THE RAKEHELLS OF HEAVEN

by John Boyd

A NATIONAL GENERAL COMPANY

This low-priced Bantam Book contains the complete text of the original

hard-cover edition.

NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

PRINTING HISTORY

Weybright and Talley edition published December 1969 Bantam edition

published February 1971

All rights reserved. Copyright © 1969 by John Boyd

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Dedicated to Louise the Light Bender Baldwin

A Knight of ghosts and shadows

I summoned am to tourney

Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end.

Methinks, it is no journey.

— Tom o'Bedlam

CHAPTER ONE

Astronauts hold few charms for psychiatrists.

With Their "Rogers" and their "Wilcos" and their "A-Okays," the eagle

scouts of the Space Navy are all typical American boys who like girls and

would rather go bowling than read a book. No matter if the astronaut comes

from Basutoland, black and fuzzy-haired, he's still an all-American boy.

Malfunctions of the ego are as rare among the breed as roses on Mars, or

so I thought when I came to Mandan. And so I continued to think until I

debriefed Ensign John Adams after his unscheduled touchdown at the Mandan Pad.

In John Adams, I found the psychiatric equivalent of an orchid blooming on

Jupiter.

As a psychiatrist of Plato's school, I would have never volunteered for

duty at the Mandan Naval Academy. Platonists are sculptors of the psyche who

hold that sanity is innate in man's mind. Our tools are rhetoric, insight,

empathy and, above all, the question, for wise interrogation is the better

part of therapy. Our marble is mined from the loony bins of Earth. Yet, with

Bellevue Hospital but a few blocks from where I was graduated, the bureaucracy

ordered me to intern at the North Dakota space complex "to broaden my

technical knowledge."

I got to Mandan in late September, a week before school opened, during

the point of impact called autumn when winter kicks summer off the Northern

Plains. I reported to Space Surgeon Commander Harkness, USN (MC), commandant

of the infirmary staff. Doctor Harkness, or Commander, as he preferred to be

called, was a neurosurgeon, which is a fancy name for a brain mechanic who

uses laser drills and saws.

Harkness made no attempt to suppress his hostility toward interns in

general and psychiatrists in particular. He assigned me to interview incoming

midshipmen who had already been Rorschached from Johannesburg to Juneau. It

was salt-mine work. Any behavioral psychologist could have handled it, but it

implemented Harkness's policy of making interns sweat.

In my first three weeks, I interviewed over two hundred yearlings and

found only one whose behavior was suspect, an earlobe-puller from Shanghai.

His ear-pulling suggested a compulsion neurosis that can be dangerous in space

— such boys start counting stars when they should be tending the helm. I

offered my Chinese ear-puller to Harkness to demonstrate my application to

duty. Harkness felt the lad's earlobe, found a pimple which had irritated it

and gave me a dressing down. "One thing we don't do at Mandan, Doctor, is

stumble over facts to get at a theory."

Actually, Harkness's ridicule was my high point at Mandan until Adams

touched down in late December. Curse me for a masochist, but any emotion that

colored that wasteland of psychiatrists was welcome. I chewed my hostility

like a betel nut.

It was 5:45 P.M., Wednesday, December 28. I had the medical watch in the

infirmary when Harkness called. "Doctor, are you the only psychiatrist

aboard?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, "and will be during the holidays."

"Then you'll have to do . . . . We've got a space scout, Ensign John

Adams, in orbit. His E.T.A. at the northwest pad is 20:10. He's requested

immediate debriefing in the decontamination chamber beneath the landing pad,

which tells us something. He's the only man on a two-seater scouting craft,

which tells us more. Moreover, he lifted off last January with a running

mate, Ensign Kevin O'Hara. Not only is Adams coming back alone, he's better

than a year ahead of schedule. You're our question-and-answer expert, Doctor,

and you've been yearning for variety. Here's your chance. Get cracking on

the personnel files of Adams and O'Hara, Probe 2813. Keep in mind, Doctor,

the indices point to stalker's fever."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Another thing, Doctor: either Adams has aborted the mission or he's

coming out of a non-Galilean frame. In either event, he's violating Navy

Regulations."

"Yes, sir." I hung up, slightly addled.

Generally it took three days to prepare for the debriefing of a returning

probe. I knew this from department scuttlebutt since there had been no

debriefings during my tenure. Usually, the job was assigned to a senior

psychiatrist, but I was more pleased than nervous. By sneering at me as a

"question-and-answer expert," Harkness was subconsciously admitting that the

debriefing of Adams was a task above and beyond the skills of a lobotomist,

and Harkness would trepan a man for a headache.

I sprinted down the hall to the personnel-files locker, guarded by a

midshipman, and took the psychological-profile cards of John Adams and Kevin

O'Hara from the class of '27, last year's graduating class. On my way out, I

paused long enough to ask the sentry, "What's a non-Galilean frame?"

He braced himself and looked straight ahead. "An inertial frame of

reference, sir, in a constantly accelerating free fall, sir, which exceeds the

speed of light at its apex velocity, sir."

"At ease, sailor," I said. "What does all that mean in plain language?"

"That is plain language, sir. Mathematically, it's stated like this,

sir: if the square root of one, minus V squared, C squared . . ."

"Never mind," I said. "If light is a constant, how do you exceed the

speed of light?"

"You don't, sir. Under the New Special Theory, sir, the speed of light

is constant in reference to any inertial frame — that's the observer's point

of view, sir — even when the frame is thinned to a Minkowski one-space, sir."

I nodded, "But how does the frame get thin?"

"The Lorentz-Fitzgerald Contraction, sir."

"Thank you," I said, and went back to the office to insert Adams' profile

into the typewriter.

Reading the machine almost as fast as it converted the card into

typewriting, I found what I expected in John Adams, the same well-adjusted,

nontraumatized stimulus and response mechanism I would have gotten from any

other card in the Academy files. Adams went a little above the norm in

aggressiveness, an understandable deviation when related to the speed of his

motor reflexes, which were also faster than the norm. He had probably won a

lot of fistfights as a schoolboy — in Alabama, I noted.

Genealogically, too, there was nothing unusual in Adams' background

except a great-grandmother who had been a female journeyman preacher, a

traveling evangelist for one of those off-beat Protestant sects that still

crop up in the South.

Before I read Kevin O'Hara's card, I knew something about him from

reading Adams's profile. It's Academy policy to match the personalities of

running mates on space flight on a basis of compatible differences — the

separate-but-equal theory — in order to diminish boredom on long flights by

permitting an active interreaction of personalities without arousing

antagonisms. Boredom mixed with antagonism gives a breeding ground for

stalker's fever, that ailment indigenous to space flights wherein spacemen

stalk each other through the confines of their ship as animals intent on their

prey. It is a peculiar ailment; usually fatal, since the spaceman who suffers

it least on a flight is the one most apt to succumb.

O'Hara, too, stood high on the chart for aggressiveness, but he was

smaller than Adams and his reflexes were adjudged slower. His genealogy also

offered an anomaly, a grandfather who had been a Catholic priest and an

underground colonel in the Irish Republican Army who had been slain in the

Rebellion of 2160. O'Hara was from County Meath, in Ireland.

First, I had to consider the possibility of murder based on the index of

aggressiveness in the profiles of the two. Aggressiveness is hostility under

restraint. Weaken the restraint and you have violence, a principle long ago

recognized by the Law and Order Statutes of Imperial Earth. With two such men

confined in a space shell, without law and custodians of their own order, a

chance remark might have stirred old religious antagonisms into a flare of

anger. Then, after a sudden blow, a corpse might be shoved through an airlock

to tumble forever through infinity.

This theory was supported by the faster reflexes of Adams, who was also

the larger man of the two.

On a hunch, I put Adams's index card back into the machine and punched

"Student Infractions."

The platen ball whirred and I read, "Midshipman Adams placed on

indefinite probation, spring semester, 2227, for assault with bodily harm

intent on three-man Shore Patrol during altercation after raid on Madame

Chacaud's, a Mandan pleasure parlor."

Kevin O'Hara's card turned up the same tidbit, with one significant

difference: O'Hara had been punished for evading arrest.

To Harkness, my next act might have seemed a fanciful waste of time, but

we Platonists are trained to ask questions. I inserted the indices of both

men into a Mark VII computer and engaged them in a boxing match. Adams

knocked out O'Hara in the third round, but it was a slugging match.

Adams beat O'Hara two chess games out of three, but O'Hara cleaned Adams

out in a poker game. Adams had intelligence but O'Hara was shrewd.

This deduction prompted me to engage them again in a rough-and-tumble

brawl specifying that the fight must end in a fatality.

O'Hara killed Adams.

I extended the period of conflict to three months and the result was the

same, O'Hara killed Adams. After one year, a longer time than the actual

voyage, O'Hara killed Adams.

What the machine was telling me was this: Since stalker's fever is

indigenous to space ships and since these voyages are scheduled for six months

outbound and six months for the return, there had been no stalker's fever

aboard. There had been no galactic touchdown since all the time was taken up

by the inflight period. Harkness to the contrary notwithstanding, if

stalker's fever had broken out aboard, Ensign Kevin O'Hara would be up there

orbiting Earth and not the probe commander, Ensign John Adams.

As a space facility, the Mandan Naval Academy ranks among the

best-equipped in the world. Forty feet below the landing pad where Adams was

touching down, the decontamination chamber is divided from the debriefing room

and the witnesses' gallery above by a wall of resonant glass. The incoming

spacemen arrive at decontamination by a sliding chute which extends from a

snorkel nozzle that automatically clamps onto the exit lock of the ship above.

Recording and medical monitoring equipment is as good as any in the world and

no known microbe, terrestrial or extraterrestrial, can survive the

light-irradiated atmosphere of the chamber.

In twenty-degree weather with three feet of snow on the ground, I took

the underground dolly to the landing site, reading the Operations Data Card as

I rode.

The Adams-OHara Probe had been sent to scout the 320-330-degree segment

of a galaxy beyond the star Lynx. Object of the probe was to chart the area

and explore it for habitable planets. Ten degrees of arc might seem a thin

slice of galactic pie, but the area covers a large bite of parsecs even when

measured along the perimeter of the circle.

However, I'm not paid to think along astronomical lines. My job, or so I

thought at the moment, was to interview a returnee to determine his mental and

physical condition and welcome him back to Earth on a human-to-human basis.

We medical men are chosen to be the greeters not merely because of our

professional qualifications but because of the mystique attached to us as

healers.

In the old days, chaplains welcomed the star rovers home. But men of the

cloth have an aura of funerals around them and some of the scouts, their

senses wracked by time and warped with radiation, felt so strongly that they

were about to receive extreme unction that their blood pressure soared.

Later, the cross or crescent became even less potent as a symbol because

the traits that make a religious mind were weeded out of space men. An undue

sense of awe can drive a man mad amid the naked glory of stars and once an

astronaut succumbs to the raptures of the deep, his voyage is forever

outward-bound.

UNASA wants stimulus-response mechanisms for those trips and

stimulus-response experts to check them when they return, but UNASA is not

faultless. Mendelian laws do not conform to precise patterns. Genes will

out. Some ancestral tendency compressed beneath Adams' and O'Hara's behavior

erupted like a volcano to alter forever the topography of their

computer-matched personalities. Their fight in the Mandan house started a

fall of dominoes which, after they had passed all selection boards and

undergone their final analysis, triggered alterations in their psyches only

vaguely apprehended by the two who strapped themselves into a starship

cockpit.

Given power to look upon one moment in the past, I might well choose that

January night, in 2228, when the Adams-O'Hara Mission lifted off the Mandan

Pad. In the glow from their instrument panel, I would study and commit to

memory the faces of the two astronauts, young, fearless and superbly skilled,

who would guide the pulse of a laser beam through the voids and time. I would

treasure as unique in history the moment when their starship, propelled by its

thundering light, set course for a far galactic swirl bearing the first

Southern evangelist and the first Irish rebel to sail the seas of space.

But this is the revery of hindsight. At the moment, I was rolling toward

an interview with John Adams and a meeting, no less real, with the ghost of

Red O'Hara.

Doctor Harkness was waiting at the debriefing desk before the

decontamination chamber wearing an officious frown.

"Doctor, I'm sorry to impose on your inexperience in this matter, but

this is an unscheduled touchdown and there's no senior psychiatrist aboard.

I'll be observing from the gallery with Admiral Bradshaw and other officers,

and I've prepared you a list of questions you can use as guidelines."

I took the sheet of paper, a little miffed by his gratuitous reference to

my inexperience in the presence of the Academy superintendent.

"Adams is stern down and making his approach," Harkness advised me,

despite the fact that earth around us was already shaking with the blasts from

the retro-jets of the starship above us and the dial marker on the bulkhead

behind him was recording the ship's position above the pad.

"Introduce yourself to Adams and keep your voice warm and relaxed. Don't

put your lips too close to the glass. Get him into the telemetering jumper as

soon as possible. Don't stare at him as if he were a specimen of wildlife.

Usually they're unshaven and out of uniform when they land and they stagger a

bit until they adjust to Earth's gravity. Welcome him, get him to relax and

make him feel wanted. That's your specialty — making one feel wanted."

Above us the thunder of the ship's descent was dying to a rustle. I

heard the click and wheeze of the decon nozzle as it unshipped itself from the

base of the landing pad.

"Don't worry about taking notes," Harkness continued, "but keep your eyes

and ears open for any aberrant behavior."

Harkness was carrying out the monologue to impress his superiors in the

gallery above. I was perfectly willing for him to share the limelight from

the decon chamber, but he was not giving me a chance to read the guidelines he

had written out for me.

"Above all, keep him talking," Harkness said. "There may be a violation

of Navy Regulations, here, more grave than aborting a mission — looks that

way, in fact — and anything he says can be used against him."

On the bulkhead, the ship's altitude marker had fallen to zero. The

starship was down.

"Usually, they're bursting to spill a gut, particularly if they build up

hostilities on their voyage. Use your empathy on Adams. Get him to hang

himself if he's gallows material."

Above, I heard the snorkel clunk onto the airlock of the vessel. In

minutes, Adams would be sliding down the chute, but the imminent arrival of my

patient concerned me now only peripherally. The intent behind Harkness' words

stunned me.

"Remember Plato's injunction," the lobotomist had the gall to tell _me_,

"that the better part of a prosecution rests on a faculty for wise

interrogation, so get him to incriminate himself. One of his monitoring

systems has been programmed with a copy of Navy Regulations, and it will be

checking for violations as he talks. So, keep him talking, Doctor."

"Aye, aye, sir," I answered with a reflex action, as Harkness turned and

vanished up the stairs to the gloom of the witnesses' balcony. All the

delicate tools of my trade, insight, empathy, interrogation, were to be used

on John Adams not to help him re-relate to a human environment but to entrap

him for violation of Navy Regulations.

Through the exit tube across the chamber, I could hear the sough of an

opening airlock as I glanced down at the guidelines Harkness had handed me.

1. Ask him why he aborted his mission.

2. Ask him where in hell is O'Hara.

Commander Harkness had been playing to the gallery when he handed me the

note and I replied in kind as I heard the _swish-swish_ of Adams spiraling

down the chute. With a contemptuous smile, I crumpled the note and tossed it

into a wastebasket. Then I turned to look through three inches of polarized

glass as Adams shot from the chute, breech foremost, to land on a canvas mat.

"Nice landing, sailor," I called out, and to identify myself as a medical

man, added, "a breech delivery."

Adams seemed to spring from the pad and stood upright for a moment,

tottering. He was over six feet with long hair and the beginnings of a beard.

He was barefoot and wore a sleeveless tunic embroidered over the left breast

with a strange device. The tunic barely reached below his jockstrap and his

skin was so pale it seemed whitewashed. His legs were as muscular as a ballet

dancer's but his ankles were swollen and both of his arms bore identical

purple welts above the elbows. Remembering his Alabama background, I compared

him to a Confederate general aloud, "Ensign Adams, you look like General

J.E.B. Stuart going drag."

Despite an expression of intense anxiety on his face, his mouth broke

into a wide grin as he looked at me. It was almost a stage grin, but it had

enough sincerity to indicate he had understood and appreciated my wit.

Gingerly, he started toward me.

"I'd like to introduce myself, Adams," I began, but he ignored my remark.

"What day is it, Doctor?"

"Wednesday, December 28," I told him. He had recognized the caduceus on

my lapel, which attested to the normalcy of his power of observation.

"Thank God!" The relief that flooded his features seemed to steady his

walk. "Forget the debriefing, Doctor. Call Operations and tell them to

scratch the Adams-O'Hara Probe."

He was pointing at a telephone on the bulkhead on my side of the glass

and behaving in such a normal manner that I blurted out a normal rejoinder.

"You _are_ the Adams-O'Hara Probe, or what's left of it."

"What year is it?" he asked.

"2228."

Adams reacted like a man struck in the stomach. His body crumpled

backward and agony contorted his face. Dazed, he walked over and collapsed in

the chair across the panel from me. His eyes focused on some private hell as

he half-mumbled to himself, "It didn't work. It didn't work."

"What didn't work, Adams?" I asked, seating myself at the desk.

"I was trying to invert the dilatation factor and reverse my reference

frame."

Whether his answer was rational or irrational, I couldn't tell. Spacemen

operate in a relativistic universe and I use classical logic. But I

remembered the midshipman's remarks outside Personnel Records.

"Are you referring to a non-Christian frame?"

"Non-Christian frame?" Adams looked at me in puzzlement, and then a

broad smile covered his features, a manic-depressive reaction, I decided, in

view of his depressed state. "I reckon you mean a non-Galilean frame," he

drawled.

"Well, I'm only a psychiatrist," I said, "and the only Galilean I know is

Christ."

"The name honors Galileo, Doctor," he chuckled, "but maybe you hit on the

right answer for the wrong reason. Maybe I didn't pray hard enough."

Adams was not only sane but sharp. He had detected my confusion of the

word "Galilean" with Christ, which indicated a much higher verbal facility

than his profile had revealed. But he had forgotten me in some vast inner

struggle. Horror and disbelief in his eyes were shifting to resignation. His

features were so facile I could read emotions on his face.

Remembering Harkness, I asked, "Why did you abort your mission a year

ahead of time, Adams?"

"I didn't, Doctor. I aborted it by three weeks, from necessity."

Counting his six-month voyage out, six months in, plus eleven months on

the mission, his figures came to twenty-three months. "But you've only been

gone eleven months," I pointed out.

"That's the story of my life, Doctor — too little and too late. I needed

to get back two years and I couldn't gain but one."

Suddenly, I got a vague glimmering of what he was talking about. "Adams,

are you telling me that you were trying to get back here before you left?

"Reckon you can bring out your straitjacket, Doctor, but that's what I

was trying. I know the theory says one solid can't occupy two places, but

theories don't grow cotton. The Good Book says 'Ask and you shall receive.'

Lord knows, I _asked_. I strewed prayers from Cassiopeia to Orion. After

that, I was too busy gearing down that whaleboat, topside, to do much

praying."

Here I wanted to take a breather myself but Harkness was observing from

the shadows. I quoted my second guideline verbatim. "What in the hell

happened to O'Hara?"

"He has joined the immortals," Adams intoned.

"How did he join them?"

"By the words that issued from my mouth, much as anything. I joshed a

university dean who didn't have a sense of humor. It never pays, Doc, to joke

with a man with a literal mind."

Psychiatrists weigh answers on all levels. Adams's answer confused me

superficially and in depth. There were no known universities on any planet

other than Earth, and his answer implied a distaste for a literal mind, the

_sine qua non_ of spacemen. Moreover, the laser jockey's concept of comedy is

a double-take followed by a prat fall. Adams was an astronaut complaining

about a university dean's lack of a sense of humor.

Stimuli were piling in so fast that my own response faltered, and I made

an ambiguous statement. "Tell me about O'Hara."

"O'Hara? That old boy was the original kisser of the Blarney Stone . . .

. No, I'll take that back. Whenever old Red kissed anything, he made love to

it."

"I mean, how did he die?" I corrected myself.

"You might say he was trapped in a non-Galilean frame . . . . Your kind,

not Galileo's . . . . If he'd just kept his hands off my woman . . . . He

knew I was a forgiving person, but he knew I'd hit first and forgive later."

Adams was rambling, following a flow of ideas, and I remembered Harkness.

"Before you tell me about O'Hara, would you take off your clothes and get into

that jumper-suit?"

I pointed to the medical monitor suit hanging from the bulkhead on his

side of the panel.

Adams almost leaped to his feet, and he grinned at his own reaction.

"After hoisting 800 pounds," he said, "I feel like a bag full of helium."

After his initial leap to his feet, Adams moved freely, slipping out of

his tunic and jockstrap with a down and up movement of his arms and wobbling

only slightly as he walked over to the stretch jumper. An eleven-month tour

of duty on a planet with four times the pull of Earth's gravity explained his

swollen ankles but there was one condition of his body revealed by his

nakedness which it did not explain: encompassing his torso above his navel was

a livid welt that matched the bruises on his arms.

"Looks like you've been manhandled around your belly," I remarked.

"Little old girl hugged me," he said, and the sadness that came to his

eyes told me that his relationship with the Little old girl" had not been as

casual as his words suggested.

When he slipped into the suit and came over to resume his seat, I glanced

down at the telemetering chart. Both lower ribs on each side of his ribcage

were broken. On Earth, a contusion of such nature could only have been

inflicted by the coils of an anaconda.

When I glanced up, the glaze was descending over his eyes. To draw him

out of himself, I said, "You were saying O'Hara had the gift of gab."

Adams straightened. His voice came stronger, more resonant, and a

strange light glittered in his eyes. "It was more than the gift of gab,

Doctor — in the beginning there were words, and the words were O'Hara's, but

O'Hara _was_ the Word."

With that remark, he knocked my stimulus-response tactics awry with the

joy that surpasses understanding by any save a psychiatrist at Mandan. I

recognized the original of his paraphrase. Those words had been uttered 2,200

years ago by another John, Saint John the Apostle.

At that moment, I lost whatever interest I might have had in the

entrapment of John Adams for alleged violations of Navy Regulations. Sex and

religion are the two best-paved lanes to lunacy and Adams was driving in both

lanes with a load of guilt. Inwardly I laid out my sculptor's implements,

insight, empathy, interrogation, for the chunk of marble before me was pure

Carrara — a loony who used Einstein's Revised General Theory as a tool of his

trade.

"How did you meet old Red, John?" I let my voice snuggle close to him.

"Tell me from the beginning."

CHAPTER TWO

In the Academy yearbook (Adams began), O'Hara's official nickname is King

Con. He was the first man I met at Mandan, and within five minutes of our

introduction I became the victim of his first confidence trick. I had tossed

my bag on the lower bunk of the room assigned to me where an upperclassman

ushered him in. "Midshipman Adams, your roommate, Midshipman O'Hara."

Right then I should have been wary, for O'Hara was carrying his gear in a

carpet bag, but the calluses on his hand were as horny as mine and the smile

that cracked his freckles beguiled me. "From your friendly face and honest

eyes," he said, "I gather you're an American."

"Right," I answered.

"And from your accent — I have a fine ear for dialects — that most

hospitable of all Americans, a Southerner."

"Jacksons Gap, Alabama," I said, astonished because I had spoken only one

word.

His accent was neutral English, that hybrid of Midwestern U.S.A. and

Oxonian which television actors affect, but all the rest of him was Irish, red

hair, freckles, a nose pinched put of his face, protruding cheekbones and a

cleft in his chin.

"I'm shanty Irish," he said, "from County Meath. We Irish are so poor

and cramped on our little isle that we cannot afford the open-handed

generosity of you Americans . . . . Ah, I see you have taken the lower bunk.

No matter, the climbing will do me good."

"O'Hara," I said, "if you want the lower bunk, you're welcome to it."

"Now, doesn't that bear out all that I've said . . . . What is your

first name."

"John. My friends generally call me Jack."

"Jack! A lovely, no-nonsense name. Kevin's mine, but I prefer Red . . .

. No, Jack. I'll not take advantage of your generosity. Rather I'll risk my

neck in a fall, for I'll confess: I imbibe a bit on Saturday nights."

"She's all yours, Red," I said. "I could never bear the death of a

drinking man on my conscience."

Suiting action to words, I hoisted my bag to the top bunk when I noticed

a Delta Airlines waybill dangling from the handle, stamped large with the code

"Montgom-Mandex," meaning "Montgomery to Mandan."

O'Hara was as honest as his talents permitted. He spoke a fractional

truth when he said he imbibed a "bit" on Saturday nights. In the following

three and a half years, the only sober Saturday night we spent together was on

our junior training cruise three parsecs out into the Milky Way, where he

demonstrated that his skills as a space jockey were equal to his skills as a

tippler. He could turn a starship in the solar system and give you back Pluto

and Uranus for change. Ashore and aloft, he was fearless, for he truly

believed in the luck of the Irish. He wore green polka-dot drawers at all

times and dangled a green leprechaun from the abort throttle of his cockpit.

Now, I carried a rabbit's foot in my pocket, but I didn't _depend_ on it.

Our Saturday sorties into the wilds of Mandan sometimes resembled forays.

Red chose the "off-limit" houses guarded by military police on the theory that

such places catered to officers who did not wish to be recognized by

midshipmen. He might have been right about Madame Chacaud's — Dirty Mary's to

the midshipmen. Her girls were refined enough not to stick their gum behind

their ears and she kept a bottle of Jamiesons on tap for Red. Each girl had a

television set in her room and Red would lounge around on a Sunday morning

indulging in another of his passions — soap operas.

Until our senior year, Red and I came and went freely because we kept

civilian clothes in the bus-station locker and the military police never

questioned civilians.

One February night in our senior year, Red and I were enjoying a few

social drinks preliminary to the festivities at Madame Chacaud's when Red took

affront at a Swede who preferred aquavit to Irish whisky. Red argued that his

travels in space qualified him as an expert on drinks. His adversary pointed

out that space travel did not qualify a man to be a judge of whiskies. Red

resented the intrusion of logic into the argument and decided on other methods

of persuasion.

Unluckily, Red was too small and too drunk to persuade the man who was

about to sum up his case in defense of aquavit when I interposed a few

arguments in favor of bourbon and branch water. Bourbon was about to be

crowned king of drinks in Mandan when the crash of furniture, the squeal of

females and the quivering of the building drew the M.P.s in from outside.

My opponent pointed at O'Hara. "That space cadet started it, and this

dehorn jumped in."

"Space cadet?" The M.P. sergeant turned to O'Hara. "Show me your I.D.,

mister."

"I was rolled, Major, so my wallet is missing, but this gentleman," Red

nodded toward me, "is a fanner from Dubuque and I am his hired man. He will

vouch for me."

The sergeant turned to me. "Show me your palms, mister."

As I extended my palms, I realized I had been tricked by a soldier with

only slightly less brains than brawn. In my three years as a midshipman, my

calluses had navigated around my hands from my palms to my knuckles.

"You're a liar, too," the sergeant said.

"Are you letting that dogface call a midshipman a liar, Adams?" O'Hara

bellowed in anger from between two restraining M.P.s.

Suddenly the honor of the Navy was mine to uphold and defend. When my

fist slammed into the sergeant's belly, his _"whoof"_ drew the attention of

his comrades, who dropped O'Hara and turned on me.

Treason and betrayal!

Through a picket fence of billy clubs flailing before my eyes, I glimpsed

my comrade slinking out of the door when he should have been attacking the

exposed flank and rear. The red rat was deserting me. Anguish slowed my

defenses and an M.P. slipped around me and cold-cocked me from the rear.

But justice triumphed. Too drunk to negotiate the icy steps, O'Hara

slipped and fell to the sidewalk. When the M.P.s dragged me out, Red was

asleep and snoring, in easy tossing distance of the arriving paddywagon.

Before noon Sunday I awakened in the section of the M.P.D. drunk tank

reserved for military personnel and I staggered to my feet, hungover, battered

and disgusted by the memory of O'Hara's cheap attempt to sacrifice me and

escape. For once he was sleeping in the upper bunk, where his lighter weight

had made it easier to toss him, with hardly a bruise showing beneath his

freckles. Bending close to his ear, I whistled "The Battle of Boyne's

Waters."

He snapped awake and swung to the edge of the bunk.

"You shanty Mick," I said. "You picked a fight between me and the M.P.s

so you could save your own skin."

"Jack, lad, you do me a grave dishonor. I was attempting to escape to

get a writ of _habeas_ corpus for you."

"_Habeas corpus_? At a military hearing? . . . Come off the bunk. I'm

going to _habeas_ a piece of your _corpus_."

I'll say this for O'Hara: knowing right and might were on my side, he

came down fighting. Before the turnkeys pulled us apart, our bruises were

fairly balanced.

I relate this incident to show that O'Hara learned to respect my fists,

and I truly believe that I had the only pair of fists on the continent that he

did respect. But I also wished to demonstrate that his mind schemed in such a

manner that his most spontaneous plots left him lines of retreat.

After justice was done, we sat on the lower bunk and held the shortest

strategy conference in naval history. We were in custody, out of uniform and

were lacerated and bruised. We had been arrested in an "off-limits" area for

disturbing the peace. We had resisted arrest and I would be charged with

assaulting a policeman. By now, a full report of the incident would be on the

disciplinary officer's desk at the Academy.

We decided to tell the truth, but Red seemed strangely optimistic. "Just

leave it to me, Jack."

At noon, the shore patrol hauled us back to the Academy under house

arrest. Monday morning, we went before the mast, which was conducted by

Commander Omubu, a Ghanaian who used the regional English of Afro-Americans as

his status dialect. It took him twenty minutes merely to read the M.P.s'

report aloud, and then he leaned back, looking first at me and then at Red in

disbelief, repugnance, awe, or sadness.

"Gentlemen, it seems from this report that you both are unfitted for this

service. After you have been expelled, Adams, I suggest you join the Harrier

Corps. There your fighting prowess would be welcomed. You, O'Hara, should be

a mattress-tester for the Department of Home Appliances. . . . How say you

both to these charges? Guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty," we answered.

"What say you to these charges?"

O'Hara stepped one pace forward. "Commander," he sang out, "I'm just a

dumb Irishman and my only excuse is ignorance, but I would like to say a word

in defense of Midshipman Adams."

"At ease, O'Hara, and tell it like it was."

"Sir, as midshipmen of the United Space Navy, we are expected to behave

as officers and gentlemen. Before an officer can be a gentleman, sir, he must

first be a man. An insult offered to one midshipman besmirches the honor of

the entire Navy, sir, your Navy and mine, sir, and that honor was at stake

when the M.P. called Midshipman Adams a liar, sir."

"Unless Midshipman Adams lied," the Commander pointed out.

"That's precisely the point, sir. _Ipso facto_, Midshipman Adams could

not have lied, sir, since he uttered not one word to the M.P.s."

"Is that right, Adams?"

"Yes, sir. I didn't open my mouth, sir."

"Expel us if you must, sir," Red continued, "but do not expel us with

dishonor, and particularly Midshipman Adams, who fought with valor against

odds whilst I went to summon reinforcements. . . . With valor and against

odds, sir, he fought to defend the honor of the USN, your honor and mine,

sir."

"Midshipman O'Hara," the Commander said, "will you await the verdict in

the anteroom while I recover from your speech?"

After Red left, Commander Omubu sadly shuffled the pages of the report

into order and looked up. "At ease, Adams. Well, I can't give you a medal.

There are five charges against you and four against O'Hara. On the other

hand, I can't expel you. The transcript of the hearing is read by Admiral

Bradshaw. If I expelled you after that speech, I'd be the worst mother in

Academy history. But there's one bit of advice I'd like to give to you."

"Yes, sir?"

"Man, there's only one thing dumber than a dumb Irishman, and that's a

smart Alabaman."

We were restricted to quarters for a month on half-pay and put on

permanent probation for the remainder of our senior year, which meant that one

demerit would expel us. But our confinement sent our grades soaring and my

own soared somewhat higher than O'Hara's since he played solitaire. When our

confinement was lifted, we were in the best shape of our career to celebrate

and the M.P.s were gone from in front of Madame Chacaud's.

We arrived on Friday night at Madame Chacaud's and left Sunday morning so

broke we had to hitchhike back to the Academy in zero weather. We were

walking through an area of cheap stores and pawnshops when the aroma of

boiling coffee drifted through the March air. I sniffed again. It was coffee

boiled with chicory, and nostalgia pierced me more deeply than the cold.

Someone was making Alabama coffee.

We were passing an abandoned store building and I noticed a sign, crudely

lettered, posted in the window:

SAILOR BEN'S HOLINESS MISSION

Come In and Pray. . . . .Free Coffee and Doughnuts

Inside, a service was in progress. I slowed O'Hara. "Red, could I treat

you to some good old hellfire religion, Southern-style, plus a cup of coffee?"

"I could use a little of both."

We entered and took a bench at the rear, not wishing to tempt the

wine-soaked derelicts crowded near the pulpit with the odor of fine whisky on

our breaths.

From the pulpit, Sailor Ben was preaching on the evils of drink, in the

accents of my home. "Boys, I was soaking in booze till Jesus wrung me dry. I

stunk so loud of moonshine it was a pure wonder the revenuers didn't raid me

for a still. I tell you, if I'da died and gone to hell, I wouldn't have

burned, I would have boiled."

His voice dropped from a tone of braggadocio to one of reverent

thankfulness. "But then I met the best woman God ever gave a sinner, boys.

She was a dilly. She set me on course to Jesus, afore she died, leaving me

with that little bundle of joy you know as Sister Thelma, and I been sailing a

straight course, ever since . . . . Play, Sister Thelma."

Brother Ben switched on a light which was beamed on a girl at an upright

piano who had been lost in the shadows. She was dressed in a simple gray

skirt with a white blouse and the light threw an aura around her ash-blond

hair. Then I knew why the winos were crowding near the pulpit as she began to

play "Shall We Gather at the River."

The hymn is ordinarily a funeral song, but I felt it was appropriate for

Brother Ben's sermon and I rose to sing, in a quavering tremolo that raised

the hackles on my own nape.

After a prayer, Sister Thelma took up collection. She was not more than

eighteen, and she floated down the aisle with a sidewise sway to her hips that

was both ethereal and feminine. She moved in serenity, her blue eyes glowing

with spirituality, and when she came back to us and smiled at me, I felt an

angel's wing brush my cheek.

But I was embarrassed, both for myself and for Red, for we had nothing

for the offering. When I glanced down at the plate that I handed over to Red,

I was embarrassed for the girl. There was nothing in it but pennies, a few

nickels and a rare dime.

Red seemed to hold the plate a long time, so long, in fact, I feared he

might be following some obscure Irish-Catholic ritual and counting the take.

When he nudged me with the plate, I handed it back to the girl without

looking. I was astonished to hear her say, "Why, I thank you, Brother

O'Hara."

Brother Ben led us in a final prayer and invited us all back to the

pantry for coffee and doughnuts. "Were you holding out money on me, you

bastard?" I whispered to Red.

"Not at all, my boy. I wrote the girl an I.O.U. for twenty dollars,

payable next Sunday."

Coffee and doughnuts in the church kitchen was like a homecoming for me.

Once Brother Ben found I was from Alabama, he cornered me in conversation

while Red cornered Sister Thelma. Brother Ben, I found, had been a loom-fixer

in a Jackson, Mississippi, cottonmill and had worked for a season on a shrimp

boat out of Pass Christian. He had gotten the Call while at sea, and hence

the name "Sailor Ben."

Once in a lull in Brother Ben's conversation, I heard O'Hara say to

Sister Thelma, "Lassie, I'll pluck a feather from an angel's wing to grace

your bonny hair," and I knew he was zeroing in on Thelma. Glancing their way,

I noticed Thelma was slinging her pelvis toward Red as he talked, and again

nostalgia assailed me. I had forgotten how the girls hunched down South and I

had not seen such hunching since my last Baptist Young People's meeting at

Jacksons Gap.

When I finally squeezed in a few words with Thelma, I apologized for

Red's I.O.U. "That's the way they pledge contributions in Ireland," I told

her, "and I'm pledging twenty dollars myself."

"Ill declare," she said (but she did not hunch for me), "that's the most

generous thing, Brother John. Why don't y'all come back Saturday for a

chicken supper."

I promptly accepted. Forty dollars is a lot of money for a chicken

supper, but I was determined Red should honor the I.O.U., and if Brother Ben's

mission did not get the money by Saturday night, there'd be nothing left from

Madame Chacaud's to put into the plate Sunday morning.

Once on our way again, I said, "Red, you're honoring that I.O.U."

"Certainly, Jack. Thelma's a lovelier lass than any at Madame

Chacaud's."

"Whoa there, boy," I said. "If you've got any ideas about Thelma, drop

them. To circumnavigate that little behind, you've got to get a shotgun away

from her pa, assistance from a preacher and learn to speak in unknown tongues

to show you got religion."

Thereafter, Brother Ben's Mission became our favorite charity, and

Brother Ben's sermons spurred me to reread the New Testament. It surprised me

how appropriately the Scriptures could be interpreted in the light of the New

Relativity. Once when discussing the parables from the Sermon on the Mount

with Red, showing him how they could apply to the Space Age, Red agreed.

"Yes, Jack. The meek shall inherit the earth because it takes guts to

blast off from this planet."

Red quit cheating at solitaire during those days and after a month's

attendance at the mission, he dropped cards entirely and took to reading love

poetry. I approved. Any man who read poetry couldn't criticize a man for

reading the Bible.

O'Hara pulled no stops to get to Thelma Pruitt's heart, if that was truly

his direction. He wore his green polka-dotted drawers on their first date,

but his space charm did not work on Earth. In May, he "got the spirit."

It's hard to fake the unknown tongue. When Red rose to his feet and

began to shout in the midst of a sermon, he fooled me completely. His

language had the accents and rhythms and nonrepetitive phrases of a genuine

Pentecostal experience, and I was so convinced that he had been touched by the

Holy Ghost that I was even adding "Amen" behind the logical pauses in his

shouting.

Blasphemy and sacrilege!

With unfocused eyes and waving arms, he stood before that congregation,

and all were clapping their hands and shouting encouragement to this new

member of the church. Brother Ben was thanking Jesus, and Sister Thelma, her

face glowing with pride, was moving to the piano to begin softly playing "Come

to Jesus." Then Red, in his final fervor, shouted out a phrase I recognized:

"Erin go bragh."

Red O'Hara's unknown tongue was unknown to Mandan but familiar to Dublin.

He was shouting in Gaelic.

So he entered into the brotherhood of the Holiness Church, with a false

passport. Thelma wept for his salvation but she would not yield. He got her,

finally, but not the way he intended.

Late June at Mandan is a season of sentiment. From the needled spires of

the Academy, the prairies lay green to horizons purpled by heat haze. Alfalfa

blossoms sweeten the air. The axial tilt of the earth seems to toss the

Dakotas toward the sun in apology for the winter. Rivers are flowing once

more, birds are returning and the senior class is going.

But life orbits. Circles of farewell merge into circles of greetings and

circles are wedding bands. Graduating midshipmen, freed of matrimonial bans,

marry and start other circles of honeymoons and sowings to forget, for a

spell, the approach of another farewell, their first cruise into outer space.

O'Hara and I got orders to lift-off in early January, to scout a sector

near Lynx. Buoyed by my growing faith, I felt no trepidation about our coming

probe, but O'Hara resorted to conventional methods of allaying apprehensions.

