dropped, the ground features swelling as they rushed to meet him. Ian waited until he was low enough to escape likely detection from above. Then he punched the parachute release, and the impact slammed his upper body as his speed was abruptly arrested. He floated now, suspended above the rocky spires and valleys, drifting on cold air currents. Grabbing the control cords, he scanned the terrain beneath him, and after a moment began steering his chute toward a likely landing site. His one thought as he headed slowly down was that this had better be really important.

True to his word, the general had provided top level transportation both on the ground and in space. Speed was apparently a priority. The small interstellar shuttle was of unfamiliar conformation, but it moved through hyperspace faster than Ian had thought possible.

A few short days later he was in the Epsilon Eridani system, located about 10.5 light years from Earth. The second planet, named Ariel, was a stark rocky sphere with little atmosphere, but lying within the system’s habitable zone. Its size and location meant that gravitation and surface temperatures were moderate by human standards. Those traits, combined with its low atmospheric density, made Ariel an ideal site for the research observatory which the military had built on and under the planet’s surface.

Upon landing, the shuttle’s commander escorted Ian to his quarters to freshen up. A few hours later he was seated in a conference room around a long table with a dozen other representatives of the Planetary Union. Their uniforms marked many of them as high level military officials, but about half of those present wore the blue and gold smocks of the Science Division. Ian was relieved to see his armed forces liaison, Colonel Parker, among those seated at the table. He had been worried that his usual command hierarchy might have been cut out of the loop entirely.

The general who had contacted him previously now presided at the table’s head, with Ian seated at the other end. Without preamble General McAllister introduced the individuals in attendance, many of whom were prominent physicists from various star systems. Besides humans, there were several alien races represented. To Ian’s surprise a blue-tentacled Corotian sat in attendance near the far end of the table. Its home system was nearly fifteen hundred light years from Earth, making it one of the most outlying members of the Union. Whatever was taking place must be significant to warrant a trip of that magnitude.

When introductions were finished, General McAllister looked Ian in the eye and said, “Welcome from all of us, Mr. Colorado. I imagine you want to know what this is all about.”

“You could say that,” Ian replied evenly. “I was taken off a very important mission to be here.”

“Not as important as this,” the general assured him. “Perhaps I should have Dr. Cavanaugh explain the background to you.” With that he looked to his left, where sat a comely fortyish woman with sandy blond hair.

The doctor smiled at Ian and began, “About ten years ago, the researchers at this facility encountered a most peculiar phenomenon. The sensor arrays registered a massive spike across the electromagnetic spectrum, one which had no definable source. It seemingly came from everywhere in known space.”

Ian raised his eyebrows in surprise; this was not sounding like a typical briefing. Dr. Cavanaugh continued, “Even more puzzling were the simultaneous gravitational waves originating from every celestial body in range of the detectors. It was as if something had violently jarred all of spacetime and left it to oscillate in the aftermath.”

“This was a galaxy-wide phenomenon, not localized to this system?” Ian asked, perplexed.

“Not just galaxy-wide,” the Corotian emissary interjected. Its puckered mouth made sounds like popping bubbles as it pronounced the human words. “This occurrence appears to have involved all of known spacetime, including other galaxies and celestial objects out to the furthest reaches of our universe.”

Ian held the alien’s gaze, saying slowly, “That…is hard to believe. The magnitude of such an anomaly rules out a new type of weapon, I would think.”

A dark haired man sitting next to Dr. Cavanaugh nodded. “Agreed. I head the combat tech group at Alpha Centauri Base. No technology we know of could create a disruption that widespread.”

Dr. Cavanaugh added, “It gets worse. After the Event, as we referred to it, we ran intensive scans of known space, using sensors and telescopic arrays. While doing so, we started to recognize other anomalies, things that should not, could not, have been possible. But there was no doubting the measurements, not when they had been checked, and rechecked, and compared to those taken in other inhabited solar systems. The data supported only one conclusion, as incredible as it sounds: our universe had dimmed.”

Ian sat back in his chair. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”

The doctor leaned forward, hands folded as she returned his gaze intently. “I mean that all the stars within reach of our scans showed a loss of luminosity and a shift toward the red spectrum. In layman’s terms, every sun had become darker and cooler.”

Ian wasn’t a physicist, but he felt a chill run down his spine. He was beginning to comprehend what had these science types looking worried as hell. He licked his lips and asked, “How much did they dim?”

A third scientist sitting to Ian’s right spoke up. He was a squat Rigelian with a neatly trimmed feather crest topping his orange-tinged head, and he stroked it unconsciously as he spoke in a high pitched voice, “The changes were infinitesimal, on the order of less than one tenth of one percentage point, but they were real. Furthermore, our detectors revealed similar reductions in radio emissions from black holes, and even in the cosmic background radiation that is left over from the universe’s birth. All energy, everywhere, was reduced by a distinct and measurable amount.”

Ian glanced from face to face around the table before venturing, “I gather that it didn’t end there, or we wouldn’t be discussing it now.”

Dr. Cavanaugh sighed and answered, “Unfortunately you are correct. Six months after the first event, another ripple jolted our spacetime, and the output from detectable energy sources dipped again. From that point forward the anomaly has repeated an average of four times per year. Over the decade since the first recorded incident, the measurable solar heat and light output in all inhabited star systems has dropped nearly three percent.”

Ian sat stunned as he absorbed the meaning of the words. “But that would cause changes…” he said haltingly.

The physicist nodded somberly. “The effects have already been felt on multiple worlds. Several planets with marginal temperature ranges are becoming uninhabitable outside of protective biodomes. Those with milder climes have also experienced progressive cooling, and concern is mounting that incipient ice ages might be on the horizon in a handful of heavily populated worlds. If the trend continues, it will only be a matter of time before humanity, and possibly all life in the known universe, could be in jeopardy of extinction.”

Mol’Kenar was long forgotten as Ian came to grips with what they were telling him. “I’ve not heard a word of this anywhere!” he sputtered. “How could something this big escape notice?”

“The information has been restricted to a few select members of the government and science communities,” General McAllister answered. He spread his hands on the table. “Can you imagine the mass panic on worlds across the Union if people knew the truth? It could do nothing but harm. Societies might break down into complete anarchy.” His expression was grim as he ground out the words, and Ian knew the man was right.

But… “Something has to be done!” he insisted. “There has to be a reason for this, a specific cause that can be addressed. Have you learned anything more about the phenomenon?”

Dr. Cavanaugh spoke again, and her tone was almost gentle, as if she regretted the burden of knowledge they had laid in his lap. “We’re getting to that. It was obvious in the first few years that the problem had to be addressed, and quickly. The best scientists of multiple worlds convened to discuss the situation, but no one knew the source of the anomalies, so we were all at a loss as to a solution. There was nothing anyone could do but watch the universe slowly wind down, like a battery whose charge was finally depleted.

“But we didn’t give up hope. This facility continued monitoring known space with every piece of equipment at our disposal. Our scientists operated under the assumption that if energy was disappearing from the universe, it had to be going somewhere. To this end we revived some earlier experiments involving phase-shifting of matter and energy. Those projects had originally been aimed at probing the possibility of overlapping or ‘parallel’ universes.”

Ian’s head was swimming with each new revelation. This was starting to sound more like speculative fiction than reality. He managed to ask, “What came out of those studies?”

Dr. Cavanaugh smirked and said, “Our funding was discontinued because of equivocal results. Although the data suggested that alternate phases of spacetime could indeed exist, we were never able to define a specific reality outside of the known universe. It was like attempting to tune into a radio wave broadcast without knowing the exact frequency needed. There were nearly an infinite number of phase variations possible, with no way of knowing which coordinates corresponded to actual realities.”

“But you revived those experiments in search of answers to the current problem,” Ian prompted.

“Yes,” she said, “and we got lucky. Our breakthrough finally came when one of the disruptive events occurred while the phase-shifting equipment was active. At the precise moment when the electromagnetic spectrum jumped and gravity shuddered, the equipment reported a massive surge in the multiphasic energy readings. The energy spike had been concentrated in one specific frequency, corresponding to a single alternate spacetime. In that brief moment two major problems had been solved. A parallel dimension had been identified, and it appeared that it was the source of the energy drain in this universe.”

“I see,” Ian said, weighing the implications. “So you’ve localized the origin of the phenomenon, but it’s not even within our universe. Where does that leave us?”

“In a better position than you might imagine,” Dr. Cavanaugh answered with a grin. “That discovery provided the impetus for us to launch the Lazarus Project. The desperation of our situation greased the wheels of progress in ways you can’t imagine; we had the resources of multiple worlds at our disposal. Five years and trillions of galactic credits later, we succeeded.”

“Succeeded? In what?” Ian asked, frowning.

“We developed the device that may give us our answers, the reason you are here,” the physicist replied. “It’s called the Interdimensional Phase-Shifting Transducer. We call her “Ipsy” for short.”

“I assume you’re going to tell me what it does,” Ian asked with a blank look.

“Of course,” Dr. Cavanaugh replied, nodding. “The device has one function: it is capable of opening a localized rift between universes. Unfortunately, prodigious amounts of energy are needed to accomplish this feat, and even with ten antimatter reactors powering Ipsy, the window she creates can only be maintained for a few moments before it collapses and closes. This is just enough time to push a small object through to the other side.”

Something clicked in Ian’s brain, and he said cautiously, “An object like a human being?”

The steady gazes of those around the table told him what he needed to know. Dr. Cavanaugh said quickly, “Oh, we didn’t start with human subjects, of course. No one knew what awaited us in the other dimension. Some worried that a supermassive black hole might lurk there, sucking matter and energy to itself via a weak link with our universe. Despite the urgency of the situation, we knew that caution was paramount.”

“So exactly what have you done prior to this?” Ian asked her.

“When the device first came on line, we began sending inanimate objects through, retrieving each after a short interval. The machine locks onto the matter-energy profiles of the materials that it passes through the rift, and can pull them back into our reality from beyond. Simple rocks and bits of metal returned successfully with no measurable alterations to their structure.

“Next we experimented with organic substances, sending pieces of fruit and other plant material through the machine. Again they were retrieved undamaged. This suggested a relatively non-hostile environment on the other side, so we pushed the experimental timetable forward.”

“What about sensor equipment?” Ian asked. “I’d send a data collector through and see what it could tell us.”

A few chuckles were heard around the table, and Dr. Cavanaugh nodded and grinned. “Our thoughts exactly. A probe was launched into the rift, to gather information on atmosphere, temperature, gravity, and to collect visual images from the other side. Unfortunately the phase-shifting process appeared to scramble the unit’s memory, and no coherent data were obtained upon its return. We were forced to move on to the final stage of the project with what information we possessed. This meant sending a living creature through the machine.”

Ian leaned forward with interest. “And how did that go?”

The Rigelian to Ian’s right replied, “A small rodent in a protected habitat was the first to travel through. It returned alive and well a few minutes later, albeit a bit dazed from the transference process. When no lasting effects were observed in the test subject, a monkey was sent through in a custom made environment suit. It also made the journey beyond and back unharmed, but it appeared quite agitated when it rematerialized in the laboratory.”

“I can empathize; it’s not every day that you jump universes,” Ian commented wryly.

“Actually we don’t expect the transference to be stressful, as it should be nearly instantaneous. The rat seemed unfazed by the experience,” the scientist replied.

“Then why was the monkey so keyed up? Ian asked.

The other man shrugged. “We don’t know. Electroencephalograms and magnetic resonance imaging revealed no organic damage to the animal’s brain, and no reason could be found for its behavior. The only peculiarity was a row of parallel gouges on the back of the monkey’s protective suit, which we couldn’t logically explain. Maybe it managed to traumatize itself while on the other side.”

“And now you want me to go through and see what’s over there,” Ian concluded. “If I do this, can I take my team with me?”

Dr. Cavanaugh shook her head regretfully. “There is only enough window capacity to pass a single object through at a time. We’d have to send in a team one by one, with several minutes between each. At this time, we think it’s best to use a single operative to assess the situation, and then decide on a course of action from there.”

Ian’s longtime superior, Colonel Parker, spoke up. His icy blue eyes were piercing under his regulation military haircut. “Ian, we’ve chosen you for this mission because we feel you’re the best qualified, and your judgment can be trusted. You’ll have complete discretion once you’re across; do what you think is best. If somehow you can resolve the problem yourself, you may attempt to do so. Otherwise, your task is to gather information and survive to bring it home.”

For a moment Ian sat quietly staring at his hands. Eventually he raised his eyes and asked the colonel, “Do I have a choice?”

Colonel Parker nodded. “It’s a volunteer mission, Ian. If you decline, then we’ll find someone else.”

General McAllister spoke up then, his gravelly voice compelling everyone’s attention. “So what do you say, son? Are you in?”

Ian hesitated for only a moment before nodding his head. Like it or not, there really was no other option, and everyone knew it.

A few weeks later he sat motionless in the heavy steel chair of Ipsy’s transference chamber, wondering if he had made a wise decision. There were far too many unknowns for his liking, too much that could go wrong even within the known parameters of what they were attempting. He could see the main control panel beyond the fused quartz window of the sealed door. Its digital clock counted slowly down toward zero, the amber numbers flashing and vanishing as his last minutes slowly ran out. He reflected cynically that in times past, men convicted of capital crimes might have met their fates in similar fashion. Hopefully the end result here would be more conducive to his health.

He sucked in a big gulp of processed air, hearing the hollow rush of his exhale in the helmet. The environment suit they had provided him was unique, being a combination of protective habitat, information-gathering equipment, and potent defensive armament. There was no telling what he was going to encounter out there. Being prepared for all eventualities was a way of life for Ian, and he had insisted on specific design parameters for the suit when he had taken the mission.

Now the time had come to push the limits of technology, to lift the veil and see what lay beyond. He glanced over the suit readouts in his helmet display one last time, as the master clock ticked toward zero. All indicators were reading nominal. Time slowed as the end approached, ten seconds now, with a surge of adrenaline pounding his heart and clenching his jaw. Five seconds, and he felt his skin begin to crawl as the machine’s energy fields took hold. Three seconds, two, one, and….

Just a hint of a brilliant flash, there and gone in an instant; a jolt as if an electrical current had coursed through his body, again so fleeting he wasn’t sure it had even occurred. Then he was sitting quietly on a smooth hard surface—where?

Fighting off a wave of disorientation, he scrambled to his feet, probing his surroundings with eyes and sensors. It was dark, everything an admixture of shadows within shadows. As his vision adjusted he realized there were sources of illumination here and there, some pinpoint in size, and others more diffuse, creating areas of lighter hue within the dark. Slowly his surroundings became more visible. In a moment he froze in surprise, arms dropping out of his ready stance as he stared in disbelief. Quickly he checked his sensors to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him. Yes, there were walls, a ceiling, and regularly-shaped objects which appeared to be of artificial construct arrayed all around him. He was inside a building!

For a moment he slumped, overwhelmed by a sense of profound failure. They must have gotten it all wrong, and somehow he had been transported to a different locale within his own universe. As he stood frozen, pondering the situation, he gulped and forced himself to calm down, slowing his racing thoughts. With all the science and preparation that had preceded this moment, he had to conclude that the odds favored success, and that he was probably right where he had intended to be. An alternate reality didn’t have to be bizarre. In fact, it might be just a bit different than home.

He gathered himself and began studying the room he had materialized within. The suit readouts showed temperature levels that were cool by human standards, but livable. Oxygen was present in the atmosphere, but again was on the thin side for Homo sapiens, being only fifteen percent of the air mix. The gravitation here was 0.75 of Earth normal, so he would be light on his feet, even clad in the heavy suit. Ian had trained in a variety of environments all the way down to zero gravity, so this posed no more than an inconvenience to him.

His eyes were now adjusting to the dim conditions, and he swept his gaze around the area. Some of the faint specks of light had resolved into blue and amber indicators on the faces of what appeared to be large banks of equipment. Eventually his attention was drawn by a relatively bright object only a few strides in front of him. Cautiously he moved his feet and approached the pale glow, crossing the smooth floor easily. On nearing the source of illumination, he could see that it was a cube-shaped structure which sat atop a table or platform. It measured less than a meter in diameter, and appeared comprised entirely of a transparent material. The wan light was coming from within its depths. He moved closer and bent to peer inside.

It took a few moments to make sense of the miniature panorama on display within. The cube’s interior looked inky black, and despite its clear surfaces he could not see through to the other side. Within the dark matrix were suspended numerous glowing shapes, some larger, others pinpoint in size. The tiny objects looked familiar, and he squinted as he tried to discern what they were. Some were disc-like, others were wispy spirals with arms that swirled around a bright center…he drew back as recognition struck him, shaking his head in denial. There was no way, no way that what he was thinking could be possible.

Half fearing what he would find, Ian gritted his teeth and extended his hand over the cube, probing the object with his suit’s sensors. The telltales on his helmet visor lit up, and he numbly scanned the incoming data. The readings indicated high levels of energy contained within, on a scale far above what an object that small should be able to generate. It was not a simple power source, either, such as an antimatter or fusion reactor. There were spikes all over the electromagnetic spectrum, from visible light to hard radiation. Even the gravitational readouts were off the scale. There was substance inside the cube, unbelievable amounts of it. What should have been wild conjecture was looking more and more plausible. He felt a wave of dizziness, and he staggered back from the cube with blood rushing in his head and bile in his mouth.

As he stood gasping for air, a conversation came to him, something that a Lazarus researcher had told him in a briefing just two days before.

“How do I know that I’ll end up anywhere useful?” Ian had asked the scientist, frowning as he considered the possibilities. “That’s an entire universe you’re sending me into; I could enter it hundreds of light years away from where the energy drain is originating. Heck, I could wind up in the wrong galaxy, for all we know.”

The physicist had shaken his head, scratching his blonde hair thoughtfully as he said, “We don’t think that will be a problem, Ian. The transducer coordinates are based on where the power surge occurred during the Event. Not only should that lead you to the correct universe, it should also follow the energy drain to its source within that spacetime continuum. You should emerge at, or very close to, the heart of our problem.” The scientist had grinned at Ian as he added, “What you do about it from there, well, that’s your area of expertise.”

And here he was, looking into what seemed to be, as near as he could tell, his own universe. Captured in a display on a table, as insane as that sounded. “You’ll come out close to the heart of the problem.” If their universe had truly been confined to a vessel by whoever had built this facility, then humanity and all other inhabitants of Ian’s spacetime would be at the mercy of those who possessed this cube. His thoughts whirled as he struggled to wrap his mind around the reality.

But even if it were true, the idea gave rise to other problems. Such as: how could anyone draw as much energy from the cube as what Ian’s entire universe had lost? He frowned as he wrestled with the question. It must not be an equivalent transfer; this spacetime might be larger, and hold more matter and energy, than the reality that Ian had left behind. That could explain how someone here had managed to contain his entire universe in a box. Or maybe there were other physics at work here, science far beyond what humanity had mastered.

Thinking about it made Ian’s head hurt. He was a man of action, not one prone to abstract contemplation. It seemed to him that this was the time for some active intervention on his part. Approaching the cube once again, he wrapped his arms around it and nudged. The servo-assisted limbs of his suit enhanced his normal strength by two hundred percent; he felt the object slide sideways a short distance as he applied force. Good; it was not fastened down, and although it was heavy, it could be lifted if need be.

He was contemplating his next move when suddenly the room brightened. Lights were powering up all over the ceiling, casting an odd red glow that strained his eyes, but bright enough to reveal everything around him. Ian stepped back and quickly took stock of his surroundings. It appeared that he currently stood near the center of a truly cavernous room. Towering banks of machinery rose on all sides, with control panels and instrumentation covering their metallic faces. From the central open area where he stood, four main corridors fanned outward toward the room’s periphery, one in each direction, like valleys between the mountains of equipment. The distant walls were unbroken by any visible openings, although large slabs resembling shutters could mark the locations of hidden windows or doorways.

Four massive black cylinders extended from the ceiling above him, tipped with concave dishes. To Ian they resembled electromagnetic energy accumulators such as those used in radio telescopes. The difference here was that these were aimed downward rather than up at the sky. In fact, they appeared to be focused directly on the cube in front of him. He realized with a sinking feeling what these dishes were likely to be accumulating.

At that moment a grinding sound came to him through the speakers in his helmet. He tore his gaze away from the ceiling and saw a large door panel sliding open on the far wall. The room was now illuminated well enough to easily reveal him to anyone entering. Instinctively he jumped to the right, seeking cover behind a bulkhead that rose up from the floor near the cube. The weak gravity provided less resistance than he was accustomed to, and a single spring of his legs resulted in a superhuman leap, nearly carrying him past his destination. He landed barely behind the bulkhead, and quickly crouched down to view the doorway.

What strode through the portal a moment later was unlike any life form Ian had encountered. Vaguely humanoid, the pair of creatures walking side by side appeared more like grotesque caricatures than real beings. Their bodies and limbs were incredibly elongated, thin to the point of appearing emaciated, with sparse flesh covering the harder body parts that showed through with painful clarity. They wore little covering other than a loin piece, and a belt from which hung several implements—tools or weapons? Even the sound of their ambulation was unnerving. The sharp click-and-rasp of their feet on the floor was accompanied by a dry creaking, as of old branches rubbing together in the wind.

Their heads sported bulging craniums with large round eyes set unusually high in their foreheads, leaving a blank countenance below which was broken only by two small orifices. Ian’s trained eye looked past the superficial strangeness of their features, keying on the biologic characteristics suggested by the physical traits. Low-gravity organisms, based on the fragile skeletal structure and height. Possibly native to this very planet. The oversized eyes suggest nocturnal vision, or at least high photosensitivity. This dim red light is probably their normal spectrum.

The creatures headed toward the room’s center, drawing closer to where Ian crouched. They appeared to be conversing, each emitting a guttural croaking from its upper facial orifice, interspersed with harsh sibilants and clicks. Ian’s suit included a universal translator, something that had been developed with the cooperation of other sentient races when humanity had become part of the galactic community. The translation device functioned by detecting brain energy emissions and correlating them with recognized logic patterns, and added some complicated intuitive processing that humans still didn’t fully understand. Regardless, the thing had worked with most organic life forms encountered so far. The only exception in recent memory was the encounter with the vapor beings of the giant gas planet orbiting Gliese 581. But they hardly qualified as organic, so the failure there was understandable. Ian was hopeful that the device would prove useful now, and he was not disappointed.

As the two creatures came within ten meters of Ian’s position, the speaker in his ear began to emit words in time with their vocalizations. The being on the left gestured at the cube and said, “…this project…risks not forseen…objects materializing out of the model.”

The other creature replied, “Need more study…my dimensional model…unlimited potential for learning…”

“No,” the first being cut the second one off, gesturing emphatically. “Risks too high; need to shut down…study existing data before further research is undertaken.”

Ian crouched motionless, grimacing as he listened in on the aliens’ conversation. Dimensional model…that should be the cube. And the comment about objects materializing out of it—they’ve got to be referring to the Lazarus project! Damn, I was right!

The two creatures continued their animated discussion near the cube, and while he listened, Ian pondered a course of action. Somehow he had to get possession of the device, and perhaps hide it until the scientists back home could formulate a plan. Once the room was vacant again, he might be able to act.

The situation changed abruptly moments later, when the doorway disgorged a dozen or more aliens carrying what looked suspiciously like energy weapons. They marched forth in disciplined ranks, and stopped a handful of strides from where the other two stood. The original pair looked at each other, and the one who had claimed the cube as “its model” exclaimed, “What means this?” It raised its hands as if to hold the others back. “The military…no business here. My project, not yours.”

The ranks parted and a single figure stepped forth. Its thin frame carried more ornamentation than the rest, with ribbons draped diagonally across its torso in addition to the usual belt and loin piece. Portions of the fabric strips gleamed as if metallic devices were attached. Ian grunted in recognition; regardless of species, military brass always seemed to love their pomp and glitter.

The newcomer looked from the cube to the two researchers, and it began to speak forcefully. Its words repeated through the translator, their meaning ominously clear. “Our sensors show further activity from the model. This project…now under military control. Risk must be contained. This energy source…proven very useful…can drain remaining power for our needs. May also explore the model, exploit internal matter-energy matrix. Very useful, its properties can be.”

“Not what we agreed to!” the cube’s creator responded, gesticulating wildly. “Not acceptable!”

“No choice in matter,” the military official stated, apparently unfazed by the other’s protests. It drew itself up to its full height and gazed imperiously around the room. “Will have military guard around device at all times…protect against incursions from within the dimensional construct.”

The argument continued hotly, leaving Ian with a precious few moments to weigh his options. This was a truly unfortunate development. The aliens had realized that objects were appearing from within the cube, and were increasing security in response. The military’s involvement would certainly interfere with future human efforts to address the situation. There might not be a better opportunity to intervene than he had right now. But what could he accomplish alone?

The words of the military official replayed in Ian’s mind. The aliens had plans for the cube, with potentially dire consequences for Ian’s universe. Draining the object’s energy could effectively destroy all life as he knew it. The other alternative, that of “exploring the model,” sounded suspiciously like an invasion. Neither option was acceptable.

His mind made up, Ian peeked around the bulkhead once again, sizing up the situation. During the confrontation the two civilian aliens had moved away from the cube, approaching the armed contingent on the far side from Ian’s hiding spot. It was now or never.

Ian shut down his external audio pickup. Then he raised his left arm and quickly launched three flash-bang charges at the tightly bunched creatures. An instant later he ducked back behind the bulkhead and squeezed his eyes shut.

The rounds flew in a flat arc and landed just short of the aliens. They looked up at the sound just as the charges detonated. Brilliant flashes briefly dispelled the room’s red twilight, outlining every object in stark detail. The sensitive eyes of the creatures were hit with the intense burst from close range, and they dropped their weapons and covered their faces as the deafening percussions also assailed their hearing.

Switching his audio receiver back on, Ian popped back up to find most of his targets down and disoriented. Some were rolling on the floor as they emitted guttural groaning noises. He leapt from his protective cover and rushed to the cube. Once there he wrapped his arms around it and heaved upward. With his suit’s enhancements the task was easier than expected, and the bulky object came free into his hands. He straightened and began to move as the aliens were regaining their feet.

Behind him erupted a frenzied croaking, and his helmet speaker spat the words, “Stop the creature! Get the model! We must have it!”

He powered away from the aliens with long leaping strides, flinching as a blue bolt of energy streaked by his right side. The round impacted on a bank of equipment and blew a charred hole in the metal panel. Another flash passed over his head a second later. Thankfully the creatures’ aim was off, likely due to ghost spots still marring their vision. More vocalizations arose to his rear, louder this time, and the helmet translated, “No plasma rounds! If cube ruptures we all die! Neuro-stuns only!”

Ian wasn’t sure what type of weapon the latter was, but he didn’t wait to find out. He swerved left at a corridor intersection and put a row of machinery between himself and the aliens. Indicator lights flashed by on each side as he passed between towering devices of unknown function. There seemed to be a grid work of passages intersecting at regular intervals. He took a right at the next intersection, heading again for the far wall. Once there, he hoped that he could find a door panel and manipulate it open. If he could escape this area, his options might improve.

His breath rasped harshly within his helmet as he willed his legs to pump harder. The servo units in his suit lengthened his stride beyond what would have been humanly possible, and he ate up the distance rapidly. Side corridors crossed his path every ten meters or so, and he glanced down them as he ran. At first their shadowy lengths were empty as far as his vision could penetrate. But about half way to the wall he began to catch glimpses of figures running in a corridor parallel to his, pacing him. The creatures’ awkward appearance belied their speed. Their thin limbs, at least half again as long as a man’s, appeared to stride unhurriedly, but they ate up incredible distance nonetheless. Even with his enhanced abilities he could not outrun them.

He turned away from his pursuers at the next intersection, heading in the new direction for a handful of strides, then took another turn back toward the wall. He could see it now, just up ahead, and there appeared to be a door slab set into its surface. He pushed toward it with the cube cradled tightly in his arms.

Suddenly an alien soldier appeared in the corridor junction just ahead. It leveled a long-handled weapon at him, and Ian dropped instinctively to his knees, removing his right hand from the cube long enough to fire an impact grenade down the corridor. Simultaneously the air in front of the creature rippled as its weapon discharged. There was no flash, nothing solid that Ian could see, just a mirage-like distortion of the atmosphere.

A split second later he felt a tingle like an electrical charge as the air just over his head crackled. It was a near miss by the alien, and Ian’s suit partially protected him. Even so, he felt his limbs buckle for an instant, and the helmet’s readouts flickered before steadying. The heads up display showed an intense electromagnetic impulse had passed close to him. A direct hit would probably incapacitate both Ian and his suit hardware.

But a second shot would not be coming from the alien in front of him. As Ian felt the discharge of the E.M. round, his grenade reached his opponent, and it did not miss. The concussion blew a meter-deep crater in the floor and threw bits of the creature in all directions. The blast also caught a second alien soldier which had just appeared in the intersection. By the time Ian regained his feet and began moving forward, the way ahead was cleared.

He reached the wall within fifteen seconds at a full run. Sliding to a stop, he scanned the large rectangular slab which he surmised covered an exit. Its dimensions were impressive, at least four meters high by two wide. Frantically he looked for a control or latch. The only visible marks on the smooth surfaces were three small dark squares set in the wall to the left of the slab. Ian approached and pressed on the lowest one, and nothing happened. He got the same result when punching the second. The top square was barely within his reach, and he extended his hand toward it as he heard the scraping clicks of enemy footsteps drawing near.

He never touched the top panel. When his glove passed in front of its face, the slab began to slide to the right, revealing an opening beyond. Ian didn’t wait for the door to grind its way completely open. As soon as the gap widened enough, he squeezed through and into a broad corridor on the other side.

Glancing left and right in the murky red illumination, he could discern no difference, so he turned right on a whim. As he did so, he caught a glimpse through the open doorway of several aliens rounding a corner into the hallway he had just vacated. They spotted Ian almost immediately and sped toward him. He quickly ducked out of the path of fire and sprinted away down the new corridor. It turned left after thirty meters or so, and Ian took the corner at full speed, bouncing off the outside wall but retaining his feet and his grip on the cube. Another hallway quickly branched off to the right and he followed it, trying to stay out of his pursuers’ line of sight.

A short sprint brought him to an open chamber. It resembled a lounge of some sort, with oddly shaped pieces of furniture and a transparent wall providing his first look at the outside world. As Ian rushed through at a full run, he caught a view of a tumbled landscape crouched under a bloated crimson sun. Twisted tree-like vegetation spread black foliage in the sickly glow, and in the distance he saw impossibly tall towers rearing into the dim sky, their lengths festooned with twinkling lights.

In a flash Ian was through the room and out into the corridor on the other side, running onward as his legs felt like rubber and his lungs burned. Door slabs passed by to the left and right, none of them open. He followed the corridor around two bends, and a high pitched siren began wailing as he approached what appeared to be a dead end.

Ian came to a stop in front of yet another closed door with three squares set into the wall. He quickly passed his hand over the topmost panel, and nothing happened. The other two squares also failed to budge the door, even when he slapped them with his palm.

With a curse he whirled to head back in the other direction. He had moved no more than a few strides before the skeletal figure of an alien soldier rounded the corner ahead of him. Before Ian could free an arm to defend himself, the alien fired its weapon.

An instant later the E.M. charge hit him full on. His suit spasmed, sparks dancing over its surface in a blue halo. Every nerve in Ian’s body burned like fire as his legs buckled and the world toppled sideways. The ground met him hard, and he rolled onto his back, dazed by the impact. Smoke wisped into his helmet and the stink of burned circuitry filled his nostrils. His arms were frozen still gripping the cube. In his weakened state he felt pinned down by its mass, unable to move. Carrying the weight of the universe, he thought feverishly. And I failed them all.

He looked up helplessly as three aliens loomed over him. Their hollow faces were inscrutable, regarding him with pupil-less eyes like ebony pits. One reached down toward the cube, and Ian heard the dry rustle of its limbs, as if no moisture remained in its desiccated frame. It was too late now, he knew, too late to do anything but die. And every living thing in his universe would soon follow him into oblivion.

As the creature extended its clawed hands, Ian felt an odd sensation, his skin suddenly crawling as if spiders scurried up and down his body. He had a second to wonder if it was an after effect of the stun weapon, and then the world around him vanished.

An eternity later Ian sat once more at the conference table at Epsilon Eridani. This time the mood was decidedly different, as the officials and scientists in attendance wore broad smiles. Ian sat through the meeting in a wheelchair. In reality only two days had passed, and he was still recovering from the effects of the alien’s weapon. His mind felt fuzzy as he tried to take in what the others were telling him. The cube rested in the center of the table, its mystery undiminished by the mundane setting.

“So explain that to me again,” Ian said, rubbing his temples. “What did you mean by ‘it inverted’?”

Dr. Cavanaugh cocked her head and replied, “Well, you were holding the cube when we drew you back into our universe. Now it is here, inside our spacetime, which obviously means it can’t contain our reality any longer.”

Ian glanced at the device, with the swirls of galaxies and quasars still glowing within its depths. “Well, if our universe is now outside the cube, then what’s inside?”

The scientist grinned. “The most likely candidate is the spacetime continuum that was in contact with the object when you drew it into our dimension.”

Comprehension dawned, and Ian’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean…the aliens’ universe?” She nodded, still smiling, and he returned her grin as the implications hit him. “So, they’re confined in their own cube, and at our mercy now?”

“Damn right,” General McAllister growled from the head of the table. “We should drain their universe of energy, and see how they like it!”

“That would not be very ethical, considering the billions of innocent beings that probably inhabit their reality,” the doctor chided him. “Besides, we don’t possess the technology to safely draw energy from the object. It will take extensive study to even begin to understand how the cube was constructed.”

Assent was heard from around the table, and the general snorted but held his peace.

“I just want to know one thing,” Ian declared, and all eyes turned toward him. He looked at Dr. Cavanaugh and said, “I wonder exactly how long it will take them to figure out what happened?”

As the doctor returned his gaze, Ian’s serious expression gave way to a smirk. Then they both began to chuckle, and one by one the others around the table joined in. It seemed that things were indeed going to be all right, and this time they truly did have the last laugh.

DEAD WORLD, by Jack Douglas

…although the most recent star to die, RNAC 89778 in the distant Menelaus galaxy (common name, Menelaus XII), had eight inhabited planets, only some one thousand people of the fifth planet escaped and survived as a result of a computer error which miscalculated the exact time by two years. Due to basic psycho-philo maladjustments the refugees of Menelaus XII-5 are classified as anti-social-types-B-6 and must be considered unstable. All anti-social-types-B-6 are barred from responsible positions in United Galaxies by order of the Inter-Galactic Council.

—Short History of The United Galaxies

Yuan Saltario started it. He was serving in my Company and he was one of them. A Menelaus XII-5 “unstable,” and don’t ever call that damned little planet by its number if you meet one of them. They call it Nova-Maurania. But you won’t meet one of them. Or maybe you will, maybe they did make it. I like to think they did.

There were a lot of them in the Companies in 3078. Restless men. The Companies were the logical place for them. We’re still classified anti-social-B-6, too. Every year it’s harder to get recruits, but we still have to be careful who we take in. We took Yuan Saltario. There was something about him from the very start.

“Why do you want to join a Free Company?” He was a short, humanoid type with deep black eyes and a thin, lipless mouth that never smiled.

“I’m an anti-social. I like to fight. I want to fight.”

“A misfit joining the misfits? A grudge against the Council? It’s not good enough, mister, we live on the Council. Try again.”

Saltario’s black eyes stared without a flicker. “You’re Red Stone, Commander of the Red Company. You hate the Council and I hate the Council. You’re the…” Saltario stopped.

I said, “The Traitor of the Glorious War of Survival. You can say it, Saltario.”

The lipless mouth was rigid. “I don’t think of it that way. I think of a man with personal integrity,” Saltario said.

I suppose I should have seen it then, the rock he carried deep inside him. It might have saved thirty thousand good men. But I was thinking of myself. Commander Red Stone of the Red Company, Earthmen. Only we’re not all Earthmen now, every year there are fewer recruits, and it won’t be long before we die out and the Council will have the last laugh. Old Red Stone, the Traitor of the War of Survival, the little finger of my left hand still missing and telling the Universe I was a very old soldier of the outlawed Free Companies hanging onto life on a rocky planet of the distant Salaman galaxy. Back at the old stand because United Galaxies still need us. In a way it’s a big joke. Two years after Rajay-Ben and I had a bellyfull of the Glorious War of Survival and they chased us all the way out here, they turned right around and made the peace. A joke on me, but sometimes I like to think that our runout was the thing that made them think and make peace. When you’ve been a soldier for thirty-five years you like to win battles, but you like to feel you helped bring peace, too.

I said, “Personal integrity. That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? So you like personal integrity? All right, Saltario, are you sure you know what you’re getting into? We’re 60 million light years from Galaxy Center, 10 million from the nearest United Galaxy city. We’ve got no comforts, no future, nothing to do but fight. A woman in her right mind won’t look at us, if they see you in uniform they’ll spit on you, if they catch you out of uniform they’ll kill you.”

Saltario shrugged. “I like to eat. I’ve got nowhere to go. All I’ve got is myself and a big piece of ice I called home.”

I nodded. “Okay. We fight small wars for good profits. It’s not Earth out here, but we’ve got four nice suns, plenty of Lukanian whisky Rajay-Ben taught the locals to make, and we’re our own masters. The United Galaxies leaves us pretty much alone unless they need us. You do your job, and your job is what I tell you to do, period. You got that straight?”

Saltario very nearly smiled. “It sounds good to me, sir.”

“I hope it’ll sound good in a year, Saltario, because once you’re in you don’t get out except feet first. Is that clear? I have life and death rights over you. You owe allegiance to the Red Company and me and to no one else. Got that? Today your best friends are the men of Rajay-Ben’s Lukanian Fourth Free Patrol, and your worst enemies are the men of Mandasiva’s Sirian O Company. Tomorrow Rajay-Ben’s boys may be your worst enemies, and Mandasiva’s troops your best friends. It all depends on the contract. A Company on the same contract is a friend, a Company against the contract is an enemy. You’ll drink with a man today, and kill him tomorrow. Got it? If you kill a Free Companion without a contract you go to court-martial. If you kill a citizen of the United Galaxies except in a battle under contract I throw you to the wolves and that means you’re finished. That’s the way it is.”

“Yes, sir.” Saltario never moved a muscle. He was rigid.

“Right,” I said, “get your gear, see the Adjutant and sign the agreement. I think you’ll do.”

Saltario left. I sat back in my chair and thought about how many non-Earthmen I was taking into the Company. Maybe I should have been thinking about this one single non-Earthman and the something he was carrying inside him, but I didn’t, and it cost the Companies thirty thousand men we couldn’t afford to lose. We can’t afford to lose one man. There are only a hundred Companies now, twenty thousand men each, give or take a few thousand depending on how the last contract went. Life is good in the United Galaxies now that they’ve disarmed and outlawed all war again, and our breed is dying out faster than it did in the 500 years of peace before the War of Survival. Too many of the old Companions like me went west in the War of Survival. The Galactic Council know they need us, know that you can’t change all living creatures into good Galactic citizens overnight, so they let us go on fighting for anyone in the Universe who wants to take something from someone else, or who thinks someone else wants to take something from him. And even the mighty United Galaxies needs guards for expeditions to the unexplored galaxies. But they don’t like us and they don’t want us. They don’t cut off our little fingers anymore, but we have to wear our special black uniforms when we go into United territory under penalty of a quick death. Humane, of course, they just put us to sleep gently and for keeps. And they’ve got a stockpile of ionic bombs ready at all times in case we get out of hand. We don’t have ionic weapons, that’s part of the agreement and they watch us. They came close to using them down there in the frozen waste of Menelaus XII, but thirty thousand of us died without ionics. We killed each other. They liked that, even if they didn’t like what happened.

* * * *

Do you know what it means to be lost? Really lost? I’m lost, if that means I know I’ll never go back to live on Earth. But I know that Earth is still there to go back to, and I can dream of going home. Yuan Saltario and the other refugees have no home to go back to. They can’t even dream. They sat in that one ship that escaped and watched their planet turn into a lifeless ball of ice that would circle dead and frozen forever around its burned-out star. A giant tomb that carried under its thick ice their homes and their fields and their loves. And they could not even hope and dream. Or I did not think they could.

Saltario had been with us a year when we got the contract to escort the survey mission to Nova-Maurania. A private Earth commercial mining firm looking for minerals under the frozen wastes of the dead planet. Rajay-Ben was in on the contract. We took two battalions, one from my Red Company, and one from Rajay-Ben’s Lukanian Patrol. My Sub-Commander was Pete Colenso, old Mike Colenso’s boy. It all went fine for a week or so, routine guard and patrol. The survey team wouldn’t associate with us, of course, but we were used to that. We kept our eyes open and our mouths shut. That’s our job, and we give value for money received. So we were alert and ready. But it wasn’t the attack that nearly got us this time. It was the cold of the dead planet lost in absolute zero and absolute darkness.

Nova-Maurania was nearly 40 percent uranium, and who could resist that? A Centaurian trading unit did not resist the lure. The attack was quick and hard. A typical Lukanian Patrol attack. My Company was pinned down at the first volley from those damned smoky blasters of the Lukanians. All I could see was the same shimmering lights I had learned to know so well in the War of Survival against Lukania. Someday maybe I’ll find out how to see a Lukan, Rajay-Ben has worked with me a long time to help, but when the attack came this time all I could do was eat ice and beam a help call to Rajay-Ben. That Centaurian trading unit was a cheap outfit, they had hired only one battalion of Arjay-Ben’s Ninth Lukanian Free Patrol, and Rajay-Ben flanked them right off that planet. I got my boys on their feet and we chased Arjay’s men half way back to Salaman with Rajay-Ben laughing like a hyena the whole way.

“Dip me in mud, Red boy, I’d give a prime contract for one gander at old Arjay-Ben’s face. He’s blowing a gasket!”

I said, “Nice flank job.”

Rajay-Ben laughed so hard I could see his pattern of colored light shaking like a dancing rainbow. “I took two Sub-Commanders, wait’ll I hit that bullet-head for ransom!”

Then we stopped laughing. We had won the battle, but Arjay-Ben was a crafty old soldier and his sabotage squad had wrecked our engines and our heating units. We were stuck on a frozen planet without heat.

Young Colenso turned white. “What do we do?”

I said, “Beam for help and pray we don’t freeze first.”

They had missed our small communications reactor unit. We sent out our call, and we all huddled around the small reactor. There might be enough heat out of it to let us live five hours. If we were lucky. It was the third hour when Yuan Saltario began to talk. Maybe it was the nearness of death.

“I was twenty-two. Portario was the leader on our planet. He found the error when we had one ship ready. We had three days. No time to get the other ships ready. He said we were lucky, the other planets didn’t have even one ship ready. Not even time for United Galaxies to help. Portario chose a thousand of us to go. I was one. At first I felt very good, you know? I was really happy. Until I found out that my wife couldn’t go. Not fit enough. United Galaxies had beamed the standards to us. Funny how you don’t think about other people until something hurts you. I’d been married a year. I told them it was both of us or neither of us. I told Portario to tell United Galaxies they couldn’t break up a family and to hell with their standards. They laughed at me. Not Portario, the Council. What did they care, they would just take another man. My wife begged me to go. She cried so much I had to agree to go. I loved her too much to be able to stay and see the look on her face as we both died when she knew I could have gone. On the ship before we took off I stood at a port and looked down at her. A small girl trying to smile at me. She waved once before they led her away from the rocket. All hell was shaking the planet already, had been for months, but all I saw was a small girl waving once, just once. She’s still here, somewhere down there under the ice.”

The cold was slowly creeping into us. It was hard to move my mouth, but I said, “She loved you, she wanted you to live.”

“Without her, without my home, I’m as dead as the planet. I feel frozen. She’s like that dead sun out there, and I’ll circle around her until someone gets me and ends it.” Saltario seemed to be seeing something. “I’m beginning to forget what she looked like. I don’t want to forget! I can’t forget her on this planet. The way it was! It was a beautiful place, perfect! I don’t want to forget her!”

Colenso said, “You won’t have long to remember.”

* * * *

But Colenso was wrong. My Third Battalion showed up when we had just less than an hour to live. They took us off. The Earth mining outfit haggled over the contract because the job had not been finished and I had to settle for two-third contract price. Rajay-Ben did better when he ransomed Arjay-Ben’s two Sub-Commanders. It wasn’t a bad deal and I would have been satisfied, except that something had happened to Yuan Saltario.

Maybe it made him realize that he did not want to die after all. Or maybe it turned him space-happy and he began to dream. A dream of his own born up there in the cold of his dead planet. A dream that nearly cost me my Company.

I did not know what that dream was until Saltario came into my office a year later. He had a job for the Company.

“How many men?” I asked.

“Our Company and Rajay-Ben’s Patrol,” Saltario said.

“Full strength?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Price?”

“Standard, sir,” Saltario said. “The party will pay.”

“Just a trip to your old planet?”

“That’s all,” Saltario said. “A guard contract. The hiring party just don’t want any interference with their project.”

“Two full Companies? Forty thousand men? They must expect to need a lot of protecting.”

“United Galaxies opposes the project. Or they will if they get wind of it.”

I said, “United opposes a lot of things, what’s special about this scheme?”

Saltario hesitated, then looked at me with those flat black eyes. “Ionics.”

It’s not a word you say, or hear, without a chill somewhere deep inside. Not even me and I know a man can survive ionic weapons. I know because I did once. Weapons so powerful I’m one of the last men alive who saw them in action. Mathematically the big ones could wipe out a Galaxy. I saw a small one destroy a star in ten seconds. I watched Saltario for a long time. It seemed a long time, anyway. It was probably twenty seconds. I was wondering if he had gone space-crazy for keeps. And I was thinking of how I could find out what it was all about in time to stop it.

I said, “A hundred Companies won’t be enough. Saltario, have you ever seen or heard what an ionic bomb can…”

Saltario said, “Not weapons, peaceful power.”

“Even that’s out and you know it,” I said. “United Galaxies won’t even touch peaceful ionics, too dangerous to even use.”

“You can take a look first.”

“A good look,” I said.

I alerted Rajay-Ben and we took two squads and a small ship and Saltario directed us to a tall mountain that jutted a hundred feet above the ice of Nova-Maurania. I was not surprised. In a way I think I knew from the moment Saltario walked into my office. Whatever it was Saltario was part of it. And I had a pretty good idea what it was. The only question was how. But I didn’t have time to think it out any farther. In the Companies you learn to feel danger.

The first fire caught four of my men. Then I was down on the ice. They were easy to see. Black uniforms with white wedges. Pete O’Hara’s White Wedge Company, Earthmen. I don’t like fighting other Earthmen, but a job’s a job and you don’t ask questions in the Companies. It looked like a full battalion against our two squads. On the smooth ice surface there was no cover except the jutting mountain top off to the right. And no light in the absolute darkness of a dead star. But we could see through our viewers, and so could they. They outnumbered us ten to one. Rajay-Ben’s voice came through the closed circuit.

“Bad show, Red, they got our pants down!”

“You call it,” I answered.

“Break silence!”

Surrender. When a Company breaks silence in a battle it means surrender. There was no other way. And I had a pretty good idea that the Council itself was behind O’Hara on this job. If it was ionics involved, they wouldn’t ransom us. The Council had waited a long time to catch Red Stone in an execution offense. They wouldn’t miss.

But forty of our men were down already.

“Okay,” I beamed over the circuit, “break silence. We’ve had it Rajay.”

“Council offense, Red.”

“Yeah.”

* * * *

Well, I’d had a lot of good years. Maybe I’d been a soldier too long. I was thinking just like that when the sudden flank attack started. From the right. Heavy fire from the cover of the solitary mountain top. O’Hara’s men were dropping. I stared through my viewer. On that mountain I counted the uniforms of twenty-two different Companies. That was very wrong. Whoever Saltario was fronting for could not have the power or the gold to hire twenty-four Companies including mine and Rajay-Ben’s. And the fire was heavy but not that heavy. But whoever they were they were very welcome. We had a chance now. And I was making my plans when the tall old man stood up on the small, jutting top of that mountain. The tall old man stood up and a translating machine boomed out.

“All of you! O’Hara’s men! Look at this!”

I saw it. In a beam of light on the top of that mountain it looked like a small neutron-source machine. But it wasn’t. It was an ionic beam projector.

The old man said, “Go home.”

They went. They went fast and silent. And I knew where they were going. Not to Salaman. O’Hara would have taken one look at that machine and be half way to United Galaxy Center before he had stopped seeing it. I felt like taking that trip myself. But I had agreed to look and I would look. If we were lucky we would have forty-eight hours to look and run.

I fell in what was left of my Company behind the men that had saved us. More Company uniforms than I had ever seen in one place. They said nothing. Just walked into a hole in that mountain. Into a cave. And in the cave, at the far end, a door opened. An elevator. We followed the tall old man into the elevator and it began to descend. The elevator car went down for a long time. At last I could see a faint glow far below. The glow grew brighter and the car stopped. Far below the glow was still brighter. We all stepped out into a long corridor cut from solid rock. I estimated that we were at least two hundred miles down and the glow was hundreds of miles deeper. We went through three sealed doors and emerged into a vast room. A room bright with light and filled with more men in Company uniforms, civilians, even women. At least a thousand. And I saw it. The thousand refugees, all of them. Gathered from all the Companies, from wherever they had been in the Galaxies. Gathered here in a room two hundred miles into the heart of their dead planet. A room filled with giant machines. Ionic machines. Highly advanced ionic power reactors.

The old man stood in front of his people and spoke. “I am Jason Portario, I thank you for coming.”

I broke in, “Ionic power is an execution offense. You know that. How the hell did you get all this…”

“I know the offense, Commander,” Portario said, “and I know you. You’re a fair man. You’re a brave man. It doesn’t matter where we got the power, many men are dead to get it, but we have it, and we will keep it. We have a job to do.”

I said, “After that stunt out there you’ve about as much chance as a snowball in hell. O’Hara’s half way to Galaxy Center. Look, with a little luck we get you out to Salaman. If you leave all this equipment I might be able to hide you until it blows over.”

The old man shrugged. “I would have preferred not to show our hand, but we had to save you. I was aware that the Council would find us out sooner or later, they missed the ionic material a month ago. But that is unimportant. The important matter is will you take our job? All we need is another two days, perhaps three. Can you hold off an attack for that long?”

“Why?” I asked.

Portario smiled. “All right, Commander, you should know all we plan. Sit down, and let me finish before you speak.”

I sat. Rajay-Ben sat. The agitation of his colored lights showed that he was as disturbed as I was. The thousand Nova-Mauranians stood there in the room and watched us. Yuan Saltario stood with his friends. I could feel his eyes on me. Hot eyes. As if something inside that lost man was burning again. Portario lighted a pipe. I had not seen a pipe since I was a child. The habit was classified as ancient usage in the United Galaxies. Portario saw me staring. He held his pipe and looked at it.

“In a way, Commander,” the old man said, “this pipe is my story. On Nova-Maurania we liked a pipe. We liked a lot of the old habits. Maybe we should have died with all the others. You know, I was the one who found the error. Sometimes I’m not at all sure my friends here thank me for it. Our planet is dead, Commander, and so are we. We’re dead inside. But we have a dream. We want to live again. And to live again our planet must live again.” The old man paused as if trying to be sure of telling it right. “We mean no harm to anyone. All we want is our life back. We don’t want to live forever like lumps of ice circling around a dead heart. What we plan may kill us all, but we feel it is worth the risk. We have thousands of ionic power reactors. We have blasted out Venturi tubes. We found life still deep in the center of this planet. It is all ready now. With all the power we have we will break the hold of our dead sun and send this planet off into space! We…”

I said, “You’re insane! It can’t…”

“But it can, Commander. It’s a great risk, yes, but it can be done, my calculations are perfect! We want to leave this dead system, go off into space and find a new star that will bring life back to our planet! A green, live, warm Nova-Maurania once again!”

Rajay-Ben was laughing. “That’s the craziest damned dream I ever sat still for. You know what your chances of being picked up by another star are? Picked up just right? Why…”

Portario said, “We have calculated the exact initial thrust, the exact tangential velocity, the precise orbital path we need. If all goes exactly, I emphasize, exactly, to the last detail as we have planned it we can do it! Our chances of being caught by the correct star in the absolutely correct position are one in a thousand trillion, but we can do it!”

It was so impossible I began to believe he was right. “If you aren’t caught just right?”

Portario’s black eyes watched me. “We could burn up or stay frozen and lifeless. We could drift in space forever as cold and dead as we are now and our ionic power won’t last forever. The forces we will use could blow the planet apart. But we are going to try. We would rather die than live as walking dead men in this perfect United Galaxies we do not want.”

The silence in the room was like a Salaman fog. Thick silence broken only by the steady hum of the machines deep beneath us in the dead planet. A wild, impossible dream of one thousand lost souls. A dream that would destroy them, and they did not care. There was something about it all that I liked.

I said, “Why not get Council approval?”

Portario smiled. “Council has little liking for wild dreams, Commander. It would not be considered as advancing the future of United Galaxies’ destiny. Then there are the ionics.” And Portario hesitated. “And there is the danger of imbalance, Galactic imbalance. I have calculated carefully, the danger is remote, but Council is not going to take even a remote chance.”

Yuan Saltario broke in. “All they care about is their damned sterile destiny! They don’t care about people. Well we do! We care about something to live for. The hell with the destiny of the Galaxies! They don’t know, and we’ll be gone before they do know.”

“They know plenty now. O’Hara’s beamed them in.”

“So we must hurry,” Portario said. “Three days, Commander, will you protect us for three days?”

A Council offense punishable by instant destruction with United Galaxies reserve ionic weapons in the hands of the super-secret police and disaster teams. And three days is a long time. I would be risking my whole Company. I heard Rajay-Ben laugh.

“Blast me, Red, it’s so damned crazy I’m for it. Let’s give it a shot.”

I did not know then how much it would really cost us. If I had I might not have agreed. Or maybe I would have, it was good to know people could still have such dreams in our computer age.

“Okay,” I said, “beam the full Companies and try to get one more. Mandasiva’s Sirian boys would be good. We’ll split the fee three ways.”

Yuan Saltario said, “Thanks, Red.”

I said, “Thank me later, if we’re still around.”

We beamed the Companies and in twenty minutes they were on their way. Straight into the biggest trouble we had had since the War of Survival. I expected trouble, but I didn’t know how much. Pete Colenso tipped me off.

Pete spoke across the light years on our beam. “Mandasiva says okay if we guarantee the payment. I’ve deposited the bond with him and we’re on our way. But, Red, something’s funny.”

“What?”

“This place is empty. The whole damned galaxy out here is like a desert. Every Company has moved out somewhere.”

“Okay,” I beamed, “get rolling fast.”

There was only one client who could hire all the Companies at one time. United Galaxies itself. We were in for it. I had expected perhaps ten Companies, not three against 97, give or take a few out on other jobs. It gave me a chill. Not the odds, but if Council was that worried maybe there was bad danger. But I’d given my word and a Companion keeps his word. We had one ace in the hole, a small one. If the other Companies were not here in Menelaus yet, they must have rendezvoused at Galaxy Center. It was the kind of “follow-the-book” mistake United would make. It gave us a day and a half. We would need it.

They came at dawn on the second day. We were deployed across five of the dead planets of Menelaus XII in a ring around Nova-Maurania. They came fast and hard, and Portario and his men had at least ten hours work left before they could fire their reactors and pray. Until then we did the praying. It didn’t help.

Mandasiva’s command ship went at the third hour. A Lukan blaster got it. By the fourth hour I had watched three of my sub-command ships go. A Sirian force beam got one, an Earth fusion gun got another, and the third went out of action and rammed O’Hara’s command ship that had been leading their attack against us. That third ship of mine was Pete Colenso’s. Old Mike would have been proud of his boy. I was sick. Pete had been a good boy. So had O’Hara. Not a boy, O’Hara, but the next to the last of old Free Companion from Earth. I’m the last, and I said a silent good-bye to O’Hara. By the sixth hour Rajay-Ben had only ten ships left. I had twelve. Five thousand of my men were gone. Eight thousand of Rajay-Ben’s Lukans. The Sirians of Mandasiva’s O Company were getting the worst of it, and in the eighth hour Mandasiva’s second in command surrendered. It would be over soon, too soon. And the dream would be over with the battle. I broke silence.

“Red Stone calling. Do you read me? Commander Stone calling. Request conference. Repeat, request conference.”

A face appeared on the inter-Company beam screen. The cold, blank, hard-bitten face of the only Free Company Commander senior to me now that O’Hara was gone, Jake Campesino of the Cygne Black Company. “Are you surrendering, Stone?”

“No. I want to speak to my fellow Companions.”

Campesino’s voice was like ice. “Violation! You know the rules, Stone. Silence cannot be broken in battle. I will bring charges. You’re through, Stone.”

I said, “Okay, crucify me later. But hear me now.”

Campesino said, “Close silence or surrender.”

It was no good. We’d had it. And across the distance of battle Rajay-Ben’s face appeared on the screen. The colored lights that were a Lukan’s face and I knew enough to know that the shimmering lights were mad. “The hell with them, Red, let’s go all the damned way!”

And a new face appeared on the screen. A face I knew too well. First Councillor Roark. “Stone! You’ve done a lot in your day but this is the end, you hear me? You’re defending a madman in a Council crime. Do you realize the risk? Universal imbalance! The whole pattern of galaxies could be destroyed! We’ll destroy you for this, Stone. An ionic project without Council authorization.”

I said to Campesino, “Five minutes, Commander. That’s all.”

There was a long blank on the screen, then Campesino’s cold face appeared. “Okay, Red, talk. I don’t like civilian threats. You’ve got your five minutes, make it good.”

I made it good. I told them of a handful of people who had a dream. A handful of people who wanted their home back. A few lost souls who would rather die trying to live the way they wanted to live than go on living in a world they did not want. And I told them of the great United Galaxies, that had been created to protect the dreams of everyone in it and had forgotten why it had been created. I told them that it did not matter who was right or wrong, because when a man can no longer dream something has gone wrong in the Universe. When I finished, Campesino’s face was impassive.

Campesino said, “You heard Commander Stone, men. Close off, Stone, give me a minute to get the vote.”

I waited. It was the longest minute of my life.

“You win, Red,” Campesino said. He was smiling at me. “Go home, Councillor, battle’s over.”

The Councillor went. He said there would be hell to pay, and maybe there will be, but I don’t think so, they still need us. We lost thirty thousand good men in all the Companies. But when the next dawn came Nova-Maurania was gone. I don’t know where they went, or what happened to them. Here in my stronghold I sometimes imagine them safe and rebuilding a green world where they can smoke pipes and live their own lives. And sometimes I imagine them all dead and drifting out there in the infinity of space. I don’t think they would mind too much, either way.

NEFERTITI’S TENTH LIFE, by Mary A. Turzillo

I lay on the cold table while my slaves petted me. Water dripped from their faces. Evil smells, dog piss, and antiseptic fluid, made my whiskers twitch feebly.

My female slave said, “And it will purr, and have fur, just like Nefertiti?”

And the bad doctor said, “It will be Nefertiti. It won’t be just a mechanical cat. It will have her Siamese meow, all her little tricks, her raspy tongue, her whiskers. Everything that makes a cat a cat. Except she’ll be younger, like when she was a kitten. And you can pet her, and play cat and mouse games with her.”

My man slave said, “What about catnip?”

“That’s a little more complicated. You’ll have to say catnip. The sensors aren’t attuned to odors, although they’re working on that. It’s possible you could get it installed later, when they bring out a new model.”

“It’s so hard to let her go.”

The bad doctor said, “It’s normal for you to grieve. But really, she’ll just go to sleep—and wake up in a new, more permanent body.”

They snuffled awhile.

“Shall I leave you two with her for a while?”

“No, no, we’re ready. We just—wanted to know what to expect.”

“This is the end of all her pain.” But it wasn’t quite. There was a claw prick in my neck, and then things stopped hurting, one by one. The ache in my back legs. The feeling that I had to piss all the time, even when nothing would come out. The heaviness in my chest. The burning in my gut. And I slept.

* * * *

When I wake up, I am lying on the slaves’ bed, which is where I like to nap. Lately, I have not been strong enough to leap up. They made the bed too high for me. Slaves do things like that.

I forget what woke me up. Maybe the screaming of the two women, the young one who is just old enough to compete for males and the old shrill one, who live next door. I got used to it before, so I didn’t notice it. Or maybe my hearing is better now.

I yawn, and stretch, and lick my fur. My fur has no taste, but I lick it anyway, to get good and clean after the bad doctor’s office. Then I hop off the bed and saunter down to where the slaves are watching their television. Yorick, my big yellow dog, is lying on the floor in his usual place. He opens his yellow eyes, sniffs me without interest, and goes back to sleep.

I let them watch television in the evening, because it keeps them busy when I’m occupied with other things.

But I don’t want them to get the idea they can get up and do something else when I want them. I pad over to the female slave and leap toward her lap.

But accidentally (am I so strong, now?), I leap past her and hit the table with the lamp. It crashes down, and she jumps up to straighten it. Yorick stumbles to his feet, ready to bark. He’s the one that usually knocks things over. He’s stupid, like most dogs, even less trainable than the human slaves, but nice to sleep next to on a cold evening.

My slave picks me up and puts me on her lap.

I don’t like the slaves to get the idea they are allowed to decide when to pick me up, but when her hands go round my chest and under my shanks, I feel a deep tingle of pleasure. PLEASURE! So I let her settle me in her lap and begin to purr and knead as she strokes the fur on my back.

She says, “Does the fur feel different from Nefertiti’s? Come pet her and see.”

The male slave gets up and strokes me. PLEASURE.

The female says, “Maybe it is the same. Nefertiti was so silky.”

“The vet said this is Nefertiti. We have to learn to think of her that way. She doesn’t look all that different.”

“I guess. Her eyes are the same.”

“She’s a lot heavier, though. Warm. But solid, as if I were stroking a bean bag covered with sable.”

I purr.

“Shall we try the catnip?”

At this, I suddenly feel my whole body go wild with excitement. Catnip! The word sends me into rapture!

I spring out of her lap and carom around the room. I am a kitten again! I give a playful slap at the floor lamp and knock it over. Then I notice the drapes. I haven’t climbed up to the top of the room for years and years!

From a running start, I vault up and begin to climb. What ecstasy! Up and up! I claw my way toward the ceiling—

—and suddenly the whole drapery sways and pulls out and I am falling backward, away from the wall in a wild arc. A wall of fabric and a big heavy rod slap down atop me with a WHUMP. Trapped! I writhe and struggle, batting at the heavy shroud. Yorick barks madly, and the slaves yell and swear.

Then, salvation! The slaves pull the material off me and I streak upstairs. Back to the slaves’ bed, and under it.

* * * *

I stay there a long time, listening to the screaming of the women next door. The old one screams, “You’re a slut! You don’t deserve to live!” The young one says, “Don’t, please! You’ll hurt the baby!”

My slaves come upstairs. I stay under the bed. They sleep and wake and sleep, night and day, three times, and in between they ask, “Kitty, kitty, kitty?” with their big moon faces peering upside down at me and I just glare.

“Won’t she get hungry?” asks the male slave. “I know they don’t eat, but Nefertiti was always such a creature of routine. She’ll miss the morning and evening ritual.”

“I don’t know. I’m tempted to say the C word, just to get her out. But maybe we should let her get used to her new body.”

“We could call the vet.”

* * * *

When they get out of bed the fourth day, I make up my mind. The drapery thing was a mistake, and I can stop it from happening again. I am strong, now, and maybe I have gained some weight. Cats sometimes do that. It’s true, I feel no real hunger, but maybe I can get them to put down some of that smelly stuff out of the cans.

They are pitifully happy to see me. The female slave says, “Oh, it’s Nefertiti. It truly is! I can believe it now.”

And the male takes that complicated thing with gears and levers and cuts off the top of the can. He puts down just a taste of the stuff on a saucer.

I walk over and sniff it. It has no smell. They have done something to the food. Or they bought the wrong kind. But I wasn’t hungry anyway. I lift my tail and walk away.

“Yorick will eat it,” says the female slave.

“I hope so. Cat food is pretty expensive to keep up a charade like this.”

But Yorick is already at the saucer, finishing all of it in one big lick.

What nerve. I walk over and swat his wet snotty nose, just to teach him his place.

To my surprise, Yorick flies across the room and cowers whimpering at the foot of the dishwasher.

My slaves both go to Yorick and pet him and feel his nose. The female gets a paper towel and holds it to his snotty nose, and it comes away red. The red might be blood, but I can’t smell it, so I don’t know. It might be paint.

They spend a long time with him, ignoring me. I wash myself, but my fur is still quite tasteless. Very clean, I imagine. I’ve always been very clean. That’s what my slaves say.

“I thought you said the thing was declawed,” says the male, looking at me with a look I don’t quite like.

“They never said, but I thought so.” They both come at me and I bristle.

“Maybe just the force of the blow. What is it made of?”

“Metal and plastic, mostly, I suppose. It’s heavy enough.” She comes at me with hate in her eyes. Human faces are easy to read if you are a cat. “Bad kitty! Bad! You mustn’t hurt Yorick!”

I run. They both chase me, and I run and hide under their bed again.

* * * *

But I am lonely. I remember the rush of PLEASURE when the female slave held me, so when they are both good and asleep, I spring up onto the bed, as lightly as I can. I used to be able to do that, long ago, without waking them up. But then when I was sick, I couldn’t manage to get up off the floor at all, and just sat there, meowing pitifully in that tone that always gets to humans. This time, I land too hard, and they wake up.

But the female just says, “Hi, Nefertiti. You ready to cuddle?” And they both go back to sleep.

The two women next door do not scream tonight. I settle between the male slave’s feet, a nice warm place, and the PLEASURE comes back, rich and strong, and I purr and purr and purr and never think any more about the screaming women, or my yellow dog Yorick, who sleeps outside the door because they don’t let him in the bedroom.

I hear Yorick whimper in his sleep. Maybe he dreams. Maybe he dreams that he could chastise a large Siamese cat.

In the night, the male slave thrashes and turns over. He does that. It’s in human nature; they are imperfect sleepers.

But he kicks me. I complain, mildly, of course. He’s just a human, he can’t help it.

But he yells as if I had bitten him. “Damn thing is like a brick! I think I broke my toe.”

“Well,” says the female sleepily. “Maybe you shouldn’t have kicked her.”

But the next night, they take me off the bed and close the door. I have to sleep in the hall, with the drooling, stupid yellow dog.

* * * *

I have my humans, and I have no pain, and I am strong. But somehow things are not right. The humans flinch away from me when I rub their ankles. There is a thing the humans call love, and I feel it is missing now. Before, even when I was sick and dying, there was love, and now it has flowed away. There is the PLEASURE when one of them picks me up, and still more PLEASURE when I hop into their laps, where they still let me stay when they watch their television.

But something is missing in my humans.

I decide I will forget them. I need a good hunt. I scratch the door to get outside and chase birds, but the male says, “Suppose she gets wet. Won’t the chassis get rusty?”

“She’s supposed to be durable. The fur is drip-dry. We’re supposed to wash her once a week, or whenever she gets dirty.

Like a dog. As if I couldn’t keep myself clean.

* * * *

But they won’t let me out.

One day, from across the room, I watch a cardinal throw itself stupidly against the glass. The impact stuns it, but it flaps up and does it again. And again. Bastet gave birds wings to compensate for their incredible lack of intellect. But this cardinal (a male) clearly is so stupid it should be prevented from siring chicks. I know there is glass between me and that feather-brain, but somehow—is it because my female slave had the windows washed yesterday?—I forget there is a pane between me and the silly morsel.

I retreat a dozen paces from the window, then turn, then crouch, stock still. Wait until the bird recovers from its latest collision. From a distance, I focus my whole being on that scarlet flash. I waggle my hindquarters, and I launch.

The glass shatters against my nose, and I seize the pea-brained mouthful. It squawks and flutters. Feathers brilliant as blood fly around me. Ecstasy!

I pad to the porch and lie down to disassemble my treasure. The guts are slick and long, and I pull them eagerly from the twitching body.

But I’m not hungry. I remember the smell of bird blood, juicy and hot, but this bird is tasteless and without aroma.

I can, of course, use it as a hostess gift to my slaves, in recompense for their recent acts of service, and maybe get them to love me again, too. So, bearing the bright treasure in my mouth, I leap back through the window, avoiding glittering shards that might damage my fur.

It happens that the female slave is home alone, gazing mindlessly at a heap of paper in her lap. I land beside her, and she screams.

I’ve heard her scream before when I bring her gifts, and I attribute her shrieks to excessive excitement. After all, she could never actually catch a bird as I can, and she never gets really fresh meat. Her mate and she sometimes bring stale, cold meat into the house and eat it. And then there’s the matter of the somewhat rotten cooked meat that comes in the little cans.

“Bad! Bad kitty!” she screams.

Then it dawns on me. She is upset that I have broken the window.

But it is my house. How can she object?

When the male comes home, the two of them call a dirty-looking man in coveralls to put in a new pane of glass. I see cat and dog hairs on the legs of his pants, but sniff as I can, I can’t detect their odors.

“I think we should let her out,” says my male slave.

The female says nothing. She just opens the door. I look at the open door. It is bad to let your humans believe that they can control when you come and go, but the autumn sunshine lures me. I saunter out.

* * * *

And I stay out. I chase leaves and birds and chipmunks and a dog. The dog is a bully of a German Shepherd who belongs to the older of the two screaming women next door. It used to snarl and bar my way when I was weaker.

It barks at me once. When I puff out my fur, it crouches down menacingly and growls.

So I leap on it and bury my teeth in its snout.

It twists and tries to roll me off, but I am clever and strong, and I hold on. I ride it halfway into its own back yard before I become bored with it and let it go.

It is way too big to eat.

* * * *

No, I am not really tired tonight. I never seem to tire since I recovered from my illness. But I grow curious about my humans. And also perhaps lonely.

So I climb the tree outside my humans’ window. I know that tree goes to their window. I can see it every night from their bed, and there is a little red Frisbee that someone has thrown up and which is stuck in it. So it is easy to find.

I wait until they come in and take off their outer skins, as humans do. It always seems curious that they have these extra skins, and I like very much to smell them and then perhaps settle down and sleep on them. They lie in the bed and wrestle for a while, the kind of wrestling that I think has something to do with mating, only there are never any kittens, so I don’t know. Perhaps their previous cat had them fixed.

After, the male says, “We should let the cat in.”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t tried to get back in. Maybe she ran away.”

“You sound as if you—wanted her to run away.”

“Bob, there’s something spooky about that thing. It isn’t Nefertiti. It’s—a thing. A monster.”

“Now you’re making her into something out of a Frankenstein movie. But, Honey, it’s just a cat. A cat with an artificial body, and a personality just like our cat. To all intents and purposes, it’s Nefertiti. Our cat, only younger and stronger.”

“It’s the ‘stronger’ that bothers me. When she went through that window today, I thought what she could do to us, if she got angry at us.”

“You saw the Today’s Consumer article. They don’t attack humans, because the personality matrixes they’re built on—the old cat—is submissive. They see us as alpha animals. There has never been a case of a robotic cat attacking its master, and how many of them have been sold?”

“But I notice you agreed when I suggested she sleep outside with the dog.”

“Go to sleep. You need time to reestablish the bond, that’s all. Nefertiti still loves us, but maybe you need a little time to learn to love her. Again.”

They are quiet for awhile. I feel dismal, as if I am sick all over again, only the sickness is inside my breast.

The humans do not love me. How will I survive if my slaves do not love me?

The woman makes little rustling noises, pulling the bedspread around her. “Suppose,” she says, “there’s a defect in our cat’s chassis?”

“A defect? She acts just like Nefertiti did.”

“Except stronger. She’s stronger than a normal cat. The brochure didn’t mention that, and neither did the vet.”

“You think that’s a defect?”

“I suppose I’m imagining things. Everything looks worse at night.”

I crouch in the tree, watching the night pass. The shadows of the new moon cast leaf shapes, and I feel cold in my heart, and alone. I think of crying out, of meowling, as I did when I was a kitten. Then the slaves would come and pet me. Once when I was a kitten, I climbed up in this tree, and they got a ladder and fetched me down, and caressed my fur and said how silky and elegant I was.

But I can’t, don’t want to meowl.

Everything looks worse at night.

* * * *

I fall nearly asleep on the tree branch, but something wakes me. The older woman next door screams, “Get out of my house, you filthy whore! You aren’t my daughter any more. You can spend the night in the street for all of me.” And the sound of a slap.

The other woman says, “Please, Mama. I’m sorry. I’ll get another job.”

I scurry down the tree and see the door open: a little shaft of light, then darkness. But someone is sitting on the back steps of the house next door.

I steal soundlessly across the grass and slink against her thigh. She raises her head and looks at me with red, swollen eyes. My female slave had such eyes when she took me to the bad doctor that last time. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” she says. Her hand glides over my back fur. “What’s your name? My name is Gretchen. I wish I could have a cat. But how would I pay for cat litter and cat food, and the vet?”

I rub against her, basking in the PLEASURE.

She pets me for a long time, and I see her face is more peaceful. I can read human faces; it is an art I learned from my mother. I lean against her, and she lifts me into her lap.

“You’re heavy! And you feel—I don’t know, lumpy. You look like a Siamese, but what kind of cat are you, really?”

She talks too much. Maybe the other woman won’t let her talk in the house, so she talks to me.

I curl in her lap and purr. She is not my slave, but she will do, because she is warm and soft and babbles soothingly.

But the older woman throws open the door and light streams out on us. “Get in here and finish ironing these sheets! My bed isn’t made, and I have to get up at eight!”

“I thought you—”

“Make up my bed first. And do the dishes. You think we have a dishwasher, like rich people?”

“I’m sorry,” says Gretchen. I’m sorry is her most frequent call, like a meow. She turns again to me, reluctant to let me go. “My mother won’t let me have a cat. I’m going to have a baby, and she says I can’t have a cat and a baby both. But she wouldn’t let me have a cat before I got pregnant, either. So, I’ll see you around, pretty kitty.” And she is gone.

I go back to my house and scratch on the door to my house. Nobody answers, so I climb the tree and meow.

My slaves are in the bedroom, and they wake up. “It’s her. I’ll go down and let her in.”

“You sound as if you don’t want to.”

“What can we do? I can’t let it stay out all night. It’s got feelings, if we are to believe the brochure.”

“We don’t have to keep it. We could take it back, get it deactivated.”

“Oh, just like we euthanized her before.”

“Well, you sound as if that’s what you want. What are you thinking?”

“I think Nefertiti is really dead. This isn’t her.”

“So we should take it back. I can’t think of asking for our money back—it would be like blood money.”

She sighs. “No, we can’t do that. But I can’t connect with this—thing. It seems—mechanical.”

“Well, sure. It is mechanical. A clockwork cat.”

“I’ll go down and let it in. It must suffer, in its way.”

What does euthanized mean? Take it back? They mean me?

I run. My legs are long, strong. I can last forever. I do not need food. I am unafraid of dogs and bigger cats.

* * * *

And I live in the weeds, under porches, and in flower gardens, for a long time. The days and nights come and go. It gets cold at night, and even in the daytime.

I miss my slaves. Nobody pets me, except children sometimes, and old humans who see me on the street. I sleep on empty porches in patches of sun, and I watch. I was stupid when I was sick, and before that, too. Before I became strong. I think I am what they call a robot. But I was once Nefertiti, and I have something in me that wants love. It is more than the need for PLEASURE of touch. I want a slave to be mine. A human.

So I go back to my house, where my slaves live. I climb the tree and look in the half-open window.

In the exact center of their bed is a small white kitten. It is licking itself. When I hiss at it, it sees me through the window and freezes, then jumps down and flees.

As I watch, my female slave comes back into the room. She has retrieved the white kitten and is stroking it. Its eyes are half-closed. It thinks it owns her.

I watch, furious and stricken, for a long time. Then I go down the tree and slink into a bush. The German Shepherd comes nosing after me, but I hiss, and it trots away.

The neighbor human I saw before, Gretchen, is huddled, shivering, on her back steps. She gets up and ambles over to me. I see that she is fat, in the way of females who are about to drop young. “Hi, pretty kitty. I thought you belonged to the neighbors. May I pet you?” And she strokes me and strokes me and the PLEASURE rolls into my body like a wave of heat. I purr and rub frantically against her. “You’re a stray, aren’t you? Look, your fur is all full of burrs.” She picks a few of them out.

“I wish you could come and live with me. But my mother would kill you. Sometimes I’m afraid that she’ll kill me. Or my baby. My husband went away. He was going to be my husband. We’re too young to get married. I think his parents sent him to military school.”

I listen to her chatter. Her words very little to me, except that she is sad, and the older woman hits her. I know this, because her eye is bruised now, all purple. I saw this once when my male slave came home wounded. Another male hid in a dark place and pounced on him, then took his money. Money is very valuable to humans, and they will hurt each other for it.

“I wish you could live with me. But she’d say you cost too much to take care of.” She sighs. “If her dinner isn’t ready when she comes home, I’m in deep shit. Especially if she’s had one for the road. So, stay out there, kitty.”

She puts me down, and I mewl a tiny protest, but she is firm. She closes the screen door and looks through it at me. It’s getting cold, these days, and she closes the door and goes inside.

She could keep me forever, and I’d never want anything except to be petted. My insides hurt, not with physical pain, but with a wanting and needing for the PLEASURE and for something else: for a slave. For love.

Gretchen didn’t quite snick shut her screen door, and I pull it toward me. I’m stronger than that white kitten my slaves have brought into my house. I can open doors. Even doors to the neighbor’s house, where I have never been.

The main door is harder. I think and think, and remember that humans do something with the knob. I stretch up and put my paws on either side. I press my paws together so the door knob is caught between them.

Nothing happens.

I remember: you turn it somehow.

The door unlatches with a click, then creaks open. Just a crack. Big enough for a big Siamese cat. My whiskers just brush the door and the jamb, on either side.

I scurry into the house. There are stairs. Upstairs was a good place, in my other house, the only house I know. Upstairs has closets, places to hide. I can hide for a long time.

I find a closet. If I could smell, I suppose it would smell of perfume and sweat and shoe leather. I leap to the dresser, then to the top shelf, and huddle behind a box of sweaters.

I sleep, but my mind listens.

A car grumbles up the drive, stops. The car door slams. “Why is this door standing half open?” The voice of the older woman.

The younger one, Gretchen, says something soft, appeasing.

“You think I’m drunk, don’t you? You left the door open, you wasted a hundred dollars in heating oil. Pay attention! I’m your mother, not some mollycoddle teacher you can put one over on.”

They argue. The girl sounds frightened. The mother is working up herself up to a rage. She is a dominant animal who snaps and rages and hits and claws. The younger one, Gretchen, is too submissive. Gretchen needs lessons in scratching back.

I wait. There will be sunny, soft places to sleep in this house. There will be cat food, though I will not actually eat it. There will be petting and purring, and I will sleep on the bed with Gretchen, and she will be my slave. There will be catnip. The word catnip in my mind lacks the fragrance I relish, but sooner or later, Gretchen will say, “catnip,” and life will be complete.

Meantime, I wait for the mother to come upstairs. If she kicks me, she will regret it.

QUICKSILVER, by Lonni Lees

Have you ever noticed how things look better from afar? Nearing the end of a flight, as the plane descends, the beautiful neon lights lie scattered below like a million multi-colored stars. But walking in that same city, you kick away the litter on the sidewalk and sidestep the piles of dog feces and empty bottles. A homeless addict lies curled in a fetal position in the shadow of a doorway, sleeping in his own vomit as rats scurry across his ragged clothes and nibble on his gnarled hands. On the same street you see a beautiful woman walking toward you, the street lamp forming a halo from behind her auburn hair. As she passes, you see her blemished face, the dark circles beneath her emotionless eyes, the needle tracks marching up her bare arm like a hundred fire ants.

Once, when my wife Sophie and I were on a road trip, she spotted a beautiful bush pregnant with brilliant red roses. I pulled over and stopped. She ran up to the bush and bent over to inhale its spicy essence only to be repelled by the sight of hundreds of aphids crawling across its crimson petals. From afar, the moon is magic and the earth is a peaceful orb of shimmering blue. Up close our planet teems with pestilence, war, tragedy and grief. Like I said, everything looks nicer from a distance.

My name is Sam. My profession as a geologist has taken me from Mexico to South America, from Africa to the dry heat of the American Southwest, each assignment a new adventure. I’ve been on the moon for three months, walking the rims and domes and grabens, analyzing its selenology and collecting samples. The goal, if it’s determined there are ample amounts of key minerals, is to set up permanent mining facilities at the most promising sites. Five more days and they’re sending the ship to come for me. Food and water supplies are running low and all I want is to go home to Sophie and our daughter. I’m sorry I ever volunteered for this mission. Even a geologist can get bored looking at rocks month after month. And the lack of human contact is swallowing me. I long for the sound of running water and the scent of pine and the sight of lush, green leaves and the sweet smell of Sophie.

Flawed as it is, I miss my planet Earth.

I sit here, looking out at my home planet, filled with an overwhelming longing. It’s beauty calls out to me. Something beneath me reverberates, like an aftershock. A brilliant flash of light burns my eyes, temporarily blinding me. As my vision clears multiple mushroom clouds reach to the heavens from the Earth in noxious tendrils, then more and more until every continent is enveloped in their deathly poison. It takes time for my brain to register what is happening. In one insane instant earth has turned from blue to the poisonous yellow of death. Man has finally pushed all the red buttons and destroyed himself, obliterated his own planet, destroyed his own home. I hear my own screams.

All is gone.

Sophie is gone.

As is my precious daughter.

The ship that was to come to my rescue is no more.

I scream into the nothingness, weep for my loss, cry over my own fate, destined to die on this alien landscape. Alone. Forgotten. Sleep finally comes, filled with nightmare visions and longing and loss. A soft sound, like wind chimes in the wind, slowly lures me to unwelcome consciousness.

She, if you could call it a she, stands before me. A vision, a hallucination? Her eyes are dark as the black universe that surrounds us. Her naked gray skin shimmers, smooth and sleek as quicksilver. She is beauty. She is ugliness. My heart races as she reaches out to me and I face my moment of death.

I freeze as she wraps her long fingers around my skull and looks silently into my face. She tilts her head as if studying something deep within me. I wait, welcoming the moment when she crushes my head with her strong hands and ends my nightmare. Instead of death, the beautiful sound of wind chimes again escape through her thin lips.

I thought I’d never hear the sound of another’s voice again, but then the creature slowly forms words and speaks to me.

“Sam. No afraid,” she says. “No sad. Come.”

Numb, I follow her across the forsaken landscape and into an entrance that tunnels deep below the moon’s surface. My eyes adjust to the darkness and this hidden world beneath the seeming deadness above. Sheets of water cascade down the rock walls. Life-giving water. She captures some in a small container and hands it to me.

I don’t know how long we’ve been here. It could be days or weeks or months. I call her Quicksilver and with each passing hour she becomes more beautiful, her un-nippled breasts and the curve of her hips an increasing temptation. She is kind and gentle and she seems to read my every thought in her determination to ease my loss. Although I still ache for Sophie, her image becomes more distant with each passing day. But nothing heals the loss of my daughter. Her innocence, her life, was taken from her along with millions of others in the final gasps of a hostile planet gone mad.

A planet gone forever.

And I alone have survived, to live out what time is left to me in this alien world.

Quicksilver walks over to where I sit, leans down and sits next to me, snuggling against my body.

“You hurt,” she says softly. “I make better.”

“I’m trying,” I say as she wipes the tears from my cheek.

“Me. Baby. You.”

In her infinite empathy, this beautiful alien creature has taken my pain as her own. If there is a god what would he think? Am I to continue in this loneliness or am I to embrace the unspeakable?

My hands caress the length of her smooth body as she holds me closer. Slowly, my fingers reach between her thighs then hesitate. I spread her legs and reach my hand between them, feel the smoothness, the strange smoothness. There is nothing there but the same sleek skin that covers the rest of her body.

Confusion.

“Different,” she says, rising. “No worry, Sam. Me. Baby. You.”

Quicksilver stands, smiling down at me. She reaches her hands over her head and stretches. And stretches. Her body elongates and thins as it reaches up toward the ceiling of our tunnel. Her form distorts and her screams of pain shatter the darkness. The screams become more and more intense as I watch her form slowly rip in two like an amoeba. I close my eyes, but am unable to block the sounds of her torment.

Finally, silence.

“Me. Baby,” she says.

I open my eyes and Quicksilver is standing over me. Smiling. And next to her stands her mirror image looking down at me.

“Happy now. No more lonely,” says her perfect clone.

I am laughing.

I am sobbing.

I am home.

AFTER ALL, by Robert Reginald

“Ya see, George, back in the old days we had all these conveniences, and a fella didn’t have to trudge so far just to get a bite to eat.”

I was pontificatin’ again. At least that’s what my boss used to call it, when we still had such things as bosses.

“Yeah,” George said, crawling out from his cubbyhole beneath the sink, “and I didn’t have to listen to you all the time, neither. Yadda yadda yadda. Gad, Charlie, it’s cold in here. You gonna get some wood, or what?”

“Quit yer complainin’,” I said. “You eat better than I do. Speakin’ of which, I gotta go to the store again. You wanna come along?”

“Nah,” he said, idly waving an arm, “I wanna watch The Lucy Show.”

“Well, you’re gonna miss out on some great stuff,” I noted. “There’s a sale on this week, you know. I saw it in the papers.”

“The same one you used on your ass?” he squealed.

I threw a dish towel at him, and he ducked.

His friend Mikey was perched on the table.

“Common, Charlie,” he yelled in his little voice, “we’re all gettin’ hungry round here.”

“All right, all right,” I snorted back. “I’ll see you guys in a few hours, okay?”

“And don’t forget the wood,” George said, as I pulled on a couple of ragged old coats.

I checked my grocery list, made sure I had a couple of sacks stashed in my pockets, and then headed out the door. I didn’t bother to lock it.

My name is Wardon Charles Quackenbush III, Ph.D., but most of my friends can’t easily manage that many syllables, so they just call me “Charlie.” Suits me just fine.

Outside my two-story house, my bike was where I’d left it yesterday. I checked it over quickly. It would need oiling again soon, but otherwise it was in pretty good shape. At some point over the years I’d found a couple of decent manuals in the public library, and had checked them out indefinitely. There wasn’t much call for them these days.

I’d rigged the cycle with a hand basket up front, a tail basket round back, and a small open trailer attached to the back seat that I could pull along behind me. I actually had found a little plastic tarp that I could drape over the latter when the weather was bad, and I’d changed out the original electric-powered light bulb on the front to one that was run off a small wheel generator. That way I didn’t have to keep replacing the damn batteries, which were irreplaceable anyway.

I peddled up Park Hill to Atlantic, down Atlantic to Del Razón (so cheeringly ungrammatical), up Del Razón to Highpark, and then down Highpark under the freeway overpass to the Kronen Brothers Store at Highpark and Veronica.

I pulled open the sliding doors with difficulty—squeak squeak squeak—and wheeled the bike right in. No one objected, of course.

The place was about played out now. I was looking for any canned goods that hadn’t either rotted out, rusted out, or been damaged by the elements, and there just wasn’t all that much left. I had to move a number of the fallen shelf sections around even to turn up a half dozen possibles. The front of the store was completely cleaned out, although I did manage to salvage some cracked shelves for use later.

But there still might be something out back, so I broke into the storage area of the supermarket to see what I could scrounge. Unfortunately, part of it had been damaged by heavy rains two years ago, and the boxes on the floor now had cans that had mostly become rust buckets. Those on pallets had fared a little better, and I picked up some corn and beans and a couple of spaghettis. Not bad for an afternoon’s haul.

But it was clear that I was going to have start moving a little further afield within a month or two, and this was potentially a problem.

I wasn’t as young as I used to be, for one thing, and it was getting harder to peddle more than a few miles just to get some vittles; but also, the quality wasn’t there anymore. I’d gotten a whiff of food poisoning twice in the last year, even with cooking the stuff real-damn-good, and the second round nearly took me out. I knew that my options were starting to dwindle.

Hell, I was starting to dwindle.

I loaded as much as I could on old Betsy, and then headed south on Veronica to Atlantic, and back down Atlantic to P.H. again, and then home.

George and the boys were overjoyed to see me.

“Gee, Charlie, what took you so long?” he squeaked.

“You know how it is, George,” I said, carefully carrying in the sacks, one by one.

The first thing I did was to stack some wood by the fireplace, and get some kindling going with one of those sparkers. Handy things to have around. Soon there was both warmth and a place to cook. I used my super-duper can opener (top of the line, let me tell ya!) to scoop some beans and corn into a pot, and made my own special veggie stew.

George and the boys pulled up seats around me, and we all shared a feast. I even sang a few songs afterward, which no one seemed to mind. They were all pretty much asleep by then anyway.

Then I began pondering the options available to me.

I mean, I really liked this place. I’d spent more than half of my life here, and it had all my books and stuff, and I just couldn’t take anything bulky with me if I moved.

And all my friends were here: George, Mikey, Sue, Droog, Jax, Mel, Ceel, and the others.

But the food was running out, and in the end, I might have to move. It was amazing that I’d managed to eke out this location so long.

I thought about scrounging through the houses again, but the idea curdled my blood. Even now, there were all those “remains” scattered about, and the lingering smell there was worse by far than in the supermarkets. Gad, I hated rummaging through someone else’s homes, even if they weren’t coming back again. It just wasn’t…civilized.

Then too, you had to be real careful where you went these days. There were packs of feral dogs roaming about, and a few of the big cats, and I knew all the places to hide or escape within a five-mile radius. That knowledge and my trusty crossbow and six-shooter had kept me alive where others (perhaps) had failed, although I didn’t really know very much about the latter. Moving somewhere else would mean reestablishing all those links, and I was reluctant to start over.

“Hey, Charlie,” George piped up, “tell us a story. Tell us about the old days again.”

The old days. Now that’s a laugh. All of our days now are old days, well tattered around the edges, fading, fading evermore into black.

“All right, boys,” I said, lifting a cup of the hard stuff in small salute. “Settle back now on your haunches, and I’ll tell you a tale to shiver ye timbers:

“There was a man named Lessingham who lived under a highway culvert off Eddison Street, and who had no friends in this world save a hound named Spook. Spook had found him one winter’s day when life seemed particularly grim, when the food was short and the air was cold, and when Lessingham was beginning to wonder whether he should bother trying to go on.

“‘Maybe,’ he said to himself (because he always spoke these things out loud), ‘maybe I just oughta jump off a bridge or something.’

“And while he was thinking these melancholy thoughts, he heard something scratching around in the brush on the other side of the freeway, and he thought that it might be another bum, or someone who could do him harm.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mikey interrupted. “You just told us this guy was thinkin’ ’bout ’sewercide.’ And now he’s worried that someone else might hurt him?”

“Well, that’s the way it is sometimes,” I said. “People can be irrational that way.”

“Yeah, well, it sure sounds dumb to me,” Mikey said.

“Anyway, where was I?” I said, ignoring the interruption. “Oh, yeah.”

“So he yelled out, ‘Who’s there?’ real loud like.

“But no one answered.

“And then this mutt emerged from the brush and said, ‘Whadya want, fella?’

“You mean there’s a talking dog in this story?” Rick said from one side.

“Well,” I said, “sometimes in my stories animals can speak, you know. And this is one of those Ellisonian tales.”

“What’s an Ellison?” George asked.

“He was a writer way back when,” I noted. “Good one, too. He married someone pretty named Maggie. Now, can I continue with this or what?”

“All right, all right,” several of them chimed in.

“Like I said, Spook (cuz that’s who he was), he came up to the guy and said, ‘You don’t look so hot, fella.’

“And Lessingham, he just sat there with his eyes bulging out, because he’s never seen (or heard) a talking dog before, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“‘Cat got your tongue?’ the pooch asked. ‘That’s a doggie joke, human.’

“The guy finally recovered from his surprise, and said: ‘Ya know, you don’t look so great yourself.’

“And the mutt saod, ‘That’s cuz I got no home.’

“And the man replied, ‘Well, neither do I.’

“So, from that point on they were pals, and no one could ever separate them.”

“Hold on a sec, Charlie,” George said. “That’s not much of a basis for a friendship, is it? They just meet by chance, and suddenly they’re bosom buddies?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t write these things,” Charlie said. “Now, are you guys ever goin’ to let me finish this thing before the moon comes up?”

There were groans all around in response to that particular point.

“I thought so.” Then I continued:

“So one day Lessingham and Spook were sitting near the Central City Mall, beggin’ for bucks, and this rich young broad, she stopped her fancy new car and looked them over real careful like. Then she got out.

“‘Say, you boys wouldn’t be going to Vegas?’ she asked.

“Lessingham and Spook just sorta looked at each other.

“‘We’ll go anywhere you want, ma’am,’ the man responded.

“‘Well,’ Moira said (cuz that was her name), ‘that’s great, but I’ve only got room for one of you. The back seat’s full of luggage.’

“And sure enough, the man looked into the rear of the car, and it’s piled high to the top.

“‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but we’re a team. We go together, or not at all.’

“She looked at the dog.

“‘What about you, Fuzz?’ she asked.

“Spook looked her over, and replied: ‘Hey, I can do anything he can do, and I’ve got a longer tongue.’

“‘So hop in,’ she said.

“Spook jumped in the car, and hung his head out the open window as she drove away.

“‘Sorry,’ he barked, ‘but Less definitely isn’t Moira.’”

“That’s terrible!” George squeaked. “That’s not even a good pun.”

“Best I can do on a fall evening,” I said. “Now, boys, it’s time for all of us to hit the hay, including those of you who sleep in it. Off to bed with everyone!”

And they scurried hither and yon, each seeking out their own hidey-hole, while I hunkered down beneath my well-worn comforter. Life was still good, whenever you had friends.

* * * *

The next day was clear and warm, and I decided to make a run out to the University. I oiled the bike up real good, checked my weapons, made sure I had some extra ammunition, and headed out at mid-morning, taking Atlantic to the park, then 22nd Street west, then Verdugo into the northern part of town, right by the old country club.

This was what had once passed for the rich district, although it’s all the same old ruin now, of course, and I had seriously contemplated relocating early on to one of these mansions (particularly the place with the Grecian columns); but had decided that conspicuous consumption was not a particularly good idea while there was still the possibility of encountering some less desirable types. They’re all gone now, too.

You had to keep an eye out for critters once you got into this part of town, near the mountains, but today I saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary.

The University was unchanged from the last time I’d visited, a few months ago. It had suffered some minor damage in the last big quake, three years earlier, but nothing that couldn’t be gotten around. The formerly pristine grounds were sere and dead, covered with the remains of once-fertile trees and shrubs and grass, with chaparral and sage now filling in some of the open spaces.

The worst problem was the litter of broken tree limbs. The campus had been built along the base of the mountains, about a mile south of the fault. Each year the Santa Ana winds would come funneling down through the canyons during the fall and winter months, screeching and howling like banshees, sometimes reaching seventy or eighty M.P.H. Sand, bushes, trees, just about anything would get carried away or blown over in successive seasons.

I made my way down through the loading dock of the library. I still had my key, and this door I did keep locked, not because anyone would disturb it, but just to make certain that it was securely latched. I managed to get the thing open with some difficulty: the mechanism tended to get jammed with soot and sand, and really needed cleaning and oiling again.

The basement level was dark but secure. Years ago, when I’d still had a few working flashlights, I had carefully closed all the connecting doors between the sections to make access by any outside critters more difficult. I headed for the corner stairwell, which would give me entry to the rest of the building.

Ever since a pair of those damn dogs had nearly caught me three or four years ago, I had avoided the first floor altogether. One of the big north doors there had cracked and broken during a particularly strong windstorm, and now Level One and part of Two were readily accessible to anything wild that wanted in. So much for “ready reference.”

It didn’t matter, anyway. Most of the books I wanted were on Levels Three and Four, which housed D and P, respectively, or history and literature. That was the good stuff. Of course, I kept some of my favorites at home, but I was always finding something new to read. I wouldn’t live long enough to get through more than one percent of the total, if that.

Cosmo was over in Serials on Three, his usual perch.

“How’s it goin’, chief?” he yelled at me.

“Not so bad, not so bad,” I said. “How’s yourself?”

“Can’t complain,” he said. “Say, boss, ya need to keep an eye out. I seen them dogs lollin’ around outside again yesterday. You watch yourself, hear?”

“Shore will,” I said. “You got the current Time?”

“Yeah, it’s about one o’clock,” he said, and started laughing.

They all wanna be jokers, let me tell ya.

“It’s over on the table,” he finally said.

So, while the light was still fairly good, I sat down near the north window, and looked at the “latest” news.

“BluFlu Strikes England!” screamed the running head, and the article inside described the chaos in the British Isles, the succession of the new king, and the death of the Prime Minister. AP provided a brief history of the disease, how it had spread from the Middle East to Asia and Africa to Europe, and was now starting to appear in North and South America.

People everywhere were starting to worry.

Well, they won’t be worrying long! suddenly popped into my head.

“Ya know, Charlie,” Cosmo said, “you really shouldn’t dwell on that kinda stuff. There’s nothin’ you can do about it anyways.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

I tossed the rag back on the table.

“What else ya got here?” I asked.

“Well, we got ourselves a new issue of Vogue,” Cosmo reported. “Great lookin’ dames. And The Journal of Biological Warfare: a little turgid, but grippin’ stuff. And….”

“Never you mind,” I said. “I think I’ll check the D’s.”

“All right, Charlie,” he said. “See ya next time, okay?”

“You bet, Cosmo,” and I trundled off.

I decided to review a couple of volumes dealing with the end of the Assyrian Empire in 612 B.C., and spent another happy hour in the stacks, until my watch (and the declining light) told me that it was time to get my ass in gear again.

I peered from the big windows on both sides, and then from the smaller ones looking out east and west, searching the ground outside for movement, but I didn’t see anything that concerned me. Then I goose-stepped down the stairwell, making sure to securely fasten the doors behind me.

In the basement, I moved back toward the loading dock. It was now somewhat shadowy underneath the overhang, but I saw no signs of life. I carefully exited, locking the double doors behind me, and retrieved my bike.

I was just heading past University Hall toward Campus Boulevard when I noticed the barking. They must have been on the other side of campus somewhere, and either had heard me leave the library or had just caught my scent.

I had to think very quickly now. I didn’t want to get caught in the expanse of the vacant parking lot, where they could easily run me down, but I also didn’t want to become trapped in a building with only one way out.

The north side of U-Hall faced across a small courtyard onto the Student Union, which consisted of a maze of two-story connected structures, including several balconies and stairwells that were easily defended. A few of the large windows on the structure were cracked or broken, but it still seemed to me the best option available.

I turned my bike around, and peddled furiously a few hundred feet north, driving right through the large hole left by one of the broken panes, and then carried my bike up the first stairwell I found. I had a minute or two yet to fortify the head of the stairs by moving furniture to block the exit onto Level Two. I had just finished dragging a heavy table there and turning it on its side when I heard them enter the outside courtyard.

There were perhaps a dozen mutts of varying sizes and shapes. Most were some combination of half-German shepherd or Doberman pinscher. I suspected that they would settle into some stable, intermixed breed within another decade or so. These were no man’s pets, but lean survivors of the arid, semi-desert terrain that was Southern California, pack hunters used to working together and getting their prey.

I pulled out two revolvers, a box of ammunition, and two crossbows. I left the latter for last: the quarrels were difficult to replace, and I didn’t want to lose any.

The dogs crowded into the vestibule of the Stu-U building, barking and sniffing and trying to solve the problem of sinking their long yellow teeth into the easy meal perched just above them. One ventured tentatively up the first steps of the stairwell, and I blew it away with the first shot.

The loud bang and the blood drove them into a frenzy. Some fled at the noise, but others just bared their fangs. I waited until I had a clear, close shot, and bagged what appeared to be the leader of the pack.

Mutts could be handled, unless they went frantic with bloodlust. Basically, if you could take out the pack leader, you’d disrupt the social structure of the group. This didn’t eliminate the problem entirely, but it helped. So I shot a third one, the biggest of the survivors.

When I got to number six, they broke and fled. I had to move quickly now. They’d be back eventually, within fifteen to thirty minutes. I carefully eased down the stairway, checked outside to make sure they were actually gone, loaded the carcass of the youngest onto the bike, and headed home.

I still could peddle the thing pretty damn fast when I wanted to, and I was well away from campus by the time the remainder of the pack had regrouped. They might follow, they might not, depending on whether they resorted to cannibalism. I was prepared in either case. I could cope with six on the fly.

So I had fresh meat for tonight! I turned from Campus south on Titanic, named for the great liner that had sunk in 1912, crossed Fortis Street, then headed east on Dale, and south on Verdugo again.

¡No problema, amigos!

George and the boys were delighted with the prospect of new grub.

“Geez, Charlie,” Zach said, “that smells pretty good. How’s about a taste?”

“Wait till I get some cooked,” I said, hauling some wood over to the fireplace, and brushing away the dirt and old bones. “You know, you guys could really help clean this place up a little more.”

“Nah,” said George, “we all have our jobs, ya know, and there’s just no way we can do both.”

I looked around.

“Where’s Mikey?” I asked.

“Bit the dust last night,” he said.

“Sorry to hear that.” I chopped a leg off the dog and put it on a spit. The fire was just beginning to catch.

“You do anything for him?”

“Yeah, we had a wake in the middle of the night,” Spike said, “and then we ate him.”

“Well, ya coulda saved a piece for me!” I said.

George snorted. “As if you’d want any!”

“Anyway,” Sue said, “this is something that we just gotta do for our own. Sorry, Charlie.”

“No madda, no madda, save one for the ole Mad Hadda,” I said.

I started turning the spit. The hair singed off right away, which was disgusting, but soon I could smell the fragrant odor of roasting dog. Ah, the very joy of it! On a scale of one to ten, dog was about an eight, while cat, particularly the big ones, only rated about a four, when you could get them. Mostly, the risk wasn’t worth the effort.

“What’s a Mad Hatter?” George asked.

“He had a haberdashery down on Mountainside,” I said.

“What’s a haberdashery?”

“It’s a place filled with habiliments,” I said, chuckling to myself.

“I think you’re funnin’ us again, Charlie,” Jax piped in.

“Maybe so,” I said, “but you’ll never know.”

The fragrance of roast beast now filled the room. I began to think what else I could add from my larder to bolster this unexpected feast. I still had a few spuds left from the garden, and a couple of small tomatoes.

No rusty well water tonight, I thought. Nope, I’d break open a bottle of the bubbly, without the bubbles, of course. Most of it was still potable, if you didn’t mind the vinegary taste.

Finally the leg was done, and George and the boys gathered round while I set the table. I didn’t use it much these days, but this was an occasion of sorts, so what the hell. We had a perfectly splendid feast. I then tossed more chunks of mutt into the stewing pot to provide some additional meals.

I broached the less pleasant topic after dinner.

“Well, boys,” I said, “we need to talk. I’ve got to make a scouting trip next week”—“no!” came the moans—“cuz we’re beginning to run a little short of vittles, and I need to find some new sources of supply. I figure I’ll be gone at least three to five days, and you’ll be on your own during that time.”

“Geez, Charlie,” George said, “can’t you take us with you?”

“I’d like to,” I said, “but I have to have some freedom of movement, and I can’t worry about your safety and still manage mine. I’m going into uncharted territory. Maybe next time.”

Travel became difficult once you left the local community. The former network of freeways was filled with abandoned vehicles, making the roads virtually impassable in any direction. That’s why I’d never even tried to explore other parts of the country.

I’d made it to L.A. once, five or six years ago, but it had taken me the better part of a week to get there, even with the help of a rail handcart I’d constructed. I’d managed to get to Ontario before I’d found the main track of the railroad blocked by a long freight, and I’d walked the rest of the way. I still had the cart stashed away somewhere, and now thought about using it on some of the other lines, if they had survived intact. I needed to check my detailed map book again—the GPS just didn’t help anymore!

“So that’s the way it is, guys,” I continued. “If I can find additional caches of usable goods to haul back here, we’ll be okay. Otherwise, we’re going to have to move.”

“But this is our home!” Zach said.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “But we still gotta eat.”

After that they all started slinking away to their little bedrolls, sunk in despair over this sudden turn of events. Finally, only George remained.

“Charlie,” he said, “what if you don’t come back?”

“You’ll get along just fine,” I said. “You always have.”

“I’d miss you.”

“I’d miss you too, George,” I said, “but I’d also probably be dead. So let’s operate under the assumption that I’ll return, and that I’ll find something out there that we can actually use. All right?”

“Okay,” he said, and then he too went off to bed.

I popped a hard candy in my mouth for dessert, and moved to the fire, just sitting there for a while contemplating my options. They weren’t especially pleasant.

* * * *

The next day I began preparations in earnest. I got the handcart out of the garage, and began making a few modifications. When I’d originally constructed it, six years ago, the dogs hadn’t been the threat they were today. Now I needed to add a higher seat and a few bars around the sides for protection, to keep them from easily pulling me off. I was likely to encounter one or more packs in the cities.

I also bolstered my armory from a few of the local stores, investing in several high-powered rifles, and getting used to shooting the blasted things again.

By the time I felt comfortable with the arrangements, it had actually taken me the better part of a month to put things together.

The night before I left, the boys gave me a parting gift. One of them had found a needle and some thread hidden away somewhere, and they’d rewound the thread to make it usable again. I was very touched. These kinds of things come in useful when one’s out in the sticks.

The following day, I said goodbye to each of my friends, and then closed my door. I’d put the handcart on a small trailer that I’d adapted from a couple of bikes, and had anchored a harness to the front of it. I put this around my neck, and started pulling the contraption down Park Hill to Division, thence west to Water, and then south on Water for about three miles, dodging the stalled cars.

A spur line to Redmont crossed Water at that point, and I was able to lever the handcart right onto the tracks. Then I got up into the saddle and started peddling the unwieldy machine east.

Although the rails went right into Redmont and eventually terminated in Millbeach, another shunt connected the line to the main tracks running through San Timo Canyon. I already had decided not to go into L.A., which presented significant logistical problems, albeit promising more goodies; but down to Button, Bantam, Poodle Springs, which were smaller communities perhaps, but significantly drier and hotter, and thus potentially providing more usable foodstuffs. Also, these areas were closer to the real desert, and thus should have fewer predators.

I was also aware that the rails were double-tracked almost to Indiantown, meaning I could bypass any stranded trains relatively easily. Indiantown itself had significant stands of date palms, another potential source of fresh fruit, and the cultivated trees had once had ladders permanently attached, if they were still standing. Finally, during this time of the year the Coachella Valley was relatively pleasant, without the scorching 110º+ temperatures common to the summer months.

So I thought I’d give it a try.

I encountered no obstacles during the first part of my journey, and saw no big animals anywhere. I camped the first night by a spring on the other side of the canyon, and refilled my canteens.

The second day found me in Button, which at the time of its recent expiration had been a growing community south of Cherry Tree. I spent a day surveying the possibilities within a mile or two of the railroad, and located at least two supermarkets that were relatively untouched, with many cans that were still salvageable. I marked the sites in my map book.

Next stop was Bantam, six miles down the line, with similar results. The freeway paralleled the tracks here, and I was able to confirm that the highway was still impassible, even this far south, being almost completely clogged with derelict automobiles.

Then it was on to Poodle Springs.

The rail line actually bypassed the major part of the town to the east, although both the Springs and Poodle Desert to the south had sprawled enough to jump the tracks at certain points. Again, I was able to locate several stores that were relatively intact. They promised much for the future, if I could find some way of transporting home the heavy cans. I also found some specialty stores that carried ammo, tools, and other goodies. I loaded up on several hard-to-find items, and pressed onward the next day.

Near Two Palms, halfway between Poodle Springs and Indiantown, I finally encountered a half-mile-long train blocking the only track, with no obvious way of getting around it without backtracking to the nearest road.

I dismounted, and plodded slowly toward the other end, skirting the row of trees that flanked the tracks, many of which had fallen over the boxcars. It was slow going.

When I finally reached the five great diesels at the front of the train, I suddenly stopped. Parked right in front of the first engine was a makeshift contraption not unlike mine, consisting of three small handcars linked together, the motive power appearing to be some kind of petroleum. It was still hot, the engine block creaking and moaning as it cooled.

I had not seen a fellow human being in over seven years, and I nearly fainted with relief and excitement. I looked around wildly, expecting to see someone emerge from the brush at any moment. I even yelled a few times, but no one responded.

Disappointed, I leaned back against the long-cold locomotive, determined to wait there until the visitor returned, but as the afternoon progressed, I became more and more nervous over the prospect of meeting someone new, and finally decided to head back to the safety of my own cart for the night.

I had just rounded the last boxcar of this interminable train, when something jumped me from above, and I blacked out.

I came out of my fog lying in front of a roaring fire. It was dark. My head and back ached abominably. I could barely make out a slim figure on the other side of the flames. I tried to move, and found my hands and feet tied together.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Me,” came the faint reply. “Why’re you here?”

“Searching for food,” I said. “What about you?”

“How many?”

“What do you mean?” I started laughing.

“How many?” the other said.

I just shook my head.

“Look,” I said, “I live about fifty miles northwest of here. You’re welcome to come see the place for yourself, if you want, and I’d certainly enjoy the company. But not as your slave.”

I thought for a minute that I might have pushed him too far, but he finally rose, stepped outside the circle of light, and came around behind me. He untied my hands, and left me to undo my legs myself. As soon as I released the rope, my feet began to ache from the renewed circulation, and I rubbed them for a few minutes.

“You can call me Charlie,” I said. “I don’t think the rest of it matters much these days. How about something to eat?”

When the other nodded, I pulled a few freshly-gathered cans out of the back of my cart, and poured them into my portable kettle. This I set on a tripod over the fire, stirring the mixture with a spoon so it wouldn’t burn. As soon as it was ready, I retrieved a couple of mugs, and filled them with the hot liquid. Then I handed one over.

“Nothing special,” I said, “but it’s nourishing nonetheless.”

Still no word from the other. I was beginning to get irritated.

“I haven’t seen any other people in a very long time,” I said. “I may have lost some of my social skills, but when I was young, my parents taught me that there were certain conventions you followed, certain things you did to maintain the social cement.”

The other said nothing, but just got up, shook out the cup, and handed it back to me.

“Breakfast,” he finally said, and walked out into the darkness.

I could hardly sleep that night, and wished my friend George was with me. He always provided a good sounding board. But he was back home safe in Santo Vee, and I was out here in the middle of nowhere with the most laconic man on earth. I finally drifted off not long before sunrise.

When I woke, the sun was already up. I did what I could to spruce myself up (ha!), and headed back down the tracks, this time walking outside the tree line. It went a lot faster that way.

Even before I reached the head of the train, I could smell something cooking. Eggs! Glorious, heavenly, scrumptious eggs! I’d seen my last chicken four or five years ago, just before the dogs started breeding their packs, and I never thought to eat another egg in my entire life.

He motioned for me to sit on an old log he’d pulled up by the fire, then handed me a metal plate.

“How?” I managed to stammer out before digging in.

“Chickens back there,” his soft voice said.

There was something about it that gave me pause, and while I was scarfing down the food, I watched him out of the corner of one eye. Like me, he was covered in two or three well-worn coats, plus other rags. He was as dirty as I was, and as thin. But his legs were a little long for his torso.

My God! I thought, “you’re, you’re a woman!” I gasped out loud, nearly choking on a piece of shell.

I hunkered over and finally dislodged the impediment while she looked on.

“Yes,” she said. “Xan. A-le-xan-dra.”

I looked at her again, more closely this time.

“How old are you, Xan?” I asked.

“Twenty mayb’,” she said. “Mom, Pop dead. Leave home.”

“How long have you been on the road?”

“Many, many….” She had no words for it.

“A long time?”

“Yes. Longer time,” she said, pausing while she tried to think of the words. Verbal skills were not her strong point.

I pointed back up the tracks.

“I’m from back there,” I said. “Would you like to see my home?”

“Yes,” she said. “Get cart.”

She pointed in turn in the other direction.

I nodded my head.

It took us another day to find a road that would allow us to move her contraption around the obstacle presented by the long train. Then we hooked her cart to mine, and she powered up the vehicle.

I was fascinated by the details. She obviously had a genius for such things, having adapted for her own use an actual gasoline handcart that she’d found somewhere, tying it together to two others that had been remodeled to carry water, fuel, and all of her personal belongings.

I had her stop at both Bantam and Button to load up on foodstuffs, share and share alike.

Finally we passed through Redmont and into San V., again stopping at Water Avenue, the closest point to home. We left her three-in-one transport tied to the tracks (who would disturb it?), and hauled my beastie back up Water to Division, and then up the one-block stretch of P.H. Road.

“Yours?” she asked, when we finally stopped in front of the old green house.

“Mine,” I said, and welcomed her in.

The place was cold, of course, but I soon got a fire burning, and put some food in the pot. It would take a while to warm up.

I suddenly heard her banging on the floor.

“Bugs,” she said, stomping her foot again.

“No!” I said, and grabbed her arm.

She pulled away and looked at me rather strangely.

“No,” I said. “Mine.”

When the temperature reached a more comfortable level, I stripped off my coats, and draped them over my favorite rocking chair.

Xan followed my lead. Underneath she sported a pair of jeans and at least a couple of long-sleeved shirts. I could spy a piece of one hanging through the top layer of another. A pair of patched boots completed the picture. Her face was thin and worn, her breasts almost undistinguishable, her hips very slight. Spanning her waist was a wide leather belt with several knives dangling. A large revolver was strapped to one leg.

I felt a sudden stirring in my blood that I hadn’t experienced in quite some time. Could it be possible, I wondered? If she could be Eve, then I would be Adam, and together we would raise up a new race of man.

But for the time being, at least, the girl was both skittish and wholly unused to company, and would have to be handled very carefully. She just hadn’t had the same good fortune that I’d experienced, finding Georgie and the boys.

So I thought very carefully about the “arrangements,” and finally decided she could stay in the old rental out back. No one had lived there for years, but the roof was still sound last time I’d checked, and it should be okay for now.

After dinner, I showed her through the house, and then took her into the back yard, pointing to the cottage.

“Yours,” I said.

Her face suddenly flashed a smile, the first I’d ever seen from her.

She danced a little jig, and then ran up the sidewalk. She examined the three small rooms meticulously, obviously making notes to herself for possible future improvements.

“Good,” Xan finally said.

We got a few of her things out of the cart, and brought them around to the back, where she put them away carefully in the dresser drawers. She clearly remembered from her old life how such things should go.

I decided to leave her there till morning, and bid her goodnight. Then I went back into the main house, and settled down again in my chair in front of the fire.

“So whadya got there, Charlie?” George piped up from one corner.

“I think it’s what they call a woo-man,” Zach said.

They all snickered in chorus.

“Enough, you guys,” I said. “I want you to stay out of my way and out of her hair, until I can explain the situation to the poor girl. She’s not much used to being around folks, and she’s still a bit rusty at the edges. You be nice to her, hear?”

“Sure, Charlie,” said Sue, “but what about us?”

“That’s one of the reasons I put her out back. We can talk after she’s gone to bed.”

“I dunno, Charlie,” George said. “That seems a lot to ask. And this time, you were gone longer than ever. We were beginnin’ to think you’d slipped away on us.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “We’ve been together too damn long for me even to think about such a thing. So just get your itty bitty noggins off of that particular subject.”

“Ohhhh! So-o-o sensitive!” Mel broke in.

More laughter from the rafters.

“Say, I heard a tale once, boys,” George said, “that when you get a male man and a female man together for very long, soon there’s a third man, and a fourth, and….”

“Ya never know,” I said. “But right now, she’s just visitin’. So you guys keep out of sight.”

“How about another story, Charlie?” Mel said.

I sighed. I really wasn’t in the mood tonight.

“Yeah, boss, how’s about something new?” George chimed in.

It was obvious they weren’t going to let me relax until I at least went through the motions.

“All right, all right,” I said, throwing up my hands. “But only one.”

“Before there was man, God created the earth, and he filled it full of life of all kinds and shapes and forms, and whenever he didn’t like the way it turned out, he threw a comet or an asteroid at the world and started all over again.

“Then one day, watching the ebb and flow of the species, he said, ‘Ya know, this is kinda boring. I think I need something a little more interesting.’

“So he created man and gave him at least half a brain. For a while, not much happened that hadn’t already happened many times before: species changed or disappeared, and new ones arose kinda like magic, but some of them, like you guys, you never changed at all.

“Then one day he noticed something new. Wherever man prospered, other species vanished, or were changed into something they hadn’t been before, like cattle and dogs. But this was okay, too. It was new.

“Then man began building things, like towns and states, and this was a novelty indeed. So God watched and waited to see what would happen.

“And man invented language and writing and war and cultivation and science and art and a whole lot of other things. And he spread to those parts of the world that had previously been barred to him.

“Meanwhile, the other animals and plants began protesting to God, saying, ‘Man kills and uses us, but he never gives anything back. Soon he will destroy the entire world.’

“But God said, ‘Let man do whatever he will, for it will all come out even in the end.’

“And he was right, too, because eventually man made something that he couldn’t control, and it came around and stung him in the ass.”

“So why didn’t you die, Charlie?” Zach asked.

“I don’t know, boys, I really don’t know. Just lucky, I guess. I figure there were a few of us who were naturally immune. You’ll remember that I also got sick. Unlike the others, though, I got over it.”

“Then why hasn’t man come back to fill up his cities again?” George asked.

“Well, the world’s a very big place, George,” I said, “and I’m sure there weren’t many of us left. Some folks probably couldn’t face the loneliness, and they’re gone now, too. And the others, well, the others were so isolated that just finding someone else, anyone else, became increasingly difficult as the systems began to fail. There may still be families or groups of families here and there who’ve survived somehow. We just don’t know. Otherwise, ole humanity is about to go the way of the dinosaurs.

“See, we don’t truly understand what happened to all those beasties who died out sixty-five million years ago. Did the comet or the changing weather conditions kill everyone off overnight? Or were there little pockets of isolated survivors who gradually faded away for lack of food and genetic diversity?”

“That wasn’t a very funny story, Charlie,” said Mel.

“Nah, I don’t suppose it was,” I said, “but that’s all you’ll get from me tonight. Now you folks need to get your rest. After all, tomorrow’s another day.”

When they’d gone, each to their own place, I sat in front of the fire, worrying a toothpick, and wondering what the hell I was going to do tomorrow with young Alexandra, and whether she’d stay with an old fart like me, and whether I even wanted her to stay.

The next morning the dogs woke me out of a sound sleep. I looked down from my upstairs window, and saw a large pack of fifteen or twenty mutts sniffing and barking around the front fence of the yard. One was trying to dig a hole underneath, which didn’t bother me particularly, because he was too large and too dumb to get through the fence without a shovel—unless he kept pawing at it for a day or two. One of them saw the movement of my blinds, and started howling again. The racket was enough to drive a man right up the wall.

When I went downstairs, Xan was already up, snacking on a raw potato she’d found in the kitchen.

She gestured outside.

“Mutts,” she said, and slashed her finger across her throat to indicate her distaste.

“Dinner,” I said, and got my shotgun out.

I went right out the front door, peppering the plumpest one I could find, and then waited for them to disperse. When they didn’t, I shot another. Then they ran off a ways, and I opened the gate, quickly dragging a carcass back into the yard.