Red married Thelma Pruitt and left on a six-month honeymoon of sun and fun in

Jackson, Mississippi.

When Red broke the news of his honeymoon site, I broke for the clothes

closet and prayed that his bride be given the strength and the nuptial talents

to divert Red's mind from both our coming probe and a real and present

Jackson. Once I had spent five hours in Jackson, Mississippi.

For me it was a pleasant summer spent in fishing up and down the

Tallapoosa, meditation, prayer and quail-hunting in the fall. Fishing was

good, I got the Call and the birds were numerous.

By meditating, I learned that the Lord's Will was for me to carry His

Word to other galaxies, but there was a law against missionaries in space.

Before the union of nations, the law had been put through by former colonial

nations. After the union, the law was retained by the Interplanetary Colonial

Administration, with full agreement of once underprivileged countries, to

permit Earth colonization of planets inhabited by nonbelievers.

I had the Call to preach to beings of alien species, and the Call was in

violation of Navy Regulations.

Red O'Hara was having his troubles, too, over in Mississippi. Four days

before I was scheduled to leave for Mandan, a rented auto pulled up at the

farm and Red got out.

After the introductions and after Papa had taken him out to the barn for

a drink (Papa still sinned), I showed Red over the farm.

"Thelma and I were staying at her Aunt Ethel Bertha's, the one that

raised her after her ma died," Red explained. "Thelma didn't want me to fly

back. She got a little nervous on the flight down and swore off flying, for

both of us. She thinks I'm driving back, with fourteen feet of snow on the

ground. So I thought I'd drive over here and fly back with you, without

letting Thelma know. Thelma says if God intended man to fly, He would have

given him wings."

"How was the honeymoon?" I asked.

"Tell you the truth, Jack, that was about the best honeymoon I ever had."

"Were you married before?"

"No. Never had to before."

Red had never been one to burden others with his problems and Jackson had

added to his maturity, but inadvertencies occurred.

When he returned the car to the rental agency, I trailed him in Papa's

car to drive him back. Not once did he suggest that we stop at a bar, nor did

he inquire about the pleasure parlors available at Jacksons Gap. I commended

him on his righteousness.

"Thelma's Aunt Ethel Bertha was pretty strict about those things. She

was dead set against drinking and smoking. She caught me in the woodlot one

evening smoking a cigar and she blessed me out. You know, Jack, I'm tolerant

with you reformers. But it doesn't set well with me to get blessed out for

smoking by a woman with a dip of snuff."

"Didn't Thelma defend your right to smoke?"

"Well, Thelma was the reason I was smoking in the woodlot. My little

angel didn't want me to defile our bedroom with tobacco smoke."

Red was taciturn for the few days he spent with us, but Mother loved him.

He begged off quail-hunting and spent his mornings with Mama watching "The

Pitfalls of Love," "Life Can Be Golden" and "The Sadness and the Glory." Aunt

Ethel Bertha and Thelma disapproved of television, it seemed, because it

showed girls dancing with bare legs. Red had not seen a soap opera for over

five months.

When Papa drove us to Montgomery to board the plane for Mandan, Red,

gazing out of the car window, commented idly, "Jack, I can see why there are

so many mulattoes around these parts."

On the plane to Mandan, I faced our coming lift-off with the calmness of

one whose fate was in other hands, but Red was raring to go. After marriage

and Jackson, the void offered no perils for O'Hara.

We lifted off from the Mandan pad near midnight, January 3. He tied his

green leprechaun above the instrument panel and said a few words aloud to Mary

while I spoke silently to Jesus. Since I was flight commander because of my

higher academic rating, I ordered Red to take the con.

The night was moonless. The air seemed crystallized by the cold.

Beneath a vault of stars the prairies stretched white around us to the rims of

the world. Above us, Cassiopeia beckoned as the window onto Lynx slowly

opened and we completed the chant of spacemen.

"Power on?"

"Power on."

"Struts clear?"

"Struts clear."

"Ports closed?"

"Ports closed."

"Ignite pods!"

"Pods ignited."

"Countdown commencing!"

Red's face in the glow from the panel reflected only joy as he repeated

aloud the readings on the panel: "Four, three, two, one . . . zero. Here goes

nothing!"

Glare from our pods on the snow dimmed the stars as the ship creaked from

the stress of the launch and Gs forced us back into our rests. We were

rising, and inside me a sense of purpose was rising.

"Pods away!"

Our ship lurched and surged as the assist pods dropped and the lasers cut

in, and the _sough-sough_ of their pulsing chimed oratorios through my being.

"Cepheus three points off the port bow, Captain," Red sang out. "On

course for Lynx."

As I watched Uranus drift astern, I knew that my own course was not

plotted on the ship's flight-recorder, but it lay as clear in my mind as that

triangulated on the star chart before me.

As the gold of the stars shifted to violet and the blackness before us

grayed, as our weight stabilized to the constant acceleration of one gravity,

Red turned and asked, "Well, Jack, my lad, how about going below for a cup of

Java?"

"Sounds good," I said.

So vast are the meadows of the void that the bleat of one lamb can be

lost. It was not given me to know that my voice would be amplified and

reinforced by the most unlikeliest of channels. In my exaltation and pride, I

could not foresee — and no one could have guessed — that the boy who unlocked

himself from the seat beside me would become, in the fullness of time, the god

of a far galaxy.

CHAPTER THREE

Time telescopes nearing the speed of light and ceases at the Minkowski

Barrier, but the hiatus must be filled. For me, entering the one-space

continuum meant mediation, the Scriptures, prayer and reading Navy

Regulations. Red chose the four horsemen of romantic poetry, Keats and

Shelley, Yeats and Fraze, reruns of soap operas procured from the culture bank

and Navy Regulations.

Red spoke little of his marriage and in his infrequent references to

Thelma she was "my little angel." His term of endearment became suspect in my

mind, however. Once I attempted to engage him in a discussion of the

Christian concept of Heaven, but he dismissed the subject. "Lord spare me,

Jack, from Heaven with its angels and deliver my soul to Fiddler's Green."

Fiddler's Green is the paradise of space sailors, a meadow whereon the

brooks flow with whisky and maidens gambol in birthday dress.

Because I understood O'Hara, I made no attempt to convert him. Full well

I knew that O'Hara was beyond the capabilities of any fledgling evangelist.

We had taken the Scout's Oath and were pledged to spend a measure of the

one-space in the study of Navy Regulations, particularly the codes governing

the classification of alien humanids. Man was the standard of measurement in

the universe, and if the aliens qualified as _homo sapiens_, their planet was

exempt from occupation by the Interplanetary Colonial Authority. Alien status

was determined by the high command on the basis of scouting reports.

Qualifications were strict, touching on many aspects of the alien, his

person, his organizations and even his taboos. Humanid societies must use

water closets (social), and there must be separate water closets for male and

female (taboos). To be classified as _homo sapiens_, a humanid had to possess

an opposing thumb, and a belief in a Supreme Being, such Supreme Being not to

exceed a triune godhead, and statute law and order must exist among humanids.

Reading over the qualifications, it struck me that the only item overlooked

was that the postulant was not required to wear saddle oxfords.

Biological practice was a particularly vulnerable area for alien

claimants to human status. An ability to cross-breed with Earthmen was an

understandable requirement, but even that was invalidated if the gestation

period was less than seven months or more than eleven. Coition must occur

face-to-face. Group participation disqualified. Public nudity disqualified.

Oral contact with primary erogenic zones disqualified. Reading over that list

caused me to rock with laughter: Red O'Hara could not have qualified as a

human being under the alien codes.

I took the biological section of the codes across the passage for Red to

read. He read them gravely, closed the manual and handed it back to me. "No

matter, Jack," he said. "I'll continue to think of you as a human being."

Let him without sin throw stones.

As midshipmen, we had been exposed to the study of Navy regs, but the

pressure of classes prevented any in-depth analysis and midshipmen habitually

skipped footnotes. In the section concerning alien governments, there was a

footnote that aroused my curiosity. It read: "Addendum. See Public Law

36824-I.C.A."

With microfilms of Earth laws and legal systems in the ship's culture

bank, Red and I went below and flashed P.L. 36824-I.C.A. onto the viewer.

To qualify as members of the World's Brotherhood, inhabitants of an alien

planet must possess a defense system with capabilities for interspace warfare

sufficient to relieve Imperial Earth of the responsibility for the aforesaid

planet's defense.

As I clicked off the viewer, Red commented, "The message from Earth is

clear — if you can't defend yourself, we're coming after you. Jack, these

codes aren't designed to qualify a planet for brotherhood. They're designed

to disqualify."

I disliked the subversive tone of Red's remark. "Government policy is

not our responsibility," I said. "It's not for us to question the law but to

obey."

"You're absolutely right, Jack," Red said, "for reasons of personal

sanity. If you're going to worry about the sins of the flesh as instrument of

such policy, you're as crazy as a man cleaning the ashtrays in a car careening

through a crowded schoolyard."

"'Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's,'" I quoted, but in truth I

could not be too condemnatory. Already I was planning in my heart to do a

little fudging on Caesar myself.

Throughout my inner turmoil within the hiatus, the flawless technology of

Earth continued to function. Our laser thrust slowly died. Mass loss weight.

For a little while, O'Hara and I floated free, playing basketball in the

ship's gym and using each other as balls. Then our retro-jets phased in and

we returned to the deck as deceleration replaced acceleration. Finally we

came again into light and time, but the configuration of the stars was

strange. A new galaxy hung in the sky and the Milky Way was a point of light

astern.

"The luck of the Irish" is no chimera. When we surveyed the galaxy on

the screen, Red looked over the star cluster with the eye of a housewife

selecting strawberries and said, "Now, there's a likely-looking star."

I brought it in and scaled it up, checking its planetary system. It was

double the magnitude of the sun, so I bracketed in an area one-third again as

large as Earth's orbit, and lo, there on the outer rim of the screen floated a

planet. We brought planet and star onto opposite rims and set the computer.

In an hour we had an estimate: the planet had a thirteen-month year, a

twenty-eight-hour day and water vapor. It had an axial tilt only ten degrees

greater than Earth and polar icecaps.

"Red, you're a genius."

"Credit my polka-dot drawers," he said and took over the helm.

From one thousand miles out, we saw a planet of greenery, blue water and

clouds. As Red swung into our first orbit, our sensors picked up heat lines

veining three land masses and reaching almost to the poles. We circled

closer, dropping to the springtime, or Northern, hemisphere of the globe, and

the signs were good. That grid had to be an artifact constructed by beings

with a high degree of organization and engineering skills.

I went aft to the con, leaving Red at the helm, and switched on the

viewer. Below me, I saw mountains and rivers and grassy plains, and once,

over an ocean, I picked up the father of all hurricanes moiling the width of

my frame. But there were no signs of cities, railroads, or roads, and no

indication of why a gridwork of heat should lay over the continents. As we

passed into terminator on our fifth orbit, sinking lower, my eyes caught the

glint of an object on the west coast of the largest continent. Immediately, I

locked the viewer in, enlarging. Below me in the early morning sun, I saw an

artifact.

As it registered, I hit the "position fix" button and yelled into the

intercom, "Red, I saw an observatory, plain as day. . . . An astronomical

observatory."

"Mark it, Jack. We're going down."

Red made a four-fifths orbit and retroed, mushing into the atmosphere as

easily as falling onto a featherbed. He shifted to air jets, and the jets

coughed, wheezed and bit in. Our lasers were burning oxygen.

"Yippeeee, yeeeow!"

"Erin go bragh."

How beautiful the turbulence of air! How sweet the sounds outside of

hulls! Once more for us, "up" was up and "down" was down without reference to

the ship, and the pull of real gravity to the spaceman is as welcome as the

arms of his beloved. More, as we planed lower into the thickening air, I saw

herds of gazelle-like animals grazing on the plains, and once a string of

copper needles stuck into a prairie, possibly communications relay towers of

some sort. Suddenly I dropped to my knees on the control-room deck and

offered up thanks for Red O'Hara's green polka-dot drawers.

"Jack," Red's voice interrupted, "none of these mountains top at more

than six thousand, so I'm going down and level off at angels eight. ETA at

the co-ordinates is twenty minutes, and I've got one helluva tailwind."

"Roger."

Out of the port, I could see the terrain below, looking for all the world

like the Great Smokies and cut by winding streams. I could distinguish

between the dark of evergreens on the northern slopes and the lighter green of

deciduous trees on the southern slopes. These mountains were older than

Earth's, but the flora seemed very similar. All that was missing were signs

of habitation.

"I see your observatory, Jack. South of it there's a large cleared area.

. . . Commencing approach circle."

Red banked the delta wings and I got a glimpse of the observatory among

the trees. A balcony circled its dome. Near the building, I spotted another

of the copper needles peeking above the treetops. Now we were over the

mountains again, turning back and leveling off, gliding down. I felt the nose

tip up, heard the supercharger cut in and Red was standing the ship on its

tail.

"Gyros!"

I cut in the vertical stabilizers, calling, "Gyros in." The ship

quivered from the torque. My seat tumbled in its gimbals, and the final

approach panel was in front of me.

"Compressors."

"Compressors in."

The retro-jets bit into the air and the ship was falling, stern down, as

gently as a leaf.

"Struts!"

"Struts extending."

There was a clunk, a long creak and a final clunk as the struts extended

and the pods locked. Without reference to panel, I could estimate our

distance from the surface by the changing pitch of our jet whine, but I was

reading the board with interest. Give or take a few pounds air pressure, a

few percentile points favoring oxygen and a fractional difference in G forces,

the life-support system of the planet was very similar to Earth's, and the

temperature reading told me that a balmy morning in late spring awaited us

outside. As I heard the jet sibilance change to a roar and the roar grow

muffled, I braced myself.

Except for a slight initial cant to the ship and a lurch as the landing

struts righted it, the terror of the spaceman, touchdown on an alien planet,

came off as smoothly as an elevator dropping to the lobby floor. Not once had

I burdened my Creator with prayers during the descent, so confident was I of

the skills of O'Hara.

"All readings A-Okay, Red. Lay below to lower the ramp and roll out the

carpet. I'll rig the pavilion boom."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And mind your manners, O'Hara. I've got a feeling Mother Earth will be

getting a batch of new customers, today. . . . And, Red?"

"Yes, sir."

"If the customers are quadrupeds, keep in mind Navy Regulation

3,683,432."

"Which one is that, sir?"

"Bestiality — punishable by a confinement of not less than six months and

not more than ten years."

"Glad you have it memorized, sir."

As I opened the hatch on the pavilion locker and swung out the boom, I

smiled to myself. Red considered my words as banter, which I intended, but I

had not roomed with Red O'Hara for four years without picking up a little of

the con man's art.

In a con game, the most spontaneous gesture should have long-range ends

in view. With the hatch closed and the locker empty, the pavilion storage

compartment was also a brig with an outside lock on the door and the bulkheads

padded. In the event of stalker's fever overtaking a crew member, the canvas

tent could be jettisoned in flight and the lunatic confined. Shoreside, the

compartment would serve beautifully as a brig.

When I opened the hatch to rig the boom, the compartment was flooded with

the perfume of growing things, and as I stood in the hatchway I heard birds

warbling from the woods. Below me a meadow, brightened with flowers, sloped

to a natural amphitheater surrounding a flat field in the valley about 500

yards from the ship. Beyond the oval field, the valley rose again to a bare

knob and beyond that hillock more trees. Through the trees, I could see with

my binoculars what we had taken to be an observatory, a white circular

building topped by a dome that was surrounded by a balcony.

Above us, a few clouds floated in the blue and off to the west, the ocean

gleamed against the sweep of a wood-covered and far-jutting peninsula.

"Look alive, sailor," Red called from the ground, thirty feet below.

I looked down. He had lowered the ramp and leveled the square of red

carpet which would form the floor of our exhibition tent.

"There's no door to the observatory," I called as I swung out the exhibit

case.

"Maybe it's on the far side," he yelled up. "They could see us land, so

they should be coming over in a few minutes. Shake a leg."

I lowered the container and then hauled out the tent, a pyramidal

suspended from a telescoping boom a little thicker than an auto aerial, to let

it balloon downward, and closed the hatch to preserve the symmetry of the

ship. By the time I walked down the ramp, Red was anchoring the sides of the

tent with dowlings.

Within fifteen minutes, the Earth exhibit was ready. We lolled in camp

chairs beside the marquee of the pavilion, uniformed in dress silver with the

blue lightning bolts on our epaulets, our silver ship behind us with its blue

Navy stars on its wings, with the gold, blue and yellow stripes of the

pavilion soaring to a point of stars above us.

Our display cases flanked the entrance with their assortment of beads,

bracelets, earrings, toys and models, gifts for the natives. Inside, seats

were arranged for the three-dimensional movies of Earth's wonders, natural and

technological. Placed unobtrusively behind us inside the tent, its viewing

lens protruding through a flap in the canvas, our language computer was set up

and waiting. From the apex of the tent, a concealed loudspeaker sent the jerk

and jive melodies of the Grave Images rolling down over the meadow.

I was recording data orally into the captain's log as Red scanned the

treeline across the valley to pick up a sight of our first customers when he

motioned me to turn off the recorder.

"Why don't we tune down that racket?" he asked. "I can't hear myself

see."

"Regulations," I answered.

"Up regulations," he snorted.

I returned to the log, recording observations I could make from where I

sat. Then I clicked off the log and shoved it into my tunic case, joining Red

in his scanning of the distant treeline. There was nothing alive out there.

We waited — fifteen minutes, half-an-hour, forty-five minutes — and there was

nothing.

"Why don't I go over?" Red suggested. "At least I could get an idea what

the building is."

"Regulations," I said. "You could walk into an ambush."

He looked at me. "I never thought Jack Adams was a book officer."

I am not an officer who goes strictly by the book, but I did not want Red

to know it.

"You're learning, boy," I snapped. "Scan the sector from twelve o'clock

to four o'clock."

He lapsed into a disgusted silence as I continued to sweep a zone ahead

of me with the glasses, twenty degrees to right, twenty degrees to left —

procedures established by Navy Regulations.

We saw them simultaneously, bipeds at ten o'clock, that broke from behind

the knob across the valley, rushing down the slope wearing primitive leg armor

and brandishing clubs. As I clicked off the Grave Images, Red said

laconically, "Thanks. It looks like your ambush couldn't wait, or they don't

like the music."

In the silence, we could hear their war whoops drift across the valley

and Red said, "Better start some martial music — for us."

He reached back to our Earth-gifts display case and drew our laser rifles

from a concealed drawer. I laid the weapon he handed me across my lap as I

counted the warriors, twelve in all, armored but running at a speed no

loinclothed Apache of Earth could have matched as they charged down the slope.

Suddenly they stopped at the flat area in the amphitheater, apparently

for a war conference, and spread out into a line of battle. They planted

markers on each flank of their skirmish line, and, suddenly, they began to

kick a ball around.

"Forget our war, Jack," Red said. "It's a soccer team."

Not exactly soccer, I decided, as I put my weapon away. They were

playing a combination of soccer, lacrosse and tenpins, lacking the ball with

tremendous force toward a wicket of three pins guarded by a goalie who guarded

with a stick. The object, apparently, was to score a strike on the pins

behind the goalie, and one player succeeded as I turned the volume up on the

Grave Images, hoisting it a few decibels to let it carry to the playing field.

But the players did not look up.

"Maybe they're nearsighted," I was saying when Red shouted, "Saints be

praised, Jack. Look at _that_!"

Fifty yards below us and to the right, a girl had emerged from the line

of woods.

"Jesus Christ!" I breathed — and I had not taken the Lord's name in vain

— as I swung my glasses onto her figure.

For an approximation of the girl's stride, take the flow of a tiger's

pacing, the hit of a springbok's leap, and mix with the grace of a ballerina.

Her whole movement was visible. She was less than five feet tall, but fully

three of those feet were dedicated — no, consecrated — to legs. Bare feet,

ankles, calves, knees and bare thighs swelled in diapasons to the glory of her

buttocks, which swooped back and in to her narrow waist. Her dress, loosely

gathered by a belt of ribbon, barely reached below her hips.

"This is no country for thigh men," O'Hara sighed.

She walked toward the amphitheater at an angle that would carry her face

beyond our view and I reluctantly lifted my attention upward along her torso.

Twin mammae protruded from her chest in the configuration of homo sapiens and

a near-human head was balanced on her neck. Her face was bare of fur, as were

her arms and legs, and she had eyebrows arching above two dark eyes, larger

and farther apart than a human's. Her skin was white and her hair was black.

"'All that's best of dark and bright,'" Red said, "'meet in her aspect

and her eyes.'"

"And her arse," I added, for the swing of her walk jostled the hemline of

her skirt to reveal new prospects. Female she was, and not solely on the

evidence of her breasts. She wore no panties.

"_Homo sapiens_," Red gasped. "Proof positive!"

"Not by regulations," I snapped, still studying the girl's face. Not

once had those eyes lifted toward us, and the guitars of the Grave Images beat

against her unheeded. "She must be deaf," I said.

"Who in hell wants to _talk_ to her?" Red asked. "Look!"

An irregular host of the long-legged beings trailed behind her from the

woods, all moving with the same grace, with females outnumbering males. All

wore the same short tunic. They walked singly, and the females were without

jewelry or make-up. None so much as cast a glance toward our ship or our

gaudy pavilion. No one talked, no one smiled.

"They have no curiosity," I said.

"Maybe they're more interested in soccer than in space ships and the

Grave Images," Red answered.

"But there's no animation on their faces. They don't talk. They're

drifting along like a herd of gazelles. Perhaps they're beasts, dumb brutes."

"Animals don't go to soccer games," Red said. "Anyway it looks like

we're getting a couple of customers."

We were indeed. Two of the beings had detached themselves from the group

and were walking up the slope toward us. They were children, a boy and a

girl, and Red reached back into the toy case, pulled out a basketball and

inflated it with a cylinder. He was spinning it in his hands when they glided

close and stopped, keeping about twelve feet away and ten feet apart, looking

at us with wide, expressionless eyes.

They were the equivalent of eight-year-olds on Earth, with rosy cheeks

that might have come from the north of England. Their tawny hair curled back

from their forehead and we could see ears beneath the hair. Their eyes were

the same brown color as their hair.

"If eyes are the windows of the soul," Red said, "these beings must have

great souls."

He smiled at the children, and his words and gesture revealed that he was

making the common error of a spaceman — personifying aliens. To an alien, a

smile may be an expression of hostility — even on Earth a laughing hyena is

not noted for its sense of humor — and a hand extended in friendliness to a

nonhuman may result in a broken arm. And Red's assumption that these beings

had souls was against Navy Regulations.

"They appear to be evolved from lemur monkeys crossed with kangaroos," I

said.

Ignoring me, Red pointed to himself. "Red," he said to the boy. Then,

pointing to me, "Jack."

The children merely watched.

"Boy," he said, pointing to the boy. "Girl."

The children watched.

"Here, boy. Catch!" He tossed the basketball toward the boy, who stuck

out his hand, palm down, and slanted the ball to the ground, where he caught

and balanced it on his extended toes. The little girl sidled away from the

boy. He flicked the ball slightly upward with his toes, swung his foot aside

and kicked the ball toward the girl, who returned it with a sidewise flick of

her leg. Soon the ball was volleying between them as each stood on one leg,

the other leg moving like a pendulum, with the ball sounding _thud-thud_

between them, moving in a flattening trajectory.

As lightly as go-devils wheeling from dust, they capered before us,

keeping the ball between them with a drumming that rose to a whirring as the

ball grew blurred to our sight. Yet they continued to look at us, gauging the

ball's flight with their peripheral vision as they consumed more energy than

long-distance sprinters. Finally the boy faltered. He struck the ball at an

angle that drove it too high for the girl to return. She caught it in the

crook of her knee, cushioned its recoil and swung it back to him in an easy

arc.

He caught it with his instep, balanced it for a second atop his toes and

tossed it gently upward and toward Red, saying plainly, "Here, Red. Catch!"

Then they turned and were running toward the soccer field at a speed I

could not have matched.

Red held the ball and said, "They have vocal chords. These people are

people."

"Not at all," I said. "They practice public nudity."

"Because they don't wish to hamper their hip movements," he argued.

"They're not merely ambidextrous, they're ambipedal."

"Exactly," I said, "which makes them upright quadrupeds rather than

bipeds."

"Don't take the book too literally," Red said. "We, too, are upright

quadrupeds, and a fig leaf could qualify them for the human family."

"Regulations are regulations."

"But we make the scouting reports," he argued, "and we can bend the

report a little to fit regulations. . . . Look, the woods are full of them!"

Another cluster of the beings had emerged from the wood at the same spot

as the first, moving with the same purpose-fulness toward the playing field,

and none looked up at us.

"Jack, they're all coming from the same direction."

"Probably entire villages migrate as a group," I said.

"I intend to follow that stream of traffic back and see if I can discover

where it's coming from, if you'll mind the store."

Using the ordinary prudence rule of spacemen, Red and I should have

stayed together; but ordinary common sense told me these beings were more

interested in the soccer game than in an ambush. Besides, I was curious, so I

decided not to pull regulations on Red. I had set the tone I wanted, our

"store" was about as popular as a kosher delicatessen at Mecca, and I, too,

was curious. "Permission granted," I said.

Red removed his boots and stood up to slip out of his trousers. His

shirt was longer than the aliens' tunics, but his green polka-dot drawers

flashed beneath.

"You're out of uniform," I said.

"My silver breeks might frighten the bairns."

Looking at his gnarled legs covered by the pink fuzz of hair, I let my

sense of truth overrule my official manner. "I would take my chances with the

trousers," I said. "If they frighten the bairns, your legs will give them

nightmares."

But Red was gone, moving toward the point of woods where the walkers had

emerged. No sooner was he out of sight than I turned off the Grave Images.

It was pleasant to sit in the sunlight and watch the procession pass.

Though the inhabitants were indifferent, the planet was friendly. Balmy air

drifted down the hillside pungent with the odor of greenery and a few clouds

moved across the sky. On the slope of the hill beyond the valley, a steady

but sparse flow of beings were moving toward the amphitheater to sit in rows

on the slopes surrounding the field. Except for the absence of sailboats on

the distant bay, I could have been in Oregon.

The game began and the procession from the woods dwindled and began to

move faster. Watching through my glasses, it was difficult to follow the

contest. A player would drive toward a goal and, when his shot was blocked,

he would turn and block someone else's shot toward the same goal. No

bodychecks were thrown and there was less contact because of the agility of

the players than there would have been in basketball on Earth. There was no

scoreboard and no referee.

My mind grew vaguely troubled as I watched the scene. Give or take a few

degrees of tilt, these beings were humanids. With facile toes and hands, they

might well be trained to work a double-level production line, and the facility

with which they handled their bodies in yonder game portended well for safety

programs. On the basis of what I could report already, Earth would have a

grade-A colony on this planet. Transistor-radio factories would rise among

these woodlands. Earth's Bureau of Home Appliances would set these beings to

producing low-cost kitchen ranges. Their soccer games would be

company-sponsored. But here, on a planet filled with insurable risks, my

first chore would be to violate the Church-State Clause in the Alien Code.

And I would need Red O'Hara's compliance.

My attention was distracted from the game by a female coming out of the

woods. Heretofore they had come in groups, but she walked alone, and she

moved so sedately in comparison with the animalistic swing of the others that

she reminded me of a ballet dancer projecting the image of a queen. I focused

my glasses on her, a handsome female with hair so black it had a bluish cast.

When I lowered my glasses slightly, I saw that her stride was restricted

because her hips were hampered.

Concupiscence and carnality!

Plainly visible beneath her tunic, skintight against her broader thighs,

she was wearing the green polka-dot drawers of Red O'Hara.

CHAPTER FOUR

After my shock at the sight of Red's shorts wore off, my heart exulted.

Here was an opportunity to gain Red's compliance. Not two hours on this

planet and he had been undrawered. He was married and adultery was a sin. He

was a space scout, and commingling with an unclassified alien female was

statutory bestiality — a misdemeanor violation of Navy Regulations. Literally

and figuratively, the Lord had permitted me to catch Red O'Hara with his

trousers down.

I would swap him a misdemeanor for a misdemeanor, my silence for his.

Under the Scout's Oath, we could not tell a lie, but we both could refrain

from telling all of the truth.

When Red burst from the woods twenty minutes later at full gallop, his

shirttail flapping in the breeze, officiousness was set on my face. O'Hara

ignored my expression — if he noticed it — for he was talking before he came

to a stop.

"Jack, you may think me daft, but do you know what those spires are?"

"Phallic symbols," I snapped. He was wearing a tiny maple leaf pinned to

his shirt.

"Hell no! They're markers for subway stations forty feet underground.

They've got trains. An express came by at ninety miles an hour."

His words almost shook my composure, but I had long-range goals and so I

kept to formality. "What happened to your shorts?"

"I met a female in the woods, a fairy child," he grinned. "She took a

fancy to my drawers, so I swapped them to her for this maple leaf."

"Come off it, Red. You'd never trade your luck even-steven for a plastic

button."

"Why not?" He noticed my coolness and began to weasel. "I have sixty

pairs. . . . Fifty-nine, now."

"Red, you're incorrigible, and you with a bride on Earth."

"Jack, that little angel's not even born yet, Earth time."

"Don't mess up the theory with your facts," I said. "When we re-enter

her reference frame, Thelma's going to be the maddest woman in Christendom."

"Not necessarily," Red said. He pointed toward our ship. "I could ram

that baby through the barrier fast enough to get back to Earth before the

marriage and call the whole thing off — if you had guts enough to stand the

Gs."

Red was trying to divert me, and he succeeded. "That's only a

theoretical possibility," I said. "If it can be done, why hasn't it been

done?"

"Don't mess up facts with theory," Red mimicked. "It hasn't been done

because the Navy won't allow it. How could they court-martial a scout for

violating regulations on a trip that he hasn't made yet?"

Red was beguiling me from my purpose, another example of his con art.

"Speaking of court-martials," I said, removing the recording log from my tunic

pouch and simulating a click of the "on" switch with my fingernail, "I am

charging you, Ensign O'Hara, with commingling with an unclassified alien

female. How answer you these charges, Ensign O'Hara?"

When I shoved the recorder toward him, I could have struck him in the

stomach. He staggered back a pace, his face turned ashen beneath his

freckles, and snapped to attention, his bare heels sounding with a thud

instead of a click.

"Probe Commander Adams, Ensign O'Hara answers the charges in his native

tongue." From that point, Red launched into a stream of Gaelic which was

unintelligible to me but which, from his expression, was loaded with ancient

Irish curses.

When he finished his defense, he saluted and I simulated a click of the

"off" button. "Very well," I said. "Your Erse will be translated by the

court."

"And the charges will be dismissed," he said. "But what's come over you,

Jack? As a goat at Madame Chacaud's you were a prince. As a lamb your wool

is getting in my teeth."

"For the record," I said, "these beings are subhuman."

"But we are the record," he protested. "If we declare these beings

subhuman, the Harriers will be landing and yonder lads and lassies will be

weaving carpets with their toes."

"What difference does it make to you?"

"I'm Irish. We learned sympathy the hard way. What matters if these

beings have long legs, don't smile, or don't hold face-to-face . . . ?"

His declamation skidded into silence, for in his anger he had almost

admitted to the misdemeanor, in English. The phrase he did not complete was

"face-to-face coition."

His remarks, delivered in the conviction of his wrath, made me abandon my

plan to blackmail acquiescence from him. Now, my scheme subordinated, my

curiosity held sway. If it wasn't face-to-face, then what was it?

"Off the record, Red," I said, my voice dropping to a soft and

confidential pitch, "how was the lass?"

"I'm telling you nothing, my lad, for my answer is on the record, in

Gaelic. It will prove my innocence, But I will make this prophecy in plain

English: That cloak of piety you wear will rip like tissue paper once you have

felt the toes of these lassies."

Now it was my turn for anger. Red had sneered at my deepest convictions

as a "cloak of piety," had, in effect, placed a bet that my carnal longings

were stronger than my faith.

"Catch, you bead-counting Mick!" I tossed the log to him. "And try to

read back the pig-Latin you spoke for the record."

He juggled it in his hand for a moment. He knew that the tape could be

replayed though it could not be erased, and he realized he would hear nothing.

He tossed it back to me, wonderment written on his face. "Just what are you

up to, Jack? If you've got a game going, deal old Red a hand."

"I'll deal you in," I said, "when you tell me why the lassies can't

qualify face-to-face, for I'll never learn from experience."

A whirring came from the sky and we looked up. An air hover was

descending toward us from the sky in the direction of the building. There

were three beings seated on the craft around an object on a tripod.

"Jack, my boy," Red said, "not everyone on this planet is a soccer fan.

Here comes our welcoming committee."

They were dropping to the ground, less than ten yards distant, and Red

walked forward to meet them, his hands clasped high above his head in the

regulation manner to show we were unarmed and came in peace. But the movement

of his arms hoisted his shirt above the plimsol mark, and he wore nothing

beneath. Red O'Hara, one half of a diplomatic mission from Earth, awaited to

greet the emissaries of a foreign planet with his front and behind hanging

out.

Of course, we expected no ambassador on a planet where we had arrived

unexpected and uninvited, but I had hoped to be greeted by a mayor, police

sergeant, or at least a rookie patrolman. We got an elderly female pilot of

the hover craft who never moved from the controls, a girl who shouldered the

box on a tripod and stepped down and a graying male who waved our salute away

with a back-handed sweep.

Although he wore nothing but a tunic with no insignia of rank, the male

was in charge. He pointed to the concealed scanning lens of our language

computer and said something to the girl, who set the lens of her camera-like

box before the viewing scanner of our translator.

"Saints be!" Red voiced my own amazement. "She's setting up a

counter-translator."

Gallantly Red stepped inside the tent to bring the translator out while I

stood speechless.

Technically, the Mark XIV language translator is the most sophisticated

computer on Earth, yet these beings, observing from a distance, had spotted

its scanning lens, deduced its purpose, and brought over a translator of their

own to exchange vocabularies.

We had landed on a planet with a technology as advanced as Earth's.

Covertly studying the older man, who never once looked at Red or me, I

got an impression of mixed wisdom and idiocy — he resembled a moronic owl.

But the girl was a prize. Her green eyes contrasted with her light brown

hair, and her hands, as she adjusted the dials on her machine, were as deft

and as graceful as those of a Balinese hand-dancer. As she adjusted the knobs

with her hands, her toes were leveling the machine on its tripod. Once she

lifted her leg to focus with her toes the viewing lens of her machine and Red

was fascinated by her agility. Fortunately, the machine blocked my line of

vision; still it was her eyes that drew my attention. Though without

expression, they seemed to exude the serenity of a woman kneeling before an

altar after benediction.

She set the machine to recording, signifying to O'Hara that she wished

him to transmit data into her translator. When the light flashed green atop

her machine, after five minutes, she had O'Hara receive her machine's

vocabulary. After five more minutes, broken only by the whirring of the

machine and shouts from the soccer field, the lights again flashed green.

The girl leaned over her machine and said something in a sing-song,

pushed a button and the machine's speaker emitted in English,

"One-two-three-four . . . testing."

We were ready to converse, and the gray-haired man bent to his machine,

looked into my eyes for the first time and spoke. Seconds later his machine

emitted, in the man's own tone of voice, "I am Hedrik the Language Teacher.

The girl is Harla. The planet is Harlech. You have landed near

University 36."

"I am Jack Adams," I said. "This is Red O'Hara. We are from the planet

Earth in the Milky Way." I spoke into the translator, which repeated my words

in Harlechian with the exception of the proper names.

"Why do you come to Harlech?"

"To learn, to teach" — I followed the formula — "to communicate and to

establish the bonds of brotherhood or unity."

That "or" was an escape clause in a verbal contract drawn for the I.C.A.

by Earth General Insurance. Scouts were coached not to use the phrase

"brotherhood and unity."

"Learn you may," said Hedrik, "though the course in any single science

takes four Earth years. Teach you may, though your courses may not be offered

for credits. We are now communicating. We seek no bonds of brotherhood

and/or unity with other planets."

This man was a space lawyer and he was rejecting my contract point by

point.

"Do you speak for your government?"

"There is no government. Harlech is an association of self-administered

universities. I speak as an advisor to Bubo the Dean of 36."

"Is there no industry?" I asked into the machine.

"Industry is automated. Our primary occupation is scholarship."

It was as if the heavens had opened and I saw before me a great

opportunity to lead these beings to the Light. "We would like to teach," I

said.

"What can you teach? Our technologies are the same."

"I can teach Earth customs, philosophy, government . . . perhaps a few

courses in Earth religion," I said, throwing the last phrase in as an apparent

afterthought, "to broaden the backgrounds of your students."

"And what can the red one teach?"

"Let him speak for himself," I said, quite unaware of Red's

qualifications as a teacher.

Red stepped to the translator. "I could teach Earth folklore, poetry,

drama, perhaps a few courses in Earth biology."

"Your word 'poetry' does not compute," Hedrik said.

"Let me define by example," Red said, and I noticed he was fingering the

machine as he spoke into it. "I will compose a poem to Harla. Listen:

On this hilltop where I stand

Green meadows slope to the sea.

Bright are the waters that gird this strand,

Glittering far and free,

But brighter than oceans and greener than land

Are the eyes of Harla to me.

He accented the rhythms he fed into the computer and the sounds that came

from the machine rose and fell with a melody too lovely for my telling. And

the translator crooned with a tremolo and huskiness seldom achieved by the

machine — O'Hara had slackened the diaphragm on its speaker.

If the girl's eyes could have formed an expression I know that they would

have glowed with pleasure, for she lifted her foot and slapped its instep

against the calf of the leg she stood on to applaud the poet, Harlechian

style. Her gesture shamelessly revealed her nakedness.

Hedrik bowed to his translator and fed into it the longest speech of the

day. "We will add your courses to the university curriculum as electives, but

first we offer you lodging and linguistic tapes to let you learn our language.

Select such subjects as you wish to teach and submit them to the registrar to

be entered into the university catalogue. The summer term begins fourteen

days from this date. I go to prepare your quarters. You may assemble your

teaching aids. You will be summoned at six, if no storm intervenes. You may

roll up your tent. Harlechians are not attracted by lures."

He was turning to step back on the platform when the girl said a few

words to him and he turned back to the translator.

"The girl, Harla, wishes for Red, with the maple-leaf award, to tutor her

in Earth biology."

Red reached for the translator, beating me to the button by a hair. "In

honor of the girl with green eyes, the greatest wish of my heart is to tutor

her in Earth biology."

Before the machine could emit the translation, I was pressing the "input"

button and feeding it a question: "What does the maple-leaf award signify?"

They listened and Hedrik spoke again into his translator, turned and

stepped on the platform. As Harla hoisted the machine aboard, its answer came

loud and clear, branding Red O'Hara an adulterer and the girl with the aura of

spirituality a harlot.

"Excellence in fornication."

As the hover craft dwindled in the sky, I turned to Red. "Despite their

technology, doesn't it strike you as strange that they cannot predict the

weather six hours in advance?"

He was taken aback by my subject and my mildness, but he answered

promptly, "Not with a jet stream of 500 knots 10,000 feet above the surface."

"I recall you said something about a tailwind. . . . Stow the trinkets,

Red. . . . There's something I wish to check."

I turned to the translator, pushed the "input" button and asked,

"Translate Harlechian equivalent of word 'God.'"