Xan picked the body up and carried it into the house, where she skinned it and chopped the fresh meat into the pot. I added a few veggies, and put it near the fire to simmer. She hung the hide out back to dry on the racks I had erected for that purpose.

I’d had a pet once, when the rest of the world had died, and I kept that old hound around until he passed from natural causes, and then I buried old Neb out back with Roxie, swearing never to own another.

The first dog I ate was kinda hard to choke down, let me tell you, but the second was easier, and now, well, now I sorta preferred ’em, the younger, the better. I also ate possum, cat, squirrel, and anything else I could bag, and maybe even a skunk or crow on occasion. If you’re hungry enough.…

Thereafter, Xan and I went dog hunting every other day or so. She was a natural stalker, far better at it than I, and we always brought something back with us. I learned a bunch of new things just by watching her.

Over the next month her verbal skills improved considerably, as she had a chance to practice talking. I found out very quickly that she couldn’t read, and despite my best efforts, she wouldn’t learn, saw no point in it, I suspect. She had her own mind in everything.

One day she asked me, “How old’re you, Charlie?” and when I told her fifty-two, she said, “That’s not so bad,” which speeded up my heart quite considerably.

But then she turned her attention to something else entirely, and nothing came of the conversation. She would never let me touch her or even get close to her physically. She was like a shy deer in that respect, quick to bolt, quick to flee from any hint of intimacy. She had a reserve that seemingly couldn’t be breached.

Until she made a mistake.

I’d come to rely implicitly on her judgment on our little expeditions into the surrounding communities, as we systematically cleared away the dog packs that had grown up there over the years. She’d even put together a couple of bikes taken from a cycle store on Starry Way into another one of her contraptions, a kind of elaborate bicycle-built-for-two surrounded by protective spikes. The problem was, I didn’t know the geography very well in some of the nearby towns. I just hadn’t spent much time there over the years.

We were in Coaltown, down near the rail yards, when a large pack came shooting unexpectedly out of a rundown storage building, catching us out in the open and away from the bike. I managed to jump to a six-foot fence, but Xan retreated to the top of a derelict car, where she was still vulnerable. We were both blazing away as fast as we could, but a pit bull mix got a clamp on one of her legs, and began pulling her down.

“Charlie!” she yelled, panic in her voice.

Heedless of any danger to myself, I leaped from the fence and ran for her. Several of the dogs turned on me and I blew them away, firing a bullet from each handgun simultaneously. She was beginning to lose her grip.

I blazed away at that damn dog till I ran out of ammunition, then pulled the crossbow off my back, and slammed a bolt right through its body. It finally slumped, but it never did let go.

I killed another mutt with a throwing knife, and charged the rest shouting and waving my hands. They finally broke and scattered. I quickly changed out my cylinders, and dashed for the auto.

I had to use a knife to slash the pit bull’s jaw muscles sufficiently to pry his teeth loose. Xan’s right leg was badly gashed in several places. I slung her over my shoulder, and carried her quickly to the bike, trying to watch the dogs at the same time. I put her up front and started peddling furiously. One of the dogs tried to follow and I blasted him. The rest stayed behind, lunching on their comrades.

When we got closer to home, I stopped at an old liquor store that still had a few bottles intact. I poured some vodka right onto the wounds, and put a case of the stuff in our open basket.

The problem, as always, was the possibility of infection. Fortunately, I had salvaged some medications over the years from the local drugstores, including jars of penicillin and other standard antibiotics. When I got Xan home, I stashed her on a rollaway cot near the fire in the main house, popped her full of pills, cleaned the wounds as best I could, sewed them up, and doused the whole mess constantly with vodka and other disinfectants. It musta hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but she didn’t say a word.

That night she developed a light fever, but I kept waking her and forcing her to take the medication, and it broke by morning.

The boys and I kept watch over her the entire night.

“What’s the matter with her, Charlie?” George wanted to know.

“She’s hurt, and that’s made her sick,” I said.

“Like when all the people died?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Is she gonna die, Charlie?”

“I hope not, George,” I said. “Now be quiet, please.”

She woke clearheaded in mid-morning. The fever was gone. I checked her bandages, replaced them, emptied her bedpan, and then fed her some pieces of doggie stew. She soon had drifted off to dreamland again.

That afternoon, I was adding wood to the fireplace when I became aware that she was watching me.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Eat a dog,” she said, smiling.

I smiled back.

“Well, as it happens, Mademoiselle,” I said, “our spécialité this day zhust happen to be ze poodle à la king.”

“Delicious!”

“Your wish is my command.” I ladled out a bowl of veggies and fresh meat.

“You saved my life,” she said.

I just nodded. What else could I say?

The next morning, I checked her wounds again very carefully. Although one went fairly deep, it seemed to be healing just fine, and if the muscle wasn’t irretrievably damaged, she would be walking again soon.

This was really the very first time she’d been fully awake while I touched her skin so directly. She looked at me oddly, and then asked a strange question.

“Charlie, who were you talking to the other night?”

I sat down with her then and patiently explained the situation. She didn’t say much of anything in return, but when I started to examine her wounds again that evening, she indicated that she could now take care of them herself. So much for my dreams of intimacy.

Within a week, she was hobbling around the house on her own, and had moved again into the cottage. Another couple of weeks, and she was back to normal, except for a certain stiffness in her gait. I expected even that would diminish over a period of time.

We went on one more expedition together to hunt the dogs, but it wasn’t the same somehow. Oh, we bagged our limit and then some, but the joy of working together had quietly slipped away in the night.

That evening, after dinner, I expressed my concerns to the group.

“Ya know, Charlie,” George said, “I don’t think she likes us very much. She’s always givin’ us the evil eye.”

“Yeah,” said Spike, “I’m really afraid.”

I tried to reassure them, but nothing I said seemed to help very much. Finally I just threw another log on the fire and read them a chapter from Emma. A little Jane Austen always seems to soothe the savage beast.

The next day, I had trouble getting out of bed. I knew from the dizziness that the flu was upon me again. When Xan appeared, I told her that I was getting sick, that I had had these spells every couple of years, that it was a relapse from the plague, and that she should leave immediately.

She refused, of course.

I don’t remember much of the next few days. I drifted in and out of chills and fever, and I have these fragmentary memories of Xan trying to keep my head cool and my body warm. Once I thought she even crawled into bed with me, and held me close to her while I tried to shiver off my mortal coil, sharing her warmth with mine; but I don’t know if this actually happened, or if my dreams finally took control of my life.

On the fifth day, I woke lucid but very weak, and she was there right away, holding up my torso so I could sip the clear broth and clean, cold well water. Within a couple of days, I could manage a very shaky trip to the outhouse. It was then that she broke the news.

“Go to El-Ay. See any people there.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said.

She shook her head. “You need strength. Xan I am. Back in month, mayb’.”

The next day I walked with her down to the end of the block, which was as far as I could go in my present condition. She took the spike bike with her, saying she could stash it on one of the trailers. Before she left, she handed me a dog skin cap she’d sewn for me while I was sick. It fit very snugly, and would help keep my head warm during the coming winter.

As I watched her ride off down Division, I felt a pang deep in my heart, as if I’d let something very precious just slip away. She turned and waved at me once, and I waved back.

* * * *

A month passed, and she didn’t return. And then another. By that time I was back to myself again, and building up my strength through a series of short trips up and down the block, and eventually by riding round Park Hill several times a day. The dogs still hadn’t returned, and I doubted that they would appear in any numbers for several years, at least.

We were getting on toward spring when I told the guys that I had to find out what’d happened to her.

“Another trip, Charlie?” Mel asked.

“Yep,” I said, “another trip. But I’ll be back soon. Don’t you worry.”

“I always worry.” He was such a good little soul.

It took me a week to complete the preparations. On a cold and rainy day in March, I pulled my handcart down to the old rail line on Water Avenue, and headed from there toward the big rail yard in Coaltown, and thence to Los Angeles.

Several times I had to bypass long and short trains by pulling the cart down adjoining roads, and once I ran into a medium-sized dog pack, but otherwise, the trip was noteworthy only for its complete lack of incident. The endless communities through which I traveled were as quiet as the proverbial tomb. There was no sign anywhere that man still existed. Everything looked old and shabby and dilapidated, but of course, many of them had appeared that way “before.”

My atlas clearly showed where the rails went, just as I had drawn them out for Xan three months earlier, and I followed the map to the huge sorting yards near downtown L.A. I had told her that this spot was about as central to the basin as anywhere else, and that she could build a large fire there to attract the attention of any local inhabitants.

I found her makeshift three-in-one handcart parked on one of the main tracks near a storage building. The engine was dead cold. Nearby were the remains of a huge bonfire that she had made using some old railroad ties. It was large enough to have sent a column of black smoke many hundreds of feet into the air. There were footprints all around her vehicle, most of them blurred by the recent rains, and all of them, so far as I could determine, displaying the unique cracked sole from the heel of her right boot.

Her shoe tracks radiated out in all directions, overlapping each other, back and forth, back and forth. Obviously, she had used her cart as a base of operations, riding the spike bike to reconnoiter the surrounding communities. A number of her weapons were missing. Everything else appeared to be in good order, carefully secured with rain-resistant tarps.

I decided to wait a week to see if she would return, but although I heard the distant yapping of dogs, and the occasional muted roar of a mountain lion, nothing actually bothered me. I shot a few rabbits and roasted them over an open flame. When she didn’t return, I tried to determine which of her prints were the most recent, and even followed several of them outside of the yards, but lost them as soon as I reached the paved streets. It was hopeless.

Finally, I decided to return home. Since Xan couldn’t read, leaving a message wouldn’t have done much good. Instead, I propped my dog skin cap, the one she had specially sewn for me, on top of the pole that poked up out of the rearmost of her carts. That would be sign enough that I’d actually been there.

Then I began the long journey back to Santo Verdugo.

Eight months later, after the summer heat had eased, I made the trip to L.A. a second time. The handcarts hadn’t been touched, so far as I could determine, although my hat was gone. It could have blown away during a windstorm, however.

Xan’s footprints had been largely obliterated by the elements. Only one set of human tracks now approached the cart. They weren’t hers. Well, that’s not entirely true, either. I only know that the tracks represented a different set of boots from the ones that she had worn when she’d left my house.

So, my friends, is my dear little Eve still alive out there somewhere? I’d surely like to think so. I never found any evidence to the contrary, and so I’ll continue to believe that she is.

And I also still believe that one day she’ll come back to me.

The other night I was talking with the boys after dinner, having feasted on fresh spring dog and early spring vegetables and a can of still-edible winter beans. I was nursing a cup of well-tempered brandy, a drink which belongs to no season.

“Tell us a story, Charlie,” George piped up. “Tell us about the old days again.”

“Well,” I said, “well now, I’ve got a pretty good tale worked up for you this evening, one you haven’t heard before, either.”

And then they all gathered round, listening intently as I spun my web of fantasy.

“There was once a young girl named Alexandra who lived in a small town in the east, and when the great flu came, she was left all alone in the world….”

It just doesn’t get any better than this.

THE BARBARIANS, by Algis Budrys

It was just as he saw The Barbarian’s squat black tankette lurch hurriedly into a nest of boulders that young Giulion Geoffrey realized he had been betrayed. With the muzzle of his own cannon still hot from the shell that had jammed The Barbarian’s turret, he had yanked the starboard track lever to wheel into position for the finishing shot. All around him, the remnants of The Barbarian’s invading army were being cut to flaming ribbons by the armored vehicles of the Seaboard League. The night was shot through by billows of cannon fire, and the din of laboring engines, guns, and rent metal was a cacophonic climax to the Seaboard League’s first decisive victory over the inland invaders. Young Geoffrey could justifiably feel that he would cap that climax by personally accounting for the greatest of the inland barbarians; the barbarian general himself. He trained his sights on the scarlet bearpaw painted on the skewed turret’s flank, and laid his hand on the firing lever.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of another tankette rushing up on his port side. He glanced at it, saw its graceful handcrafting, and knew it for one of the League’s own. He could even see the insigne; the mailed heel trampling a stand of wheat; Harolde Dugald, of the neighboring fief. Geoffrey was on coldly polite terms with Dugald—he had no use for the other man’s way of treating his serfs—and now he felt a prickle of indignant rage at this attempt to usurp a share of his glory. He saw Dugald’s turret begin to traverse, and hastily tried to get the finishing shot into The Barbarian’s tankette before the other Leaguesman could fire. But Dugald was not aiming for The Barbarian. First he had to eliminate Geoffrey from the scene entirely. When he fired, at almost point-blank range, the world seemed to explode in Giulion’s eyes.

Somehow, no whistling shard of metal actually hit him. But the tankette, sturdy as it was, could not hope to protect him entirely. He was thrown viciously into the air, his ribs first smashing into the side of the hatch, and then he was thrown clear, onto the rocky ground of the foothills; agonized, stunned to semi-consciousness, he lay feebly beating at his smoldering tunic while Dugald spun viciously by him, almost crushing him under one tread. He saw Dugald’s tankette plunge into the rocks after The Barbarian, and then, suddenly, the battle was beyond him. Dugald, The Barbarian; all the thundering might that had clashed here on the eastern seaboard of what had, long ago, been The United States of America—all of this had suddenly, as battles will, whirled off in a new direction and left Giulion Geoffrey to lie hurt and unconscious in the night.

* * * *

He awoke to the trickle of cold water between his teeth. His lips bit into the threaded metal of a canteen top, and a huge arm supported his shoulders. Broad shoulders and a massive head loomed over him against the stars. A rumbling, gentle voice said: “All right, lad, now swallow some before it’s all wasted.”

He peered around him in the night. It was as still as the bottom of a grave. Nothing moved. He drew a ragged breath that ended in a sharp gasp, and the rumbling voice said: “Ribs?”

He nodded and managed a strangled “Yes.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” the stranger grunted. “I saw you pop out of your tank like a cork coming out of a wine bottle. That was a fair shot he hit you. You’re lucky.” A broad hand pressed him down as the memory of Dugald’s treachery started him struggling to his feet. “Hold still, lad. We’ll give you a chance to catch your breath and wrap some bandages around you. You’ll live to give him his due, but not tonight. You’ll have to wait for another day.”

There was something in the stranger’s voice that Geoffrey recognized for the quality that made men obey other men. It was competence, self-assurance, and, even more, the calm expression of good sense. Tonight, Geoffrey needed someone with that quality. He sank back, grateful for the stranger’s help. “I’m Giulion Geoffrey of Geoffrion,” he said, “and indebted to you. Who are you, stranger?”

The darkness rumbled to a deep, rueful laugh. “In these parts, lad, I’m not called by my proper name. I’m Hodd Savage—The Barbarian. And that was a fair knock you gave me.”

Young Geoffrey’s silence lasted for a long while. Then he said in a flat, distant voice: “Why did you give me water, if you’re going to kill me anyway?”

The Barbarian laughed again, this time in pure amusement. “Because I’m not going to kill you, obviously. You’re too good a cannoneer to be despatched by a belt knife. No—no, lad, I’m not planning to kill anyone for some time. All I want right now is to get out of here and get home. I’ve got another army to raise, to make up for this pasting you Leaguesmen have just given me.”

“Next time, you won’t be so lucky,” Geoffrey muttered. “We’ll see your hide flapping in the rain, if you’re ever foolish enough to raid our lands again.”

The Barbarian slapped his thigh. “By God,” he chuckled, “I knew it wasn’t some ordinary veal-fed princeling that outmaneuvered me!” He shook his head. “That other pup had better watch out for you, if you ever cross his path again. I lost him in the rocks with ease to spare. Bad luck your shot smashed my fuel tanks, or I’d be halfway home by now.” The rolling voice grew low and bitter. “No sense waiting to pick up my men. Not enough of ’em left to make a corporal’s guard.”

“What do you mean, if I ever cross Dugald’s path again? I’ll have him called out to trial by combat the day I can ride a tankette once more.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure, lad,” The Barbarian said gently. “What does that look like, over there?”

Geoffrey turned his head to follow the shadowy pointing arm, and saw a flicker of light in the distance. He recognized it for what it was; a huge campfire, with the Leaguesmen’s tankettes drawn up around it. “They’re dividing the spoils—what prisoners there are, to work the mills; whatever of your equipment is still usable; your baggage train. And so forth. What of it?”

“Ah, yes, my baggage train,” The Barbarian muttered. “Well, we’ll come back to that. What else do you suppose they’re dividing?”

Geoffrey frowned. “Why—nothing else. Wait!” He sat up sharply, ignoring his ribs. “The fiefs of the dead nobles.”

“Exactly. Your ramshackle little League held together long enough to whip us for the first time, but now the princelings are dividing up and returning to their separate holdings. Once there, they’ll go back to peering covetously at each other’s lands, and maybe raid amongst themselves a little, until I come back again. And you’re as poor as a church mouse at this moment, lad—no fief, no lands, no title—unless there’s an heir?”

Geoffrey shook his head distractedly. “No. I’ve not wed. It’s as you say.”

“And just try to get your property back. No—no, it won’t be so easy to return. Unless you’d care to be a serf on your own former holding?”

“Dugald would have me killed,” Geoffrey said bitterly.

“So there you are, lad. The only advantage you have is that Dugald thinks you’re dead already—you can be sure of that, or it would have been an assassin, and not me, that woke you. That’s something, at least. It’s a beginning, but you’ll have to lay your plans carefully, and take your time. I certainly wouldn’t plan on doing anything until your body’s healed and your brain’s had time to work.”

Young Geoffrey blinked back the tears of rage. The thought of losing the town and lands his father had left him was almost more than his hot blood could stand. The memory of the great old Keep that dominated the town, with its tapestried halls and torchlit chambers, was suddenly very precious to him. He felt a sharp pang at the thought that he must sleep in a field tonight, like some skulking outlaw, while Dugald quite possibly got himself drunk on Geoffrion wine and snored his headache away on the thick furs of Geoffrey’s bed.

But The Barbarian was right. Time was needed—and this meant that, to a certain extent at least, his lot and Savage’s were thrown in together. The thought came to Geoffrey that he might have chosen a worse partner.

“Now, lad,” The Barbarian said, “as long as you’re not doing anything else, you might as well help me with my problem.”

The realization of just exactly who this man was came sharply back to young Geoffrey. “I won’t help you escape to your own lands, if that’s what you mean,” he said quickly.

“I’ll take good care of that myself, when the time comes,” the man answered drily. “Right now, I’ve got something else in mind. They’re dividing my baggage train, as you said. Now, I don’t mind that, seeing as most of it belonged to them in the first place. I don’t mind it for this year, that is. But there’s something else one of you cockerels will be wanting to take home with him, and I’ve a mind not to let him. There’s a perfectly good woman in my personal trailer, and I’m going to get her. But if we’re going to do that and get clear of this country by morning, we’d better get to it.”

Like every other young man of his time and place, Geoffrey had a clear-cut sense of duty regarding the safety and well-being of ladies. He had an entirely different set of attitudes toward women who were not ladies. He had not the slightest idea of which to apply to this case.

What sort of woman would The Barbarian take to battle with him? What sort of women would the inland barbarians have generally? He had very little knowledge to go on. The inlanders had been appearing from over the westward mountains for generations, looting and pillaging almost at will, sometimes staying through a winter but usually disappearing in the early Fall, carrying their spoils back to their mysterious homelands on the great Mississippi plain. The seaboard civilization had somehow kept from going to its knees, in spite of them—in this last generation, even though the barbarians had The Barbarian to lead them, the Seaboard League had managed to cobble itself together—but no one, in all this time, had ever actually learned, or cared, much about these vicious, compactly organized raiders. Certainly no one had learned anything beyond those facts which worked to best advantage on a battlefield.

So, young Giulion Geoffrey faced his problem. This ‘perfectly good woman’ of The Barbarian’s—was she in fact a good woman, a lady, and therefore entitled to aid in extremity from any and all gentlemen; or was she some camp follower, entirely worthy of being considered a spoil of combat?

“Well, come on, lad,” The Barbarian rumbled impatiently at this point. “Do you want that Dugald enjoying her tonight along with everything else?”

And that decided Geoffrey. He pushed himself to his feet, not liking the daggers in his chest, but not liking the thought of Dugald’s pleasures even more. “Let’s go, then.”

“Good enough, lad,” The Barbarian chuckled. “Now let’s see how quietly we can get across to the edge of that fire.”

They set out—none too quietly, with The Barbarian’s heavy bulk lurching against Geoffrey’s lean shoulder on occasion, and both of them uncertain of their footing in the darkness. But they made it across without being noticed—just two more battle-sore figures in a field where many such might be expected—and that was what counted.

The noise and confusion attendant on the dividing of the spoils was an added help; they reached the fringes of the campfire easily.

* * * *

It was very interesting, the way history had doubled back on itself, like a worm re-growing part of its body but re-growing it in the wrong place. At one end of the kink—of the fresh, pink scar—was a purulent hell of fire and smoke that no one might have expected to live through. Yet, people had, as they have a habit of doing. And at the other end of the kink in time—Giulion Geoffrey’s end, Harolde Dugald’s time, The Barbarian’s day—there were keeps and moats in Erie, Pennsylvania, vassals in New Brunswick, and a great stinking warren of low, half-timbered houses on the island of Manhattan. If it had taken a few centuries longer to recover from the cauterizing sun bombs, these things might still have been. But they might have had different names, and human history might have been considered to begin only a few hundred years before. Even this had not happened. The link with the past remained. There was a narrow, cobbled path on Manhattan, with sewage oozing down the ditch in its center, which was still Fifth Avenue. It ran roughly along the same directions as old Broadway, not because there was no one who could read the yellowed old maps but because surveying was in its second childhood. There was a barge running between two ropes stretched across the Hudson, and this was The George Washington Bridge ferry. So, it was only a kink in history, not a break.

But Rome was not re-built in a day. Hodd Savage—The Barbarian, the man who had come out of the hinterlands to batter on civilization’s badly mortared walls—clamped his hand on Giulion Geoffrey’s arm, grunted, jerked his head toward the cluster of nobles standing beside the campfire, and muttered: “Listen.”

Geoffrey listened.

The nobles were between him and the fire, and almost none of them were more than silhouettes. Here and there, a man faced toward the fire at such an angle that Geoffrey could make out the thick arch of an eyebrow, the jut of a cheek, or the crook of a nose. But it was not enough for recognition. All the nobles were dressed in battle accoutrements that had become stained or torn. Their harness had shifted, their tunics were askew, and they were bunched so closely that the outline of one man blended into the mis-shaped shadow of the next. The voices were hoarse from an afternoon’s bellowing. Some were still drunk with the acid fire of exhausted nerves, and were loud. Others, drained, mumbled in the background like a chorus of the stupid. Gesticulating, mumbling, shouting, shadowed, lumped into one knot of blackness lighted by a ruddy cheekbone here, a gleaming brow there above an eye socket as inky and blank as a bottomless pit, they were like something out of the wan and misty ages before the Earth had had time to form completely.

Two arguing voices rose out of the mass:

“Those three barbarian tankettes are mine, I say!”

“Yours when I lie dead!”

“They surrendered to me!”

“Because I pounded them into submission.”

“Into submission, indeed! You skulked around their flanks like a lame dog, and now that I’ve taken them, you want your bone!”

“You were glad enough to see me there when the battle was hot. Call me a dog again and I’ll spit you like a rat on a pitchfork.”

No one else in the group of nobles paid the two of them any attention. No one had time to spare for any quarrel but his own, and the whole squabbling pile of them looked ready to fly apart at any moment—to draw sidearms and knives and flare into spiteful combat.

The Barbarian spat quietly. “There’s your Seaboard League, lad. There’s your convocation of free men. Step out there and ask for your lands back. Care to try?”

“We’ve already decided that wouldn’t be wise,” Geoffrey said irritably. He had never cared much for these inevitable aftermaths to battle, but it made him angry to have an inland barbarian make pointed comments. “I suppose it’s different when you win, eh?”

“Not very. But then, we’re not civilized. Let’s get moving, lad.”

Silently, they skirted the fire and made their way toward the parked vehicles of The Barbarian’s captured supply train. The ground was rough and covered by underbrush. More than once, The Barbarian stumbled into Geoffrey, making him clench his jaw against the pain in his chest. But he saw no point in saying anything about it.

“There she is,” The Barbarian said in a husky growl. Geoffrey peered through the brush at an armored trailer whose flat sides were completely undecorated except for a scarlet bearpaw painted on the door. A lantern gleamed behind the slit windows, and The Barbarian grunted with satisfaction. “She’s still in there. Fine. We’ll have this done in a couple of seconds.”

In spite of the incongruity, Geoffrey asked curiously: “What’s a second?”

“A division of time, lad—one sixtieth of a minute.”

“Oh. What on Earth would you want to measure that accurately for?”

“For getting women out of trailers in a hurry, lad. Now—let’s look for sentries.”

* * * *

There were two guarding the trailer—men-at-arms from Dugald’s holding, Geoffrey noticed—carrying shotguns and lounging in the shadows. One of them had a wineskin—Geoffrey heard the gurgle plainly—and the other was constantly turning away from the trailer to listen to the shrieks and shouting coming from among the other vehicles of the train, where other guards were not being quite as careful of their masters’ new property.

“I see they’ve found the quartermaster’s waggons,” The Barbarian said drily. “Now, then, lad—you work away toward the right, there, and I’ll take the left. Here—take my knife. I won’t need it.” The Barbarian passed over a length of steel as big as a short-sword, but oddly curved and sharpened down one side of the blade. “Stab if you can, but if you have to cut, that blade’ll go through a man’s forearm. Remember you’re not holding one of those overgrown daggers of yours.”

“And just why should I kill a man for you?”

“Do you think that man won’t try to kill you?”

Geoffrey had no satisfactory answer to that. He moved abruptly off into the brush, holding The Barbarian’s knife, and wondering just how far he was obligated for a bandaged chest and half a pint of water. But a man’s duty to his rescuer was plain enough, and, besides, just what else was there to do?

The blame for it all went squarely back to Dugald, and Geoffrey did not love him for it. He slipped through the bushes until he was only a few yards from the man who had the wineskin, and waited for The Barbarian to appear at the opposite end of the trailer.

When it happened, it happened quite suddenly, as these things will. One moment the other sentry was craning his neck for another look at what was going on elsewhere. The next he was down on his knees, croaking through a compressed throat, with The Barbarian’s arm under his chin and a driving knee ready to smash at the back of his neck again.

Geoffrey jumped forward, toward his own man. The man-at-arms had dropped his wineskin in surprise and was staring at what was happening to his comrade. When he heard Geoffrey come out of the underbrush, the face he turned was white and oddly distended with shock, as though all the bones had drained out of it. He might have appeared fierce enough, ordinarily. But things were happening too fast for him.

Geoffrey had never killed anyone but a noble in his life. Not intentionally and at close range, in any case. The completely baffled and helpless look of this one somehow found time to remind him that this was not, after all, one of his peers—that the man was hopelessly outclassed in fair combat—or in anything else, for that matter. Geoffrey did not stop to weigh the probity of this idea. It was the central tenet of his education and environment. Furthermore, there was some truth in it.

He couldn’t kill the man. He swept up his arm and struck the flat of The Barbarian’s broad knife against the side of the guard’s head, and bowled the man over with his rush. But the guard had a hard skull. He stared up with glazed but conscious eyes, and squalled: “Lord Geoffrey!” Geoffrey hit him again, and this time the guard stayed down, but the damage was done. Scrambling to his feet, Geoffrey ran over to The Barbarian, who was letting the other guard ooze to the ground.

“We’ll have to hurry!” Geoffrey panted. “Before that man comes back to his senses.”

The Barbarian gave him a disgusted look, but nodded. “Hurry we shall.” He lurched to the trailer door and slapped it with the flat of his hand. “Let’s go, Myka.”

There was a scrambling sound inside the trailer, and the light went out. The door slid open, and Geoffrey found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was lithe almost to the point of boyishness, even though she was clearly some years older than Geoffrey. She had short hair the color of hammered copper, high cheekbones, and tawny eyes. She was wearing a tunic and short trousers, and there was an empty pistol holster strapped around her waist. Obviously, she was not a lady. But it was much too late for Geoffrey to care about that. She stopped in the doorway, shaking her head slowly at The Barbarian. “I swear, Hodd,” she said in a low, laughing voice, “one of these days you won’t come back from the dead, and I’ll be surprised.”

“It was close enough, this time,” The Barbarian growled. He jerked his head toward Geoffrey. “That young buck over there knows how to handle his enemies. Once he learns what to do about his friends, I may have to retire.”

Myka arched her burning eyebrows. “Oh? What’s the story behind that, I’d like to know.”

“We can always talk,” Geoffrey said a little edgily. “But we can’t always find an empty tankette.”

“Quite right, lad,” The Barbarian said. “I saw some vehicles parked over that way.”

“Those belong to the nobles. There ought to be some captured ones of yours somewhere around here.”

“With plenty of guards on them. No, thanks.”

“That didn’t trouble you earlier.”

“Myka, as you may have noticed, is more than a tank. This time the prize isn’t worth it. I’d rather just slip over to where I can get transportation for the choosing.”

“Not with my help.”

The Barbarian looked at him and grunted. He seemed oddly disappointed. “I would have bet the other way,” he muttered. Then the shaggy head rose, and he circled Myka’s waist with one arm. “All right, I’ll do it without your help.”

“Is Myka trained to drive a tankette and fight at the same time?”

“No.”

“Then you’d better do it my way. You’d make a poor showing, kicking drive levers with a broken leg.” Geoffrey nodded toward The Barbarian’s right shin. “It’s been that way since before you picked me up, hasn’t it? I saw it wobble when you kneed that man-at-arms.”

Myka looked at The Barbarian sharply, worry on her face, but the man was chuckling. “All right, bucko, we’ll do it your way.”

“Fine.” Geoffrey wasn’t so sure it was. Suddenly he was committed not only to helping The Barbarian escape, but also to escape with him. He was faintly surprised at himself. But there was something about the man. Something worth saving, no matter what. And there was the business now of having been recognized. Once Dugald learned he was still alive, there would be a considerable amount of danger in staying in the vicinity. Of course, he had only to stoop over the unconscious guard with The Barbarian’s knife.…

With a quick motion, he tossed the weapon back to its owner.

That one was an easy choice, Geoffrey thought. Simply stealing—or was it recapturing?—a tankette and using it to drive away with Myka and The Barbarian didn’t mean he had to go all the way to the barbarian lands with them. Let the guard revive and run to Dugald with the news. All Geoffrey had to do was to remove himself a few miles, find shelter, and bide his time.

One recaptured barbarian tankette might not even be missed. And the guard might not be believed—well, that was a thin hope—but, in any case, no one had any reason to suspect The Barbarian was still alive. There’d be no general pursuit.

Well…maybe not. There was a man-at-arms choked to death, by a stronger arm than Geoffrey’s, and it was The Barbarian’s woman who would be missing. There might be quite a buzz about that.

Geoffrey shook his head in impatient annoyance. This kind of life demanded a great deal more thinking than he was accustomed to. All these unpredictable factors made a man’s head spin.

And then again, maybe they didn’t. The thing to do was to act, to do what would get him out of here now, and leave him free tomorrow to do whatever thinking tomorrow demanded. With a little practice, too, thinking would undoubtedly come more easily.

“All right,” he said decisively, “let’s get moving over in that direction, and see if the guards haven’t gotten a little careless.” He motioned to Myka and The Barbarian, and began to lead the way into the underbrush. He thrust out a hand to pull a sapling aside, and almost ran full-tilt into Harolde Dugald.

* * * *

Dugald was almost exactly Geoffrey’s age and size, but he had something Geoffrey lacked—a thin-lipped look of wolfish wisdom. His dark eyes were habitually slitted, and his mouth oddly off-center, always poised between a mirthless grin and a snarl. His long black hair curled under at the base of his skull, and his hands were covered with heavy gold and silver rings. There was one for each finger and thumb, and all of them were set with knobby precious stones.

His lips parted now, and his long white teeth showed plainly in the semi-darkness. “I was coming back to inspect my prizes,” he said in a voice like a fine-bladed saw chuckling through soft metal. “And look what I’ve found.” The open mouth of his heavy, handmade side pistol pointed steadily between Geoffrey’s eyes. “I find my erstwhile neighbor risen from the dead, and in the company of a crippled enemy and his leman. Indeed, my day is complete.”

The one thing Geoffrey was not feeling was fear. The wire-thin strand of his accumulated rage was stretched to breaking. Somewhere, far from the forefront of his mind, he was feeling surprise and disappointment. He was perfectly aware of Dugald’s weapon, and of what it would do to his head at this range. But Geoffrey was not stopping to think. And Dugald was a bit closer to him than he ought to have been.

Geoffrey’s hands seemed to leap out. One tore the pistol out of Dugald’s hand and knocked it spinning. The other cracked, open-palmed, against the other man’s face, hard enough to split flesh and start the blood trickling down Dugald’s cheek. The force of the combined blows sent Dugald staggering. He fell back, crashing into a bush, and hung against it. Stark fear shone in his eyes. He screamed: “Dugald! Dugald! To me! To me!”

For a second, everything went silent; nobles quarreling, guards roistering among the captures—suddenly the battlefield was still. Then the reaction to the rallying cry set off an entirely different kind of hubbub. The sound now was that of an alerted pack of dogs.

Once more, Geoffrey swept his hand across Dugald’s face, feeling his own skin break over the knuckles. But there was no time for anything else. Now they had to run, and not in silence. Now everything went by the board, and the nearest safety was the best. Behind them as they tore through the brush, they could hear Dugald shouting:

“That way! The Barbarian’s with him!” The Barbarian was grunting with every step. Myka was panting. Geoffrey was in the lead, his throat burning with every breath, not knowing where he was leading them, but trying to skirt around the pack of nobles that would be running toward them in the darkness.

He crashed against plated metal. He peered at it in the absolute darkness this far from the fires and torches. “Tankette!” he said hoarsely. “Empty.” They scrambled onto it, Geoffrey pulling at The Barbarian’s arm. “Down, Myka—inside. Ought to be room between steering posts and motor.” He pushed the woman down through the hatch, and dropped back to the ground. He ran to the crank clipped to one track housing and thrust it into place. “You—you’ll have to hang onto—turret,” he panted to The Barbarian. “Help me start.” He wound furiously at the starting crank until he felt the flywheel spin free of the ratchet, and then engaged the driveshaft. The tankette shuddered to the sudden torque. The motor resisted, turned its shaft reluctantly, spun the magneto, ignited, stuttered, coughed, and began to roar. The headlights flickered yellowly, glowed up to brightness as the engine built up revolutions. The Barbarian, clinging to the turret with one arm, pushed the choke control back to halfway and advanced the spark. Geoffrey scrambled up the sharply pitched rear deck, clawing for handholds on the radiator tubing, and dropped into the turret seat. He took the controls, kicked at the left side track control without caring, for the moment, whether Myka was in the way or not, spun the tankette halfway round, and pulled the throttle out as far as it would go. Its engine clamoring, its rigid tracks transmitting every shock and battering them, the tankette flogged forward through the brush. There was gunfire booming behind them, and there were other motors sputtering into life.

There was no one among the nobles to drive as well as Geoffrey could—certainly no one who could keep up with him at night, in country he knew. He could probably depend on that much.

He lit the carbide lamp over the panel.

Geoffrey looked at the crest worked into the metal, and laughed. He had even managed to steal Dugald’s tankette.

* * * *

By morning, they were a good fifty miles away from where the battle had been fought. They were almost as far as the Delaware River, and the ground was broken into low hills, each a little higher than the last. Geoffrey had only been this far away from his home a few times, before his father’s death, and then never in this direction. Civilization was not considered to extend this far inland. When a young man went on his travels, preparatory for the day when he inherited his father’s holdings and settled down to maintain them, he went along the coast, perhaps as far as Philadelphia or Hartford.

Geoffrey had always had a lively interest in strange surroundings. He had regretted the day his journeyings came to an end—not that he hadn’t regretted his father’s passing even more. Now, as dawn came up behind them, he could not help turning his head from side to side and looking at the strangely humped land, seeing for the first time a horizon which was not flat. He found himself intrigued by the thought that he had no way of knowing what lay beyond the next hill—that he would have to travel, and keep traveling, to satisfy a perpetually renewed curiosity.

All this occupied one part of his mind. Simultaneously, he wondered how much farther they’d travel in this vehicle. The huge sixteen-cylinder in-line engine was by now delivering about one-fourth of its rated fifty horsepower, with a good half of its spark plugs hopelessly fouled and the carburetor choked by the dust of yesterday’s battle.

They were very low on shot and powder charges for the two-pounder turret cannon, as well. The tankette had of course never been serviced after the battle. There was one good thing—neither had their pursuers’. Looking back, Geoffrey could see no sign of them. But he could also see the plain imprint of the tankette’s steel cleats stretched out behind them in a betraying line. The rigid, unsprung track left its mark on hard stone as easily as it did in soft earth. The wonder was that the tracks had not quite worn themselves out as yet, though all the rivets were badly strained and the tankette sounded like a barrel of stones tumbling downhill.

The Barbarian had spent the night with one arm thrown over the cannon barrel and the fingers of his other hand hooked over the edge of the turret hatch. In spite of the tankette’s vicious jouncing, he had not moved or changed his position. Now he raised one hand to comb the shaggy hair away from his forehead, and there were faint bloody marks on the hatch.

“How much farther until we’re over the mountains?” Geoffrey asked him.

“Over the—lad, we haven’t even come to the beginning of them yet.”

Geoffrey grimaced. “Then we’ll never make it. Not in this vehicle.”

“I didn’t expect to. We’ll walk until we reach the pass. I’ve got a support camp set up there.”

“Walk? This is impossible country for people on foot. There are intransigent tribesmen all through this territory.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know? Why, everybody knows about them!”

The Barbarian looked at him thoughtfully, and with just the faintest trace of amusement. “Well, if everybody knows they’re intransigent, I guess they are. I guess we’ll just have to hope they don’t spot us.”

Geoffrey was a little nettled by The Barbarian’s manner. It wasn’t, after all, as if anybody claimed there were dragons or monsters or any other such oceanic thing living here. This was good, solid fact—people had actually come up here, tried to bring civilization to the tribes, and failed completely. They were, by all reports, hairy, dirty people equipped with accurate rifles. No one had bothered to press the issue, because obviously it was hardly worth it. Geoffrey had expected to have trouble with them—but he had expected to meet it in an armored vehicle. But now that the mountains had turned out to be so far away, the situation might grow quite serious. And The Barbarian didn’t seem to care very much.

“Well, now, lad,” he was saying, “if the tribesmen’re that bad, maybe your friends the nobles won’t dare follow us up here.”

“They’ll follow us,” Geoffrey answered flatly. “I slapped Dugald’s face.”

“Oh. Oh, I didn’t understand that. Code of honor—that sort of thing. All the civilized appurtenances.”

“It’s hardly funny.”

“No, I suppose not. I don’t suppose it occurred to you to kill him on the spot?”

“Kill a noble in hot blood?”

“Sorry. Code of honor again. Forget I mentioned it.”

Geoffrey rankled under The Barbarian’s barely concealed amusement. To avoid any more of this kind of thing, he pointedly turned and looked at the terrain behind them—something he ought to have done a little earlier. Three tankettes were in sight, only a few miles behind them, laboring down the slope of a hill.

And at that moment, as though rivetted iron had a dramatic sense of its own, their tankette coughed, spun lazily on one track as the crankshaft paused with a cam squarely between positions, and burned up the last drops of oil and alcohol in its fuel tank.

* * * *

Geoffrey and Myka crouched down in a brushy hollow. The Barbarian had crawled up to the lip of the depression, and was peering through a clump of weeds at the oncoming trio. “That seems to be all of them,” he said with a turn of his head. “It’s possible they kept their speed down and nursed themselves along to save fuel. They might even have a fuel waggon coming up behind them. That’s the way I’d do it. It would mean these three are all we can expect for a few hours, anyway, but that they’ll be heavily reinforced some time later.”

“That will hardly matter,” Geoffrey muttered. Myka had found Dugald’s personal rifle inside the tankette. Geoffrey was rolling cartridges quickly and expertly, using torn up charges from the turret cannon. He had made the choice between a round or two for the now immobile heavy weapon and a plentiful supply for the rifle, and would have been greatly surprised at anyone’s choosing differently. The Barbarian had not even questioned it, and Myka was skillfully casting bullets with the help of the hissing alcohol stove and the bullet mold included in the rifle kit. There was plenty of finely ground priming powder, and even though Geoffrey was neither weighing the charges of cannon powder nor measuring the diameter of the cartridges he was rolling, no young noble of any pretensions whatsoever could not have done the same.

The rub lay in the fact that none of this was liable to do them much good. If they were to flee through the woods, there would certainly be time for only a shot or two when the tribesmen found them. If the rifle was to be used against the three nobles, then it was necessary, in all decency, to wait until the nobles had stopped, climbed out of their tankettes, equipped themselves equally, and a mutual ground of battle had been agreed upon. In that case, three against one would make short work of it.

The better chance lay with the woods and the tribesmen. It was the better chance, but Geoffrey did not relish it. He scowled as he dropped a primer charge down the rifle’s barrel, followed it with a cartridge, took a cooled bullet from Myka, and tamped it down with the ramrod until it was firmly gripped by the collar on the cartridge. He took a square of clean flannel from its compartment in the butt and carefully wiped the lenses of the telescopic sight.

“Can I stop now?” Myka asked.

Geoffrey looked at her sharply. It had never occurred to him that the woman might simply be humoring him, and yet that was the tone her voice had taken. Truth to tell, he had simply handed her the stove, pig lead, and mold, and told her to go to work.

He looked at her now, remembering that he’d been hurried and possibly brusque. It ought not to matter—though it did—since she was hardly a lady entitled to courtesy. She hardly looked like anything, after hours crouched inside the tankette.

Her copper hair was smeared with grease, disarranged, and even singed where she had presumably leaned against a hot fitting. Her clothes were indescribably dirty and limp with perspiration. She was quite pale, and seemed to be fighting nausea—hardly surprising, with the exhaust fumes that must have been present in the compartment.

Nevertheless, her hair glinted where the sun struck it, and her litheness was only accented by the wrinkled clothing. Over-accented, Geoffrey thought to himself as he looked at the length of limb revealed by her short trousers.

He flushed. “Of course. Thank you.” He looked at the pile of finished bullets. There were enough of them to stand off an army, provided only the army did not shift about behind rocks and trees as the tribesmen did, or was not equally armed, as the nobles would be. Yet, a man had to try to the end. “You don’t expect this to do much good,” he said to the woman.

Myka grinned at him. “Do you?”

“No, frankly. But why did you help me?”

“To keep you busy.”

“I see.” He didn’t. He scooped the bullets up, put them in one pocket, and dropped the cartridges in another. He stood up.

“There wasn’t any point in letting you get nervous,” Myka explained. “You can be quite a deadly boy in action, if what I’ve seen and heard about you is any indication. I didn’t want you killing any of our friends.” She was smiling at him without any malice whatsoever; rather, with a definite degree of fondness. Geoffrey did not even feel resentful at this business of being casually managed, as though he were liable to do something foolish.

But he scrambled up to a place beside The Barbarian in a burst of tense movement, and looked out toward the approaching tankettes. What Myka had just said to him, and the cryptic smile on The Barbarian’s face, and a thought of Geoffrey’s own, had all fitted themselves together in his mind.

There was no reason, really, to believe that barbarians would be hostile to barbarians, and certainly the inland raiders could not have returned year after year without some means of handling the mountain tribes. Friendship, or at least an alliance, would be the easiest way.

And out on the slope of the nearest hill, bearded men in homespun clothing were rolling boulders down on the advancing tankettes.

The slope of the hill was quite steep, and the boulders were massive. They tumbled and bounded with a speed that must have seemed terrifying from below. Tearing great chunks out of the earth, they rumbled down on the tankettes while the tribesmen yelled with bloodcurdling ferocity and fired on the tankettes with impossible rapidity. With respectable marksmanship, too. The nobles were swerving their vehicles frantically from side to side, trying to avoid the boulders, but their ability to do so was being destroyed by bullets that ricocheted viciously off the canted forepeak plating. All three of them were blundering about like cattle attacked by stinging insects. Only the lead tankette was still under anything like intelligent control. It lurched away from three boulders in succession, swinging on its treads and continuing to churn its way up the hillside.

Geoffrey saw the other two tankettes struck almost simultaneously. One took a boulder squarely between its tracks, and stopped in a shower of rock fragments. The track cleats bit futilely at the ground. The vehicle stalled, the boulder jammed against it. The impact did not seem to have been particularly severe; but the entire body of the tankette had been buckled and accordioned. Possibly only the boulder’s own bulk between the tracks had kept them from coming together like the knees of a gored ox. It was impossible to tell where, in that crushed bulk, the turret and its occupant might be.

The other tankette took its boulder squarely in the flank. It began to roll over immediately, hurtling back down the hill, its driver half in and half out of its turret at the beginning of the first roll. Tankette and boulder came to rest together at the bottom of the hill, the stone nosing up against the metal.

Geoffrey looked at the scene with cold fury. “That’s no fitting way for a noble to die!”

The Barbarian, who was sprawled out and watching calmly, nodded his head. “Probably not,” he said dispassionately. “But that other man’s giving a good account of himself.”

The remaining tankette was almost in among the tribesmen. It had passed the point where a rolling boulder’s momentum would be great enough to do much damage. As Geoffrey watched, the man in the turret yanked his lanyard, and a solid shot boomed through the straggled line of bearded men. If it had been grape or canister, it might have done a good deal of damage. But the cannon had been loaded with Geoffrey’s tankette in mind, and the tribesmen only jeered. One of them dashed forward, under the cannon’s smoking muzzle, and jammed a wedge-shaped stone between the left side track and the massive forward track roller. The track jammed, broke, and whipped back in whistling fragments. The tankette slewed around while the unharmed tribesman danced out of the way. The noble in the turret could only watch helplessly. Apparently he had no sidearm. Geoffrey peered at him as the tribesmen swarmed over the tankette and dragged him out of the turret. It was Dugald, and Geoffrey’s arm still tingled from the slap that had knocked the pistol irretrievably into the night-shadowed brush at the battlefield.

“What are they going to do to him?” he asked The Barbarian.

“Make him meet the test of fitness, I suppose.”

“Fitness?”

Geoffrey did not get the answer to his question immediately. The woods all around him were stirring, and bearded men in homespun, carrying fantastic rifles, were casually walking toward him. The Barbarian pushed himself up to his feet without any show of surprise.

“Howdy,” he said. “Figured you were right around.”

One of the tribesmen—a gaunt, incredibly tall man with a grizzled beard—nodded. “I seen you makin’ signs while you was hangin’ off that tank, before. Got a mark?”

The Barbarian extended his right arm and turned his wrist over. A faint double scar, crossed at right angles, showed in the skin.

The tribesman peered at it and grunted. “Old one.”

“I got it twenty years ago, when I first came through here,” The Barbarian answered.

“Double, too. Ain’t many of those.”

“My name’s Hodd Savage.”

“Oh,” the tribesman said. His entire manner changed. Without becoming servile, it was respectful. He extended his hand. “Sime Weatherby.” He and The Barbarian clasped hands. “That your woman down there?” the tribesman asked, nodding toward Myka.

“That’s right.”

“Good enough.” For the first time, Weatherby looked directly at Geoffrey. “What about him?”

The Barbarian shook his head. “No mark.”

The tribesman nodded. “I figured, from the way he was actin’.” He seemed to make no particular signal—perhaps none was needed—but Geoffrey’s arms were suddenly taken from behind, and his wrists were tied.

“We’ll see if he can get him a mark today,” Weatherby said. He looked to his left, where other men were just pushing Dugald into the ring they had formed around the group. “Seein’ as there’s two of them, one of ’em ought to make it.”

Geoffrey and Dugald stared expressionlessly at each other. The Barbarian kept his eyes on Geoffrey’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “Can’t have two men fight to the death without one of them coming out alive, usually.”

* * * *

The tribesmen lived in wooden cabins tucked away among trees and hidden in narrow little valleys. Geoffrey was surprised to see windmills, and wire fencing for the cattle pastures that adjoined their homes. He was even more interested in their rifles, which, the tribesmen told him, were repeaters. He was puzzled by the absence of a cylinder, such as could be found on the generally unreliable revolvers one saw occasionally.

The tribesmen were treating both him and Dugald with a complete absence of the savagery he expected. They were being perfectly matter-of-fact. If his hands had not been tied, Geoffrey might not have been a prisoner at all. This puzzled him as well. A prisoner, after all, could not expect to be treated very well. True, he and Dugald were nobles, but this could not possibly mean anything to persons as uncivilized as mountain tribesmen.

Yet somehow, the only thing that was done was that all of them; the tribesmen, The Barbarian, Myka, Dugald and he—made their way to Weatherby’s home. A number of the tribesmen continued on their way from there, going to their own homes to bring their families to watch the test. The remainder stayed behind to post guard. Dugald was put in one room, and Geoffrey in another. The Barbarian and Myka went off somewhere with Weatherby—presumably to have breakfast. Geoffrey could smell food cooking, somewhere toward the back of the house. The smell sat intolerably on his empty stomach.

He sat for perhaps a half hour in the room, which was almost bare of furniture. There was a straight-backed chair, in which he sat, a narrow bed, and a bureau. Even though his hands were still tied behind his back, he did his best to search the room for something to help him—though he had no idea of what he would do next after he managed to escape from the room itself.

The problem did not arise, because the room had been stripped of anything with a sharp edge on which to cut his lashings, and of anything else he might put to use. These people had obviously held prisoners here before. He sat back down in his chair, and stared at the wall.

Eventually, someone opened the door. Geoffrey looked over, and saw that it was The Barbarian. He looked at the inlander coldly, but The Barbarian did not seem to notice. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“On top of everything else,” he began without preamble, “I’ve just finished a hearty breakfast. That ought to really make you mad at me.”

“I’m not concerned with you, or your meals,” Geoffrey pointed out.

The Barbarian’s eyes twinkled. “It doesn’t bother you, my getting your help and then not protecting you from these intransigent tribesmen?”

“Hardly. I’d be a fool to expect it.”

“Would you, now? Look, bucko—these people live a hard way of life. Living on a mountain is a good way not to live comfortably. But it’s a good way of living your own way, if you can stand the gaff. These people can. Every one of them. They’ve got their marks to prove it. Every last one of them has fought it out face to face with another man, and proved his fitness to take up space in this territory. See—it’s a social code. And they’ll extend it to cover any stranger who doesn’t get killed on his way here. If you can get your mark, you’re welcome here for the rest of your life. They keep their clan stock fresh and vigorous that way. And it all has the virtue of being a uniform, just, rigid code that covers every man in the group. These barbarian cultures aren’t ever happy without a good code to their name, you know.”

“Yours seems to lack one.”

The Barbarian chuckled. “Oh, no. We’ve got one, all right, or you’d never have had me to worry you. Nothing we like better than a good, talented enemy. You know, these people here in the mountains used to be our favorite enemies. But so many of us wound up getting our marks, it just got to be futile. Once you’re in, you know, you’re a full-fledged clan member. That sort of divided our loyalties. The problem just seemed to solve itself, though. We understand them, they understand us, we trade back and forth…hell, it’s all one family.”

Geoffrey frowned. “You mean—they got those rifles from you?”

“Sure. We’re full of ingenuity—for barbarians, that is. Not in the same class with you seaboard nobles, of course, but we poke along.” The Barbarian stood up, and his expression turned serious. “Look, son—you remember that knife of mine you borrowed for a while? I’ll have to lend it to you again, in about twenty minutes. Your friend Dugald’s going to have one just like it, and your left arms are going to be tied together at the wrists. I hope you remember what I happened to tell you about how to use it, because under the rules of the code, I’m not allowed to instruct you.”

And Geoffrey was left alone.

* * * *

There was a hard-packed area of dirt in front of Weatherby’s home, and now its edges were crowded with tribesmen, many of whom had brought their women and children. Weatherby, together with a spare, capable-looking woman, and with The Barbarian and Myka, sat on his porch. One of the tribesmen was wrapping Geoffrey’s and Dugald’s forearms together. Geoffrey watched him with complete detachment. He stole a glance over toward Weatherby’s porch, and it seemed to him that Myka was tense and anxious. He couldn’t be sure.…

The fingers of his right hand gripped the haft of The Barbarian’s knife. He held it with his thumb along the blade, knowing that if he drew his arm up, to stab downward, or back, to slash, Dugald would have a perfect opening. It was his thought, remembering that razor-keen blade, that he ought to be able to do plenty of damage with a simple underhand twist of his arm. He did not look down to see how Dugald was holding the knife he’d been given. That would have been unfair.

The crowd of watching tribesmen was completely silent. This was a serious business with them, Geoffrey reflected.

The tribesman tying their wrists had finished the job. He stepped back. “Anytime after I say ‘Go,’ you boys set to it. Anything goes and dead man loses. If you don’t fight, we kill you both.”

For the first time since their capture, Geoffrey looked squarely into Dugald’s slit eyes. “I’m sorry we have to do this to each other in this way, Dugald,” he said.

“Go!” the tribesman shouted, and jumped back.

Dugald spat at Geoffrey’s face. Geoffrey twitched his head involuntarily, realized what he’d done, and threw himself off his feet, pulling Dugald with him and just escaping the downward arc of Dugald’s plunging knife. The momentum of Dugald’s swing, combined with Geoffrey’s weight, pulled him completely over Geoffrey’s shoulder. The two of them jerked abruptly flat on the ground, their shoulders wrenched, sprawled out facing each other and tied together like two cats on a string.

The crowd shouted.

Geoffrey had landed full on his ribs, and for a moment he saw nothing but a red mist. Then his eyes cleared and he was staring into Dugald’s face. Dugald snarled at him, and pawed out with his knife, at the advantage now because he could stab downward. Geoffrey rolled, and Dugald perforce rolled with him. The stab missed again, and Geoffrey, on his back, jabbed blindly over his head and reached nothing. Then they were on their stomachs again.

Dugald was panting, his face running wet. The long black hair was full of dust, and his face was smeared. If ever Geoffrey had seen a man in an animal state, that was what Dugald resembled. Geoffrey thought wildly, Is this what a noble is?

“I’ll kill you!” Dugald bayed at him, and Geoffrey’s hackles rose. This is not a man, he thought. This is nothing that deserves to live.

Dugald’s arm snapped back, knife poised, and drove downward again. Geoffrey suddenly coiled his back muscles and heaved on his left arm, yanking himself up against Dugald’s chest. He snapped his hips sideward, and Dugald’s knife missed him completely for the third and fatal time. The Barbarian’s knife slipped upward into Dugald’s rib cage, and suddenly Geoffrey was drenched with blood. Dugald’s teeth bit into his neck, but the other man’s jaws were already slackening. Geoffrey let himself slump, and hoped they would cut this carrion away from him as soon as possible. He heard the crowd yelping, and felt The Barbarian plucking the knife out of his hand. His arm was freed, and he rolled away.

“By God, I knew you had the stuff,” The Barbarian was booming. “I knew they had to start breeding men out on the coast sooner or later. Here—give me your other wrist.” The blade burned his skin twice each way—once for victory and once for special aptitude—and then Myka pressed a cloth to the wound.

She was shaking her head. “I’ve never seen it done better. You’re a natural born fighter, lad. I’ve got one of my sisters all picked out for you.”

Geoffrey smiled up at The Barbarian, a little ruefully. “It seems you and I’ll be going back to the coast together, next year.”

“Had it in mind all along, lad,” The Barbarian said. “If I can’t lick ’em, I’ll be damned if I won’t make ’em join me.”

“It’s an effective system,” Geoffrey said.

“That it is, lad. That it is. And now, if you’ll climb up to your feet, let’s go get you some breakfast.”

EX MACHINA, by Cynthia Ward

“Why the hell I got to come here at 8:00 AM, ese?”

My cousin the child psychologist had left me numerous voicemail messages about a problem he was seeing in patients with brain implants. The moment I’d gotten the messages, I’d called back, curious to know why Rob would consult a drug-runner. He’d refused to go into details, but he’d looked more somber than usual on my cellphone screen. There was no chance the man would meet me in a virtual conference room—he hated technology. So I’d agreed to come to his office.

“My client’s parents were unwilling to reschedule the appointment.” As he answered my question, Rob looked with distaste at my leathers. He doesn’t like to be reminded of my employment or our origins, so I’d dug out my streetest clothes for the visit.

Rob offered fresh genuine coffee. I refused. I hardly needed another upper in my system.

He led me into his inner office, where a pair of Bose bookshelf speakers oozed a newscaster’s plastic voice. It was describing the latest exploit of the hacker who’d been dominating the CalNa News for the past couple of months. This time the superhacker had wormholed the computer system of the new desalination plant near Pacifica. It would be offline for at least a month. I grinned.

Rob powered down the sound system and sank into one of the chairs. He scowled at my pacing. “Sit down, woman.”

“You know better than that, man. You get me up before noon, you know I got to do something to stay awake.” Rob grimaced. “So,” I prodded, “tell me about this implant problem. Your patients spending too much time jacked into interactives?”

I expected Rob to make the complaint that newfangled frivolities are corrupting today’s youth—the complaint that must date back to Neanderthals watching their kids use fire.

He didn’t, quite. “In the last two months, I’ve taken on six clients with neural interface implants.” Few kids have brain ’plants, but Rob’s patients’ parents can afford the new ones designed for growing bodies. “All six exhibit the same symptom, a flattening of affect so severe I can safely say I’ve never before seen its like.”

“Don’t use terms like ‘flattening of affect’. I know that one but I won’t get ’em all.”

Rob didn’t react. “These boys, who range in age from five to eight, were brought to me because they’ve lost interest in everything except being jacked into the Global Network.”

“Well, like the ads say, GlobeNet offers a nearly limitless range of play possibilities—”

“Most children would show enthusiasm for that vast array of entertainment. My clients do not; in fact, they’ve stopped watching the videos and playing the games. All they do is access GlobeNet’s Children’s Bulletin Board.”

“That is strange. They must be bored.”

“If they are, why are they bothering to jack in?”

“’Cas it’s still better than cleaning their rooms?”

Rob scowled. “My clients have always used computers; in fact, their parents reinforce desirable behavior by rewarding them with online playtime. They were among the first children to receive commercial interfaces. Since they received these implants, their behavior has changed gradually, but radically. They’ve given up games and playmates and every other pleasure to spend every available moment on the Children’s Bulletin Board, while at the same time becoming emotionally withdrawn and losing the egocentric self-awareness of childhood.”

“Isn’t autism a bit outside your area of expertise?”

“My clients are not autistic. Children don’t spontaneously develop autism-spectrum disorders when they’re eight years old. They don’t have pediatric schizophrenia, either. The only traits exhibited by my clients are an impairment of emotional relationships and a loss of personal identity. Otherwise, these children are neurotypical. Even bright.”

“Oh.” I decided to stop questioning my cousin’s knowledge of his field. “Maybe the implants are causing some sort of bioelectrical burnout not found in adults.”

Rob shook his head. “Extensive medical testing has uncovered no evidence of organic dysfunction, and literature searches have uncovered nothing that quite describes my clients’ condition. The disorder is new and undocumented and occurs only in children.”

“So even the most recent psych journals haven’t heard a word about this problem, ’ey? A paper’s in it for you! Fame! Acclaim!”

“That’s very much a secondary consideration.”

“Yeah, well, you still haven’t explained why I’m here, Rob. If there’s no biological problem, I can’t guess what mental problem jacking online would cause kids. How can I know what you mind and med docs don’t? So I have a ’plant. So what? I’m no programmer. Far from it.”

“You’re no programmer, true,” Rob said. “But your implant is almost constantly in use.” I stifled a protest. “You know neural networking from the inside out.”

God knows you never will, I thought. I pulled my cable and plug out of a jacket pocket.

“What did you bring those for?”

“I might need to see the kid interfacing,” I said. I didn’t say, ’Cas you live in the last century, though I was tempted to.

I rarely resist a chance to give my cousin a hard time, but he’s really not a bad dude. He’s rather uptight around adults, but he does have a way with children. He honestly likes kids, and he treats them with respect—treats them like people—without expecting them to be little adults. Though young and conservative, he’s one of the most respected child psychologists in the Nation of California.

I crossed his spacious office, a calculated masterpiece. Its simple wood furnishings and paneling showed solidity in the face of fad and fashion. It subtly informed parents that they were dealing with a successful psychologist, yet had a casualness that put children at ease.

I heard a strange voice. “Doctor Vincent, are you in?”

I jerked around to see Rob thumb a button on his landline phone. “Yes, Lottie, I’m here,” he said to the intercom. “My cousin will be seeing my first client with me.”

“Yes, doctor.” The receptionist’s voice held a note of surprise.

* * * *

Rob’s computer system didn’t have all the standard features. A flatscreen monitor? Well, I’d known better than to expect a holoscreen or an active-matrix video display. At least the system had a jackport. Rob was such a chickenshit traditionalist, I always figured he became a child psychologist ’cas he couldn’t stand seeing kids get too far from the norms.

When we were growing up, Roberto Velasquez Oliveira was nicknamed, not affectionately, “The Little Professor” (I had the good sense not to read in front of others and not to do well in school, which was not a problem, school was a bore). Between the steady studying and the constant bullying, Roberto developed a powerful desire not to stick out—he even changed his name to Robert Oliver Vincent, like nobody would notice he’s Mexican and Brazilian if he did that.

When Rob and I were twelve, my brother and his siblings found him lying bloody, naked, and barely conscious behind the rickety carport we lived in. Gangs were split by race, but not all members of one race ran together, of course; and a rival gang of cholos had thrashed the suspiciously studious Velasquez boy. Now, my bro and Rob’s sibs didn’t like Rob much, either; not only was he the youngest and our mothers’ favorite, he liked school and he refused to have anything to do with our gang—he was for sure a coward. But family is family: “Nobody can pick on my brother but me.” So me and my bro and Rob’s sibs went right out and carved up the pinches ojetes with monomole blades. Yeah, our posse had velocity.

Rob was in bed for a month—it was while scoring black-market antibiotics and healfasts that I found my career. He spent all his time in bed reading. He liked hardcopies, but nobody had money for those, so I got him books from the library. He’d never been religious, or much of a mystic, but he wanted stuff on Zen Buddhism. Finally I asked why.

He said, “I seek nothing.”

“Nothing? Jesus, you got a funny idea of light reading!”

When Rob was back on his feet, he was more of a grind than ever. He graduated high school two years early, got a scholarship to UC-Berkeley, and got the hell out of our neighborhood and our world, which he’d hated even more than the rest of us. Rob and I took very different paths out of childhood. And of our families, only he and I are left.

Rob watched as I connected my fiber-optic cable to the port and, scraping my fingertips on stubble, slotted the small jack into my socket.

Soon enough, blackness filled my skull from wall to wall; and in the blackness revolved the GlobeNet logo, a green and blue earth, vast and three-dimensional in subjective space.

I fell, or seemed to fall, into the logo, as the network verified the account information my ’plant supplied. Then I was in the network, and in persona.

I have a cheap avatar for my legit account, an avatar as impossibly beautiful as any other—nothing remarkable, just the image of a gabacha corporate cog. No celebrity xerox, no spike-crusted transformer robot, no being of pure light; on the account I keep under my own name, I don’t want anything custom-designed or just plain memorable.

My persona was immediately inundated by the standard flood of personalized ads. Idol singer Midori Dasgupta-Ajayi tried to dance with me as she pitched the Code Red energy drink to the beat of her biggest bhangra-zydeco hit. My virtual eyes ached at the sight of retro-rappers Ice-9 and D-Vize busting moves in LA Lux fashions that changed colors every other second. I dodged an Absolut vodka bottle that thrust up suddenly, beaded with moisture and gleaming like ice. My persona darted and ducked and dove.

News, I said in my mind.

Instantly, my persona was at the heart of a hollow sphere. It was composed of the icons of all my favorite news options.

My persona touched the Amazon-Google icon.

The lead story was about another of those untraceable computer break-ins. This time the superhacker had penetrated the Neurexon corporate network; stolen and then scrambled research data on an experimental amino-based mnemonotropic; and injected a virus that destroyed passwords as users attempted to log on.

Rob’s voice interrupted my concentration. “I don’t understand how you can do anything without a keyboard or touchscreen.”

I opened my eyes. The virtual screen was a translucent membrane over my vision. Text and images flowed over Rob’s face.

“I just speak a command silently,” I explained. “I doubt it’s any different from you silently rehearsing a memorized speech. If I want to do something like send a text message, I ‘speak’ my message very clearly in my mind.”

“You’re saying people talk to each other mind to mind,” Rob said, angry suddenly. “Telepathy doesn’t exist. But you can’t resist feeding me a line of crap, even when I need your assistance.”

“You misunderstand me, Rob. This isn’t telepathy. People in neural interface can’t hear each other’s words or read each other’s minds.”

Rob looked doubtful, and still angry. What we don’t understand frightens us, and he’d never understand this. He didn’t want to.

I glanced at the flatscreen, on which Rob had been following my progress. It was odd, seeing my virtual screen superimposed in ghostly, not-quite-aligned images on Rob’s identical hardscreen display. It was dizzying. I closed my eyes.

The receptionist’s voice ’commed in. “Dr. Vincent, your first appointment is here.”

Rob went to the door. I unjacked and followed him out to the waiting area, where he greeted a woman and boy. The woman wore the latest fashions, but her tall, raw-boned Nordic frame was ’way wrong for her Tsuchiya designer slinkskirt. Her son’s skull was shaved bald, and it gleamed almost as brightly as the ornate chrome socket-housing on the back of his head. The kid’s baldness didn’t surprise me. That was the fashion for pretweens, shaving your head and polishing your skull with metal-hued wax.

The kid looked about eight, and looked very strange. It wasn’t the polished skull; that look was weeks old, practically old-school. I studied his face more closely. My head jerked back as realized why he looked so weird.

His face was completely lacking in expression.

His mother was anything but blank-faced. She was astounded to see someone who looked like a thirty-year-old, leather-clad ganger woman standing next to her son’s therapist. But Rob introduced me as a colleague and the woman seemed to buy it. People believe anything a doctor says.

Rob told the woman he wished to see just her son today, if she didn’t mind. She didn’t. She sat down, smoothly crossing long legs with studied casualness, and picked up a print copy of People. I trailed Rob and the boy into the office. Rob closed the door. I sank down in a chair to one side of his desk.

Rob addressed the boy gently. “How are you today, William?”

William’s pallid Eurasian features didn’t change a bit as he responded, “Fine, thank you.”

Rob didn’t react to the tone of the kid’s voice, which was as utterly emotionless as his face. Rob directed William to sit down and said some warm, innocuous child-doc stuff. The boy appeared to ignore the chitchat as thoroughly as I did.

William’s unrelenting expressionlessness gave me no insight. It was also incredibly boring to watch.

My attention wandered to the window. Rob’s suite was on the second floor of an old Victorian converted to office space, but I was close enough to the bulletproof glass to see the herds of professionals, armed with briefcases and shielded by filter-masks, as they walked or bicycled to the Financial District. They parted and closed like a gray river around the sole visible motorized vehicle, an electric bus. Not even fuel-cell cars are allowed in this part of San Francisco.

My attention drifted back into the room. Rob was still talking to his patient. The tone of Rob’s voice indicated he was now trying to be at ease. His usual warmth and respect for children were falling on this kid as uselessly as salt spray on a sea-wall.

I caught Rob’s eye and held up the jack. He nodded and directed William to move closer to the computer system. Listlessly, the kid dug his momentarily-purple LA Lux hightops into the beige carpet and pulled his chair up to the workstation.

“Today we’re going to try something a little different, William.” Rob explained that he and his consultant needed to observe William in neural interface.

The boy’s expression remained blank as he slotted the jack and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, there was only one jackport, so I couldn’t uplink with him. I stood next to Rob, watching the flatscreen echo what the kid did online, which was go immediately to the Children’s Bulletin Board.

The CBB was so retro, it consisted solely of text. Staring at the CBB prompt with its glowing 1980s-style typeface, I wondered what the appeal of a twentieth-century-style bulletin board could be. Kids these days, I thought, and suppressed a smile. I was starting to sound like Abuelita Velasquez.

William didn’t input anything at the old-school text prompt. No dialogue from anyone else appeared on the screen, though thirty seconds crawled by, an eternity by social-media standards. The BBS didn’t announce William’s presence, the way old-time bulletin boards had.

Finally, a sentence appeared onscreen.

“WELCOME WILLIAM.”

My eyes narrowed. How could anything be addressed to Robert’s patient? The boy hadn’t input anything and the BBS hadn’t noted his presence.

I glanced at Rob. He showed no reaction. I looked back at the screen. The greeting remained alone; it had provoked no response from William, or from anyone else on the BBS.

Before I could tell Rob how extremely odd this all was, the hardscreen filled with Japanese katakana and hiragana, scrolling too fast to read. I just glimpsed the Hitachi-Daewoo logo before the characters gave way to Western alphanumerics. Then the screen split into a pair of windows. Studying the windows, I realized millions in yen were being transferred from a Hitachi-Daewoo financial database to a Wells Fargo money market account. I suspected the account hadn’t existed a minute ago, though the screen said that funds had been regularly deposited through ATM’s over the last ten years.

Apparently, Rob had reached the same conclusion as I. He yanked on the fiber-optic cord. The jack popped out of the kid’s skull.

“Jesus, Rob!” I’ve been knocked out of neural interface by accident; it stuns you like a blow to the mind.

“They’ll trace this to us!” Drops of sweat showed on Rob’s brow. He’d realized he was watching a crime in progress.

The kid looked dazed—the only emotion he’d shown. Even he couldn’t impassively withstand the shock of surprise disconnection.

I probably looked as dazed as William. I knew the boy couldn’t have made that raid alone. He couldn’t have just jacked into a bulletin board and immediately broken into a well-protected corporate network. So he’d been working with other people.

Yet there had been no conversation—no communication—on the screen. Therefore, he couldn’t have been working with others.

Yet someone had greeted him.

And then, impossibly, they’d done the raid from a primitive, text-based BBS environment.

This was all-’round insane.

Focus, I told myself. One thing at a time.

“William,” I said, “how many of you kids interfaced to break into Hitachi-Daewoo?”

The boy turned to me. His face was again quite expressionless. I shivered at the blank regard of eyes as flat and emotionless as Rob’s hardscreen.

The boy spoke. “Your question is not relevant.”

“Humor me,” I said. “How many of you kids were working together?”

“Many. No reason to count.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Why?”

A chill settled over me, raising the stubble of my nape and skull in a wave. What he was saying was impossible. But I knew he wasn’t lying.

I grabbed the boy by the neck. “How did you do this?”

William didn’t change expression. Tonelessly, he said, “If you kill this meat, that is not important. We continue on.”

“What are you doing?” Rob seized my arm. “Leave the boy alone.”

I leaned over and hissed in Rob’s ear. “You could’ve done the kid a lot more harm when you ripped the jack out of his head.”

But I let the boy go.

Rob’s hand went slack. I pulled my arm free of his grip and tardily picked up the role he’d assigned me. Raising my voice, I declared, “Dr. Vincent, we should end this session early. The boy has gotten a bit of a shock.”

“Yes,” Rob said slowly. He looked at the child and spoke in a strained voice. “Of course. William, I apologize for interrupting you so rudely.”

“No matter,” the kid intoned, emotionless as a stone.

Rob opened the door and led the boy out to his mother. I didn’t hear the excuse Rob gave for the session’s brevity. I was distracted. I’d noticed the flatscreen had gone dead. That shouldn’t have happened just because the plug had been yanked out of William’s socket.

I jacked in. I didn’t find anything—even a blank screen. I tried every way I knew to reach the internet. I even tried punching keys and touching the screen. The virtual screen did not appear in my mind. The flatscreen continued to look like it had never been powered up.

I unjacked. I felt queasy. The link between this port and the internet had been deliberately severed—and not at this end.

Rob came back in. His face was pale. “Criminal hacking from my office,” he muttered. “Jesus!” He never swears.

“Rob, listen to me. What we saw was impossible. Your patient was working with other kids online. We should’ve seen their conversation on the screen. But we saw nothing except a word of welcome which shouldn’t have appeared to begin with, since William hadn’t input anything. Yet the other kids greeted William. And then, without exchanging another word on the screen—without even leaving the bulletin board—they communicated well enough to rip off Hitachi-Daewoo more effortlessly than the most experienced datathief.”

Rob blinked at me. “What are you getting at?”

My mind was spinning, trying to find an explanation of what we’d just witnessed. “Neural interfacing isn’t telepathy, but—Jesus! What William and his buddies were doing seems awfully close to it.”

“What?” Rob said, his face graying.

I started to shiver as I realized something else. “They must be the superhacker! Dissolving the Neurexon passwords, wormholing the new desalination plant—oh, God. What will those kids be capable of when they outgrow hacker pranks?”

Rob went even paler.

I remembered the intense difficulty I’d experienced learning Japanese in my teens, though from my earliest memories I’ve been fluent in English and Spanish.

“Children don’t have adult preconceptions of what can and can’t be done,” I told Rob. “Their minds are open, and still forming—”

“What’s the relevance of that?” he croaked.

“It’s why kids learn new languages easily, while it’s a real struggle for adults,” I said. “William and his buddies have learned the network like it’s just another language. Ah, God, they’ve done more than that!” I realized. “They’ve learned to work together in an impossible way. They act like one person.” My shivering grew stronger. “No, that’s not right. They don’t act like one person,” I whispered. “They are one person.”

“I don’t understand,” Rob said. But his pallor told me he was getting it, all right.

“Damn, ese,” I whispered. “The online environment’s changed those kids into a new race.”

“What?”

“A new race,” I repeated. “A race with one mind. An electronic mind.”

“What are you raving about?”

“Hive mind,” I said. “Group mind. When William’s jacked in, his brain is just a group of cells in a larger mind.” I realized I was talking too fast and too loud, the adrenalin and amphetamines firing my nerves like lightning. I forced myself to speak more calmly. “We didn’t see any dialogue ’cas the children using the CBB don’t need to discuss something before doing it. They make a decision the way you decide whether to go out for dinner.”

I paused, considering.

“Jesus, Rob, it’s the ultimate kiddie society,” I said. “Those kids never have to worry about peer pressure, about trying to fit in—when they’re in the electronic mind, they’re one person. The only person there is.”

“You’re talking nonsense. Suffering from amphetamine psychosis,” Rob declared decisively.

But he was staring into space. His face was intent, as if he were possessed by all-consuming desire. What did he want?

I considered how the online world Rob hated was enabling something I found frightening, but which Rob would not: the ultimate in conformity.

I remembered Rob’s readings in Zen Buddhism. “I seek nothing,” he’d told me.

Now I understood. He’d meant exactly what he’d said.

Practitioners of Zen Buddhism seek the extinction of the self. Nirvana is nothingness.

In conformity, the individual vanishes.

In the kids’ electronic mind, the individual vanishes.

I touched Rob’s shoulder. “Adults don’t have to worry about this happening to them,” I said, as if reassuring him against a thought he found repulsive, when it was anything but.

I didn’t know what else to say.

Rob turned away from me, pressing the intercom button. “Lottie, cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.” She squawked a startled inquiry and Rob said, “Do it!”

He turned back to me without looking at me.

“Please leave.”

I closed my hands on his shoulders. Tweed scratched my palms. “Rob, your patient and his friends interact so well ’cas they’ve lost their individuality. I’m sorry, man. But they’re no longer human.”

Rob’s eyes flicked to me, but his expression remained odd. “Get out.”

This time, I didn’t argue. Rob had to work out his reaction himself, alone as anyone.

Alone as anyone who was still human, anyway.

I pulled on my filter-mask and left. It wasn’t until I was boarding the bus that it occurred to me to wonder…why had the electronic mind chosen to reveal itself?

MONKEY ON HIS BACK, by Charles V. De Vet

He was walking endlessly down a long, glass-walled corridor. Bright sunlight slanted in through one wall, on the blue knapsack across his shoulders. Who he was, and what he was doing here, was clouded. The truth lurked in some corner of his consciousness, but it was not reached by surface awareness.

The corridor opened at last into a large high-domed room, much like a railway station or an air terminal. He walked straight ahead.

At the sight of him a man leaning negligently against a stone pillar, to his right but within vision, straightened and barked an order to him, “Halt!” He lengthened his stride but gave no other sign.

Two men hurried through a doorway of a small anteroom to his left, calling to him. He turned away and began to run.

Shouts and the sound of charging feet came from behind him. He cut to the right, running toward the escalator to the second floor. Another pair of men were hurrying down, two steps at a stride. With no break in pace he veered into an opening beside the escalator.

At the first turn he saw that the aisle merely circled the stairway, coming out into the depot again on the other side. It was a trap. He glanced quickly around him.

At the rear of the space was a row of lockers for traveler use. He slipped a coin into a pay slot, opened the zipper on his bag and pulled out a flat briefcase. It took him only a few seconds to push the case into the compartment, lock it and slide the key along the floor beneath the locker.

There was nothing to do after that—except wait.

The men pursuing him came hurtling around the turn in the aisle. He kicked his knapsack to one side, spreading his feet wide with an instinctive motion.

Until that instant he had intended to fight. Now he swiftly reassessed the odds. There were five of them, he saw. He should be able to incapacitate two or three and break out. But the fact that they had been expecting him meant that others would very probably be waiting outside. His best course now was to sham ignorance. He relaxed.

He offered no resistance as they reached him.

They were not gentle men. A tall ruffian, copper-brown face damp with perspiration and body oil, grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him back against the lockers. As he shifted his weight to keep his footing someone drove a fist into his face. He started to raise his hands; and a hard flat object crashed against the side of his skull.

The starch went out of his legs.

* * * *

“Do you make anything out of it?” the psychoanalyst Milton Bergstrom, asked.

John Zarwell shook his head.“Did I talk while I was under?”

“Oh, yes. You were supposed to. That way I follow pretty well what you’re reenacting.”

“How does it tie in with what I told you before?”

Bergstrom’s neat-boned, fair-skinned face betrayed no emotion other than an introspective stillness of his normally alert gaze. “I see no connection,” he decided, his words once again precise and meticulous.“We don’t have enough to go on. Do you feel able to try another comanalysis this afternoon yet?”

“I don’t see why not.” Zarwell opened the collar of his shirt. The day was hot, and the room had no air conditioning, still a rare luxury on St. Martin’s. The office window was open, but it let in no freshness, only the mildly rank odor that pervaded all the planet’s habitable area.

“Good.” Bergstrom rose. “The serum is quite harmless, John.” He maintained a professional diversionary chatter as he administered the drug. “A scopolamine derivative that’s been well tested.”

The floor beneath Zarwell’s feet assumed abruptly the near transfluent consistency of a damp sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave and rolled gently toward the far wall.

Bergstrom continued talking, with practiced urbanity. “When psychiatry was a less exact science,”his voice went on, seeming to come from a great distance, “a doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could sort the relevancies from the vast amount of chaff. We are able now, with the help of the serum, to confine our discourses to matters cogent to the patient’s trouble.”

The floor continued its transmutation, and Zarwell sank deep into viscous depths. “Lie back and relax. Don’t…”

The words tumbled down from above. They faded, were gone.

* * * *

Zarwell found himself standing on a vast plain. There was no sky above, and no horizon in the distance. He was in a place without space or dimension. There was nothing here except himself—and the gun that he held in his hand.

A weapon beautiful in its efficient simplicity.

He should know all about the instrument, its purpose and workings, but he could not bring his thoughts into rational focus. His forehead creased with his mental effort.

Abruptly the unreality about him shifted perspective. He was approaching—not walking, but merely shortening the space between them—the man who held the gun. The man who was himself. The other “himself” drifted nearer also, as though drawn by a mutual attraction.

The man with the gun raised his weapon and pressed the trigger.

With the action the perspective shifted again. He was watching the face of the man he shot jerk and twitch, expand and contract. The face was unharmed, yet it was no longer the same. No longer his own features.

The stranger face smiled approvingly at him.

* * * *

“Odd,” Bergstrom said. He brought his hands up and joined the tips of his fingers against his chest. “But it’s another piece in the jig-saw. In time it will fit into place.” He paused. “It means no more to you than the first, I suppose?”

“No,” Zarwell answered.

He was not a talking man, Bergstrom reflected. It was more than reticence, however. The man had a hard granite core, only partially concealed by his present perplexity. He was a man who could handle himself well in an emergency.

Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing his strayed thoughts. “I expected as much. A quite normal first phase of treatment.” He straightened a paper on his desk. “I think that will be enough for today. Twice in one sitting is about all we ever try. Otherwise some particular episode might cause undue mental stress, and set up a block.” He glanced down at his appointment pad. “Tomorrow at two, then?”

Zarwell grunted acknowledgment and pushed himself to his feet, apparently unaware that his shirt clung damply to his body.

* * * *

The sun was still high when Zarwell left the analyst’s office. The white marble of the city’s buildings shimmered in the afternoon heat, squat and austere as giant tree trunks, pock-marked and gray-mottled with windows. Zarwell was careful not to rest his hand on the flesh searing surface of the stone.

The evening meal hour was approaching when he reached the Flats, on the way to his apartment. The streets of the old section were near-deserted. The only sounds he heard as he passed were the occasional cry of a baby, chronically uncomfortable in the day’s heat, and the lowing of imported cattle waiting in a nearby shed to be shipped to the country.

All St. Martin’s has a distinctive smell, as of an arid dried-out swamp, with a faint taint of fish. But in the Flats the odor changes. Here is the smell of factories, warehouses, and trading marts; the smell of stale cooking drifting from the homes of the laborers and lower class techmen who live there.

Zarwell passed a group of smaller children playing a desultory game of lic-lic for pieces of candy and cigarettes. Slowly he climbed the stairs of a stone flat. He prepared a supper for himself and ate it without either enjoyment or distaste. He lay down, fully clothed, on his bed. The visit to the analyst had done nothing to dispel his ennui.

* * * *

The next morning when Zarwell awoke he lay for a moment, unmoving. The feeling was there again, like a scene waiting only to be gazed at directly to be perceived. It was as though a great wisdom lay at the edge of understanding. If he rested quietly it would all come to him. Yet always, when his mind lost its sleep-induced lethargy, the moment of near understanding slipped away.

This morning, however, the sense of disorientation did not pass with full wakefulness. He achieved no understanding, but the strangeness did not leave as he sat up.

He gazed about him. The room did not seem to be his own. The furnishings, and the clothing he observed in a closet, might have belonged to a stranger.

He pulled himself from his blankets, his body moving with mechanical reaction. The slippers into which he put his feet were larger than he had expected them to be. He walked about the small apartment. The place was familiar, but only as it would have been if he had studied it from blueprints, not as though he lived there.

The feeling was still with him when he returned to the psychoanalyst.

* * * *

The scene this time was more kaleidoscopic, less personal.

A village was being ravaged. Men struggled and died in the streets. Zarwell moved among them, seldom taking part in the individual clashes, yet a moving force in the conflict.

The background changed. He understood that he was on a different world.

Here a city burned. Its resistance was nearing its end. Zarwell was riding a shaggy pony outside a high wall surrounding the stricken metropolis. He moved in and joined a party of short, bearded men, directing them as they battered at the wall with a huge log mounted on a many-wheeled truck.

The log broke a breach in the concrete and the besiegers charged through, carrying back the defenders who sought vainly to plug the gap. Soon there would be rioting in the streets again, plundering and killing.

Zarwell was not the leader of the invaders, only a lesser figure in the rebellion. But he had played a leading part in the planning of the strategy that led to the city’s fall. The job had been well done.

Time passed, without visible break in the panorama. Now Zarwell was fleeing, pursued by the same bearded men who had been his comrades before. Still he moved with the same firm purpose, vigilant, resourceful, and well prepared for the eventuality that had befallen. He made his escape without difficulty.

He alighted from a space ship on still another world—another shift in time—and the atmosphere of conflict engulfed him.

Weary but resigned he accepted it, and did what he had to do…

* * * *

Bergstrom was regarding him with speculative scrutiny.“You’ve had quite a past, apparently,”he observed.

Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment.“At least in my dreams.”

“Dreams?” Bergstrom’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I must have forgotten to explain. This work is so routine to me that sometimes I forget it’s all new to a patient. Actually what you experienced under the drug were not dreams. They were recollections of real episodes from your past.”

Zarwell’s expression became wary. He watched Bergstrom closely. After a minute, however, he seemed satisfied, and he let himself settle back against the cushion of his chair. “I remember nothing of what I saw,” he observed.

“That’s why you’re here, you know,” Bergstrom answered. “To help you remember.”

“But everything under the drug is so…”

“Haphazard? That’s true. The recall episodes are always purely random, with no chronological sequence. Our problem will be to reassemble them in proper order later. Or some particular scene may trigger a complete memory return.

“It is my considered opinion,”Bergstrom went on, “that your lost memory will turn out to be no ordinary amnesia. I believe we will find that your mind has been tampered with.”

“Nothing I’ve seen under the drug fits into the past I do remember.”

“That’s what makes me so certain,”Bergstrom said confidently.“You don’t remember what we have shown to be true. Conversely then, what you think you remember must be false. It must have been implanted there. But we can go into that later. For today I think we have done enough. This episode was quite prolonged.”

“I won’t have any time off again until next week end,” Zarwell reminded him.

“That’s right.” Bergstrom thought for a moment. “We shouldn’t let this hang too long. Could you come here after work tomorrow?”

“I suppose I could.”

“Fine,” Bergstrom said with satisfaction.“I’ll admit I’m considerably more than casually interested in your case by this time.”

* * * *

A work truck picked Zarwell up the next morning and he rode with a tech crew to the edge of the reclam area. Beside the belt bringing ocean muck from the converter plant at the seashore his bulldozer was waiting.

He took his place behind the drive wheel and began working dirt down between windbreakers anchored in the rock. Along a makeshift road into the badlands trucks brought crushed lime and phosphorus to supplement the ocean sediment. The progress of life from the sea to the land was a mechanical process of this growing world.

Nearly two hundred years ago, when Earth established a colony on St. Martin’s, the land surface of the planet had been barren. Only its seas thrived with animal and vegetable life. The necessary machinery and technicians had been supplied by Earth, and the long struggle began to fit the world for human needs. When Zarwell arrived, six months before, the vitalized area already extended three hundred miles along the coast, and sixty miles inland. And every day the progress continued. A large percentage of the energy and resources of the world were devoted to that essential expansion.

The reclam crews filled and sodded the sterile rock, planted binding grasses, grain and trees, and diverted rivers to keep it fertile. When there were no rivers to divert they blasted out springs and lakes in the foothills to make their own. Biologists developed the necessary germ and insect life from what they found in the sea. Where that failed, they imported microorganisms from Earth.

Three rubber-tracked crawlers picked their way down from the mountains until they joined the road passing the belt. They were loaded with ore that would be smelted into metal for depleted Earth, or for other colonies short of minerals. It was St. Martin’s only export thus far.

Zarwell pulled his sun helmet lower, to better guard his hot, dry features. The wind blew continuously on St. Martin’s, but it furnished small relief from the heat. After its three-thousand-mile journey across scorched sterile rock, it sucked the moisture from a man’s body, bringing a membrane-shrinking dryness to the nostrils as it was breathed in. With it came also the cloying taste of limestone in a worker’s mouth.

Zarwell gazed idly about at the other laborers. Fully three-quarters of them were beri-rabza ridden. A cure for the skin fungus had not yet been found; the men’s faces and hands were scabbed and red. The colony had grown to near self-sufficiency, would soon have a moderate prosperity, yet they still lacked adequate medical and research facilities.

Not all the world’s citizens were content.

Bergstrom was waiting in his office when Zarwell arrived that evening.

* * * *

He was lying motionless on a hard cot, with his eyes closed, yet with his every sense sharply quickened. Tentatively he tightened small muscles in his arms and legs. Across his wrists and thighs he felt straps binding him to the cot.

“So that’s our big, bad man,” a coarse voice above him observed caustically. “He doesn’t look so tough now, does he?”

“It might have been better to kill him right away,” a second, less confident voice said. “It’s supposed to be impossible to hold him.”

“Don’t be stupid. We just do what we’re told. We’ll hold him.”

“What do you think they’ll do with him?”

“Execute him, I suppose,” the harsh voice said matter-of-factly.“They’re probably just curious to see what he looks like first. They’ll be disappointed.”

Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to observe his surroundings.

It was a mistake. “He’s out of it,” the first speaker said, and Zarwell allowed his eyes to open fully.

The voice, he saw, belonged to the big man who had bruised him against the locker at the spaceport. Irrelevantly he wondered how he knew now that it had been a spaceport.

His captor’s broad face jeered down at Zarwell. “Have a good sleep?” he asked with mock solicitude. Zarwell did not deign to acknowledge that he heard.

The big man turned. “You can tell the Chief he’s awake,” he said. Zarwell followed his gaze to where a younger man, with a blond lock of hair on his forehead, stood behind him. The youth nodded and went out, while the other pulled a chair up to the side of Zarwell’s cot.

While their attention was away from him Zarwell had unobtrusively loosened his bonds as much as possible with arm leverage. As the big man drew his chair nearer, he made the hand farthest from him tight and compact and worked it free of the leather loop. He waited.

The big man belched. “You’re supposed to be great stuff in a situation like this,” he said, his smoke-tan face splitting in a grin that revealed large square teeth. “How about giving me a sample?”

“You’re a yellow-livered bastard,”Zarwell told him.

The grin faded from the oily face as the man stood up. He leaned over the cot—and Zarwell’s left hand shot up and locked about his throat, joined almost immediately by the right.

The man’s mouth opened and he tried to yell as he threw himself frantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When that failed to break the grip he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his fist at Zarwell’s head.

Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the body slide to the floor.

The straps about his thighs came loose with little effort.

* * * *

The analyst dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief. “The episodes are beginning to tie together,”he said, with an attempt at nonchalance. “The next couple should do it.”

Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete return, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came and he returned his attention to his more immediate problem.

Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth just below his rib cage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it in the palm of his hand. He knew now why he always carried it.

Bergstrom had his bad moment.“You’re not going to…” he began at the sight of the gun. He tried again. “You must be joking.”

“I have very little sense of humor,”Zarwell corrected him.

“You’d be foolish!”

Bergstrom obviously realized how close he was to death. Yet surprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell had thought the man a bit soft, too adjusted to a life of ease and some prestige to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.

“Why would I be foolish?” he asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable confidence?”

Bergstrom shook his head. “I know it’s been broken before. But you need me. You’re not through, you know. If you killed me you’d still have to trust some other analyst.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“No.” Bergstrom was angry now.“But use that logical mind you’re supposed to have! Scenes before this have shown what kind of man you are. Just because this last happened here on St. Martin’s makes little difference. If I was going to turn you in to the police, I’d have done it before this.”

Zarwell debated with himself the truth of what the other had said.“Why didn’t you turn me in?” he asked.

“Because you’re no mad-dog killer!” Now that the crisis seemed to be past, Bergstrom spoke more calmly, even allowed himself to relax. “You’re still pretty much in the fog about yourself. I read more in those comanalyses than you did. I even know who you are!”

Zarwell’s eyebrows raised.

“Who am I?” he asked, very interested now. Without attention he put his pistol away in a trouser pocket.

Bergstrom brushed the question aside with one hand. “Your name makes little difference. You’ve used many. But you are an idealist. Your killings were necessary to bring justice to the places you visited. By now you’re almost a legend among the human worlds. I’d like to talk more with you on that later.”

While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom pressed his advantage. “One more scene might do it,” he said.“Should we try again—if you trust me, that is?”

Zarwell made his decision quickly.“Go ahead,” he answered.

* * * *

All Zarwell’s attention seemed on the cigar he lit as he rode down the escalator, but he surveyed the terminal carefully over the rim of his hand. He spied no suspicious loungers.

Behind the escalator he groped along the floor beneath the lockers until he found his key. The briefcase was under his arm a minute later.

In the basement lave he put a coin in the pay slot of a private compartment and went in.

As he zipped open the briefcase he surveyed his features in the mirror. A small muscle at the corner of one eye twitched spasmodically. One cheek wore a frozen quarter smile. Thirty-six hours under the paralysis was longer than advisable. The muscles should be rested at least every twenty hours.

Fortunately his natural features would serve as an adequate disguise now.

He adjusted the ring setting on the pistol-shaped instrument that he took from his case, and carefully rayed several small areas of his face, loosening muscles that had been tight too long. He sighed gratefully when he finished, massaging his cheeks and forehead with considerable pleasure. Another glance in the mirror satisfied him with the changes that had been made. He turned to his briefcase again and exchanged the gun for a small syringe, which he pushed into a trouser pocket, and a single-edged razor blade.

Removing his fiber-cloth jacket he slashed it into strips with the razor blade and flushed it down the disposal bowl. With the sleeves of his blouse rolled up he had the appearance of a typical workman as he strolled from the compartment.

Back at the locker he replaced the briefcase and, with a wad of gum, glued the key to the bottom of the locker frame.

One step more. Taking the syringe from his pocket, he plunged the needle into his forearm and tossed the instrument down a waste chute. He took three more steps and paused uncertainly.

When he looked about him it was with the expression of a man waking from a vivid dream.

* * * *

“Quite ingenious,” Graves murmured admiringly. “You had your mind already preconditioned for the shot. But why would you deliberately give yourself amnesia?”

“What better disguise than to believe the part you’re playing?”

“A good man must have done that job on your mind,” Bergstrom commented. “I’d have hesitated to try it myself. It must have taken a lot of trust on your part.”

“Trust and money,” Zarwell said drily.

“Your memory’s back then?”

Zarwell nodded.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bergstrom assured him. “Now that you’re well again I’d like to introduce you to a man named Vernon Johnson. This world…”

Zarwell stopped him with an upraised hand. “Good God, man, can’t you see the reason for all this? I’m tired. I’m trying to quit.”

“Quit?” Bergstrom did not quite follow him.

“It started on my home colony,”Zarwell explained listlessly. “A gang of hoods had taken over the government. I helped organize a movement to get them out. There was some bloodshed, but it went quite well. Several months later an unofficial envoy from another world asked several of us to give them a hand on the same kind of job. The political conditions there were rotten. We went with him. Again we were successful. It seems I have a kind of genius for that sort of thing.”

He stretched out his legs and regarded them thoughtfully. “I learned then the truth of Russell’s saying: ‘When the oppressed win their freedom they are as oppressive as their former masters.’ When they went bad, I opposed them. This time I failed. But I escaped again. I have quite a talent for that also.

“I’m not a professional do-gooder.”Zarwell’s tone appealed to Bergstrom for understanding. “I have only a normal man’s indignation at injustice. And now I’ve done my share. Yet, wherever I go, the word eventually gets out, and I’m right back in a fight again. It’s like the proverbial monkey on my back. I can’t get rid of it.”

He rose. “That disguise and memory planting were supposed to get me out of it. I should have known it wouldn’t work. But this time I’m not going to be drawn back in! You and your Vernon Johnson can do your own revolting. I’m through!”

Bergstrom did not argue as he left.

* * * *

Restlessness drove Zarwell from his flat the next day—a legal holiday on St. Martin’s. At a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered in the shadow of an adjacent building watching workmen drilling an excavation for a new structure.

When a man strolled to his side and stood watching the workmen, he was not surprised. He waited for the other to speak.

“I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes,” the stranger said.

Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was medium tall, with the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years beyond the age of sports. He had a manner of contained energy.“You’re Johnson?” he asked.

The man nodded.

Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it would not come. “We have nothing to talk about,” was the best he could manage.

“Then will you just listen? After, I’ll leave—if you tell me to.”

Against his will he found himself liking the man, and wanting at least to be courteous. He inclined his head toward a curb wastebox with a flat top. “Should we sit?”

Johnson smiled agreeably and they walked over to the box and sat down.

“When this colony was first founded,” Johnson began without preamble, “the administrative body was a governor, and a council of twelve. Their successors were to be elected biennially. At first they were. Then things changed. We haven’t had an election now in the last twenty-three years. St. Martin’s is beginning to prosper. Yet the only ones receiving the benefits are the rulers. The citizens work twelve hours a day. They are poorlyhoused, poorly fed, poorly clothed. They…”

Zarwell found himself not listening as Johnson’s voice went on. The story was always the same. But why did they always try to drag him into their troubles?

Why hadn’t he chosen some other world on which to hide?

The last question prompted a new thought. Just why had he chosen St. Martin’s? Was it only a coincidence? Or had he, subconsciously at least, picked this particular world? He had always considered himself the unwilling subject of glib persuaders…but mightn’t some inner compulsion of his own have put the monkey on his back?

“…and we need your help.”Johnson had finished his speech.

Zarwell gazed up at the bright sky. He pulled in a long breath and let it out in a sigh.

“What are your plans so far?”he asked wearily.

THE SURVIVORS, by Tom Godwin

PART 1

For seven weeks the Constellation had been plunging through hyperspace with her eight thousand colonists; fleeing like a hunted thing with her communicators silenced and her drives moaning and thundering. Up in the control room, Irene had been told, the needles of the dials danced against the red danger lines day and night.

She lay in bed and listened to the muffled, ceaseless roar of the drives and felt the singing vibration of the hull. We should be almost safe by now, she thought. Athena is only forty days away.

Thinking of the new life awaiting them all made her too restless to lie still any longer. She got up, to sit on the edge of the bed and switch on the light. Dale was gone—he had been summoned to adjust one of the machines in the ship’s X-ray room—and Billy was asleep, nothing showing of him above the covers but a crop of brown hair and the furry nose of his ragged teddy bear.

She reached out to straighten the covers, gently, so as not to awaken him. It happened then, the thing they had all feared.

From the stern of the ship came a jarring, deafening explosion. The ship lurched violently, girders screamed, and the light flicked out.

In the darkness she heard a rapid-fire thunk-thunk-thunk as the automatic guard system slid inter-compartment doors shut against sections of the ship suddenly airless. The doors were still thudding shut when another explosion came, from toward the bow. Then there was silence; a feeling of utter quiet and motionlessness.

The fingers of fear enclosed her and her mind said to her, like the cold, unpassionate voice of a stranger: The Gerns have found us.

The light came on again, a feeble glow, and there was the soft, muffled sound of questioning voices in the other compartments. She dressed, her fingers shaking and clumsy, wishing that Dale would come to reassure her; to tell her that nothing really serious had happened, that it had not been the Gerns.

It was very still in the little compartment—strangely so. She had finished dressing when she realized the reason: the air circulation system had stopped working.

That meant the power failure was so great that the air regenerators, themselves, were dead. And there were eight thousand people on the Constellation who would have to have air to live.…

The Attention buzzer sounded shrilly from the public address system speakers that were scattered down the ship’s corridors. A voice she recognized as that of Lieutenant Commander Lake spoke:

“War was declared upon Earth by the Gern Empire ten days ago. Two Gern cruisers have attacked us and their blasters have destroyed the stern and bow of the ship. We are without a drive and without power but for a few emergency batteries. I am the Constellation’s only surviving officer and the Gern commander is boarding us to give me the surrender terms.

“None of you will leave your compartments until ordered to do so. Wherever you may be, remain there. This is necessary to avoid confusion and to have as many as possible in known locations for future instructions. I repeat: you will not leave your compartments.”

The speaker cut off. She stood without moving and heard again the words: I am the Constellation’s only surviving officer.…

The Gerns had killed her father.

He had been second-in-command of the Dunbar expedition that had discovered the world of Athena and his knowledge of Athena was valuable to the colonization plans. He had been quartered among the ship’s officers—and the Gern blast had destroyed that section of the ship.

She sat down on the edge of the bed again and tried to reorient herself; to accept the fact that her life and the lives of all the others had abruptly, irrevocably, been changed.

The Athena Colonization Plan was ended. They had known such a thing might happen—that was why the Constellation had been made ready for the voyage in secret and had waited for months for the chance to slip through the ring of Gern spy ships; that was why she had raced at full speed, with her communicators silenced so there would be no radiations for the Gerns to find her by. Only forty days more would have brought them to the green and virgin world of Athena, four hundred light-years beyond the outermost boundary of the Gern Empire. There they should have been safe from Gern detection for many years to come; for long enough to build planetary defenses against attack. And there they would have used Athena’s rich resources to make ships and weapons to defend mineral-depleted Earth against the inexorably increasing inclosure of the mighty, coldly calculating colossus that was the Gern Empire.

Success or failure of the Athena Plan had meant ultimate life or death for Earth. They had taken every precaution possible but the Gern spy system had somehow learned of Athena and the Constellation. Now, the cold war was no longer cold and the Plan was dust.…

* * * *

Billy sighed and stirred in the little-boy sleep that had not been broken by the blasts that had altered the lives of eight thousand people and the fate of a world.

She shook his shoulder and said, “Billy.”

He raised up, so small and young to her eyes that the question in her mind was like an anguished prayer: Dear God—what do Gerns do to five-year-old boys?

He saw her face, and the dim light, and the sleepiness was suddenly gone from him. “What’s wrong, Mama? And why are you scared?”

There was no reason to lie to him.

“The Gerns found us and stopped us.”

“Oh,” he said. In his manner was the grave thoughtfulness of a boy twice his age, as there always was. “Will they—will they kill us?”

“Get dressed, honey,” she said. “Hurry, so we’ll be ready when they let Daddy come back to tell us what to do.”

* * * *

They were both ready when the Attention buzzer sounded again in the corridors. Lake spoke, his tone grim and bitter:

“There is no power for the air regenerators and within twenty hours we will start smothering to death. Under these circumstances I could not do other than accept the survival terms the Gern commander offered us.

“He will speak to you now and you will obey his orders without protest. Death is the only alternative.”

Then the voice of the Gern commander came, quick and harsh and brittle:

“This section of space, together with planet Athena, is an extension of the Gern Empire. This ship has deliberately invaded Gern territory in time of war with intent to seize and exploit a Gern world. We are willing, however, to offer a leniency not required by the circumstances. Terran technicians and skilled workers in certain fields can be used in the factories we shall build on Athena. The others will not be needed and there is not room on the cruisers to take them.

“Your occupation records will be used to divide you into two groups: the Acceptables and the Rejects. The Rejects will be taken by the cruisers to an Earth-type planet near here and left, together with the personal possessions in their compartments and additional, and ample, supplies. The Acceptables will then be taken on to Athena and at a later date the cruisers will return the Rejects to Earth.

“This division will split families but there will be no resistance to it. Gern guards will be sent immediately to make this division and you will wait in your compartments for them. You will obey their orders promptly and without annoying them with questions. At the first instance of resistance or rebellion this offer will be withdrawn and the cruisers will go their way again.”

* * * *

In the silence following the ultimatum she could hear the soft, wordless murmur from the other compartments, the undertone of anxiety like a dark thread through it. In every compartment parents and children, brothers and sisters, were seeing one another for the last time.…

The corridor outside rang to the tramp of feet; the sound of a dozen Gerns walking with swift military precision. She held her breath, her heart racing, but they went past her door and on to the corridor’s end.

There she could faintly hear them entering compartments, demanding names, and saying, “Out—out!” Once she heard a Gern say, “Acceptables will remain inside until further notice. Do not open your doors after the Rejects have been taken out.”

Billy touched her on the hand. “Isn’t Daddy going to come?”

“He—he can’t right now. We’ll see him pretty soon.”

She remembered what the Gern commander had said about the Rejects being permitted to take their personal possessions. She had very little time in which to get together what she could carry.…

There were two small bags in the compartment and she hurried to pack them with things she and Dale and Billy might need, not able to know which of them, if any, would be Rejects. Nor could she know whether she should put in clothes for a cold world or a hot one. The Gern commander had said the Rejects would be left on an Earth-type planet but where could it be? The Dunbar Expedition had explored across five hundred light-years of space and had found only one Earth-type world: Athena.

The Gerns were almost to her door when she had finished and she heard them enter the compartments across from her own. There came the hard, curt questions and the command: “Outside—hurry!” A woman said something in pleading question and there was the soft thud of a blow and the words: “Outside—do not ask questions!” A moment later she heard the woman going down the corridor, trying to hold back her crying.

Then the Gerns were at her own door.

She held Billy’s hand and waited for them with her heart hammering. She held her head high and composed herself with all the determination she could muster so that the arrogant Gerns would not see that she was afraid. Billy stood beside her as tall as his five years would permit, his teddy bear under his arm, and only the way his hand held to hers showed that he, too, was scared.

The door was flung open and two Gerns strode in.

The were big, dark men, with powerful, bulging muscles. They surveyed her and the room with a quick sweep of eyes that were like glittering obsidian, their mouths thin, cruel slashes in the flat, brutal planes of their faces.

“Your name?” snapped the one who carried a sheaf of occupation records.

“It’s”—she tried to swallow the quaver in her voice and make it cool and unfrightened—“Irene Lois Humbolt—Mrs. Dale Humbolt.”

The Gern glanced at the papers. “Where is your husband?”

“He was in the X-ray room at—”

“You are a Reject. Out—down the corridor with the others.”

“My husband—will he be a—”

“Outside!”

It was the tone of voice that had preceded the blow in the other compartment and the Gern took a quick step toward her. She seized the two bags in one hand, not wanting to release Billy, and swung back to hurry out into the corridor. The other Gern jerked one of the bags from her hand and flung it to the floor. “Only one bag per person,” he said, and gave her an impatient shove that sent her and Billy stumbling through the doorway.

She became part of the Rejects who were being herded like sheep down the corridors and into the port airlock. There were many children among them, the young ones frightened and crying, and often with only one parent or an older brother or sister to take care of them. And there were many young ones who had no one at all and were dependent upon strangers to take their hands and tell them what they must do.

When she was passing the corridor that led to the X-ray room she saw a group of Rejects being herded up it. Dale was not among them and she knew, then, that she and Billy would never see him again.

* * * *

“Out from the ship—faster—faster—”

The commands of the Gern guards snapped like whips around them as she and the other Rejects crowded and stumbled down the boarding ramp and out onto the rocky ground. There was the pull of a terrible gravity such as she had never experienced and they were in a bleak, barren valley, a cold wind moaning down it and whipping the alkali dust in bitter clouds. Around the valley stood ragged hills, their white tops laying out streamers of wind-driven snow, and the sky was dark with sunset.

“Out from the ship—faster—”

It was hard to walk fast in the high gravity, carrying the bag in one hand and holding up all of Billy’s weight she could with the other.

“They lied to us!” a man beside her said to someone. “Let’s turn and fight. Let’s take—”

A Gern blaster cracked with a vivid blue flash and the man plunged lifelessly to the ground. She flinched instinctively and fell over an unseen rock, the bag of precious clothes flying from her hand. She scrambled up again, her left knee half numb, and turned to retrieve it.

The Gern guard was already upon her, his blaster still in his hand. “Out from the ship—faster.”

The barrel of his blaster lashed across the side of her head. “Move on—move on!”

She staggered in a blinding blaze of pain and then hurried on, holding tight to Billy’s hand, the wind cutting like knives of ice through her thin clothes and blood running in a trickle down her cheek.

“He hit you,” Billy said. “He hurt you.” Then he called the Gern a name that five-year-old boys were not supposed to know, with a savagery that five-year-old boys were not supposed to possess.

When she stopped at the outer fringe of Rejects she saw that all of them were out of the cruiser and the guards were going back into it. A half mile down the valley the other cruiser stood, the Rejects out from it and its boarding ramps already withdrawn.

When she had buttoned Billy’s blouse tighter and wiped the blood from her face the first blast of the drives came from the farther cruiser. The nearer one blasted a moment later and they lifted together, their roaring filling the valley. They climbed faster and faster, dwindling as they went. Then they disappeared in the black sky, their roaring faded away, and there was left only the moaning of the wind around her and somewhere a child crying.

And somewhere a voice asking, “Where are we? In the name of God—what have they done to us?”

She looked at the snow streaming from the ragged hills, felt the hard pull of the gravity, and knew where they were. They were on Ragnarok, the hell-world of 1.5 gravity and fierce beasts and raging fevers where men could not survive. The name came from an old Teutonic myth and meant: The last day for gods and men. The Dunbar Expedition had discovered Ragnarok and her father had told her of it, of how it had killed six of the eight men who had left the ship and would have killed all of them if they had remained any longer.

She knew where they were and she knew the Gerns had lied to them and would never send a ship to take them to Earth. Their abandonment there had been intended as a death sentence for all of them.

And Dale was gone and she and Billy would die helpless and alone.…

“It will be dark—so soon.” Billy’s voice shook with the cold. “If Daddy can’t find us in the dark, what will we do?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s no one to help us and how can I know—what we should do—”

She was from the city. How could she know what to do on an alien, hostile world where armed explorers had died? She had tried to be brave before the Gerns but now—now night was at hand and out of it would come terror and death for herself and Billy. They would never see Dale again, never see Athena or Earth or even the dawn on the world that had killed them.…

She tried not to cry, and failed. Billy’s cold little hand touched her own, trying to reassure her.

“Don’t cry, Mama. I guess—I guess everybody else is scared, too.”

Everyone else.…

She was not alone. How could she have thought she was alone? All around her were others, as helpless and uncertain as she. Her story was only one out of four thousand.

“I guess they are, Billy,” she said. “I never thought of that, before.”

She knelt to put her arms around him, thinking: Tears and fear are futile weapons; they can never bring us any tomorrows. We’ll have to fight whatever comes to kill us no matter how scared we are. For ourselves and for our children. Above all else, for our children.…

“I’m going back to find our clothes,” she said. “You wait here for me, in the shelter of that rock, and I won’t be gone long.”

Then she told him what he would be too young to really understand.

“I’m not going to cry any more and I know, now, what I must do. I’m going to make sure that there is a tomorrow for you, always, to the last breath of my life.”

* * * *

The bright blue star dimmed and the others faded away. Dawn touched the sky, bringing with it a coldness that frosted the steel of the rifle in John Prentiss’s hands and formed beads of ice on his gray mustache. There was a stirring in the area behind him as the weary Rejects prepared to face the new day and the sound of a child whimpering from the cold. There had been no time the evening before to gather wood for fires—

“Prowlers!”

The warning cry came from an outer guard and black shadows were suddenly sweeping out of the dark dawn.

They were things that might have been half wolf, half tiger; each of them three hundred pounds of incredible ferocity with eyes blazing like yellow fire in their white-fanged tiger-wolf faces. They came like the wind, in a flowing black wave, and ripped through the outer guard line as though it had not existed. The inner guards fired in a chattering roll of gunshots, trying to turn them, and Prentiss’s rifle licked out pale tongues of flame as he added his own fire. The prowlers came on, breaking through, but part of them went down and the others were swerved by the fire so that they struck only the outer edge of the area where the Rejects were grouped.

At that distance they blended into the dark ground so that he could not find them in the sights of his rifle. He could only watch helplessly and see a dark-haired woman caught in their path, trying to run with a child in her arms and already knowing it was too late. A man was running toward her, slow in the high gravity, an axe in his hands and his cursing a raging, savage snarl. For a moment her white face was turned in helpless appeal to him and the others; then the prowlers were upon her and she fell, deliberately, going to the ground with her child hugged in her arms beneath her so that her body would protect it.

The prowlers passed over her, pausing for an instant to slash the life from her, and raced on again. They vanished back into the outer darkness, the farther guards firing futilely, and there was a silence but for the distant, hysterical sobbing of a woman.

It had happened within seconds; the fifth prowler attack that night and the mildest.

* * * *

Full dawn had come by the time he replaced the guards killed by the last attack and made the rounds of the other guard lines. He came back by the place where the prowlers had killed the woman, walking wearily against the pull of gravity. She lay with her dark hair tumbled and stained with blood, her white face turned up to the reddening sky, and he saw her clearly for the first time.

It was Irene.

He stopped, gripping the cold steel of the rifle and not feeling the rear sight as it cut into his hand.

Irene.… He had not known she was on Ragnarok. He had not seen her in the darkness of the night and he had hoped she and Billy were safe among the Acceptables with Dale.

There was the sound of footsteps and a bold-faced girl in a red skirt stopped beside him, her glance going over him curiously.

“The little boy,” he asked, “do you know if he’s all right?”

“The prowlers cut up his face but he’ll be all right,” she said. “I came back after his clothes.”

“Are you going to look after him?”

“Someone has to and”—she shrugged her shoulders—“I guess I was soft enough to elect myself for the job. Why—was his mother a friend of yours?”

“She was my daughter,” he said.

“Oh.” For a moment the bold, brassy look was gone from her face, like a mask that had slipped. “I’m sorry. And I’ll take care of Billy.”

* * * *

The first objection to his assumption of leadership occurred an hour later. The prowlers had withdrawn with the coming of full daylight and wood had been carried from the trees to build fires. Mary, one of the volunteer cooks, was asking two men to carry her some water when he approached. The smaller man picked up one of the clumsy containers, hastily improvised from canvas, and started toward the creek. The other, a big, thick-chested man, did not move.

“We’ll have to have water,” Mary said. “People are hungry and cold and sick.”

The man continued to squat by the fire, his hands extended to its warmth. “Name someone else,” he said.

“But—”

She looked at Prentiss in uncertainty. He went to the thick-chested man, knowing there would be violence and welcoming it as something to help drive away the vision of Irene’s pale, cold face under the red sky.

“She asked you to get her some water,” he said. “Get it.”

The man looked up at him, studying him with deliberate insolence, then he got to his feet, his heavy shoulders hunched challengingly.

“I’ll have to set you straight, old timer,” he said. “No one has appointed you the head cheese around here. Now, there’s the container you want filled and over there”—he made a small motion with one hand—“is the creek. Do you know what to do?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know what to do.”

He brought the butt of the rifle smashing up. It struck the man under the chin and there was a sharp cracking sound as his jawbone snapped. For a fraction of a second there was an expression of stupefied amazement on his face then his eyes glazed and he slumped to the ground with his broken jaw setting askew.

“All right,” he said to Mary. “Now you go ahead and name somebody else.”

* * * *

He found that the prowlers had killed seventy during the night. One hundred more had died from the Hell Fever that often followed exposure and killed within an hour.

He went the half mile to the group that had arrived on the second cruiser as soon as he had eaten a delayed breakfast. He saw, before he had quite reached the other group, that the Constellation’s Lieutenant Commander, Vincent Lake, was in charge of it.

Lake, a tall, hard-jawed man with pale blue eyes under pale brows, walked forth to meet him as soon as he recognized him.

“Glad to see you’re still alive,” Lake greeted him. “I thought that second Gern blast got you along with the others.”

“I was visiting midship and wasn’t home when it happened,” he said.

He looked at Lake’s group of Rejects, in their misery and uncertainty so much like his own, and asked, “How was it last night?”

“Bad—damned bad,” Lake said. “Prowlers and Hell Fever, and no wood for fires. Two hundred died last night.”

“I came down to see if anyone was in charge here and to tell them that we’ll have to move into the woods at once—today. We’ll have plenty of wood for the fires there, some protection from the wind, and by combining our defenses we can stand off the prowlers better.”

Lake agreed. When the brief discussion of plans was finished he asked, “How much do you know about Ragnarok?”

“Not much,” Prentiss answered. “We didn’t stay to study it very long. There are no heavy metals on Ragnarok’s other sun. Its position in the advance of the resources of any value. We gave Ragnarok a quick survey and when the sixth man died we marked it on the chart as uninhabitable and went on our way.

“As you probably know, that bright blue star is Ragnarok’s other sun. It’s position in the advance of the yellow sun shows the season to be early spring. When summer comes Ragnarok will swing between the two suns and the heat will be something no human has ever endured. Nor the cold, when winter comes.

“I know of no edible plants, although there might be some. There are a few species of rodent-like animals—they’re scavengers—and a herbivore we called the woods goat. The prowlers are the dominant form of life on Ragnarok and I suspect their intelligence is a good deal higher than we would like it to be. There will be a constant battle for survival with them.

“There’s another animal, not as intelligent as the prowlers but just as dangerous—the unicorn. The unicorns are big and fast and they travel in herds. I haven’t seen any here so far—I hope we don’t. At the lower elevations are the swamp crawlers. They’re unadulterated nightmares. I hope they don’t go to these higher elevations in the summer. The prowlers and the Hell Fever, the gravity and heat and cold and starvation, will be enough for us to have to fight.”

“I see,” Lake said. He smiled, a smile that was as bleak as moonlight on an arctic glacier. “Earth-type—remember the promise the Gerns made the Rejects?” He looked out across the camp, at the snow whipping from the frosty hills, at the dead and the dying, and a little girl trying vainly to awaken her brother.

“They were condemned, without reason, without a chance to live,” he said. “So many of them are so young…and when you’re young it’s too soon to have to die.”

* * * *

Prentiss returned to his own group. The dead were buried in shallow graves and inventory was taken of the promised “ample supplies.” These were only the few personal possessions the Rejects had been permitted to take plus a small amount of food the Gerns had taken from the Constellation’s stores. The Gerns had been forced to provide the Rejects with at least a little food—had they openly left them to starve, the Acceptables, whose families were among the Rejects, might have rebelled.

Inventory of the firearms and ammunition showed the total to be discouragingly small. They would have to learn how to make and use bows and arrows as soon as possible.

With the first party of guards and workmen following him, Prentiss went to the tributary valley that emptied into the central valley a mile to the north. It was as good a camp site as could be hoped for; wide and thickly spotted with groves of trees, a creek running down its center.

The workmen began the construction of shelters and he climbed up the side of the nearer hill. He reached its top, his breath coming fast in the gravity that was the equivalent of a burden half his own weight, and saw what the surrounding terrain was like.

To the south, beyond the barren valley, the land could be seen dropping in its long sweep to the southern lowlands where the unicorns and swamp crawlers lived. To the north the hills climbed gently for miles, then ended under the steeply sloping face of an immense plateau. The plateau reached from western to eastern horizon, still white with the snows of winter and looming so high above the world below that the clouds brushed it and half obscured it.

He went back down the hill as Lake’s men appeared. They started work on what would be a continuation of his own camp and he told Lake what he had seen from the hill.

“We’re between the lowlands and the highlands,” he said. “This will be as near to a temperate altitude as Ragnarok has. We survive here—or else. There’s no other place for us to go.”

An overcast darkened the sky at noon and the wind died down to almost nothing. There was a feeling of waiting tension in the air and he went back to the Rejects, to speed their move into the woods. They were already going in scattered groups, accompanied by prowler guards, but there was no organization and it would be too long before the last of them were safely in the new camp.

He could not be two places at once—he needed a subleader to oversee the move of the Rejects and their possessions into the woods and their placement after they got there.

He found the man he wanted already helping the Rejects get started: a thin, quiet man named Henry Anders who had fought well against the prowlers the night before, even though his determination had been greater than his marksmanship. He was the type people instinctively liked and trusted; a good choice for the subleader whose job it would be to handle the multitude of details in camp while he, Prentiss, and a second subleader he would select, handled the defense of the camp and the hunting.

“I don’t like this overcast,” he told Anders. “Something’s brewing. Get everyone moved and at work helping build shelters as soon as you can.”

“I can have most of them there within an hour or two,” Anders said. “Some of the older people, though, will have to take it slow. This gravity—it’s already getting the hearts of some of them.”

“How are the children taking the gravity?” he asked.

“The babies and the very young—it’s hard to tell about them yet. But the children from about four on up get tired quickly, go to sleep, and when they wake up they’ve sort of bounced back out of it.”