Throaty and intimate from its relaxed diaphragm, the machine purred, "No

Harlechian equivalent of word 'God.' Closest concept, the word 'Dean.'"

I fed the machine the word "Heaven."

"Exact Harlechian equivalent of word 'Heaven' is word 'Harlech.'"

"Hey, Red," I yelled. "Guess what? These gooks think their planet is

Heaven."

"I'll buy that!" Red yelled back, with unseemly gusto.

For different reasons, I, too, felt elation. With no concept of God,

Harlech was ripe and ready for the willing gleaner's hand. These harlots with

the faces of angels would be given souls.

Our microtapes were packed and ready, our pavilion rolled and stored, the

ship's sensors set to administer an electric shock to any who entered without

my authorization, and all soccer fans had gone from the landscape when a youth

broke from the woods, dressed in a black tunic and moving with the speed of a

marathon runner. He carried a roll of parchment in his hand and sped up to

us, stopped and handed the roll to me. It was written in English.

To the men of Earth, Bubo the Dean sends greetings.

The bearer of this scroll, Jon the Student, will conduct you to your

quarters in the teachers' section of University 36. Bring only material you

will need for classes. All other wants will be provided. Linguistic tapes

have been prepared to assist you in learning our language.

Within eight days, submit your list of classes to the registrar. Total

academic freedom exists at the university. No restrictions are imposed as to

subject. Since your classes will be noncredit electives, it is recommended

that you teach only subjects which will attract students.

_Bubo the Dean_

"Bejesus! A magna carta," Red said. "Teach what you wish, it says."

"If we can find the students," I pointed out. "With the curiosity

quotient of these beings so low, we may find ourselves teaching to blank

walls."

"Advertising will be the answer," Red said.

Our guide pointed toward the woods and we lifted our valises and followed

him. I had expected a hover craft to come for us, but obviously Harlechians

did not stand on ceremony. We were taking the subway.

And no porters had been provided, a fact which spared me embarrassment

since I would not have permitted anyone to carry my library. In it were

microfilms of all the known sciences, institutions and history of Earth deemed

suitable for alien consumption. The only science not touched on was the

military science, probably the one subject Red and I were both expert in and

the one we were most qualified to teach.

Though military science was eradicated from our files, it was uppermost

in my mind. We were trained to estimate the military potential of a planet,

analyze its defense capabilities and assess its points of tactical

vulnerability. If this planet were found to be subhuman, as I suspected, its

potential for colonial exploitation would be invaluable.

Then, when the great, gray ships of Earth returned, wisping out of the

fogs of space in battle formation, those squadrons would be deployed in part

by the information made available to the admiral commanding by the

Adams-O'Hara Probe. We both should get lieutenancies for this discovery.

Despite the emoluments offered, I felt that the burden of the

observations would rest on me, for obviously Ensign O'Hara regarded Harlech as

an extension of Madame Chacaud's. My junior officer would have his troubles

until he sublimated his carnal appetites to the greater glory of the Empire of

Earth.

As we neared the trylon I could see gleaming through the trees, O'Hara

spoke in words that reflected the truth in my evaluation of him. "I'm

offering a course in emotions, Jack. That fairy child who was so

accommodating, right about there" — he pointed to a spot off the path as if he

planned to erect a historical marker on the site — "functioned like a jeweled

watch, with as much enthusiasm."

We had broken into an open glade with the tower soaring above us, three

piers set in concrete and converging to an apex. There were no crossbeams

between them and they seemed to be made of an alloy of copper. In the area

beneath was only bare ground. Whatever the device, it was too elaborate

merely to mark the entrance to a subway, but it was not a subspace laser-ray

projector.

We descended a spiral ramp to the subway platform. Counting my paces and

calculating our angle of descent, I figured 35 feet, not the forty that Red

had estimated, as the distance of the platform below the surface. A number of

earth-piercing bombs zeroed in on the towers could wreck the transportation

system of the planet in short order. Below on the platform, I casually

glanced at the tunnel walls, for the runnel was as well-lighted as the

platform. Light reflections from the glazed surface of the tunnel indicated

it had been bored by lasers.

Harlech had the science to defend itself from an attack from space.

Whether it could mobilize that science rapidly enough after a sneak attack had

knocked out its transportation system was another question.

Tactically, one obvious point of attack would be the towers, I mused, as

a whirring from the tunnel mouth rose to a rumble and a three-car train pulled

up at the platform. At a nod from our guide, we entered the third car and

walked down the aisle and took seats. Not an occupant of the car looked at

us, although no one was reading or talking to his neighbor. For all the

animation in the crowd, we could have boarded a hearse enroute to a

crematorium.

"Yes, Jack," Red muttered from the seat beside me, "these beings could

use a few episodes from 'Life Can Be Golden' to teach them emotions."

Among underground installations I have seen, including that relic of

intraplanet warfare, the Norad hole, nothing could touch the complex that

housed University 36. Before we reached the central station, the train passed

through a marshaling yard at least twenty tracks wide. At the station, there

were no escalators up. All passages led out into a mammoth warren, brightly

lighted, ventilated and kept at an even temperature. Down the centers of all

but the shortest _culs-de-sac_, two-way passenger conveyor belts moved at an

eight-mile-per-hour clip. Weighted with our bags, the belts demanded an

exercise of agility when we hopped aboard.

We rode half a mile to an intersection where Jon changed belts to carry

us another three-quarters of a mile. "Not lemurs," Red commented. "Moles."

Jon stepped off the belt and led us to a door marked with three

Harlechian characters, pointed at the inscription and said, "Red."

We went into a large office with a high settee and two desks. A girl sat

at one of the desks, and when we entered she spoke into an intercom. Then she

lifted her eyes to Red and the voice from the intercom came to us in English.

"I am Veda the secretary of Red the Teacher. You may speak to me, Red,

through this intercom or another on your desk."

Already these beings had wired the interoffice communicators to a central

cybernetic translator. Red's living quarters were bugged.

Jon led us through the door to a spacious office with desk and other

furniture, through it to a library lined with Harlechian books and into a

bedroom with closets and an adjoining toilet with a high commode and stall

showers. There was even a small kitchen in the rear with sink, refrigerator,

table and high-legged stools. All the rooms were painted and carpeted, except

the tiled kitchen, but no pictures were hung on the walls.

After our tour, Jon returned to the desk and pulled out a map of our

underground complex. Speaking into the intercom, he showed us where we were

in relation to the overall complex and nearby facilities, commissary,

infirmary, stores. "On Harlech," he added, "it is not considered proper to

look at one whom you are not addressing. Personal references or questions

should not be used with another until an agreement is made by the use of

'thou,' the familiar form of address, between them. Personal conversations

should not be carried on within the hearing of a third person. You will find

a list of lesser taboos in your desk."

Red glanced at his wristwatch and suggested to me that we meet in an hour

in the commissary. Our guide apparently noticed his act, for he said, "There

is a twenty-eight-hour day on Harlech," pointing at a small clock on the desk.

"If you wish to carry a timepiece, you may obtain one here." He pointed to a

spot on the map.

"What do I use for money, Jon?" Red asked.

The word "money" was emitted from the translator in its English form, so

I know it did not translate, but the Harlechian interpreted the word from its

context. "All things on Harlech are to be had for the asking."

My quarters, fifty yards farther down the tunnel, were the duplicate of

Red's. My secretary's name was Risa, but in the brief office conference with

Jon, the boy added a sentence for me he had omitted in his talk with Red. "If

you wish sex, call Risa."

"Why didn't you tell this to Red?" I asked.

"He wore the sign of the maple leaf, so he would know. Can I be of

further service?"

Bending to the intercom, I spoke rather harshly. "Yes, fire that girl

and get me a male secretary."

On Harlech, things were done with dispatch. When I emerged an hour

later, showered and shaved, a pimply-faced lad said, "I am Hal the secretary

of Jack the Teacher."

Our commissary was an automat, the foods similar to those of Earth,

though mostly vegetables, with a meat that tasted much like beef. Around us,

about forty diners sat at the tables, and all observed the primary taboo.

Over Harlechian coffee, Red and I discussed the ban against the direct gaze.

"It must spring from a need for privacy in such confined living areas. And

casual chit-chat is ruled out by the private-conversation taboo."

"Oh, yes," Red said, "and wonderful it is to make love without the hurdle

of vacuous female chatter. There can be no pillow talk where there are no

pillows."

"Don't tell me you've bedded your Veda already?"

"Hoisted is the better expression," Red said enigmatically. "But all in

the name of biological science. If these beings can cross-breed, they are two

legs up on acceptance to human status."

"Your experimentation is pointless," I retorted, "since they are godless

beings who have no military."

"I have my own ideas about that."

His was a cryptic remark but I questioned him no further, for I had a few

ideas of my own which would not stand questioning. So we shifted to

theorizing why these beings chose to live underground. We agreed that some

past intercontinental nuclear war or threat of war had driven them below.

That theory began to look somewhat tenuous after we went under narcosis

and devoted fourteen hours of the twenty-eight-hour day to learning the

Harlechian tongue.

It took me four days to learn the language, which had no connectives, no

conjunctions and no subjunctives — conditions contrary to fact were not

accepted by Harlechians. The entire vocabulary, technical and otherwise,

consisted of less than 40,000 words, despite the fact that the flora of the

planet was similar to Earth's. There were far fewer animals, however, on this

planet.

Words were formed from simpler combinations. For instance, "flow" was

the word for life and movement. Air was "sky flow," water "ground flow,"

tides "sea flow," electricity "power flow." Once the root words were learned,

it was simple to construct variations on the roots and be understood. Going

to a movie, for instance, could be expressed as "Leg flow to light flow."

I broke somnolence only for meals, and by the second day I was picking up

snatches of conversations around me. At that time, the students were taking

their final exams for the winter quarter and their talk was limited to

academic subjects. The rhythm of the speech was similar to Earth's

Scandinavian.

By the third day, I had mastered the language well enough to visit the

installations on the campus, and I was surprised when I visited the school's

infirmary. It had a large and lively maternity ward for coeds, but there were

no fathers pacing the anterooms. A nurse informed me that no record was kept

of the fathers since the matter was of academic interest only, even to the

mothers.

In one small way, this planet its inhabitants called Heaven did resemble

the Christian Heaven — there was no giving or taking in marriage. Harlech was

a planet of bastards.

On the campus, I could follow the life-cycle of an individual, for the

cryogenic mortuary had a viewing window facing a gallery for student

observers. Corpses were carried to the mortuary and dissected for the organ

banks in public view without ceremony. If a corpse was too old for salvage,

it was carted back to the crematorium. I was appalled by the cold efficiency

displayed with pagan disregard for ritual.

Very few teachers were visible in the tunnels. Most of the adults I

spotted among the students were service personnel.

It took Red five days to master the language, and our meager difference,

if any, in linguistic ability could not account for his tardiness. I

suspected Red of breaking somnolence for long periods, and my suspicions were

verified on the evening of the sixth day. I sat in my library, reviewing

Earth training films, when my phone rang.

The merry voice of the Celtic star rover came over the line, speaking in

Harlechian, "Jack, my lad, let's lift a brew in celebration of my graduation.

Meet me in the neighborhood tavern at 22:00."

"What tavern?"

From my vocabulary studies, I knew that strong drink existed on the

planet, but I had no idea where to obtain such spirits.

Red gave me tunnel co-ordinates not far from Faculty Row.

"Why not now?" I asked.

"I'm interviewing a new secretary at 21:00."

"What's wrong with the old one?"

"Nothing, Jack. That little old thing's still perking like a horizontal

coffeepot. But she needs an assistant."

"What qualifications are you looking for?"

"More torque," he said.

"Red, are you drunk?"

"I've fungoed a few. Go on over to the bar and catch up with me if it's

not against your religion."

"Well," I said, "the Good Book says we can drink a little wine for our

stomach's sake."

So it was that I agreed to go ahead of him and meet him there. Navy

Regulations permitted drunkenness to be entered as a defense when space

sailors stood accused of minor breaches of security, loose talk, or conduct

unbecoming an officer. This night I intended to sound out Red with some

carefully selected loose conversation. If drunkenness was the price one must

pay to advance a high purpose, then the nobler angels of my nature would have

to wobble in their flight.

Sustained by my righteousness, I advanced to the bar. Not only was I

willing but suddenly I was eager to down a few boilermakers with the companion

of my wilder days.

CHAPTER FIVE

Red must have found the bar with a dowsing rod or some Irish instinct for

whisky. There was no neon sign to mark it and no military policemen stationed

before it, only lettering on the door which translated: "Power groundflow

here" or "Firewater served."

It was a cocktail lounge with soft lights, lounge chairs, tables, a bar

with stools and the click of Harlechian voices beneath flutings from a juke

organ. I ordered a whisky and beer at the bar, feeling actual nostalgia for

the old days of brawls, drinking and sins of the flesh, and my poignancy was

enhanced when a girl rose and came to the bar with an order for her table. As

she waited near me, she spoke out of the corner of her mouth, softly. "How's

it for a bit of hip slip, Big Boy?"

"Hip slip" is slang for "hip flow," the formal term.

Coldly and formally, I answered, "Ni lik flick," as she turned back to

her table.

Stifling my nostalgia, I downed a whisky and sipped my beer chaser as I

meditated on the good life and the rewards of virtue — freedom from bruises,

hangovers and Monday-morning remorse. Before I had finished my second

boiler-maker, the door opened and O'Hara, three sheets in the wind, staggered

in.

Nude and lewd!

For once, the Harlech taboo against staring was threatened with a mass

violation. Red wore the plaids of a Highlander, a green tam-o'-shanter and a

folded tartan angled over his shoulder. A leather pouch was strapped to his

belt and his legs, gnarled oak trunks covered with pink moss, jutted from

beneath kilts so short they would have made a Scotsman blush. He wore no

shorts. Arranged like military decorations down the forefront of his tartan

were five maple-leaf awards.

"What in the name? — Where in the? — How did you get those mini-kilts?"

"At a tailor's grotto," he roared in Harlechian, "corner of South Sixth

Tunnel and West Eighth Burrow. What these little frog-eyed kangaroos can't do

with their fingers, they do with their toes. . . . Mac, set up my regular."

Since the bartender's name was Mac and he had commenced pouring a double

whisky with a beer chaser, I knew O'Hara had not merely found the place but

that he was already an habitué.

"Lower your voice," I said. "Some of these lads might take offense."

"Let them," he bellowed, scowling over the seated drinkers, "and I'll

bounce a few of these swan-necked heads off the ceiling. . . . But never fear,

Jack. Biologically this planet has gone to seed." His voice sank to a stage

whisper that carried through the closed door and across the tunnel. "You know

why these moles live in holes? They're afraid of the weather topside. . . .

Well, here's to Earth, lad, the planet that raises hell and men."

"To Earth," I repeated, clicking glasses.

"We're in a pure democracy, Jack, and you know why? These owl-eyed

grasshoppers haven't got the energy to organize a government. They can't

breed leaders. Ah, lad, and there I see a golden opportunity. On a planet of

multiple amputees the one-armed man is king."

"O.K., Red. We'll flip for the throne. Tails I'm long and heads you're

prime minister."

"That's an O'Hara flip," he said promptly, proving he wasn't as drunk as

he pretended.

"Another round, boy," I called to the bartender.

I could act drunk myself, and I smelled a confidence game other than my

own.

"Jack, we could set up our own little colony, here. We don't need the

I.C.A."

"Watch it!" I snapped. "These walls have ears."

The Interplanetary Colonial Authority was a quasi-military intelligence

agency, and Harlechian agents could be planted in this room. In English I

added, "If you're proposing a conspiracy to deprive Earth of a colony, there

won't be enough of you left to donate to an organ bank. Now, tell me," I

shifted back to Harlechian, "what's the reason for the kilts."

"Advertising, lad. Look at this." He reached into his pouch and pulled

out a packet of printed cards. "We're teaching electives, so I'm drumming up

the student trade."

Glancing at the engraved card pasted atop the packet, I read:

Jack the Teacher

Specializing in Out of This World Subjects

The only blue-eyed teacher on Harlech

I was touched by his thoughtfulness in finding a printer and ordering the

cards printed for me, but I had to point out an obvious mistake. "Red, I'm

not the only blue-eyed teacher on Harlech. There's you."

"Oh, no," he said. "Your card must be read in conjunction with my own.

Here."

He handed me his card, which read:

Red the Teacher

Specializing in Out of Any World Subjects

The only blue-eyed, red-headed teacher on Harlech

He was upstaging me, but I expressed no resentment because I was more

curious about another item of his dress. Pocketing my cards, I remarked,

"Thanks, but how'd you earn the maple-leaf cluster?"

"You know how I earned the top one," he said, "and the rest were awarded

for excellence in language studies. I ran through four tutors before I

mastered the brogue. This bottom one came from Harla. Remember the girl who

adjusted the translator's scanner with her toes?"

"Indeed," I said. "The inspiration for your love lyric."

A pensive look came to his eyes. "When that little girl kinked her knee

at me, it was love at my first sight. . . . She taught me irregular verbs."

"There aren't any irregular verbs in Harlechian," I objected.

"So!" He shook his head sadly and signaled for another round. "That

pecker-plucking lik flicker was just putting me on. . . . Jack, you're a

theologian. Love is a giving, right?"

"In part, yes," I said.

"My charity's wearing me out. I'm beginning to feel like a one-man

Community Chest."

"Try celibacy," I suggested.

"Not on your life," he said. "Generosity's my one virtue, and I intend

to keep my virtue. By the way, you floored that lad, Jon, when you asked for

a male secretary. Are you trying to ruin the good name of Earth?"

Since I had not mentioned getting a male secretary to Red, I was more

surprised that he knew than I was at his interpretation. Obviously

rumor-mongering existed among the students of Harlech.

"No," I answered. "I fired the girl to retain what little was left after

you got through with the good name of Earth. Carnality is evil."

"I'm with you there, lad," he said, "100 percent. It's wearing me down.

Maybe I should get a male secretary."

"Tired of bedding the lassies?" I oozed sympathy.

"'Hoisting' is the word, Jack. Seventy pounds can be heavy when held

horizontally. But the problem's not only physical. The laws of economics are

setting in."

"How do economics figure on a planet without money?"

"When goods are in excess supply, their value goes down. I'm losing my

interest, Jack. There's no challenge, except for a weightlifter, and I don't

really enjoy myself unless I'm breaking some law, moral, social, or legal."

"Such as Navy Regs?" I suggested.

"Especially Navy Regs," Red said. "And I'm drunk, so you can't bring

charges."

"I'm drunk, so I'm listening," I said.

"I wish you'd teach a course in chastity, Jack. You're an expert. Maybe

you could come out and denounce carnality, teach them that promiscuousness is

sinful."

"Another round here, boy," I called, mostly to hide my consternation.

From where I read the helm, it looked like Red was on the course I had

plotted.

Turning back to O'Hara, I shook my head. "Sermonizing against sex to

Harlechians would be like arguing against hopscotch with children. Even their

word for it sounds like an all-day sucker. 'Lik flick' just doesn't sound

dirty enough."

"Aye," Red shook his head sadly. "'Dirty'! Now, there's a good word.

Sex is no fun lest it's furtive. If we had Brother Ben here he could put the

fear into these bairns. A shot of old-time religion would put guilt feelings

in their crotches. _That_ would give chastity a value, lend dimensions to

romance, make love a challenge."

"And violate the Church-State Code," I reminded him.

"Forget the Codes," he said. "We make the report. At best it will be

two years before a survey team checks the planet to verify the report."

"Even so," I said, "these beings have no concept of sin, primal or

otherwise, so how can they be delivered from a bondage they're not aware of?"

"Jack, my lad," Red said, and I sensed he was coming in for a landing, "I

spring from a long line of acolytes, though none ever made the priesthood. My

genes believe in succoring souls, but I only hallow the soil, I cannot

harvest."

"I don't read your message," I said.

"What I'm saying, Jack, is this: I'll teach 'em to sin if you'll save

"em."

Wild ideas were an O'Hara specialty, so the very implausibility of his

scheme gave it sincerity. Still, I shook my head, not wanting to seem too

eager. "Sin hasn't been 'taught' since the Hebrew children studied Baal."

"I've given thought to the lectures," Red disputed. "With visual aids

from Earth, I think I could swing a course in Elementary Human Emotions. The

females are educable. I taught Harla to smile, and she's learning to whimper

and moan. . . . The way I figure it, I could hit them low and you could hit

them with the hellfire-and-damnation angle."

"Let's go to the table and figure out a curriculum," I suggested, taking

my drinks from the bar. As I led him from the bar to our first faculty

conference, I felt like a Judas ram leading a sheep to slaughter. O'Hara, the

master trickster, had outwitted himself. He had conned me into doing what I

had intended to con him into letting me do. Now, instead of a silent witness,

Red was an accessory before the fact.

Within two hours, Red and I had worked out a schedule of classes. I was

to teach three quarterly courses in succession: Human Customs, Ethics and

Values, followed by Earth Religions 1 and Earth Religions 2. Red was to

parallel and support my classes with Elementary Human Emotions, followed by

two survey courses: Love, Courtship and Marriage, and Earth Rituals, Folklore

and Superstitions. We agreed to eliminate all but a passing reference to

Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism and to touch on Judaism, in Religions 1, only as a

background for Christianity. My wild-card course for each quarter was

Aesthetics and Awe. Red's would be Earth Drama. We both took a once-a-week

class in gym featuring Earth Games and Sportsmanship.

In the area of Christianity, primarily Religions 2, we struck a snag.

Red held out for the Seven Mysteries of the Catholic Church but I balked at

Mary's bodily ascent to Heaven and her crowning as Queen of Angels. Red

persisted in his support of the woman until I asked him pointedly, "Look, Red,

do you really want to see an angel given authority over men?"

He cogitated only for a moment. "You're right, Jack. Uncrown her."

We completed the schedule and Hal sent it to the registrar's office. The

registrar's student assistant assured our student assistant that she would

okay it immediately and see that it got into the catalogue. With the

exception of the language teacher, we had not met an instructor since our

arrival on campus.

Because our courses were electives with no credits given, there was a

possibility that we would have no students at all. We could not rely on our

value as curios because intellectual curiosity among Harlechians seemed

minimal, even in the presence of Red's revealing kilts and my modest,

full-length trousers. Red was a walking billboard in his kilts, but his

advertising was not reaching the right market. Otherwise it was successful to

a point where, when we met of evening in the taproom, his morning's

effervescence was gone and he looked pekid.

"Aren't you feeling well?" I asked.

"A little of my edge is gone, come evening."

By now he was tottering under a load of maple leafs pinned to his tartan.

"Why don't you strike a gold leaf for every ten green leaves," I suggested,

"and lighten your burden."

He took my suggestion, but he was still tottering, the next day, under

three gold leaves and five greens. "It's killing me, Jack, but I can't break

these lassies' hearts with an outright rejection."

Our morale was not helped any by a bulletin that appeared on the

refectory board on a morning two days before classes commenced:

Pursuant to the suggestion of the Registrar, the Department of Primitive

Anthropology has added elective courses to its curriculum which will be

presented by the alien instructors, Jack the Teacher and Red the Teacher.

Students desiring to take these courses are cautioned against commenting on

the malformed legs and eye structure of the aliens.

_Bubo the Dean_

When Red saw the notice, he exploded with a stream of expletives which

would have offended even a nonpious man and stalked from the commissary.

"Where are you going?" I called.

"To corner that frog-eyed will-o'-the-wisp, Bubo."

For myself, I was amused by the notice. In the days of prespace

mythology, the universe had been peopled with bug-eyed monsters. The myths

were wrong. Space held only two squint-eyed, bandy-legged monsters: Red

O'Hara and me.

Red couldn't find Bubo. He telephoned to report that evening, but he had

gotten satisfaction from Bubo's student secretary, a male. He had written the

notice in the first place, at the suggestion of Hal, thinking he was doing us

a favor by advertising our classes. In the morning, a new notice had been

placed on the bulletin boards

Pursuant to the suggestion of Red the Teacher, courses offered by the

aliens have been transferred to a new Department of Liberal Arts. Students

desiring to take these courses are cautioned against commenting on the

malformed legs and eye structure of the aliens.

_Bubo the Dean_

Arriving late for breakfast, Red commented on the change with pleasure.

"No Earthman is taking orders from a bug-eyed department head. I've got my

pride."

On the last day before the opening of the semester, we climaxed our

campaign with large posters spotted throughout the dining halls. In circus

type, printed in beautiful red against a background of pale yellow, they

extolled the wonderful courses offered by Jack and Red the Teachers. The

tagline was pure O'Hara:

Thrill to leprechauns!

Experience the miracle of Salvation!

Red, I felt, was promising more than I could deliver with the last item,

but it was morning and Red's seltzer still fizzed. "Have faith, lad. You can

do it with an assist from O'Hara."

From Hal, I learned that class lists were not given to the instructors

until after the beginning of lectures and that forty students was the maximum

any one instructor was permitted for a single class. We were working blind as

far as our advertising campaign was concerned, so Red printed up an

advertising placard for my wall: "Hit forty!"

If we could have used television, I'm sure Red would have tried it.

There was a television set in the dining hall, and there was a broadcasting

studio on campus with a continental hookup, but it was never used except for

official announcements. According to Hal, they had tried television on

Harlech but had given it up.

On the day school opened, Bubo the Dean appeared on local television to

welcome new students arriving on campus. He was a bald-headed little man

whose broadcast lasted less than a minute. He told the new arrivals to ask

their teachers for information if such information was not covered in the

catalogue.

When the catalogue reached our office, we found our classes listed

alphabetically among 420 other subjects being offered.

Opening day was a disappointment. Eight students attended my first class

on Values, six were in my first class on Aesthetics. My afternoon class in

Values attracted twelve, but the afternoon class in Aesthetics sank to six.

Even so, it was not the scarcity of students that caused me greatest concern.

Classrooms were arranged in four tiers rising from the lectern to the

back wall. There were no desks, only high stools, and the stools were so

arranged that each could be seen from the lectern. In my ordinary relations

with the students, their nudity had caused me no problem with my greater

height, but looking up, the view was embarrassing. Moreover, the taboo

against looking into the faces of one not spoken to directly conflicted

against the Earth taboo against looking at the nakedness of a female, and the

classes were largely female.

Yet, I had to call the roll, and call it I did, trying to identify voices

by the shape of the midriffs. For my introductory lecture, the same for all

courses, I had not brought visual aids, so I could not darken the classrooms

to show slides. I drew a celestial chart on the blackboard, using twenty

minutes for a demonstration originally scheduled to last ten, to show the

relation of Earth to Harlech.

Finally, I had to turn and face the class, extolling the beauty of my

home planet, the joys of life lived on its surface and the purpose of space

scouts. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, saying, "Our stars and moon by

night, our cloudscapes by day, are visions of surpassing loveliness. We, too,

once dwelled in caves, but the beauty above us drew us out of the darkness to

face the perils of life on the surface."

One I had lifted my eyes to the ceiling, surveying imaginary skies, they

stayed there. I could not drop them again, and I hoped that my students would

consider my posture merely another of Earth's strange customs.

That was the longest day, but my opening remarks on modesty as an Earth

custom was delivered with the fervor of an evangelist. Concealment as an art

in Aesthetics was not described but declaimed and, when I finally unglued my

eyes from the ceiling at the close of each class, the indecency was still

there. Above it, I could glimpse the faces of my students, staring with blank

eyes forward, not taking notes, merely listening, as unashamed in their

nakedness as so many Adams and Eves.

It was a sad meeting I had with Red at our tavern. In comparing notes, I

found with some gratification that his classes averaged one and a half

students less than mine. His advertising campaign had been a failure, but

mine had failed less.

"Perhaps you suffered from overexposure," I suggested. "Maybe it would

help if you wore shorts under your kilts."

"Aye, Jack," he said. "Your trews must be the answer, they wonder what

is hidden there." Suddenly his face lighted. "Jack, we're going to get more

students!"

"I'll wear my lucky drawers."

"You've already played your ace," I said. "You have no hole card."

"No, the drawers will do it!" he insisted. "There was my error.

Besides, my voice is so weak I can hardly lecture, so the drawers might help

fend them off. I've got to be more selective without offending the generosity

of the lassies. And that gold star gave me an idea. . . ."

"Were you distracted by their nudity?" I asked, rubbing my sore neck.

"Hell no! I called the roll by it since all their faces look alike."

I told him how I had evaded matters by staring at the ceiling.

"Pretend you're a gynecologist," he suggested, "and look upon them as

objects and not as subjects."

"Tonight I'll meditate," I said. "Some answer will come to me."

"Good," he said. "With the aid of the Lord and my polka-dot drawers,

we'll salvage this semester."

That evening, alone in my study, I meditated on the problem of nudity, my

own discomfort in its presence and the attitude I should adopt toward the

Harlechian indifference to nakedness. As an astronaut, I had been trained not

to overreact to bizarre practices, and in theory I should have been as

indifferent to these beings as I would have been to baboons. They were not

humans but humanids, and their practices barred them forever from the World's

Brotherhood. But the very fact that I meditated denied me exit through the

doors marked "Arrogance" or "Pride in Species."

O'Hara's suggestion that I should adopt an objective attitude was valid

but would take time. Too long had I considered these matters subjectively.

In a word, I was "involved." My stimulus-response mechanism had been

overtrained to respond until Brother Ben Pruitt had taught me the wisdom of

self-denial. Now, I wondered if I had substituted prudery for my former

prurience.

Finally, I hit upon a solution.

My first attempt to avoid confrontation had been the coward's way and

theologically unsound. To face temptation and to resist it would strengthen

my spiritual muscles. I would accept the situation as a challenge and a

blessing, for it would have me overcome the biggest rat of sin which still

gnawed at my vitals — lust of the flesh.

It is one thing to confront a theoretical devil in the quietness of a

study: it is another to engage the devil in hand-to-hand conflict. The next

day, my classes were increased by three and a half females, on the third four

and a half, on the fourth by eight. Hal, my secretary, explained it:

"Academic freedom also extends to students. Your classes were monitored the

first day by various scouts, who sent their reports back to their departments.

You should hit forty."

Within three weeks, both O'Hara and I had hit forty. Once all stools in

the room were filled it was no longer necessary to call the roll, but I did so

for aesthetic reasons.

Nowhere among the cultures of Earth are the pubes considered objects of

beauty — _toujours le fig leaf_ — and tradition conspired with my innate

modesty to cloud my observations the first week, but now I dispute the

cultures of Earth. Though I never attained objectivity, I did achieve a

balance between prurience and prudery which allowed me to simulate

indifference and to observe and to evaluate my observations with growing

refinement.

"Down with the fig leaf' will never become the cry of Jack Adams, and my

lectures on modesty continued with zeal. I relied heavily on slides of

ladies' fashions taken from the era when legs were referred to as "limbs" and

an ankle revealed was a blush aborning, but I must give the devil his due.

As Red had suggested, and as the classroom architect obviously intended

that I should do, I continued to call the roll in the Harlechian manner, never

violating the taboo against gazing into faces. In fact, the faces of my

students remained blurred and nameless while that which Shakespeare so

quaintly called "the forfended places" began to assume personalities — grave

Orlis and laughing Alita and Cara with the golden hair.

Cara floated within my ken in grace and beauty, plus a quality at first

indefinable. Cara, I think, more than any other, inspired me to introduce the

English word "beauty" into Harlechian to replace the clumsy compound word they

used. She was my golden girl, the teacher's pet, and I never looked on her

face from fear of disillusionment. Her mound of Venus swelled as a perfect

ovate spheroid tasseled with cornsilk curls. A faint ellipsis to the outer

labia gave the whole that strangeness of proportion without which there is no

true beauty, and the curve gave it an air of joy blended with a feeling of

peace which seemed to exude happiness and serenity. But still its aura defied

definition until, one morning, inspiration provided me with the word which

encompassed the whole — Cara's had character.

As I struggled to retain celibacy, O'Hara struggled to attain partial

abstinence without offending his "lassies." To set up controls that permitted

him selectivity, he installed the Order of Saint George, donated by a medal

hung by a wide red ribbon from the neck of the recipient. The medal itself, a

Cross of Saint George, was cast from bronze, its surface anodized a deep green

with an interior cross of white. It was a beautiful object that served a

secondary function in a world Harlechians had never known: it was O'Hara's

backhanded swipe at England.

By publicly posted terms of the Order, no maiden could become a Dame of

the Order of Saint George with a frontal assault on O'Hara. To earn her

cross, the applicant had to tempt Red with her wiles. Luring him into

courtship was merely the first hurdle. She had to resist his advances for at

least one-half of a Harlechian hour of seventy minutes.

Through this simple device, which he credited to my gold-star suggestion,

and from his donning underwear, Red gained a rebirth of energy, which he

transmitted to his teaching.

Drama was his favorite course, but feminine guile and wiles were taught

in his course on Elementary Human Emotions, with the use of visual aids. One

half of each hour was spent viewing Earth soap operas with subtitles in

Harlechian.

Once I called for him during a session on Earth Dramatics and I got an

inkling of his teaching methods. Standing outside the door, I listened as he

spoke.

"When, _poof_, the fire-breathing dragon vanished, and there stood the

leprechaun in his little green suit, laughing, _heh heh heh, hee hee hee, hah

hah hah_. Now, all together students, _heh heh heh, hee hee hee, hah hah

hah_."

There, for the first time on Harlech, I heard laughter from the throats

of Harlechians, and pleasant it was, like the tinkle of tiny bells, rising to

peals of genuine laughter.

Still, when Red joined me, I was troubled. To the literal minds of the

Harlechians, leprechauns and dragons were real — Red the Teacher had spoken.

And O'Hara's Celtic imagination was peopling their minds with demons which I

would have to exorcise before leading them to the Cross, when Religion 2 would

be taught.

As we walked away from the classroom, I let his enthusiasm die in praise

of his students. They could memorize their lines at one reading and their art

of mimicry was unsurpassed. "They're all method actors, Jack, for they

believe in their roles as the gospel truth."

"Speaking of the Gospel, Red, you may do them harm by feeding their minds

with superstitions."

"No, Jack," he demurred. "I'm preparing their minds to believe when the

day comes for you to tell them of God speaking from a burning bush, of manna

from heaven and of our Blessed Savior walking on water."

O'Hara always took the long view.

Slowly my lectures on modesty began to have effect, at first among the

coeds. As the summer semester drew to a close, more and more students

appeared in my classes wearing underwear, and one morning when I surveyed my

classes, I found, with the poignancy of farewell, that the ellipsis of Cara

had been covered. Only then did I cease to call the roll, and my students

sank into anonymity.

Underwear became a campus fad. Males as well as females were swept up in

the craze. Understandably, the dominant fashion for undies was green polka

dots.

Then another fashion note was sounded on the campus. One morning a

petite miss with lustrous dark hair and eyes made an entrance into the class.

Around her neck was a wide red ribbon drawn to a V between her breasts by the

green and white of the Cross of Saint George. Red had awarded his first

decoration.

Within a week I spotted another on a female passing me in the corridors.

She, too, was brunette, a lissome wench who walked with undulations extreme

even for Harlech.

It was several days before I could compliment Red on his choice of

recipients because the press of work had forced us to cut our tavern meetings

down to the Sixth day, roughly Friday of the eight-day week. Then I commented

on the fact that both dames were dark-haired.

"I've had my fill of golden-haired angels," he said, "and I'm recruiting

a cast for a television drama and none of my girls wish to play Juliet because

she is killed. Since she's Italian, she has to be dark-haired."

"You're presenting Shakespeare!"

"Ninety minutes, prime time, on a nationwide hook-up, Sixth day, next

fortnight."

"How did you arrange it?" I asked. "I thought Bubo had a monopoly."

"Nobody has a monopoly. The students run this school. A few of my

communications majors in the drama class are handling production."

"Which play are you presenting?"

"I open with the murder of Macbeth by Mrs. Macbeth. . . ."

"Hold it, Red," I said. "I read Shakespeare in high school. Lady

Macbeth didn't kill Macbeth. Banquo killed Macbeth."

"That's a technicality," Red said. "I have Lady Macbeth play Hamlet's

mother to give more punch to the incest scene when Hamlet accuses his mother

of murdering his father in order to bed down with Macbeth's brother, Iago."

"How does Juliet get into the act?"

"She's fleeing Shylock, who's after his pound of flesh, and she winds up

in the castle, where Hamlet falls in love with her."

"What happened to Ophelia?"

"That part doesn't play too well," Red explained, "so Hamlet packs her

off to a nunnery in the second act. She was too wishy-washy."

"You're casting a blonde as Ophelia?"

"What else?" Red snorted his contempt.

CHAPTER SIX

Incredibly, Red pulled it off, a pure Shakespearean soap opera, with some

of the best lines the Bard ever wrote worked into the melange.

O'Hara asked me to review the play for his cast since there were no

newspapers on Harlech and no drama critics who could estimate the quality of

the performance by Earth standards. I turned down an invitation to the studio

and agreed to meet them after the telecast at the tavern because I wanted to

watch from the mess hall to judge the crowd's reaction.

"Hamlet Macbeth" was staged against a microfilmed backdrop of Earth

scenery that changed with the scenes, opening on a lonely Scottish moor where

witches cackled and prophesied doom for the House of Macbeth. The camerawork

was excellent, and when the camera zoomed in for a close-up, the emotions

revealed on the face of the actors were Earth emotions. Juliet, played by an

actress named Kiki — whom I recognized as the medal-holder from my Aesthetics

class — was beautifully bodiced in lace and purple velvet with a flaring gown

that reached almost halfway to her knees. Her hair was pinned high around a

medieval henning.

In the last scenes, Hamlet was brought to a towering rage by Iago's hints

that Iago had not only indulged in the delights of his sister-in-law, Lady

Macbeth, but also those of his daughter-in-law by marriage, Hamlet's own

beloved wife, Juliet. In his jealousy, Hamlet kissed his sleeping bride

farewell, then stabbed her with a bodkin he removed from her hair.

But Iago was hidden behind the arras with the castle's men-at-arms to

witness the murder. When they charged into the room, Hamlet knew his wicked

stepfather-uncle had tricked him into murdering his innocent Juliet. Hamlet

then delivered his poignant farewell address, beginning, "To sleep, to dream .

. ." and ended it all with the bare bodkin.

There was an audible intake of breath from the audience when Hamlet

plunged the skewer into his breast and stumbled backward, slowly, to fall over

the body of Juliet. There was a slow fade-out as the camera focused on the

scene and swung up to hang directly over the purple bed where the two corpses

lay, criss-crossed like the Cross of Saint George behind the superimposed

credits which flashed on the screen. After the screen went empty and the

lights came on, the students stood and slapped the soles of their feet against

their calves, applauding and continuing to applaud the dead television set.

Definitely the laity had scored over the clergy, and far beyond the

confines of P.U. 36, I had to admit as I stepped aboard the belt for the

tavern. I stifled pangs of jealousy as I composed a critique of the

production for the cast.

Iago had been overacted by the boy, Draki, who had done too much

mustache-twirling and peripheral leering while working his machinations, but I

could not blame the student. Behind it all, I spotted the fine Irish hand of

the play's writer-producer-director, Red O'Hara, and he was vulnerable. The

melodrama's theme of incest had been in bad taste and inappropriate on a

planet where a son seldom knew his father.