“Maybe they can adapt to some extent to this gravity.” He thought of what Lake had said that morning: So many of them are so young…and when you’re young it’s too soon to have to die. “Maybe the Gerns made a mistake—maybe Terran children aren’t as easy to kill as they thought. It’s your job and mine and others to give the children the chance to prove the Gerns wrong.”

He went his way again to pass by the place where Julia, the girl who had become Billy’s foster-mother, was preparing to go to the new camp.

It was the second time for him to see Billy that morning. The first time Billy had still been stunned with grief, and at the sight of his grandfather he had been unable to keep from breaking.

“The Gern hit her,” he had sobbed, his torn face bleeding anew as it twisted in crying. “He hurt her, and Daddy was gone and then—and then the other things killed her—”

But now he had had a little time to accept what had happened and he was changed. He was someone much older, almost a man, trapped for a while in the body of a five-year-old boy.

“I guess this is all, Billy,” Julia was saying as she gathered up her scanty possessions and Irene’s bag. “Get your teddy bear and we’ll go.”

Billy went to his teddy bear and knelt down to pick it up. Then he stopped and said something that sounded like “No.” He laid the teddy bear back down, wiping a little dust from its face as in a last gesture of farewell, and stood up to face Julia empty-handed.

“I don’t think I’ll want to play with my teddy bear any more,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever want to play at all anymore.”

Then he went to walk beside her, leaving his teddy bear lying on the ground behind him and with it leaving forever the tears and laughter of childhood.

* * * *

The overcast deepened, and at midafternoon dark storm clouds came driving in from the west. Efforts were intensified to complete the move before the storm broke, both in his section of the camp and in Lake’s. The shelters would be of critical importance and they were being built of the materials most quickly available; dead limbs, brush, and the limited amount of canvas and blankets the Rejects had. They would be inadequate protection but there was no time to build anything better.

It seemed only a few minutes until the black clouds were overhead, rolling and racing at an incredible velocity. With them came the deep roar of the high wind that drove them and the wind on the ground began to stir restlessly in response, like some monster awakening to the call of its kind.

Prentiss knew already who he wanted as his other subleader. He found him hard at work helping build shelters; Howard Craig, a powerfully muscled man with a face as hard and grim as a cliff of granite. It had been Craig who had tried to save Irene from the prowlers that morning with only an axe as a weapon.

Prentiss knew him slightly—and Craig still did not know Irene had been his daughter. Craig had been one of the field engineers for what would have been the Athena Geological Survey. He had had a wife, a frail, blonde girl who had been the first of all to die of Hell Fever the night before, and he still had their three small children.

“We’ll stop with the shelters we already have built,” he told Craig. “It will take all the time left to us to reinforce them against the wind. I need someone to help me, in addition to Anders. You’re the one I want.

“Send some young and fast-moving men back to last night’s camp to cut all the strips of prowler skins they can get. Everything about the shelters will have to be lashed down to something solid. See if you can find some experienced outdoorsmen to help you check the jobs.

“And tell Anders that women and children only will be placed in the shelters. There will be no room for anyone else and if any man, no matter what the excuse, crowds out a woman or child I’ll personally kill him.”

“You needn’t bother,” Craig said. He smiled with savage mirthlessness. “I’ll be glad to take care of any such incidents.”

Prentiss saw to it that the piles of wood for the guard fires were ready to be lighted when the time came. He ordered all guards to their stations, there to get what rest they could. They would have no rest at all after darkness came.

He met Lake at the north end of his own group’s camp, where it merged with Lake’s group and no guard line was needed. Lake told him that his camp would be as well prepared as possible under the circumstances within another hour. By then the wind in the trees was growing swiftly stronger, slapping harder and harder at the shelters, and it seemed doubtful that the storm would hold off for an hour.

But Lake was given his hour, plus half of another. Then deep dusk came, although it was not quite sundown. Prentiss ordered all the guard fires lighted and all the women and children into the shelters. Fifteen minutes later the storm finally broke.

It came as a roaring downpour of cold rain. Complete darkness came with it and the wind rose to a velocity that made the trees lean. An hour went by and the wind increased, smashing at the shelters with a violence they had not been built to withstand. The prowler skin lashings held but the canvas and blankets were ripped into streamers that cracked like rifle shots in the wind before they were torn completely loose and flung into the night.

One by one the guard fires went out and the rain continued, growing colder and driven in almost horizontal sheets by the wind. The women and children huddled in chilled misery in what meager protection the torn shelters still gave and there was nothing that could be done to help them.

The rain turned to snow at midnight, a howling blizzard through which Prentiss’s light could penetrate but a few feet as he made his rounds. He walked with slogging weariness, forcing himself on. He was no longer young—he was fifty—and he had had little rest.

He had known, of course, that successful leadership would involve more sacrifice on his part than on the part of those he led. He could have shunned responsibility and his personal welfare would have benefited. He had lived on alien worlds almost half his life; with a rifle and a knife he could have lived, until Ragnarok finally killed him, with much less effort than that required of him as leader. But such an action had been repugnant to him, unthinkable. What he knew of survival on hostile worlds might help the others to survive.

So he had assumed command, tolerating no objections and disregarding the fact that he would be shortening his already short time to live on Ragnarok. It was, he supposed, some old instinct that forbade the individual to stand aside and let the group die.

The snow stopped an hour later and the wind died to a frigid moaning. The clouds thinned, broke apart, and the giant star looked down upon the land with its cold, blue light.

The prowlers came then.

They feinted against the east and west guard lines, then hit the south line in massed, ferocious attack. Twenty got through, past the slaughtered south guards, and charged into the interior of the camp. As they did so the call, prearranged by him in case of such an event, went up the guard lines:

“Emergency guards, east and west—close in!”

In the camp, above the triumphant, demoniac yammering of the prowlers, came the screams of women, the thinner cries of children, and the shouting and cursing of men as they tried to fight the prowlers with knives and clubs. Then the emergency guards—every third man from the east and west lines—came plunging through the snow, firing as they came.

The prowlers launched themselves away from their victims and toward the guards, leaving a woman to stagger aimlessly with blood spurting from a severed artery and splashing dark in the starlight on the blue-white snow. The air was filled with the cracking of gunfire and the deep, savage snarling of the prowlers. Half of the prowlers broke through, leaving seven dead guards behind them. The others lay in the snow where they had fallen and the surviving emergency guards turned to hurry back to their stations, reloading as they went.

The wounded woman had crumpled down in the snow and a first aid man knelt over her. He straightened, shaking his head, and joined the others as they searched for injured among the prowlers’ victims.

They found no injured; only the dead. The prowlers killed with grim efficiency.

* * * *

“John—”

John Chiara, the young doctor, hurried toward him. His dark eyes were worried behind his frosted glasses and his eyebrows were coated with ice.

“The wood is soaked,” he said. “It’s going to be some time before we can get fires going. There are babies that will freeze to death before then.”

Prentiss looked at the prowlers lying in the snow and motioned toward them. “They’re warm. Have their guts and lungs taken out.”

“What—”

Then Chiara’s eyes lighted with comprehension and he hurried away without further questions.

Prentiss went on, to make the rounds of the guards. When he returned he saw that his order had been obeyed.

The prowlers lay in the snow as before, their savage faces still twisted in their dying snarls, but snug and warm inside them babies slept.

* * * *

The prowlers attacked again and again and when the wan sun lifted to shine down on the white, frozen land there were five hundred dead in Prentiss’s camp: three hundred by Hell Fever and two hundred by prowler attacks.

Five hundred—and that had been only one night on Ragnarok.

Lake reported over six hundred dead. “I hope,” he said with bitter hatred, “that the Gerns slept comfortably last night.”

“We’ll have to build a wall around the camp to hold out the prowlers,” Prentiss said. “We don’t dare keep using up what little ammunition we have at the rate we’ve used it the last two nights.”

“That will be a big job in this gravity,” Lake said. “We’ll have to crowd both groups in together to let its circumference be as small as possible.”

It was the way Prentiss had planned to do it. One thing would have to be settled with Lake: there could not be two independent leaders over the merged groups.

Lake, watching him, said, “I think we can get along. Alien worlds are your specialty rather than mine. And according to the Ragnarok law of averages, there will be only one of us pretty soon, anyway.”

All were moved to the center of the camp area that day and when the prowlers came that night they found a ring of guards and fires through which they could penetrate only with heavy sacrifices.

There was warmth to the sun the next morning and the snow began to melt. Work was commenced on the stockade wall. It would have to be twelve feet high so the prowlers could not jump over it and, since the prowlers had the sharp claws and climbing ability of cats, its top would have to be surmounted with a row of sharp outward-and-downward projecting stakes. These would be set in sockets in the top rail and tied down with strips of prowler skin.

The trees east of camp were festooned for a great distance with the remnants of canvas and cloth the wind had left there. A party of boys, protected by the usual prowler guards, was sent out to climb the trees and recover it. All of it, down to the smallest fragment, was turned over to the women who were physically incapable of helping work on the stockade wall. They began patiently sewing the rags and tatters back into usable form again.

The first hunting party went out and returned with six of the tawny-yellow sharp-horned woods goats, each as large as an Earth deer. The hunters reported the woods goats to be hard to stalk and dangerous when cornered. One hunter was killed and another injured because of not knowing that.

They also brought in a few of the rabbit-sized scavenger animals. They were all legs and teeth and bristly fur, the meat almost inedible. It would be a waste of the limited ammunition to shoot any more of them.

There was a black barked tree which the Dunbar Expedition had called the lance tree because of its slender, straightly outthrust limbs. Its wood was as hard as hickory and as springy as cedar. Prentiss found two amateur archers who were sure they could make efficient bows and arrows out of the lance tree limbs. He gave them the job, together with helpers.

The days turned suddenly hot, with nights that still went below freezing. The Hell Fever took a constant, relentless toll. They needed adequate shelters—but the dwindling supply of ammunition and the nightly prowler attacks made the need for a stockade wall even more imperative. The shelters would have to wait.

He went looking for Dr. Chiara one evening and found him just leaving one of the makeshift shelters.

A boy lay inside it, his face flushed with Hell Fever and his eyes too bright and too dark as he looked up into the face of his mother who sat beside him. She was dry-eyed and silent as she looked down at him but she was holding his hand in hers, tightly, desperately, as though she might that way somehow keep him from leaving her.

Prentiss walked beside Chiara and when the shelter was behind them he asked, “There’s no hope?”

“None,” Chiara said. “There never is with Hell Fever.”

Chiara had changed. He was no longer the stocky, cheerful man he had been on the Constellation, whose brown eyes had smiled at the world through thick glasses and who had laughed and joked as he assured his patients that all would soon be well with them. He was thin and his face was haggard with worry. He had, in his quiet way, been fully as valiant as any of those who had fought the prowlers. He had worked day and night to fight a form of death he could not see and against which he had no weapon.

“The boy is dying,” Chiara said. “He knows it and his mother knows it. I told them the medicine I gave him might help. It was a lie, to try to make it a little easier for both of them before the end comes. The medicine I gave him was a salt tablet—that’s all I have.”

And then, with the first bitterness Prentiss had ever seen him display, Chiara said, “You call me ‘Doctor.’ Everyone does. I’m not—I’m only a first-year intern. I do the best I know how to do but it isn’t enough—it will never be enough.”

“What you have to learn here is something no Earth doctor knows or could teach you,” he said. “You have to have time to learn—and you need equipment and drugs.”

“If I could have antibiotics and other drugs…I wanted to get a supply from the dispensary but the Gerns wouldn’t let me go.”

“Some of the Ragnarok plants might be of value if a person could find the right ones. I just came from a talk with Anders about that. He’ll provide you with anything possible in the way of equipment and supplies for research—anything in the camp you need to try to save lives. He’ll be at your shelter tonight to see what you want. Do you want to try it?”

“Yes—of course.” Chiara’s eyes lighted with new hope. “It might take a long time to find a cure—maybe we never would—but I’d like to have help so I could try. I’d like to be able, some day once again, to say to a scared kid, ‘Take this medicine and in the morning you’ll be better,’ and know I told the truth.”

The nightly prowler attacks continued and the supply of ammunition diminished. It would be some time before men were skilled in the use of the bows and arrows that were being made; and work on the wall was pushed ahead with all speed possible. No one was exempt from labor on it who could as much as carry the pointed stakes. Children down to the youngest worked alongside the men and women.

The work was made many times more exhausting by the 1.5 gravity. People moved heavily at their jobs and even at night there was no surcease from the gravity. They could only go into a coma-like sleep in which there was no real rest and from which they awoke tired and aching. Each morning there would be some who did not awaken at all, though their hearts had been sound enough for working on Earth or Athena.

The killing labor was recognized as necessary, however, and there were no complaints until the morning he was accosted by Peter Bemmon.

He had seen Bemmon several times on the Constellation; a big, soft-faced man who had attached much importance to his role as a minor member of the Athena Planning Board. But even on the Constellation Bemmon had felt he merited a still higher position, and his ingratiating attitude when before his superiors had become one of fault-finding insinuations concerning their ability as compared with his when their backs were turned.

This resentment had taken new form on Ragnarok, where his former position was of utterly no importance to anyone and his lack of any skills or outdoor experience made him only one worker among others.

The sun was shining mercilessly hot the day Bemmon chose to challenge Prentiss’s wisdom as leader. Bemmon was cutting and sharpening stakes, a job the sometimes-too-lenient Anders had given him when Bemmon had insisted his heart was on the verge of failure from doing heavier work. Prentiss was in a hurry and would have gone on past him but Bemmon halted him with a sharp command:

“You—wait a minute!”

Bemmon had a hatchet in his hand, but only one stake lay on the ground; and his face was red with anger, not exertion. Prentiss stopped, wondering if Bemmon was going to ask for a broken jaw, and Bemmon came to him.

“How long,” Bemmon asked, anger making his voice a little thick, “do you think I’ll tolerate this absurd situation?”

“What situation?” Prentiss asked.

“This stupid insistence upon confining me to manual labor. I’m the single member on Ragnarok of the Athena Planning Board and surely you can see that this bumbling confusion of these people”—Bemmon indicated the hurrying, laboring men, women and children around them—“can be transformed into efficient, organized effort only through proper supervision. Yet my abilities along such lines are ignored and I’ve been forced to work as a common laborer—a wood chopper!”

He flung the hatchet down viciously, into the rocks at his feet, breathing heavily with resentment and challenge. “I demand the respect to which I’m entitled.”

“Look,” Prentiss said.

He pointed to the group just then going past them. A sixteen-year-old girl was bent almost double under the weight of the pole she was carrying, her once pretty face flushed and sweating. Behind her two twelve-year-old boys were dragging a still larger pole. Behind them came several small children, each of them carrying as many of the pointed stakes as he or she could walk under, no matter if it was only one. All of them were trying to hurry, to accomplish as much as possible, and no one was complaining even though they were already staggering with weariness.

“So you think you’re entitled to more respect?” Prentiss asked. “Those kids would work harder if you were giving them orders from under the shade of a tree—is that what you want?”

Bemmon’s lips thinned and hatred was like a sheen on his face. Prentiss looked from the single stake Bemmon had cut that morning to Bemmon’s white, unblistered hands. He looked at the hatchet that Bemmon had thrown down in the rocks and at the V notch broken in its keen-edged blade. It had been the best of the very few hatchets they had.…

“The next time you even nick that hatchet I’m going to split your skull with it,” he said. “Pick it up and get back to work. I mean work. You’ll have broken blisters on every finger tonight or you’ll go on the log-carrying force tomorrow. Now, move!”

What Bemmon had thought to be his wrath deserted him before Prentiss’s fury. He stooped to obey the order but the hatred remained on his face and when the hatchet was in his hands he made a last attempt to bluster:

“The day may come when we’ll refuse to tolerate any longer your sadistic displays of authority.”

“Good,” Prentiss said. “Anyone who doesn’t like my style is welcome to try to change it—or to try to replace me. With knives or clubs, rifles or broken hatchets, Bemmon—any way you want it and any time you want it.”

“I—” Bemmon’s eyes went from the hatchet in his half raised hand to the long knife in Prentiss’s belt. He swallowed with a convulsive jerk of his Adam’s apple and his hatchet-bearing arm suddenly wilted. “I don’t want to fight—to replace you—”

He swallowed again and his face forced itself into a sickly attempt at an ingratiating smile. “I didn’t mean to imply any disrespect for you or the good job you’re doing. I’m very sorry.”

Then he hurried away, like a man glad to escape, and began to chop stakes with amazing speed.

But the sullen hatred had not been concealed by the ingratiating smile; and Prentiss knew Bemmon was a man who would always be his enemy.

* * * *

The days dragged by in the weary routine, but overworked muscles slowly strengthened and people moved with a little less laborious effort. On the twentieth day the wall was finally completed and the camp was prowler proof.

But the spring weather was a mad succession of heat and cold and storm that caused the Hell Fever to take its toll each day and there was no relaxation from the grueling labor. Weatherproof shelters had to be built as rapidly as possible.

So the work of constructing them began; wearily, sometimes almost hopelessly, but without complaint other than to hate and curse the Gerns more than ever.

There was no more trouble from Bemmon; Prentiss had almost forgotten him when he was publicly challenged one night by a burly, threatening man named Haggar.

“You’ve bragged that you’ll fight any man who dares disagree with you,” Haggar said loudly. “Well, here I am. We’ll use knives and before they even have time to bury you tonight I’m goin’ to have your stooges kicked out and replaced with men who’ll give us competent leadership instead of blunderin’ authoritarianism.”

Prentiss noticed that Haggar seemed to have a little difficulty pronouncing the last word, as though he had learned it only recently.

“I’ll be glad to accommodate you,” Prentiss said mildly. “Go get yourself a knife.”

Haggar already had one, a long-bladed butcher knife, and the duel began. Haggar was surprisingly adept with his knife but he had never had the training and experience in combat that interstellar explorers such as Prentiss had. Haggar was good, but considerably far from good enough.

Prentiss did not kill him. He had no compunctions about doing such a thing, but it would have been an unnecessary waste of needed manpower. He gave Haggar a carefully painful and bloody lesson that thoroughly banished all his lust for conflict without seriously injuring him. The duel was over within a minute after it began.

Bemmon, who had witnessed the challenge with keen interest and then watched Haggar’s defeat with agitation, became excessively friendly and flattering toward Prentiss afterward. Prentiss felt sure, although he had no proof, that it had been Bemmon who had spurred the simple-minded Haggar into challenging him to a duel.

If so, the sight of what had happened to Haggar must have effectively dampened Bemmon’s desire for revenge because he became almost a model worker.

* * * *

As Lake had predicted, he and Prentiss worked together well. Lake calmly took a secondary role, not at all interested in possession of authority but only in the survival of the Rejects. He spoke of the surrender of the Constellation only once, to say:

“I knew there could be only Ragnarok in this section of space. I had to order four thousand people to go like sheep to what was to be their place of execution so that four thousand more could live as slaves. That was my last act as an officer.”

Prentiss suspected that Lake found it impossible not to blame himself subconsciously for what circumstances had forced him to do. It was irrational—but conscientious men were quite often a little irrational in their sense of responsibility.

Lake had two subleaders: a genial, red-haired man named Ben Barber, who would have been a farmer on Athena but who made a good subleader on Ragnarok; and a lithe, cat-like man named Karl Schroeder.

Schroeder claimed to be twenty-four but not even the scars on his face could make him look more than twenty-one. He smiled often, a little too often. Prentiss had seen smiles like that before. Schroeder was the type who could smile while he killed a man—and he probably had.

But, if Schroeder was a born fighter and perhaps killer, they were characteristics that he expended entirely upon the prowlers. He was Lake’s right hand man; a deadly marksman and utterly without fear.

One evening, when Lake had given Schroeder some instructions concerning the next day’s activities, Schroeder answered him with the half-mocking smile and the words, “I’ll see that it’s done, Commander.”

“Not ‘Commander,’” Lake said. “I—all of us—left our ranks, titles and honors on the Constellation. The past is dead for us.”

“I see,” Schroeder said. The smile faded away and he looked into Lake’s eyes as he asked, “And what about our past dishonors, disgraces and such?”

“They were left on the Constellation, too,” Lake said. “If anyone wants dishonor he’ll have to earn it all over again.”

“That sounds fair,” Schroeder said. “That sounds as fair as anyone could ever ask for.”

He turned away and Prentiss saw what he had noticed before: Schroeder’s black hair was coming out light brown at the roots. It was a color that would better match his light complexion and it was the color of hair that a man named Schrader, wanted by the police on Venus, had had.

Hair could be dyed, identification cards could be forged—but it was all something Prentiss did not care to pry into until and if Schroeder gave him reason to. Schroeder was a hard and dangerous man, despite his youth, and sometimes men of that type, when the chips were down, exhibited a higher sense of duty than the soft men who spoke piously of respect for Society—and then were afraid to face danger to protect the society and the people they claimed to respect.

* * * *

A lone prowler came on the eleventh night following the wall’s completion. It came silently, in the dead of night, and it learned how to reach in and tear apart the leather lashings that held the pointed stakes in place and then jerk the stakes out of their sockets. It was seen as it was removing the third stake—which would have made a large enough opening for it to come through—and shot. It fell back and managed to escape into the woods, although staggering and bleeding.

The next night the stockade was attacked by dozens of prowlers who simultaneously began removing the pointed stakes in the same manner employed by the prowler of the night before. Their attack was turned back with heavy losses on both sides and with a dismayingly large expenditure of precious ammunition.

There could be no doubt about how the band of prowlers had learned to remove the stakes: the prowler of the night before had told them before it died. It was doubtful that the prowlers had a spoken language, but they had some means of communication. They worked together and they were highly intelligent, probably about halfway between dog and man.

The prowlers were going to be an enemy even more formidable than Prentiss had thought.

The missing stakes were replaced the next day and the others were tied down more securely. Once again the camp was prowler proof—but only for so long as armed guards patrolled inside the walls to kill attacking prowlers during the short time it would take them to remove the stakes.

The hunting parties suffered unusually heavy losses from prowler attacks that day and that evening, as the guards patrolled inside the walls, Lake said to Prentiss:

“The prowlers are so damnably persistent. It isn’t that they’re hungry—they don’t kill us to eat us. They don’t have any reason to kill us—they just hate us.”

“They have a reason,” Prentiss said. “They’re doing the same thing we’re doing: fighting for survival.”

Lake’s pale brows lifted in question.

“The prowlers are the rulers of Ragnarok,” Prentiss said. “They fought their way up here, as men did on Earth, until they’re master of every creature on their world. Even of the unicorns and swamp crawlers. But now we’ve come and they’re intelligent enough to know that we’re accustomed to being the dominant species, ourselves.

“There can’t be two dominant species on the same world—and they know it. Men or prowlers—in the end one is going to have to go down before the other.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Lake said. He looked at the guards, a fourth of them already reduced to bows and arrows that they had not yet had time to learn how to use. “If we win the battle for supremacy it will be a long fight, maybe over a period of centuries. And if the prowlers win—it may all be over within a year or two.”

* * * *

The giant blue star that was the other component of Ragnarok’s binary grew swiftly in size as it preceded the yellow sun farther each morning. When summer came the blue star would be a sun as hot as the yellow sun and Ragnarok would be between them. The yellow sun would burn the land by day and the blue sun would sear it by the night that would not be night. Then would come the brief fall, followed by the long, frozen winter when the yellow sun would shine pale and cold, far to the south, and the blue sun would be a star again, two hundred and fifty million miles away and invisible behind the cold yellow sun.

The Hell Fever lessened with the completion of the shelters but it still killed each day. Chiara and his helpers worked with unfaltering determination to find a cure for it but the cure, if there was one, eluded them. The graves in the cemetery were forty long by forty wide and more were added each day. To all the fact became grimly obvious: they were swiftly dying out and they had yet to face Ragnarok at its worst.

The old survival instincts asserted themselves and there were marriages among the younger ones. One of the first to marry was Julia.

She stopped to talk to Prentiss one evening. She still wore the red skirt, now faded and patched, but her face was tired and thoughtful and no longer bold.

“Is it true, John,” she asked, “that only a few of us might be able to have children here and that most of us who tried to have children in this gravity would die for it?”

“It’s true,” he said. “But you already knew that when you married.”

“Yes…I knew it.” There was a little silence. “All my life I’ve had fun and done as I pleased. The human race didn’t need me and we both knew it. But now—none of us can be apart from the others or be afraid of anything. If we’re selfish and afraid there will come a time when the last of us will die and there will be nothing on Ragnarok to show we were ever here.

“I don’t want it to end like that. I want there to be children, to live after we’re gone. So I’m going to try to have a child. I’m not afraid and I won’t be.”

When he did not reply at once she said, almost self-consciously, “Coming from me that all sounds a little silly, I suppose.”

“It sounds wise and splendid, Julia,” he said, “and it’s what I thought you were going to say.”

* * * *

Full spring came and the vegetation burst into leaf and bud and bloom, quickly, for its growth instincts knew in their mindless way how short was the time to grow and reproduce before the brown death of summer came. The prowlers were suddenly gone one day, to follow the spring north, and for a week men could walk and work outside the stockade without the protection of armed guards.

Then the new peril appeared, the one they had not expected: the unicorns.

The stockade wall was a blue-black rectangle behind them and the blue star burned with the brilliance of a dozen moons, lighting the woods in blue shadow and azure light. Prentiss and the hunter walked a little in front of the two riflemen, winding to keep in the starlit glades.

“It was on the other side of the next grove of trees,” the hunter said in a low voice. “Fred was getting ready to bring in the rest of the woods goat. He shouldn’t have been more than ten minutes behind me—and it’s been over an hour.”

They rounded the grove of trees. At first it seemed there was nothing before them but the empty, grassy glade. Then they saw it lying on the ground no more than twenty feet in front of them.

It was—it had been—a man. He was broken and stamped into hideous shapelessness and something had torn off his arms.

For a moment there was dead silence, then the hunter whispered, “What did that?”

The answer came in a savage, squealing scream and the pound of cloven hooves. A formless shadow beside the trees materialized into a monstrous charging bulk; a thing like a gigantic gray bull, eight feet tall at the shoulders, with the tusked, snarling head of a boar and the starlight glinting along the curving, vicious length of its single horn.

“Unicorn!” Prentiss said, and jerked up his rifle.

The rifles cracked in a ragged volley. The unicorn squealed in fury and struck the hunter, catching him on its horn and hurling him thirty feet. One of the riflemen went down under the unicorn’s hooves, his cry ending almost as soon as it began.

The unicorn ripped the sod in deep furrows as it whirled back to Prentiss and the remaining rifleman; not turning in the manner of four-footed beasts of Earth but rearing and spinning on its hind feet. It towered above them as it whirled, the tip of its horn fifteen feet above the ground and its hooves swinging around like great clubs.

Prentiss shot again, his sights on what he hoped would be a vital area, and the rifleman shot an instant later.

The shots went true. The unicorn’s swing brought it on around but it collapsed, falling to the ground with jarring heaviness.

“We got it!” the rifleman said. “We—”

It half scrambled to its feet and made a noise; a call that went out through the night like the blast of a mighty trumpet. Then it dropped back to the ground, to die while its call was still echoing from the nearer hills.

From the east came an answering trumpet blast; a trumpeting that was sounded again from the south and from the north. Then there came a low and muffled drumming, like the pounding of thousands of hooves.

The rifleman’s face was blue-white in the starlight. “The others are coming—we’ll have to run for it!”

He turned, and began to run toward the distant bulk of the stockade.

“No!” Prentiss commanded, quick and harsh. “Not the stockade!”

The rifleman kept running, seeming not to hear him in his panic. Prentiss called to him once more:

“Not the stockade—you’ll lead the unicorns into it!”

Again the rifleman seemed not to hear him.

The unicorns were coming in sight, converging in from the north and east and south, the rumble of their hooves swelling to a thunder that filled the night. The rifleman would reach the stockade only a little ahead of them and they would go through the wall as though it had been made of paper.

For a little while the area inside the stockade would be filled with dust, with the squealing of the swirling, charging unicorns and the screams of the dying. Those inside the stockade would have no chance whatever of escaping. Within two minutes it would be over, the last child would have been found among the shattered shelters and trampled into lifeless shapelessness in the bloody ground.

Within two minutes all human life on Ragnarok would be gone.

There was only one thing for him to do.

He dropped to one knee so his aim would be steady and the sights of his rifle caught the running man’s back. He pressed the trigger and the rifle cracked viciously as it bucked against his shoulder.

The man spun and fell hard to the ground. He twisted, to raise himself up a little and look back, his face white and accusing and unbelieving.

“You shot me!”

Then he fell forward and lay without moving.

Prentiss turned back to face the unicorns and to look at the trees in the nearby grove. He saw what he already knew, they were young trees and too small to offer any escape for him. There was no place to run, no place to hide.

There was nothing he could do but wait; nothing he could do but stand in the blue starlight and watch the devil’s herd pound toward him and think, in the last moments of his life, how swiftly and unexpectedly death could come to man on Ragnarok.

* * * *

The unicorns held the Rejects prisoners in their stockade the rest of the night and all the next day. Lake had seen the shooting of the rifleman and had watched the unicorn herd kill John Prentiss and then trample the dead rifleman.

He had already given the order to build a quick series of fires around the inside of the stockade walls when the unicorns paused to tear their victims to pieces; grunting and squealing in triumph as bones crushed between their teeth and they flung the pieces to one side.

The fires were started and green wood was thrown on them, to make them smoulder and smoke for as long as possible. Then the unicorns were coming on to the stockade and every person inside it went into the concealment of the shelters.

Lake had already given his last order: There would be absolute quiet until and if the unicorns left; a quiet that would be enforced with fist or club wherever necessary.

The unicorns were still outside when morning came. The fires could not be refueled; the sight of a man moving inside the stockade would bring the entire herd charging through. The hours dragged by, the smoke from the dying fires dwindled to thin streamers. The unicorns grew increasingly bolder and suspicious, crowding closer to the walls and peering through the openings between the rails.

The sun was setting when one of the unicorns trumpeted; a sound different from that of the call to battle. The others threw up their heads to listen, then they turned and drifted away. Within minutes the entire herd was gone out of sight through the woods, toward the north.

Lake waited and watched until he was sure the unicorns were gone for good. Then he ordered the All Clear given and hurried to the south wall, to look down across the barren valley and hope he would not see what he expected to see.

Barber came up behind him, to sigh with relief. “That was close. It’s hard to make so many people stay absolutely quiet for hour after hour. Especially the children—they don’t understand.”

“We’ll have to leave,” Lake said.

“Leave?” Barber asked. “We can make this stockade strong enough to hold out unicorns.”

“Look to the south,” Lake told him.

Barber did so and saw what Lake had already seen; a broad, low cloud of dust moving slowly toward them.

“Another herd of unicorns,” Lake said. “John didn’t know they migrated—the Dunbar Expedition wasn’t here long enough to learn that. There’ll be herd after herd coming through and no time for us to strengthen the walls. We’ll have to leave tonight.”

* * * *

Preparations were made for the departure; preparations that consisted mainly of providing each person with as much in the way of food or supplies as he or she could carry. In the 1.5 gravity, that was not much.

They left when the blue star rose. They filed out through the northern gate and the rear guard closed it behind them. There was almost no conversation among them. Some of them turned to take a last look at what had been the only home they had ever known on Ragnarok, then they all faced forward again, to the northwest, where the foothills of the plateau might offer them sanctuary.

They found their sanctuary on the second day; a limestone ridge honey-combed with caves. Men were sent back at once to carry the food and supplies left in the stockade to the new home.

They returned, to report that the second herd of unicorns had broken down the walls and ripped the interior of the stockade into wreckage. Much of the food and supplies had been totally destroyed.

Lake sent them back twice more to bring everything, down to the last piece of bent metal or torn cloth. They would find uses for all of it in the future.

* * * *

The cave system was extensive, containing room for several times their number. The deeper portions of the caves could not be lived in until ventilation ducts were made, but the outer caves were more than sufficient in number. Work was begun to clear them of fallen rubble, to pry down all loose material overhead and to level the floors. A spring came out of the ridge not far from the caves and the approach to the caves was so narrow and steep that unicorns could scramble up it only with difficulty and one at a time. And should they ever reach the natural terrace in front of the caves they would be too large to enter and could do no more than stand outside and make targets of themselves for the bowmen within.

Anders was in charge of making the caves livable, his working force restricted almost entirely to women and children. Lake sent Barber out, with a small detachment of men, to observe the woods goats and learn what plants they ate. And then learn, by experimenting, if such plants could be safely eaten by humans.

The need for salt would be tremendously increased when summer came. Having once experienced a saltless two weeks in the desert Lake doubted that any of them could survive without it. All hunting parties, as well as Barber’s party, were ordered to investigate all deposits that might contain salt as well as any stream or pond that was white along the banks.

The hunting parties were of paramount importance and they were kept out to the limits of their endurance. Every man physically able to do so accompanied them. Those who could not kill game could carry it back to the caves. There was no time to spare; already the unicorns were decreasing in numbers and the woods goats were ranging farther and farther north.

At the end of twenty days Lake went in search of Barber and his party, worried about them. Their mission was one that could be as dangerous as any hunting trip. There was no proof that humans and Ragnarok creatures were so similar as to guarantee that food for one might not be poison for the other. It was a very necessary mission, however; dried meat, alone, would bring grave deficiency diseases during the summer which dried herbs and fruits would help prevent.

When he located Barber’s party he found Barber lying under a tree, pale and weak from his latest experiment but recovering.

“I was the guinea pig yesterday,” Barber said. “Some little purple berries that the woods goats nibble at sometimes, maybe to get a touch of some certain vitamin or something. I ate too many, I guess, because they hit my heart like the kick of a mule.”

“Did you find anything at all encouraging?” Lake asked.

“We found four different herbs that are the most violent cathartics you ever dreamed of. And a little silvery fern that tastes like vanilla flavored candy and paralyzes you stiff as a board on the third swallow. It’s an hour before you come back out of it.

“But on the good side we found three different kinds of herbs that seem to be all right. We’ve been digging them up and hanging them in the trees to dry.”

Lake tried the edible herbs and found them to be something like spinach in taste. There was a chance they might contain the vitamins and minerals needed. Since the hunting parties were living exclusively on meat he would have to point out the edible herbs to all of them so they would know what to eat should any of them feel the effects of diet deficiency.

He traveled alone as he visited the various hunting parties, finding such travel to be safer each day as the dwindling of the unicorns neared the vanishing point. It was a safety he did not welcome; it meant the last of the game would be gone north long before sufficient meat was taken.

None of the hunting parties could report good luck. The woods goats, swift and elusive at best, were vanishing with the unicorns. The last cartridge had been fired and the bowmen, while improving all the time, were far from expert. The unicorns, which should have been their major source of meat, were invulnerable to arrows unless shot at short range in the side of the neck just behind the head. And at short range the unicorns invariably charged and presented no such target.

He made the long, hard climb up the plateau’s southern face, to stand at last on top. It was treeless, a flat, green table that stretched to the north for as far as he could see. A mountain range, still capped with snow, lay perhaps a hundred miles to the northwest; in the distance it looked like a white, low-lying cloud on the horizon. No other mountains or hills marred the endless sweep of the high plain.

The grass was thick and here and there were little streams of water produced by the recently melted snow. It was a paradise land for the herbivores of Ragnarok but for men it was a harsh, forbidding place. At that elevation the air was so thin that only a moderate amount of exertion made the heart and lungs labor painfully. Hard and prolonged exertion would be impossible.

It seemed unlikely that men could hunt and dare unicorn attacks at such an elevation but two hunting parties were ahead of him; one under the grim Craig and one under the reckless Schroeder, both parties stripped down to the youngest, strongest men among all the Rejects.

He found Schroeder early one morning, leading his hunters toward a small band of woods goats. Two unicorns were grazing in between and the hunters were swinging downwind from them. Schroeder saw him coming and walked back a little way to meet him.

“Welcome to our breathtaking land,” Schroeder greeted him. “How are things going with the rest of the hunting parties?”

Schroeder was gaunt and there was weariness beneath his still lithe movements. His whiskers were an untamed sorrel bristling and across his cheekbone was the ugly scar of a half healed wound. Another gash was ripped in his arm and something had battered one ear. He reminded Lake of a battle-scarred, indomitable tomcat who would never, for as long as he lived, want to relinquish the joy of conflict and danger.

“So far,” he answered, “you and Craig are the only parties to manage to tackle the plateau.”

He asked about Schroeder’s luck and learned it had been much better than that of the others due to killing three unicorns by a method Schroeder had thought of.

“Since the bowmen have to be to one side of the unicorns to kill them,” Schroeder said, “it only calls for a man to be the decoy and let the unicorns chase him between the hidden bowmen. If there’s no more than one or two unicorns and if the decoy doesn’t have to run very far and if the bowmen don’t miss it works well.”

“Judging from your beat-up condition,” Lake said, “you must have been the decoy every time.”

“Well—” Schroeder shrugged his shoulders. “It was my idea.”

“I’ve been wondering about another way to get in shots at close range,” Lake said. “Take the skin of a woods goat, give it the original shape as near as possible, and a bowman inside it might be able to fake a grazing woods goat until he got the shot he wanted.

“The unicorns might never suspect where the arrows came from,” he concluded. “And then, of course, they might.”

“I’ll try it before the day is over, on those two unicorns over there,” Schroeder said. “At this elevation and in this gravity my own method is just a little bit rough on a man.”

* * * *

Lake found Craig and his men several miles to the west, all of them gaunt and bearded as Schroeder had been.

“We’ve had hell,” Craig said. “It seems that every time we spot a few woods goats there will be a dozen unicorns in between. If only we had rifles for the unicorns.…”

Lake told him of the plan to hide under woods goats’ skins and of the decoy system used by Schroeder.

“Maybe we won’t have to use Schroeder’s method,” he said. “We’ll see if the other works—I’ll give it the first try.”

This he was not to do. Less than an hour later one of the men who helped dry the meat and carry it to the caves returned to report the camp stricken by a strange, sudden malady that was killing a hundred a day. Dr. Chiara, who had collapsed while driving himself on to care for the sick, was sure it was a deficiency disease. Anders was down with it, helpless, and Bemmon had assumed command; setting up daily work quotas for those still on their feet and refusing to heed Chiara’s requests concerning treatment of the disease.

Lake made the trip back to the caves in a fraction of the length of time it had taken him to reach the plateau, walking until he was ready to drop and then pausing only for an hour or two of rest. He spotted Barber’s camp when coming down off the plateau and he swung to one side, to tell Barber to have a supply of the herbs sent to the caves at once.

He reached the caves, to find half the camp in bed and the other half dragging about listlessly at the tasks given them by Bemmon. Anders was in grave condition, too weak to rise, and Dr. Chiara was dying.

He squatted down beside Chiara’s pallet and knew there could be no hope for him. On Chiara’s pale face and in his eyes was the shadow of his own foreknowledge.

“I finally saw what it was”—Chiara’s words were very low, hard to hear—“and I told Bemmon what to do. It’s a deficiency disease, complicated by the gravity into some form not known on Earth.”

He stopped to rest and Lake waited.

“Beri-beri—pellagra—we had deficiency diseases on Earth. But none so fatal—so quickly. I told Bemmon—ration out fruits and vegetables to everybody. Hurry—or it will be too late.”

Again he stopped to rest, the last vestige of color gone from his face.

“And you?” Lake asked, already knowing the answer.

“For me—too late. I kept thinking of viruses—should have seen the obvious sooner. Just like—”

His lips turned up a little at the corners and the Chiara of the dead past smiled for the last time at Lake.

“Just like a damned fool intern.…”

That was all, then, and the chamber was suddenly very quiet. Lake stood up to leave, and to speak the words that Chiara could never hear:

“We’re going to need you and miss you—Doctor.”

* * * *

He found Bemmon in the food storage cavern, supervising the work of two teen-age boys with critical officiousness although he was making no move to help them. At sight of Lake he hurried forward, the ingratiating smile sliding across his face.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I had to take charge when Anders got sick and he had everything in such a mess. I’ve been working day and night to undo his mistakes and get the work properly under way again.”

Lake looked at the two thin-faced boys who had taken advantage of the opportunity to rest. They leaned wearily against the heavy pole table Bemmon had had them moving, their eyes already dull with the incipient sickness and watching him in mute appeal.

“Have you obeyed Chiara’s order?” he asked.

“Ah—no,” Bemmon said. “I felt it best to ignore it.”

“Why?” Lake asked.

“It would be a senseless waste of our small supply of fruit and vegetable foods to give them to people already dying. I’m afraid”—the ingratiating smile came again—“we’ve been letting him exercise an authority he isn’t entitled to. He’s really hardly more than a medical student and his diagnoses are only guesses.”

“He’s dead,” Lake said flatly. “His last order will be carried out.”

He looked from the two tired boys to Bemmon, contrasting their thinness and weariness with the way Bemmon’s paunch still bulged outward and his jowls still sagged with their load of fat.

“I’ll send West down to take over in here,” he said to Bemmon. “You come with me. You and I seem to be the only two in good health here and there’s plenty of work for us to do.”

The fawning expression vanished from Bemmon’s face. “I see,” he said. “Now that I’ve turned Anders’s muddle into organization, you’ll hand my authority over to another of your favorites and demote me back to common labor?”

“Setting up work quotas for sick and dying people isn’t organization,” Lake said. He spoke to the two boys, “Both of you go lie down. West will find someone else.” Then to Bemmon, “Come with me. We’re both going to work at common labor.”

They passed by the cave where Bemmon slept. Two boys were just going into it, carrying armloads of dried grass to make a mattress under Bemmon’s pallet. They moved slowly, heavily. Like the two boys in the food storage cave they were dull-eyed with the beginning of the sickness.

Lake stopped, to look more closely into the cave and verify something else he thought he had seen: Bemmon had discarded the prowler skins on his bed and in their place were soft wool blankets; perhaps the only unpatched blankets the Rejects possessed.

“Go back to your caves,” he said to the boys. “Go to bed and rest.”

He looked at Bemmon. Bemmon’s eyes flickered away, refusing to meet his.

“What few blankets we have are for babies and the very youngest children,” he said. His tone was coldly unemotional but he could not keep his fists from clenching at his sides. “You will return them at once and sleep on animal skins, as all the men and women do. And if you want grass for a mattress you will carry it yourself, as even the young children do.”

Bemmon made no answer, his face a sullen red and hatred shining in the eyes that still refused to meet Lake’s.

“Gather up the blankets and return them,” Lake said. “Then come on up to the central cave. We have a lot of work to do.”

He could feel Bemmon’s gaze burning against his back as he turned away and he thought of what John Prentiss had once said:

“I know he’s no good but he never has guts enough to go quite far enough to give me an excuse to whittle him down.”

* * * *

Barber’s men arrived the next day, burdened with dried herbs. These were given to the seriously ill as a supplement to the ration of fruit and vegetable foods and were given, alone, to those not yet sick. Then came the period of waiting; of hoping that it was all not too late and too little.

A noticeable change for the better began on the second day. A week went by and the sick were slowly, steadily, improving. The not-quite-sick were already back to normal health. There was no longer any doubt: the Ragnarok herbs would prevent a recurrence of the disease.

It was, Lake thought, all so simple once you knew what to do. Hundreds had died, Chiara among them, because they did not have a common herb that grew at a slightly higher elevation. Not a single life would have been lost if he could have looked a week into the future and had the herbs found and taken to the caves that much sooner.

But the disease had given no warning of its coming. Nothing, on Ragnarok, ever seemed to give warning before it killed.

Another week went by and hunters began to trickle in, gaunt and exhausted, to report all the game going north up the plateau and not a single creature left below. They were the ones who had tried and failed to withstand the high elevation of the plateau. Only two out of three hunters returned among those who had challenged the plateau. They had tried, all of them, to the best of their ability and the limits of their endurance.

The blue star was by then a small sun and the yellow sun blazed hotter each day. Grass began to brown and wither on the hillsides as the days went by and Lake knew summer was very near. The last hunting party, but for Craig’s and Schroeder’s, returned. They had very little meat but they brought with them a large quantity of something almost as important: salt.

They had found a deposit of it in an almost inaccessible region of cliffs and canyons. “Not even the woods goats can get in there,” Stevens, the leader of that party, said. “If the salt was in an accessible place there would have been a salt lick there and goats in plenty.”

“If woods goats care for salt the way Earth animals do,” Lake said. “When fall comes we’ll make a salt lick and find out.”

Two more weeks went by and Craig and Schroeder returned with their surviving hunters. They had followed the game to the eastern end of the snow-capped mountain range but there the migration had drawn away from them, traveling farther each day than they could travel. They had almost waited too long before turning back: the grass at the southern end of the plateau was turning brown and the streams were dry. They got enough water, barely, by digging seep holes in the dry stream beds.

Lake’s method of stalking unicorns under the concealment of a woods goat skin had worked well only a few times. After that the unicorns learned to swing downwind from any lone woods goats. If they smelled a man inside the goat skin they charged him and killed him.

With the return of the last hunters everything was done that could be done in preparation for summer. Inventory was taken of the total food supply and it was even smaller than Lake had feared. It would be far from enough to last until fall brought the game back from the north and he instituted rationing much stricter than before.

The heat increased as the yellow sun blazed hotter and the blue sun grew larger. Each day the vegetation was browner and a morning came when Lake could see no green wherever he looked.

They numbered eleven hundred and ten that morning, out of what had so recently been four thousand. Eleven hundred and ten thin, hungry scarecrows who, already, could do nothing more than sit listlessly in the shade and wait for the hell that was coming. He thought of the food supply, so pitifully small, and of the months it would have to last. He saw the grim, inescapable future for his charges: famine. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. He could only try to forestall complete starvation for all by cutting rations to the bare existence level.

And that would be bare existence for the stronger of them. The weaker were already doomed.

He had them all gather in front of the caves that evening when the terrace was in the shadow of the ridge. He stood before them and spoke to them:

“All of you know we have only a fraction of the amount of food we need to see us through the summer. Tomorrow the present ration will be cut in half. That will be enough to live on, just barely. If that cut isn’t made the food supply will be gone long before fall and all of us will die.

“If anyone has any food of any kind it must be turned in to be added to the total supply. Some of you may have thought of your children and kept a little hidden for them. I can understand why you should do that—but you must turn it in. There may possibly be some who hid food for themselves, personally. If so, I give them the first and last warning: turn it in tonight. If any hidden cache of food is found in the future the one who hid it will be regarded as a traitor and murderer.

“All of you, but for the children, will go into the chamber next to the one where the food is stored. Each of you—and there will be no exceptions regardless of how innocent you are—will carry a bulkily folded cloth or garment. Each of you will go into the chamber alone. There will be no one in there. You will leave the food you have folded in the cloth, if any, and go out the other exit and back to your caves. No one will ever know whether the cloth you carried contained food or not. No one will ever ask.

“Our survival on this world, if we are to survive at all, can be only by working and sacrificing together. There can be no selfishness. What any of you may have done in the past is of no consequence. Tonight we start anew. From now on we trust one another without reserve.

“There will be one punishment for any who betray that trust—death.”

* * * *

Anders set the example by being the first to carry a folded cloth into the cave. Of them all, Lake heard later, only Bemmon voiced any real indignation; warning all those in his section of the line that the order was the first step toward outright dictatorship and a police-and-spy system in which Lake and the other leaders would deprive them all of freedom and dignity. Bemmon insisted upon exhibiting the emptiness of the cloth he carried; an action that, had he succeeded in persuading the others to follow his example, would have mercilessly exposed those who did have food they were returning.

But no one followed Bemmon’s example and no harm was done. As for Lake, he had worries on his mind of much greater importance than Bemmon’s enmity.

* * * *

The weeks dragged by, each longer and more terrible to endure than the one before it as the heat steadily increased. Summer solstice arrived and there was no escape from the heat, even in the deepest caves. There was no night; the blue sun rose in the east as the yellow sun set in the west. There was no life of any kind to be seen, not even an insect. Nothing moved across the burned land but the swirling dust devils and shimmering, distorted mirages.

The death rate increased with appalling swiftness. The small supply of canned and dehydrated milk, fruit and vegetables was reserved exclusively for the children but it was far insufficient in quantity. The Ragnarok herbs prevented any recurrence of the fatal deficiency disease but they provided virtually no nourishment to help fight the heat and gravity. The stronger of the children lay wasted and listless on their pallets while the ones not so strong died each day.

Each day thin and hollow-eyed mothers would come to plead with him to save their children. “…it would take so little to save his life.… Please—before it’s too late.…”

But there was so little food left and the time was yet so long until fall would bring relief from the famine that he could only answer each of them with a grim and final “No.”

And watch the last hope flicker and die in their eyes and watch them turn away, to go and sit for the last hours beside their children.

Bemmon became increasingly irritable and complaining as the rationing and heat made existence a misery; insisting that Lake and the others were to blame for the food shortage, that their hunting efforts had been bungling and faint-hearted. And he implied, without actually saying so, that Lake and the others had forbidden him to go near the food chamber because they did not want a competent, honest man to check up on what they were doing.

There were six hundred and three of them the blazing afternoon when the girl, Julia, could stand his constant, vindictive, fault-finding no longer. Lake heard about it shortly afterward, the way she had turned on Bemmon in a flare of temper she could control no longer and said:

“Whenever your mouth is still you can hear the children who are dying today—but you don’t care. All you can think of is yourself. You claim Lake and the others were cowards—but you didn’t dare hunt with them. You keep insinuating that they’re cheating us and eating more than we are—but your belly is the only one that has any fat left on it—”

She never completed the sentence. Bemmon’s face turned livid in sudden, wild fury and he struck her, knocking her against the rock wall so hard that she slumped unconscious to the ground.

“She’s a liar!” he panted, glaring at the others. “She’s a rotten liar and anybody who repeats what she said will get what she got!”

When Lake learned of what had happened he did not send for Bemmon at once. He wondered why Bemmon’s reaction had been so quick and violent and there seemed to be only one answer:

Bemmon’s belly was still a little fat. There could be but one way he could have kept it so.

He summoned Craig, Schroeder, Barber and Anders. They went to the chamber where Bemmon slept and there, almost at once, they found his cache. He had it buried under his pallet and hidden in cavities along the walls; dried meat, dried fruits and milk, canned vegetables. It was an amount amazingly large and many of the items had presumably been exhausted during the deficiency disease attack.

“It looks,” Schroeder said, “like he didn’t waste any time feathering his nest when he made himself leader.”

The others said nothing but stood with grim, frozen faces, waiting for Lake’s next action.

“Bring Bemmon,” Lake said to Craig.

Craig returned with him two minutes later. Bemmon stiffened at the sight of his unearthed cache and color drained away from his face.

“Well?” Lake asked.

“I didn’t”—Bemmon swallowed—“I didn’t know it was there.” And then quickly, “You can’t prove I put it there. You can’t prove you didn’t just now bring it in yourselves to frame me.”

Lake stared at Bemmon, waiting. The others watched Bemmon as Lake was doing and no one spoke. The silence deepened and Bemmon began to sweat as he tried to avoid their eyes. He looked again at the damning evidence and his defiance broke.

“It—if I hadn’t taken it it would have been wasted on people who were dying,” he said. He wiped at his sweating face. “I won’t ever do it again—I swear I won’t.”

Lake spoke to Craig. “You and Barber take him to the lookout point.”

“What—” Bemmon’s protest was cut off as Craig and Barber took him by the arms and walked him swiftly away.

Lake turned to Anders. “Get a rope,” he ordered.

Anders paled a little. “A—rope?”

“What else does he deserve?”

“Nothing,” Anders said. “Not—not after what he did.”

On the way out they passed the place where Julia lay. Bemmon had knocked her against the wall with such force that a sharp projection of rock had cut a deep gash in her forehead. A woman was wiping the blood from her face and she lay limply, still unconscious; a frail shadow of the bold girl she had once been with the new life she would try to give them an almost unnoticeable little bulge in her starved thinness.

* * * *

The lookout point was an outjutting spur of the ridge, six hundred feet from the caves and in full view of them. A lone tree stood there, its dead limbs thrust like white arms through the brown foliage of the limbs that still lived. Craig and Barber waited under the tree, Bemmon between them. The lowering sun shone hot and bright on Bemmon’s face as he squinted back toward the caves at the approach of Lake and the other two.

He twisted to look at Barber. “What is it—why did you bring me here?” There was the tremor of fear in his voice. “What are you going to do to me?”

Barber did not answer and Bemmon turned back toward Lake. He saw the rope in Anders’ hand and his face went white with comprehension.

“No!”

He threw himself back with a violence that almost tore him loose. “No—no!”

Schroeder stepped forward to help hold him and Lake took the rope from Anders. He fashioned a noose in it while Bemmon struggled and made panting, animal sounds, his eyes fixed in horrified fascination on the rope.

When the noose was finished he threw the free end of the rope over the white limb above Bemmon. He released the noose and Barber caught it, to draw it snug around Bemmon’s neck.

Bemmon stopped struggling then and sagged weakly. For a moment it appeared that he would faint. Then he worked his mouth soundlessly until words came:

“You won’t—you can’t—really hang me?”

Lake spoke to him:

“We’re going to hang you. What you stole would have saved the lives of ten children. You’ve watched the children cry because they were so hungry and you’ve watched them become too weak to cry or care any more. You’ve watched them die each day and each night you’ve secretly eaten the food that was supposed to be theirs.

“We’re going to hang you, for the murder of children and the betrayal of our trust in you. If you have anything to say, say it now.”

“You can’t! I had a right to live—to eat what would have been wasted on dying people!” Bemmon twisted to appeal to the ones who held him, his words quick and ragged with hysteria. “You can’t hang me—I don’t want to die!”

Craig answered him, with a smile that was like the thin snarl of a wolf:

“Neither did two of my children.”

Lake nodded to Craig and Schroeder, not waiting any longer. They stepped back to seize the free end of the rope and Bemmon screamed at what was coming, tearing loose from the grip of Barber.

Then his scream was abruptly cut off as he was jerked into the air. There was a cracking sound and he kicked spasmodically, his head setting grotesquely to one side.

Craig and Schroeder and Barber watched him with hard, expressionless faces but Anders turned quickly away, to be suddenly and violently sick.

“He was the first to betray us,” Lake said. “Snub the rope and leave him to swing there. If there are any others like him, they’ll know what to expect.”

The blue sun rose as they went back to the caves. Behind them Bemmon swung and twirled aimlessly on the end of the rope. Two long, pale shadows swung and twirled with him; a yellow one to the west and a blue one to the east.

Bemmon was buried the next day. Someone cursed his name and someone spit on his grave and then he was part of the dead past as they faced the suffering ahead of them.

Julia recovered, although she would always wear a ragged scar on her forehead. Anders, who had worked closely with Chiara and was trying to take his place, quieted her fears by assuring her that the baby she carried was still too small for there to be much danger of the fall causing her to lose it.

Three times during the next month the wind came roaring down out of the northwest, bringing a gray dust that filled the sky and enveloped the land in a hot, smothering gloom through which the suns could not be seen.

Once black clouds gathered in the distance, to pour out a cloudburst. The 1.5 gravity gave the wall of water that swept down the canyon a far greater force and velocity than it would have had on Earth and boulders the size of small houses were tossed into the air and shattered into fragments. But all the rain fell upon the one small area and not a drop fell at the caves.

One single factor was in their favor and but for it they could not have survived such intense, continual heat: there was no humidity. Water evaporated quickly in the hot, dry air and sweat glands operated at the highest possible degree of efficiency. As a result they drank enormous quantities of water—the average adult needed five gallons a day. All canvas had been converted into water bags and the same principle of cooling-by-evaporation gave them water that was only warm instead of sickeningly hot as it would otherwise have been.

But despite the lack of humidity the heat was still far more intense than any on Earth. It never ceased, day or night, never let them have a moment’s relief. There was a limit to how long human flesh could bear up under it, no matter how valiant the will. Each day the toll of those who had reached that limit was greater, like a swiftly rising tide.

There were three hundred and forty of them, when the first rain came; the rain that meant the end of summer. The yellow sun moved southward and the blue sun shrank steadily. Grass grew again and the woods goats returned, with them the young that had been born in the north, already half the size of their mothers.

For a while there was meat, and green herbs. Then the prowlers came, to make hunting dangerous. Females with pups were seen but always at a great distance as though the prowlers, like humans, took no chances with the lives of their children.

The unicorns came close behind the first prowlers, their young amazingly large and already weaned. Hunting became doubly dangerous then but the bowmen, through necessity, were learning how to use their bows with increasing skill and deadliness.

A salt lick for the woods goats was hopefully tried, although Lake felt dubious about it. They learned that salt was something the woods goats could either take or leave alone. And when hunters were in the vicinity they left it alone.

The game was followed for many miles to the south. The hunters returned the day the first blizzard came roaring and screaming down over the edge of the plateau; the blizzard that marked the beginning of the long, frigid winter. By then they were prepared as best they could be. Wood had been carried in great quantities and the caves fitted with crude doors and a ventilation system. And they had meat—not as much as they would need but enough to prevent starvation.

Lake took inventory of the food supply when the last hunters returned and held check-up inventories at irregular and unannounced intervals. He found no shortages. He had expected none—Bemmon’s grave had long since been obliterated by drifting snow but the rope still hung from the dead limb, the noose swinging and turning in the wind.

* * * *

Anders had made a Ragnarok calendar that spring, from data given him by John Prentiss, and he had marked the corresponding Earth dates on it. By a coincidence, Christmas came near the middle of the winter. There would be the same rationing of food on Christmas day but little brown trees had been cut for the children and decorated with such ornaments as could be made from the materials at hand.

There was another blizzard roaring down off the plateau Christmas morning; a white death that thundered and howled outside the caves at a temperature of more than eighty degrees below zero. But inside the caves it was warm by the fires and under the little brown trees were toys that had been patiently whittled from wood or sewn from scraps of cloth and animal skins while the children slept. They were crude and humble toys but the pale, thin faces of the children were bright with delight when they beheld them.

There was the laughter of children at play, a sound that had not been heard for many months, and someone singing the old, old songs. For a few fleeting hours that day, for the first and last time on Ragnarok, there was the magic of an Earth Christmas.

That night a child was born to Julia, on a pallet of dried grass and prowler skins. She asked for her baby before she died and they let her have it.

“I wasn’t afraid, was I?” she asked. “But I wish it wasn’t so dark—I wish I could see my baby before I go.”

They took the baby from her arms when she was gone and removed from it the blanket that had kept her from learning that her child was still-born.

There were two hundred and fifty of them when the first violent storms of spring came. By then eighteen children had been born. Sixteen were still-born, eight of them deformed by the gravity, but two were like any normal babies on Earth. There was only one difference: the 1.5 gravity did not seem to affect them as much as it had the Earth-born babies.

Lake, himself, married that spring; a tall, gray-eyed girl who had fought alongside the men the night of the storm when the prowlers broke into John Prentiss’s camp. And Schroeder married, the last of them all to do so.

That spring Lake sent out two classes of bowmen: those who would use the ordinary short bow and those who would use the longbows he had had made that winter. According to history the English longbowmen of medieval times had been without equal in the range and accuracy of their arrows and such extra-powerful weapons should eliminate close range stalking of woods goats and afford better protection from unicorns.

The longbows worked so well that by mid-spring he could detach Craig and three others from the hunting and send them on a prospecting expedition. Prentiss had said Ragnarok was devoid of metals but there was the hope of finding small veins the Dunbar Expedition’s instruments had not detected. They would have to find metal or else, in the end, they would go back into a flint axe stage.

Craig and his men returned when the blue star was a sun again and the heat was more than men could walk and work in. They had traveled hundreds of miles in their circuit and found no metals.

“I want to look to the south when fall comes,” Craig said. “Maybe it will be different down there.”

They did not face famine that summer as they had the first summer. The diet of meat and dried herbs was rough and plain but there was enough of it.

Full summer came and the land was again burned and lifeless. There was nothing to do but sit wearily in the shade and endure the heat, drawing what psychological comfort they could from the fact that summer solstice was past and the suns were creeping south again even though it would be many weeks before there was any lessening of the heat.