Red had arrived at the tavern before me with the principals in the cast

and production crew. Kiki still wore her velvet gown, draped now with her

order of Saint George, and Draki, without the make-up of Iago, was a

fresh-faced lad with blond hair. My biggest surprise came when Red introduced

me to his cameraman, Tamar, the girl with the undulating hips who also wore

her Saint George's Cross. Remembering the quality of her photography and

Red's difficulties in casting Juliet, it occurred to me that O'Hara was using

sex to gain his ends.

My praise of the students was fulsome. "Any one of you could make it big

on Broadway. And you, Draki: your Iago would have earned you hisses on any

stage on Earth. You oozed villainy."

Around our table the conversation was a subdued click and whir, even

after four or five toasts to various members of the cast, but I had learned to

gauge the tempo and pitch of Harlechian voices. The students were engaged in

an animated, at times even vociferous, conversation, and Red was the focus of

their enthusiasm.

But I received my mead of attention as an Earth drama critic and more

from the peripheral glances of Tamar. They listened avidly as I told them of

the audience reactions, the intake of breath, the sustained applause. "It was

good for you, Draki, that you were on television, otherwise you would have

been pelted with tomatoes and eggs."

Under the spell of good spirit and strong spirits and impelled by the

eyes of Tamar, my old Mandan syndrome revived and I rose to propose a toast.

"To the artist of the production staff, the young lady whose genius with a

camera and other talents would make her the first choice of any producer in

Hollywood were she transported to Earth. I drink to Tamar of the Gliding

Hips."

"Hear! Hear!" Red chanted.

Tamar, across the table, lifted her eyes to me, dark and glowing either

with spiritual effulgence or from the reflections of her Cross of Saint

George, and said, "I would forego all honors to be led to the cross of Jack

the Teacher."

Her remark, which I took for the first glow of dawn in this pagan night,

shrived me of all Mandan dross, and I answered, "Dear lamb, it shall be so,

when the Dean of Deans so wills it."

"Careful, laddie," Red whispered in English, probably assuming that I was

moving in on one of his Dames, which I confess was my intention. Then he

raised his voice: "Children, our next project at the beginning of the winter

semester will be a musical, televised from on stage in the gym before a live

audience to let you feel the audience reaction. I'll show you films of the

Rockettes to give you an idea how a chorus line operates. Tamar, you're made

for the role of lead dancer. And we're going big for this one. It'll be

colossal."

Now the click and whir stepped up to a faster pace around the table as

the students, one smash hit behind them, began to plan anew. Suddenly all

conversation stopped.

I had not seen the boy in the black tunic come through the door, for I

was entering a plea for Red to use film clips from the Corps de Ballet of

Earth when the silence stopped me. Looking up, I saw the Dean's messenger

standing at our table, pulling a slip of paper from his dispatch case. He

handed the paper across the table to Draki, bowed, turned and left the tavern.

Draki glanced at the paper, slowly folded it into a quarto and slipped it

into his tunic pocket. In the dead silence, I leaned over and asked, "Bad

news, Draki?"

"I have been expelled by Bubo the Dean for misconduct," he said simply.

"I tricked Hamlet into killing Juliet."

"But that was a play! You're not Iago."

"The elders do not understand, Jack."

"Give me that slip, lad," Red bellowed. "I'm taking it back to Bubo and

making him eat it."

"He would not like the taste of paper, Red," Draki said.

"When I get through knocking his teeth out, he'll have to make it into a

broth and sip it through a straw." Red got up and started around the table

when Kiki rose and pounced on his back in one flowing and fast movement. Her

eighty-odd pounds would never have brought Red down, and such was not her

purpose. Her legs locked around Red's legs just above the knees. Compared

with hers, Red's legs were oak trunks, yet he was manacled and going nowhere.

Like a koala bear cub on the back of its mother, Juliet turned to Tamar and

said quietly, 'Tell him, Tamar."

"We do not dispute the decisions of the Dean," Tamar said. "We are here

to learn, the teachers here to teach. They do not interfere with us. We do

not interfere with them."

Draki rose. "It does not matter, Red. You must not let Bubo harm you.

I was studying communications and there is nothing to communicate. I will

take the works of Shakespeare that you gave me back to the hinterlands and

write plays so there will be something to communicate. Farewell, esteemed

teacher." His voice faltered slightly when he added, "Farewell, beloved

friend."

He turned and left. Juliet released her chastened prisoner, who, shocked

and saddened, sat down. "How could Bubo punish me? He has no weapons," Red

asked.

The boy who played Hamlet answered him: "He would punish you as Iago

punished Hamlet, for Bubo is wise."

"On Earth we call it 'clever,'" Red said.

A gloom had settled around the table, giving me my second inkling that

Harlechians had feelings. For minutes no one spoke, until finally Red clapped

his hands. "Drama students dismissed."

As they rose and filed out, Red said, "So, Bubo's the Dean because he's

the best con artist. That's interesting."

"The same can be said of college deans on Earth," I reminded him. "Their

artistry there is used to increase endowments."

"But imagine expelling the lad for playing a villain. . . . The concept

of justice needs to be taught on this planet, Jack. There should be courts

set up to appeal such offhand decisions."

"Harlechians are literal-minded," I said. "Perhaps Bubo figured that a

boy with Iago's wiles might take his job. . . . But forget Bubo and tell me:

Why did you choose the theme of incest for your play?"

"Hamlet and Juliet were teaching the students the joys of going steady,"

he answered with a detached air. "Iago and Mrs. Macbeth were teaching them

the evils of lust. . . . But somebody's got to teach Bubo a sense of justice!"

"You're not challenging Bubo," I told him.

"You're right, Jack. I'm not." He rolled his glass around its edge.

"Justice is your department. You shall teach Bubo justice."

"Fat chance," I snorted. "I can't even find him. . . . Red, now that

you've shown the students the wages of sin, why not inspire them with a more

elevating drama?"

"The musical extravaganza is just such a drama." I could see his spirits

reviving. "The dancing chorus, the Maids of Bethlehem, will be dancing to

celebrate the birth of our Blessed Savior."

"You're planning a musical Nativity Play?"

"Aye, lad," he answered, leaning forward, "for I have this fantastic

idea. To put more punch into the chase scene, I'm making the inn at Bethlehem

into a brothel. When Herod arrives looking for the Christ Child, he meets the

madame of the inn — she's a whore but she has a good heart — and he hits on an

idea for making her talk. Since she's a madame, he figures she'll know all

the local scuttlebutt, and he's going to make her squeal, literally. You see,

Herod's been tipped off that J.C. is in the village. . . ."

"Tipped off by whom?" I gasped.

"By the Star of Bethlehem. . . . It's a dead give-away. . . . What's the

matter, Jack? Are you ill?"

After the incident in the tavern, it was obvious that Red had established

a relationship with his students on a visceral level, but I shunned such

contact. If I were to become shepherd of this flock I would keep them sheep

and preserve my integrity as Jack the Teacher. Never would I become "beloved

friend," as Draki the dropout had referred to Red.

Nonetheless, I acquired popularity of sorts because of my gym classes,

where I introduced basketball modified to fit Harlechians — players were

allowed to pass with their feet and the basket was raised four feet because of

the leaping ability of the players. Five teams were organized from my class

and pitted against each other. By creating team spirit and the will to win, I

hoped to instill militancy in my players. Some of these boys would become my

light-bearers into the darkness of Harlech.

A cup was designed for the champion team, to be awarded in the exam-week

playoffs, which, borrowing from Red, I decided to televise continents-wide,

but in truth all of my players were champions. One forward, by the name of

Frick, would have made the Boston Celtics on his first tryout.

One week before final exams for the summer semester, a messenger

interrupted my final class, on Values, with a note from Red:

Urgent. Request earliest possible conference _re_ Dramatics and

Theology. Am in my office.

_Red the Teacher_

I read the note rather ruefully and caught the conveyor belt for Faculty

Row, thinking it poor taste for Red to interrupt a class on so trivial a

matter. O'Hara's success with Shakespeare had confirmed his belief that he

was a born producer, and he was taking his Christmas pageant seriously, I

knew. But I could not see where that play would even remotely touch on

religion.

After passing through his outer office with its moil of students, I

reached his inner office to find him sitting atop his desk, dictating a "Guide

for Establishing University Drama Departments" to a girl student. Red

dismissed her and she glided out, brunette and long-legged even by Harlech

standards.

"How goes the Christmas extravaganza?" I asked. "And have you cast the

Virgin?"

"No, I'm still in the writing stage. But the script's shaping up. I've

got a terrific opening. Sort of a _Tom Jones_ banquet scene where Dean Herod

sends his centurions out to corner the Christ Child."

"Herod didn't use centurions," I objected. "Centurions were Romans and

he was a Jewish King."

"I know, I know," Red said impatiently. "I'm making him Roman to protect

the Jewish image because Jesus was a Jew before John converted him. . . .

Incidentally, I'm thinking of calling John 'Jack the Baptist' to give you a

little prepublicity. . . ."

"Oh no you don't! But speaking of images, what are you doing with the

Dean's image by calling Herod a dean?"

"These bairns can't relate to kings, since they've never heard of a

king."

"No matter. You call him 'King Herod,' and that's an order."

"Aye, aye, sir. But get this, Jack. The very last scene, in the manger,

will be the climax of the play. Herod's centurions are closing in. Enter the

girls of the brothel — the Maids of Bethlehem — and lure the soldiers

upstairs. When that squad of centurions traipse up the stairs at the end of

that chorus line, the audience knows damned well they are going to be up there

a long, long time. Get it? Curtain! Now the curtain slowly rises on the

manger scene. Enter three kings of the Orient, bearing gifts and singing.

They kneel. In the background you hear the angels singing. The lights sink

lower, lower. It's a living creche. Only the backlighting for the Holy

Mother and the Star of Bethlehem remains bright. Mary, safe now, spared by

the evil lusts of the soldiers, gazes down on her child, bathed in light, and

the hopes and fears of all the world is focused on her face. Slowly the light

fades — into total darkness? No. Above the audience the Star of Bethlehem

still gleams, for the light of the world will not go out. Then the

houselights rise on the last notes of a carol, but the star burns into the

rising houselights. Get the symbolism? The play can never end. The light is

eternal."

Red's voice, charged with enthusiasm and awe, died into silence, and I

sat stunned. He had taken liberties with the offstage story, but the play

remained true to the Nativity story as we knew it, with a dramatic impact that

would impress the manger scene forever on the minds of the audience.

With all his faults, Red had the touch of a poet.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Red, it's beautiful." My voice broke as I repeated, "Just beautiful."

"I knew it would shake you. But there's something missing in the

production. Religions 1 doesn't cover Christianity. The audience won't know

the Christ Child from any other babe in swaddling clothes."

"That's true," I nodded absently, my mind still glowing with the vision

of the manger scene.

"Jack, with four-month seasons on this planet, Christmas will come at the

end of the fall semester. The pageant has to be presented on the twelfth

month. You can remedy the situation by installing a crash program for

Christianity."

"You mean teach Religions 1 and Religions 2 in the same semester?"

"Exactly."

"Red, I can't. I don't have the time. As it is, I plan to devote three

periods a day to Religions 1."

"I'll join you, Jack. I'll drop the course in Comedy. I'll tell them

about Moses and the Hebrew children and let you concentrate on Christ. Jesus

is more your cup of tea anyway."

Except for a single flaw, his proposal was sound. If he taught a class

in religion, he would become guilty of a misdemeanor and his silence would be

guaranteed when the reports were sent in on Harlech. That was an attractive

prospect, but not the determining factor. I, too, wanted the manger scene to

arouse all possible connotations in the minds of the Harlechians. But still I

was troubled.

"Red, you aren't qualified to teach Religions 1. Your students would end

up knowing nothing but a few of the spicier passages from the Song of

Solomon."

"Lad, I'll spend two days under narcosis studying the Old Testament. You

can mark out the passages you want me to emphasize in class."

"Let me meditate," I said.

"Of course, of course."

He pulled a bottle of whisky from bis desk and poured us both a drink

into shot glasses. Now I knew he was planning another crime, and that if I

didn't go along I couldn't report the conversation. I took a sip and waited.

"Jack, as soon as Herod and my centurions leave that stage, they'll get a

pink slip from the Dean's office, and I want to give them some protection from

Bubo, the bastard — some recourse from his decision, preferably to an

impartial judge and jury. What do you say to you giving a course on law?"

"I'd say you're crazy," I exploded. "Teaching law to unclassified aliens

is a felony."

"Well, I didn't think you'd go along. It would have been a great help to

me, teaching the law as given to Moses. Else these bairns won't have the

faintest concept of law. You're a good Christian, Jack, when it comes to

misdemeanor. Too bad you lack the guts to be a felonious Christian."

I flared. "It's easy for you to sit there and propose that I commit a

felony."

"I just made myself your co-conspirator," Red pointed out.

"I still think it's stupid. If we set up student law courts with student

judges, we'd be playing with mudpies. Any decisions the students made would

be overruled. There's no recourse from the decisions of Bubo."

"You're wrong," he said. For a moment he looked at me. "We could pull

the students out on a strike."

"There are five thousand students in this university."

"Aye," he said. "Already one-twelfth belong to us. By the end of next

semester, we'll have one-third. As the twig is bent, so grows the tree."

I went over his figures in my head, and he was correct. "I'll meditate,"

I said.

Before I meditated, I made a grass-roots survey by talking to Hal the

Assistant. "In a general way, Hal, have you heard any reports from the

students complaining of the teaching methods of Red the Teacher or me?"

He said nothing but reached into his desk and pulled out a card file.

"Halfway through the semester, Jack, I quit taking applications from students

who wished to enter your fall classes, regardless of what you taught. . . .

There are over four hundred such cards in my files. Your students are

tutoring others in what you teach."

"Isn't this rather unusual?" I asked.

"You and Red are the only teachers who teach in person. All others

televise their lectures."

"No one mentioned this to us."

"You didn't ask," he said. "Besides, the students did not want you to

know. Then you would televise, too."

"But you don't have that fear?" I said.

"No, Jack. You would not be trying to "hit forty' if you could not count

your students."

Here was gratifying information, indeed, but it did not impel me to

recklessness. As a guest of the university, I had no desire to launch myself

on a collision course with the school's administration, but justice is a

virtue and there were wrongs to be righted. Besides, there was the need, as

Red pointed out, to structure the students' minds to an understanding of law

in its legal sense to grasp the concept in its higher meaning. But the

teaching of Earth law to colonials was a felony under the Codes because equal

laws cannot be applied to separate and unequal races. That principle had been

demonstrated in United States history in the flames of several cities. I

would not let myself slip into a life of crime no matter how innocent my

motive.

An incident created by the basketball playoffs changed my mind. In

playing the aggressive game that I taught him, my star, Frick, committed six

personals in the televised championship game. He was expelled by Bubo for

fouling out.

When the pink slip came for Frick in the dressing room, I was

complimenting the boy on his play and he read the anger in my face at the

sight of the paper.

"It is nothing, Jack," he assured me. "I will go into the hinterlands

and organize basketball teams. It is more to my liking than pottery-making.

Farewell, my esteemed teacher, farewell my respected coach."

"Farewell, Frick," I said with genuine sadness. "Keep in touch with me.

Perhaps my teams can play your teams in the future."

"I will write, Jack the Coach — and will you tell Red that I must resign

my commission as captain of centurions?"

"That I will do, Frick."

Suddenly he saluted me, using the circular arm movement with open palm

forward of the Irish military. Involuntarily, I returned his salute as his

bare heels clicked together with an audible sound. He did an about-face and

marched from the gym. His behavior puzzled me until I recalled Red's remark

that all Harlechians were method actors who believed in the roles they played.

The knowledge did much to relieve me of guilt feelings. If Frick was a

captain of centurions in Red's Christmas play, he was already marked for

expulsion.

Over drinks that evening, in the tavern, I accepted Red's compliments on

the televised basketball game and passed along Frick's message. "You told

me," I mentioned casually, "that you had not begun casting for the Christmas

play."

"I haven't," Red answered. "Frick was a captain of centurions in my gym

class. I got tired of doing push-ups as an exercise and taught my lads

close-order drills."

"Perhaps we should forget the idea of a student strike," I said, "and

send your little army over to capture and court-martial Bubo. Running a

university by whim deserves no punishment short of a firing squad. This

planet could use a little law and order in administrative circles."

"Are you telling me, Jack, that you'll teach law?"

"I'll take the high road if you'll take the low road."

"Then, my lad, I have something to show you." He reached into his pouch

and brought out a slender volume printed from Earth microtapes: _The Old

Testament with Annotations_.

Dramatically I removed from my coat pocket a volume of my own, twice as

thick as Red's volume, and laid it beside Red's. It was _Blackstone's Revised

Commentaries and Earth Statutes_. We lifted our glasses and hooked arms to

drink in the astronaut's pledge of loyalty. We had sworn by the books.

Before we unhooked, the hidden television screen above the bar clicked on

and the subject of our pact became visible: Bubo welcoming the new students

for the fall semester. He gave the same set speech as before, advising

students with problems to consult the catalogue first before applying to their

department heads. This speech, too, lasted less than a minute. Suddenly, I

was jolted by an idea that struck me with the force of a revelation.

Bubo the Dean was nothing more than a television tape programmed to play

at the opening of each semester.

Hal had told me that all other lectures were televised. It could well be

that there was not even a faculty active on this campus, that Red and I were

two Don Quixotes organizing to joust with an administration that existed only

on television tapes.

Even the pink slips from Bubo the Dean supported my theory. If I assumed

that the pink slips were not whimsical, then Draki's had been given to a boy

whose observed behavior would have appeared as that of a scheming,

unprincipled manipulator. Frick's had been given to a student whose behavior

on the playing court had been that of a tiger with aggressive instincts

dangerous to society. But what mind could be so literal as to take their

behavior out of the context of the play and the game?

The answer was simple. Only one analytical device would evaluate solely

on the basis of observed behavior without grasping the connotations, and that

device was not a mind, human or subhuman. I rolled the Harlechian words over

my tongue silently, and suddenly I knew — Bubo the Dean was a computer hooked

into the television circuit.

Since the logic of Harlech was the same as that of Earth, and the

scanners on our first overflight had shown the continents connected at the

north pole by the continental grids, it followed that the computer was

interlocked with other university deans. He who controlled Bubo controlled

the planet.

Back on our starship was a microtape on cybernetics.

Red was telling me he had brought Draki back as a scriptwriter and Draki

was translating _Hamlet_ into Harlechian. I feigned an interest in the

project. "Why not have him translate the Bible?"

"That's your department," Red said. "Besides, Harlechians wouldn't buy

it without a deal of editing."

One day's deep narcosis would allow me to learn the language of

computers. Fifteen minutes alone with Bubo the Dean would permit me to do

more to establish justice and mercy on this planet than a thousand student

strikes.

Harlechians would "buy" the Bible as written, for through me, Bubo the

Dean would issue a simple edict — read, believe, worship.

Red O'Hara, contemplating his navel, Drama, could not and would not know

that he was having a drink with a new Paul modified by Luther. All

universities on this planet could be programmed to a single course of study.

Out would go basket-weaving, poultry-breeding and pottery-making. In would

come Humanid Engineering, abetted by the latest conditioning techniques, to

mesh these beings with the Absolute. Outward from University 36 to the whole

of Harlech would go the Word — amplified and reinforced by solid-state

circuitry.

True, the I.C.A. might reprimand me, but in the light of eternity even

the I.C.A. would thank me. In their present state, these bug-eyed ground bees

lacked the aggressiveness, the sense of struggle, the perfectionism demanded

of a productive working force. Infusion of the Protestant Ethic would

transform Harlech into a first-rate colonial possession of Earth.

"You seem preoccupied, Jack."

"Semester-end fag, I reckon. Would you excuse me, Red? I have a few

errands to run, and for the next two or three days I'm going under to do a

little reading." I tapped Blackstone, pocketed the book, said my good-bye and

left. Outside, I caught a belt downtown and transferred to the belt for the

station. There I caught a train south to the soccer-field station and walked

once more through the woods of late summer, heading for the ship and its

culture bank.

Sooner or later, my sidekick would come to the same conclusion I had, and

it was imperative that I alone know the art and science of cybernetics. Else

Red, with his new interest in religion, would turn all Harlech into a planet

of bead counters with a bleeding heart in every bedroom.

Sooner or later, Red would realize that the name "Bubo" was an acronym

made from the Harlechian words "barstung undel borflik," which translated

"grid-patterned powerflow" and meant in English, "systems-analyst computer."

On Earth we called him "Saco."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Red had created a viable relationship with his students on a visceral

level before the summer term ended. It was a week into the fall term before I

established intellectual contact with a single student. But my day dawned

with a burst that dimmed the memory of my night.

As I have mentioned, the concept of beauty was not clearly defined on

Harlech because, I reasoned, of an absence of contrast and color to life

underground. In my first course on Aesthetics, I had relied heavily on slide

projections of Earth paintings from the great masters. From the rather

incredible results obtained on the final exams — the class average 3.8 on a

scale of 4,0 — I knew that the paintings had created interest, and I repeated

them at the beginning of the fall semester. Aesthetics fell on my last period

on three days of the week. In my mid-week period, I had run through a showing

of the great paintings in Earth's history, saving for last, Kramer's "Sunset."

It was my favorite and I liked to linger over it.

"We have all seen and felt the glory of sunsets," I rhapsodized, "for

nowhere is nature more lavish with such spontaneous outpourings of color. For

me, this painting epitomizes that glory more than any actual sunset. When I

remember sunsets, I remember Kramer's. His vision altered my vision. It is

not so much what he sees as how he sees it, and how much his vision affects

our manner of seeing. This is true of all great artists. Earth's concept of

romantic love between man and woman was enriched by Homer's vision of Helen,

and my vision of sunset has been altered by the brush of a long-dead artist."

In my admiration, I had completely forgotten that I was speaking to a

nonhuman audience. When the buzzer sounded and the lights came on and the

class began to file out, I felt somewhat chagrined as I turned to put away my

notes. For long I had striven to establish myself as an austere man of the

spirit, but I had let myself get emotional over Kramer. I felt I had lowered

my image in the eyes of my students.

"Jack," a student asked, "may I speak to you about sunsets?"

Rather pleased by a request that must have been prompted in part by

curiosity, I turned to face a female, green-eyed and golden-haired. "Of

course, my dear," I replied.

"You speak of that which cannot be weighed or measured. I have listened

without hearing. Today, I heard when you spoke of Kramer's 'Sunset,' but I

did not hear with my ears. Your words held a different truth. Go with me to

the observation tower and show me how to look at a sunset."

I glanced at my watch. Sunset was near on the surface.

"Gladly, my dear," I said, feeling for the first time the pride teachers

feel when they awaken a vision in the mind of a pupil.

We hurried. Days were getting shorter and it was almost a mile to the

circular ramp which led to the observatory. Striding beside the girl, I could

not help but comment to myself on her beauty of form and carriage. She flowed

in grace and all about her seemed a sweep and a glide, save for two high and

widely separated breasts, like the fore-quarters of kittens coiled to spring

in play, which jiggled against the fabric of her gown. So palpitant and

palpable they were, I jerked my peripheral gaze from the sight and silently

muttered a prayer.

At length we emerged into the tower, glass-walled and furnished with

lounges, and walked out onto the balcony, into an air tangy with the scents of

autumn. The sun was still above the horizon. Frost had fallen since my last

visit to the surface and the woodlands stretching below were aflame with

colors.

"Look at the trees!" I breathed the words in rapture.

"Their leaves are dying," she explained, "because the cold is coming and

the sap is falling."

"Don't think of causes," I told her. "Enjoy effects. Look how the

sunlight slants through the leaves, taking yellow from the maples and scarlet

from the oaks. Let those colors sink through your vision to stain your soul.

Savor October's nutty ale, now, dear girl, for soon it will go and we will be

gone. Beauty is a wisp of smoke blown on a wind. Mate its transience with a

sense of your own mortality and share with me its passing. Out of eternity

this moment has come to us, so let you and me, who are young and dying,

treasure these red and golden flarings which shall so soon subside again into

eternity."

What my words lacked in poetry they made up in sincerity, for there was

something about this girl which inspired me to such expression, a quietness, a

hint of perfume whirled on the eddying air, or the way the sunlight burnished

her curls. She walked to the rail, laying her hands on it, and looked toward

the beginning sunset. Perhaps to share the flame of my vision by my touch, I

laid my hand on hers and stood beside her. We watched in silence as the sun

of Harlech sank lower, became a huge scarlet ball and melted on the gun-metal

horizon of the distant sea.

My student seemed enraptured and the air was growing chill. Quietly I

slipped from my coat and draped it around her shoulders as the red died into

the deepening purple of the night. We said not a word as the first stars

flickered and a night wind rustled her hair. Then she turned and looked at

me, twilight reflecting in her eyes, and said, "I have taken your coat, Jack,

and you must be chilled."

"I hardly feel the cold," I said truthfully.

"We must go below, so you can have some warm soup. But I do hate to say

good-bye to the sun. Your beauty has such sadness, Jack."

"When you say farewell to the sun," I said, "you are welcoming the

stars."

"Yes, that is true. Which star is your home, Jack?"

"Yonder," I said, pointing. "In that faint haze of light."

"That is the galaxy we call M-16," she said.

"We call it the Milky Way," I said, "for inside it the Stardust trails

the sky like a milky veil."

"The Milky Way," she repeated. "I like your name better . . . Jack, who

was Helen?"

"She was a woman of Earth, dead long ago, whose beauty launched a

thousand ships and burnt the topmost towers of Ilium."

"Then she must have been very beautiful," the girl said. For a fleeting

moment I thought I read sadness in her eyes as she added, "Too beautiful to

die,"

"But surely no more beautiful than you," I said.

Strangely, I was not beguiling the girl. The remnant light from the west

bathed her with a luminosity that filtered whatever mote of dross there might

have been from her face and form, and her grace was that of a disembodied

spirit. To flatter such a girl was to compliment the notes of a skylark.

"It pleases me to be called beautiful, as Helen was."

Again a breeze eddied around us and I caught the fragrance of her hair.

"You are more beautiful than this night sky with the stars out to play," I

said.

"Your words make me wish for that which I cannot name," she said.

"You are undergoing a spiritual awakening, my dear."

Suddenly she looked up, "Would you like to take me, Jack, here beneath

the stars?"

There was a strangely tactful quality in her voice, as if her remark

sprang from some ancient acquiescence, diplomacy rather than desire.

I almost laughed at her naiveté. "Why do you ask me that, dear child?"

"Your eyes were asking for me."

"My eyes speak only for my flesh. My spirit tells me no."

"What is spirit, Jack?"

"You will understand better, my dear, after you have taken my course in

Religions 2."

"Are you saying that you want me but won't take me?"

"I am saying that unless I also join with you in spirit, then I cannot

join with you in flesh."

"Then will you join me below in a cup of tea?"

"I would be pleased and honored," I said, escorting her into the rotunda,

"but I don't remember your name."

Entering reluctantly and turning to look back once more at the stars, she

said softly, "Cara."

With that one word, Kramer ceased to influence my sunsets and I knew that

thereafter all my memories of sunsets and night skies would belong to Cara.

It was my girl of the golden vagina.

We took supper together in the student union, and I tried to re-create

for her the old loves and legends of Earth, Aucassin and Nicolette, Tristan

and Iseult, Helen and Paris. I spoke of Troy and Camelot and fabled

Cockaigne, spinning around her a web of mythic wonder that brought to her eyes

a softness I had never seen on Harlech. Yet, though my ancient legends

charged her with enchantment, I was bound more straitly by the spell the girl

drew around me with an even older magic.

She came from the northern mountains, she told me, where the salmon ran,

and she was majoring in piscatorial hydroponics.

"When I was a little girl," she said, "I used to stand for hours and

watch the fish leap in the water as they rushed upstream to die in the joys of

lik flik. My mother could not understand and she called me 'the watcher.' To

Mother, the fish were but food. To me, they were flashes of gold in a spume

of silver. Today you stood by my side and watched with me, and now I know why

I watched. For you are a watcher, too, who knows why he watches."

What she told me fascinated me less than her manner of telling, and she

listened with a quiet attentiveness that flattered me. Her loveliness of face

and form, her charm of manner and her poise were all the equal of her primal

attraction and they combined to divorce me from an awareness of her nether

beauty. Only the heightened clatter of dishes from the clean-up crew made us

aware of the lateness of the hour.

I saw Cara to her train and on the way she said, "Jack, I don't wish to

presume on your teaching, but if you could take the class into the woods and

show them beauty as you showed me, they would understand better."

"A field trip would be fun," I agreed, "but would the students come?"

"You invite them and some will come."

"Will you help me, Cara?"

"It will be an honor and a pleasure," she said.

We stood together on the platform until her train arrived, and just

before she boarded it, she said, "Jack, I would like to learn your language."

"You shall have my language tapes tomorrow," I promised.

O'Hara greeted my news of a breakthrough with reserved enthusiasm. "I

wish you luck on the field trip, but I would feel more confident if you had

been approached by a lad."

"Why so?"

"The lassies have taken to this idea of whetting the male appetite."

"How does that affect Cara?" I asked.

"Wiles, my boy. Womanly wiles. These females have had them all along;

they've just been dormant. Since you're such a challenge to the lassies, you

may not return from the woods as virtuous as when you entered."

"Red, you've acted from nefarious motives for so long you downright

believe everybody else does."

"Not so, Jack. One of my girls was asking me if you were capable."

"What color hair did this girl have?"

"Dark brown."

So it was not Cara.

"And what did you tell her?"

"I could not lie to the lass and tell her you were not normal. On the

other hand, I could not tell her you were repenting from your sins of fleshly

lust. Yet one must give these students a reason, and I am hard put to give

reason for celibacy. So I was adroit. I told her the cross you gave was of

such quality that it made all others worthless."

"Red," I said, in genuine appreciation, "you may be a Catholic but you've

got a Protestant heart."

"Don't be too grateful," he warned. "These folk have literal minds. I

might have loosed on you hordes of Harlech's wiliest females, all out to gain

some golden bauble studded with diamonds. As yet, they have no concept of the

Cross of Christ."

"In the fullness of time, its meaning shall stand revealed."

"Aye, in the fullness of time. But I'm thinking of your field trip next

week. Be sure there are lads in the class. Your lassie may be luring you

into the woods for a Bacchanalian feast, and John Adams may become the _pièce

de resistance_. By the way, Jack, what is the girl's field of study?"

"Fish-farming."

"Aye?" Red was becoming adept at acting. His face registered instant

concern. "Avoid her, lad. She is an expert at spawning."

Red's warning I dismissed as another example of his low-level thinking.

Nonetheless, I checked the group of twelve students who gathered on the

station platform that seventh-day morning and noted with gratification that

four of the twelve who volunteered for the field trip, excluding Cara, were

males. We took an eastbound train into the foothills of the coastal range,

and certainly we were the most unusual safari in the history of higher

education. A spaceman, member of perhaps the least qualified profession on

Earth to expound on the subject, was leading a field trip into the woods to

teach aesthetics by example and exhortation.

We got off at the fourth station, marked with its soaring trylon, and I

gathered my group together in a small meadow where I called the males to

attention to give military flavor to our excursion and instructed them.

"We'll advance to the ridge through that defile. Males take the point, front

and rear. Cara and I will take the vanguard. Keep a sharp lookout for

fire-breathing dragons that might attack the girls."

One of my soldiers went "_Heh-heh-heh_" in the imitation of laughter

which O'Hara taught, and I asked, "What's so funny, soldier?"

"We can't protect against the fire-breathing dragons," he said.

Red had conned the boy into believing his dragon stories, I decided, and

only said, "Well, give me warning when you see one."

We trooped into the woods, following the course of a small brook that

wound through a deep glade, and it was as if the woods had decked themselves

for our coming. A carpet of multicolored leaves crunched beneath my boots and

rustled beneath the bare feet of my wards. Beside us, the brook tumbled over

mossy rocks and glided between its banks. Cara, walking beside me, asked the

English equivalent of the various trees we passed. With her power to absorb,

she was already using English phrases on me.

We wound our way through woods, which resembled the woods of Maine after

the first frost but were far more primitive. Wind-fallen trees made barriers

for me to clamber over which the Harlechians cleared by leaping. So close was

the flora of this planet allied to that of Earth that the names of the trees

came readily to my tongue, and there were squirrels and chipmunks which were

hardly disturbed by our passage. We came finally to the source of our brook,

a large pool where we amused ourselves by skipping stones across the surface.

For me, skipping the stones to the far side was easy with my Earthman's

strength of arms, but only one Harlechian boy succeeded and was applauded.

Above the pool was an opening in the forest caused by a marshy swale.

Across the swale in the sunlight stood a majestic tree, with the yellow leaves

of hickory, and I halted my troop to let them concentrate on the scene. "See

how the sun's rays slanting into the vale are broken by the golden patterns of

the leaves, pay attention to the dust motes dancing in the sunlight."

So saying, I took a windfallen limb from the ground nearby and hurled it

across the glade to fall beneath the tree and stir the dust motes.

"Now, you can see the rays through the leaves. It gives a visual quality

to silence, a silence as golden as Cara's hair," I added on impulse. "On

Earth, we paint such scenes to capture the quality forever."

Then, as I set myself to observe the silence, a dark-haired girl spoke

up. "Cara is more beautiful than Helen, Jack the Teacher, but Red the Teacher

tells me I am more beautiful than Deirdre."

Her riposte astonished me. There was a thin edge of jealousy in her

voice directed at Cara, but her words told me that even the most private of

conversations were discussed among these girls. Looking at the speaker, I saw

she was, indeed, beautiful, with raven hair and eyes so dark they were

luminous.

"You are more beautiful than Deirdre," I agreed, "who was the most

beautiful dark-haired woman on Earth, but Helen was the greatest beauty with

golden hair. . . . Notice the oak tree beyond the hickory, how red its leaves

are. An Earth artist would cloud the form of the oak to bring out the yellow

of the leaves in the foreground."

We mounted to the summit of the ridge, climbing atop a mass of boulders

grayed by lichen and greened with moss, and looked down on the valley. A

small lake shimmered below and mirrored the colors of the ridge beyond. Far

beyond the ridge rose a line of purple mountains, their summits sharply

outlined in the crystalline air.

"Students, we have walked through beauty," I said. "Now we look upon it

with the eyes of an eagle. Say after me, 'Oooh . . . ah!'"

Obediently they _oohed_ and _ahed_ aloud.

Casting a quick glance at their faces, I hoped to catch some faint

stirring of awe, but their eyes could have reflected rapture or boredom for

all that I could see.

Still, the beauty was there for my taking, and I walked alone along a

spine of rock to a point that flattened into an overhang. Casting one final

glance behind me at the students, I noticed that they were still mouthing

their _oohs_ and _ahs_ without making a sound. I turned back to the scenery

somewhat saddened by the display. They were learning form without substance.

Suddenly, my attention was drawn again to my group by a sudden flurry of

sound, like the beginning whir of a covey of quail taking to flight, and I

turned to see the students bounding back into the woodland at incredible

speed. Only Cara remained, still mouthing those silent _oohs_ and _ahs_ as

she stalked me, moving cautiously out on the spine of rock.

O'Hara was right. She had lured me here with the aid of her cabal. At

her signal, they had vanished, leaving me trapped on the point of rock.

Watching her move toward me, gliding one foot ahead of the other as a cat

might creep along a limb toward a bird, I was hypnotized by her movements.

Stirrings long suppressed exploded within me and I raised my arms in

surrender. My time had come to feel the touch of the toes of a girl of

Harlech.

"No, Jack! Not that! Not here!" she almost screamed. "We must flee,

for the fire-breather comes."

"Child, there are no dragons, not here, not anywhere." Suddenly she

spoke in English. "Not dragons, Jack. A 'lectric storm comes."

"How can you say that?" I asked. "Look, the sky is clear from horizon to

horizon."

I swung my upraised arms toward the horizon as she answered, "My ears

tell me . . . from the pressure."

Following the sweep of my arm, I saw the horizon. Now the clear line of

the ramparts was obscured by a blue haze which, even as I watched, grew darker

and rippled with lights.

"Jack, the power flow kills. Run with me!"

Around us, a wind was stirring. The trees began to sough, and I

remembered Red's remark: "Forecasting might get tricky when a storm front

rides in on a jet stream at 500 knots."

Then I moved off the rock, over the crest and down the glen, hurtling

wind-fallen trunks I had clambered over on my way up. Cara ran beside me,

leaping bushes I crashed through. Now the trees were moaning. Soon the roar

drowned the thud of my footfalls and I knew the springbok girl beside me was

retarding her speed to match my rhino charge.

"Run ahead, Cara," I shouted. "Save yourself. I can find the trylon."

"No, Jack," she shouted. "When the dark comes, you will not see. I can

see in the dark."

No runner on Earth could have covered that mile in five minutes.

Skirting the pond and crashing downward, I had to think as I ran, gauging

barriers and the heights of hurdles, and a gray mist was staining the sky. My

lungs were aching at the halfway mark, my pace was slowing and the light was

dying into an unnatural and deepening gray. Behind us, I heard the beginning

rustle of rain.

It grew dark seconds before the rain rolled over us with the speed of an

express train and Cara reached back to grasp my hand. Now I knew why she had

stayed behind, for running through this blackness would have been impossible

for me alone. When the rain struck, it boiled around us in solid currents of

water. Behind its roar I heard a deadlier sound, the crack and sizzle of

lightning that began to illuminate the darkness to reveal we had reached the

meadow. Beyond the meadow loomed the trylon.

I slogged the last fifty yards in five seconds, but the last two seconds

were the longest I have lived. Lightning bolts came from all angles. I could

have sworn one zipped horizontally along the ground to strike the trylon. We

dove into the station entrance, gagging from the reek of ozone, and continued

to run until we stood wet, with me panting, on the station platform.

"Cara," I said as I caught my breath, "are the demands of hospitality

such on this planet that Harlechians are required to risk their lives for

alien visitors?"

"Oh, no, Jack. I was the only Harlechian there."

"Yet you knew the horror of those storms and you waited for me. . . .

How do the trees survive?"

"By ferrous oxide in their sap. When they die they burn. But the

lightning is good for us," she said. "We lead it through the trylons and it

drives the trains."

For the first time I understood the meanings of the towers. Somehow,

these amazing beings had learned to convert static electricity for their use,

but at the moment I had little interest in applied science.

When my students turned and fled, they had been driven by the oldest fear

on Harlech — an instinctive terror of lightning, their real and present

"fire-breather." Yet this wisp of a girl had defied a terror bred into her by

eons to lead me to safety. There was no human equivalent for such bravery or

the unselfishness which prompted it. "Cara, if you had not led me through the

darkness, I would never have reached the trylon. I owe my life to your

courage."

"I almost stayed with you on the rocks."

"Why?" I took her gently by the shoulders and looked down at her.

"Because your eyes were asking me to take you."

Then Cara smiled at me.

It was no winsome twitch of the lips, but a smile, the most radiant I

have seen on the face of a woman, and above the smile her eyes were laughing.

I took her in my arms and kissed her as a lover kisses his beloved after

a long absence, and as a boy kisses his first sweetheart for the first time.

In that kiss I put, perhaps unconsciously, all I had learned of ardor from the

cornfields of Alabama to the cathouses of Mandan, but mine was not a carnal

embrace. In my arms I crushed the violets of springtime even as I held and

admired the roses of summer, but a power gave dimensions to that caress above

and beyond what O'Hara called "the duty of devotion."