It was then, and by accident, that Lake discovered there was something wrong about the southward movement of the suns.

He was returning from the lookout that day and he realized it was exactly a year since he and the others had walked back to the caves while Bemmon swung on the limb behind them.

It was even the same time of day; the blue sun rising in the east behind him and the yellow sun bright in his face as it touched the western horizon before him. He remembered how the yellow sun had been like the front sight of a rifle, set in the deepest V notch of the western hills—

But now, exactly a year later, it was not in the V notch. It was on the north side of the notch.

He looked to the east, at the blue sun. It seemed to him that it, too, was farther north than it had been although with it he had no landmark to check by.

But there was no doubt about the yellow sun: it was going south, as it should at that time of year, but it was lagging behind schedule. The only explanation Lake could think of was one that would mean still another threat to their survival; perhaps greater than all the others combined.

The yellow sun dropped completely behind the north slope of the V notch and he went on to the caves. He found Craig and Anders, the only two who might know anything about Ragnarok’s axial tilts, and told them what he had seen.

“I made the calendar from the data John gave me,” Anders said. “The Dunbar men made observations and computed the length of Ragnarok’s year—I don’t think they would have made any mistakes.”

“If they didn’t,” Lake said, “we’re in for something.”

Craig was watching him, closely, thoughtfully. “Like the Ice Ages of Earth?” he asked.

Lake nodded and Anders said, “I don’t understand.”

“Each year the north pole tilts toward the sun to give us summer and away from it to give us winter,” Lake said. “Which, of course, you know. But there can be still another kind of axial tilt. On Earth it occurs at intervals of thousands of years. The tilting that produces the summers and winters goes on as usual but as the centuries go by the summer tilt toward the sun grows less, the winter tilt away from it greater. The north pole leans farther and farther from the sun and ice sheets come down out of the north—an Ice Age. Then the north pole’s progression away from the sun stops and the ice sheets recede as it tilts back toward the sun.”

“I see,” Anders said. “And if the same thing is happening here, we’re going away from an ice age but at a rate thousands of times faster than on Earth.”

“I don’t know whether it’s Ragnarok’s tilt, alone, or if the orbits of the suns around each other add effects of their own over a period of years,” Lake said. “The Dunbar Expedition wasn’t here long enough to check up on anything like that.”

“It seemed to me it was hotter this summer than last,” Craig said. “Maybe only my imagination—but it won’t be imagination in a few years if the tilt toward the sun continues.”

“The time would come when we’d have to leave here,” Lake said. “We’d have to go north up the plateau each spring. There’s no timber there—nothing but grass and wind and thin air. We’d have to migrate south each fall.”

“Yes…migrate.” Anders’s face was old and weary in the harsh reflected light of the blue sun and his hair had turned almost white in the past year. “Only the young ones could ever adapt enough to go up the plateau to its north portion. The rest of us…but we haven’t many years, anyway. Ragnarok is for the young—and if they have to migrate back and forth like animals just to stay alive they will never have time to accomplish anything or be more than stone age nomads.”

“I wish we could know how long the Big Summer will be that we’re going into,” Craig said. “And how long and cold the Big Winter, when Ragnarok tilts away from the sun. It wouldn’t change anything—but I’d like to know.”

“We’ll start making and recording daily observations,” Lake said. “Maybe the tilt will start back the other way before it’s too late.”

* * * *

Fall seemed to come a little later that year. Craig went to the south as soon as the weather permitted but there were no minerals there; only the metal-barren hills dwindling in size until they became a prairie that sloped down and down toward the southern lowlands where all the creatures of Ragnarok spent the winter.

“I’ll try again to the north when spring comes,” Craig said. “Maybe that mountain on the plateau will have something.”

Winter came, and Elaine died in giving him a son. The loss of Elaine was an unexpected blow; hurting more than he would ever have thought possible.

But he had a son…and it was his responsibility to do whatever he could to insure the survival of his son and of the sons and daughters of all the others.

His outlook altered and he began to think of the future, not in terms of years to come but in terms of generations to come. Someday one of the young ones would succeed him as leader but the young ones would have only childhood memories of Earth. He was the last leader who had known Earth and the civilization of Earth as a grown man. What he did while he was leader would incline the destiny of a new race.

He would have to do whatever was possible for him to do and he would have to begin at once. The years left to him could not be many.

He was not alone; others in the caves had the same thoughts he had regarding the future even though none of them had any plan for accomplishing what they spoke of. West, who had held degrees in philosophy on Earth, said to Lake one night as they sat together by the fire:

“Have you noticed the way the children listen when the talk turns to what used to be on Earth, what might have been on Athena, and what would be if only we could find a way to escape from Ragnarok?”

“I’ve noticed,” he said.

“These stories already contain the goal for the future generations,” West went on. “Someday, somehow, they will go to Athena, to kill the Gerns there and free the Terran slaves and reclaim Athena as their own.”

He had listened to them talk of the interstellar flight to Athena as they sat by their fires and worked at making bows and arrows. It was only a dream they held, yet without that dream there would be nothing before them but the vision of generation after generation living and dying on a world that could never give them more than existence.

The dream was needed. But it, alone, was not enough. How long, on Earth, had it been from the Neolithic age to advanced civilization—how long from the time men were ready to leave their caves until they were ready to go to the stars?

Twelve thousand years.

There were men and women among the Rejects who had been specialists in various fields. There were a few books that had survived the trampling of the unicorns and others could be written with ink made from the black lance tree bark upon parchment made from the thin inner skin of unicorn hides.

The knowledge contained in the books and the learning of the Rejects still living should be preserved for the future generations. With the help of that learning perhaps they really could, someday, somehow, escape from their prison and make Athena their own.

He told West of what he had been thinking. “We’ll have to start a school,” he said. “This winter—tomorrow.”

West nodded in agreement. “And the writings should be commenced as soon as possible. Some of the textbooks will require more time to write than Ragnarok will give the authors.”

A school for the children was started the next day and the writing of the books began. The parchment books would serve two purposes. One would be to teach the future generations things that would not only help them survive but would help them create a culture of their own as advanced as the harsh environment and scanty resources of Ragnarok permitted. The other would be to warn them of the danger of a return of the Gerns and to teach them all that was known about Gerns and their weapons.

Lake’s main contribution would be a lengthy book: terran spaceships; types and operation. He postponed its writing, however, to first produce a much smaller book but one that might well be more important: interior features of a gern cruiser. Terran Intelligence knew a little about Gern cruisers and as second-in-command of the Constellation he had seen and studied a copy of that report. He had an excellent memory for such things, almost photographic, and he wrote the text and drew a multitude of sketches.

He shook his head ruefully at the result. The text was good but, for clarity, the accompanying illustrations should be accurate and in perspective. And he was definitely not an artist.

He discovered that Craig could take a pen in his scarred, powerful hand and draw with the neat precision of a professional artist. He turned the sketches over to him, together with the mass of specifications. Since it might someday be of such vital importance, he would make four copies of it. The text was given to a teen-age girl, who would make three more copies of it.…

Four days later Schroeder handed Lake a text with some rough sketches. The title was: operation of gern blasters.

Not even Intelligence had ever been able to examine a Gern hand blaster. But a man named Schrader, on Venus, had killed a Gern with his own blaster and then disappeared with both infuriated Gerns and Gern-intimidated Venusian police in pursuit. There had been a high reward for his capture.…

He looked it over and said, “I was counting on you giving us this.”

Only the barest trace of surprise showed on Schroeder’s face but his eyes were intently watching Lake. “So you knew all the time who I was?”

“I knew.”

“Did anyone else on the Constellation know?”

“You were recognized by one of the ship’s officers. You would have been tried in two more days.”

“I see,” Schroeder said. “And since I was guilty and couldn’t be returned to Earth or Venus I’d have been executed on the Constellation.” He smiled sardonically. “And you, as second-in-command, would have been my execution’s master of ceremonies.”

Lake put the parchment sheets back together in their proper order. “Sometimes,” he said, “a ship’s officer has to do things that are contrary to all his own wishes.”

Schroeder drew a deep breath, his face sombre with the memories he had kept to himself.

“It was two years ago when the Gerns were still talking friendship to the Earth government while they shoved the colonists around on Venus. This Gern…there was a girl there and he thought he could do what he wanted to her because he was a mighty Gern and she was nothing. He did. That’s why I killed him. I had to kill two Venusian police to get away—that’s where I put the rope around my neck.”

“It’s not what we did but what we do that we’ll live or die by on Ragnarok,” Lake said. He handed Schroeder the sheets of parchment. “Tell Craig to make at least four copies of this. Someday our knowledge of Gern blasters may be something else we’ll live or die by.”

* * * *

The school and writing were interrupted by the spring hunting. Craig made his journey to the Plateau’s snow-capped mountain but he was unable to keep his promise to prospect it. The plateau was perhaps ten thousand feet in elevation and the mountain rose another ten thousand feet above the plateau. No human could climb such a mountain in a 1.5 gravity.

“I tried,” he told Lake wearily when he came back. “Damn it, I never tried harder at anything in my life. It was just too much for me. Maybe some of the young ones will be better adapted and can do it when they grow up.”

Craig brought back several sheets of unusually transparent mica, each sheet a foot in diameter, and a dozen large water-clear quartz crystals.

“Float, from higher up on the mountain,” he said. “The mica and crystals are in place up there if we could only reach them. Other minerals, too—I panned traces in the canyon bottoms. But no iron.”

Lake examined the sheets of mica. “We could make windows for the outer caves of these,” he said. “Have them double thickness with a wide air space between, for insulation. As for the quartz crystals.…”

“Optical instruments,” Craig said. “Binoculars, microscopes—it would take us a long time to learn how to make glass as clear and flawless as those crystals. But we have no way of cutting and grinding them.”

Craig went to the east that fall and to the west the next spring. He returned from the trip to the west with a twisted knee that would never let him go prospecting again.

“It will take years to find the metals we need,” he said. “The indications are that we never will but I wanted to keep on trying. Now, my damned knee has me chained to these caves.…”

He reconciled himself to his lameness and confinement as best he could and finished his textbook: geology and mineral identification.

He also taught a geology class during the winters. It was in the winter of the year four on Ragnarok that a nine-year-old boy entered his class; the silent, scar-faced Billy Humbolt.

He was by far the youngest of Craig’s students, and the most attentive. Lake was present one day when Craig asked, curiously:

“It’s not often a boy your age is so interested in mineralogy and geology, Billy. Is there something more than just interest?”

“I have to learn all about minerals,” Billy said with matter-of-fact seriousness, “so that when I’m grown I can find the metals for us to make a ship.”

“And then?” Craig asked.

“And then we’d go to Athena, to kill the Gerns who caused my mother to die, and my grandfather, and Julia, and all the others. And to free my father and the other slaves if they’re still alive.”

“I see,” Craig said.

He did not smile. His face was shadowed and old as he looked at the boy and beyond him; seeing again, perhaps, the frail blonde girl and the two children that the first quick, violent months had taken from him.

“I hope you succeed,” he said. “I wish I was young so I could dream of the same thing. But I’m not…so let’s get back to the identification of the ores that will be needed to make a ship to go to Athena and to make blasters to kill Gerns after you get there.”

Lake had a corral built early the following spring, with camouflaged wings, to trap some of the woods goats when they came. It would be an immense forward step toward conquering their new environment if they could domesticate the goats and have goat herds near the caves all through the year. Gathering enough grass to last a herd of goats through the winter would be a problem—but first, before they worried about that, they would have to see if the goats could survive the summer and winter extremes of heat and cold.

They trapped ten goats that spring. They built them brush sunshades—before summer was over the winds would have stripped the trees of most of their dry, brown leaves—and a stream of water was diverted through the corral.

It was all work in vain. The goats died from the heat in early summer, together with the young that had been born.

When fall came they trapped six more goats. They built them shelters that would be as warm as possible and carried them a large supply of the tall grass from along the creek banks; enough to last them through the winter. But the cold was too much for the goats and the second blizzard killed them all.

The next spring and fall, and with much more difficulty, they tried the experiment with pairs of unicorns. The results were the same.

Which meant they would remain a race of hunters. Ragnarok would not permit them to be herdsmen.

* * * *

The years went by, each much like the one before it but for the rapid aging of the Old Ones, as Lake and the others called themselves, and the growing up of the Young Ones. No woman among the Old Ones could any longer have children, but six more normal, healthy children had been born. Like the first two, they were not affected by the gravity as Earth-born babies had been.

Among the Young Ones, Lake saw, was a distinguishable difference. Those who had been very young the day the Gerns left them to die had adapted better than those who had been a few years older.

The environment of Ragnarok had struck at the very young with merciless savagery. It had subjected them to a test of survival that was without precedent on Earth. It had killed them by the hundreds but among them had been those whose young flesh and blood and organs had resisted death by adapting to the greatest extent possible.

The day of the Old Ones was almost done and the future would soon be in the hands of the Young Ones. They were the ninety unconquerables out of what had been four thousand Rejects; the first generation of what would be a new race.

It seemed to Lake that the years came and went ever faster as the Old Ones dwindled in numbers at an accelerating rate. Anders had died in the sixth year, his heart failing him one night as he worked patiently in his crude little laboratory at carrying on the work started by Chiara to find a cure for the Hell Fever. Barber, trying to develop a strain of herbs that would grow in the lower elevation of the caves, was killed by a unicorn as he worked in his test plot below the caves. Craig went limping out one spring day on the eighth year to look at a new mineral a hunter had found a mile from the caves. A sudden cold rain blew up, chilling him before he could return, and he died of Hell Fever the same day.

Schroeder was killed by prowlers the same year, dying with his back to a tree and a bloody knife in his hand. It was the way he would have wanted to go—once he had said to Lake:

“When my times comes I would rather it be against the prowlers. They fight hard and kill quick and then they’re through with you. They don’t tear you up after you’re dead and slobber and gloat over the pieces, the way the unicorns do.”

The springs came a little earlier each year, the falls a little later, and the observations showed the suns progressing steadily northward. But the winters, though shorter, were seemingly as cold as ever. The long summers reached such a degree of heat on the ninth year that Lake knew they could endure no more than two or three years more of the increasing heat.

Then, in the summer of the tenth year, the tilting of Ragnarok—the apparent northward progress of the suns—stopped. They were in the middle of what Craig had called Big Summer and they could endure it—just barely. They would not have to leave the caves.

The suns started their drift southward. The observations were continued and carefully recorded. Big Fall was coming and behind it would be Big Winter.

Big Winter…the threat of it worried Lake. How far to the south would the suns go—how long would they stay? Would the time come when the plateau would be buried under hundreds of feet of snow and the caves enclosed in glacial ice?

There was no way he could ever know or even guess. Only those of the future would ever know.

On the twelfth year only Lake and West were left of the Old Ones. By then there were eighty-three left of the Young Ones, eight Ragnarok-born children of the Old Ones and four Ragnarok-born children of the Young Ones. Not counting himself and West, there were ninety-five of them.

It was not many to be the beginnings of a race that would face an ice age of unknown proportions and have over them, always, the threat of a chance return of the Gerns.

The winter of the fifteenth year came and he was truly alone, the last of the Old Ones. White-haired and aged far beyond his years, he was still leader. But that winter he could do little other than sit by his fire and feel the gravity dragging at his heart. He knew, long before spring, that it was time he chose his successor.

He had hoped to live to see his son take his place—but Jim was only thirteen. Among the others was one he had been watching since the day he told Craig he would find metals to build a ship and kill the Gerns: Bill Humbolt.

Bill Humbolt was not the oldest among those who would make leaders but he was the most versatile of them all, the most thoughtful and stubbornly determined. He reminded Lake of that fierce old man who had been his grandfather and had it not been for the scars that twisted his face into grim ugliness he would have looked much like him.

A violent storm was roaring outside the caves the night he told the others that he wanted Bill Humbolt to be his successor. There were no objections and, without ceremony and with few words, he terminated his fifteen years of leadership.

He left the others, his son among them, and went back to the cave where he slept. His fire was low, down to dying embers, but he was too tired to build it up again. He lay down on his pallet and saw, with neither surprise nor fear, that his time was much nearer than he had thought. It was already at hand.

He lay back and let the lassitude enclose him, not fighting it. He had done the best he could for the others and now the weary journey was over.

His thoughts dissolved into the memory of the day fifteen years before. The roaring of the storm became the thunder of the Gern cruisers as they disappeared into the gray sky. Four thousand Rejects stood in the cold wind and watched them go, the children not yet understanding that they had been condemned to die. Somehow, his own son was among them—

He tried feebly to rise. There was work to do—a lot of work to do.…

PART 2

It was early morning as Bill Humbolt sat by the fire in his cave and studied the map Craig had made of the plateau’s mountain. Craig had left the mountain nameless and he dipped his pen in ink to write: Craig Mountains.

“Bill—”

Delmont Anders entered very quietly, what he had to tell already evident on his face.

“He died last night, Bill.”

It was something he had been expecting to come at any time but the lack of surprise did not diminish the sense of loss. Lake had been the last of the Old Ones, the last of those who had worked and fought and shortened the years of their lives that the Young Ones might have a chance to live. Now he was gone—now a brief era was ended, a valiant, bloody chapter written and finished.

And he was the new leader who would decree how the next chapter should be written, only four years older than the boy who was looking at him with an unconscious appeal for reassurance on his face.…

“You’d better tell Jim,” he said. “Then, a little later, I want to talk to everyone about the things we’ll start doing as soon as spring comes.”

“You mean, the hunting?” Delmont asked.

“No—more than just the hunting.”

He sat for a while after Delmont left, looking back down the years that had preceded that day, back to that first morning on Ragnarok.

He had set a goal for himself that morning when he left his toy bear in the dust behind him and walked beside Julia into the new and perilous way of life. He had promised himself that some day he would watch the Gerns die and beg for mercy as they died and he would give them the same mercy they had given his mother.

As he grew older he realized that his hatred, alone, was a futile thing. There would have to be a way of leaving Ragnarok and there would have to be weapons with which to fight the Gerns. These would be things impossible and beyond his reach unless he had the help of all the others in united, coordinated effort.

To make certain of that united effort he would have to be their leader. So for eleven years he had studied and trained until there was no one who could use a bow or spear quite as well as he could, no one who could travel as far in a day or spot a unicorn ambush as quickly. And there was no one, with the exception of George Ord, who had studied as many textbooks as he had.

He had reached his first goal—he was leader. For all of them there existed the second goal: the hope of someday leaving Ragnarok and taking Athena from the Gerns. For many of them, perhaps, it was only wishful dreaming but for him it was the prime driving force of his life.

There was so much for them to do and their lives were so short in which to do it. For so long as he was leader they would not waste a day in idle wishing.…

* * * *

When the others were gathered to hear what he had to say he spoke to them:

“We’re going to continue where the Old Ones had to leave off. We’re better adapted than they were and we’re going to find metals to make a ship if there are any to be found.

“Somewhere on Ragnarok, on the northwest side of a range similar to the Craig Mountains on the plateau, is a deep valley that the Dunbar Expedition called the Chasm. They didn’t investigate it closely since their instruments showed no metals there but they saw strata in one place that was red; an iron discoloration. Maybe we can find a vein there that was too small for them to have paid any attention to. So we’ll go over the Craigs as soon as the snow melts from them.”

“That will be in early summer,” George Ord said, his black eyes thoughtful. “Whoever goes will have to time their return for either just before the prowlers and unicorns come back from the north or wait until they’ve all migrated down off the plateau.”

It was something Humbolt had been thinking about and wishing they could remedy. Men could elude unicorn attacks wherever there were trees large enough to offer safety and even prowler attacks could be warded off wherever there were trees for refuge; spears holding back the prowlers who would climb the trees while arrows picked off the ones on the ground. But there were no trees on the plateau, and to be caught by a band of prowlers or unicorns there was certain death for any small party of two or three. For that reason no small parties had ever gone up on the plateau except when the unicorns and prowlers were gone or nearly so. It was an inconvenience and it would continue for as long as their weapons were the slow-to-reload bows.

“You’re supposed to be our combination inventor-craftsman,” he said to George. “No one else can compare with you in that respect. Besides, you’re not exactly enthusiastic about such hard work as mountain climbing. So from now on you’ll do the kind of work you’re best fitted for. Your first job is to make us a better bow. Make it like a crossbow, with a sliding action to draw and cock the string and with a magazine of arrows mounted on top of it.”

George studied the idea thoughtfully. “The general principle is simple,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“How many of us will go over the Craig Mountains, Bill?” Dan Barber asked.

“You and I,” Humbolt answered. “A three-man party under Bob Craig will go into the Western Hills and another party under Johnny Stevens will go into the Eastern Hills.”

He looked toward the adjoining cave where the guns had been stored for so long, coated with unicorn tallow to protect them from rust.

“We could make gun powder if we could find a deposit of saltpeter. We already know where there’s a little sulphur. The guns would have to be converted to flintlocks, though, since we don’t have what we need for cartridge priming material. Worse, we’d have to use ceramic bullets. They would be inefficient—too light, and destructive to the bores. But we would need powder for mining if we ever found any iron. And, if we can’t have metal bullets to shoot the Gerns, we can have bombs to blast them with.”

“Suppose,” Johnny Stevens said, “that we never do find the metals to make a ship. How will we ever leave Ragnarok if that happens?”

“There’s another way—a possible way—of leaving here without a ship of our own. If there are no metals we’ll have to try it.”

“Why wait?” Bob Craig demanded. “Why not try it now?”

“Because the odds would be about ten thousand to one in favor of the Gerns. But we’ll try it if everything else fails.”

* * * *

George made, altered, and rejected four different types of crossbows before he perfected a reloading bow that met his critical approval. He brought it to where Humbolt stood outside the caves early one spring day when the grass was sending up the first green shoots on the southern hillsides and the long winter was finally dying.

“Here it is,” he said, handing Humbolt the bow. “Try it.”

He took it, noting the fine balance of it. Projecting down from the center of the bow, at right angles to it, was a stock shaped to fit the grip of the left hand. Under the crossbar was a sliding stock for the right hand, shaped like the butt of a pistol and fitted with a trigger. Mounted slightly above and to one side of the crossbar was a magazine containing ten short arrows.

The pistol grip was in position near the forestock. He pulled it back the length of the crossbar and it brought the string with it, stretching it taut. There was a click as the trigger mechanism locked the bowstring in place and at the same time a concealed spring arrangement shoved an arrow into place against the string.

He took quick aim at a distant tree and pressed the trigger. There was a twang as the arrow was ejected. He jerked the sliding pistol grip forward and back to reload, pressing the trigger an instant later. Another arrow went its way.

By the time he had fired the tenth arrow in the magazine he was shooting at the rate of one arrow per second. On the trunk of the distant tree, like a bristle of stiff whiskers, the ten arrows were driven deep into the wood in an area no larger than the chest of a prowler or head of a unicorn.

“This is better than I hoped for,” he said to George. “One man with one of these would equal six men with ordinary bows.”

“I’m going to add another feature,” George said. “Bundles of arrows, ten to the bundle in special holders, to carry in the quivers. To reload the magazine you’d just slap down a new bundle of arrows, in no more time than it would take to put one arrow in an ordinary bow. I figured that with practice a man should be able to get off forty arrows in not much more than twenty seconds.”

George took the bow and went back in the cave to add his new feature. Humbolt stared after him, thinking, If he can make something like that out of wood and unicorn gut, what would he be able to give us if he could have metal?

Perhaps George would never have the opportunity to show what he could do with metal. But Humbolt already felt sure that George’s genius would, if it ever became necessary, make possible the alternate plan for leaving Ragnarok.

* * * *

The weeks dragged into months and at last enough snow was gone from the Craigs that Humbolt and Dan Barber could start. They met no opposition. The prowlers had long since disappeared into the north and the unicorns were very scarce. They had no occasion to test the effectiveness of the new automatic crossbows in combat; a lack of opportunity that irked Barber.

“Any other time, if we had ordinary bows,” he complained, “the unicorns would be popping up to charge us from all directions.”

“Don’t fret,” Humbolt consoled him. “This fall, when we come back, they will be.”

They reached the mountain and stopped near its foot where a creek came down, its water high and muddy with melting snows. There they hunted until they had obtained all the meat they could carry. They would see no more game when they went up the mountain’s canyons. A poisonous weed replaced most of the grass in all the canyons and the animals of Ragnarok had learned long before to shun the mountain.

They found the canyon that Craig and his men had tried to explore and started up it. It was there that Craig had discovered the quartz and mica and so far as he had been able to tell the head of that canyon would be the lowest of all the passes over the mountain.

The canyon went up the mountain diagonally so that the climb was not steep although it was constant. They began to see mica and quartz crystals in the creek bed and at noon on the second day they passed the last stunted tree. Nothing grew higher than that point but the thorny poison weeds and they were scarce.

The air was noticeably thinner there and their burdens heavier. A short distance beyond they came to a small rock monument; Craig’s turn-back point.

The next day they found the quartz crystals in place. A mile farther was the vein the mica had come from. Of the other minerals Craig had hoped to find, however, there were only traces.

The fourth day was an eternity of struggling up the now-steeper canyon under loads that seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds; forcing their protesting legs to carry them fifty steps at a time, at the end of which they would stop to rest while their lungs labored to suck in the thin air in quick, panting breaths.

It would have been much easier to have gone around the mountain. But the Chasm was supposed to be like a huge cavity scooped out of the plateau beyond the mountain, rimmed with sheer cliffs a mile high. Only on the side next to the mountain was there a slope leading down into it.

They stopped for the night where the creek ended in a small spring. There the snow still clung to the canyon’s walls and there the canyon curved, offering them the promise of the summit just around the bend as it had been doing all day.

The sun was hot and bright the next morning as they made their slow way on again. The canyon straightened, the steep walls of it flattening out to make a pair of ragged shoulders with a saddle between them.

They climbed to the summit of the saddle and there, suddenly before them, was the other side of the world—and the Chasm.

Far below them was a plateau, stretching endlessly like the one they had left behind them. But the chasm dominated all else. It was a gigantic, sheer-walled valley, a hundred miles long by forty miles wide, sunk deep in the plateau with the tops of its mile-high walls level with the floor of the plateau. The mountain under them dropped swiftly away, sloping down and down to the level of the plateau and then on, down and down again, to the bottom of the chasm that was so deep its floor was half hidden by the morning shadows.

“My God!” Barber said. “It must be over three miles under us to the bottom, on the vertical. Ten miles of thirty-three per cent grade—if we go down we’ll never get out again.”

“You can turn back here if you want to,” Humbolt said.

“Turn back?” Barber’s red whiskers seemed to bristle. “Who in hell said anything about turning back?”

“Nobody,” Humbolt said, smiling a little at Barber’s quick flash of anger.

He studied the chasm, wishing that they could have some way of cutting the quartz crystals and making binoculars. It was a long way to look with the naked eye.…

Here and there the chasm thrust out arms into the plateau. All the arms were short, however, and even at their heads the cliffs were vertical. The morning shadows prevented a clear view of much of the chasm and he could see no sign of the red-stained strata that they were searching for.

In the southwest corner of the chasm, far away and almost imperceptible, he saw a faint cloud rising up from the chasm’s floor. It was impossible to tell what it was and it faded away as he watched.

Barber saw it, too, and said, “It looked like smoke. Do you suppose there could be people—or some kind of intelligent things—living down there?”

“It might have been the vapor from hot springs, condensed by the cool morning air,” he said. “Whatever it was, we’ll look into it when we get there.”

The climb down the steep slope into the chasm was swifter than that up the canyon but no more pleasant. Carrying a heavy pack down such a grade exerted a torturous strain upon the backs of the legs.

The heat increased steadily as they descended. They reached the floor of the valley the next day and the noonday heat was so great that Humbolt wondered if they might not have trapped themselves into what the summer would soon transform into a monstrous oven where no life at all could exist. There could never be any choice, of course—the mountains were passable only when the weather was hot.

The floor of the valley was silt, sand and gravel—they would find nothing there. They set out on a circuit of the chasm’s walls, following along close to the base.

In many places the mile-high walls were without a single ledge to break their vertical faces. When they came to the first such place they saw that the ground near the base was riddled with queer little pits, like tiny craters of the moon. As they looked there was a crack like a cannon shot and the ground beside them erupted into an explosion of sand and gravel. When the dust had cleared away there was a new crater where none had been before.

Humbolt wiped the blood from his face where a flying fragment had cut it and said, “The heat of the sun loosens rocks up on the rim. When one falls a mile in a one point five gravity, it’s traveling like a meteor.”

They went on, through the danger zone. As with the peril of the chasm’s heat, there was no choice. Only by observing the material that littered the base of the cliffs could they know what minerals, if any, might be above them.

On the fifteenth day they saw the red-stained stratum. Humbolt quickened his pace, hurrying forward in advance of Barber. The stratum was too high up on the wall to be reached but it was not necessary to examine it in place—the base of the cliff was piled thick with fragments from it.

He felt the first touch of discouragement as he looked at them. They were a sandstone, light in weight. The iron present was only what the Dunbar Expedition had thought it to be; a mere discoloration.

They made their way slowly along the foot of the cliff, examining piece after piece in the hope of finding something more than iron stains. There was no variation, however, and a mile farther on they came to the end of the red stratum. Beyond that point the rocks were gray, without a vestige of iron.

“So that,” Barber said, looking back the way they had come, “is what we were going to build a ship out of—iron stains!”

Humbolt did not answer. For him it was more than a disappointment. It was the death of a dream he had held since the year he was nine and had heard that the Dunbar Expedition had seen iron-stained rock in a deep chasm—the only iron-stained rock on the face of Ragnarok. Surely, he had thought, there would be enough iron there to build a small ship. For eleven years he had worked toward the day when he would find it. Now, he had found it—and it was nothing. The ship was as far away as ever.…

But discouragement was as useless as iron-stained sandstone. He shook it off and turned to Barber.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find something by the time we circle the chasm.”

For seven days they risked the danger of death from downward plunging rocks and found nothing. On the eighth day they found the treasure that was not treasure.

They stopped for the evening just within the mouth of one of the chasm’s tributaries. Humbolt went out to get a drink where a trickle of water ran through the sand and as he knelt down he saw the flash of something red under him, almost buried in the sand.

He lifted it out. It was a stone half the size of his hand; darkly translucent and glowing in the light of the setting sun like blood.

It was a ruby.

He looked, and saw another gleam a little farther up the stream. It was another ruby, almost as large as the first one. Near it was a flawless blue sapphire. Scattered here and there were smaller rubies and sapphires, down to the size of grains of sand.

He went farther upstream and saw specimens of still another stone. They were colorless but burning with internal fires. He rubbed one of them hard across the ruby he still carried and there was a gritting sound as it cut a deep scratch in the ruby.

“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud.

There was only one stone hard enough to cut a ruby—the diamond.

* * * *

It was almost dark when he returned to where Barber was resting beside their packs.

“What did you find to keep you out so late?” Barber asked curiously.

He dropped a double handful of rubies, sapphires and diamonds at Barber’s feet.

“Take a look,” he said. “On a civilized world what you see there would buy us a ship without our having to lift a finger. Here they’re just pretty rocks.

“Except the diamonds,” he added “At least we now have something to cut those quartz crystals with.”

* * * *

They took only a few of the rubies and sapphires the next morning but they gathered more of the diamonds, looking in particular for the gray-black and ugly but very hard and tough carbonado variety. Then they resumed their circling of the chasm’s walls.

The heat continued its steady increase as the days went by. Only at night was there any relief from it and the nights were growing swiftly shorter as the blue sun rose earlier each morning. When the yellow sun rose the chasm became a blazing furnace around the edge of which they crept like ants in some gigantic oven.

There was no life in any form to be seen; no animal or bush or blade of grass. There was only the barren floor of the chasm, made a harsh green shade by the two suns and writhing and undulating with heat waves like a nightmare sea, while above them the towering cliffs shimmered, too, and sometimes seemed to be leaning far out over their heads and already falling down upon them.

They found no more minerals of any kind and they came at last to the place where they had seen the smoke or vapor.

* * * *

There the walls of the chasm drew back to form a little valley a mile long by half a mile wide. The walls did not drop vertically to the floor there but sloped out at the base into a fantastic formation of natural roofs and arches that reached almost to the center of the valley from each side. Green things grew in the shade under the arches and sparkling waterfalls cascaded down over many of them. A small creek carried the water out of the valley, going out into the chasm a little way before the hot sands absorbed it.

They stood and watched for some time, but there was no movement in the valley other than the waving of the green plants as a breeze stirred them. Once the breeze shifted to bring them the fresh, sweet scent of growing things and urge them to come closer.

“A place like that doesn’t belong here,” Barber said in a low voice. “But it’s there. I wonder what else is there?”

“Shade and cool water,” Humbolt said. “And maybe things that don’t like strangers. Let’s go find out.”

They watched warily as they walked, their crossbows in their hands. At the closer range they saw that the roofs and arches were the outer remains of a system of natural caves that went back into the valley’s walls. The green vegetation grew wherever the roofs gave part-time shade, consisting mainly of a holly-leafed bush with purple flowers and a tall plant resembling corn.

Under some of the roofs the corn was mature, the orange colored grains visible. Under others it was no more than half grown. He saw the reason and said to Barber:

“There are both warm and cold springs here. The plants watered by the warm springs would grow almost the year around; the ones watered by the cold springs only in the summer. And what we saw from the mountain top would have been vapor rising from the warm springs.”

They passed under arch after arch without seeing any life. When they came to the valley’s upper end and still had seen nothing it seemed evident that there was little danger of an encounter with any intelligent-and-hostile creatures. Apparently nothing at all lived in the little valley.

Humbolt stopped under a broad arch where the breeze was made cool and moist by the spray of water it had come through. Barber went on, to look under the adjoining arch.

Caves led into the wall from both arches and as he stood there Humbolt saw something lying in the mouth of the nearest cave. It was a little mound of orange corn; lying in a neat pile as though whatever had left it there had intended to come back after it.

He looked toward the other arch but Barber was somewhere out of sight. He doubted that whatever had left the corn could be much of a menace—dangerous animals were more apt to eat flesh than corn—but he went to the cave with his crossbow ready.

He stopped at the mouth of the cave to let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness inside it. As he did so the things inside came out to meet him.

They emerged into full view; six little animals the size of squirrels, each of them a different color. They walked on short hind legs like miniature bears and the dark eyes in the bear-chipmunk faces were fixed on him with intense interest. They stopped five feet in front of him, there to stand in a neat row and continue the fascinated staring up at him.

The yellow one in the center scratched absently at its stomach with a furry paw and he lowered the bow, feeling a little foolish at having bothered to raise it against animals so small and harmless.

Then he half brought it up again as the yellow one opened its mouth and said in a tone that held distinct anticipation:

“I think we’ll eat you for supper.”

He darted glances to right and left but there was nothing near him except the six little animals. The yellow one, having spoken, was staring silently at him with only curiosity on its furry face. He wondered if some miasma or some scent from the vegetation in the valley had warped his mind into sudden insanity and asked:

“You think you’ll do what?”

It opened its mouth again, to stutter, “I—I—” Then, with a note of alarm, “Hey.…”

It said no more and the next sound was that of Barber hurrying toward him and calling, “Hey—Bill—where are you?”

“Here,” he answered, and he was already sure that he knew why the little animal had spoken to him.

Barber came up and saw the six chipmunk-bears. “Six of them!” he exclaimed. “There’s one in the next cave—the damned thing spoke to me!”

“I thought so,” he replied. “You told it we’d have it for supper and then it said, ‘You think you’ll do what?’ didn’t it?”

Barber’s face showed surprise. “How did you know that?”

“They’re telepathic between one another,” he said. “The yellow one there repeated what the one you spoke to heard you say and it repeated what the yellow one heard me say. It has to be telepathy between them.”

“Telepathy—” Barber stared at the six little animals, who stared back with their fascinated curiosity undiminished. “But why should they want to repeat aloud what they receive telepathically?”

“I don’t know. Maybe at some stage in their evolution only part of them were telepaths and the telepaths broadcasted danger warnings to the others that way. So far as that goes, why does a parrot repeat what it hears?”

There was a scurry of movement behind Barber and another of the little animals, a white one, hurried past them. It went to the yellow one and they stood close together as they stared up. Apparently they were mates.…

“That’s the other one—those are the two that mocked us,” Barber said, and thereby gave them the name by which they would be known: mockers.

* * * *

The mockers were fresh meat—but they accepted the humans with such friendliness and trust that Barber lost all his desire to have one for supper or for any other time. They had a limited supply of dried meat and there would be plenty of orange corn. They would not go hungry.

They discovered that the mockers had living quarters in both the cool caves and the ones warmed by the hot springs. There was evidence that they hibernated during the winters in the warm caves.

There were no minerals in the mockers’ valley and they set out to continue their circuit of the chasm. They did not get far until the heat had become so great that the chasm’s tributaries began going dry. They turned back then, to wait in the little valley until the fall rains came.

* * * *

When the long summer was ended by the first rain they resumed their journey. They took a supply of the orange corn and two of the mockers; the yellow one and its mate. The other mockers watched them leave, standing silent and solemn in front of their caves as though they feared they might never see their two fellows or the humans again.

The two mockers were pleasant company, riding on their shoulders and chattering any nonsense that came to mind. And sometimes saying things that were not at all nonsense, making Humbolt wonder if mockers could partly read human minds and dimly understand the meaning of some of the things they said.

They found a place where saltpeter was very thinly and erratically distributed. They scraped off all the films of it that were visible and procured a small amount. They completed their circuit and reached the foot of the long, steep slope of the Craigs without finding anything more.

It was an awesome climb that lay before them; up a grade so steep and barred with so many low ledges that when their legs refused to carry them farther they crawled. The heat was still very serious and there would be no water until they came to the spring beyond the mountain’s summit. A burning wind, born on the blazing floor of the chasm, followed them up the mountain all day. Their leather canteens were almost dry when night came and they were no more than a third of the way to the top.

The mockers had become silent as the elevation increased and when they stopped for the night Humbolt saw that they would never live to cross the mountain. They were breathing fast, their hearts racing, as they tried to extract enough oxygen from the thin air. They drank a few drops of water but they would not touch the corn he offered them.

The white mocker died at midmorning the next day as they stopped for a rest. The yellow one crawled feebly to her side and died a few minutes later.

“So that’s that,” Humbolt said, looking down at them. “The only things on Ragnarok that ever trusted us and wanted to be our friends—and we killed them.”

They drank the last of their water and went on. They made dry camp that night and dreams of cold streams of water tormented their exhausted sleep. The next day was a hellish eternity in which they walked and fell and crawled and walked and fell again.

Barber weakened steadily, his breathing growing to a rattling panting. He spoke once that afternoon, to try to smile with dry, swollen lips and say between his panting gasps, “It would be hell—to have to die—so thirsty like this.”

After that he fell with increasing frequency, each time slower and weaker in getting up again. Half a mile short of the summit he fell for the last time. He tried to get up, failed, and tried to crawl. He failed at that, too, and collapsed face down in the rocky soil.

Humbolt went to him and said between his own labored intakes of breath, “Wait, Dan—I’ll go on—bring you back water.”

Barber raised himself with a great effort and looked up. “No use,” he said. “My heart—too much—”

He fell forward again and that time he was very still, his desperate panting no more.

* * * *

It seemed to Humbolt that it was half a lifetime later that he finally reached the spring and the cold, clear water. He drank, the most ecstatic pleasure he had ever experienced in his life. Then the pleasure drained away as he seemed to see Dan Barber trying to smile and seemed to hear him say, “It would be hell—to have to die—so thirsty like this.”

He rested for two days before he was in condition to continue on his way. He reached the plateau and saw that the woods goats had been migrating south for some time. On the second morning he climbed up a gentle roll in the plain and met three unicorns face to face.

They charged at once, squealing with anticipation. Had he been equipped with an ordinary bow he would have been killed within seconds. But the automatic crossbow poured a rain of arrows into the faces of the unicorns that caused them to swing aside in pain and enraged astonishment. The moment they had swung enough to expose the area just behind their heads the arrows became fatal.

One unicorn escaped, three arrows bristling in its face. It watched him from a distance for a little while, squealing and shaking its head in baffled fury. Then it turned and disappeared over a swell in the plain, running like a deer.

He resumed his southward march, hurrying faster than before. The unicorn had headed north and that could be for but one purpose: to bring enough reinforcements to finish the job.

* * * *

He reached the caves at night. No one was up but George Ord, working late in his combination workshop-laboratory.

George looked up at the sound of his entrance and saw that he was alone. “So Dan didn’t make it?” he asked.

“The chasm got him,” he answered. And then, wearily, “The chasm—we found the damned thing.”

“The red stratum—”

“It was only iron stains.”

“I made a little pilot smelter while you were gone,” George said. “I was hoping the red stratum would be ore. The other prospecting parties—none of them found anything.”

“We’ll try again next spring,” he said. “We’ll find it somewhere, no matter how long it takes.”

“Our time may not be so long. The observations show the sun to be farther south than ever.”

“Then we’ll make double use of the time we do have. We’ll cut the hunting parties to the limit and send out more prospecting parties. We’re going to have a ship to meet the Gerns again.”

“Sometimes,” George said, his black eyes studying him thoughtfully, “I think that’s all you live for, Bill: for the day when you can kill Gerns.”

George said it as a statement of a fact, without censure, but Humbolt could not keep an edge of harshness out of his voice as he answered:

“For as long as I’m leader that’s all we’re all going to live for.”

He followed the game south that fall, taking with him Bob Craig and young Anders. Hundreds of miles south of the caves they came to the lowlands; a land of much water and vegetation and vast herds of unicorns and woods goats. It was an exceedingly dangerous country, due to the concentration of unicorns and prowlers, and only the automatic crossbows combined with never ceasing vigilance enabled them to survive.

There they saw the crawlers; hideous things that crawled on multiple legs like three-ton centipedes, their mouths set with six mandibles and dripping a stinking saliva. The bite of a crawler was poisonous, instantly paralyzing even to a unicorn, though not instantly killing them. The crawlers ate their victims at once, however, ripping the helpless and still living flesh from its bones.

Although the unicorns feared the crawlers, the prowlers hated them with a fanatical intensity and made use of their superior quickness to kill every crawler they found; ripping at the crawler until the crawler, in an insanity of rage, bit itself and died of its own poison.

They had taken one of the powerful longbows with them, in addition to their crossbows, and they killed a crawler with it one day. As they did so a band of twenty prowlers came suddenly upon them.

Twenty prowlers, with the advantage of surprise at short range, could have slaughtered them. Instead, the prowlers continued on their way without as much as a challenging snarl.

“Now why,” Bob Craig wondered, “did they do that?”

“They saw we had just killed a crawler,” Humbolt said. “The crawlers are their enemies and I guess letting us live was their way of showing appreciation.”

Their further explorations of the lowlands revealed no minerals—nothing but alluvial material of unknown depth—and there was no reason to stay longer except that return to the caves was impossible until spring came. They built attack-proof shelters in the trees and settled down to wait out the winter.

They started north with the first wave of woods goats, nothing but lack of success to show for their months of time and effort.

When they were almost to the caves they came to the barren valley where the Gerns had herded the Rejects out of the cruisers and to the place where the stockade had been. It was a lonely place, the stockade walls fallen and scattered and the graves of Humbolt’s mother and all the others long since obliterated by the hooves of the unicorn legions. Bitter memories were reawakened, tinged by the years with nostalgia, and the stockade was far behind them before the dark mood left him.

The orange corn was planted that spring and the number of prospecting parties was doubled.

The corn sprouted, grew feebly, and died before maturity. The prospecting parties returned one by one, each to report no success. He decided, that fall, that time was too precious to waste—they would have to use the alternate plan he had spoken of.

He went to George Ord and asked him if it would be possible to build a hyperspace transmitter with the materials they had.

“It’s the one way we could have a chance to leave here without a ship of our own,” he said. “By luring a Gern cruiser here and then taking it away from them.”

George shook his head. “A hyperspace transmitter might be built, given enough years of time. But it would be useless without power. It would take a generator of such size that we’d have to melt down every gun, knife, axe, every piece of steel and iron we have. And then we’d be five hundred pounds short. On top of that, we’d have to have at least three hundred pounds more of copper for additional wire.”

“I didn’t realize it would take such a large generator,” he said after a silence. “I was sure we could have a transmitter.”

“Get me the metal and we can,” George said. He sighed restlessly and there was almost hatred in his eyes as he looked at the inclosing walls of the cave. “You’re not the only one who would like to leave our prison. Get me eight hundred pounds of copper and iron and I’ll make the transmitter, some way.”

Eight hundred pounds of metal.… On Ragnarok that was like asking for the sun.

The years went by and each year there was the same determined effort, the same lack of success. And each year the suns were farther south, marking the coming of the end of any efforts other than the one to survive.

In the year thirty, when fall came earlier than ever before, he was forced to admit to himself the bleak and bitter fact: he and the others were not of the generation that would escape from Ragnarok. They were Earth-born—they were not adapted to Ragnarok and could not scour a world of 1.5 gravity for metals that might not exist.

And vengeance was a luxury he could not have.

A question grew in his mind where there had been only his hatred for the Gerns before. What would become of the future generations on Ragnarok?

With the question a scene from his childhood kept coming back to him; a late summer evening in the first year on Ragnarok and Julia sitting beside him in the warm starlight.…

“You’re my son, Billy,” she had said. “The first I ever had. Now, before so very long, maybe I’ll have another one.”

Hesitantly, not wanting to believe, he had asked, “What some of them said about how you might die then—it won’t really happen, will it, Julia?”

“It…might.” Then her arm had gone around him and she had said, “If I do I’ll leave in my place a life that’s more important than mine ever was.

“Remember me, Billy, and this evening, and what I said to you, if you should ever be leader. Remember that it’s only through the children that we can ever survive and whip this world. Protect them while they’re small and helpless and teach them to fight and be afraid of nothing when they’re a little older. Never, never let them forget how they came to be on Ragnarok. Someday, even if it’s a hundred years from now, the Gerns will come again and they must be ready to fight, for their freedom and for their lives.”

He had been too young then to understand how truly she had spoken and when he was old enough his hatred for the Gerns had blinded him to everything but his own desires. Now, he could see.…

The children of each generation would be better adapted to Ragnarok and full adaptation would eventually come. But all the generations of the future would be potential slaves of the Gern Empire, free only so long as they remained unnoticed.

It was inconceivable that the Gerns should never pass by Ragnarok through all time to come. And when they finally came the slow, uneventful progression of decades and centuries might have brought a false sense of security to the people of Ragnarok, might have turned the stories of what the Gerns did to the Rejects into legends and then into myths that no one any longer believed.

The Gerns would have to be brought to Ragnarok before that could happen.

* * * *

He went to George Ord again and said:

“There’s one kind of transmitter we could make a generator for—a plain normal-space transmitter, dot-dash, without a receiver.”

George laid down the diamond cutting wheel he had been working on.

“It would take two hundred years for the signal to get to Athena at the speed of light,” he said. “Then, forty days after it got there, a Gern cruiser would come hell-bent to investigate.”

“I want the ones of the future to know that the Gerns will be here no later than two hundred years from now. And with always the chance that a Gern cruiser in space might pick up the signal at any time before then.”

“I see,” George said. “The sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, to make them remember.”

“You know what would happen to them if they ever forgot. You’re as old as I am—you know what the Gerns did to us.”

“I’m older than you are,” George said. “I was nine when the Gerns left us here. They kept my father and mother and my sister was only three. I tried to keep her warm by holding her but the Hell Fever got her that first night. She was too young to understand why I couldn’t help her more.…”

Hatred burned in his eyes at the memory, like some fire that had been banked but had never died. “Yes, I remember the Gerns and what they did. I wouldn’t want it to have to happen to others—the transmitter will be made so that it won’t.”

* * * *

The guns were melted down, together with other items of iron and steel, to make the castings for the generator. Ceramic pipes were made to carry water from the spring to a waterwheel. The long, slow job of converting the miscellany of electronic devices, many of them broken, into the components of a transmitter proceeded.

It was five years before the transmitter was ready for testing. It was early fall of the year thirty-five then, and the water that gushed from the pipe splashed in cold drops against Humbolt as the waterwheel was set in motion.

The generator began to hum and George observed the output of it and the transmitter as registered by the various meters he had made.

“Weak, but it will reach the Gern monitor station on Athena,” he said, “It’s ready to send—what do you want to say?”

“Make it something short,” he said. “Make it, ‘Ragnarok calling.’”

George poised his finger over the transmitting key. “This will set forces in motion that can never be recalled. What we do here this morning is going to cause a lot of Gerns—or Ragnarok people—to die.”

“It will be the Gerns who die,” he said. “Send the signal.”

“Like you, I believe the same thing,” George said. “I have to believe it because that’s the way I want it to be. I hope we’re right. It’s something we’ll never know.”

He began depressing the key.

* * * *

A boy was given the job of operating the key and the signal went out daily until the freezing of winter stopped the waterwheel that powered the generator.

The sending of the signals was resumed when spring came and the prospecting parties continued their vain search for metals.

The suns continued moving south and each year the springs came later, the falls earlier. In the spring of forty-five he saw that he would have to make his final decision.

By then they had dwindled until they numbered only sixty-eight; the Young Ones gray and rapidly growing old. There was no longer any use to continue the prospecting—if any metals were to be found they were at the north end of the plateau where the snow no longer melted during the summer. They were too few to do more than prepare for what the Old Ones had feared they might have to face—Big Winter. That would require the work of all of them.

Sheets of mica were brought down from the Craigs, the summits of which were deeply buried under snow even in midsummer. Stoves were made of fireclay and mica, which would give both heat and light and would be more efficient than the open fireplaces. The innermost caves were prepared for occupation, with multiple doors to hold out the cold and with laboriously excavated ventilation ducts and smoke outlets.

There were sixty of them in the fall of fifty, when all had been done that could be done to prepare for what might come.

* * * *

“There aren’t many of the Earth-born left now,” Bob Craig said to him one night as they sat in the flickering light of a stove. “And there hasn’t been time for there to be many of the Ragnarok-born. The Gerns wouldn’t get many slaves if they should come now.”

“They could use however many they found,” he answered. “The younger ones, who are the best adapted to this gravity, would be exceptionally strong and quick on a one-gravity world. There are dangerous jobs where a strong, quick slave is a lot more efficient and expendable than complex, expensive machines.”

“And they would want some specimens for scientific study,” Jim Lake said. “They would want to cut into the young ones and see how they’re built that they’re adapted to this one and a half gravity world.”

He smiled with the cold mirthlessness that always reminded Humbolt of his father—of the Lake who had been the Constellation’s lieutenant commander. “According to the books the Gerns never did try to make it a secret that when a Gern doctor or biologist cuts into the muscles or organs of a non-Gern to see what makes them tick, he wants them to be still alive and ticking as he does so.”

Seventeen-year-old Don Chiara spoke, to say slowly, thoughtfully:

“Slavery and vivisection.… If the Gerns should come now when there are so few of us, and if we should fight the best we could and lose, it would be better for whoever was the last of us left to put a knife in the hearts of the women and children than to let the Gerns have them.”

No one made any answer. There was no answer to make, no alternative to suggest.

“In the future there will be more of us and it will be different,” he said at last. “On Earth the Gerns were always stronger and faster than humans but when the Gerns come to Ragnarok they’re going to find a race that isn’t really human any more. They’re going to find a race before which they’ll be like woods goats before prowlers.”

“If only they don’t come too soon,” Craig said.

“That was the chance that had to be taken,” he replied.

He wondered again as he spoke, as he had wondered so often in the past years, if he had given them all their death sentence when he ordered the transmitter built. Yet, the future generations could not be permitted to forget…and steel could not be tempered without first thrusting it into the fire.

* * * *

He was the last of the Young Ones when he awoke one night in the fall of fifty-six and found himself burning with the Hell Fever. He did not summon any of the others. They could do nothing for him and he had already done all he could for them.

He had done all he could for them…and now he would leave forty-nine men, women and children to face the unknown forces of Big Winter while over them hung the sword he had forged; the increasing danger of detection by the Gerns.

The question came again, sharp with the knowledge that it was far too late for him to change any of it. Did I arrange the execution of my people?

Then, through the red haze of the fever, Julia spoke to him out of the past; sitting again beside him in the summer twilight and saying:

Remember me, Billy, and this evening, and what I said to you…teach them to fight and be afraid of nothing…never let them forget how they came to be on Ragnarok.…

She seemed very near and real and the doubt faded and was gone. Teach them to fight…never let them forget.… The men of Ragnarok were only fur-clad hunters who crouched in caves but they would grow in numbers as time went by. Each generation would be stronger than the generation before it and he had set forces in motion that would bring the last generation the trial of combat and the opportunity for freedom. How well they fought on that day would determine their destiny but he was certain, once again, what that destiny would be.

It would be to walk as conquerors before beaten and humbled Gerns.

* * * *

It was winter of the year eighty-five and the temperature was one hundred and six degrees below zero. Walter Humbolt stood in front of the ice tunnel that led back through the glacier to the caves and looked up into the sky.

It was noon but there was no sun in the starlit sky. Many weeks before the sun had slipped below the southern horizon. For a little while a dim halo had marked its passage each day; then that, too, had faded away. But now it was time for the halo to appear again, to herald the sun’s returning.

Frost filled the sky, making the stars flicker as it swirled endlessly downward. He blinked against it, his eyelashes trying to freeze to his lower eyelids at the movement, and turned to look at the north.

There the northern lights were a gigantic curtain that filled a third of the sky, rippling and waving in folds that pulsated in red and green, rose and lavender and violet. Their reflection gleamed on the glacier that sloped down from the caves and glowed softly on the other glacier; the one that covered the transmitter station. The transmitter had long ago been taken into the caves but the generator and waterwheel were still there, frozen in a tomb of ice.

For three years the glacier had been growing before the caves and the plateau’s southern face had been buried under snow for ten years. Only a few woods goats ever came as far north as the country south of the caves and they stayed only during the brief period between the last snow of spring and the first snow of fall. Their winter home was somewhere down near the equator. What had been called the Southern Lowlands was a frozen, lifeless waste.

Once they had thought about going to the valley in the chasm where the mockers would be hibernating in their warm caves. But even if they could have gone up the plateau and performed the incredible feat of crossing the glacier-covered, blizzard-ripped Craigs, they would have found no food in the mockers’ valley—only a little corn the mockers had stored away, which would soon have been exhausted.

There was no place for them to live but in the caves or as nomads migrating with the animals. And if they migrated to the equator each year they would have to leave behind them all the books and tools and everything that might someday have given them a civilized way of life and might someday have shown them how to escape from their prison.

He looked again to the south where the halo should be, thinking: They should have made their decision in there by now. I’m their leader—but I can’t force them to stay here against their will. I could only ask them to consider what it would mean if we left here.

Snow creaked underfoot as he moved restlessly. He saw something lying under the blanket of frost and went to it. It was an arrow that someone had dropped. He picked it up, carefully, because the intense cold had made the shaft as brittle as glass. It would regain its normal strength when taken into the caves—

There was the sound of steps and Fred Schroeder came out of the tunnel, dressed as he was dressed in bulky furs. Schroeder looked to the south and said, “It seems to be starting to get a little lighter there.”

He saw that it was; a small, faint paling of the black sky.

“They talked over what you and I told them,” Schroeder said. “And about how we’ve struggled to stay here this long and how, even if the sun should stop drifting south this year, it will be years of ice and cold at the caves before Big Spring comes.”

“If we leave here the glacier will cover the caves and fill them with ice,” he said. “All we ever had will be buried back in there and all we’ll have left will be our bows and arrows and animal skins. We’ll be taking a one-way road back into the stone age, for ourselves and our children and their children.”

“They know that,” Schroeder said. “We both told them.”

He paused. They watched the sky to the south turn lighter. The northern lights flamed unnoticed behind them as the pale halo of the invisible sun slowly brightened to its maximum. Their faces were white with near-freezing then and they turned to go back into the caves. “They had made their decision,” Schroeder went on. “I guess you and I did them an injustice when we thought they had lost their determination, when we thought they might want to hand their children a flint axe and say, ‘Here—take this and let it be the symbol of all you are or all you will ever be.’

“Their decision was unanimous—we’ll stay for as long as it’s possible for us to survive here.”

* * * *

Howard Lake listened to Teacher Morgan West read from the diary of Walter Humbolt, written during the terrible winter of thirty-five years before:

“Each morning the light to the south was brighter. On the seventh morning we saw the sun—and it was not due until the eighth morning!

“It will be years before we can stop fighting the enclosure of the glacier but we have reached and passed the dead of Big Winter. We have reached the bottom and the only direction we can go in the future is up.

“And so,” West said, closing the book, “we are here in the caves tonight because of the stubbornness of Humbolt and Schroeder and all the others. Had they thought only of their own welfare, had they conceded defeat and gone into the migratory way of life, we would be sitting beside grass campfires somewhere to the south tonight, our way of life containing no plans or aspirations greater than to follow the game back and forth through the years.

“Now, let’s go outside to finish tonight’s lesson.”

Teacher West led the way into the starlit night just outside the caves, Howard Lake and the other children following him. West pointed to the sky where the star group they called the Athena Constellation blazed like a huge arrowhead high in the east.

“There,” he said, “beyond the top of the arrowhead, is where we were going when the Gerns stopped us a hundred and twenty years ago and left us to die on Ragnarok. It’s so far that Athena’s sun can’t be seen from here, so far that it will be another hundred and fifteen years before our first signal gets there. Why is it, then, that you and all the other groups of children have to learn such things as history, physics, the Gern language, and the way to fire a Gern blaster?”

The hand of every child went up. West selected eight-year-old Clifton Humbolt. “Tell us, Clifton,” he said.

“Because,” Clifton answered, “a Gern cruiser might pass by a few light-years out at any time and pick up our signals. So we have to know all we can about them and how to fight them because there aren’t very many of us yet.”

“The Gerns will come to kill us,” little Marie Chiara said, her dark eyes large and earnest. “They’ll come to kill us and to make slaves out of the ones they don’t kill, like they did with the others a long time ago. They’re awful mean and awful smart and we have to be smarter than they are.”

Howard looked again at the Athena constellation, thinking, I hope they come just as soon as I’m old enough to fight them, or even tonight.…

“Teacher,” he asked, “how would a Gern cruiser look if it came tonight? Would it come from the Athena arrowhead?”

“It probably would,” West answered. “You would see its rocket blast, like a bright trail of fire—”

A bright trail of fire burst suddenly into being, coming from the constellation of Athena and lighting up the woods and hills and their startled faces as it arced down toward them.

“It’s them!” a treble voice exclaimed and there was a quick flurry of movement as Howard and the other older children shoved the younger children behind them.

Then the light vanished, leaving a dimming glow where it had been.

“Only a meteor,” West said. He looked at the line of older children who were standing protectingly in front of the younger ones, rocks in their hands with which to ward off the Gerns, and he smiled in the way he had when he was pleased with them.

Howard watched the meteor trail fade swiftly into invisibility and felt his heartbeats slow from the first wild thrill to gray disappointment. Only a meteor.…

But someday he might be leader and by then, surely, the Gerns would come. If not, he would find some way to make them come.

* * * *

Ten years later Howard Lake was leader. There were three hundred and fifty of them then and Big Spring was on its way to becoming Big Summer. The snow was gone from the southern end of the plateau and once again game migrated up the valleys east of the caves.

There were many things to be done now that Big Winter was past and they could have the chance to do them. They needed a larger pottery kiln, a larger workshop with a wooden lathe, more diamonds to make cutting wheels, more quartz crystals to make binoculars and microscopes. They could again explore the field of inorganic chemistry, even though results in the past had produced nothing of value, and they could, within a few years, resume the metal prospecting up the plateau—the most important project of all.