This girl whom my arms bound to me, whose fingers fluted my hair, had a

body surveyed and charted in my mind, from the tapering ankles to the swell of

her thighs and the golden glory between, to the kittens couchant on her breast

and the furze of her sun-burst hair. But only by her acts had I come to know

her truly — the sharing of a sunset's sadness, her selflessness which spared

my life and now a smile which vaporized the terror of a storm. From her outer

beauty to her inmost core, I loved this girl called Cara, a name I murmured

over and over into her hair.

My love would give her a soul, and by the Word I would bring to her, that

soul would be saved.

"Cara, I will show you the way to the Cross," I said.

But a train had rumbled up and we boarded it, and for once I caught

sidelong glances that the passengers threw at us and I commented on it to

Cara. "It is because we are wet from the rain," she said. "They cannot

understand why I should be caught in a storm. They can see by your legs why

you should be caught."

Her eyes were expressionless as she looked at me, and I chided her: "Your

eyes have quit talking to me."

"I know," she whispered, "for it is indecent the way your eyes are

talking to me. Please quit saying such things in public."

"I'm sorry, Cara."

"Now, you are sad because you think I rebuked you. . . . Look away. . . .

On Earth, when you choose one, you reject others. On Harlech, we do not

reject one another."

"But your eyes _can_ talk," I said. "They were speaking to me on the

platform."

"Did they? And what did they say?"

"Well, they weren't exactly rejecting me."

She covered her face with her hands, for she was no longer merely

smiling, she was giggling. When she again raised her eyes to me, they were

proper Harlechian, as expressionless as a gambler with a royal flush.

When she spoke, she spoke in English so perfect it could have been

rehearsed for this occasion. "My eyes were telling you, dear Jack, that I

love you above all others."

Surreptitiously, I took her hand in mine and answered in English, "And I

love you, Cara, above all women, on Earth or in Heaven."

As I plighted my troth so prosaically, on a subway train now gliding into

University 36 Station, the power of my pledge raised the hackles on my spirit.

As I pledged the words, I could hear the iron gates of space swing shut, for I

knew I was cutting myself away from Earth, forever. In honor and with

decency, I intended to mate with this girl and defect to Harlech.

O'Hara would have to be told.

If he returned to Earth without me, our ship's flight recorder would

reveal the route to Harlech, and the next ship from Earth would be far

different from our little argonaut.

Harlech's next visitor from Imperial Earth would be a huge vessel,

colored black, and it would be loaded to the gunwales with crew-cut young men.

They would wear black uniforms with death's heads on the lapels and they would

come with laser rifles. Defection by space scouts was not taken lightly.

Naval astronauts, with their military knowledge, could arm and equip a grade

one planet to make themselves satraps ashore and freebooters in space.

When the cry "Havoc" was raised for defectors, the huntsmen of the

Harrier Corps shot first and asked questions later.

And they would come, if O'Hara left without me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Jack, are you daft?"

Red was not acting. He was confused and angry.

"I'm in love, Red."

"Same difference," he snorted.

I had come straight from the station where I had said good-bye to Cara

and shouldered my way through a moil of sloe-eyed brunettes, reeking of

perfume, who waited in Red's outer office to be interviewed for the Christmas

musical.

No childish evasion of the Code this time, with the pouring of drinks. I

had rolled the dice at Rubicon and now it was up to Red to fade me or pass.

In a matter of life or death, I had faith that Red would fight beside me. If

not, I had a back-up policy — we both had enough on each other to hang each

other.

"Come along with me," I pleaded. "I'm in a position to make you temporal

king of this planet. All I want out of the deal is the church. . . . We'd

make a tremendous pair, Red King O'Hara, and Archbishop Adams, first primate

of the Primitive Methodist Church on Harlech."

"Jack, this society's gone as far as it can go. I'm willing to spread

the word, straighten out Bubo and provide a little laughter and recreation for

these bairns, but you and I are men, for better or for worse. For us, there

can be no comfort station on the way to our cross. If you like the

underground life, spend your furloughs mining coal in West Virginia, not among

these lotus-eaters."

"These people have not been saved."

"So you're calling them people. . . . Jack, when our allotted twelve to

sixteen months are up, we're going home, if I have to return you to Earth in a

straitjacket. Your skills as a spaceman are worth more to Earth than this

entire planet."

"What have we got on Earth?" I asked.

He grinned for the first time. "I've got my blond angel in Jackson, and

you have Madame Chacaud's in Mandan."

"There's no woman on Earth who approaches Cara in glory," I said. "I

want her, in honor, as soon as I have ordained a minister. My work is here,

Red, leading these lost souls out of darkness, and the Lord has provided me a

helpmeet in my crusade."

"You are daft. If you want the girl, take her! Just whistle and she'll

come to you, my lad." He was angry and growing angrier. "You'll find they're

all alike, on Earth or Heaven. The only variations are the ones I've taught

in my classes — "

Suddenly he stopped. I could see his mind skid into an idea, and I

waited, breathless from such arrant cynicism.

"Jack, I've got it. Let me pour us a real drink to celebrate." I waited

as he reached into his desk and poured us both a stiff jolt.

He leaned forward, and his Irish eyes were laughing. "So you're in love,

lad. The Good Book says it's better to marry than burn, though you can marry

and still burn. What do you say to a legal marriage, with all the trimmings —

altar, candles, robes, miter, with a chorus chanting a 'Te Deum'?"

"None of your Latin songs for me," I said.

"Name your own hymns. . . . But I can see it now, and it's a beautiful

picture. Your bride, dressed in white, marches slowly down the aisle to the

altar. Then Jack the Groom, in Navy blues with stars glittering, kneels

beside her before the altar. Slowly the chalice, gleaming in the candlelight,

is lifted from the altar. . . ."

"Now, boy, just where would you find a church?"

"In the gym, in front of my class on Earth Rituals, Folklore and

Superstitions. That ceremony would do more to impress my students with the

beauty and solemnity of Earth rituals than ten lectures."

"Who would perform this 'legal' marriage?"

"Me. As probe commander, you can appoint a chaplain for the crew. Navy

Regs don't specify the size of the crew."

"You're not of my faith, Red."

"No matter. Let me wear the robes and I'll marry you by any sacrament

you choose, including the connubial rites of Trobriand Islanders."

"This charade would solve nothing. I love Cara, and I want to join with

her in holy matrimony until death do us part."

"I know the feeling, lad. I've been through it myself. That's why I

speak with authority. Twelve months of marriage to the lass will bring you to

your senses. By then, you'll be hopping to climb aboard that ship and cast

off for Mother Earth."

Red spoke the truth, according to Navy Regs, but his words were sounding

brass without the tinkle of a cymbal. It would take me two quarters to

qualify and ordain a minister, but I would gird my loins and wait. Never

would I permit Red to use my marriage as a showcase sample for his Earth

Rituals, Folklore and Superstitions, and I could hardly imagine a less

appropriate minister of the Holy Sacrament of Marriage than Red the Adulterer.

"No dice, boy," I told him. "The regulations also specify that a

chaplain must be a man of adequate religious convictions. You don't qualify

for the appointment."

I got up and walked out of that den of harlotry and returned to my oasis

of celibacy. In my quarters, freed from the reek of profane love, I breathed

deeply as my heart swelled in diapasons to the memory of Cora's kiss, but the

music rang hollow in my empty chambers.

It was well that my classes on Earth's legal system began when they did.

The shift from general permissiveness to a more restricted sexual behavior

among the students was not installed without some abrasiveness and

dislocations. O'Hara's First Law of Carnal Economics — scarcity enhances

desire — became operative. A few of the boys attempted to go steady with more

than one female. Such perfidy seldom brought ostracism on the boy, but spates

of hair-pulling broke out between the competing girls. Although I viewed such

incidents with alarm, Red was philosophical to the point of phlegmaticism.

"Gild a female with four million years of evolution, scratch her, and your

fingernails will still strike a woman."

On Harlech, the males were even more docile in the presence of females

than the men of Earth, but the males were capable of greater violence.

Feet-fights broke out between the boys, and Red, ignoring regulations,

expanded his gym classes in boxing to 180 students and began televising

matches on Fourth-day nights.

Then reports began to filter in of females accosted in lonely tunnels.

Isolated assaults occurred. Graffiti began to appear on washroom walls. To

counteract this trend, I bore down heavily in my Values class on restraint,

self-discipline and the character-building aspects of celibacy. But the

reports continued to grow in volume and I took more drastic action to curb the

mounting violence.

Red had brought Draki back to the campus and installed him in quarters as

a scriptwriter with no comments from Bubo the Dean. I followed Red's lead and

called Frick in from the hinterlands to act as Chief of Police, hastily

installing a criminal court to supplement the law's executive arm. Not only

law but order was coming to Harlech.

Red greeted my new police force with enthusiasm. Some students did not

fit into our activities: girls unable to make the drama classes and boys

unable to make the teams, and members of both sexes too unattractive to

compete within the framework of the New Courtship. Red saw in my police

department a new dumping ground for those he termed "misfits."

Already Red had sent such students to me for counseling.

Apparently he reasoned that if they were devoid of other qualities, they

must be spiritual. "Take them and mold them in your image, Jack. They may

become the nucleus of future nunneries and monasteries."

Of course, I would have no truck with monks and nuns, but I kept an eye

alert for future ministers who might propagate my ministery after my

departure.

Indeed there was material among them. One of the students, Nesser,

became so interested in the Scriptures that I gave him my language tapes to

learn in order that he might study the Bible in English. I found myself

looking forward to converting and ordaining Nesser in rapid succession to

expedite my marriage to Cara.

When Frick arrived, I gave him microtapes of Police Methods,

Interrogation and Procedures. Red promptly unloaded twelve centurions from

his clumsy squad onto Frick to use as policemen. Frick promptly rejected four

of them and requested four replacements, none to be less than a centurion

corporal. Red had forgotten that Frick had once been a captain of centurions.

Frick made the new men his police sergeants. I turned Frick's rejects into

student lawyers and unloaded four females on Frick as policewomen.

Cara was becoming more and more a part of my life. We dined together and

each day spent an hour after classes in the cupola of the tower. Her serenity

and beauty gave me a quiet harbor to retire to after the frets and worries of

my day.

In turn, she channeled to me a flow of information about the students,

most of it feminine chit-chat but none the less charming, about who was going

steady with whom and who was cut out. From Cara I also got my first report on

Frick's success as Police Chief. "The students respect Frick," she said,

"because he clouts them if they misbehave."

My association with Cara was having a devastating effect on my periods of

meditation.

One night I attempted to meditate when the thoughts of Cara intruded with

such force that I found meditation impossible. I gave up and went to bed but

found it equally hard to sleep. In sheer desperation, clad only in the

Harlechian tunic I used as a nightshirt, I went for a walk through the

tunnels, barefooted. I found that my footsteps had unconsciously led me to

the spiral ramp which led to the tower, and I mounted to the cupola and out

onto the balcony, seeking to order my thoughts around the celestial patterns

of the stars and seeking, too, the therapy of cold.

There, on the balcony beneath the stars, I found an answer to the problem

foremost in my mind. I would marry Cara and return to Earth when this tour of

duty was completed. There I would visit Washington and my mother's third

cousin, the branch manager for Alabama. With Cousin Leroy's assistance, I

would wangle an appointment from the I.C.A. as a colonial administrator on

Harlech. Within a year, I could be back on Harlech, on permanent duty.

All my prestige as a space scout, which would gain me the appointment,

would vanish, but what did status matter to me in a world without Cara? I

would give more than a kingdom for her kiss. I would give up Earth and at

least the seven galaxies that the space scout averaged before he was elevated

to admiral.

In the interim, I would bank the fires of my love for Cara lest they

flame into lust and destroy me. I had reasoned my way back to drinking — it

might well be that I might find the logic to revive my old Mandan Syndrome.

Cara's innocence would have to be protected, and my method was clear to me;

cease watching sunsets with her, avoid coffee klatsches and suspend all but

the most formal of relationships.

At our Sixth-day conclave, Red reacted more strongly to my new plans than

he had to my request for a mutual defection.

"Of all the crackpot ideas! I'd rather see you defect, be listed as

missing, than turn yourself into a colonial administrator. Quit using

religious absolutes as a chastity belt and take the girl. We could qualify

this planet for the World's Brotherhood with a little luck."

"The I.C.A. has no jurisdiction over separate-but-equal planets," I

pointed out, "and Cousin Leroy could never get me an ambassador's job. He's

at odds with the state department. . . . Anyway, we can't qualify Harlech."

"Why not? You're giving it law and working on a Supreme Being. The boys

and girls are covered and they've got separate toilets."

"There's no military," I said. "Harlech can't defend itself from

intruders."

"It could have a defense in six months. Those trylon could convert to

laser batteries and blast any space flee out of the galaxy."

"But that would be us!"

"Not you and me, unless you were with the I.C.A. Think of what the

I.C.A. would do to this planet. In six months, these universities would be

factories making low-cost transistor radios. Our students would be weaving

carpets with their toes."

"Don't you want a colony?" I asked in astonishment.

"Hell no! I'm an Irishman. This is no planet for a cloacal empire of

pissoirs, production, platitudes and parsons."

"You're way out of line, boy," I reminded him, "even for a drunken shanty

Irishman. With one exception, these yahoos are walking units of conditioned

behavior subject to the whims of a dean who may not exist — " I caught

myself. In my anger I had revealed a facet of my secret thinking, and I

hurried on to create a diversion. "They're no more to be classified as human

beings than are ground bees. You're talking treason."

"Aye, my fellow traitor. But look who speaks of conditioned behavior.

You were brainwashed starting with the day you walked into Mandan."

"I never thought this of you, O'Hara," I said.

"You never think, Adams. You're conditioned not to. Now, go meditate on

that, meditator."

"I'm going," I said. "But don't you say another word. One more

treasonous remark from you and that class of yours will be treated to the

Earth rites of a funeral — yours."

I slid from the stool and backed out, my fists up, prepared to charge,

but to Red's credit he said nothing, not a word. Minutes later, I meditated,

not only over what he had said but what he had not said. Had he held his

tongue from fear of me or from the fear that I, in my anger, might commit an

act to endanger my soul? With Red, I never knew.

Even though spoken in anger, his words troubled me. I was not

conditioned. Astronauts did not preach the Word, and indeed, I, too,

considered these beings the equal of humans. Yet, I would seize every

technicality, and there were many, which would forfeit any right of

Harlechians to co-status with _homo sapiens_.

For my good and personal reasons, Harlech would become a colony of Earth.

Next, without dwelling on the political ramifications, I outlined my plan

to Cara, explaining merely that I would leave and return to her at the end of

a year. She listened intently as I explained that I could see her no more

except during formal occasions, such as class lectures.

Though downcast, she was brave. "Love alters not with brief hours or

weeks," she said, "but bears it out, even to the edge of doom."

"Thank heaven," I said in English, for in her tongue the word for heaven

was "Harlech," "for your understanding mind. Red wanted to marry us right

away."

"Can Red the Teacher marry us?" she asked.

"Legally, yes. Spiritually, no. . . . As my wife, Cara, and flesh of my

flesh, do you think you can remain faithful to me in my long absence?"

"I will go into seclusion, Jack my Beloved, at the salmon hatchery.

Though love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, I cannot

understand this thing of your spirit. Since your love for me is spiritual, as

you have said, why cannot we sit and talk of love?"

Her soap-opera English charmed me, apparently there were some fairly good

writers practicing in Red's favorite medium of entertainment, but I shifted to

Harlechian to explain to her: "My spirit would be willing, but my flesh is

weak."

"Oh? I had thought you strong of flesh."

"That's my problem. When I'm around you, I want, in a worldly sense, to

merge our flesh, and I might do so if you were willing, but my spirit tells me

it is wrong. Still, the hunger of my flesh might overrule my spirit."

"Then your flesh is willing, but your spirit is weak."

"No. At the moment they're about evenly matched. You have seen Red's

boxing matches on television?"

"Yes."

To reduce the problem to its simplest terms, I explained: "It's as if my

spirit and my flesh were fighting an eleven-round boxing match. Each has won

five rounds. The eleventh round is the round of decision. By leaving me

until our wedding day, you will be, in effect, climbing into the corner to

help the spirit fighter. With your aid, I can knock out flesh."

"But, Jack my Beloved, I am pulling for flesh."

"Would you have me debase your innocence before our vows are spoken?" I

asked in horror.

"Yes," she answered.

Her answer, at once both honest and coquettish, made me smile.

But Cara's face was suddenly sad. She rose and said, "But if you wish me

to aid your spirit, from my great love for you I will aid my enemy. I have

what I think you call fears, Jack, that you may leave me and never return, and

I want you as a woman as well as spirit, to know you as much as I can while I

can. It is not that I doubt your love for me, but there are perils in space.

Your ship may founder on shoals of antimatter."

"Where did you learn of antimatter?"

"In the library. Since my love is a star sailor, I wished to learn more

of his calling. In the old days, in the far, far past, starships were

launched from Harlech."

So great was my astonishment that I hardly watched her walk through the

door. If what she said was true — and these beings did not lie — her planet

was so much farther advanced than Earth that to these beings Red O'Hara and I

must have appeared as ape men. Yet, because of their gentleness, their

culture, their civilization, they had accepted us, even liked us.

Now, by the inexorable logic of ape imperialism, they would be

subjugated, and I would be the sole instrument of their subjugation. More

than any other Earthman, I was trapped by that logic, for I had to go and come

again. From my primordial lair, I had leaped to a cloud and my jungle would

no longer suffice. The ape man of Earth, John Adams, had learned to love an

angel of Heaven.

It was I who called Red to apologize. "I regret calling you a shanty

Irishman, Red."

"You've called me worse."

"Another thing, Red. Knock off all I've said about the Harlechians.

Maybe _we_ don't deserve co-status."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that."

"Let me be humble, Red."

"All right, Jack. You could use a little humility."

"None of your lip! I'm trying to turn the other cheek. This is a try at

Christian brotherhood."

"No problem. I always loved you more than my brother, who's a

wife-beating drunkard."

"Don't push me, Red. I'm still trying to be humble. I've broken off

with Cara, temporarily."

"No problem. Go out and stand by the belt and grab another one. They're

all good. Some are just better than others."

"But I love only Cara."

"Since you're in such a loving mood, meet me at the bar. There's an

occasion for a drink."

"What's the occasion?"

"I'm awarding you the Cross of Saint George."

"You shanty Irishman!" I bellowed. "Stow your medal."

"Now, that's more like Jack Adams."

So we were reconciled and discussed the antiquity of Harlechians, but not

once did Red bring up the subject of qualifying these beings for World's

Brotherhood. Legally he knew his proposal was wrong, and intuitively he

recognized my determination to colonize the planet and accord full and formal

honors to my wife, Cara, if she could be qualified as a human by marriage.

Cara herself altered my preliminary plans.

Late one night, clad only in my nightshirt, I was reading in my library

to calm my blood with the antisepsis of cybernetics, when I heard a movement

in my outer office. I was alarmed but not frightened by the noise. Robbery

was unheard of on Harlech since all was free, but, despite Frick's efforts,

violence had been on the upswing. Though I had little to fear from creatures

so much weaker than I, I leaned over quietly, turned off my reading lamp and

crept to the door.

Silently, I turned the knob and flung open the door.

Outlined by the office nightlight behind her, Cara stood before me, her

arm upraised to knock. She was gowned in diaphene so sheer that though it

covered it did not conceal the wonder of her form. "Cara!" I almost strangled

on her name.

Quietly she spoke. "I have come to take you, Jack my Beloved."

Guided by the social instincts of an Earthman, I bowed, flicked on the

overhead light and backed into the room.

"Come in. You must be cold."

"Cold?"

"What are you doing on campus so late at night? And how did you get here

wearing that gown?"

"I have taken rooms in the tunnel, Jack, to be near you.'

"Then, why aren't you in bed asleep?"

"I tried, Jack. My spirit was willing but my flesh was too eager. So, I

have come for you."

"Child, we're not married."

"Then marry me tonight and divorce me tomorrow."

"We need a preacher."

"You need the preacher, Jack. I need you."

"I can't debase your innocence without marriage."

"Then don't," she snapped. "I'll debase yours."

"It's a sin," I said hoarsely, for her thighs were quivering and her toes

twitched.

"Is it a sin to be ravished?"

"Not for the ravishee," I said. "But the ravisher sins, and sinners burn

in hell."

I bent closer, placing both my hands on her shoulder, pleading to her

with my eyes. My gesture proved my undoing. Unseen beneath the billow of my

tunic, her foot flicked up. "Better that burning than this," she said, and,

as Red O'Hara had prophesied, I felt the toes of a woman of Harlech.

In punctured syllables, she said, "You speak your love for me with more

than eyes, Jack, and I consign my soul to Hell!"

Her leg was circling my thigh now, and I said, "Cara, I have never denied

my lo . . . honey . . . baby-doll . . . sweet thing. . . ."

I could say no more, for I was rendered speechless by breathlessness.

Her remaining leg was rising around me, and I bore her weight lightly as she

leaned backward as if to rest her head on some airy pillow. There was an

adjustment, an in-gliding. As the gates of hell opened for Cara, heaven

opened for me, and I knew I was marked forever by the beauty and uniqueness of

my golden girl.

Sufficient unto the night are the sins thereof, so let it suffice to say

that I could not determine if she qualified under the "face-to-face" clause of

the Space Code. Schematically, I was the vertical bar on a T-square and could

not determine if the horizontal bar which was Cara was greater or less than

ninety degrees.

In truth, I was not too interested in empirical observations, but in a

highly bemused manner I recognized the inspiration for Red's Cross of Saint

George and the aptness of his expression, "Perking like a horizontal

coffeepot."

Finally, Cara started to bend at the waist, her head drooping toward the

floor. I scooped her up as her legs went limp and laid her gently in my study

chair. She was beginning to weep and I kissed her brow. "Weep, dear girl.

Your tears will cleanse your shame and repentance will help atone for your

sin."

Cara only sobbed harder, but there was an antidote for her disgrace. I

picked up the telephone and called Red. It was a sleepy, irritated voice that

answered my ring.

"Red, it's Jack. I've just had Cara!"

"Begorra! Are you waking me this late to tell me naughties!'

"No, boy. I'm bringing Cara over, appointing you chaplain and ordering

you to marry us tonight."

"Shove your orders! Anyway, you have to fill out Alnav 2186-C — with

twelve copies — and the form is aboard ship."

He had me there. I had forgotten the regulation.

"Jack?" After a pause he was coming awake.

"Yes?"

"There's no hurry. Banns must be posted. . . ."

"Not in your new church," I said. "I'm appointing you a Methodist

chaplain."

"All right, you idiot!" He was fully awake now. "Even though it's a

forced marriage, we can do it in style. The lass will love a formal wedding.

. . . What's her name?"

"Cara."

"Oh, the blonde. Does she qualify under the face-to-face clause?"

"Haven't you qualified them?" I asked, astonished.

"I tried, before you decided to colonize the planet. Afterward, I didn't

wish to risk getting my hips crushed in a lost cause. . . . Lest it's

face-to-face, I can't perform the marriage. . . . But, be careful! They

tighten up when you restrain them, and they're strong as hell. If you can

manage again, lad, lay your forearm against her stomach, get a good grip

behind her shoulders and bend her toward you. Three degrees of tilt should

qualify her."

The sobbing from the chair grew louder. "Red, she's sobbing something

fierce. I'm afraid she's getting hysterical. What do you do?"

His voice was calm, clinical. "Do you have her on the desk or on the

floor?"

"Neither, she's canted at an angle in my morris chair."

"I don't know, Jack, Usually, I lay them on the floor, lie down beside

them and cry along with them. . . . I can hear her now. Jack, you've hit the

jackpot! One tear in either eye will earn mine a Saint George. She'd get a

fig-leaf cluster. . . . Say, I've got an idea! Bed down with her and qualify

her while she's asleep."

I hung up, partly in disgust and partly to comfort Cara.

In a figurative sense, O'Hara was more interested in ends than in means,

more in technique than in morality. At the moment, I was concerned with Cara,

who needed me.

I sat on the ottoman before her and took her hand. "Dear girl, don't be

frightened. If your soul is damned, then take comfort, for I will be with

you, always. I'll pray for my own damnation."

Bravely she attempted to smile through her tears. "I'm crying because

I'm so happy," she said. "Your hairy hips are hard to hold, but I love you,

baby-doll."

Near the end of morning, I qualified Cara as a member of the human

species, in one respect, at least. Though I padded my hips with pillows, I

did not escape without bruises. But no good end is reached without struggle,

and Cara was to an Earthwoman what a Stradivarius is to a ukelele.

After our final last good-night loss, she snuggled into my arms and

shocked me with a remark: "Jack, Red the Producer doesn't like blondes. He

wouldn't give me even a tiny part in the Christmas play, and I did so want to

play in it. Do you think he will marry you to a blonde?"

"Hell marry us," I said, "and you'll get a part in the Christmas

pageant."

"That would be a wonderful wedding present, Jack," she said, snuggling

closer.

Her remark disturbed me by its implications. Though I come from Alabama,

I don't believe in drawing the color line. We are all God's children, and a

blonde is just as good as a brunette. Red was a bigot.

After my long association with O'Hara, I knew as well as any man how to

bargain with him. After I swore him in as chaplain in his office the next

day, he poured libations while I maneuvered for a position of power.

"Red, I want none of your popish rituals intruding on the dignity of this

wedding. The altar and candles are good, so are a few voices, maybe. But I

want no choir performing Handel's _Messiah_, full-length, no priestly regalia

— a plain purple robe will serve — and only one sign of the cross for

demonstration purposes."

Red leaned back and eyed me thoughtfully. "Jack, I love you more than my

drinking brother, for you are unique among men — you are uniquely rigid,

self-righteous, narrow and bigoted."

"Boy, do _you_ disapprove of bigots?" I asked.

"Bigots and Protestants," he answered.

"And blondes!" I shot at him.

"That's prejudice, not bigotry."

"Then why have you excluded blondes from the Christmas pageant and denied

Cara a role in the play?"

He looked at me, and I could see in his eyes that the channels of

communication were opening. "The trademark of an O'Hara production is

realism, attention to details. Whoever heard of a blonde Jewess?"

"Who on Harlech ever heard of a Jew?"

He brushed my remark aside. "I could put Cara in a chorus line with my

Maids of Bethlehem," he said thoughtfully, "but she would have to dye her

hair."

"You're not mixing that angel into a chorus line of prostitutes," I said.

"What about the role of the Virgin?"

"The Good Lord cast that one. Tamar plays the Virgin."

"That girl with the hips?"

"Aye."

"Boy, howdy!" I exploded. 'If you can get an audience in _this_ school

to accept _that_ girl as a virgin, Cara could play the Christ Child."

"I took Tamar off the camera — say, Jack, I have it!" He hunched toward

me, excited. "I can write a role for your bride that's a natural, one that

will top the Virgin."

Alarmed by his enthusiasm, which was obviously genuine, I drew back.

"One thing, Red: I don't want Cara gallivanting out on the stage doing a

striptease to 'Adeste Fideles.'"

"Jack, you will love her part, and it will not offend your piety in the

least. In fact, I'll not let you see it until Christmas. It will be my

present to you. Of course, it will take effort, great personal effort."

"Your generosity is appreciated, boy. Now, what do you want?"

What he wanted was nothing minor — a robe, a miter, four altarboys, one

of whom was Nesser, a chorus of twenty voices, and a Cross behind the altar

that would light up when I sang out, loud and clear, "I do."

Cara was ecstatic. At my request, the incredible artisans of Harlech

produced a golden wedding ring with a ten-carat diamond. Frick, in the blue

uniform and epaulets of Police Chief, was my best man, and he fumbled for the

ring. Cara was a vision in her white minigown with veil, and for the first

time I saw public tears on Harlech when her bridesmaids were overcome with

emotion.

When the Cross lighted behind the altar, the Harlechians applauded. Then

we knelt before the altar, were pronounced man and wife and blessed by Bishop

O'Hara, who sprinkled us with holy water to symbolize my wife's baptism into

the Methodist faith. The ritual was another triumph for O'Hara, and to give

him his due, it was a beautiful and impressive ceremony, and was televised.

We arose and marched down the aisle, Cara and I, to the strains of "Pomp and

Circumstance," beneath the raised billy clubs of Flick's police.

Cara and I had planned no honeymoon since all tunnels look alike and the

surface was deep in snow, and it was well that we had not. Waiting outside in

the corridor were two black-tunicked messengers from the Dean's office, with

pink slips for Red and me.

I accepted mine and read it as the second messenger shouldered his way

against the flow of the crowd to serve O'Hara's.

At the suggestion of my regents, it is requested that Jack the Teacher

and Red the Teacher appear before me and the regents concerned at 10.00 A.M.,

next Seventh day, to show cause why Earth Religions 1 and Earth Religions 2

should be taught at University 36.

_Bubo the Dean_

Cara was disturbed. "You and Red have not been expelled, but a pink slip

from the Dean is never good. He may wish to punish you."

CHAPTER NINE

A reception had been planned for after the wedding in Red's office, where

Tamar had laid out a buffet table in our honor, Earth-style, and there was a

cake and presents. We hurried off to the reception, where most of our invited

guests would speak English, polarized along an Oshkosh-Oxford axis, with the

exception of Frick, who had picked up the argot of New York from studying old

gangster movies.

Preoccupied as I was by the pink slip, I felt little nostalgia for Earth.

In fact, such a remark as "My dear Tamar, you _must_ tell me your recipe for

this delightful squid dip" rather revolted me since it came from the boy,

Nesser.

Red was late in arriving. It had taken time for him to divest himself of

his bishop's gear and get back into kilts. When he strode in, greeting the

guests, his joviality seemed undiminished by the pink slip, but after a few

minutes he called out, "Carry on, folks, but I'd like a few private words with

Jack the Teacher."

Since his inner and outer office was taken by the reception, we entered

the library, where he pulled the pink slip from his pouch and tossed it on the

table. "How do you read this, Jack?"

"Negative-negative," I answered.

"You'll notice, Jack, that these pink slips only arrive after a

television show. Bubo must be a fan."

"He knew we were teaching religion," I pointed out.

"Which would mean nothing to him," Red said, "All other lectures are

televised and ours aren't. We've never been hooked into his programmed

circuit."

"You sound like Bubo is a computer," I said casually.

"To tell the truth, Jack, the thought occurred to me. But now we're

having to appear before him. . . . Well, you're the lawyer, Jack. What do we

do?"

"We'll defend the course," I said with some heat. "Well be God's

advocate against the Antichrist."

"Now, lad. All these folks understand is logic. . . . We might sell

them religion as a tool for conditioning behavior. We must keep strictly to

the legal approach."

"On a planet without law?" I snapped.

"But on a planet with logic," Red grinned, "and any good lawyer can

confuse a logician. . . . But we don't know what the objections are, so we'll

have to improvise on the spot. But I think I see ramifications here that can

work to our long-term advantage. . . . Yes," he added, tapping the pink

slip slowly, "I think we could win this argument by losing it."

I sensed the gist of his reasoning and followed him. "Blessed are the

persecuted," I said.

"Right! Come to think about it, Jack, you'd better let me handle the

defense."

I remembered Cara's warning, and I recalled, too, the unspoken slogan of

Mandan and the Navy: "Never let the buck stop here." If Red wanted to grab

the buck, he could have it. "It's all yours, Red."

With a relieved mind I returned to the reception, where Cara and I cut

the cake and opened presents. There were the usual knick-knacks of cutlery,

silverware and napery for the bride, but there was one huge, rectangular

package for me from my class in Aesthetics, which Cara held to the last.

It was a painting, three feet wide and four feet deep, of a hickory tree

standing on the far side of a swale, its leaves yellow in the slanting

sunlight of autumn, and each leaf was detailed against the swirled russet of

an oak tree behind it. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams broken by the

leaves, and on the carpet of leaves beneath the tree lay the limb from a

wind-fallen oak I had thrown there. The hickory was done with the

photographic clarity of a Kramer, the russet of the oak grove was laid on with

the color-mad sworls of a Van Gogh and the skyscape beyond had the dreamy

mistiness of the Hudson River School.

In amazement, I turned to Cara. "Who painted this masterpiece?"

"All of us who went with you on the field trip," Cara answered. "I,

myself, painted the lower right-hand quadrant of the upper left-hand

quadrant."

"Whose idea was it?"

"Mine, dear Jack. I knew that you loved pictures, and I knew that your

Earth mind cannot retain an image over long periods, so we painted it for

you."

"You went back out there after you were almost killed?"

"No, dear Jack. We painted it from memory."

When the morning of our conference arrived, I found that O'Hara had

spoken too soon of my theory that Bubo was a computer. Bubo the Dean was not

present. Instead, he was represented by his student secretary, who introduced

Red and me to the two Regents, Karlo, a behavioral engineer, and Farb, the

equivalent of a primitive anthropologist. "Bubo the Dean sends his regrets,"

the student said, "but the press of his administrative duties deny him the

pleasure of attendance. I will take notes for him to act upon. Teachers and

Regents, be seated."

Red and I took seats across a conference table from the two Harlechians.

Farb the antiquarian spoke first, in flawless English.

"Teachers, the microtaped versions of your planet's history have been

analyzed. In the beginning, we of Harlech had tribal wars and one mate per

male. But tribes merged into nationalities upon the three continents and the

wars became national. Then two continents allied and subjugated the third,

and then there was tension between the two great powers. Space exploration

was undertaken and the conflict that was planetary became universal.

Freebooters roamed the spaceways.

"A final war came, of such fury that the axis of the planet was tilted.

By then, civilization had gone underground and many of the tunnels were

flooded. Remnants of the two great powers joined each other with a

rapid-transit subway system, for the surface was radioactive.

"We had discovered, as you have discovered, a method for leaping that

which you refer to as 'the Minkowski one-space' and which we called 'the time

warp.' This discovery left us at the mercy of our own ancestors for any

freebooter could go back in time and with his knowledge alter the course of

the planet's history to suit his own whim or to favor his old nationality."

"I thought of that!" Red exploded.

"Regency speaking!" the student secretary snapped.

Farb continued as if there had been no interruption: "So we of Harlech

shifted emphasis from outer space to inner space and used the remainder of our

space fleet to exile the incorrigibles, those with XYY genetic syndromes, to

other galaxies. We equipped their ships with self-destruct mechanisms, which

operated on a delay principle actuated by their touchdowns. Many were sent

into M-16, your own Milky Way."

"I thought of that!" I said.

I, too, was silenced by the secretary and Farb concluded: "We believe

that you descend from an exile ship of Harlech. Your leg structure, designed

for weightlifting rather than running, would have evolved from life on a

benign surface. Much of the edible flora and fauna of Earth could have

evolved from our seed animals and plants. You are over-specialized for

survival on a planet such as Earth, and even your language resembles ours.

The country you call Wales was once called Harlech. . . . Farb has spoken."

Karlo, the behavioral engineer, then spoke: "In the beginning we had

gods, but the gods were used to stimulate tribal wars. In the beginning we

had mating, but the females became the chattel of stronger males, and the

females adopted the rejection pattern as a defense. In the interests of

mental hygiene and feminine dignity, we eliminated our gods and did away with

sexual exclusiveness. Thus we eliminated 82.3 percent of our nonorganic

mental aberrations. The remainder we eliminated by gene control and the

inhalation of DNA. In a fully automated society where all citizens are

law-abiding, the state withered away. We have now a pure democracy and

scholarship is the chief industry of our people. Democracy includes academic

freedom to the point where freedom stops and license begins. Thus we ask you

to eliminate from your courses, next semester, Religions 1 and Religions 2, as

they are considered retrograde and inimical to the best interests of our

students. . . . Karlo has spoken."

"Questions or rebuttals?" the student secretary asked, turning to O'Hara

and me.

"Since you deny religion, Karlo," I asked, "what happens to your immortal

souls?"

"If the life flow is uninterruptable, it exists with or without our

approval and is thus no cause for our concern, logically. But any concept

which seeks future development of our senses impairs their present

development."

His concept was completely canceled by the concept of Original Sin, and I

started to rebut him in theological terms when Red kicked me under the table

and spoke out, himself.

"Regents, since you have answered our primary question so adequately,

then we will discontinue our formal lectures on religion next semester. But

since it is illogical to state a premise without arriving at a deduction, I

have one request to make. I have now in rehearsal a drama depicting the birth

of an Earth god to be presented at the end of this semester. No god should be

born without dying. In full agreement with the Regents, I would like

permission to logically continue the drama at the end of next semester by

revealing the death of that god."

Karlo spoke. "We approve of the death of gods. Continue your

serialization by all means, Red the Teacher, for we Elders also enjoy your

dramas."

"That was some defense, Red," I commented as we walked down the belt

toward Faculty Row.

"I told you we couldn't lose," Red said. "I'm choosing the most popular

lad on the campus to play Herod and twelve of my best centurions to play his

soldiers. Once they're pink-slipped, we'll have the nucleus of a popular

revolt. Then when I throw the Easter drama at them, I'll have Judas, Pontius

Pilate and forty centurions to back up our legal appeal against Bubo."

"That takes care of the drama department," I said, "but it wreaks havoc

with the religious department."

"Cheer up, lad. The Regents have given us a 'them' to separate from

'us.' And we and the students are the 'us.' We're going underground with our

religion."

"How much more underground can we get?"

"As long as we don't televise our religious services, we'll not be

detected. And we promised only that we would not give formal lectures. . . .

Join me in a drink, Jack, and let's discuss this at greater length."

"Only one, Red," I said. "I promised Cara I'd be home for lunch. She's

been practicing Earth cooking, and she wants you and Tamar over for dinner,

next Sixth-day night."

"We'll be there," Red promised, as we walked into the tavern, "but tell

her to give up any idea of making a match between Tamar and me. The lass is

too omnivorous for wedded bliss."

"So I observed," I remarked, as we settled on our stools. "She was

giving me the once-over the night Draki was pink-slipped."

Mac didn't wait for our order. He was preparing our boilermakers the

minute he saw us walk in. "Here's to the catacombs of a New Rome," Red lifted

his glass.

"To a fully automated New Jerusalem," I replied.

Once O'Hara's enthusiasm was aroused, he could communicate better than

any spaceman alive, particularly when a conspiracy was involved. By the

second drink, I was beginning to feel like a method actor portraying Saint

Peter. I could smell the catacombs. By the end of the third drink, I was

willing to take on a few lions in the Colosseum. Bubo was Nero. But Red

drifted off into new areas of speculation.

"All myths have a basis in fact," he said. "Harlech was our Eden and we

XYY syndromers sinned when we tilted the axis of our native planet. Our flood

occurred in these rabbit warrens and when Noah's Ark landed on Ararat, it

landed with retro-jets."

"Cut it out!" I said. "You're taking from me my Original Sin."

After one more round, I tore myself away, for I was already fifteen

minutes late for lunch. When I walked into the kitchen, an anxious Cara

kissed me and drew back in disgust. "Jack, you reek of whisky! Have you been

out with that Red the Teacher?"

I was contrite, my compliments over her cooking were profuse though

thick-tongued, and she was intent on the outcome of my meeting with the

Regents. "So they don't approve of my marriage, or your religion. Well, our

marriage is none of their affair! If I wish to attempt an inter-species

marriage and accept my husband's faith, that's no business of the elders. . .