Their weapons seemed to be as perfect as was possible but when the Gerns came they would need some quick and certain means of communication between the various units that would fight the Gerns. A leader who could not communicate with his forces and coordinate their actions would be helpless. And they had on Ragnarok a form of communication, if trained, that the Gerns could not detect or interfere with electronically: the mockers.

The Craigs were still white and impassable with snow that summer but the snow was receding higher each year. Five years later, in the summer of one hundred and thirty-five, the Craigs were passable for a few weeks.

Lake led a party of eight over them and down into the chasm. They took with them two small cages, constructed of wood and glass and made airtight with the strong medusabush glue. Each cage was equipped with a simple air pump and a pressure gauge.

They brought back two pairs of mockers as interested and trusting captives, together with a supply of the orange corn and a large amount of diamonds. The mockers, in their pressure-maintained cages, were not even aware of the increase in elevation as they were carried over the high summit of the Craigs.

To Lake and the men with him the climb back up the long, steep slope of the mountain was a stiff climb to make in one day but no more than that. It was hard to believe that it had taken Humbolt and Barber almost three days to climb it and that Barber had died in the attempt. It reminded him of the old crossbows that Humbolt and the others had used. They were thin, with a light pull, such as the present generation boys used. It must have required courage for the old ones to dare unicorn attacks with bows so thin that only the small area behind the unicorn’s jaws was vulnerable to their arrows.…

* * * *

When the caves were reached, a very gradual reduction of pressure in the mocker cages was started; one that would cover a period of weeks. One pair of mockers survived and had two young ones that fall. The young mockers, like the first generation of Ragnarok-born children of many years before, were more adapted to their environment than their parents were.

The orange corn was planted, using an adaptation method somewhat similar to that used with the mockers. It might have worked had the orange corn not required such a long period of time in which to reach maturity. When winter came only a few grains had formed.

They were saved for next year’s seeds, to continue the slow adaptation process.

By the fifth year the youngest generation of mockers was well adapted to the elevation of the caves but for a susceptibility to a quickly fatal form of pneumonia which made it necessary to keep them from exposing themselves to the cold or to any sudden changes of temperature.

Their intelligence was surprising and they seemed to be partially receptive to human thoughts, as Bill Humbolt had written. By the end of the fifteenth year their training had reached such a stage of perfection that a mocker would transmit or not transmit with only the unspoken thought of its master to tell it which it should be. In addition, they would transmit the message to whichever mocker their master’s thought directed. Presumably all mockers received the message but only the mocker to whom it was addressed would repeat it aloud.

They had their method of communication. They had their automatic crossbows for quick, close fighting, and their long range longbows. They were fully adapted to the 1.5 gravity and their reflexes were almost like those of prowlers—Ragnarok had long ago separated the quick from the dead.

There were eight hundred and nineteen of them that year, in the early spring of one hundred and fifty, and they were ready and impatient for the coming of the Gerns.

Then the transmitter, which had been in operation again for many years, failed one day.

George Craig had finished checking it when Lake arrived. He looked up from his instruments, remarkably similar in appearance to a sketch of the old George Ord—a resemblance that had been passed down to him by his mother—and said:

“The entire circuit is either gone or ready to go. It’s already operated for a lot longer than it should have.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lake said. “It’s served its purpose. We won’t rebuild it.”

George watched him questioningly.

“It’s served its purpose,” he said again. “It didn’t let us forget that the Gerns will come again. But that isn’t enough, now. The first signal won’t reach Athena until the year two thirty-five. It will be the dead of Big Winter again then. They’ll have to fight the Gerns with bows and arrows that the cold will make as brittle as glass. They won’t have a chance.”

“No,” George said. “They won’t have a chance. But what can we do to change it?”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about,” he said. “We’ll build a hyperspace transmitter and bring the Gerns before Big Winter comes.”

“We will?” George asked, lifting his dark eyebrows. “And what do we use for the three hundred pounds of copper and five hundred pounds of iron we would have to have to make the generator?”

“Surely we can find five hundred pounds of iron somewhere on Ragnarok. The north end of the plateau might be the best bet. As for the copper—I doubt that we’ll ever find it. But there are seams of a bauxite-like clay in the Western hills—they’re certain to contain aluminum to at least some extent. So we’ll make the wires of aluminum.”

“The ore would have to be refined to pure aluminum oxide before it could be smelted,” George said. “And you can’t smelt aluminum ore in an ordinary furnace—only in an electric furnace with a generator that can supply a high amperage. And we would have to have cryolite ore to serve as the solvent in the smelting process.”

“There’s a seam of cryolite in the Eastern Hills, according to the old maps,” said Lake. “We could make a larger generator by melting down everything we have. It wouldn’t be big enough to power the hyperspace transmitter but it should be big enough to smelt aluminum ore.”

George considered the idea. “I think we can do it.”

“How long until we can send the signal?” he asked.

“Given the extra metal we need, the building of the generator is a simple job. The transmitter is what will take years—maybe as long as fifty.”

Fifty years.…

“Can’t anything be done to make it sooner?” he asked.

“I know,” George said. “You would like for the Gerns to come while you’re still here. So would every man on Ragnarok. But even on Earth the building of a hyperspace transmitter was a long, slow job, with all the materials they needed and all the special tools and equipment. Here we’ll have to do everything by hand and for materials we have only broken and burned-out odds and ends. It will take about fifty years—it can’t be helped.”

Fifty years…but that would bring the Gerns before Big Winter came again. And there was the rapidly increasing chance that a Gern cruiser would at any day intercept the first signals. They were already more than halfway to Athena.

“Melt down the generator,” he said. “Start making a bigger one. Tomorrow men will go out after bauxite and cryolite and four of us will go up the plateau to look for iron.”

* * * *

Lake selected Gene Taylor, Tony Chiara and Steve Schroeder to go with him. They were well on their way by daylight the next morning, on the shoulder of each of them a mocker which observed the activity and new scenes with bright, interested eyes.

They traveled light, since they would have fresh meat all the way, and carried herbs and corn only for the mockers. Once, generations before, it had been necessary for men to eat herbs to prevent deficiency diseases but now the deficiency diseases, like Hell Fever, were unknown to them.

They carried no compasses since the radiations of the two suns constantly created magnetic storms that caused compass needles to swing as much as twenty degrees within an hour. Each of them carried a pair of powerful binoculars, however; binoculars that had been diamond-carved from the ivory-like black unicorn horn and set with lenses and prisms of diamond-cut quartz.

The foremost bands of woods goats followed the advance of spring up the plateau and they followed the woods goats. They could not go ahead of the goats—the goats were already pressing close behind the melting of the snow. No hills or ridges were seen as the weeks went by and it seemed to Lake that they would walk forever across the endless rolling floor of the plain.

Early summer came and they walked across a land that was green and pleasantly cool at a time when the vegetation around the caves would be burned brown and lifeless. The woods goats grew less in number then as some of them stopped for the rest of the summer in their chosen latitudes.

They continued on and at last they saw, far to the north, what seemed to be an almost infinitesimal bulge on the horizon. They reached it two days later; a land of rolling green hills, scarred here and there with ragged outcroppings of rock, and a land that climbed slowly and steadily higher as it went into the north.

They camped that night in a little vale. The floor of it was white with the bones of woods goats that had tarried too long the fall before and got caught by an early blizzard. There was still flesh on the bones and scavenger rodents scuttled among the carcasses, feasting.

“We’ll split up now,” he told the others the next morning.

He assigned each of them his position; Steve Schroeder to parallel his course thirty miles to his right, Gene Taylor to go thirty miles to his left, and Tony Chiara to go thirty miles to the left of Taylor.

“We’ll try to hold those distances,” he said. “We can’t look over the country in detail that way but it will give us a good general survey of it. We don’t have too much time left by now and we’ll make as many miles into the north as we can each day. The woods goats will tell us when it’s time for us to turn back.”

They parted company with casual farewells but for Steve Schroeder, who smiled sardonically at the bones of the woods goats in the vale and asked:

“Who’s supposed to tell the woods goats?”

* * * *

Tip, the black, white-nosed mocker on Lake’s shoulder, kept twisting his neck to watch the departure of the others until he had crossed the next hill and the others were hidden from view.

“All right, Tip,” he said then. “You can unwind your neck now.”

“Unwind—all right—all right,” Tip said. Then, with a sudden burst of energy which was characteristic of mockers, he began to jiggle up and down and chant in time with his movements, “All right all right all right all right—”

“Shut up!” he commanded. “If you want to talk nonsense I don’t care—but don’t say ‘all right’ any more.”

“All right,” Tip agreed amiably, settling down. “Shut up if you want to talk nonsense. I don’t care.”

“And don’t slaughter the punctuation like that. You change the meaning entirely.”

“But don’t say all right any more,” Tip went on, ignoring him. “You change the meaning entirely.”

Then, with another surge of animation, Tip began to fish in his jacket pocket with little hand-like paws. “Tip hungry—Tip hungry.”

Lake unbuttoned the pocket and gave Tip a herb leaf. “I notice there’s no nonsensical chatter when you want to ask for something to eat.”

Tip took the herb leaf but he spoke again before he began to eat; slowly, as though trying seriously to express a thought:

“Tip hungry—no nonsensical.”

“Sometimes,” he said, turning his head to look at Tip, “you mockers give me the peculiar feeling that you’re right on the edge of becoming a new and intelligent race and no fooling.”

Tip wiggled his whiskers and bit into the herb leaf. “No fooling,” he agreed.

* * * *

He stopped for the night in a steep-walled hollow and built a small fire of dead moss and grass to ward off the chill that came with dark. He called the others, thinking first of Schroeder so that Tip would transmit to Schroeder’s mocker:

“Steve?”

“Here,” Tip answered, in a detectable imitation of Schroeder’s voice. “No luck.”

He thought of Gene Taylor and called, “Gene?”

There was no answer and he called Chiara. “Tony—could you see any of Gene’s route today?”

“Part of it,” Chiara answered. “I saw a herd of unicorns over that way. Why—doesn’t he answer?”

“No.”

“Then,” Chiara said, “they must have got him.”

“Did you find anything today, Tony?” he asked.

“Nothing but pure andesite. Not even an iron stain.”

It was the same kind of barren formation that he, himself, had been walking over all day. But he had not expected success so soon.…

He tried once again to call Gene Taylor:

“Gene…Gene…are you there, Gene?”

There was no answer. He knew there would never be.

* * * *

The days became weeks with dismaying swiftness as they penetrated farther into the north. The hills became more rugged and there were intrusions of granite and other formations to promise a chance of finding metal; a promise that urged them on faster as their time grew shorter.

Twice he saw something white in the distance. Once it was the bones of another band of woods goats that had huddled together and frozen to death in some early blizzard of the past and once it was the bones of a dozen unicorns.

The nights grew chillier and the suns moved faster and faster to the south. The animals began to migrate, an almost imperceptible movement in the beginning but one that increased each day. The first frost came and the migration began in earnest. By the third day it was a hurrying tide.

Tip was strangely silent that day. He did not speak until the noon sun had cleared the cold, heavy mists of morning. When he spoke it was to give a message from Chiara:

“Howard…last report…Goldie is dying…pneumonia.…”

Goldie was Chiara’s mocker, his only means of communication—and there would be no way to tell him when they were turning back.

“Turn back today, Tony,” he said. “Steve and I will go on for a few days more.”

There was no answer and he said quickly, “Turn back—turn back! Acknowledge that, Tony.”

“Turning back…” the acknowledgment came. “…tried to save her.…”

The message stopped and there was a silence that Chiara’s mocker would never break again. He walked on, with Tip sitting very small and quiet on his shoulder. He had crossed another hill before Tip moved, to press up close to him the way mockers did when they were lonely and to hold tightly to him.

“What is it, Tip?” he asked.

“Goldie is dying,” Tip said. And then again, like a soft, sad whisper, “Goldie is dying.…”

“She was your mate.… I’m sorry.”

Tip made a little whimpering sound, and the man reached up to stroke his silky side.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry as hell, little fellow.”

* * * *

For two days Tip sat lonely and silent on his shoulder, no longer interested in the new scenes nor any longer relieving the monotony with his chatter. He refused to eat until the morning of the third day.

By then the exodus of woods goats and unicorns had dwindled to almost nothing; the sky a leaden gray through which the sun could not be seen. That evening he saw what he was sure would be the last band of woods goats and shot one of them.

When he went to it he was almost afraid to believe what he saw.

The hair above its feet was red, discolored with the stain of iron-bearing clay.

He examined it more closely and saw that the goat had apparently watered at a spring where the mud was material washed down from an iron-bearing vein or formation. It had done so fairly recently—there were still tiny particles of clay adhering to the hair.

The wind stirred, cold and damp with its warning of an approaching storm. He looked to the north, where the evening had turned the gray clouds black, and called Schroeder:

“Steve—any luck?”

“None,” Schroeder answered.

“I just killed a goat,” he said. “It has iron stains on its legs it got at some spring farther north. I’m going on to try to find it. You can turn back in the morning.”

“No,” Schroeder objected. “I can angle over and catch up with you in a couple of days.”

“You’ll turn back in the morning,” he said. “I’m going to try to find this iron. But if I get caught by a blizzard it will be up to you to tell them at the caves that I found iron and to tell them where it is—you know the mockers can’t transmit that far.”

There was a short silence; then Schroeder said, “All right—I see. I’ll head south in the morning.”

Lake took a route the next day that would most likely be the one the woods goats had come down, stopping on each ridge top to study the country ahead of him through his binoculars. It was cloudy all day but at sunset the sun appeared very briefly, to send its last rays across the hills and redden them in mockery of the iron he sought.

Far ahead of him, small even through the glasses and made visible only because of the position of the sun, was a spot at the base of a hill that was redder than the sunset had made the other hills.

He was confident it would be the red clay he was searching for and he hurried on, not stopping until darkness made further progress impossible.

Tip slept inside his jacket, curled up against his chest, while the wind blew raw and cold all through the night. He was on his way again at the first touch of daylight, the sky darker than ever and the wind spinning random flakes of snow before him.

He stopped to look back to the south once, thinking, If I turn back now I might get out before the blizzard hits.

Then the other thought came: These hills all look the same. It I don’t go to the iron while I’m this close and know where it is, it might be years before I or anyone else could find it again.

He went on and did not look back again for the rest of the day.

By midafternoon the higher hills around him were hidden under the clouds and the snow was coming harder and faster as the wind drove the flakes against his face. It began to snow with a heaviness that brought a half darkness when he came finally to the hill he had seen through the glasses.

A spring was at the base of it, bubbling out of red clay. Above it the red dirt led a hundred feet to a dike of granite and stopped. He hurried up the hillside that was rapidly whitening with snow and saw the vein.

It set against the dike, short and narrow but red-black with the iron it contained. He picked up a piece and felt the weight of it. It was heavy—it was pure iron oxide.

He called Schroeder and asked, “Are you down out of the high hills, Steve?”

“I’m in the lower ones,” Schroeder answered, the words coming a little muffled from where Tip lay inside his jacket. “It looks black as hell up your way.”

“I found the iron, Steve. Listen—these are the nearest to landmarks I can give you.…”

When he had finished he said, “That’s the best I can do. You can’t see the red clay except when the sun is low in the southwest but I’m going to build a monument on top of the hill to find it by.”

“About you, Howard,” Steve asked, “what are your chances?”

The wind was rising to a high moaning around the ledges of the granite dike and the vein was already invisible under the snow.

“It doesn’t look like they’re very good,” he answered. “You’ll probably be leader when you come back next spring—I told the council I wanted that if anything happened to me. Keep things going the way I would have. Now—I’ll have to hurry to get the monument built in time.”

“All right,” Schroeder said. “So long, Howard…good luck.”

He climbed to the top of the hill and saw boulders there he could use to build the monument. They were large—he might crush Tip against his chest in picking them up—and he took off his jacket, to wrap it around Tip and leave him lying on the ground.

He worked until he was panting for breath, the wind driving the snow harder and harder against him until the cold seemed to have penetrated to the bone. He worked until the monument was too high for his numb hands to lift any more boulders to its top. By then it was tall enough that it should serve its purpose.

He went back to look for Tip, the ground already four inches deep in snow and the darkness almost complete.

“Tip,” he called. “Tip—Tip—” He walked back and forth across the hillside in the area where he thought he had left him, stumbling over rocks buried in the snow and invisible in the darkness, calling against the wind and thinking, I can’t leave him to die alone here.

Then, from a bulge he had not seen in the snow under him, there came a frightened, lonely wail:

“Tip cold—Tip cold—”

He raked the snow off his jacket and unwrapped Tip, to put him inside his shirt next to his bare skin. Tip’s paws were like ice and he was shivering violently, the first symptom of the pneumonia that killed mockers so quickly.

Tip coughed, a wrenching, rattling little sound, and whimpered, “Hurt—hurt—”

“I know,” he said. “Your lungs hurt—damn it to hell, I wish I could have let you go home with Steve.”

He put on the cold jacket and went down the hill. There was nothing with which he could make a fire—only the short half-green grass, already buried under the snow. He turned south at the bottom of the hill, determining the direction by the wind, and began the stubborn march southward that could have but one ending.

He walked until his cold-numbed legs would carry him no farther. The snow was warm when he fell for the last time; warm and soft as it drifted over him, and his mind was clouded with a pleasant drowsiness.

This isn’t so bad, he thought, and there was something like surprise through the drowsiness. I can’t regret doing what I had to do—doing it the best I could.…

Tip was no longer coughing and the thought of Tip was the only one that was tinged with regret: I hope he wasn’t still hurting when he died.

He felt Tip still very feebly against his chest then, and he did not know if it was his imagination or if in that last dreamlike state it was Tip’s thought that came to him; warm and close and reassuring him:

No hurt no cold now—all right now—we sleep now.…

PART 3

When spring came Steve Schroeder was leader, as Lake had wanted. It was a duty and a responsibility that would be under circumstances different from those of any of the leaders before him. The grim fight was over for a while. They were adapted and increasing in number; going into Big Summer and into a renascence that would last for fifty years. They would have half a century in which to develop their environment to its fullest extent. Then Big Fall would come, to destroy all they had accomplished, and the Gerns would come, to destroy them.

It was his job to make certain that by then they would be stronger than either.

* * * *

He went north with nine men as soon as the weather permitted. It was hard to retrace the route of the summer before, without compasses, among the hills which looked all the same as far as their binoculars could reach, and it was summer when they saw the hill with the monument. They found Lake’s bones a few miles south of it, scattered by the scavengers as were the little bones of his mocker. They buried them together, man and mocker, and went silently on toward the hill.

They had brought a little hand-cranked diamond drill with them to bore holes in the hard granite and black powder for blasting. They mined the vein, sorting out the ore from the waste and saving every particle.

The vein was narrow at the surface and pinched very rapidly. At a depth of six feet it was a knife-blade seam; at ten feet it was only a red discoloration in the bottom of their shaft.

“That seems to be all of it,” he said to the others. “We’ll send men up here next year to go deeper and farther along its course but I have an idea we’ve just mined all of the only iron vein on Ragnarok. It will be enough for our purpose.”

They sewed the ore in strong rawhide sacks and then prospected, without success, until it was time for the last unicorn band to pass by on its way south. They trapped ten unicorns and hobbled their legs, with other ropes reaching from horn to hind leg on each side to prevent them from swinging back their heads or even lifting them high.

They had expected the capture and hobbling of the unicorns to be a difficult and dangerous job and it was. But when they were finished the unicorns were helpless. They could move awkwardly about to graze but they could not charge. They could only stand with lowered heads and fume and rumble.

The ore sacks were tied on one frosty morning and the men mounted. The horn-leg ropes were loosened so the unicorns could travel, and the unicorns went into a frenzy of bucking and rearing, squealing with rage as they tried to impale their riders.

The short spears, stabbing at the sensitive spot behind the jawbones of the unicorns, thwarted the backward flung heads and the unicorns were slowly forced into submission. The last one conceded temporary defeat and the long journey to the south started, the unicorns going in the run that they could maintain hour after hour.

Each day they pushed the unicorns until they were too weary to fight at night. Each morning, rested, the unicorns resumed the battle. It became an expected routine for both unicorns and men.

The unicorns were released when the ore was unloaded at the foot of the hill before the caves and Schroeder went to the new waterwheel, where the new generator was already in place. There George Craig told him of the unexpected obstacle that had appeared.

“We’re stuck,” George said. “The aluminum ore isn’t what we thought it would be. It’s scarce and very low grade, of such a complex nature that we can’t refine it to the oxide with what we have to work with on Ragnarok.”

“Have you produced any aluminum oxide at all?” Schroeder asked.

“A little. We might have enough for the wire in a hundred years if we kept at it hard enough.”

“What else do you need—was there enough cryolite?” he asked.

“Not much of it, but enough. We have the generator set up, the smelting box built and the carbon lining and rods ready. We have everything we need to smelt aluminum ore—except the aluminum ore.”

“Go ahead and finish up the details, such as installing the lining,” he said. “We didn’t get this far to be stopped now.”

But the prospecting parties, making full use of the time left them before winter closed down, returned late that fall to report no sign of the ore they needed.

Spring came and he was determined they would be smelting aluminum before the summer was over even though he had no idea where the ore would be found. They needed aluminum ore of a grade high enough that they could extract the pure aluminum oxide. Specifically, they needed aluminum oxide.…

Then he saw the answer to their problem, so obvious that all of them had overlooked it.

He passed by four children playing a game in front of the caves that day; some kind of a checker-like game in which differently colored rocks represented the different children. One boy was using red stones; some of the rubies that had been brought back as curios from the chasm. Rubies were of no use or value on Ragnarok; only pretty rocks for children to play with.…

Only pretty rocks?—rubies and sapphires were corundum, were pure aluminum oxide!

He went to tell George and to arrange for a party of men to go into the chasm after all the rubies and sapphires they could find. The last obstacle had been surmounted.

The summer sun was hot the day the generator hummed into life. The carbon-lined smelting box was ready and the current flowed between the heavy carbon rods suspended in the cryolite and the lining, transforming the cryolite into a liquid. The crushed rubies and sapphires were fed into the box, glowing and glittering in blood-red and sky-blue scintillations of light, to be deprived by the current of their life and fire and be changed into something entirely different.

When the time came to draw off some of the metal they opened the orifice in the lower corner of the box. Molten aluminum flowed out into the ingot mold in a little stream; more beautiful to them than any gems could ever be, bright and gleaming in its promise that more than six generations of imprisonment would soon be ended.

* * * *

The aluminum smelting continued until the supply of rubies and sapphires in the chasm had been exhausted but for small and scattered fragments. It was enough, with some aluminum above the amount needed for the wire.

It was the year one hundred and fifty-two when they smelted the aluminum. In eight more years they would reach the middle of Big Summer; the suns would start their long drift southward, not to return for one hundred and fifty years. Time was passing swiftly by for them and there was none of it to waste.…

The making of ceramics was developed to an art, as was the making of different types of glass. Looms were built to spin thread and cloth from woods goat wool, and vegetable dyes were discovered. Exploration parties crossed the continent to the eastern and western seas: salty and lifeless seas that were bordered by immense deserts. No trees of any kind grew along their shores and ships could not be built to cross them.

Efforts were continued to develop an inorganic field of chemistry, with discouraging results, but in one hundred and fifty-nine the orange corn was successfully adapted to the elevation and climate of the caves.

There was enough that year to feed the mockers all winter, supply next year’s seeds, and leave enough that it could be ground and baked into bread for all to taste.

It tasted strange, but good. It was, Schroeder thought, symbolic of a great forward step. It was the first time in generations that any of them had known any food but meat. The corn would make them less dependent upon hunting and, of paramount importance, it was the type of food to which they would have to become accustomed in the future—they could not carry herds of woods goats and unicorns with them on Gern battle cruisers.

The lack of metals hindered them wherever they turned in their efforts to build even the simplest machines or weapons. Despite its dubious prospects, however, they made a rifle-like gun.

The barrel of it was thick, of the hardest, toughest ceramic material they could produce. It was a cumbersome, heavy thing, firing with a flintlock action, and it could not be loaded with much powder lest the charge burst the barrel.

The flintlock ignition was not instantaneous, the lightweight porcelain bullet had far less penetrating power than an arrow, and the thing boomed and belched out a cloud of smoke that would have shown the Gerns exactly where the shooter was located.

It was an interesting curio and the firing of it was something spectacular to behold but it was a weapon apt to be much more dangerous to the man behind it than to the Gern it was aimed at. Automatic crossbows were far better.

Woods goats had been trapped and housed during the summers in shelters where sprays of water maintained a temperature cool enough for them to survive. Only the young were kept when fall came, to be sheltered through the winter in one of the caves. Each new generation was subjected to more heat in the summer and more cold in the winter than the generation before it and by the year one hundred and sixty the woods goats were well on their way toward adaptation.

The next year they trapped two unicorns, to begin the job of adapting and taming future generations of them. If they succeeded they would have utilized the resources of Ragnarok to the limit—except for what should be their most valuable ally with which to fight the Gerns: the prowlers.

For twenty years prowlers had observed a truce wherein they would not go hunting for men if men would stay away from their routes of travel. But it was a truce only and there was no indication that it could ever evolve into friendship.

Three times in the past, half-grown prowlers had been captured and caged in the hope of taming them. Each time they had paced their cages, looking longingly into the distance, refusing to eat and defiant until they died.

To prowlers, as to some men, freedom was more precious than life. And each time a prowler had been captured the free ones had retaliated with a resurgence of savage attacks.

There seemed no way that men and prowlers could ever meet on common ground. They were alien to one another, separated by the gulf of an origin on worlds two hundred and fifty light-years apart. Their only common heritage was the will of each to battle.

But in the spring of one hundred and sixty-one, for a little while one day, the gulf was bridged.

* * * *

Schroeder was returning from a trip he had taken alone to the east, coming down the long canyon that led from the high face of the plateau to the country near the caves. He hurried, glancing back at the black clouds that had gathered so quickly on the mountain behind him. Thunder rumbled from within them, an almost continuous roll of it as the clouds poured down their deluge of water.

A cloudburst was coming and the sheer-walled canyon down which he hurried had suddenly become a death trap, its sunlit quiet soon to be transformed into roaring destruction. There was only one place along its nine-mile length where he might climb out and the time was already short in which to reach it.

He had increased his pace to a trot when he came to it, a talus of broken rock that sloped up steeply for thirty feet to a shelf. A ledge eleven feet high stood over the shelf and other, lower, ledges set back from it like climbing steps.

At the foot of the talus he stopped to listen, wondering how close behind him the water might be. He heard it coming, a sound like the roaring of a high wind up the canyon, and he scrambled up the talus of loose rock to the shelf at its top. The shelf was not high enough above the canyon’s floor—he would be killed there—and he followed it fifty feet around a sharp bend. There it narrowed abruptly, to merge into the sheer wall of the canyon. Blind alley.…

He ran back to the top of the talus where the edge of the ledge, ragged with projections of rock, was unreachably far above him. As he did so the roaring was suddenly a crashing, booming thunder and he saw the water coming.

It swept around the bend at perhaps a hundred miles an hour, stretching from wall to wall of the canyon, the crest of it seething and slashing and towering forty sheer feet above the canyon’s floor.

A prowler was running in front of it, running for its life and losing.

There was no time to watch. He leaped upward, as high as possible, his crossbow in his hand. He caught the end of the bow over one of the sharp projections of rock on the ledge’s rim and began to pull himself up, afraid to hurry lest the rock cut the bowstring in two and drop him back.

It held and he stood on the ledge, safe, as the prowler flashed up the talus below.

It darted around the blind-alley shelf and was back a moment later. It saw that its only chance would be to leap up on the ledge where he stood and it tried, handicapped by the steep, loose slope it had to jump from.

It failed and fell back. It tried again, hurling itself upward with all its strength, and its claws caught fleetingly on the rough rock a foot below the rim. It began to slide back, with no time left it for a third try.

It looked up at the rim of safety that it had not quite reached and then on up at him, its eyes bright and cold with the knowledge that it was going to die and its enemy would watch it.

Schroeder dropped flat on his stomach and reached down, past the massive black head, to seize the prowler by the back of the neck. He pulled up with all his strength and the claws of the prowler tore at the rocks as it climbed.

When it was coming up over the ledge, safe, he rolled back from it and came to his feet in one swift, wary motion, his eyes on it and his knife already in his hand. As he did so the water went past below them with a thunder that deafened. Logs and trees shot past, boulders crashed together, and things could be seen surging in the brown depths; shapeless things that had once been woods goats and the battered gray bulk of a unicorn. He saw it all with a sideward glance, his attention on the prowler.

It stepped back from the rim of the ledge and looked at him; warily, as he looked at it. With the wariness was something like question, and almost disbelief.

The ledge they stood on was narrow but it led out of the canyon and to the open land beyond. He motioned to the prowler to precede him and, hesitating a moment, it did so.

They climbed out of the canyon and out onto the grassy slope of the mountainside. The roar of the water was a distant rumble there and he stopped. The prowler did the same and they watched each other again, each of them trying to understand what the thoughts of the other might be. It was something they could not know—they were too alien to each other and had been enemies too long.

Then a gust of wind swept across them, bending and rippling the tall grass, and the prowler swung away to go with it and leave him standing alone.

His route was such that it diverged gradually from that taken by the prowler. He went through a grove of trees and emerged into an open glade on the other side. Up on the ridge to his right he saw something black for a moment, already far away.

He was thirty feet from the next grove of trees when he saw the gray shadow waiting silently for his coming within them.

Unicorn!

His crossbow rattled as he jerked back the pistol grip. The unicorn charged, the underbrush crackling as it tore through it and a vine whipping like a rope from its lowered horn.

His first arrow went into its chest. It lurched, fatally wounded but still coming, and he jerked back on the pistol grip for the quick shot that would stop it.

The rock-frayed bow string broke with a singing sound and the bow ends snapped harmlessly forward.

He had counted on the bow and its failure came a fraction of a second too late for him to dodge far enough. His sideward leap was short, and the horn caught him in midair, ripping across his ribs and breaking them, shattering the bone of his left arm and tearing the flesh. He was hurled fifteen feet and he struck the ground with a stunning impact, pain washing over him in a blinding wave.

Through it, dimly, he saw the unicorn fall and heard its dying trumpet blast as it called to another. He heard an answering call somewhere in the distance and then the faraway drumming of hooves.

He fought back the blindness and used his good arm to lift himself up. His bow was useless, his spear lay broken under the unicorn, and his knife was gone. His left arm swung helplessly and he could not climb the limbless lower trunk of a lance tree with only one arm.

He went forward, limping, trying to hurry to find his knife while the drumming of hooves raced toward him. It would be a battle already lost that he would make with the short knife but he would have blood for his going.…

The grass grew tall and thick, hiding the knife until he could hear the unicorn crashing through the trees. He saw it ten feet ahead of him as the unicorn tore out from the edge of the woods thirty feet away.

It squealed, shrill with triumph, and the horn swept up to impale him. There was no time left to reach the knife, no time left for anything but the last fleeting sight of sunshine and glade and arching blue sky—

Something from behind him shot past and up at the unicorn’s throat, a thing that was snarling black savagery with yellow eyes blazing and white fangs slashing—the prowler!

It ripped at the unicorn’s throat, swerving its charge, and the unicorn plunged past him. The unicorn swung back, all the triumph gone from its squeal, and the prowler struck again. They became a swirling blur, the horn of the unicorn swinging and stabbing and the attacks of the prowler like the swift, relentless thrusting of a rapier.

He went to his knife and when he turned back with it in his hand the battle was already over.

The unicorn fell and the prowler turned away from it. One foreleg was bathed in blood and its chest was heaving with a panting so fast that it could not have been caused by the fight with the unicorn.

It must have been watching me, he thought, with a strange feeling of wonder. It was watching from the ridge and it ran all the way.

Its yellow eyes flickered to the knife in his hand. He dropped the knife in the grass and walked forward, unarmed, wanting the prowler to know that he understood; that for them in that moment the gulf of two hundred and fifty light-years did not exist.

He stopped near it and squatted in the grass to begin binding up his broken arm so the bones would not grate together. It watched him, then it began to lick at its bloody shoulder; standing so close to him that he could have reached out and touched it.

Again he felt the sense of wonder. They were alone together in the glade, he and a prowler, each caring for his hurts. There was a bond between them that for a little while made them like brothers. There was a bridge for a little while across the gulf that had never been bridged before.…

When he had finished with his arm and the prowler had lessened the bleeding of its shoulder it took a step back toward the ridge. He stood up, knowing it was going to leave.

“I suppose the score is even now,” he said to it, “and we’ll never see each other again. So good hunting—and thanks.”

It made a sound in its throat; a queer sound that was neither bark nor growl, and he had the feeling it was trying to tell him something. Then it turned and was gone like a black shadow across the grass and he was alone again.

He picked up his knife and bow and began the long, painful journey back to the caves, looking again and again at the ridge behind him and thinking: They have a code of ethics. They fight for their survival—but they pay their debts.

Ragnarok was big enough for both men and prowlers. They could live together in friendship as men and dogs of Earth lived together. It might take a long time to win the trust of the prowlers but surely it could be done.

He came to the rocky trail that led to the caves and there he took a last look at the ridge behind him; feeling a poignant sense of loss and wondering if he would ever see the prowler again or ever again know the strange, wild companionship he had known that day.

Perhaps he never would…but the time would come on Ragnarok when children would play in the grass with prowler pups and the time would come when men and prowlers, side by side, would face the Gerns.

* * * *

In the year that followed there were two incidents when a prowler had the opportunity to kill a hunter on prowler territory and did not do so. There was no way of knowing if the prowler in each case had been the one he had saved from the cloudburst or if the prowlers, as a whole, were respecting what a human had done for one of them.

Schroeder thought of again trying to capture prowler pups—very young ones—and decided it would be a stupid plan. Such an act would destroy all that had been done toward winning the trust of the prowlers. It would be better to wait, even though time was growing short, and find some other way.

The fall of one hundred and sixty-three came and the suns were noticeably moving south. That was the fall that his third child, a girl, was born. She was named Julia, after the Julia of long ago, and she was of the last generation that would be born in the caves.

Plans were already under way to build a town in the valley a mile from the caves. The unicorn-proof stockade wall that would enclose it was already under construction, being made of stone blocks. The houses would be of diamond-sawed stone, thick-walled, with dead-air spaces between the double walls to insulate against heat and cold. Tall, wide canopies of lance tree poles and the palm-like medusabush leaves would be built over all the houses to supply additional shade.

The woods goats were fully adapted that year and domesticated to such an extent that they had no desire to migrate with the wild goats. There was a small herd of them then, enough to supply a limited amount of milk, cheese and wool.

The adaptation of the unicorns proceeded in the following years, but not their domestication. It was their nature to be ill-tempered and treacherous and only the threat of the spears in the hands of their drivers forced them to work; work that they could have done easily had they not diverted so much effort each day to trying to turn on their masters and kill them. Each night they were put in a massive-walled corral, for they were almost as dangerous as wild unicorns.

The slow, painstaking work on the transmitter continued while the suns moved farther south each year. The move from the caves to the new town was made in one hundred and seventy-nine, the year that Schroeder’s wife died.

His two sons were grown and married and Julia, at sixteen, was a woman by Ragnarok standards; blue-eyed and black-haired as her mother, a Craig, had been, and strikingly pretty in a wild, reckless way. She married Will Humbolt that spring, leaving her father alone in the new house in the new town.

Four months later she came to him to announce with pride and excitement:

“I’m going to have a baby in only six months! If it’s a boy he’ll be the right age to be leader when the Gerns come and we’re going to name him John, after the John who was the first leader we ever had on Ragnarok.”

Her words brought to his mind a question and he thought of what old Dale Craig, the leader who had preceded Lake, had written:

We have survived, the generations that the Gerns thought would never be born. But we must never forget the characteristics that insured that survival: an unswerving loyalty of every individual to all the others and the courage to fight, and die if necessary.

In any year, now, the Gerns will come. There will be no one to help us. Those on Athena are slaves and it is probable that Earth has been enslaved by now. We will stand or fall alone. But if we of today could know that the ones who meet the Gerns will still have the courage and loyalty that made our survival possible, then we would know that the Gerns are already defeated.…

The era of danger and violence was over for a little while. The younger generation had grown up during a time of peaceful development of their environment. It was a peace that the coming of the Gerns would shatter—but had it softened the courage and loyalty of the younger generation?

A week later he was given his answer.

He was climbing up the hill that morning, high above the town below, when he saw the blue of Julia’s wool blouse in the distance. She was sitting up on a hillside, an open book in her lap and her short spear lying beside her.

He frowned at the sight. The main southward migration of unicorns was over but there were often lone stragglers who might appear at any time. He had warned her that someday a unicorn would kill her—but she was reckless by nature and given to restless moods in which she could not stand the confinement of the town.

She jerked up her head as he watched, as though at a faint sound, and he saw the first movement within the trees behind her—a unicorn.

It lunged forward, its stealth abandoned as she heard it, and she came to her feet in a swift, smooth movement; the spear in her hand and the book spilling to the ground.

The unicorn’s squeal rang out and she whirled to face it, with two seconds to live. He reached for his bow, knowing his help would come too late.

She did the only thing possible that might enable her to survive: she shifted her balance to take advantage of the fact that a human could jump to one side a little more quickly than a four-footed beast in headlong charge. As she did so she brought up the spear for the thrust into the vulnerable area just behind the jawbone.

It seemed the needle point of the black horn was no more than an arm’s length from her stomach when she jumped aside with the lithe quickness of a prowler, swinging as she jumped and thrusting the spear with all her strength into the unicorn’s neck.

The thrust was true and the spear went deep. She released it and flung herself backward to dodge the flying hooves. The force of the unicorn’s charge took it past her but its legs collapsed under it and it crashed to the ground, sliding a little way before it stopped. It kicked once and lay still.

She went to it, to retrieve her spear, and even from the distance there was an air of pride about her as she walked past her bulky victim.

Then she saw the book, knocked to one side by the unicorn’s hooves. Tatters of its pages were blowing in the wind and she stiffened, her face growing pale. She ran to it to pick it up, the unicorn forgotten.

She was trying to smooth the torn leaves when he reached her. It had been one of the old textbooks, printed on real paper, and it was fragile with age. She had been trusted by the librarian to take good care of it. Now, page after page was torn and unreadable.…

She looked up at him, shame and misery on her face.

“Father,” she said. “The book—I—”

He saw that the unicorn was a bull considerably larger than the average. Men had in the past killed unicorns with spears but never, before, had a sixteen-year-old girl done so.…

He looked back at her, keeping his face emotionless, and asked sternly, “You what?”

“I guess—I guess I didn’t have any right to take the book out of town. I wish I hadn’t.…”

“You promised to take good care of it,” he told her coldly. “Your promise was believed and you were trusted to keep it.”

“But—but I didn’t mean to damage it—I didn’t mean to!” She was suddenly very near to tears. “I’m not a—a bemmon!”

“Go back to town,” he ordered. “Tonight bring the book to the town hall and tell the council what happened to it.”

She swallowed and said in a faint voice, “Yes, father.”

She turned and started slowly back down the hill, not seeing the unicorn as she passed it, the bloody spear trailing disconsolately behind her and her head hanging in shame.

He watched her go and it was safe for him to smile. When night came and she stood before the council, ashamed to lift her eyes to look at them, he would have to be grim and stern as he told her how she had been trusted and how she had betrayed that trust. But now, as he watched her go down the hill, he could smile with his pride in her and know that his question was answered; that the younger generation had lost neither courage nor loyalty.

* * * *

Julia saved a child’s life that spring and almost lost her own. The child was playing under a half-completed canopy when a sudden, violent wind struck it and transformed it into a death-trap of cracking, falling timbers. She reached him in time to fling him to safety but the collapsing roof caught her before she could make her own escape.

Her chest and throat were torn by the jagged ends of the broken poles and for a day and a night her life was a feebly flickering spark. She began to rally on the second night and on the third morning she was able to speak for the first time, her eyes dark and tortured with her fear:

“My baby—what did it do to him?”

She convalesced slowly, haunted by the fear. Her son was born five weeks later and her fears proved to have been groundless. He was perfectly normal and healthy.

And hungry—and her slowly healing breasts would be dry for weeks to come.

By a coincidence that had never happened before and could never happen again there was not a single feeding-time foster-mother available for the baby. There were many expectant mothers but only three women had young babies—and each of the three had twins to feed.

But there was a small supply of frozen goat milk in the ice house, enough to see young Johnny through until it was time for the goat herd to give milk. He would have to live on short rations until then but it could not be helped.

* * * *

Johnny was a month old when the opportunity came for the men of Ragnarok to have their ultimate ally.

The last of the unicorns were going north and the prowlers had long since gone. The blue star was lighting the night like a small sun when the breeze coming through Schroeder’s window brought the distant squealing of unicorns.

He listened, wondering. It was a sound that did not belong. Everyone was safely in the town, most of them in bed, and there should be nothing outside the stockade for the unicorns to fight.

He armed himself with spear and crossbow and went outside. He let himself out through the east gate and went toward the sounds of battle. They grew louder as he approached, more furious, as though the battle was reaching its climax.

He crossed the creek and went through the trees beyond. There, in a small clearing no more than half a mile from the town, he came upon the scene.

A lone prowler was making a stand against two unicorns. Two other unicorns lay on the ground, dead, and behind the prowler was the dark shape of its mate lying lifelessly in the grass. There was blood on the prowler, purple in the blue starlight, and gloating rang in the squeals of the unicorns as they lunged at it. The leaps of the prowler were faltering as it fought them, the last desperate defiance of an animal already dying.

He brought up the bow and sent a volley of arrows into the unicorns. Their gloating squeals died and they fell. The prowler staggered and fell beside them.

It was breathing its last when he reached it but in the way it looked up at him he had the feeling that it wanted to tell him something, that it was trying hard to live long enough to do so. It died with the strange appeal in its eyes and not until then did he see the scar on its shoulder; a scar such as might have been made long ago by the rip of a unicorn’s horn.

It was the prowler he had known nineteen years before.

The ground was trampled all around by the unicorns, showing that the prowlers had been besieged all day. He went to the other prowler and saw it was a female. Her breasts showed that she had had pups recently but she had been dead at least two days. Her hind legs had been broken sometime that spring and they were still only half healed, twisted and almost useless.

Then, that was why the two of them were so far behind the other prowlers. Prowlers, like the wolves, coyotes and foxes of Earth, mated for life and the male helped take care of the young. She had been injured somewhere to the south, perhaps in a fight with unicorns, and her mate had stayed with her as she hobbled her slow way along and killed game for her. The pups had been born and they had had to stop. Then the unicorns had found them and the female had been too crippled to fight.…

He looked for the pups, expecting to find them trampled and dead. But they were alive, hidden under the roots of a small tree near their mother.

Prowler pups—alive!

They were very young, small and blind and helpless. He picked them up and his elation drained away as he looked at them. They made little sounds of hunger, almost inaudible, and they moved feebly, trying to find their mother’s breasts and already so weak that they could not lift their heads.

Small chunks of fresh meat had been left beside the pups and he thought of what the prowler’s emotions must have been as his mate lay dead on the ground and he carried meat to their young, knowing they were too small to eat it but helpless to do anything else for them.

And he knew why there had been the appeal in the eyes of the prowler as it died and what it had tried to tell him: Save them…as you once saved me.

He carried the pups back past the prowler and looked down at it in passing. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

When he reached his house he laid the pups on his bed and built a fire. There was no milk to give them—the goats would not have young for at least another two weeks—but perhaps they could eat a soup of some kind. He put water on to boil and began shredding meat to make them a rich broth.

One of them was a male, the other a female, and if he could save them they would fight beside the men of Ragnarok when the Gerns came. He thought of what he would name them as he worked. He would name the female Sigyn, after Loki’s faithful wife who went with him when the gods condemned him to Hel, the Teutonic underworld. And he would name the male Fenrir, after the monster wolf who would fight beside Loki when Loki led the forces of Hel in the final battle on the day of Ragnarok.

But when the broth was prepared, and cooled enough, the pups could not eat it. He tried making it weaker, tried it mixed with corn and herb soup, tried corn and herb soups alone. They could eat nothing he prepared for them.

When gray daylight entered the room he had tried everything possible and had failed. He sat wearily in his chair and watched them, defeated. They were no longer crying in their hunger and when he touched them they did not move as they had done before.

They would be dead before the day was over and the only chance men had ever had to have prowlers as their friends and allies would be gone.

The first rays of sunrise were coming into the room, revealing fully the frail thinness of the pups, when there was a step outside and Julia’s voice:

“Father?”

“Come in, Julia,” he said, not moving.

She entered, still a pale shadow of the reckless girl who had fought a unicorn, even though she was slowly regaining her normal health. She carried young Johnny in one arm, in her other hand his little bottle of milk. Johnny was hungry—there was never quite enough milk for him—but he was not crying. Ragnarok children did not cry.…

She saw the pups and her eyes went wide.

“Prowlers—baby prowlers! Where did you get them?”

He told her and she went to them, to look down at them and say, “If you and their father hadn’t helped each other that day they wouldn’t be here, nor you, nor I, nor Johnny—none of us in this room.”

“They won’t live out the day,” he said. “They have to have milk—and there isn’t any.”

She reached down to touch them and they seemed to sense that she was someone different. They stirred, making tiny whimpering sounds and trying to move their heads to nuzzle at her fingers.

Compassion came to her face, like a soft light.

“They’re so young,” she said. “So terribly young to have to die.…”

She looked at Johnny and at the little bottle that held his too-small morning ration of milk.

“Johnny—Johnny—” Her words were almost a whisper. “You’re hungry—but we can’t let them die. And someday, for this, they will fight for your life.”

She sat on the bed and placed the pups in her lap beside Johnny. She lifted a little black head with gentle fingers and a little pink mouth ceased whimpering as it found the nipple of Johnny’s bottle.

Johnny’s gray eyes darkened with the storm of approaching protest. Then the other pup touched his hand, crying in its hunger, and the protest faded as surprise and something like sudden understanding came into his eyes.

Julia withdrew the bottle from the first pup and transferred it to the second one. Its crying ceased and Johnny leaned forward to touch it again, and the one beside it.

He made his decision with an approving sound and leaned back against his mother’s shoulder, patiently awaiting his own turn and their presence accepted as though they had been born his brother and sister.

* * * *

The golden light of the new day shone on them, on his daughter and grandson and the prowler pups, and in it he saw the bright omen for the future.

His own role was nearing its end but he had seen the people of Ragnarok conquer their environment in so far as Big Winter would ever let it be conquered. The last generation was being born, the generation that would meet the Gerns, and now they would have their final ally. Perhaps it would be Johnny who led them on that day, as the omen seemed to prophesy.

He was the son of a line of leaders, born to a mother who had fought and killed a unicorn. He had gone hungry to share what little he had with the young of Ragnarok’s most proud and savage species and Fenrir and Sigyn would fight beside him on the day he led the forces of the hell-world in the battle with the Gerns who thought they were gods.

Could the Gerns hope to have a leader to match?

PART 4

John Humbolt, leader, stood on the wide stockade wall and watched the lowering sun touch the western horizon—far south of where it had set when he was a child. Big Summer was over and now, in the year two hundred, they were already three years into Big Fall. The Craigs had been impassable with snow for five years and the country at the north end of the plateau, where the iron had been found, had been buried under never-melting snow and growing glaciers for twenty years.

There came the soft tinkling of ceramic bells as the herd of milk goats came down off the hills. Two children were following and six prowlers walked with them, to protect them from wild unicorns.

There were not many of the goats. Each year the winters were longer, requiring the stocking of a larger supply of hay. The time would come when the summers would be so short and the winters so long that they could not keep goats at all. And by then, when Big Winter had closed in on them, the summer seasons would be too short for the growing of the orange corn. They would have nothing left but the hunting.

They had, he knew, reached and passed the zenith of the development of their environment. From a low of forty-nine men, women and children in dark caves they had risen to a town of six thousand. For a few years they had had a way of life that was almost a civilization but the inevitable decline was already under way. The years of frozen sterility of Big Winter were coming and no amount of determination or ingenuity could alter them. Six thousand would have to live by hunting—and one hundred, in the first Big Winter, had found barely enough game.

They would have to migrate in one of two different ways: they could go to the south as nomad hunters—or they could go to other, fairer, worlds in ships they took from the Gerns.

The choice was very easy to make and they were almost ready.

In the workshop at the farther edge of town the hyperspace transmitter was nearing completion. The little smelter was waiting to receive the lathe and other iron and steel and turn them into the castings for the generator. Their weapons were ready, the mockers were trained, the prowlers were waiting. And in the massive corral beyond town forty half-tame unicorns trampled the ground and hated the world, wanting to kill something. They had learned to be afraid of Ragnarok men but they would not be afraid to kill Gerns.…

The children with the goats reached the stockade and two of the prowlers, Fenrir and Sigyn, turned to see him standing on the wall. He made a little motion with his hand and they came running, to leap up beside him on the ten-foot-high wall.

“So you’ve been checking up on how well the young ones guard the children?” he asked.

Sigyn lolled out her tongue and her white teeth grinned at him in answer. Fenrir, always the grimmer of the two, made a sound in his throat in reply.

Prowlers developed something like a telepathic rapport with their masters and could sense their thoughts and understand relatively complex instructions. Their intelligence was greater, and of a far more mature order, than that of the little mockers but their vocal cords were not capable of making the sounds necessary for speech.

He rested his hands on their shoulders, where their ebony fur was frosted with gray. Age had not yet affected their quick, flowing movement but they were getting old—they were only a few weeks short of his own age. He could not remember when they had not been with him.…

Sometimes it seemed to him he could remember those hungry days when he and Fenrir and Sigyn shared together in his mother’s lap—but it was probably only his imagination from having heard the story told so often. But he could remember for certain when he was learning to walk and Fenrir and Sigyn, full grown then, walked tall and black beside him. He could remember playing with Sigyn’s pups and he could remember Sigyn watching over them all, sometimes giving her pups a bath and his face a washing with equal disregard for their and his protests. Above all he could remember the times when he was almost grown; the wild, free days when he and Fenrir and Sigyn had roamed the mountains together. With a bow and a knife and two prowlers beside him he had felt that there was nothing on Ragnarok that they could not conquer; that there was nothing in the universe they could not defy together.…

* * * *

There was a flicker of black movement and a young messenger prowler came running from the direction of the council hall, a speckle-faced mocker clinging to its back. It leaped up on the wall beside him and the mocker, one that had been trained to remember and repeat messages verbatim, took a breath so deep that its cheeks bulged out. It spoke, in a quick rush like a child that is afraid it might forget some of the words:

“You will please come to the council hall to lead the discussion regarding the last preparations for the meeting with the Gerns. The transmitter is completed.”

* * * *

The lathe was torn down the next day and the smelter began to roar with its forced draft. Excitement and anticipation ran through the town like a fever. It would take perhaps twenty days to build the generator, working day and night so that not an hour of time would be lost, forty days for the signal to reach Athena, and forty days for the Gern cruiser to reach Ragnarok—

In one hundred days the Gerns would be there!

The men who would engage in the fight for the cruiser quit trimming their beards. Later, when it was time for the Gerns to appear, they would discard their woolen garments for ones of goat skin. The Gerns would regard them as primitive inferiors at best and it might be of advantage to heighten the impression. It would make the awakening of the Gerns a little more shocking.

An underground passage, leading from the town to the concealment of the woods in the distance, had long ago been dug. Through it the women and children would go when the Gerns arrived.

There was a level area of ground, just beyond the south wall of town, where the cruiser would be almost certain to land. The town had been built with that thought in mind. Woods were not far from both sides of the landing site and unicorn corrals were hidden in them. From the corrals would come the rear flanking attack against the Gerns.

The prowlers, of course, would be scattered among all the forces.

* * * *

The generator was completed and installed on the nineteenth night. Charley Craig, a giant of a man whose red beard gave him a genially murderous appearance, opened the valve of the water pipe. The new wooden turbine stirred and belts and pulleys began to spin. The generator hummed, the needles of the dials climbed, flickered, and steadied.

Norman Lake looked from them to Humbolt, his pale gray eyes coldly satisfied. “Full output,” he said. “We have the power we need this time.”

Jim Chiara was at the transmitter and they waited while he threw switches and studied dials. Every component of the transmitter had been tested but they had not had the power to test the complete assembly.

“That’s it,” he said at last, looking up at them. “She’s ready, after almost two hundred years of wanting her.”

Humbolt wondered what the signal should be and saw no reason why it should not be the same one that had been sent out with such hope a hundred and sixty-five years ago.

“All right, Jim,” he said. “Let the Gerns know we’re waiting for them—make it ‘Ragnarok calling’ again.”

The transmitter key rattled and the all-wave signal that the Gerns could not fail to receive went out at a velocity of five light-years a day:

Ragnarok calling—Ragnarok calling—Ragnarok calling—

It was the longest summer Humbolt had ever experienced. He was not alone in his impatience—among all of them the restlessness flamed higher as the slow days dragged by, making it almost impossible to go about their routine duties. The gentle mockers sensed the anticipation of their masters for the coming battle and they became nervous and apprehensive. The prowlers sensed it and they paced about the town in the dark of night; watching, listening, on ceaseless guard against the mysterious enemy their masters waited for. Even the unicorns seemed to sense what was coming and they rumbled and squealed in their corrals at night, red-eyed with the lust for blood and sometimes attacking the log walls with blows that shook the ground.

The interminable days went their slow succession and summer gave way to fall. The hundredth day dawned, cold and gray with the approach of winter; the day of the Gerns.

But no cruiser came that day, nor the next. He stood again on the stockade wall in the evening of the third day, Fenrir and Sigyn beside him. He listened for the first dim, distant sound of the Gern cruiser and heard only the moaning of the wind around him.

Winter was coming. Always, on Ragnarok, winter was coming or the brown death of summer. Ragnarok was a harsh and barren prison, and no amount of desire could ever make it otherwise. Only the coming of a Gern cruiser could ever offer them the bloody, violent opportunity to regain their freedom.

But what if the cruiser never came?

It was a thought too dark and hopeless to be held. They were not asking a large favor of fate, after two hundred years of striving for it; only the chance to challenge the Gern Empire with bows and knives.…

Fenrir stiffened, the fur lifting on his shoulders and a muted growl coming from him. Then Humbolt heard the first whisper of sound; a faint, faraway roaring that was not the wind.

He watched and listened and the sound came swiftly nearer, rising in pitch and swelling in volume. Then it broke through the clouds, tall and black and beautifully deadly. It rode down on its rockets of flame, filling the valley with its thunder, and his heart hammered with exultation.

It had come—the cruiser had come!

He turned and dropped the ten feet to the ground inside the stockade. The warning signal was being sounded from the center of town; a unicorn horn that gave out the call they had used in the practice alarms. Already the women and children would be hurrying along the tunnels that led to the temporary safety of the woods beyond town. The Gerns might use their turret blasters to destroy the town and all in it before the night was over. There was no way of knowing what might happen before it ended. But whatever it was, it would be the action they had all been wanting.

He ran to where the others would be gathering, Fenrir and Sigyn loping beside him and the horn ringing wild and savage and triumphant as it announced the end of two centuries of waiting.

* * * *

The cruiser settled to earth in the area where it had been expected to land, towering high above the town with its turret blasters looking down upon the houses.

Charley Craig and Norman Lake were waiting for him on the high steps of his own house in the center of town where the elevation gave them a good view of the ship yet where the fringes of the canopy would conceal them from the ship’s scanners. They were heavily armed, their prowlers beside them and their mockers on their shoulders.

Elsewhere, under the connected rows of concealing canopies, armed men were hurrying to their prearranged stations. Most of them were accompanied by prowlers, bristling and snarling as they looked at the alien ship. A few men were deliberately making themselves visible not far away, going about unimportant tasks with only occasional and carefully disinterested glances toward the ship. They were the bait, to lure the first detachment into the center of town.…

“Well?” Norman Lake asked, his pale eyes restless with his hunger for violence. “There’s our ship—when do we take her?”

“Just as soon as we get them outside it,” he said. “We’ll use the plan we first had—wait until they send a full force to rescue the first detachment and then hit them with everything we have.”

His black, white-nosed mocker was standing in the open doorway and watching the hurrying men and prowlers with worried interest: Tip, the great-great-great-great grandson of the mocker that had died with Howard Lake north of the plateau. He reached down to pick him up and set him on his shoulder, and said:

“Jim?”

“The longbows are ready,” Tip’s treble imitation of Jim Chiara’s voice answered. “We’ll black out their searchlights when the time comes.”

“Andy?” he asked.

“The last of us for this section are coming in now,” Andy Taylor answered.

He made his check of all the subleaders, then looked up to the roof to ask, “All set, Jimmy?”

Jimmy Stevens’ grinning face appeared over the edge. “Ten crossbows are cocked and waiting up here. Bring us our targets.”

They waited, while the evening deepened into near-dusk. Then the airlock of the cruiser slid open and thirteen Gerns emerged, the one leading them wearing the resplendent uniform of a subcommander.

“There they come,” he said to Lake and Craig. “It looks like we’ll be able to trap them in here and force the commander to send out a full-sized force. We’ll all attack at the sound of the horn and if you can hit their rear flanks hard enough with the unicorns to give us a chance to split them from this end some of us should make it to the ship before they realize up in the control room that they should close the airlocks.

“Now”—he looked at the Gerns who were coming straight toward the stockade wall, ignoring the gate to their right—“you’d better be on your way. We’ll meet again before long in the ship.”

Fenrir and Sigyn looked from the advancing Gerns to him with question in their eyes after Lake and Craig were gone, Fenrir growling restlessly.

“Pretty soon,” he said to them. “Right now it would be better if they didn’t see you. Wait inside, both of you.” They went reluctantly inside, to merge with the darkness of the interior. Only an occasional yellow gleam of their eyes showed that they were crouched to spring just inside the doorway.

He called to the nearest unarmed man, not loud enough to be heard by the Gerns:

“Cliff—you and Sam Anders come here. Tell the rest to fade out of sight and get armed.”

Cliff Schroeder passed the command along and he and Sam Anders approached. He looked back at the Gerns and saw they were within a hundred feet of the—for them—unscalable wall of the stockade. They were coming without hesitation—

A pale blue beam lashed down from one of the cruiser’s turrets and a fifty foot section of the wall erupted into dust with a sound like thunder. The wind swept the dust aside in a gigantic cloud and the Gerns came through the gap, looking neither to right nor left.

“That, I suppose,” Sam Anders said from beside him, “was Lesson Number One for degenerate savages like us: Gerns, like gods, are not to be hindered by man-made barriers.”

The Gerns walked with a peculiar gait that puzzled him until he saw what it was. They were trying to come with the arrogant military stride affected by the Gerns and in the 1.5 gravity they were succeeding in achieving only a heavy clumping.

They advanced steadily and as they drew closer he saw that in the right hand of each Gern soldier was a blaster while in the left hand of each could be seen the metallic glitter of chains.

Schroeder smiled thinly. “It looks like they want to subject about a dozen of us to some painful questioning.”

No one else was any longer in sight and the Gerns came straight toward the three on the steps. They stopped forty feet away at a word of command from the officer and Gerns and Ragnarok men exchanged silent stares; the faces of the Ragnarok men bearded and expressionless, the faces of the Gerns hairless and reflecting a contemptuous curiosity.

“Narth!” The communicator on the Gern officer’s belt spoke with metallic authority. “What do they look like? Did we come two hundred light-years to view some animated vegetables?”

“No, Commander,” Narth answered. “I think the discard of the Rejects two hundred years ago has produced for us an unexpected reward. There are three natives under the canopy before me and their physical perfection and complete adaptation to this hellish gravity is astonishing.”

“They could be used to replace expensive machines on some of the outer world mines,” the commander said, “providing their intelligence isn’t too abysmally low. What about that?”

“They can surely be taught to perform simple manual labor,” Narth answered.

“Get on with your job,” the commander said. “Try to pick some of the most intelligent looking ones for questioning—I can’t believe these cattle sent that message and they’re going to tell us who did. And pick some young, strong ones for the medical staff to examine—ones that won’t curl up and die after the first few cuts of the knife.”

“We’ll chain these three first,” Narth said. He lifted his hand in an imperious gesture to Humbolt and the other two and ordered in accented Terran: “Come here!”

No one moved and he said again, sharply, “Come here!”

Again no one moved and the minor officer beside Narth said, “Apparently they can’t even understand Terran now.”

“Then we’ll give them some action they can understand,” Narth snapped, his face flushing with irritation. “We’ll drag them out by their heels!”

The Gerns advanced purposefully, three of them holstering their blasters to make their chains ready. When they had passed under the canopy and could not be seen from the ship Humbolt spoke:

“All right, Jimmy.”

The Gerns froze in midstride, suspicion flashing across their faces.

“Look up on the roof,” he said in Gern.

They looked, and the suspicion became gaping dismay.

“You can be our prisoners or you can be corpses,” he said. “We don’t care which.”

The urgent hiss of Narth’s command broke their indecision:

“Kill them!”

Six of them tried to obey, bringing up their blasters in movements that seemed curiously heavy and slow, as though the gravity of Ragnarok had turned their arms to wood. Three of them almost lifted their blasters high enough to fire at the steps in front of them before arrows went through their throats. The other three did not get that far.

Narth and the remaining six went rigidly motionless and he said to them:

“Drop your blasters—quick!”

Their blasters thumped to the ground and Jimmy Stevens and his bowmen slid off the roof. Within a minute the Gerns were bound with their own chains, but for the officer, and the blasters were in the hands of the Ragnarok men.

Jimmy looked down the row of Gerns and shook his head. “So these are Gerns?” he said. “It was like trapping a band of woods goats.”

“Young ones,” Schroeder amended. “And almost as dangerous.”

Narth’s face flushed at the words and his eyes went to the ship. The sight of it seemed to restore his courage and his lips drew back in a snarl.

“You fools—you stupid, megalomaniac dung-heaps—do you think you can kill Gerns and live to boast about it?”

“Keep quiet,” Humbolt ordered, studying him with curiosity. Narth, like all the Gerns, was different from what they had expected. It was true the Gerns had strode into their town with an attempt at arrogance but they were harmless in appearance, soft of face and belly, and the snarling of the red-faced Narth was like the bluster of a cornered scavenger-rodent.

“I promise you this,” Narth was saying viciously, “if you don’t release us and return our weapons this instant I’ll personally oversee the extermination of you and every savage in this village with the most painful death science can contrive and I’ll—”

Humbolt reached out his hand and flicked Narth under the chin. Narth’s teeth cracked loudly together and his face twisted with the pain of a bitten tongue.

“Tie him up, Jess,” he said to a man near him. “If he opens his mouth again, shove your foot in it.”

He spoke to Schroeder. “We’ll keep three of the blasters and send two to each of the other front groups. Have that done.”

Dusk was deepening into darkness and he called Chiara again. “They’ll turn on their searchlights any minute and make the town as light as day,” he said. “If you can keep them blacked out until some of us have reached the ship, I think we’ll have won.”

“They’ll be kept blacked out,” Chiara said. “With some flint-headed arrows left over for the Gerns.”

He called Lake and Craig, to be told they were ready and waiting.

“But we’re having hell keeping the unicorns quiet,” Craig said. “They want to get to killing something.”

He pressed the switch of the communicator but it was dead. They had, of course, transferred to some other wave length so he could not hear the commands. It was something he had already anticipated.…

Fenrir and Sigyn were still obediently inside the doorway, almost frantic with desire to rejoin him. He spoke to them and they bounded out, snarling at three Gerns in passing and causing them to blanch to a dead-white color.

He set Tip on Sigyn’s shoulders and said, “Sigyn, there’s a job for you and Tip to do. A dangerous job. Listen—both of you.…”

The yellow eyes of Sigyn and the dark eyes of the little mocker looked into his as he spoke to them and accompanied his words with the strongest, clearest mental images he could project:

“Sigyn, take Tip to the not-men thing. Leave him hidden in the grass to one side of the big hole in it. Tip, you wait there. When the not-men come out you listen, and tell what they say.

“Now, do you both understand?”

Sigyn made a sound that meant she did but Tip clutched at his wrist with little paws suddenly gone cold and wailed, “No! Scared—scared—”

“You have to go, Tip,” he said, gently disengaging his wrist. “And Sigyn will hide near to you and watch over you.” He spoke to Sigyn. “When the horn calls you run back with him.”

Again she made the sound signifying understanding and he touched them both in what he hoped would not be the last farewell.

“All right, Sigyn—go now.”

She vanished into the gloom of coming night, Tip hanging tightly to her. Fenrir stood with the fur lifted on his shoulders and a half snarl on his face as he watched her go and watched the place where the not-men would appear.

“Where’s Freckles?” he asked Jimmy.

“Here,” someone said, and came forward with Tip’s mate.

He set Freckles on his shoulder and the first searchlight came on, shining down from high up on the cruiser. It lighted up the area around them in harsh white brilliance, its reflection revealing the black shadow that was Sigyn just vanishing behind the ship.

Two more searchlights came on, to illuminate the town. Then the Gerns came.

They poured out through the airlock and down the ramp, there to form in columns that marched forward as still more Gerns hurried down the ramp behind them. The searchlights gleamed on their battle helmets and on the blades of the bayonets affixed to their rifle-like long range blasters. Hand blasters and grenades hung from their belts, together with stubby flame guns.

They were a solid mass reaching halfway to the stockade before the last of them, the commanding officers, appeared. One of them stopped at the foot of the ramp to watch the advance of the punitive force and give the frightened but faithful Tip the first words to transmit to Freckles:

“The full force is on its way, Commander.”

A reply came, in Freckles’ simulation of the metallic tones of a communicator:

“The key numbers of the confiscated blasters have been checked and the disturbance rays of the master integrator set. You’ll probably have few natives left alive to take as prisoners after those thirteen charges explode but continue with a mopping up job that the survivors will never forget.”

So the Gerns could, by remote control, set the total charges of stolen blasters to explode upon touching the firing stud? It was something new since the days of the Old Ones.…

He called Chiara and the other groups, quickly, to tell them what he had learned. “We’ll get more blasters—ones they can’t know the numbers of—when we attack,” he finished.

He took the blaster from his belt and laid it on the ground. The front ranks of the Gerns were almost to the wall by then, a column wider than the gap that had been blasted through it, coming with silent purposefulness.

Two blaster beams lanced down from the turrets, to smash at the wall. Dust billowed and thunder rumbled as they swept along. A full three hundred feet of the wall had been destroyed when they stopped and the dust hid the ship and made dim glows of the searchlights.

It had no doubt been intended to impress them with the might of the Gerns but in doing so it hid the Ragnarok forces from the advancing Gerns for a few seconds.

“Jim—black out their lights before the dust clears,” he called. “Joe—the horn! We attack now!”

The first longbow arrow struck a searchlight and its glow grew dimmer as the arrow’s burden—a thin tube of thick lance tree ink—splattered against it. Another followed—

Then the horn rang out, harsh and commanding, and in the distance a unicorn screamed in answer. The savage cry of a prowler came, like a sound to match, and the attack was on.

He ran with Fenrir beside him and to his left and right ran the others with their prowlers. The lead groups converged as they went through the wide gap in the wall. They ran on, into the dust cloud, and the shadowy forms of the Gerns were suddenly before them.

A blaster beam cut into them and a Gern shouted, “The natives!” Other beams sprang into life, winking like pale blue eyes through the dust and killing all they touched. The beams dropped as the first volley of arrows tore through the massed front ranks, to be replaced by others.

They charged on, into the blue winking of the blasters and the red lances of the flame guns with the crossbows rattling and strumming in answer. The prowlers lunged and fought beside them and ahead of them; black hell-creatures that struck the Gerns too swiftly for blasters to find before throats were torn out; the sound of battle turned into a confusion of raging snarls, frantic shouts and dying screams.

A prowler shot past him to join Fenrir—Sigyn—and he felt Tip dart up to his shoulder. She made a sound of greeting in passing, a sound that was gone as her jaws closed on a Gern.

The dust cloud cleared a little and the searchlights looked down on the scene; no longer brilliantly white but shining through the red-black lance tree ink as a blood red glow. A searchlight turret slid shut and opened a moment later, the light wiped clean. The longbows immediately transformed it into a red glow.

The beam of one of the turret blasters stabbed down, to blaze a trail of death through the battle. It ceased as its own light revealed to the Gern commander that the Ragnarok forces were so intermixed with the Gern forces that he was killing more Gerns than Ragnarok men.

By then the fighting was so hand to hand that knives were better than crossbows. The Gerns fell like harvested corn; too slow and awkward to use their bayonets against the faster Ragnarok men and killing as many of one another as men when they tried to use their blasters and flame guns. From the rear there came the command of a Gern officer, shouted high and thin above the sound of battle:

“Back to the ship—leave the natives for the ship’s blasters to kill!”

The unicorns arrived then, to cut off their retreat.

They came twenty from the east and twenty from the west in a thunder of hooves, squealing and screaming in their blood lust, with prowlers a black wave going before them. They struck the Gerns; the prowlers slashing lanes through them while the unicorns charged behind, trampling them, ripping into them with their horns and smashing them down with their hooves as they vented the pent up rage of their years of confinement. On the back of each was a rider whose long spear flicked and stabbed into the throats and bellies of Gerns.

The retreat was halted and transformed into milling confusion. He led his own groups in the final charge, the prearranged wedge attack, and they split the Gern force in two.

The ship was suddenly just beyond them.

He gave the last command to Lake and Craig: “Now—into the ship!”

He scooped up a blaster from beside a fallen Gern and ran toward it. A Gern officer was already in the airlock, his face pale and strained as he looked back and his hand on the closing switch. He shot him and ran up the ramp as the officer’s body rolled down it.

Unicorn hooves pounded behind him and twenty of them swept past, their riders leaping from their backs to the ramp. Twenty men and fifteen prowlers charged up the ramp as a warning siren shrieked somewhere inside the ship. At the same time the airlocks, operated from the control room, began to slide swiftly shut.

He was through first, with Fenrir and Sigyn. Lake and Craig, together with six men and four prowlers, squeezed through barely in time. Then the airlocks were closed and they were sealed in the ship.

Alarm bells added their sound to the shrieking of the siren and from the multiple-compartments shafts came the whir of elevators dropping with Gern forces to kill the humans trapped inside the ship.

They ran past the elevator shafts without pausing, light and swift in the artificial gravity that was only two-thirds that of Ragnarok. They split forces as long ago planned; three men and four prowlers going with Charley Craig in the attempt to take the drive room, Lake and the other three men going with him in the attempt to take the control room.

They found the manway ladder and began to climb, Fenrir and Sigyn impatiently crowding their heels.

There was nothing on the control room level and they ran down the short corridor that their maps had showed. They turned left, into the corridor that had the control room at its end, and into the concentrated fire of nine waiting Gerns.

Fenrir and Sigyn went into the Gerns, under their fire before they could drop the muzzles of their blasters, with an attack so vicious and unexpected that what would have been a certain and lethal trap for the humans was suddenly a fighting chance.

The corridor became an inferno of blaster beams that cracked and hissed as they met and crossed, throwing little chips of metal from the walls with snapping sounds and going through flesh with sounds like soft tappings. It was over within seconds, the last Gern down and one man still standing beside him, the blond and nerveless Lake.

Thomsen and Barber were dead and Billy West was bracing himself against the wall with a blaster hole through his stomach, trying to say something and sliding to the floor before it was ever spoken.

And Sigyn was down, blood welling and bubbling from a wound in her chest, while Fenrir stood over her with his snarling a raging scream as he swung his head in search of a still-living Gern.

Humbolt and Lake ran on, Fenrir raging beside them, and into the control room.

Six officers, one wearing the uniform of a commander, were gaping in astonishment and bringing up their blasters in the way that seemed so curiously slow to Humbolt. Fenrir, in his fury, killed two of them as Lake’s blaster and his own killed three more.

The commander was suddenly alone, his blaster half lifted. Fenrir leaped at his throat and Humbolt shouted the quick command: “Disarm!”

It was something the prowlers had been taught in their training and Fenrir’s teeth clicked short of the commander’s throat while his paw sent the blaster spinning across the room.

The commander stared at them with his swarthy face a dark gray and his mouth still gaping.

“How—how did you do it?” he asked in heavily accented Terran. “Only two of you—”

“Don’t talk until you’re asked a question,” Lake said.

“Only two of you.…” The thought seemed to restore his courage, as sight of the ship had restored Narth’s that night, and his tone became threatening. “There are only two of you and more guards will be here to kill you within a minute. Surrender to me and I’ll let you go free—”

Lake slapped him across the mouth with a backhanded blow that snapped his head back on his shoulders and split his lip.

“Don’t talk,” he ordered again. “And never lie to us.”

The commander spit out a tooth and held his hand to his bleeding mouth. He did not speak again.

Tip and Freckles were holding tightly to his shoulder and each other, the racing of their hearts like a vibration, and he touched them reassuringly.

“All right now—all safe now,” he said.

He called Charley Craig. “Charley—did you make it?”

“We made it to the drive room—two of us and one prowler,” Charley answered. “What about you?”

“Norman and I have the control room. Cut their drives, to play safe. I’ll let you know as soon as the entire ship is ours.”

He went to the viewscreen and saw that the battle was over. Chiara was letting the searchlight burn again and prowlers were being used to drive back the unicorns from the surrendering Gerns.

“I guess we won,” he said to Lake.

But there was no feeling of victory, none of the elation he had thought he would have. Sigyn was dying alone in the alien corridor outside. Sigyn, who had nursed beside him and fought beside him and laid down her life for him.…

“I want to look at her,” he said to Lake.

Fenrir went with him. She was still alive, waiting for them to come back to her. She lifted her head and touched his hand with her tongue as he examined the wound.

It was not fatal—it need not be fatal. He worked swiftly, gently, to stop the bleeding that had been draining her life away. She would have to lie quietly for weeks but she would recover.

When he was done he pressed her head back to the floor and said, “Lie still, Sigyn girl, until we can come to move you. Wait for us and Fenrir will stay here with you.”

She obeyed and he left them, the feeling of victory and elation coming to him in full then.

Lake looked at him questioningly as he entered the control room and he said, “She’ll live.”

He turned to the Gern commander. “First, I want to know how the war is going?”

“I—” The commander looked uncertainly at Lake.

“Just tell the truth,” Lake said. “Whether you think we’ll like it or not.”

“We have all the planets but Earth, itself,” the commander said. “We’ll have it, soon.”

“And the Terrans on Athena?”

“They’re still—working for us there.”

“Now,” he said, “you will order every Gern in this ship to go to his sleeping quarters. They will leave their weapons in the corridors outside and they will not resist the men who will come to take charge of the ship.”

The commander made an effort toward defiance:

“And if I refuse?”

Lake answered, smiling at him with the smile of his that was no more than a quick showing of teeth and with the savage eagerness in his eyes.

“If you refuse I’ll start with your fingers and break every bone to your shoulders. If that isn’t enough I’ll start with your toes and go to your hips. And then I’ll break your back.”

The commander hesitated, sweat filming his face as he looked at them. Then he reached out to switch on the all-stations communicator and say into it:

“Attention, all personnel: You will return to your quarters at once, leaving your weapons in the corridors. You are ordered to make no resistance when the natives come.…”

There was a silence when he had finished and Humbolt and Lake looked at each other, bearded and clad in animal skins but standing at last in the control room of a ship that was theirs: in a ship that could take them to Athena, to Earth, to the ends of the galaxy.

The commander watched them, on his face the blankness of unwillingness to believe.

“The airlocks—” he said. “We didn’t close them in time. We never thought you would dare try to take the ship—not savages in animal skins.”

“I know,” Humbolt answered. “We were counting on you to think that way.”

“No one expected any of you to survive here.” The commander wiped at his swollen lips, wincing, and an almost child-like petulance came into his tone. “You weren’t supposed to survive.”

“I know,” he said again. “We’ve made it a point to remember that.”

“The gravity, the heat and cold and fever, the animals—why didn’t they kill you?”

“They tried,” he said. “But we fought back. And we had a goal—to meet you Gerns again. You left us on a world that had no resources. Only enemies who would kill us—the gravity, the prowlers, the unicorns. So we made them our resources. We adapted to the gravity that was supposed to kill us and became stronger and quicker than Gerns. We made allies of the prowlers and unicorns who were supposed to be our executioners and used them tonight to help us kill Gerns. So now we have your ship.”

“Yes…you have our ship.” Through the unwillingness to believe on the commander’s face and the petulance there came the triumph of vindictive anticipation. “The savages of Ragnarok have a Gern cruiser—but what can they do with it?”

“What can we do with it?” he asked, almost kindly. “We’ve planned for two hundred years what we can do with it. We have the cruiser and sixty days from now we’ll have Athena. That will be only the beginning and you Gerns are going to help us do it.”

* * * *

For six days the ship was a scene of ceaseless activity. Men crowded it, asking questions of the Gern officers and crew and calmly breaking the bones of those who refused to answer or who gave answers that were not true. Prowlers stalked the corridors, their cold yellow eyes watching every move the Gerns made. The little mockers began roaming the ship at will, unable any longer to restrain their curiosity and confident that the men and prowlers would not let the Gerns harm them.

One mocker was killed then; the speckle-faced mocker that could repeat messages verbatim. It wandered into a storage cubicle where a Gern was working alone and gave him the opportunity to safely vent his hatred of everything associated with the men of Ragnarok. He broke its back with a steel bar and threw it, screaming, into the disposal chute that led to the matter converter. A prowler heard the scream and an instant later the Gern screamed; a sound that died in its making as the prowler tore his throat out. No more mockers were harmed.

One Ragnarok boy was killed. Three fanatical Gern officers stole knives from the galley and held the boy as hostage for their freedom. When their demands were refused they cut his heart out. Lake cornered them a few minutes later and, without touching his blaster, disemboweled them with their own knives. He smiled down upon them as they writhed and moaned on the floor and their moans were heard for a long time by the other Gerns in the ship before they died. No more humans were harmed.

They discovered that operation of the cruiser was relatively simple, basically similar to the operation of Terran ships as described in the text book the original Lake had written. Most of the operations were performed by robot mechanisms and the manual operations, geared to the slower reflexes of the Gerns, were easily mastered.

They could spend the forty-day voyage to Athena in further learning and practice so on the sixth day they prepared to depart. The unicorns had been given the freedom they had fought so well for and reconnaissance vehicles were loaned from the cruiser to take their place. Later there would be machinery and supplies of all kinds brought in by freighter ships from Athena.

Time was precious and there was a long, long job ahead of them. They blasted up from Ragnarok on the morning of the seventh day and went into the black sea of hyperspace.

By then the Gern commander was no longer of any value to them. His unwillingness to believe that savages had wrested his ship from him had increased until his compartment became his control room to him and he spent the hours laughing and giggling before an imaginary viewscreen whereon the cruiser’s blasters were destroying, over and over, the Ragnarok town and all the humans in it.

But Narth, who had wanted to have them tortured to death for daring to resist capture, became very cooperative. In the control room his cooperation was especially eager. On the twentieth day of the voyage they let him have what he had been trying to gain by subterfuge: access to the transmitter when no men were within hearing distance.

After that his manner abruptly changed. Each day his hatred for them and his secret anticipation became more evident.

The thirty-fifth day came, with Athena five days ahead of them—the day of the execution they had let him arrange for them.

* * * *

Stars filled the transdimensional viewscreen, the sun of Athena in the center. Humbolt watched the space to the lower left and the flicker came again; a tiny red dot that was gone again within a microsecond, so quickly that Narth in the seat beside him did not see it.

It was the quick peek of another ship; a ship that was running invisible with its detector screens up but which had had to drop them for an instant to look out at the cruiser. Not even the Gerns had ever been able to devise a polarized detector screen.

He changed the course and speed of the cruiser, creating an increase in gravity which seemed very slight to him but which caused Narth to slew heavily in his seat. Narth straightened and he said to him:

“Within a few minutes we’ll engage the ship you sent for.”

Narth’s jaw dropped, then came back up. “So you spied on me?”

“One of our Ragnarok allies did—the little animal that was sitting near the transmitter. They’re our means of communication. We learned that you had arranged for a ship, en route to Athena, to intercept us and capture us.”

“So you know?” Narth asked. He smiled, an unpleasant twisting of his mouth. “Do you think that knowing will help you any?”

“We expect it to,” he answered.

“It’s a battleship,” Narth said. “It’s three times the size of this cruiser, the newest and most powerful battleship in the Gern fleet. How does that sound to you?”

“It sounds good,” he said. “We’ll make it our flagship.”

“Your flagship—your ‘flagship’!” The last trace of pretense left Narth and he let his full and rankling hatred come through. “You got this cruiser by trickery and learned how to operate it after a fashion because of an animal-like reflex abnormality. For forty-two days you accidental mutants have given orders to your superiors and thought you were our equals. Now, your fool’s paradise is going to end.”

The red dot came again, closer, and he once more altered the ship’s course. He had turned on the course analyzer and it clicked as the battleship’s position was correlated with that of its previous appearance. A short yellow line appeared on the screen to forecast its course for the immediate future.

“And then?” he asked curiously, turning back to Narth.

“And then we’ll take all of you left alive back to your village. The scenes of what we do to you and your village will be televised to all Gern-held worlds. It will be a valuable reminder for any who have forgotten the penalty for resisting Gerns.”

The red dot came again. He punched the battle stations button and the board responded with a row of ready lights.

“All the other Gerns are by now in their acceleration couches,” he said. “Strap yourself in for high acceleration maneuvers—we’ll make contact with the battleship within two minutes.”

Narth did so, taking his time as though it was something of little importance. “There will be no maneuvers. They’ll blast the stern and destroy your drive immediately upon attack.”

He fastened the last strap and smiled, taunting assurance in the twisted unpleasantness of it. “The appearance of this battleship has very much disrupted your plans to strut like conquering heroes among the slaves on Athena, hasn’t it?”

“Not exactly,” Humbolt replied. “Our plans are a little broader in scope than that. There are two new cruisers on Athena, ready to leave the shops ten days from now. We’ll turn control of Athena over to the humans there, of course, then we’ll take the three cruisers and the battleship back by way of Ragnarok. There we’ll pick up all the Ragnarok men who are neither too old nor too young and go on to Earth. They will be given training en route in the handling of ships. We expect to find no difficulty in breaking through the Gern lines around Earth and then, with the addition of the Earth ships, we can easily capture all the Gern ships in the solar system.”

“‘Easily’!” Narth made a contemptuous sneer of the word. “Were you actually so stupid as to think that you biological freaks could equal Gern officers who have made a career of space warfare?”

“We’ll far exceed them,” he said. “A space battle is one of trying to keep your blaster beams long enough on one area of the enemy ship to break through its blaster shields at that point. And at the same time try to move and dodge fast enough to keep the enemy from doing the same thing to you. The ships are capable of accelerations up to fifty gravities or more but the acceleration limitator is the safeguard that prevents the ship from going into such a high degree of acceleration or into such a sudden change of direction that it would kill the crew.

“We from Ragnarok are accustomed to a one point five gravity and can withstand much higher degrees of acceleration than Gerns or any other race from a one gravity world. To enable us to take advantage of that fact we have had the acceleration limitator on this cruiser disconnected.”

“Disconnected?” Narth’s contemptuous regard vanished in frantic consternation. “You fool—you don’t know what that means—you’ll move the acceleration lever too far and kill us all!”

The red dot flicked on the viewscreen, trembled, and was suddenly a gigantic battleship in full view. He touched the acceleration control and Narth’s next words were cut off as his diaphragm sagged. He swung the cruiser in a curve and Narth was slammed sideways, the straps cutting into him and the flesh of his face pulled lopsided by the gravity. His eyes, bulging, went blank with unconsciousness.

The powerful blasters of the battleship blossomed like a row of pale blue flowers, concentrating on the stern of the cruiser. A warning siren screeched as they started breaking through the cruiser’s shields. He dropped the detector screen that would shield the cruiser from sight, but not from the blaster beams, and tightened the curve until the gravity dragged heavily at his own body.

The warning siren stopped as the blaster beams of the battleship went harmlessly into space, continuing to follow the probability course plotted from the cruiser’s last visible position and course by the battleship’s robot target tracers.

He lifted the detector screen, to find the battleship almost exactly where the cruiser’s course analyzers had predicted it would be. The blasters of the battleship were blazing their full concentration of firepower into an area behind and to one side of the cruiser.

They blinked out at sight of the cruiser in its new position and blazed again a moment later, boring into the stern. He dropped the detector screen and swung the cruiser in another curve, spiraling in the opposite direction. As before, the screech of the alarm siren died as the battleship’s blasters followed the course given them by course analyzers and target tracers that were built to presume that all enemy ships were acceleration-limitator equipped.

The cruiser could have destroyed the battleship at any time—but they wanted to capture their flagship unharmed. The maneuvering continued, the cruiser drawing closer to the battleship. The battleship, in desperation, began using the same hide-and-jump tactics the cruiser used but it was of little avail—the battleship moved at known acceleration limits and the cruiser’s course analyzers predicted each new position with sufficient accuracy.

The cruiser made its final dash in a tightening spiral, its detector screen flickering on and off. It struck the battleship at a matched speed, with a thump and ringing of metal as the magnetic grapples fastened the cruiser like a leech to the battleship’s side.

In that position neither the forward nor stern blasters of the battleship could touch it. There remained only to convince the commander of the battleship that further resistance was futile.

This he did with a simple ultimatum to the commander:

“This cruiser is firmly attached to your ship, its acceleration limitator disconnected. Its drives are of sufficient power to thrust both ships forward at a much higher degree of acceleration than persons from one-gravity worlds can endure. You will surrender at once or we shall be forced to put these two ships into a curve of such short radius and at an acceleration so great that all of you will be killed.”

Then he added, “If you surrender we’ll do somewhat better by you than you did with the humans two hundred years ago—we’ll take all of you on to Athena.”

The commander, already sick from an acceleration that would have been negligible to Ragnarok men, had no choice.

His reply came, choked with acceleration sickness and the greater sickness of defeat:

“We will surrender.”

* * * *

Narth regained consciousness. He saw Humbolt sitting beside him as before, with no Gern rescuers crowding into the control room with shouted commands and drawn blasters.

“Where are they?” he asked. “Where is the battleship?”

“We captured it,” he said.

“You captured—a Gern battleship?”

“It wasn’t hard,” he said. “It would have been easier if only Ragnarok men had been on the cruiser. We didn’t want to accelerate to any higher gravities than absolutely necessary because of the Gerns on it.”

“You did it—you captured the battleship,” Narth said, his tone like one dazed.

He wet his lips, staring, as he contemplated the unpleasant implications of it.

“You’re freak mutants who can capture a battleship. Maybe you will take Athena and Earth from us. But”—the animation of hatred returned to his face—“What good will it do you? Did you ever think about that?”

“Yes,” he said. “We’ve thought about it.”

“Have you?” Narth leaned forward, his face shining with the malice of his gloating. “You can never escape the consequences of what you have done. The Gern Empire has the resources of dozens of worlds. The Empire will build a fleet of special ships, a force against which your own will be nothing, and send them to Earth and Athena and Ragnarok. The Empire will smash you for what you have done and if there are any survivors of your race left they will cringe before Gerns for a hundred generations to come.

“Remember that while you’re posturing in your little hour of glory on Athena and Earth.”

“You insist in thinking we’ll do as Gerns would do,” he said. “We won’t delay to do any posturing. We’ll have a large fleet when we leave Earth and we’ll go at once to engage the Gern home fleet. I thought you knew we were going to do that. We’re going to cripple and capture your fleet and then we’re going to destroy your empire.”

“Destroy the Empire—now?” Narth stared again, all the gloating gone as he saw, at last, the quick and inexorable end. “Now—before we can stop you—before we can have a chance?”

“When a race has been condemned to die by another race and it fights and struggles and manages somehow to survive, it learns a lesson. It learns it must never again let the other race be in position to destroy it. So this is the harvest you reap from the seeds you sowed on Ragnarok two hundred years ago.

“You understand, don’t you?” he asked, almost gently. “For two hundred years the Gern Empire has been a menace to our survival as a race. Now, the time has come when we shall remove it.”

* * * *

He stood in the control room of the battleship and watched Athena’s sun in the viewscreen, blazing like a white flame. Sigyn, fully recovered, was stretched out on the floor near him; twitching and snarling a little in her sleep as she fought again the battle with the Gerns. Fenrir was pacing the floor, swinging his black, massive head restlessly, while Tip and Freckles were examining with fascinated curiosity the collection of bright medals that had been cleaned out of the Gern commander’s desk.

Lake and Craig left their stations, as impatient as Fenrir, and came over to watch the viewscreen with him.

“One day more,” Craig said. “We’re two hundred years late but we’re coming in to the world that was to have been our home.”

“It can never be, now,” he said. “Have any of us ever thought of that—that we’re different to humans and there’s no human world we could ever call home?”

“I’ve thought of it,” Lake said. “Ragnarok made us different physically and different in the way we think. We could live on human worlds—but we would always be a race apart and never really belong there.”

“I suppose we’ve all thought about it,” Craig said. “And wondered what we’ll do when we’re finished with the Gerns. Not settle down on Athena or Earth, in a little cottage with a fenced-in lawn where it would be adventure to watch the Three-D shows after each day at some safe, routine job.”

“Not back to Ragnarok,” Lake said. “With metals and supplies from other worlds they’ll be able to do a lot there but the battle is already won. There will be left only the peaceful development—building a town at the equator for Big Winter, leveling land, planting crops. We could never be satisfied with that kind of a life.”

“No,” he said, and felt his own restlessness stir in protest at the thought of settling down in some safe and secure environment. “Not Athena or Earth or Ragnarok—not any world we know.”

“How long until we’re finished with the Gerns?” Lake asked. “Ten years? We’ll still be young then. Where will we go—all of us who fought the Gerns and all of the ones in the future who won’t want to live out their lives on Ragnarok? Where is there a place for us—a world of our own?”

“Where do we find a world of our own?” he asked, and watched the star clouds creep toward them in the viewscreen; tumbled and blazing and immense beyond conception.

“There’s a galaxy for us to explore,” he said. “There are millions of suns and thousands of worlds waiting for us. Maybe there are races out there like the Gerns—and maybe there are races such as we were a hundred years ago who need our help. And maybe there are worlds out there with things on them such as no man ever imagined.

“We’ll go, to see what’s there. Our women will go with us and there will be some worlds on which some of us will want to stay. And, always, there will be more restless ones coming from Ragnarok. Out there are the worlds and the homes for all of us.”

“Of course,” Lake said. “Beyond the space frontier…where else would we ever belong?”

It was all settled, then, and there was a silence as the battleship plunged through hyperspace, the cruiser running beside her and their drives moaning and thundering as had the drives of the Constellation two hundred years before.

A voyage had been interrupted then, and a new race had been born. Now they were going on again, to Athena, to Earth, to the farthest reaches of the Gern Empire. And on, to the wild, unknown regions of space beyond.

There awaited their worlds and there awaited their destiny; to be a race scattered across a hundred thousand light-years of suns, to be an empire such as the galaxy had never known.

They, the restless ones, the unwanted and forgotten, the survivors.

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 99, by Grendel Briarton

In 2037, the Give the Country Back to the Native Americans Party elected the President and Vice President, captured both houses of Congress, and even persuaded the Native Americans to accept.

Sweeping changes were instituted. Palefaces (who all were less than one-sixteenth Native American) were moved to remote reservations, where they were allowed to perform quaint tribal dances and sell souvenirs to tourists. However, they were strictly forbidden Native American cultural materials—eagle feathers, especially.

The first Paleface charged with this crime was one Angus MacGillicuddy, who had used three eagle feathers in what he called “a Highland war bonnet,” and Ferdinand Feghoot defended him before the Supreme Council of Sachems and Medicine Chiefs.

To their astonishment, he summoned the prosecutor himself, Melvin B. Many Thunders, as his sole witness.

“Sir,” Feghoot said, “my client denies that he feloniously obtained these feathers He avers that he picked them up from the ground in all innocence. Now, isn’t it true that a sick eagle generally molts, losing his feathers?”

“What of it?” scoffed Many Thunders. “Try proving this guy ever came anywhere near a sick eagle.”

“Prove it?” purred Ferdinand Feghoot. “You yourself have admitted it! It’s all in the record. When you denounce Mr. MacGillicuddy, you declared they were ill eagle feathers!”

SPEAKING WITH GEORGE R.R. MARTIN: Interview conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

Q: You’ve made quite a transition from being an Analog writer to the writer of a multi-volume epic fantasy? Is this something you planned or even expected? I am sure there are some guys in the hard-science camp who are grumbling that George Martin is this traitor to the cause.... Have you given this much thought?

Martin: I’ve had an occasional review which says that I’ve changed from one thing to another, but it’s really a misperception. Oddly enough, I’ve been through it before, because when I wrote Fevre Dream in 1982 I got a lot of stuff about how I’d changed from being a science fiction writer to a horror writer at that time. Now it’s a high fantasy writer.

The truth is that if you go back and look at my career, you’ll see that I have written in all these genres and sub-genres since the very beginning. My first story was a science fiction story in Galaxy, my first professional sale. But my second professional sale was a ghost story in Fantastic. I published a couple epic fantasy short stories in Fantastic during the 1970s as well, back when Ted White was the editor, as well as the stories in Analog. The stories in Analog got more attention, but the other stuff was there from the beginning.

I read all this stuff growing up and I read it pretty much interchangeably. I never made these distinctions between genre. I read H. P. Lovecraft. I read Robert E. Howard and I read Tolkien, and of course I read Robert A. Heinlein and Eric Frank Russell and Andre Norton; so I have always loved all three genres of science fiction and horror and fantasy, and have moved between them pretty freely. I don’t think I’ve gone anywhere. I am in the middle of this very large project right now, which is epic fantasy, but when I am done with it, the next book, whenever that comes, could be science fiction or horror or even something else entirely. A mystery novel. Who knows? I just tell the stories that I want to tell.

Q: Do you find that the writing or the conception different if it’s going to be science fiction, or not? Is the imaginative process any different?

Martin: No, it’s not different at all for me. I think that for science fiction, fantasy, and even horror to some extent, the differences are skin-deep. I know there is an element of the field, particularly in science fiction, who feel that the differences are very profound, but I do not agree with that analysis. I think for me it is a matter of the furnishings. I have talked about that in some of my guest of honor speeches. An elf or an alien may in some ways fulfill the same function, as a literary trope. It’s almost a matter of flavor. The ice cream can be chocolate or it can be strawberry, but it’s still ice cream. The real differences, to my mind, is between romantic fiction, which all these genres are a part of, and mimetic fiction, or naturalistic fiction.

Q: There was a Heinlein argument that science fiction is a form of realism. Did he know what he was talking about?

Martin: I don’t think so. [Laughs.] And Heinlein wrote fantasy himself, for that matter, from time to time, not very much of it; but he was perfectly capable of doing something like “Magic Incorporated,” or even Glory Road, which has many of the trappings of a fantasy within a science fiction framework.

Q: This raises a point which others have raised before, that science fiction is a kind of language. You can have a fantasy novel within a science-fiction framework, as oposed to a fantasy novel not within a science-fiction framework. This implies a science-fiction discourse which can handle fantasy material. Wasn’t that the whole point of the Unknown Worlds school, fantasy written as if it were science fiction?

Martin: Yes, and Unknown Worlds was a particular subset of fantasy, driven, I think, by Campbell’s very deep rationalism, his desire to make magic obey the laws that engineering might obey. So you could discover the seven principles of magic and apply them. To my mind the ultimate Unknown Worlds stories were always the Incomplete Enchanter stories—the Harold Shea stories—by Pratt and de Camp. Harold Shea is always going into these worlds, and there is magic at work, but it’s not mysterious. It is strange to him at first, but when he works out the underlying principles, he can easily become a magician, because he is basically an engineer. That was an amusing and, I think, an original take on it all at the time, in the ’30s and ’40s, but it’s certainly not my take. I find myself more in sympathy with the way Tolkien handles magic. I think if you’re going to do magic, it loses its magical qualities if it becomes nothing more than an alternate kind of science. It is more effective if it is something profoundly unknowable and wondrous, and something that can take your breath away.

Q: It’s a matter of control. If you can retro-engineer Sauron’s ring, it isn’t as magical anymore. It’s a matter of the characters getting control of the material, as opposed to being in a situation or universe where this is not really possible.

Martin: Yes. That’s certainly part of it. Understanding is part of it. Of course you can go to the horror slant, too, with Lovecraft and his suggestion that if we understood some of these things, they would drive us mad, because the truths are too profoundly disturbing in what they tell us about the hostile or inimical nature of the universe or the strange and arcane forces that surround us.

Q: Do you find yourself more drawn to the magical approach, even with science fiction?

Martin: Yes. I think that if you look at my science fiction, even my so-called Analog stories, they were never comfortably Analog stories. I do think it’s significant that my association with Analog that was very strong, and most of my early work that really established my career was published in Analog, all came during Ben Bova’s editorship, which I think was Analog’s golden summer. If John W. Campbell had lived another decade, I don’t know that I would ever have sold a story to Analog, or if when Campbell died, Stan Schmidt came in and became his immediate successor. Bova had a much more liberal approach as to what he would accept than either his predecessor or his successor.

Q: Let me guess that you are a writer who draws the story out of emotion and image rather than idea.

Martin: Yes, I think that’s true. And if you believe in all this left-brain/right-brain stuff...but certainly the power of my fiction comes from the emotional side of things and not the rationalist side of things. I prefer, for example, not to outline. I did outline during my Hollywood decade, because it’s required of you there, but on my own stories I have usually a general idea of where the story is going, but I do not break it all down and design it ahead of time. I just sort of fill in the blanks during the writing. The characters come alive and they take me to that destination, if the story is working.

Q: When you started A Game of Thrones, did you know you were going to write a multi-volume epic? I am thinking of Gene Wolfe’s remark that The Book of the New Sun, which ultimately ran five volumes, began as a novella for Orbit. Did you have some broad plan of creating this whole epic, or did it just sort of grow?

Martin: A bit of both. To tell the truth, I read that novella. It was called “The Feast of St. Catherine.” Gene presented it to the Windy City Writers Group when I was a member of it. In my case, when I wrote the first chapter of A Game of Thrones, I didn’t really know what I had. In fact I was writing quite a different book, a science-fiction book, and this chapter just came to me so vividly that I put the science fiction aside and wrote it. At this point I didn’t know if it was a short story or a piece of something bigger, but by the time I’d finished it, which only took two or three days, I was fairly certain that it was a piece of something bigger. It led to a second chapter and a third. I think that by the time I was four or five chapters in, I had some idea that, yes, I was working on a fantasy. I thought it was a trilogy. It was initially sold as a trilogy. Three books, three quite large books, mind you, but it grew even larger in the telling.

Q: How many books will the series be in all?

Martin: Seven is what I am looking at right now. I’m halfway through the fifth and hope to be able to complete that within the year, and hopefully on to the sixth and the seventh. But I am not writing that in blood. The goal is to tell the entire story as I visualize it, and that is more important than how many volumes it’s divided up into. I do definitely see it as a finite series that has an end. I think a work of art needs an end, as well as a beginning and a middle. You do have to wrap it up. You can’t drag it out forever. I think seven volumes will do it.

Q: At this point you must have a pretty clear idea of the overall structure.

Martin: Yes.

Q: How is the creation of an imaginary-world fantasy setting different from creating a planet in science fiction?

For example, in Windhaven you and Lisa Tuttle created a world, but it was a planet, not a fantasy setting. Is it a different kind of creation?

Martin: It’s not terribly different in the way I do it. I was never a hard-science guy, despite the association with Analog. I know how people like Gordy Dickson and Hal Clement in his day would go about creating worlds by figuring out what type of star it was and how far the planet was from the sun and what its axial tilt was, its rate of rotation, its chemical composition. Then they would work things out from that. But I don’t have that kind of background. Mine always came more from the effect. In the case of Windhaven we wanted flying human beings. We said, “How can we get people to fly and make it plausible to fly about on hang-gliders?” Well, a planet should have lighter gravity; that would help, and a lot of wind, etc. So we worked backwards. We didn’t design the planet to see what it would be like. We looked at the effects we wanted and tried to retrofit a planet to that.

In the case of fantasy, of course, it’s a little different. The most conspicuous aspect of the world of Westeros in The Song of Ice and Fire is the long and random nature of the seasons. I have gotten a number of fan letters over the years from readers who are trying to figure out the reason for why the seasons are the way they are. They develop lengthy theories: perhaps it’s a multiple-star system, and what the axial tilt is, but I have to say, “Nice try, guys, but you’re thinking in the wrong direction.” This is a fantasy series. I am going to explain it all eventually, but it’s going to be a fantasy explanation. It’s not going to be a science-fiction explanation.

Q: In a fantasy you have to have a supernatural or mythic core to the story, rather than a scientific one.

Martin: Right. Yes. Exactly.

Q: Did you start Fevre Dream with just the image of a vampire on a steamboat?

Martin: Actually, I started Fevre Dream with the image of the steamboat. I was living in Dubuque Iowa for a number of years in the late ’70s, teaching there. Dubuque is an old river town on the Mississippi. It’s got a very strong sense of its own history, which included a period as a steamboat town. They manufactured some steamboats there. It was an important port on the upper Mississippi. I started reading about the history of that time and became fascinated with the steamboats and the river culture to the extent that I decided I wanted to write a novel about that. It seemed like a colorful sort of alien world.

Interestingly enough, John Brunner over in England was getting interested in steamboats at just the same time. But we went at it very different ways. Brunner decided to do a straight historical and he produced that, a novel called The Great Steamboat Race, which was, I think, quite a good novel, one of the better novels that Brunner wrote in the last period of his career. In my case, since I was a science fiction and fantasy writer, although I had the steamboat era, I never really considered doing just a straight historical. It had to have a fantastic element in there, and somehow vampires, which I had always been interested in independently, seemed to go with steamboats. The whole Dracula thing. There was a dark romanticism both to vampires and to steamboats. The two of them had to go together. Of course the fit wasn’t precise, because there were certain elements of the vampire legend that are inimicable to the steamboat culture. The can’t-cross-running-water thing was a big problem. So I decided very early on that I would do an almost science-fiction version of these vampires. I would try to justify them scientifically as best I could and figure out how vampires could actually live and work. I developed them not as your traditional mythic vampires, but more as a secondary race preying on us and living among us since the dawn of history. But the steamboats were the actual beginning of that book.

Q: I assume you could go back to writing more horror any time. You have at least one horror collection, The Songs the Dead Men Sing. Have you felt the inclination to go back and do more.

Martin: I never think in terms of genres like that. I never say, “I’ve got to do more horror.” It’s more, “Okay I have this story idea. I am enthused about this.” Then I consider whether it’s horror or science fiction, however it falls. If I have an idea that gets my juices flowing, I would love to do it. I do have ideas for various sequels to things that I have done in the past, including a sequel to Fevre Dream. But I’ve had that for years, and whether I will ever get around to writing it, I don’t know. There are unfortunately a lot of ideas and things I would love to write, but only so many hours in the day and so many days in the year.

Q: It seems that what’s hot right now is what might be described as vampire lifetstyle novels, a series of vampire lifestyle novels. I don’t know if your sequel could fit in, a floating vampire lifestyle novel....

Martin: Vampires, unfortunately have been done.... At the time I did Fevre Dream in 1982, Anne Rice had done the first of her books. There were a few other vampire books out there, but there was not nearly the glut that there has been today. I am tempted to return to the world of Fevre Dream, but I have reservations about it too simply because I think that vampires are on the verge of being done to death, so to speak. It’s hard to think of anything original to do. Maybe I should return to “The Skin Trade,” my werewolves. They haven’t been done quite as much.

Q: How about Lovecraft’s themes, horror stories of the larger cosmos? Have you ever given that any thought?

Martin: I loved Lovecraft when I was younger. He was one of my favorite writers when I was high school. I read everything I could get by him. I’ve occasionally played with Lovecraftian things. There is a character in my Wild Cards novel who is haunted by Lovecraftian sorts of dreams at a certain point. I wrote up several of those, when the character was dreaming, in my best Lovecraft imitation. I am not sure how well I did. I certainly tried to do my best to capture it.

I don’t think I could do a pure Lovecraftian story, because there is a certain passivity about his heroes that drives me crazy. Being driven mad by understanding the truth and giving in to it is not something I could do with my own characters. His view of the universe and the way he got horrific effects still could be effective, so maybe someday I’ll do something with that. It was really Derleth who organized and codified his mythos, and I think that in some ways by doing that he did him a disservice.

Q: He basically wrecked it.

Martin: Yes.

Q: I wasn’t talking about doing a pastiche, but extending Lovecraft’s themes. I am not sure Derleth ever wrote a decent Lovecraftian story.

Martin: No. He certainly never captured the feeling. He could use the same names and books and dark gods and so forth, but never to anything close to the effect that Lovecraft achieved.

Q: We’ve been talking about novels here, but I can’t help but wonder if, after having written seven long epic volumes, you will feel an urge for compression and write short fiction.

Martin: I think my work has gotten longer as I’ve gotten older and deeper into my career. I don’t think, when I finish Ice and Fire, that I am ever going to do anything on that scale again. I’m not immediately going to start another seven-volume mega-opus. I can be pretty certain of that. But I am not sure I am going to go back to writing short stories either. The truth is, I haven’t done a true short story in years. Even when I do write short fiction, it tends to come out at novella length. But I might very well, once Ice and Fire is done, do some novellas and maybe even a few novelets and certainly a stand-alone novel or two.

Q: Of course once The Song of Ice and Fire is done, the publisher could say, “This is so successful, here’s five million dollars. Write me another one.” What then?

Martin: I do wrestle with that. I figure it remains to be seen what will happen to me after Ice and Fire, the reception the next book will get. In some ways you never know. Is your audience going to follow you when you do something different? I now have hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of readers, but are they Ice and Fire readers, or are they George R. R. Martin readers? Until I do my first new book after the series, I’m not going to know. You see examples on both sides in our field. You see someone like Strephen R. Donaldson, who can achieve huge sales with the Covenant series, but then when he moves to science fiction with the Gap series, it doesn’t sell very well. On the other hand, you see someone like Stephen King. He can do stand-alone horror novels and the Dark Tower series and they all sell equally well. So King readers are really King readers, not readers of a particular book or a particular series. But Donaldson’s readers were Covenant fans, not Donaldson fans. I don’t know. But it is certainly something that concerns me. I am not going to say that I am going to be done with Westeros forever, this world I have created, but it is certainly not the only thing I want to write. So once it is done, I certainly will attempt to do other things in science fiction or horror or even in other genres that I haven’t touched on yet, and the question remains, will my audience follow me there?

Q: Might you have to develop a series of pseudonyms and become several writers?

Martin: Hopefully not.

Q: Thanks George.

Recorded at the Boskone science fiction convention, Boston, February 16, 2006.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

The late REGINALD BRETNOR (1911-1992) was never a prolific writer—he wrote only a handful of books and about 100 short stories (and more than 120 short-short “Feghoots” under his GRENDEL BRIARTON pseudonym)—over a 45-year writing career. In addition to wars, weaponry, and science fiction, Bretnor’s broad interests included cats. (And puns. Did we mention the horrible puns?)

DR. MARK E. BURGESS is a veterinarian with a special interest in exotic pets. He has practiced in the Portland, Oregon area for nearly 25 years, and is a long time reader of science fiction and fantasy. His other works include Dog Daze & Cat Naps: A Vet Student’s Odyssey, a novel providing a humorous look at four years in veterinary school; and the combat sci-fi novella The Battle for Eden, part of a series about the Human-Knacker war. Dr. Burgess currently lives with his loving wife, Denise; two beautiful daughters, Anna and Sarah; and Molly the cat, plus Claire the rat.

ALGIS BUDRYS (1931–2008) was a Lithuanian-American science fiction author, editor, and critic. His first published science fiction story was “The High Purpose”, which appeared in Astounding Science Fiction in 1952. Beginning in 1952, Budrys worked as editor and manager for such science fiction publishers as Gnome Press and Galaxy Science Fiction. Budrys’s 1960 novella “Rogue Moon” was nominated for a Hugo Award, and was later anthologized in The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume Two (1973). His Cold War science fiction novel was adapted for the screen in 1973. In addition to numerous Hugo Award and Nebula Award nominations, Budrys won the Science Fiction Research Association’s 2007 Pilgrim Award for lifetime contributions to speculative fiction scholarship. In 2009, he was the recipient of one of the first three Solstice Awards presented by the SFWA in recognition of his contributions to the field of science fiction.

BRENDA W. CLOUGH (who also writes as B.W. Clough) is an American science fiction and fantasy writer. Her Novella “May Be Some Time” was nominated for a Hugo Award and a Nebula Award in 2002. She currently teaches writing workshops at the Writers Center in Bethesda, MD.

CHARLES V. DE VET (1911-1997) was an American science fiction author. His Kalin Trobt series includes Second Game (written with Katherine MacLean) and Third Game. His other SF novels include Cosmic Checkout (also written with Katherine MacLean) and Special Feature. He remains best known for his science fiction from Astounding.

PHILIP K. DICK (1928–1982) was an American novelist, short story writer and essayist whose published work is almost entirely in the science fiction genre. Dick explored sociological, political and metaphysical themes in novels dominated by monopolistic corporations, authoritarian governments and altered states. In his later works Dick’s thematic focus strongly reflected his personal interest in metaphysics and theology. He often drew upon his own life experiences in addressing the nature of drug abuse, paranoia and schizophrenia, and transcendental experiences in novels such as A Scanner Darkly and VALIS.

We know nothing about JACK DOUGLAS, sorry. If you know/knew/are related to him, drop us a line with more info!

This is embarassing! We know nothing about WILLIAM GERKEN, either. If you know/knew/are related to him, drop us a line with more info!

TOM GODWIN (1915–1980) was an American science fiction author. Godwin published three novels and twenty-seven short stories in his career. His controversial hard SF short story “The Cold Equations” is a notable example of the mid-1950s science fiction genre.

MICHAEL HEMMINGSON is a novelist, short story writer, literary critic, cultural anthropologist, qualitative researcher, playwright, and screenwriter. Hemmingson won the San Diego Book Awards Association’s first Novel-in-Progress grant for The Rose of Heaven and SDBAA’s Best Published novel for Wild Turkey. His media study monograph, Star Trek: A Post-Structural Critique of the Original Series, was a 2010 finalist nominee for General Non-fiction Book. Look for many of his books from Wildside Press.

C.J. HENDERSON is the creator of the Jack Hagee hardboiled detective series, both the Teddy London and Piers Knight supernatural investigator series and many more. With 75 books and hundreds upon hundreds of short stories and comics on the shelf, it’s no wonder he’s so well-known. But, what prompted New Mystery Magazine to say “If, as some argue, the hardboiled private eye mystery story is a literary form on a par with the Japanese haiku or the Irish ballad, then Mr. Henderson deserves the mantle of literary master” can only be tied to his remarkable talent. For more of his relentless self-aggrandizement, please feel free to visit him at www.cjhenderson.com.

JAY LAKE is a science fiction and fantasy writer. In 2003 he was a quarterly first place winner in the Writers of the Future contest. In 2004 he won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in Science Fiction. He lives in Portland, Oregon and works as a product manager for a voice services company. Lake’s writings have appeared in numerous publications, including Postscripts, Realms of Fantasy, Interzone, Strange Horizons, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Nemonymous, and the Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. He is an editor for the “Polyphony” anthology series from Wheatland Press, and was also a contributor to the Internet Review of Science Fiction.

LONNI LEES publishes in magazines such as Hardboiled, Yellow Mama, A Shot of Ink, Shotgun Honey, Black Petals, and All Due Respect, and in the anthologies Deadly Dames, More Whodunits, Battling Boxing Stories, and Felons, Flames and Ambulance Rides. Her books include The Mosaic Murder, Deranged (PSWA 2012 Award for Best Published Novel), and her short story collection Crawlspace.

FRITZ LEIBER is one of the greats of the fantasy and science fiction fields. If you aren’t familiary with his work, do yourself a favor and look him up. If you like fantasy, start with the Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser series. If you like science fiction, start with The Big Time.

Alas! We don’t know anything about IRWIN LEWIS, beyond that he wrote at least one great story. If you have more info, please share it with us!

WINSTON K. MARKS has at least one claim to fame—Barry Malzberg mentioned him as an example of a forgotten author who will live on thanks to the internet—so we can to go check him out. You know what? He’s a really good writer who doesn’t deserve to be forgotten!

GEORGE R.R. MARTIN is one of the best-selling fantasy authors of all time, thanks to his Game of Thrones series (which we highly recommend, if you’re one of the half-dozen people on the planet who haven’t read it yet).

ANDREW J. OFFUTT (the “J” stands for Jefferson) (1934-2013) was an important figture in the fantasy and science fiction field. He wrote and published numerous novels and short stories, including several in the “Thieves World” series, which feature his best known character, the thief, Hanse, also known as Shadowspawn (and, later, Chance). His “Iron Lords” series was also quite popular. He wrote two series of books based on characters by Robert E. Howard, one featuring Howard’s best known character, Conan, and one featuring Cormac mac Art. He also wrote the 19-book science fiction “Spaceways” series, over half of which were collaborations. The great 5-volume sword & sorcery anthology series, Swords Against Darkness, that Offutt edited in the mid 1970s introduced a new generation of readers to classic fantasy adventure. We hope to have more of his stories in future Megapacks.

ROBERT REGINALD, an American writer, has edited some 2,000 books in his career, has written13,000 short pieces, and is the author of 144 volumes of history, criticism, and popular fiction, including these recent Wildside Press and Borgo Press titles: The Phantom’s Phantom (Phantom Detective #1, 2007), The Nasty Gnomes (Phantom Detective #2, 2008), Choice Words: The Borgo Press Book of Writers Writing About Writing (Editor, 2010), Knack’ Attack: A Tale of the Human-Knacker Wars (2010). Check out the rest of his titles at any online bookstore!

MIKE RESNICK is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short fiction. He has 5 Hugos, plus other major awards from the USA, France, Poland, Spain, Croatia, Catalonia, and Japan. Mike is the auhot or 84 novels, over 260 stories, and 3 screenplays., and has edited 41 anthologies.

PAMELA SARGENT has won the Nebula and Locus Awards and is the author of the novels Cloned Lives, The Sudden Star, Watchstar, The Golden Space, The Alien Upstairs, Eye of the Comet, Homesmind, Alien Child, The Shore of Women, Venus of Dreams, Venus of Shadows, Child of Venus, and Climb the Wind. Ruler of the Sky, her 1993 historical novel about Genghis Khan, was a bestseller in Germany and in Spain, where she was invited to speak at the Institute of American Studies, the University of Barcelona, and the Complutense University of Madrid. She also edited the Women of Wonder anthologies, the first collections of science fiction by women, published in the 1970s by Vintage/Random House and in updated editions during the 1990s by Harcourt Brace. A short story, “The Shrine,” was produced for the syndicated TV anthology series Tales from the Darkside.

Tor Books reissued her 1983 young adult novel Earthseed, selected as a Best Book for Young Adults by the American Library Association, and a sequel, Farseed, in early 2007. Farseed was chosen by the New York Public Library for their 2008 Books for the Teen Age list of best books for young adults. A third novel, Seedship, was published in 2010. Earthseed has been optioned by Paramount Pictures, with Melissa Rosenberg, scriptwriter for all five Twilight films, set to write and produce through her Tall Girls Productions.

DARRELL SCHWEITZER is an American writer, editor, and essayist in the field of speculative fiction. Much of his focus has been on dark fantasy and horror, although he does also work in science fiction and fantasy. Schweitzer is also a prolific writer of literary criticism and editor of collections of essays on various writers within his preferred genres, many of which are available from Wildside Press. His most recent print book is a collection of sword & Sorcery stories, Echoes of the Goddess, and he has an ebook collection, The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack, due out any day now.

TIM SULLIVAN, is an American science fiction novelist, screenwriter, actor, film director and short story writer. Many of his stories have been critically acknowledged and reprinted; his short story “Zeke,” a tragedy about an extraterrestrial stranded on Earth, has been translated into German and was a finalist for the 1982 Nebula Award for Best Short Story. “Under Glass” (2011), a well-reviewed semi-autobiographical short story with occult hints, has been translated into Chinese and is the basis for a screenplay by director/actor Ron Ford. Sullivan edited a horror anthology for Avon Books, Tropical Chills, in 1988. He also published his first novel, Destiny’s End, in 1988. This science fiction novel was followed by The Parasite War in 1989, The Martian Viking in 1991, and Lords of Creation in 1992, and another horror anthology, Cold Shocks (Avon, 1991), among other books.

MARY A. TURZILLO is an American science fiction writer noted primarily for short stories. She won the Nebula Award for Best Novelette in 2000 for her story “Mars is No Place for Children,” and her story “Pride” was a Nebula award finalist for best short story of 2007. Her first novel, An Old Fashioned Martian Girl was serialized in Analog magazine in 2004. She was formerly a professor of English at Kent State University, where she wrote articles and several books of science fiction criticism under the name Mary T. Brizzi, including Reader’s Guide to Anne McCaffrey and Reader’s Guide to Philip Jose Farmer. She attended the Clarion Workshop in 1985, and she founded the Cajun Sushi Hamsters writing workshop in Cleveland, OH.

CYNTHIA WARD was born in Oklahoma and lived in Maine, Spain, Germany, the San Francisco Bay Area, Seattle, and Tucson before moving to the Los Angeles area. A 1992 graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, she has sold stories to Asimov’s Science Fiction, and other anthologies and magazines. Cynthia’s reviews appear regularly on Amazon.com and SciFiWire.com and irregularly in other websites and publications. She is working on her first novel, a futuristic mystery tentatively titled Stone Rain.

LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS is the author of about fifty novels and over a hundred short stories, mostly in the SF, fantasy, and horror fields. He won the Hugo award in 1988 for his short story, “Why I Left Harry’s All-Night Hamburgers,” and was president of the Horror Writers Association for two years. His most recent book is Tales of Ethshar, a collection of short stories set in the same universe as The Misenchanted Sword and many of his finest fantasy novels.

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

THE MEGAPACK SERIES

THE TRUE DARKNESS, by Pamela Sargent

PERMANENT FATAL ERRORS, by Jay Lake

ADJUSTMENT TEAM, by Philip K. Dick

ROBOTS DON’T CRY, by Mike Resnick

NO GREAT MAGIC, by Fritz Leiber

ESCAPE HATCH, by Brenda W. Clough

BACKLASH, by Winston K. Marks

THE PICK-UP, by Lawrence Watt-Evans

POPULATION IMPLOSION, by Andrew J. Offutt

WAY DOWN EAST, by Tim Sullivan

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 28, by Grendel Briarton

TO INVADE NEW YORK, by Irwin Lewis

THEY WERE THE WIND, by C.J. Henderson

STOPOVER, by William Gerken

CONSEQUENCES OF STEAM, by Michael Hemmingson

OUTSIDE LOOKING IN, by Mark E. Burgess

DEAD WORLD, by Jack Douglas

NEFERTITI’S TENTH LIFE, by Mary A. Turzillo

QUICKSILVER, by Lonni Lees

AFTER ALL, by Robert Reginald

THE BARBARIANS, by Algis Budrys

EX MACHINA, by Cynthia Ward

MONKEY ON HIS BACK, by Charles V. De Vet

THE SURVIVORS, by Tom Godwin

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 99, by Grendel Briarton

SPEAKING WITH GEORGE R.R. MARTIN: Interview conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

ABOUT THE AUTHORS