. But one thing is my business, Jack. If you're going to get staggering

drunk, I want you to quit wearing Earth clothes. They make you too

conspicuous. I don't want perfect strangers walking up to me in the tunnels

and asking if I'm the girl who married that Earth sot."

Although Cara said nothing, she was perturbed by my plan to open a secret

chapel in my office to continue teaching religion. I was beginning to read

the eyes of Harlechians and in the privacy of our quarters, decorated now with

the frills of femininity and that magnificent painting, Cara's eye flow was

uninhibited.

"You don't approve," I said.

"I approve, but Bubo would not."

"I'd have the students with me, the police force and the law courts. All

the strength is on our side. Why should I care what Bubo thinks?"

"There is also strength in weakness," she said, "and Bubo can punish. He

is devious, like Iago, though he would do nothing himself. He is an

administrator."

"Agreed," I said. "And as an administrator, he does nothing but delegate

authority."

"Bubo could delegate the wrong authority," she said.

Her remark tipped me off on Bubo's methods. On Earth the same techniques

were used when an executive was assigned to manage a failing branch operation

and then was blamed for the branch's failure.

Such resources were beyond Bubo's reach with me — if there was a Bubo —

for I was no part of his organization. Moreover, I planned to return within

two years of my departure with enough proxies to take over the whole

operation. If Bubo then revealed himself, and if he was well-mannered and

obsequious, I might have a managerial job for him in the new operation,

perhaps Colonial Ceramics. He could be vice-president in charge of testing

Earth lavatory commodes.

Despite the prophecies of Red and the slight friction generated by my

drinking, my marriage got off to a good start. Cara had her little secrets.

She wouldn't tell me what part she was playing in the Christmas drama and

forbade me to watch the rehearsals. "I'll be everything you ever dreamed of

in a woman, Jack my beloved, and the role will make you proud of me."

She wouldn't let me in the kitchen when she was preparing the dinner to

which Red and Tamar had been invited. She wanted to surprise me with the

recipes she had gotten from an Earth cookbook.

She had fire in her make-up, too.

To implement the police power in my hands, I invited Frick, my Chief of

Police, to the dinner. Cara approved of Frick, but she turned thumbs down on

Nesser, whom I wanted to invite since I planned to use him as an altar boy

when I opened my first chapel. "Jack, I want to enjoy the dinner, and I

couldn't stomach a bite with that warthead at the table."

"But he's a very warm person, spiritually," I said.

"Good," she snapped. "I'm glad his spirit's warm. His hands are clammy

and he likes to touch."

Red asked and received permission to invite Reno, his cadet General of

Centurions, who was scheduled to act as our sacrificial lamb. Reno was to

play King Herod in the Christmas pageant.

Cara's decorum was at its best on the evening of the Earth dinner. We

had cocktails in the outer office, where I received the compliments of my

guests on the Harlechian costume Cara had designed and made for me, a tunic of

space gray with a matching jockstrap which was drawn loosely around the waist

with a sash of navy blue and decorated on the left breast with the word

"Cara's" embroidered in gold.

Tamar arrived in a dress that deviated further from Harlechian fashion

than my own tunic. Hers was a dress, not a tunic. It flared from her waist

in ruffles long enough to conceal all but the sway of her hips, but the

material she had spent on the skirt was balanced by that which she had saved

on the bodice. It was cut so low that it revealed the very points of her

principal area of _embonpoint_.

Tamar whistled a wolf's call at the sight of my legs. "If you ever get

tired of him, Cara, throw him my way."

Red, with all his knobby knees, did not seem offended by her remark. "I

offered him the Order of Saint George, myself."

Frick arrived dressed formally in his blue tunic with his badge and

ceremonial billy club hooked to his belt. General Reno came bedecked in the

uniform Red had designed for the cadets, looking for all the world like a

kelly-green member of the Black Watch with his gold stars shining on his

epaulet. He was a slender youth with a very large head that reminded me of

Julius Caesar's bust.

Festivities began on Tamar's note of banter but an undercurrent of

gravity soon manifested itself despite the cocktails. Word was out among the

students that courses on religion were to be discontinued after the fall

quarter. Tamar was sad and Frick was indignant. "Do the Regents think these

students are children?"

Reno entered a strange remark. "Personally, I think this planet could

use a little Hebrew backbone. Take David. Now, _there_ was a man. What this

planet needs is not peace but the sword."

"You're right about David," Frick agreed. "He had the right idea. If

they get out of line, clout them in the kisser."

It saddened me somewhat to think that the boys would use Old Testament

figures as models, but at least they were choosing the right model. It would

never do for a police chief or a general to pattern his behavior on Job.

Frick had done such a splendid job of excavating a four-cell cellblock

behind his police station that I asked his advice about an altar crypt in the

south wall of my office.

As Frick explained it, it was no problem. The area could be excavated

and the laser beam adjusted to glaze the walls a deep purple, an ideal

background for a white cross. Dirt removal was automated. The knob north of

the soccer field had been created by dirt removed from the tunnels.

As I stood and mused over the altar, I heard Reno say to Cara, "To our

way of thinking, it would seem deceitful of the Children of Israel to

booby-trap a pontoon bridge and drown Pharaoh's army, but it was a good

defensive tactic."

Upon hearing this remark, I promptly invited Red to the bathroom for an

indulgence in an old Earth custom, shared hand-washing.

"Since when did the Children of Israel lay a pontoon bridge over the Red

Sea?"

"The students are logical, Jack. They can't relate to miracles."

"Then how do you relate them to booby-traps and pontoon bridges in a

nonmilitary society? Teaching military science is forbidden."

"I'm hedging my bet, Jack. If your marriage works out, you might defect.

When the Harriers come after you, these lads could protect my old buddy."

"Do you think I'd fire on my own species?"

"Knowing you, Jack, a military man in a militant church, I think you

would. If your home, family and altar were threatened by the Corps, wouldn't

you fire?"

"Given those conditions, but only under such conditions," I agreed,

"there's nothing I'd enjoy more than to walk a rolling barrage from a laser

battery through a landing party of those cocky bastards and blast them from

hell to breakfast."

Suddenly I was amazed by my own un-Christian vehemence and enthusiasm.

But Cara was rapping on the door, calling, "Chow down, sailors."

We entered to a candlelit table, and at each setting was a steaming dish

of hotcakes with sides of bacon and pats of butter. Beside each plate was a

glass of white wine imported from the south continent, a pitcher of syrup in

the center and a pat of country butter. "Ah, what a lovely sight," Red said.

I was equally enthusiastic over the evening breakfast and after toasting

our hostess and guests, we settled down to consume the hotcakes. They were

delightful, so good that Red and I had seconds, but it was merely the first

course. As we finished up our hotcakes, Cara brought in a steaming platter of

southern-fried chicken.

"Soul food," I cried, and Red echoed, "Shades of Brother Ben."

Despite the hotcakes, Red and I dug into the fried chicken with gusto,

but during the chicken course an unpleasant incident developed. Dressed as I

was in the manner of Harlech, I was barefooted, and as host I sat at the head

of the table between Cara and Tamar. During pancakes, my bare foot touched

Tamar's. Modestly I drew my foot back, putting it under my chair, but later

her foot touched mine. At first I thought her movement an inadvertency, until

her toes began to stroke my own, lightly and caressingly. When the second

course arrived, I buried my consternation in the thigh of a Harlechian

chicken, as Tamar's toes continued an upward progress, unseen beneath the

table.

Perhaps the wine had touched Cara, or perhaps it was my profuse

compliments over the chicken, but Cara put her foot over mine and patted me

lovingly. Suddenly, Cara was becoming affectionate with my ankles while Tamar

fondled my kneecap. I bent to my plate, stoking in the chicken in my

consternation, for Tamar was fondling downward as Cara fondled up.

A collision between the two feet was inevitable, and I could not bolt for

the lavatory or take any drastic withdrawal action, for such would have

constituted a rejection of my wife, and her hurt and anger toward me could

never have been pacified by any truthful explanation.

Because I had to live with Cara, I sacrificed Tamar. Halfway between my

kneecap and my shinbone, the two feet touched.

Not a word was said. The toes launched as lightly from my leg as two

wrens taking flight in different directions.

After a long silence, Cara said sweetly, "Tamar, would you care for more

chicken? Perhaps another leg?"

"No, thank you, Cara. I prefer the thigh."

"I have the thigh," Cara said, "but perhaps I might cut out a gizzard for

you, or chop up a liver."

"Perhaps Jack the Teacher would like a little more breast?" Tamar said

sweetly.

"He has a breast!" Cara said, "but perhaps I could pluck out an eye. But

they are dark. Like the eyes of a pig that wallows in the first mud

available. . . ."

Cara's hand was creeping toward the wine bottle, so I knew that the

situation was getting very tense. But in the most freakish intervention of

fate in my life since Red had found the planet with his green drawers, the

door burst open and two uniformed policemen entered.

At first I felt that Frick had staged a raid to give a touch of drama to

the dinner, but the sergeant of the duo blurted, "Chief, a boy has been

murdered in Washroom 23!"

"I'll be right there," Frick said, dabbing his lips with his napkin.

"Will you excuse me, Cara? Duty calls."

"Certainly, Prick."

"Commissioner," Frick said to me. "I've never handled a murder case

before. Would you . . . ?"

"I'm with you, Frick," I said, rising. "This is serious."

"Ill come along," Red said.

"You stay here, Red!" I ordered, "Stay here and see Tamar home."

"Jack, are you leaving before the main course?" Cara asked.

"Darling, there's been a murder!"

"He'll stay murdered, but I've prepared your favorite dish — pork chops.

The pork chops will grow cold."

"Never mind, dear," I said. Then, seized by a sudden inspiration, I

added, "I don't care for pig meat."

"The murdered boy's name was Krale," the sergeant told us as we strolled

along. "He was studying mortuary cryogenics. This was his first semester at

the university."

"Not much time to acquire enemies," I commented. "Were you acquainted

with him, Frick?"

"I don't have a dossier on him, yet," Frick said, speaking to me in

English, "but I knew him by sight. A pleasant sort. He shacked up with a

dame as soon as he got here and has been going steady ever since." He turned

to the sergeant, "How was he killed?"

"Strangulation. Someone got him from behind while he was washing his

hands. They were still wet."

"First we'll have to look for a motive, Frick," I said. "Since robbery

is out, as they say on Earth, we'll look for the woman."

"I've got a line on _her_," Frick said. He turned to the patrolman.

"Sprint over to her dorm and pick up Dori. Bring her to the stationhouse but

don't tell her why."

As the patrolman leaped forward and ran down the corridor, Frick turned

to me. "Dori was Krale's steady."

"Give her the news gently, Frick. She might break up over the boy's

death."

"Not Dori. Krale was one of twelve."

"Get all their names."

"I will, Commissioner. But I deduce that Krale's murderer is not among

them. Dori's got power hip flow and no lover of hers is going to risk a

murder rap."

We arrived at Washroom 23, which was guarded by a uniformed policeman who

stood talking to two morgue attendants waiting outside with a motorized

litter.

"Hurry it up, please, Frick," one of the attendants said. "Krale was a

classmate and we want him on ice as soon as possible."

"You're getting him a lot sooner than anybody expected," Frick said,

"including Krale."

For once I was grateful for the Harlechian lack of curiosity. No crowds

gathered outside the door, and inside only one officer stood beside the body

on the lavatory floor. The body of Krale, a fair-haired young student, lay on

its stomach but its eyes were staring directly at the ceiling. Its spine had

been severed and the head was twisted a full half-circle on the neck.

The patrolman stepped aside as Frick paused a few paces from the body and

stared down at it Then he moved to another angle and stared. In forty-five

seconds, he had four different images photographed in his mind. "All right,

cryogenics," he called, "you can haul it to the bank."

"Whoever killed Krale must have been terrifically strong, Frick," I

commented. "His head was twisted in a vise."

"Not at all, Jack. Let me demonstrate. Stand down the line, there, and

brace yourself as if you were washing your hands."

He pointed three bowls down from the one the victim had used and said,

"Now, look in the mirror as the officer walks by."

Outside, the sound of the siren on the litter dwindled down the corridor

as the officer sauntered by me, as if headed for the urinals lined against the

far wall. Watching him, I saw no preparatory flexing of muscles, but suddenly

he soared from the floor, twisting as he rose, to land lightly atop my

shoulders. With a single movement he hooked his right leg under my armpit and

levered my head with his instep against my jaw.

"Resist his foot, Jack," Frick requested.

With my neck muscles, I Indian-wrestled against the boy's foot, but the

boy won easily. Then he uncoiled and dropped to the floor.

"I doubt if he could break your neck," Frick said, "but Harlechians are

fragile. . . . Sergeant, dust the mirror."

The sergeant took a small bottle from his tunic pouch and jetted a spray

of powder over the mirror above the bowl where the victim had been washing his

hands. He turned the bottle around and a jet of compressed air blew away the

excess powder, leaving the print of a left foot dearly visible on the glass.

"I deduced," Frick explained, "that the murderer pushed the body away

from the bowl after he broke Krale's neck to prevent scuffing his knee or

ankle on the faucet. . . . Take a transfer of the print, Sergeant."

With a second flask, the sergeant sprayed a blue gel over the powder. As

we waited for the gel to set, Frick turned to me. "What's the penalty for

murder, Commissioner?"

"Death by hanging," I answered.

I oversimplified my answer for the student since this was obviously a

premeditated murder and I did not wish to confuse Frick with the various

degrees of homicide. "Hanging from a public gallows," I added.

As the sergeant cut out the square of gel containing the footprint and

peeled it back from the mirror, Frick promised me, "Jack, this murderer is

going to swing."

"Frick," I warned him, "it's not your job to judge the case. Your duty's

to apprehend the killer. The court will decide his fate. If you find him,

there must be no coercion or intimidation of the prisoner. And a lawyer must

be present when you question him."

In my own mind, doubts were rising about the legality of this venture. I

had introduced moot pleadings in mock courts to impress legal procedures on

the minds of student tribunals with the aim, eventually, of permitting them to

protect themselves from the whims of an administrator. We had even

incarcerated a few offenders for two or three days in misdemeanor trials, but

I recoiled from the thought of hanging a boy by a kangaroo court.

I could not act without authority, and the only official who could grant

such authority, if he _could_ grant it, was the very man whose abuses had

created a need for law. I would have to go to Bubo the Dean.

We looked at the transfer the sergeant had peeled from the glass. Whorls

and lines on the ball of the foot showed clearly. "I'm not prejudging the

case, Jack, but this exhibit will hang him. You can't pay off a judge on this

planet."

Superficially, I had to agree, but there remained the task of finding the

culprit whose foot matched the print, and there was the problem of authority

in the matter of capital punishment. "Draw up your warrant, Frick, and I'll

meet you at headquarters in half an hour."

Rather than dampen my student's enthusiasm for the case, I said nothing

about the legal void in which we moved but left immediately for Dean Bubo's

office. For me, my task was more interesting than the murder. Krale's death

gave me an opportunity to prove that Bubo the Dean was in fact a systems

computer.

CHAPTER TEN

Dean Bubo's outer office was larger than that assigned to teachers with a

railing separating the reception area from a working area occupied by four

student assistants, one the secretary who had recorded the minutes of the

Regents' Conference. I spoke to the receptionist: "Will you tell Bubo the

Dean that Jack the Teacher would like an audience immediately on a matter of

extreme urgency?"

She went and spoke to the male secretary, who came forward. "Jack the

Teacher, Bubo the Dean is occupied with administrative matters. Could I help

you?"

"No, you could not! This is a matter between the Dean and me."

"Jack, if you could just explain to . . ." he began.

"There's no point explaining what must be explained to the Dean alone.

Now, let me see him."

"Jack, the Dean's office is taboo."

"I'm from Earth, and we have no fear of taboos."

"It is not fear, Jack, but respect. It is our duty to keep the chief

administrator sacrosanct so that he might better devote his thoughts to

matters of policy."

"This is a matter of highest policy and demands his immediate attention."

"Wait here, Jack, and I will try."

The assistant walked back, knocked on the door to the inner office and

entered. His absence was protracted, or so it seemed to me, pacing nervously

beyond the rail. I was so confident that my theory was correct that I was

flabbergasted when Dean Bubo walked from his office and advanced toward the

railing. It was the same man who had appeared on television. A star

decorated his tunic.

"What's this matter of highest policy?" he asked.

"Dean Bubo, in my capacity as your teacher of law, I wish to tell you

that a student has been murdered."

"Don't tell me. Call the organ bank."

"But I come to you because his murderer should be hanged."

"Why come to me? I'm no hangman!"

"I come to you for authority to seek out, arrest and bring the criminal

to trial."

"You're the law teacher. Try him."

"Are you, then, delegating the authority to me?"

"Of course not. Delegate your own authority. . . . Listen, Jack. You

take care of your problems, I'll take care of mine. Fair enough?"

"Yes, Dean."

But I was talking to the back of Bubo, who was hurrying back to his

higher-policy decisions. Chagrined, I stalked moodily back to headquarters

and countersigned a Jondoe warrant for the arrest of Krale's murderer, or

murderers, on my own authority.

Frick entered from the interrogation room. "Jack, I've got the girl back

there and she's willing to cooperate. If my deductions hold, we'll break this

case in a matter of hours."

"Good, Frick, but have a counselor standing by before you interrogate."

"I've notified Val and Mon already, Commissioner."

"Val and Mon? Aren't those the two from Red's awkward squad?"

"Yes, Jack."

"They couldn't defend a blind grandmother from an assault charge," I

said. "Get Bardo, Marti and Fisk. At least they'll give the prosecution a

little training."

"Yes, Jack. But a question: How do you build a gibbet?"

Hastily I sketched a gallows frame on a note pad, knowing his totally

receptive mind would grasp the principle. With a bit of twine, I showed him

how a noose was tied and fitted around the neck.

Frick looked over my drawing. "Well, as Moses would say, 'A neck for a

neck.'"

His remark intrigued me. "I didn't know you were interested in religion,

Frick."

"Red's a good teacher, and its the duty of a police officer to keep

himself informed on methods of punishment."

"Right, Frick, and here's your warrant. . . . It looks as if I've landed

on this planet just in time to help you stop a crime wave. Are there many

murders on Harlech?"

"Once there were quite a few," Frick said, "but there's been none on

record the last five thousand years."

"This may not be the last," I said, thinking of Cara and the wine bottle.

"But I've got to go. If any break occurs in this case, I'll be home."

I wanted to stay around the station to hear the result of the

interrogation of Dori, but I was worried about Cara. Recalling her mood when

I left, it occurred to me that Tamar might not be the next victim of homicide

on Harlech. It might well be Jack Adams.

Cara was abed when I returned, but the dining room was a mess from the

interrupted dinner. In the center of the table, eight pork chops were stacked

one atop one another to form a leaning tower. Looking over the disarray, I

felt less disgust than sympathy for the girl whose first attempt at an Earth

dinner, so eagerly planned and long awaited, had been interrupted by the

attempted seduction of her husband and terminated prematurely by a murder.

As I looked, I heard a lamp click on in the bedroom. Cara was awake and

waiting. With sudden inspiration, I picked up a cold pork chop, bit into it

and entered smiling.

Cara was not smiling. She sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, her

arms folded across her chest. Casually waving my pork chop as a banner, I

bent to kiss her lips and received a cheek instead.

"What's the matter, Cara? Can't you sleep?"

"Matter! Let me smell your breath."

I exhaled an innocent breath across her nostrils.

"So, after Red brought that swivel-hipped hussy to your rendezvous you

had no time for drinking!"

"Be reasonable, Cara. You know I was out on a case."

"Hah! A case? And after I spend four hours slaving over a hot stove."

"Women work from sun to sun," I said, forgetting there was no sun in her

life, "but man's work is never done."

"Quit moralizing," she snapped. "You promised to love, honor and cherish

me till death do us part and you leave before dinner's over."

"Death did part us, dearest," I said. "Your dinner was delightful, but a

student, Krale, was murdered."

"And why should that keep you two hours? Were you trying to resurrect

him?"

"Darling, I'm the Police Commissioner. There are duties I have to

perform." Patiently, step by step, I explained the procedures that had

occupied my time. The explanation took an hour, and she listened in stony

silence. When I finished she said, "You loved it when that Tamar toed you

under the table."

"Dearest Cara, I was never so embarrassed. But she was a guest escorted

into our house by my best friend, and I could not be rude to her in your

presence or in Red's. What happened after I left?"

"Red got her out before I broke her neck. But what did you mean

insulting my pork chops in her presence?"

"I was not talking about your pork chops. You had compared Tamar to a

pig, so I agreed with you that I didn't like pork. It was an oblique

criticism of Tamar. . . . As for your pork chops, I never tasted better. And

by the way, where were you when I was pleading to you, with my eyes, for help?

. . . Where was your loyalty and devotion when that pig Tamar was slopping at

your trough?"

So I attacked, and my scheme worked. With innocent protest, with love

avowed, with vehemence, sincerity and adoration for two cold pork chops, I

made her large toe twitch. By midnight and third pork chop her thigh

quivered. By twelve-fifteen, her jaw began to wag. And at twelve-sixteen the

phone rang.

I picked up the bedroom extension. It was Frick.

"Commissioner, the case is solved. The suspect has tendered a full

confession with the consent of his attorneys, who were present. It was one of

Dori's rejected suitors, as I suspected."

"Splendid, Frick. Is Dori still in the back room?"

"No, Jack. But she left her deposition. When I showed the suspect the

print and matched it with his foot, he sang like a canary. It wasn't much of

a challenge, really. The murderer is Nesser, your altarboy. He wants to talk

to you, Jack, about forgiveness."

"I'll be right over, Frick."

Numbed from shock, I slowly placed the phone back onto its receiver and

turned to my wife. She was coiled into a tight little ball in the far corner

of the bed, hugging her legs to her with her face buried between her knees.

To kiss her goodnight on the lips, I would have had to unravel her. To

unravel her, I would have had to use a crow bar.

Cara was being hostile, suspicious and irrational in her jealousy, and

still I loved her. But the only portion of her bared to my kiss would have

degraded my love had I kissed it. So I merely patted her good-night and

turned off the light.

"What's this I hear about you confessing, boy?"

Nesser sat on the bunk in the corner of his cell, staring straight ahead,

the closest to a picture of dejection that any Harlechian could come.

"Dori spurned me, Jack," he said. "I couldn't live without her. I

followed Krale. I killed him so Dori would go steady with me again."

I didn't have the heart to tell the boy that he was only one cull from a

large barrel of apples. "So you permitted lust to rob you of reason."

"Jack, it was love, and your Dean of Deans said, 'Love one another.'"

"He wasn't talking about hip flik," I said. "But he might forgive you if

you but go to Him in your prayers."

"I might have gone, Jack, but not now."

His answer dismayed me. "Boy, you'd better reconsider. Prayer might be

the only solution to your problem."

"Jack, the Scripture says, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.' It

was not my eye that put me here."

Suddenly I realized that the Scripture had again run afoul of the literal

mind of a Harlechian. "The idea is that you should feel such remorse for your

sins that any punishment would be welcome. Now, Nesser, Frick tells me you

wanted instructions on how to achieve forgiveness for your sin."

"Yes, Jack. Krale cannot forgive me. His poor neck snapped like a

broomstick. I wanted to ask you, as a teacher, to go to Dori and order her to

visit me so I can plead for her forgiveness because I murdered her steady. I

want to get down on my knees and beg her forgiveness as Red the Teacher taught

in Elementary Human Emotions."

This boy was not seeking divine forgiveness. Possibly he might even be

seeking a liaison with his former girlfriend. Rising, I said gruffly, "I'll

see what I can do, Nesser."

Frick was gone, but I left a message with the desk sergeant telling him

that his prisoner wished to see Dori. "Tell him to try to talk her into

seeing Nesser."

"That shouldn't be hard," the sergeant commented. "She's cooperating

with half the force now. There's something about a uniform."

Wearily I trudged home from a day of legal, domestic, police and

spiritual problems. For the second time in one night, I entered my bedroom,

and the rales of Cara told me she slept. Quietly I undressed, pillowing my

head near the balled buttocks of my wife.

Cara was gone from my side when I awakened late on the Seventh-day

morning, but a note was pinned to my pillow.

Jack, my shifty-eyed husband, I have gone to a script conference and from

there I will go to a costume fitting and from there to a voice teacher and

from there to rehearsals. Your breakfast is on the table, but you will have

to take lunch in the refectory. You were out all night, so I let you sleep

in.

Was Dori as good as Tamar?

_Cara_

I read the note and tossed it into the wastebasket, where it belonged.

Marriage is a two-way street, I thought, and that girl is going to learn who

wears the jockstrap in this family. While I had been out on an errand of

mercy to the cell of a prisoner who was, to all appearances, condemned, she

had assumed that I was out with some female.

Despite her training in logic, Cara Adams was as irrational as an

Earthwoman.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover the dining room was again my

study, neat and orderly, but the pleasure only lasted as far as the kitchen.

In a plate in the center of the table, two hard-boiled eggs were placed

carefully on last night's tower of cold pork chops.

Deciding to forego the breakfast for lunch at the commissary, I called

Red and asked him over to share the meal. He had rehearsals that afternoon

and was in a hurry, but he was interested in my story of the murder

investigation and my confrontation with Bubo. "That star on his tunic must

mean he's status-conscious. There are few other emoluments for a man in his

position," Red commented. "Strange, though, that he should let you authorize

a trial. He should see that a legal system could be used against him."

"I'm wavering a little on the trial, myself," I admitted. "If Nesser's

hanged, in a way I'll be morally responsible."

"Nonsense," Red said. "There's no morality in an institution.

Logically, the only official responsible for Nesser's death is the hangman."

"Frick would probably hang the hangman," I said, "and we'd have one

murder trial after another."

"Well, bread and circuses. . . . Say, Jack, we may have a conflict of

interests here."

"How so?"

"By law, hangings are public. See if you can drag out the trial until

after the Christmas pageant."

"Don't worry, Red. I won't hog your limelight, if you'll do me a favor."

"What?"

"Tell Cara to please come home after rehearsals."

"Oh," Red grinned. "Tamar, eh? Those legs of yours set her in motion.

For a while there, I was afraid she was going rigid at the table."

"And you select her to play the Virgin. What happened Kiki?"

"She's not available. . . . Jack, I find the best defense against an

accusation for something you didn't do is to do it." He glanced at his watch.

"I've got to move. See what you can do about holding off the hanging."

After he left, I sat brooding over my coffee. I didn't want Nesser to

hang. As a freed and repentant sinner, I could use his testimonials in my

evangelistic effort. O'Hara had inadvertently shown me a way to free the boy

on a technicality if Bardo, Marti and Fisk weren't able to win the legal

battle.

Hangmen could only be appointed by state authority, and there was no

state authority on Harlech because there was no state.

With my mind eased, I went down to the station to find that Dori had

already visited with Nesser and had forgiven him.

Looking over the paperwork in the case of Nesser versus the citizens of

Harlech 36, I was amazed at the accuracy and thoroughness with which the

students had assimilated and acted upon Earth law. Reno, as general

commanding the centurions, was the judge advocate for the court-martial, with

three of Red's centurions and the prosecutor comprising the remainder of the

board.

Reno was chief reviewing officer, and Reno was earmarked for expulsion.

He was to play Herod in the Christmas pageant. Here again I might have a

technicality in the making. The court was a student tribunal, and Reno's

decision could be void once he was expelled. If Nesser were condemned and

Reno disqualified, then I could probably free Nesser under the double-jeopardy

clause.

I asked Frick for a rundown on Reno.

"I put him under surveillance only a week ago," Frick said, "so his

dossier isn't complete. His mother's skipper of a shrimp trawler. He's a

dour sort. Doesn't talk much. Goes steady with one girl. Never much of a

scholar. When Red came along with his centurion idea, Reno found a career.

I'd say he's a typical military mind."

Even though I didn't like Flick's offhand dismissal of the "typical

military mind," I was interested in his record-keeping.

"You had a line on the murder victim," I said. "You knew Nesser, and now

you speak of a dossier on Reno. How do you accumulate these files?"

Frick thought for a moment before answering. "Generally speaking,

Commissioner, my files are the common knowledge of the students. As Chief of

Police, I have to keep myself informed."

His answer was evasive.

"In particular, Frick, why do you get a dossier on persons as diverse as

Reno and Nesser?"

"Because they are diverse. Crimes are seldom committed by the average

student"

"How can you do it with such a small police force?"

"Oh, I don't use uniformed police for undercover work. I have a much

larger staff of secret agents."

"How do you recruit them?"

"It's easy, Commissioner. They're given career opportunities. You see,

before you and Red came along, we were all destined for some specialized

branch of learning, but we're not all inclined toward scholarship. Can you

imagine me at a potter's wheel?"

"What about security?" I asked. "How do you know your organization has

not been infiltrated by Bubo's blade tunics?"

"It has," Frick answered, "but since they are students they are with us.

Bubo's agents are double-agents. We have Bubo under surveillance."

"What have you got on Bubo?"

Frick leaned over and handed me a blank sheet of paper. "This will do

for a dossier on Bubo. He's Chief Administrator."

Life is a series of tensions, and the secret is to keep them in balance.

With a permanent military under the observation of a growing secret-police

apparatus, plus crime and domestic problems, I had a well-organized system of

dynamic tensions. At the moment, I felt I must concentrate on achieving

domestic tranquillity and freeing Nesser to assist me in my ministry. My

second problem was complicated almost immediately.

"Jack, the District Attorney came to me this morning with a peculiar

problem: When we hang that hoodlum back there, the hangman will be liable for

his murder."

These students were geniuses, I thought.

"So," I agreed, "that does pose a problem."

"I've figured a way around it, Jack. . . . An automated hanging."

"What do you mean?"

"Force Nesser to hang himself."

"How so?"

"Rather easily, Commissioner. We'll use a self-actuated gibbet. On the

morning of the execution, we can slip a little DNA from a lemming into

Nesser's coffee to heighten his death-wish. We affix the noose at the foot of

the gallows here." He began to sketch a gibbet rapidly as he talked. "Nesser

climbs the thirteen steps and the thirteenth actuates a timer on the trap

door. His noose has one-way retractability arranged through a system of

pulleys here. A T-bar, emerging here, forces him forward onto the platform

and onto the trap door. After thirteen seconds an explosive charge rips back

the bolt and the trap door opens, bang! Then he falls through here, _whoosh!_

and the rope catches here, _whomp!_"

Frick's efficiency was marvelous but I might have wished for less

enthusiasm in certain areas. However, I had the problem of domestic

tranquillity to balance my tensions, and I went home early in order to wait

for Cara.

Surprisingly, she returned from her rehearsal bubbling with joy and

forgiveness.

"I can hardly wait for you to see my costume, Jack my Beloved — the

sheerest of diaphene."

"But, sweetheart," I protested, "wouldn't a diaphene costume be a little

too revealing?"

"Nonsense, Jack. Beneath the diaphene is a sheaf of silver that covers

my whole body. It even constricts my breasts, so I'm no Tamar if that's what

you fear."

I avoided that subject quickly. "Now, what about those voice lessons?"

"Oh, I trill a few notes at the beginning and end of the play. Red says

I have a beautiful voice."

After her exuberance had died, and after dinner in the refectory, I

waited until we had returned home and retired before I dared question the

tenor of the note she had left me that morning. "You must understand, Cara,

that murder is not treated lightly on Earth and our sense of duty sometimes

overrules our personal desires. I'll never be unfaithful to you, on Heaven or

Earth, for you are my only beloved."

"Dear Jack, forgive me for being suspicious and jealous. I know it was

wrong to doubt. I know you went to Nesser's cell last night, honey baby,

sweet doll."

"Why the change of heart?"

"Because, daddy baby, I checked . . . with Frick . . . this morning . . .

and read . . ."

She was not able to finish the sentence, but I understood. Despite the

gales of tenderness howling around me, there was a calm eye in my hurricane

where I considered what she had meant to say. Frick, my own Chief of Police,

had put a tail on his Commissioner. I had never seen such devotion to duty,

and I could take advantage of the student's conscientiousness.

As long as my bride was reading my dossier, it would be a simple matter

to implement the trust that now bound our marriage. I would put a tail on

Cara.

So it came to pass in early winter that Mary and Joseph trekked toward

Bethlehem at a faster pace than Nesser approached judgment. Bardo, Marti and

Fisk threw delaying tactics at Reno, the judge advocate general, even

contesting the legality of the court. Reno ruled that the Constitution of

Imperial Earth applied to Harlech, providing _de facto_ jurisdiction for his

court, and he based his argument on an obscure paragraph from Rousseau's

_Social Contract_, ruling that the logic therein was universal.

Sitting as an observer, I was awed by Reno's mind. His command presence

was such that Red had appointed him general of centurions, yet his reasoning

was so quick and devious that, on Earth, he could have succeeded as anything

from a politician to an insurance claims adjuster.

Reno's strategy gained my approval.

Not once had I lost sight of my reason for establishing law courts on

Harlech. Observing Reno at the trial, watching him nod or shake his head,

listening to his fiats issued in a flat but commanding voice, I knew Red had

chosen his sacrificial goat with foresight and skill. Reno was building an

infra-structure of student government that would challenge and end forever the

administration by whim of Bubo the Dean, and he was building himself into the

ideal victim for the _cause célèbre_ that would trigger the students into a

revolt for law and order.

Reno could have been a partner in the Adams-O'Hara conspiracy judged from

the precedents he was establishing with his decrees and decisions. In my

analysis of Red's con games, I could see that he was using the boy as a

pigeon, but I didn't object because I would share in the victimization of

Reno. All the testimony now being taken from the police, from Don and from

the student who had discovered Krale's body would be ruled prejudicial once

Reno was expelled. Then, legally, no murder could have occurred since legally

the victim had never existed.

Scoffers who doubt the verity of miracles are seldom familiar with

jurisprudence.

My optimism was concealed from Nesser. Almost daily I visited him,

hoping to arouse his remorse and repentance, and I painted a dismal picture of

his fate. He was so frightened of damnation that he asked me to pray for a

miracle to deliver him. He would not join me in prayer because he was

positive that once he embraced Christianity he would be doomed to the

Christian hell. I had faith that the miracle would occur, and I wanted Nesser

to give thanks to the proper authority when I sprang him on a technicality.

Most of my free time was spent at the court and in the jailhouse. When I

wasn't trying to convert Nesser, I was reading the daily report on Cara.

Around other students, Cara showed less restraint than with me. But even

her unbridled speech bore testimony to her love for her husband. Once when

approached by an actor who suggested carnal gratification, old-style, she

rebuffed him with a bluntness almost naughty: "I'm married to an Earthman, and

any girl who embraces an oak tree has no feeling for saplings. Begone,

amateur."

In my conversations, I praised my wife highly at the slightest

opportunity, for her dossier reported that she read my dossier.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By the end of the third week, it became apparent that Nesser would need a

technicality to keep him from hanging. My three best law students, Bardo,

Marti and Fisk, made only feeble attempts to establish reasonable doubt.

Generally, they agreed with the logic of the prosecution and were aided and

abetted by their client, who nodded in agreement when a point of law was

scored against him. His counsel refused to let Nesser testify in his own

defense, and I agreed with them.

Frick told me that Nesser eagerly awaited the evening news program, which

Red had introduced on local television, because the program largely dealt with

his trial, in which he was referred to as "The Harlech Strangler." My

impression that he enjoyed the attention was substantiated when, after much

haggling, his attorneys finally admitted his footprint as evidence. Then he

passed a note back to me.

Jack the Teacher,

If I am hanged, could my execution be shown on television with Red the

Teacher directing?

_Nesser the Strangler_

His note vexed and troubled me. Nesser preferred to die as a heathen

than to run the risk of a Christian hereafter.

Trial was recessed during the winter intermission and all Harlech focused

on Red's Christmas pageant. Cara obtained front-row seats for Frick and me

because, as she put it, she owed Frick a favor.

Despite the planet-wide, full-color, three-dimensional telecast, the

pageant played before a packed house, and _dramatis personae_ was given to

each member of the audience. I was thrilled to see the first name on the

list:

Hark, the Herald Angel........Cara Adams.

As the orchestra in the pit — which was literally a pit dug into the

floor of the soccer gym for this occasion — played a medley of Earth's

Christmas carols, the house lights slowly dimmed except for one bright, tiny

light above the proscenium, the Star of Bethlehem. Then, out of a darkness

accentuated by the Star, came the voice of my beloved, caroling above the wail

of a single trumpet.

Hark, the Herald Angel, sings

Glory to the Dean of Deans.

Come we now to Bethlehem

To hum hymns in praise of Him.

Draki had translated the old carol well, fitting it to the play and to

the locale, and Cara's voice was dimmed only by her radiance when she

appeared, in a diffused cloud of light, floating high above the stage on

invisible wires. For the period of her singing, the light played only on

Cara, adorned in a full-length silver leotard covered with diaphene that

extended from her shoulders in a twelve-foot wingspread. As Red had promised,

Cara's role topped Mary's by a full twenty feet, for my wife was a

golden-haired angel.

Then the light swelled to illuminate a corner of the stage, showing Mary

in the manger surrounded by an anxious Joseph and shepherds with crooks. At

this point there was only one variation from the original story. A midwife

was present to explain the meaning of the scene through dialogue. Mary was

undergoing labor pains — another touch of O'Hara realism.

The spotlight shifted to right-center, leaving the manger in darkness,

and the main business of the play began — the chase. King Herod, leading a

troop of centurions, entered, and tension began to build up between the

soldiers, the innkeeper and the Maids of Bethlehem as Herod demanded to know

the whereabouts of the child.

Allowing for dramatic license, the remainder of the play was carried out

with taste and decorum. After the Maids of Bethlehem had enticed the

centurions upstairs, the innkeeper began to operate on Herod. One glance at

the innkeeper told me why Tamar had been relegated to the role of Mary. Red

must have imported the innkeeper from the Southern Continent, and by the time

Herod vanished offstage with the girl, he had forgotten the Child, the Star

and the whole of Bethlehem. That girl was a pure 40 on a continent where 32

was a good average.

Almost as an anticlimax, the scene shifted back to the manger, where

Mary, now bathed with a halo of backlight, had given birth to her baby.

But there was a method to Red's dramatics — the qualities that made him a

con artist stood him in good stead as a producer. In contrast to the

raucousness and ribaldry in the inn, the scene in the manger held a reverence

and serenity that drew _ooohs_ and _ahs_ from the audience. Only one

discordant note intervened in the final scene in the manger: The three wise

men bearing gifts entered with a soft-shoe routine, singing "We Three Kings of

Orient Are" to the tune of "Tea for Two."

But that note was quickly banished when — last scene of all — the lights

dimmed and my angel floated above a chorus of shepherds to sing "Silent

Night."

Cara finished the last words of the song in total blackness except for

the pinpoint of light high above, the everburning Star of Bethlehem. It did

not go out but was lost in the stronger lights as the houselights shone on a

drawn curtain.

There was dead-silence. The spectators looked around as if they could

not believe it was over, as if they couldn't believe it had happened. Once

they were convinced that the play was finished, they rose, flexed toes grown

stiff with inactivity, and a few stood on their chairs.

Then bedlam broke loose.

Looking around me, I saw for the first time emotion on the faces of

Harlechians. Hooting, clapping, leaping, they applauded and continued to

applaud. Then the curtain was drawn back to reveal the cast, and the stage

manager had to draw it again to avoid a cave-in in the cavern.

When the noise had subsided the curtain was pulled again for the second

curtain call, and on this appearance each member of the cast stepped forward,

one at a time, to receive an individual ovation. When Cara bowed, the noise

crested at its second-highest peak of the evening. Only Herod earned more

decibels than Cara, and his ovation was not unmixed with whoofs, the

Harlechian equivalent of a boo.

When Tamar stepped forward to take her bow, she carried the child with

her, still wrapped in swaddling clothes, and my eyes were attracted to the

baby. There seemed a disproportion to the child, for the clearance between

its heels and hips was dubious.

Red permitted five curtain calls for an audience that would have gone to

fifteen. When the final curtain came, I hurried backstage to compliment Cara,

congratulate Red and to make a closer check of two dimensions, the child's and

the innkeeper's.

When I embraced Cara, she was ecstatic, whispering, "Did you notice I got

more applause than Tamar?"

"And you deserved it," I whispered. "She was upstaged twice — once by

you and once by the innkeeper."

She stiffened in my arms. "Don't get any ideas about the innkeeper," she

whispered. "She's Red's charwoman. Without her make-up she's forty years

old, and without her cantilever Red designed, they'd fall like a curtain."

"Then, dearest, I'd like to go look at the Christ Child."

"Wasn't she a darling? Come."

The baby was surrounded by a circle of feminine admirers, but now it

nestled in the arms of its mother, the long-absent Kiki. Kiki was happy to

see me and mildly surprised when I asked to hold the baby, but she granted my

wish.

I was delighted with the infant, but I was thrilled when, in answer to my

cooing and clucking, it opened its eyes and smiled at me. I had rightly

suspected its legs, for the eyes that looked into mine were a watery blue.

There were tears in my own eyes when I handed the baby back to Kiki.

Here was proof that interbreeding could occur between human beings and

Harlechians, that my love for Cara might be blessed with issue.

Cara was touched by my tears. "Jack my Beloved, if you had the hip

movement, you would make a wonderful mother."

As soon as I could draw Red aside, I whispered to him in English, "You're

the father of Kiki's baby."

"I rather think so."

"What was her gestation period?"

"Beats me, Jack."

"Didn't you keep a log?"

"I couldn't, Jack. There were so many, and many kept coming back. If it

happened when I was casting for Juliet, the bairn won't qualify under the

seven-month clause."

"Red, this is sheer dereliction of duty."

"I know, lad. But the documentation is up to you, so keep careful

notes."

I turned from Red in disappointment. Now that I was reasonably certain

that Cara and I could have an issue, I was uncertain what the issue would be.

If it came less than seven months after conception, I could only be positive

of its bastardy, for my marriage to Cara would not be legal even if I were

appointed Procurator of All Harlech.

Red broke out a case of wine and I stood sipping with the cast. Since

the char lady with the uplift-outshoot bra had gone back to her brooms, most

of my attention was directed toward the door. After an hour, the wine and

most of the cast had gone, and no black tunic had entered bearing a pink slip

for Reno. My hope of releasing Nesser on a technicality also went.

As Cara and I walked back with Red toward Faculty Row, I commented, "It

looks as if Reno is off the hook for his part as King Herod."

"Reno was never on the hook," Red said. "When you tipped me off about

Bubo's vanity, I had Reno personally assign a praetorian guard, answerable

only to Bubo, at the Dean's office. The old man was pleased as punch at

Reno's gesture. He doesn't want anyone coming in to catch the Chief

Administrator taking a nap."

Red's casual manner lent truth to his words. I had misread Red's

intentions to create a _cause célèbre_ over the expelling of Reno, and now the

fate of Nesser was squarely up to Bardo, Marti and Fisk.

Red's pageant marked the close of the fall quarter and the end of our

lectures on religion, but it was the beginning of my underground ministry. I

had assumed the sense of injustice aroused among the students by the

discontinuance of classes coupled with the impact of the Christmas play would

bring postulants flocking to my little chapel in the tunnel. Only twelve

students showed up for my first prayer meeting, and they were mostly rejects

from drama, law, the police and cadet corps. I could take heart only from

their number — twelve.

In the privacy of our inner quarters, I discussed the poor response with

Cara. "Dear Jack, you speak so much of doom you frighten us."

"Cara, you say 'us' as if you agreed with the heathens."

"I can't love the Dean of Deans because you are all that I can take care

of. If He were a woman, I would not let you be a Christian. Besides, I can't

make head or tails of what He says."

"My dear, He speaks in parables."

"Then He should say what He means."

After our conversation, I meditated at length on my problem. Were

Harlechian minds too literal to grasp the allegories of the Scriptures? Would

logic forever deny them the Truth?

Yet I did not despair. These were my children, and I would lead them,

step by step, to a full understanding of the beauty of the parables. But

since they were children, I decided to make their first few steps easy: For

the winter quarter, I offered a course in _Aesop's Fables_.

Continuance of Nesser's trial into winter provided an interest that

alleviated my, disappointment over the opening of my new ministry. In fact,

interest in Nesser's trial was becoming general through word carried by

itinerant students and through letters home, and a summary of the proceedings

was commenced on planet-wide television. 36 was getting a reputation as a

campus where things were happening, and I reaped a windfall bonus for my

ministry from the interest.

Frick was interviewed on the newscast and his references to me created a

public curiosity I gratified by granting an interview. In it I strove to

explain why murder was not merely a crime but a sin, and I discussed my

attempts to salvage the spirit of Nesser in the event his body was lost.

After my interview, I was deluged with mail, which was almost evenly

divided between those who were interested in the length of my arms, legs and

other appurtenances and those seeking a clearer definition of the concept of a

soul. I solved my correspondence problem with two form letters: one giving my

dimensions where proper, and one defining the soul.

Reasoning that my questioners were good mathematicians but poor

theologians, I described the soul as a no-space continuum between two unified

fields.

As a law teacher, I was disappointed in Nesser's defense attorneys. They

were adept at delaying justice but inept at thwarting it, and they made clumsy

errors in nomenclature, referring to the "alleged murder" and the "alleged

victim" when, in fact, both the crime and its victim had been legally

established. The final straw came when, nearing the end of the trial, they

asked for a month's recess in order to produce new witnesses.

Reno granted the request, perhaps from curiosity. Everyone remotely

connected with the crime had been cross-questioned by both the prosecution and

the defense. It was obvious that Bardo, Marti and Fisk intended to dig up

character witnesses. To perform that task for their client would have taken a

millennium: it was becoming increasingly obvious to me that Nesser had no

character.

Nesser was going to hang, unless some impassioned plea could be made at

the summation of his trial to sway the jury toward mercy rather than justice.

There was only one man, on Heaven or Earth, who could arouse Harlechian

emotions, and that was the congenital confidence man, Red O'Hara.

I made an official call on Red.

Since he was seated at his desk cheating at solitaire, I knew he was

ruminating over some problem of his own. He looked up with a preoccupied grin

when I entered and said, "Hello, Jack. How's the trial coming? They going to

hang your lad?"

"Looks like it, Red."

"Aye, that it does. How's the marriage? Cara still weeping?"

"Lake a baby. . . . But, Red, I'm not here looking for marriage counsel.

I'm worried about Nesser."

"Beat him!" Red exclaimed, laying down his final cards, a two of spades

appended to a three of clubs and a deuce of diamonds to a trey of hearts. He

slid the cards together into a neat pile, snapped them and shuffled them with

the riffle of a riverboat gambler. "Yeah, I know how you feel, Jack. I'm

worried about a problem with my Easter play. I might have to call on you for

help."

His remark surprised me. Drama was his department, pure and simple — a

sacrosanct area in which he invited no suggestions and accepted no advice. So

I told him, "That's what I'm here for, to get your help. Drama's not my

dish."

"This is different, Jack. I'm planning a Passion Play directed toward a

noble purpose."

"That's precisely what I want from you," I retorted, "passion directed

toward a noble purpose."

He ignored my remark and looked at me quizzically. "Turn your head to

the right, Jack. I want to study your profile."

I did as he requested.

"By God," he exclaimed. "Perfect! That stern unyielding brow, that

jutting jaw. Jack, did anybody ever tell you that you project martyrdom and

self-righteousness?"

"What's this all about?"

"Realism is one of the qualities that make an O'Hara production great, so

I've decided to hold the Crucifixion scene outdoors. . . ."

"Wait a minute, Red! You get your cast and audience on the surface,

transfix their attention with one of your magnificent pageants and a spring

storm strikes. It would be slaughter."

"The Holy Virgin would sure spare us a half-hour, considering our

purpose. . . . Anyway, nothing could make a Harlechian forget the popping in

his ears when a storm's coming, and the audience would only be yards from an

escape burrow. . . . I want this one to be a colossus with a whole phalanx of

centurions, the Jerusalem rabble, the Apostles — the whole magilla. You've

seen that knob north of the soccer field?"

"Of course."

"You were looking at Golgotha. The spectators' area will be just below

the knob, so they'll have to look up at the Crucifixion — to give them proper

awe. After the hand-washing scene in the soccer gym, audience and cast will

transfer to the surface."

"That's no problem."

"Not that. Beards. The play's being televised for the off-campus

audience. I can get by with stage beards on the Apostles, but Jesus Christ is

another story. The camera will be focused on Him. Particularly in the Last

Supper scene when He projects the whole tragedy of Judas' betrayal in one sad

smile. Nothing is faker than a phony beard and I want no hint of phoniness to

touch my J.C."

"Red, you don't _know_ that Jesus wore a beard," I interjected.

"All the pictures show a beard."

"Those aren't photographs. They are artists' conceptions. Chinese

artists don't paint Him with a beard."

"What about that old expression 'Swear by the beard of the prophet'?"

"That expression refers to Mohammed."

Red looked at me dubiously. "I remember no verse in the Bible saying

'Jesus shaved.'"

"Chances are He wore a beard," I conceded, "possibly a red beard, since

He was a Nazarene, and they didn't have razors. . . . But I didn't come here

to discuss the tonsorial habits of Jesus. There's a boy in jail who's going

to hang."

"Aye? That's too bad. . . . A red beard you say?"

"Possibly auburn. Red, I need help in the legal department from a man

who can trick judges, sway jurors and confuse prosecutors. . . ."

Red was again concentrating on his cards and laid a nine of hearts

beneath a ten of diamonds.

". . . From a man capable of cheating himself in a game of solitaire," I

added.

"An oversight, but let it stand. . . . My mind is distracted by the

saddest event in all the universe: the Crucifixion of Our Blessed Savior. . .

. As I see it, Jack, the climax comes when the cross is raised, on a Golgotha

littered with plastic bones. After the slow ascent of Calvary, I expect to

hear _oohs_ and _ahs_ from the bleachers when that twelve-foot cross is slowly

tilted to the sky."

"It would take a squad of centurions to drag a twelve-foot cross to the

top of that knob," I pointed out. "Harlechians aren't built for lifting."

"Aye," he nodded. "And there's my problem. . . . It must be done

somehow to make the audience grasp the symbolism of the cross."

"Easter's a long way off," I said. "Nesser will be sentenced within the

next ten days. I'm faced with an immediate problem — how to keep Nesser from

death by hanging."

"Have him drawn and quartered," Red suggested, reshuffling his cards.

"It would be a mite more dramatic and would be a convenience for the boys in

the organ bank."

"Cruel and unusual punishment is forbidden by Navy Regulations," I

reminded him.

"Oh, _that_ book! But mine is also an immediate problem. These

productions don't just happen. They are planned. I must begin casting right

away. . . . Do you think Cara would play Mary Magdalene?"

"She'd love it," I said. "But whoever heard of a blond Jewess?"

"I could write in dialogue explaining that her father was a Viking

sea-rover. . . . Now, here's a tremendous scene."

Red's face glowed as he looked up from the cards. "A tavern somewhere in

the tenderloin of Jerusalem, a drinking orgy in the Tom Jones manner, Mary's

bragging that she can drink any Jew there under the table. It's her

Scandinavian genes, see. It's wild! Then enter Jesus. A quiet falls over

the room. Mary Magdalene looks over the new man. She's hooked, converted on

the spot. . . . But here's the snapper. How can she express her feeling,

this dumb little broad? By dancing. Now, get this, Jack. All she can do is

shimmy. She prances up to Jesus and starts this belly-dance. . . ."

"A very sensual dance, eh, Red?"

He laid an eight of clubs below a nine of diamonds, so I knew the edge to

my voice had cut him. "These girls can shimmy. You've noticed how their hips

quiver before they hop. But Cara's would be dramaturgy . . . a holy

hootchy-cootchy."

"I would not permit my wife to perform on the surface," I told him

bluntly, "because I value her life. I would not permit her to shimmy on the

stage below before some heathen impersonating Christ because I treasure her

immortal soul."

He focused on me an unclouded gaze. "It would be a proper part for Cara

because her husband is going to be my Jesus."

"What?"

"You're a natural for the role, Jack. You have the long face, the air of

righteousness, you can grow the beard and, with your strength, you could lug

the cross easily to Calvary."

"It would be sacrilege for me to impersonate Jesus."

"Not at all. In the old Passion Plays it was always the most devout who

was chosen for the role."

"Play your own Jesus," I said. "I know I'm unworthy."

"Agreed," Red grinned. "But I am even less worthy."

"Agreed!"

There was a six of diamonds turned up on his shuffle and the only seven

on his line was in spades. "Beaten," Red said.

"Why don't you play the six of diamonds on your seven of spades?" I

asked.

"Is it Jack Adams suggesting that I cheat?"

"It would be cheating for Red O'Hara not to cheat."

"No more," he said, shaking his head. "Not in your presence. Your air

of deep peace and spiritual serenity daunts me. . . . How's the Crusade for

Christ coming?"

"Poorly. No converts. Cara tells me that Harlechians fear our Christian

hell."

"Then tempt them with heaven."

"Red, listen and think." I was becoming impatient. "Nesser will be

condemned unless he gets a final pleading that will reverse the board."

"Why worry about the lad's body? His soul is your concern."

"Our souls, yours and mine, are of equal concern. We're responsible for

that boy's death, and we're responsible for his murderer. . . ." I began.

"Like hell!" Red interrupted. "We weren't in the washroom when Krale was

strangled."

"Sex-frustration did it," I insisted. "When we started these humanids

going steady."

"If Nesser was frustrated, then he should have been writing dirty words

on the washroom walls, like any normal lad. Jack, look at it this way: We

both need that hanging to teach law and order, and it's a rare opportunity for

you. Once Nesser's condemned, he's going to be receptive to salvation as he

never was before. And a fine star it will be in your crown that the first

criminal on Harlech was also the planet's first convert. Tell him about the

angels in heaven if he's sex-frustrated, but don't go into details. Think

what an example he'll make for your movement, showing that even unto the least

of these divine grace is not denied."

His enthusiasm was catching, but there was a hitch.

"I don't fancy that boy as the first Christian martyr," I said. "He's a

publicity hound without any remorse for his deed. He even asked to have you

direct his execution on television."

Red picked up the cards again and began a slow shuffle. "Now, that's not

such a bad idea. Throw it in as an inducement to conversion. 'Death Live on

Television,' there's our title. It would make a very dramatic scene: Nesser

mounting slowly to the gallows and you walking beside him, Bible in hand,

gowned in black, slowly chanting a 'Te Deum. . . ."

"I don't chant 'Te Deums.'"

Red palmed the deck and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "So Jesus had a

red beard. . . . Say, Jack, how are the shoulders on the lad?"

"Red, you aren't crucifying that boy."

"It would give the play a touch of O'Hara realism," he grinned.

"Be serious," I said. "I'm not interested in dramatics, and I don't want

that boy to die. I want you to enter the pleading, for you're the only con

artist on the planet who can get the boy off."

"Wasn't Nesser one of my students in Religions 1?"

"Yes, he had a superficial interest in religion. He was altarboy at the

wedding."

"Oh, I remember him. Is he insane?"

"Not legally. He ran away from the scene of the crime."

"I taught him the Commandments," Red said. "No, Jack, I can't defend the

lad."

"I'm not asking you to defend him. He admits to the crime. . . . I'm

asking you to convince Reno he should not be hanged."

Red thought for a moment. "I'll defend the lad for a fee."

"What fee?"

"You play Jesus and let Cara play Mary Magdalene."

"Red, it's against my principles to impersonate Jesus."

"It's against my principles to defend a boy who has broken my

Commandments. I'll swap you principles for principles."

"I'm not in the business of swapping gold for lead," I said, standing up.

"Get back to your cheating."

As I turned and stalked through the door, Red called out, "Think about

it, Jack, and talk it over with Cara."

Cara was preparing a soufflé in the kitchen when I got home. Hearing the

door open, she ran to meet me in the library, and I embraced her until the

soles of her feet began to caress my ankles. Only then did I release her.

"You are troubled, my husband."

"It's Red again, Cara." I took her hand and walked her back to the

kitchen. "That guy confuses me."

Cara placed my chair at the table and poured me a beer. "Talk to me,

Jack. It is the duty of a wife to comfort her beloved husband."

"When Red and I were roommates back in Mandan, our personalities were

matched by computers," I told her. "We're supposed to have separate-but-equal

personalities that differ but interlock. The matching is supposed to keep us

from getting on each other's nerves during a long space flight when we're

cooped up together. Otherwise one of us might develop stalker's fever, a form

of space madness where a man hunts his shipmate down and kills him. In a

sense, Red and I were mated by a computer, but at times I think he's a

computer error."

"Don't you like Red?" Astonishment was in her voice.

"Certainly I like him, but sometimes it takes an effort. I went over and

asked him to take over as Nesser's lawyer. Mine was a humanitarian request

for humanitarian reasons, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Jack. You are noble."

"What does Red do? He's casting for the Easter play. He wants someone

to play Jesus who can carry a cross and grow a beard. So, he tries to trap

me. He knows I need him for Nesser's defense, so he softtalks me into playing

Jesus. . . . He even threw in a nice juicy role for you. He knew I liked you

as the angel in the Christmas Play. Anyway, he pretended to be smitten by my

resemblance to Jesus. Of course, no one knows what Jesus looked like."

"What did he want me to play?"

"A blond Mary Magdalene. Imagine that! She's supposed to be a dancing

girl who's so smitten at her first sight of Jesus she jumps into a shimmy.

But listen to this, Cara. He wants to play the Crucifixion scene on the

surface. I'm supposed to lug a cross all the way to the top of the knob

during the season of equinoctial storms."

"The fire storms are not constant in the skies of spring," Cara said,

"and as Mary Magdalene I would be beside you to warn you if one approached.

Even you could reach shelter in time. I think you should play the hero."

"Cara, I'm not worthy enough for the role."

"You are certainly worthy enough to play the role, Jack, and I am

unworthy enough to play Mary Magdalene. Watch me shimmy!"

She shimmied.

"Cara, don't! It's indecent."

She stopped, bent forward at a ninety-degree angle, rested her elbow on

the table, chin in her palm, and asked, "But is it interesting?"

"Yes," I had to admit.

"You would make a wonderful Jesus," she said. "And if you can make the

same face you did when I shimmied, you could carry the agony scenes very

well."

"Cara, I will not impersonate Jesus in Red's Easter extravaganza. The

man was bom with a sense of irreverence. And I will not have you playing Mary

Magdalene as a lewd dance-hall girl. Red would have me cakewalking to

Calvary."

"What's 'cakewalking'?"

"A slow shimmy — and quit moving your hips."

"My dear husband Jack, you have told me not to take these plays too

seriously. Now you are taking a play very seriously."

"It's a spiritual matter, my dear."

Cara snapped upright, her green eyes sparkling with anger. "Whenever you

can't explain a matter, you croak 'spiritual'! Until you explain to me why

you won't play Jesus and will not let me play Mary Magdalene — with a shimmy —

I will not lift my little toe to do a thing for you."

Suddenly I had insight into Red's jaundiced view of blondes, but I held

my anger. "My concept of Christ is sacred."

"Then project that concept to the planet and gain converts. Red will

have his play regardless. Will you leave the task to some heathen on Harlech

because you lack a Christian's courage? Or do you fear the fire storms more

than your forebears feared the lions of Nero?"

She had several points there, I had to admit. "I will meditate on the

problem after supper."

"Be sure that you do. And be sure that you come up with the right answer

— yes."

Cara spoke to me only once during the meal, and her silence was more

gruesome than the overspiced soup, flat soufflé and watery coffee. Grown

hypocritical in my loneliness, I remarked cheerfully, "How do you prepare such

light soufflés, Cara, dear?"

"Spiritually," she snapped.

I fled to the study for my shortest period of meditation on record.

Red's remark that Nesser might serve the movement well as a criminal redeemed

had attractive implications from a policy standpoint, and unless Red put forth

his best effort Nesser was condemned anyway. The more I weighed the problem,

the more I grew convinced Nesser had to hang.

Validly, then, there was no reason for me to play the role of Christ

other than those given by Cara and by Cara's own pique. But Cara's pique was

reason enough.

I went to the door of my study and called Cara. She came, moving

rigidly. "I'm calling Red," I said, "and I want you to listen."

She stood in silence as I lifted the phone. "Red, I've talked the matter

over with Cara and we've decided to play the roles you offered in exchange for

your services as a lawyer."

"Good," Red said. "Thank Cara for me."

"Thank her yourself," I said, "she's in my lap."

And she was, leaping and twisting in the air to make a perfect two-point

landing.

After a flurry of conversation between the two, I returned to the phone.

"Red, if I'm going to star in your opus, I want final script approval."

"Nothing doing, Jack. I'm not starting a star system on this planet. I

can't have everybody's finger in the pie."

"Red, I'm willing to give you something in return for a few minor

concessions."

"What do you want?"

"No additions or deletions from the dialogue of Jesus as printed in red

in the King James Version of the Bible."

"That's reasonable."

"No dancing girls at the Last Supper."

"I'll take that one under advisement."

"Cara shall be costumed in the dress of the period."

"Even for the shimmy scene?"

"Especially for the shimmy scene."

"What else?"

"No nails in my hands. I hang myself from the cross."

He chuckled. "That would give it the O'Hara touch. . . . But what are

you conceding?"

"Nesser," I said. "Forget him."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nesser was not forgotten. Bardo, Marti and Fisk had been delaying the

trial in order to assemble a bombshell they exploded under the prosecution.

On the day the trial reconvened, there were nine witnesses in the

courtroom and not one was a character witness. They came from the three

continents and the remote polar cap. None had ever heard of Nesser before the

trial, but all were intimately linked with Nesser's victim, Krale.

A ranch hand, from University 10, where he was being retrained to herd

gazelles, had suffered brain damage when caught in a lightning storm; he was

functioning again with Krale's cerebral cortex. A sawmill worker was using

Krale's left arm and right hand. Krale's genito-urinary tract had brought

happiness to a young lady named Jan who had suffered a hormone imbalance and

was now enjoying life as a young man named Jon. Krale's heart still beat in

an aged scholar on this very campus. Krale's thalamus had restored the

emotional capacity, atrophied from disuse, of a theoretical mathematician, and

his lungs still breathed in the body of a lichenologist who had suffered lobar

frostbite at South Polar Station 12.

After all witnesses had been interviewed, Bardo stood and read from an

affidavit certified by the school's Department of Biocryogenics. It reminded

me of a shopping list for a housewife in a butcher's shop:

Liver: Bea the Student, University 27,

South Continent. Pancreas: Fork the Seiner Captain,

Shrimping Station 6. Kidney, left: Han the Pupil, Grammar School 2876,

Middle Continent. Kidney, right: Et cetera . . .

Every item of Krale's corpus was either present or accounted for, down to

his toenails.

Now I understood the reason for the long delay. Bardo, Marti and Fisk

had been stalling for time until the parts of Krale could be grafted onto

other living bodies. I also understood their references to the "alleged

murder" and its "alleged victim." Krale was alive and well on three

continents, the polar icecap, and on and under the high seas.

"May it please the court," Bardo stated, "since the heart of Krale beats

here" (pointing), "the lungs of Krale breathe here, the progeny of Krale will

spring from there . . . since it has been amply demonstrated that Krale is, in

fact, not dead, may it please the court to rule that no murder has been

committed, that a mistrial has occurred and that the prisoner be released on

the cognizance of these witnesses, who represent, in fact, the living alleged

victim of the alleged strangler, Nesser. We move that this case be

dismissed."

Suddenly the spectators were on their feet, cheering. For weeks, Bardo,

Marti and Fisk had been led, shoved and pushed into an untenable position.

All Harlech had alternately jeered and moaned over the lawyers in their

struggle against formidable odds in defense of a client who had aided the

cause of the prosecution. My own judgment in appointing the trio had been

covertly questioned. Now my judgment was redeemed by the cheers that the

steady bang of Reno's gavel was subduing.

Reno's voice, flat, authoritative, rang out: "Attention in court. Motion

of the defense counsel will be considered in chambers. Court is recessed

until Law Class, one week from today, when the final decision will be

rendered."

I left the courtroom for rehearsal feeling pride in my students not

unmixed with chagrin for having let myself be outpaced. Frick stopped me

briefly outside to comment, "Commissioner, if those slickers get that hoodlum

off the hook, murder will become the fashion on Harlech. We must preserve

order, despite the law!"

Word of the legal coup had easily outlegged me to the soccer gym, where

my entry into Jerusalem was scheduled for rehearsal, and the cast was agog.

Consensus was unanimous that if law followed logic, Nesser would be freed.

Cara had no part in the entry scene and was absent. I missed her, for I

was truly troubled, legally and theologically, over the outcome of the case,

and Cara's presence comforted me. Red sensed my preoccupation and cut short

the rehearsals so that I might hurry home to my wife and the evening news

summary.

When I entered my den, I could hear Cara bustling in the kitchen, and I

called a greeting back to her because the television set was beginning to

glow. As I stood in the center of the room, watching, she crept up behind me

and embraced me, nestling her head against my spine. Although I was flattered

by her devotion, I might have wished for a little more sense of civic interest

in my wife, an interest she would have to cultivate once I had returned as

Procurator of the North Continent.

But my own interest drowned out my passing concern. "And now the planet

awaits the decision of Reno," the announcer finished. "Next week will bring

the most important precedent in the short history of Harlechian jurisprudence.

It is rumored that Reno will request an audience with Jack the Teacher."

That rumor came from Reno, I knew, and Reno was coming to the goat's

house for wool. As the glow died on the television set, I turned and embraced

my wife. She lifted her lips to mine, with uncharacteristic demureness and

there was no hanky-panky around the ankles. Surprised, I held her at arm's

length, and looked into her green depths to see if she was ill. What I saw

was the indrawn rapture of a religious ecstatic, or that of a pregnant woman.

Knowing Cara, I knew that it was not the former. "My dearest, you'll soon be

big with child."

"Jack my Beloved," she said, disappointed, "I wanted to be the first to

tell you."

"You did, dearest, with your saintly aura."

My remark pleased her and she glowed. "I shall be big with your child,

Jack. As big as a beached whale, I hope, for I want our son to be the giant

among males that his father is."

"No, dearest, I want a daughter as petite and as lovely as her mother."

"Well," she moued, "I can't satisfy everyone. But I insist, I'll have no

bandy-legged female such as Kiki's. I'll settle for your blue eyes but I want

our child to have my legs, hair and brains."

At that moment my cup should have been running over, but it was punctured

by one sudden concern. "When is the blessed event?"

"Late in the Fourth month or early in the Fifth."

Her indecisiveness sprang from an absence of a lunar cycle on Harlech,

and I calculated rapidly in my mind. "Cara, it _must_ be early in the Fifth,

at the earliest"

"Tell that to the foetus," she laughed.

I did not laugh but held her close to guard my expression from her.

"Sweetest girl," I murmured, "this news calls for meditation. Leave me with

my happiness until supper's ready."

She flitted lightly back to the kitchen and I sat at my desk, head bowed.

Basing her gestation period on our first encounter, an early Fifth-month

pregnancy would barely clear the seven-month barrier that would qualify our

child as a human being. Any date in the Fourth month would disqualify the

infant and annul our marriage.

Birth less than seven months after conception would not only brand our

issue as subhuman, our child would be evidence that I had engaged in

bestiality. Actually, the connotations frightened me more than the legal

penalties. Among procurators, rank has its privileges, but our child would be

ranked somewhere higher than a dog and a little lower than the gibbons, for

gibbons are Earth anthropoids.

Then there was Nesser. Christianity was on the verge of losing its first

Barabbas on Harlech. An unrepentant sinner would be granted manumission of

his sins through legal shenanigans rather than grace. Legalities were

threatening my home, my offspring and my ministry.

How could I advise Reno? Earth's only precedent in this area had been

set two centuries before and it was not favorable to my cause. It had been

ruled that the organs of a dying man were up for grabs and the decision to

remove such organs did not constitute murder. Besides, medical science on

Earth had not reached the stage where the very follicles of a corpse's hair

were preserved for transplant.

I was meditating rapidly when Hal the Assistant announced that Reno

wanted an audience. "Show him in," I said, affecting an air of composure.

Reno entered and stood rigidly at attention until I said, "At ease, Reno,

and be seated. Bardo, Marti and Fisk have kicked you a curving ball, so I

take it you want my legal opinion?"

"No, Jack the Teacher. I need some spiritual advice."

Although my gaze did not flicker, I was amazed. It was as if Napoleon

had come to the Pope.

"Logically," he continued, "dismemberment does not constitute murder, but

in the matter of Nesser versus University 36, I feel it strategically

necessary to make a tactical error and depart from logic. If I free Nesser on

the facts of this case, justice wins the battle but society loses the war."

"Reno," I said, "you sound more like a lawyer than a general."

Reno ignored my quip.

"In Religions 2, you spoke often of the soul. Legally, what is the soul?

Is it something apart from the body?"

"It is not something apart from the body; it is something above and

beyond the body." Then I remembered that I was speaking to a soldier, and so

I asked, "Has Red the Teacher spoken to you of _esprit de corps_ in a military

unit?"

"Often, Jack. He speaks highly of Earth's Harrier Corps, which he says

has never yielded to the enemy."

"He's right," I nodded. "They are the combat troops of the United Space

Navy, descendants of the old United States Marines. Their _esprit de corps_

is an essential part of the unit and is nondivisible among its members. Once,

in a surface war on the planet Marlon, units of the Harrier Corps were

dispersed among divisions of the United Space Army that lost three battles in

succession. The Harrier Corps was re-formed into a single unit under its own

command and attacked successfully to swing the tide of battle. Their spirit

was a part of their unit as the soul is a part of the unified man, and that

spirit could not be divided. The soul is the spirit. It is the same with

individual soldiers."

He looked at me studiously and asked, "Does your religion offer a

fighting spirit?"

"Indeed," I answered. "Mine is a church militant. It has war songs —

'Onward Christian Soldiers,' for instance. The 'Battle Hymn of the Republic'

is a rousing marching song."

"Thank you, Jack," he said, rising.

"One request, Reno. If you find a way to hang Nesser, give me two months

to redeem his soul in the hereafter."

After supper, Cara and I called Red to announce the coming event.

"Wonderful," he said. "When's Cara expecting?"

"Early in the Fifth month," I answered.

"That should clear her as human," Red said, "but it may put the quietus

on your return as a colonizer if Harlech qualifies for World Brotherhood."

"There's still the planetary-defense clause," I said.

"Don't count on it. Fifth month! That means a casting problem. We

can't have a pregnant Mary cavorting on the stage. We can't risk the bairn

for a shimmy, can we?"

"Not on your life," I agreed. "Cara wouldn't think of playing the part

in her condition." Suddenly I was caught by a sudden fear, and turning to Cara

I asked, "Would you, dear?"

"Of course not, Jack. Motherhood is the first duty of the devoted wife.

You must carry on the family's dramatic tradition alone."

One week later, in a courtroom charged with tension, Reno ruled that,

though no _de facto_ murder had occurred, Nesser had destroyed the personal

integrity of Krale and should be punished under provisions of the Mosaic Code.

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a soul for a soul," Reno intoned.

"It is therefore decreed that the defendant, Nesser, two months from this

date, shall be hanged by the neck until temporarily dead, at which time his

body shall be remanded to the organ banks and his soul into the custody of

Jack the Teacher."

It was a decision worthy of Solomon. Bardo, Marti and Fisk were

complimented for their logical victory by the prosecutor, who was in turn

complimented by the defense for his legal victory. There was an air of gaiety

in the chambers shared by all but Nesser, who had been deprived of his role as

the first condemned criminal in the modern history of Harlech.

Looking at the dejected Nesser, I felt Christian compassion. I promised

myself that, if he cooperated with me, he would not be denied a mention in the

annals of the church. And he should be willing to cooperate, I reasoned. Now

that his physical demise was ordained, his only choice left was the direction

his soul should take.

At peace with the world, I hurried to rehearsal with a certain eagerness.

Red's enthusiasm for the Passion Play was proving contagious, and frankly I

felt that I was not only preserving the sanctity of the Word by my

participation but that I was giving the role of Jesus a dimension no other

actor could have brought to the part. Humility, reverence and strength of

character were not traits I had to simulate anymore than the beard I was

growing. Besides, as Red pointed out, I could become the only actor to

influence history since John Wilkes Booth shot Abraham Lincoln.

At rehearsal, Red announced that Cara had withdrawn from the role of Mary

Magdalene and that she was being replaced by Tamar. This news did not disturb

me. Cara had her daily reports from Frick attesting to my fidelity, so she

would not be jealous, and Tamar had the hips for the role. When it came to

the shimmy, Tamar was a method actress.

When I arrived home that evening, a little too late for the news

broadcast, Cara was hardly interested in Tamar as her substitute. She was

fretting over Reno's decision.

"I have no sympathy for Nesser," she snapped, "but Bardo, Marti and Fisk

proved that no murder had occurred. Since there was no murder, where is the

logic in dismembering a functioning entity?"

"It's not a matter of logic," I explained. "It's more a matter of

justice. Under the Mosaic Code — "

"Vengeance, you mean! Not justice," she snapped. With the petulance of

the pregnant, she turned sullen on me.

"Moses says 'an eye for an eye.' Red, in Religions 1, says, Thou shalt

not kill — except in defense of thy home planet.' Then you say, 'Turn the

other cheek.' Who's in charge of that Bible of yours? You, Moses, or Red?"

"Red has nothing to do with the Commandments," I said, "except for a

slight addition that he will have to answer to to me. Those Commandments were

given to Moses by God."

"Now you bring God into it Why don't you all get together and establish

policy? Talk about Bubo! I'm sorry, Jack. I suppose I'm disappointed over

Reno's illogic. . . . Would you call the commissary and ask the steward to

defreeze a watermelon for me? All I wish for supper is a crisp, juicy,

red-ripe watermelon heart. And don't forget to tell him I want to cut the

watermelon myself. All day I've dreamed of watermelon."

"That's because you're pregnant with an Alabama child," I told her.

While on the phone, I decided to take the microfilms of _Battles and

Leaders of the Civil War_ to blow up, print and bind to give her a sedentary

interest during her pregnancy. She read English with fluency, and I would

underline the names of the Confederate generals who were my ancestors to let

her know what brave genes our offspring would inherit.

Walking hand-in-hand with her to the refectory, I was sure that Cara was

tranquil beyond upsetting, but three minutes after we arrived, she was

storming again. A notice in large type was on the bulletin board.

In accordance with counsel given by Jack the Teacher, my legal advisor,

Nesser the Student was this day condemned to be hanged and dismembered for a

murder he did not commit.

_Bubo the Dean_

"That man's out to get you, Jack!" Cara's eyes flashed. "He's crediting

you with Nesser's hanging by delegating the wrong authority."

So Bubo thought! Actually, he was hanging himself. Once I returned as

Procurator of the Northern Continent, Bubo would not be Executive

Vice-President in Charge of Testing Earth Toilet Commodes. He had demoted

himself to Chief of the Janitorial Staff, Washroom Division.

"Hush, honey," I said. "Bubo can't harm me."

"Can't he? He knows that Harlech is split down the middle over Reno's

decision. With that announcement, he has prepared half of Harlech to hate

you. Illogic is a greater crime here than murder."

"It doesn't matter, darling. I have plans for Bubo."

"Jack, you have only the bravery of the stupid. You are no match for

Bubo."

For a wild moment I was tempted to tell her of the I.C.A., but logic

stopped me. It would be senseless to calm her fears with an injection of

terror, and she was angry enough already at Bubo.

"Calm yourself, dear, and cut your watermelon."

"I will not," she said. "I don't want any watermelon. Go get me some

pork chops."

Cara was correct about the division on Harlech. That night my attendance

at chapel was cut from twelve to six, and the next afternoon, before

rehearsals commenced, I mentioned the incident to Red and questioned his

addition to the First Commandment. Red flatly refused to delete the phrase

"except in defense of thy home planet."

"These students are too literal-minded and too logical to accept flat

statements. If Reno had not had the good sense to use the phrase 'temporary

death' in passing the sentence, he would have been violating the Commandment

himself. But don't worry about attendance. Something you said to Reno the

other night about militancy and the Christian spirit struck his fancy. He's

ordering a squad of centurions to attend tonight's meeting."

I knew what I had told Reno, and on the spot I resolved that tonight's

sermon would take as its text "Not Peace but a Sword."

Thereafter followed my best rehearsal for some time. After rehearsal, as

I slipped into my tunic and strap and deposited my robe in my dressing-room

wardrobe, I paused for a moment's meditation over the blessings I had received

and the blessings I was soon to deliver.

That evening a large gathering, not merely of cadets but of Frick's

secret police assigned to the cadets plus their camp followers, joined me at

the close in a rousing rendition of "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Cara

glowed with pride after the service and planted a chaste kiss on my forehead

(all we could risk in her condition) and said, "Jack my Husband, you are very

good when you're playing to a receptive audience. As I listened to you

preach, my toes itched to grasp a spear and hurl it at the infidels."

After the cadets came, word was spread on the campus that a happening was

taking place in Jack's chapel and uniformed policemen joined the cadets in

growing numbers along with camp-followers and stationhouse hangers-on. I

toyed with the idea of expanding my schedules, but I did not wish to

overburden Cara, and Nesser stood as adamant against the Word as Lee had stood

before Richmond.

Nesser was a key strongpoint in the battle I waged. If he stood fast on

the eve of his dismemberment, then my winter campaign might be bogged down.

Once Nesser was taken, I could begin to roll back the line of paganism.

Nesser was not to be taken.

His eyes glowed at my word pictures of heaven. He fidgeted when I spoke

of angels and he quailed before the image of hell. With his instinctive dread

of fire storms, it was little wonder that he feared hell, but I was offering

him an alternative, heaven, and Harlechian logic should have jumped at the

fifty-fifty odds. On the other hand, logic might be restraining him from

total commitment. The boy knew he was a sinner, morally and by court edict,

and he might have figured his chances at heaven were less than even.

Following Red's suggestion, I began to speak on the glory of angels, and

Nesser's eyes glowed with an interest not unmixed by sadness, which I took as

foreshadowing repentance. Cara's delicate condition added fervor to my theme,

but to my credit I never attempted to tamper with the anatomy of the ethereal

bodies. What Nesser chose to read into my words was Nesser's concern.

Tamar's dancing was another matter. It took will power to drag my eyes

from her shimmy, and the harlot sensed my discomfort. She added new bumps and

grinds to her dance that would never have been permitted in old Jerusalem.

Red the Satyr complimented her performance with such gusto that Kiki always

escorted him from the scene after rehearsals.

At once I had another problem. Now entering her sixth month, Earth time,

of pregnancy, Cara was knitting away optimistically at a set of long booties

and reading _Battles and Leaders_. Judging from her appearance, I began to

fear that Red's theory was wrong and that cross-breeding with an alien species

was not slowing her foetal development.

Once I was shaken from my worry.

A month before presentation of the Passion Play, four days before

Nesser's scheduled hanging, with only a week remaining before Cara was past

the seven-month barrier, I was attending a morning rehearsal on a weekend

run-through of all but the final two scenes of the play. By then my beard was

flourishing, my hair had grown long and I had gained enough confidence in my

acting ability to argue a point of interpretation with the producer-director.

This morning, Red was edgy. Judas was giving him trouble by underplaying

the sneers and sidelong leerings that had become _de trop_ for O'Hara

villains. Kiki was playing the Mother woodenly and from the frostiness

between the two I suspected a domestic tiff. We struggled through my entry in

Jerusalem, the tavern scene, and slogged toward the climactic Last Supper

scene, in which Tamar expresses her love through her dance.

Possibly to flaunt her charms before Kiki, Tamar danced with a sensuality

that left me aghast. Vexed, Red shouted from the seats, "Hold it, Tamar! Run

through that third movement, again, but tone down the grind. I don't want the

audience climbing over the footlights. And you, J.C.! Quit ogling the

dancing girl. You're supposed to be tempted but you're not supposed to

succumb."

Angered partly at Red's rebuke and partly at myself for letting my

interest show, I settled down behind the table, determined to look on Tamar's

dance with tolerance and compassion, nothing more.

Salome, in all her degeneracy, never danced with the abandon that Tamar

evinced in the run-through. My poker face must have spurred her, for her body

strummed with the insistence of tom-toms. My body responded to her vibrations

but not a flicker of movement showed on my face. As she sank in a final bow

of exhaustion before me, Red called, "Judas, look at J.C.'s face. That's the

expression I want from you, lust winning over righteousness, when you're

offered the thirty pieces of silver. . . . All right, Tamar, you can knock

off. Go home and take a cold shower."

Contritely the girl left, and I was concerned by the skills she had put

into the dance and its effects on the audience. It was a gourmet bit for

dance fans and a hard act to follow, even with the Last Supper. However, I

was composed and ready when the Roman soldiers entered and led me away.

As I had no part in Pilate's hand-washing scene, which followed, I left

for my dressing room with a feeling of relief. Tamar would not dance again

until final dress rehearsal: and by then, lest all signs erred, I would have

Cara by my side.

Once in my dressing room, I closed the door, slipped out of my robe and

washed the greasepaint from my face and neck. When bent over the washbowl, I

closed my eyes against the sudsy water and a vision of Tamar dancing — so

vivid it was dimensional — flashed on my mind. I tried to force the vixen's

image behind me with thoughts of Cara's gentle face, but my antidote was not

entirely successful.

I dried my beard and neck, combed my hair and carried my robe toward the

closet. But the ways of flesh are devious. Though I had come from portraying

holiness, symbolically I stood before the wardrobe on a satyr's cloven hooves

and sprouting horns. So I lowered my head and closed my eyes, seeking to

exorcise my demon with prayer. Thus I did not see the toes snaking from

behind my wardrobe curtain wherein the harlot had hidden.

Sodom and Gomorrah!

Momentarily, I went rigid from the shock of the wench's touch. Then she

struck, with the deftness and aim of long practice. I staggered back,

ensheathed and entwined in the peculiar embrace of the women of Harlech. Her

legs encircled me lightly but with a python's strength.

Tamar was hoist on my petard!

No arms on Earth could have broken the grip of those thighs. "Tamar," I

ejaculated, "why me?"

"For art," she breathed. "It would never do to have a lewd Lord in a

Passion Play."

"Whore of Babylon!" I cried.

"Never been there, Jack. Never want to go there."

"Unleg me, strumpet!" I ejaculated again, but my plea fell on unheeding

ears. Tamar was growing rigid.

Though outwardly motionless and stiff as a board, Tamar was dancing, to

an unseeing audience of one, a fantastic shimmy which combined aspects of the

can-can, the tango, the rhumba and the cha-cha. In desperation, I grasped the

promontories on her chest intending to flail her head against the deck and

render her senseless, but prudence stayed my hands where they fell, my fingers

kneading nervously. As rigid as the girl was, a tap might have broken her

neck, and where would I have been had _rigor mortis_ locked me in her embrace?

Full well I knew, I would have been scurrying buck naked through the tunnels

of Harlech with my burden cantilevered ahead of me. Then I would stand in the

subzero temperatures of the cryogenic morgue, unclothed, while attendants

hacked Tamar into removable pieces. If I survived the cold, the courts would

claim me, for no judge would accept my plea that I was resisting rape. I

would be condemned permanently to death, for no Harlechian could use aught of

me in an organ graft.

So caution stayed my hands until Tamar had her will of me and slid to the

floor, where she lay whimpering at my feet. I laid her in the cloak room,

hung my robe, donned my tunic and strap and closed the curtain to shield her

from the gaze of wandering charwomen. She was sobbing quietly, and if my

limited experience on Harlech was any gauge, I knew she would be limp and

sobbing for a long, long time.

Fully clothed, I stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind me.

No one was in sight, but a musk lingered in the air. A male had stood outside

the door.

Then I remembered that Frick was having me shadowed, that daily reports

on my activities were read by Cara. In matters of this nature, my wife was a

woman of little faith. Breaking into a cold sweat and a fast run, I sprinted

down the tunnel for the police station. If I could not head off today's

report before Cara read it, within four days I would be envying the soul of

Nesser for its quiet winter resort in Hell.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Frick was reading the report when I rushed in, and his face was whiter

than mine. "Frick, as your Commissioner, I don't wish to use undue influence,

but that report must be squelched."

"Jack, this report was squelched before it was written, not as a favor to

you but to protect the department. We need you as Commissioner. But it's not

the report that bothers me. We've got to prepare you an iron-clad alibi. . .

. Listen, you came here half-an-hour ago and went to Nesser. He's asking for

you, anyway. You've been giving him spiritual consolation, ever since. I'll

doctor the sergeant's log to make the record jibe."

"But why the alibi if you squelch the report?"

"Tamar. This one was a whammeroo and she's bound to talk. Not to Cara.

Tamar's got better sense. But gossip starts among the girls. We'll have to

give you a cover story to brand the gossip a lie."

"Frick, I'll go along with the scheme, but don't get the wrong idea. I'm

innocent. I even thought of bringing rape charges against the girl."

"I'll buy that, Jack, but no judge would. Rape is one _delicti_ no

female can indulge in without a _corpus_. . . . Call Cara. Tell her you've

got Nesser on the ropes, and I honestly believe you have. Keep your voice

calm, natural, then go back to Nesser."

Cara's even tones assured me all was well, and I was reassured when she

snorted at the reason for my delayed return home. "Are you Alabamans _always_

fighting for lost causes?"

"But, dear, I'm the boy's spiritual advisor."

"That boy doesn't need spiritual advice," she said. "He needs a hacksaw

and a one-way trip to another continent."

Nesser was pacing his cell when I went back to him. His face was haggard

but his eyes were determined. "Jack the Preacher, I've been reviewing

Christianity in my mind. Since the Dean of Deans died for my sins, I don't

want Him putting in the time without me cashing in the benefits. But there's

one item you haven't made clear. Those angels you were talking about. Are

they good at hip flow?"

After Tamar, I was in a better position to drive a bargain. Gently but

firmly I told him, "There is no giving or taking of hip flow in Heaven."

"Good," he said. "Then baptize me."

"Are you implying, Nesser, that you will not want hip flow in Heaven?"

"Most certainly, Jack. I'm leaving my body here. Otherwise, I'd rather

be in Hell."

Using his tin mug as a chalice, I sprinkled the lad and proclaimed him

the first convert on Harlech. In a daze, I left him still on his knees and

went back to the station-house. To the sergeant on duty, I said, "Call the

telecaster and tell him this day Nesser, the Harlech Strangler, was anointed

into the Christian faith by Jack the Teacher and that his soul is now ready

for Paradise. . . . And take his cup back."

If I had hurried, I would have been but a few minutes late arriving home,

but I merely rode the belt to get a few minutes alone with my thoughts. My

telecast would help disperse the odium Bubo had given my name because of

Nesser's sentence, and the conversion would also be a military victory over

the forces of evil. It would serve as the inspiration for tomorrow's sermon,

"Counter-Attacking Evil."

By the time I got home, the first newscast had been made and Cara

complimented me. "Now, I can have more of your time, and Bubo has been given

the back of your hand."

"Yes," I said, seating myself beside her on the sofa. "And how do you

feel?"

"A little bloated," she said, "but otherwise all right."

"Can you hold on for another week?" I asked.

"I can hold on for eighty years."

Cara had not understood the gist of my question. On Harlech, the

responsible male was seldom aware of a woman's condition and it was a new

experience for Cara to find a man responsive to her condition to the point of

even sharing her morning sickness. Child-bearing on Harlech, translated

"hip-flow output," was treated as lightly as conception itself, called

"hip-flow input."

"Mother, can you feel the child kick?" I asked.

At times she was pleased and at other times piqued by my solicitousness.

Tonight she was piqued. "If this child ever kicks, mother will have a new

navel."

"Let me know if you need me," I said, "I'm going to prepare tomorrow's

sermon."

"I certainly won't need you tonight," she smiled, patting her stomach.

When I crawled in beside her that night, reviewing in my mind the sermon

I had written, it suddenly dawned on me that I had completely forgotten Tamar.

Truly, I had forgiven the girl.

I awakened in the morning to the subdued ringing of my telephone.

Gently, I rolled off the bed and took the call in the library, noticing that

it was eight o'clock on the surface. "Jack the Teacher," I said.

"Jack, this is Frick. Nesser hanged himself ten minutes ago from a

crossbar in his cell. He left a note for you saying he was leaving ahead of

schedule because there was no point in delaying the trip. . . ."

"Where was he going?"

"To Heaven. He wove a rope from his tunic cloth. . . . Jack, this

Paradise concept might be ill-advised from a law-enforcement angle."

"Stow the theology, Frick. Where's the body?"

"Being taken to cryogenics for salvage."

"Call the morgue and tell the chief dissectionist to hold the body intact

until I get there. Then call the infirmary and have them drive a litter to my

quarters in twenty minutes and deliver my wife to the morgue."

"Is she dead, Jack?"

"No, she's quick. Detail eight patrolmen, one sergeant and yourself to

the morgue in dress uniform. Wear your epaulets."

"What's up, Jack?"

"Nesser died a Christian and I'm giving the boy a Christian funeral. I

want you to attend."

"Yes, Jack."

Red was still in quarters when I reached him. He immediately approved of

the funeral as a show of student solidarity and as an example of Earth

sympathy. "I'll be there with Reno and a squad of centurions."

I hung up the phone and re-entered the bedroom. My stirring had aroused

Cara, who asked sleepily, "Is something wrong, dear?"

"Yes, Nesser has hanged himself."

"Oh! Do you want me to get breakfast or do you want to eat in the

refectory?"

"Neither at the moment, dear. I must go preach at the boy's funeral."

"Why?"

"I'm the boy's pastor. As my wife, I wish you to attend."

"What about me as a person?"

"As a person, I'd rather you didn't in your condition. But as the wife

of the preacher, it's a ritual you must observe."

"Of course, Jack. I love Earth rituals."

"This is a sad rite, beloved. Do you have a black tunic and a veil?"

"Veil?"

"Yes. A netting."

"I have none here, Jack. I have hundreds at the salmon hatchery."

"Then we must make do with the black tunic. I must leave now to make

arrangements, but I'm sending a litter for you. It will be here in twenty

minutes to carry you to the morgue."

"I much prefer walking to the morgue."

"This is for your health, dear."

"All right, my beloved husband. But see that they stop me outside the

vaults."

"I shall, dear."

I went directly to the morgue and set up a lectern before the viewing

window to be used as a pulpit. Briefly I explained to the chief dissectionist

the purpose of my visit. He entered the vaults and directed that the body of

Nesser be wheeled before the observation window on an operating table. At my

suggestion, he had four of his assistants line up behind the body in the

manner of pallbearers. In their black thermal suits, they were a ghoulish lot

but ritually effective.

Through the speaking tube the director told me, "I can give you twenty

minutes for the funeral, Jack the Teacher."

"That should be sufficient," I said.

Hastily I scribbled out a few comments to make on the dead, asking human

forgiveness for his frailties and divine mercy at the Judgment Seat. As I

worked up the sermon, the police filed in followed shortly by Red and his

centurions. Now all had arrived but Cara, who was probably having trouble

getting into her tunic.

Cara was needed only as a symbolic touch, and I knew the director was

anxious for me to begin, so I turned and waved to him that I was ready to

commence the funeral. Placing my watch on the lectern to gauge my time, I

briefly outlined the fife of Nesser as it was known to me, and I spoke of his

genuine contributions to the legal and clerical annals of the planet.

Intent as I was on the eulogy, I still noticed that a Dean's messenger

had entered and spoken to Red. Red left immediately but the Dean's messenger

remained. He was appropriately dressed for the occasion, but his presence

marred my composure. If Bubo was up to another trick, he had certainly chosen

an inopportune time for harassment.

To drive temporal concerns from my mind, I spoke at length on the

happiness Nesser had gained from his conversion. Actually, I spent a little

more time on the eulogy than I had planned, for I was stalling until Cara

arrived. But now she was definitely late, so I had to commence my prayer.

For the sake of Frick, I dwelled at some length in my prayer on the sin

of self-slaughter. It was my purpose to reveal to the Police Chief that a

condemned criminal could not "beat the rap" by committing suicide. On the

other hand, for General Reno's edification, I extolled the dead boy for the

reckless militancy of spirit that had led to a frontal assault on the citadel

of Heaven. For potential converts present, I prayed loud and long that

boundless mercy extend to the soul of Nesser.

To walk a political tightrope in the course of a prayer demands careful

weighing of each plea beforehand, so the prayer took longer than its allotted

time. Yet, when I raised my eyes after the "Amen," Cara still had not

arrived.

Then I turned to bless the remains of Nesser and discovered a breakdown

in communications between the chief dissectionist and me. He had given me

twenty minutes, apparently not from the commencement of the sermon but from

the time of my arrival on the premises. When I had turned to signal him that

the funeral was beginning, evidently he assumed that my signal was to start

the dissection. Unknown to me, as I delivered the sermon the dissection had

been in process behind my back. So when I turned to bless the mortal remains

of Nesser, all that remained for my blessing was something — it looked like a

liver — being hurried to the banks by a morgue technician. I blessed that.

With gravity becoming the occasion, I paced slowly out of the room

leading the procession of mourners. Inwardly I was vexed. On this, the most

solemn ceremony of his ministry, the helpmeet of the parson had not been in

attendance.

Outside, Reno complimented my synchronization of sermon with the

dissection, and Frick was a vastly relieved young man. "Your sermon cleared

up a few points that were bothering me, Jack. Do you think Nesser's soul will

make it through the gates?"

"There are two schools of thought regarding suicides," I answered.

"Red's school holds that Nesser will be suspended in limbo, forever outside

the gate. . . . Where is Red?"

"He talked to the Dean's messenger and left."

I turned. The messenger still stood by the door, waiting and forgotten.

"You got a message for me, boy?"

"Yes, Jack the Teacher, if the ceremony is over. Red the Teacher told me

to wait until you had finished."

"I'm through."

"Red said to tell you that he had gone ahead to explain to Cara why you

were late."

^Explain to Cara? Where is Cara?"

"At the infirmary, Jack. The office directed me to tell you that Cara

was delivered of a four-pound baby girl while borne on the litter to the

morgue. It was an easy birth."

For a long moment, I stood upright in shock and horror. It was yet three

days before the end of the Fourth month. Cara had failed to meet the

deadline. Our child was not a child. What was it then; a fawn, a cub, a

lamb, a leveret? What was the diminutive for kangaroo?

I turned and sprinted toward the infirmary at breakneck speed for an

aging Harlechian.

The nurse at the reception desk greeted me with the expressionless face

of older Harlechians. "I must check Cara's room number, Jack the Teacher, for

I have just come on duty."

As she turned to her files, my attention was drawn to a huge,

black-bordered poster on the board behind her. In type large enough for a

billboard, it read:

This day Nesser the Student hanged himself following the advice of Jack

the Teacher, his spiritual advisor.

_Bubo the Dean_

The nurse looked up. "Six doors down, to your left."

All my dramatic ability was needed for me to unclench my fists and teeth

and replace my anger with an expression of happiness as I strode to Cara's

room.

Cara looked up at me and smiled weakly as I entered. "Jack my Beloved, I

littered on the litter."

I chuckled as I looked down at the infant in her arms, and my chuckle

broke into a low, mirthless laugh that rolled from my throat in rising waves

of near-hysteria, and then subsided into silence. One glance at the bright

red fuzz atop the little girl's head and the cleft in her chin and I knew how

the animal should be classified. That girl was a kid — the offspring of a

goat.

Cara had been reading the wrong history books during her pregnancy. For

an understanding of the infant's genealogy, she should have read _Annals of

the Irish Rebellion_. Legally, I was the father of Red O'Hara's child.

It is axiomatic that the greatest menace to astronauts is other

astronauts. Gazing down on Red's child in the arms of my wife, I felt love

for the innocent one (who can blame a child for its genes?) and bitterness

toward the wanton in whose arms the baby rested, but beyond those emotions I

felt the beginning glow of that obsession feared by those who have never felt

it, a scourge more dreaded than the raptures of space, stalker's fever.

With this act of infamy, Red the Adulterer had furnished me with the cue

and passion for his murder.

Isn't our child lovely, Jack my Beloved?"

'It is a lovely infant," I agreed, "but if it's mine, it is not a child."

She looked at me in sudden alarm. "Why is that so, Jack?"

"To qualify as a member of my species, the child must be the product of a

seven-month pregnancy at a minimum, eleven at a maximum. You fell short of

qualifying by three days. Legally, my marriage to you is annulled and the

infant itself becomes _prima facie_ evidence of bestiality."

"What is bestiality?"

"It is a legal charge, punishable by not less than six months'

confinement and not more than two years, brought against one who copulates

with a lower order of animal."

"Then I will take my punishment gladly, for your sake, Jack my Beloved,

if I can keep the child with me in jail."

Her wide-eyed innocence and charm of naïveté deceived me no longer.

"Such charges cannot be brought on the basis of present evidence, for the

child is not of my issue, wanton," I said.

At that she sat up, her eyes flashing. "How can you say such a thing, my

bandy-legged husband? I have loved no one but you. When I reached the age of

lik flik, there were no boys at the hatchery fit for spawning. You were my

first teacher and my only love, for you were a watcher and I am a watcher.

These toes have never touched a Harlechian. And don't call me wanton,

squinty-eyed Jack, or I'll hug you like you've never been hugged before."

Her fury and genuine indignation carried the force of belief if not of

truth, but I rallied to the facts. "That red hair, that cleft chin, are those

of Red O'Hara, not mine."

"If this child is Red the Teacher's," she said, "then it is a nine-month

baby and it is an accident."

"Such things don't happen by accident," I said curtly. "Either you do or

you don't."

"I didn't," she screamed, flinging herself face-down on the pillow and

sobbing and pounding her fists into the mattress. To guard the child from

harm, I lifted it from the bed and held it in my arms. Even though its mother

was a liar and a wanton, the infant in my arms was indeed beautiful.

Cradling the baby, I rocked it slowly back and forth, singing down to it:

Bye, baby bunting,

Daddy's gone a-hunting

To get a freckled Irish skin

To wrap his baby bunting in.

As I crooned, the little girl opened her jade-green eyes and smiled at

me, an Earth smile, warm and radiant, and her tiny feet reached up and patted

my face. Her touch captured my heart as her mother's touch had done. I cooed

to her and she gurgled back. Not yet a day old, she had conned me into loving

her — and why not? Except for her hair and dimpled chin, this child was

Cara's, whom I had taken for better or worse. Now I would take the baby and

rear it in my own image and never a word of Gaelic would sully those tiny

lips.

When I finally tore my eyes away and looked up, Cara had propped herself

on an elbow and was looking at me with pleasure and amazement. "You are

cooing to my child better than you did to Kiki's."

"Our child, Cara. What matters the sperm in contrast to such ova? By

the laws of God and man, you're my wife, and I claim this girl as my own

despite the intransigence of its mother."

"Your eyes sing to me, Jack."

"Yours are singing, too," I said.

"They would sing louder if you would tell me what 'intransigence' means."

"In this instance," I said, "it means a premarital inability to control

desire."

"But I never knew desire until I found you," she insisted.

"Cara," I said, "I wouldn't let Red marry my sister, but I can't believe

he's a rapist. This child is his issue."

"Then it's a false issue," Cara snapped. "Red the Adulterer has no claim

on our baby and I deny him. You are my beloved. With Red I did not even grow

rigid."

"Then you admit to the liaison?"

"I can't admit to the liaison because I don't know what a liaison is, but

if it means that I participated in a class experiment conducted by a teacher,

then I'll admit it."

"What form of experiment?"

"During my first semester," she explained, "I studied Love, Courtship and

Marriage on Earth. Red asked for volunteers to demonstrate the marriage part

of the course." Suddenly her eyes glowed with memory. "You know me, Jack. I

love play-acting. Red chose me because he said a blonde could stay limp, and

Red the Producer said that I was very natural in the role, just like an Earth

blonde."

Fury gripped me at her words. O'Hara, despoiler of the innocent, had

seduced a virgin for a classroom experiment. The beast must die and I would

authorize myself as his executioner. Bubo's next message on the bulletin

board would be a warning to all future philanderers on Harlech:

This day, Red the Adulterer was executed by Jack the Avenger as morally

noxious to the climate of Heaven.

"You felt no ardor at all, Cara?"

"I have felt more from a doctor with a gynescope. . . . But I will say

this for Red the Producer, he puts a little touch of realism in all that he

does." She gazed down on the child in confirmation. "But the baby isn't

blue-eyed."

"Our next will be blue-eyed," I promised her.

"Won't it be lovely, Jack? A red-haired girl and a blue-eyed boy!"

Suddenly her eyes clouded over. "But you will not be beside me when our son

is born, for you are returning soon to Earth."

"No, Cara," I said flatly. "I'm staying on Harlech."

"You will let Red return without you?"

"No, dearest. If Red returns without me, soon your planet would be

overrun by Earth warriors seeking me as a defector, and the warriors are

conditioned to kill all who do not wear their uniform."

"How could they find you here?"

"By retracing Red's course on the ship's flight recorder."

"Then demolish the ship."

"I can't. It's self-guarded against lasers or any explosive known on

Harlech."

"You must not destroy Red the Teacher. You would be hanged because it is

not lawful."

"There's an unwritten law on Earth that says a man can kill another for

seducing his wife."

"But I was not your wife when Red conducted the experiment. It happened

two months before we were married. Why can't you return with Red and come

back as you planned?"

I fidgeted, partly from my anxiety to be out hunting and partly from

embarrassment. Stalker's fever is a mental ailment. I could not bring my

wife to face the fact that she had married a lunatic. "Then I would come only

as a conqueror, my dear, under the direction of a Proconsul from Imperial

Earth. It is better that one man die than that your people become the slave

workers of the Interplanetary Colonial Administration."

It was out! The name of the I.C.A. had been given to an alien, but it no

longer mattered, for I, too, was an alien. With my words, I cast my lot with

Harlech.

Cara sensed my gravity, for her voice was suddenly very gentle. "What is

the Interplanetary Colonial Administration, Jack?"

"The investment department of Earth General Insurance Company," I

blurted, "which owns all the assets on the planet. Once there were many

nations on Earth, and wars between them threatened the company's profits. So

the company began to assume the costs of governments, for a monopoly of the

insurance business, and discontinued taxes for a slight increase in premiums."

Swiftly I explained to her how the amalgamation of Earth governments

brought peace to the planet. "But the company still had the problem of

expanding its investments," I told her, "so the company branched out into the

space field. My country's old C.I.A. was elevated to cabinet status and put

in charge of extraplanetary investments as the I.C.A. Red and I are officers

in the United Space Navy, which is a department under the I.C.A."

Then I explained to her the function of the I.C.A. to acquire and exploit

new planets. As she listened, the old lack of expression settled over her

face. "You would have turned a planet of scholars into laborers."

"For you, I would have turned the angels of Heaven into demons in Hell. .

. . But it's not that bad. As a civilized planet, nonwarlike, your people

would have been given reduced insurance rates."

"That is an honor not entirely without dilution," she said. "As much as

I love you, I would not sacrifice your planet to scholarship. Could Harlech

not qualify for the Brotherhood of Worlds?"

"No," I said, "because you have no military defenses. Earth would have

to place you under a mandate and spend large sums to protect you from

marauders."

She thought for a moment, then asked, "And from where would these

marauders come?"

With the clarity of revealed knowledge the answer came simultaneously to

my heart and lips. "From Earth," I answered.

She smiled weakly, reached over and took my hand. "Be with me, always,

Jack, but don't assassinate Red until you have talked to me later. Right now,

let me sleep. I have had a difficult birth and I am tired."

"Bubo's messenger told me the birth was easy."

"It was not the baby, but the baby's fathers."

Her eyes were drooping, and I kissed her forehead and left.

Her last request only steeled my resolution. Always on Earth, I knew,

the donors in artificial insemination were kept secret from the mother from

fear she might fall in love with her child's father. But Red O'Hara would

never claim a piece of this action. My temperature was soaring with his

terminal ailment.

Stalker's fever is not unpleasant for the feverish. I thrilled with the

ardor of rage as I strode toward the subway station, my muscles loose and

springy, my senses alert. I was a high-school boy again, heading for the

tennis courts and singles with the prettiest girl in class. Once on the train

for the soccer field, my sense of well-being animated the faces of the adults

aboard. When I walked to the surface, sniffing air moist from evaporating

snow and checking the sky to find it clear, I broke into a dog trot toward the

ship, and the activity brought elation.

At last Red had presented me with the gift I most desired, moral

justification for his murder. Our lives had been building to this climax from

the moment he conned me out of the lower bunk at Mandan. Tension had stepped

up a notch when he ran out on me in my fight with the M.P.s. Then the

fish-eater had desecrated Brother Ben's temple with his Gaelic jabber, and

only he was capable of rewriting the Commandments, putting whores in Bethlehem

and setting a harlot dancing at the Last Supper.

Sacrifice and blood atonement!

Now the dam was broken, Selah, and my soul would be cleansed in the

waters of the flood. Carnality had been his tragic flaw. His permissiveness

had permitted my rape by Tamar in the cloakroom, and now he had fathered my

child. Until this Antichrist from Meath was consumed by the Conquering Lion

of Alabama, the lion could not lie down with his lambs at peace in their folds

of Heaven.

In my exultation, I was almost nipped by a rolling barrage of lightning

as I skipped up the ramp of the space ship and clambered up the ladder to the

armory on the fourth deck. There I collected all the weapons aboard, two

rifles and two pistols, and tossed them into a duffelbag. Then I set the

ship's security system for a lethal purge to be activated by remote control on

the alarm transponder in the buckle of a belt I strapped around my tunic. To

prevent the slaughter of an innocent, I set the lethal purge to respond to a

body temperature of 98.6 and the color red.

When I reached the ramp again, the lightning was gone, the sky was a

milk-hued blue and the passing storm had left a tracery of wet snow clinging

to the tree limbs that gave a Christmas-card sparkle to the woodland.

Waddling through the snow with my bag over my back, I felt so much like Santa

Claus I broke into a Christmas carol:

Jingle bell, jingle bell,

Jingle, jingle bell.

Oh, what fun it is to gun

O'Hara plumb to Hell.

Madman? Perhaps. But never had I known such joy. Only one small regret

marred my happiness: I wished O'Hara could be with me to share my merriment

over his coming demise.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Back in my quarters, I put the weapons in my wall safe — with the

exception of a pistol I tucked in my jockstrap — and walked across the tunnel

to Red's quarters. He was out, as I expected, but he had left me a note with

his secretary. I took it, settled myself on his sofa and read:

Dear Jack,

By the time you read this, I'll be far away. Mind you, I'm not running.

I want to give your forgiveness time to take root and grow, for nothing must

happen between us that only one of us will live to regret.

Cara is blameless. Her face bothered me at the time you introduced us,

but I could not place her in my memory. Sight of the babe recalled her to me

and I can assure you there is naught between us. Cara loves you and thinks

you're the child's father. Let her continue to think so. My own relation

with her was clinical, and, if I recall correctly, extremely one-sided.

Truly I hope when the storm has passed we can return to Earth next summer

as friends and leave this planet to peace. But now I cannot risk the length

of a peacepipe between us.

As ever,

Red

P.S.: You would have starred as J.C. May you find in your heart the

strength to continue the Passion Play. It will be forever. You and I will

pass away.

I folded the note, placed it in my tunic and rose. Speaking to his

secretary, I said casually, "I would like to leave a message for Red if he

calls in. Tell him that he suffers a misconception. My grandfather was

red-haired."

From Red's office, I went to Bubo's. The black-uniformed centurion at

the gate snapped to attention when I strolled up. I braced the boy: "Draw in

that stomach, soldier!"

He drew in his stomach.

"You're a sloppy excuse for a praetorian guard," I snapped. "Let's see

your drill maneuvers. Right-face! More snap into it, soldier! Forward,

march!"

He marched off. Walking behind him a short ways, I yelled, "In cadence,

count step!"

"Hut-two, hut-two," he chanted. As his voice dwindled down the tunnel, I

turned back and entered the work area, heading for Bubo's office. Bubo's

student manager rose to bar my way. "Jack the Teacher, it is forbidden to

enter the Dean's office without permission."

"Son," I said, "I'm here as representative of Imperial Earth. Your rules

don't apply."

Like a boxer, I kept my eyes on his feet as I shouldered past him and

kicked open the door of the Dean. Inside, Bubo sat at a desk scribbling on a

piece of paper. Hastily he slid it into his desk drawer as I entered, but not

before I saw he was playing tic-tac-toe with himself. Without the star on his

tunic, he could have been another teacher, so similar was his office to mine,

and there was a nonauthoritarion whine in his voice as he spoke: "You're not

supposed to walk in like that! You're wrecking the mystique. Where's my

centurion?"

"You can stow the mystique," I barked. "And by now your guard's past the

subway station. . . . Bubo, I'm ordering you to send out an all-points

bulletin to every campus and work station on the planet denying access to all

refectories to one red-haired, squinty-eyed, bandy-legged Earthman."

"Red the Teacher?"

"Who else? I want him apprehended and brought back to University 36, to

face trial, before me, his commanding officer, for violation of Navy

Regulations."

"Will you hang him?" There was avidity in Bubo's eyes and voice.

"Hanging's too good for the bastard," I said. Then I made the legal

blooper of the century. "I want to nail him to a cross."

"By all means, Jack the Teacher. The bulletin will be sent at once."

The bulletin was sent at once. By the time I reached the police station,

Frick, his sergeant and two policemen were standing at the teletype machine.

"Commissioner, this APB will shake the planet. Red's an international

figure."

"Which makes it all the more easy to pick him up," I said. "Get your

off-duty men on duty. Prepare search and seizure warrants and cover every

nook and cranny on this campus. Pay particular attention to the girls'

dormitories and washrooms. But don't send any uniformed officer into Cara's

room at the infirmary. Put a policewoman into a nurse's uniform and station

her in the room."

"Well find him, Commissioner."

"Remember, he's not armed but he's dangerous. He fights with his fists

and not his feet, and he's clever."

"I'll put a stake-out on Reno's quarters," Frick said. "He might try to

contact his own brasshats."

"Good," I said. "Once he's apprehended, jail him and call me."

"Jack, my dragnet will have him by morning. Once the station is covered,

his only escape will be by space ship."

"He'll not try the space ship," I told Frick.

"We'll get him," Frick said, "and this will be the trial of the century."

Frick was a student. As his teacher, I couldn't bring myself to dull the

edge of his enthusiasm by telling him there would be no trial for Red O'Hara.

From the police station, I went to the registrar's office and canceled

Red's classes. Since the Passion Play was not on the curriculum, I could not

cancel it, nor would I have, but I withdrew from any personal participation in

the O'Hara production by a definitive act — after supper with Cara at the

infirmary, I went home and shaved.

Cara came home in the morning, bringing baby Janet, and there was genuine

happiness again in my quarters. Janet lighted us with her beauty and charmed

us with her coos and gurgles. After all, a baby is a baby, and this mite was

not responsible for her male progenitor. By the time she understood such

matters Red O'Hara would have long been only a memory on Harlech.

But Frick had not found Red by morning.

He reported to me at noon. "Commissioner, the suspect must have left

town the first hour. But we've got the APB out on him and he's too

conspicuous to stay hidden for long."

"It might be a good idea to put a stake-out on Kiki," I suggested.

He seemed aggrieved. "Jack, I've had a stake-out on Kiki since the hunt

began, and Tamar and . . ." He rattled off the names of twelve females, all

holders of the Order of Saint George.

I complimented Frick on his efficiency.

Later that afternoon, Red's student assistant director for the Passion

Play called me. "Jack the Teacher, Red the Teacher is absent and you're

absent. I can carry on rehearsals without Red but I need you."

"You'll have to carry on without both of us," I told him. "Red will not

be returning, and I have a high fever that will continue for a long time. I

suggest you get a replacement for me. Reno has the gravity of appearance that

would fit him for the role."

Even in my hectic flush, I realized that long-range goals were more

important now than ever. Red's death would commit me to Harlech, even had I

not come to my own decision in the matter, and atheism would remain to be

purged from the planet. Besides, with Reno occupied, there would be less

danger of a military junta seizing the reins of student government, which I

wanted securely in the hands of Frick.

Red disappeared, swallowed by the immense tunnel complex of the planet.

I was amazed. Frick was confused and embarrassed. He had tails on everyone

who was even remotely friendly toward Red, and by the end of the first week,

he had tails on the tails. The edict had gone forth from Dean Bubo not to

feed Red. His face was known on the planet, and his figure would have drawn

attention a mile down-tunnel, yet he was never reported.

Frick finally decided that Red had fled to the surface and had been

killed by a fire storm. Logically this was the only deduction we could make.

I was on the point of accepting the hypothesis when I received a letter

through the air tube, ten days after Red's disappearance.

I know that neither of your grandfathers were red-haired because your

mother showed me the family album.

In the manner of Harlech, the letter bore no postmark. It might have

come from any continent, or next door, and it showed me only that Red was

alive and had been in contact with his secretary.

I read in the letter a base attempt to reaffirm the ties of our common

origin, Earth, and to use my own mother in a play for sympathy. My fever went

up a degree. I patted the pistol in my jock holster and bided my time.

At home, Red was no longer mentioned. Cara had Janet and her books, and

I had my class lectures and my sermons. Twice I even dropped by rehearsals at

the gym to give Reno a few pointers on how to project spiritual serenity. The

stage manager, I found, had devised a system of wires strung from the

standards of the centurions to assist Reno in carrying the cross to the summit

of the soccer knob.

Often during that period, I would awaken in the early hours restless with

the fever and slip from Cara's side. I would go to the wall safe, take out

the laser rifle, and stalk the tunnels of the sleeping campus in search of

bandylegged prey. The cold metal barrel of the rifle abated my fever and I

grew to love the sensuality in the curve of its stock. Pistols are for women.

A rifle is a man's best friend.

Consciously I knew there was only a remote chance that I would spot Red,

although it was the ideal time for him to scavenge food from garbage pails or

the lockless refectories. But the activity gave vent to my urge to stalk and

kept my fever at a killing pitch. I continued the drill until I blasted a

hole in the solarium window one night when I fired on my own reflection.

If Cara knew of my nocturnal sorties, she kept the knowledge to herself.

Good wife that she was, she restricted herself to domestic matters, which

engrossed her more since the arrival of Janet. She had the baby and I had

Red, and we were very happy. Even my ministry was doing well. My impassioned

sermon at Nesser's funeral had counteracted the effects of Bubo's snide

bulletin, and Reno had assigned centurions as lay ministers to spread the Word

to other campuses. Frequently, my own Eighth-day sermons in the chapel were

conducted by lay preachers since I was preoccupied with temporal affairs.

Meanwhile, the time of the Passion Play drew nearer. Harlech tilted

toward the equinox. Snow melted from the surface. The stage manager had

completed his flats, the final dress rehearsal was conducted successfully and

the area atop the knob was littered with plastic skulls. A planet which had

thrilled to the Nativity Play now waited the climactic drama with the same

avidity that children of Earth might have awaited another serial in "The Green

Archer" or "The Perils of Pauline."

By a happy accident, which I felt was not entirely coincidental, the day

of the vernal equinox fell on the Sixth day, the Harlechian equivalent of Good

Friday, in the period between academic quarters. Cara, Janet and I decided on

a family outing in the solarium, taking a portable TV set with us. I would

not allow my family on the surface, but from our vantage point, only a quarter

of a mile from the knob, we would be able to view the final Crucifixion scene

live from the balcony.

Little Janet was hopping by then and she was delighted more by the blue

skies and the distant prospect of the sea than she was by the television tube.

Since the play was scheduled for late afternoon to give the dramatic effect of

shadows in the last act, Janet grew tired and was asleep in her mother's arms

halfway through the play.

In all honesty it was a stirring drama. Draki gave just the right touch

of villainy to his portrait of Judas. Once out from under the influence of

Red, his sidelong leers were diminished and instead of twirling his mustache

he stroked his beard nervously. Kiki was divine as Mary. Strangely, Tamar's

shimmy at the beginning of the Last Supper seemed to accentuate rather than

diminish the solemnity of the scene, although Cara snorted at what she

considered inept dancing. Reno stuck to the script, as written in red ink,

and there was only one false note in the entire underground version of the

drama. When Pilate delivered Jesus to the rabble, the centurions guarding Him

wore the black helmets of Bubo's praetorian guards, whereas the arresting

soldiers had been Reno's cadets.

It was a minor error. I had seen worse in movies on Earth, but such

technicalities disturb my sense of proportion. Conceivably it had been

planned by Red as a sop to the Dean's vanity. As I recalled there had been no

praetorian guard in the dress rehearsal.

Suddenly I remembered Red's remark that the Dean's soldiers took orders

only from the Dean. Red, with his sense of realism, would not have permitted

black uniforms to mix with the cadets' green. The only way that Bubo's

praetorians could have gotten into the act would be through Bubo's orders, and

Bubo was not that interested in dramatics.

I was mulling over the problem as the audience transferred from the

underground auditorium to surface bleachers near the knob. To maintain

continuity for the television viewers, Draki had written in a scene between

Barabbas and the warders when Barabbas learns that he is to be freed on the

day that Christ is executed. It was a vignette scene, but it had pathos, and

I was intent on it when the camera shifted to the Pharisaic rabble on the

surface and I turned my gaze to the live portion visible from the observatory.

Cara and I decided to take the sleeping child and walk out on the open

balcony better to view the scene.

Outside, the weather was holding beautifully. Not a cloud marred the

late afternoon sky and the temperature was in a comfortable high sixties. In

a peculiar way, I had faith that the weather would hold for the fifteen

minutes demanded by the final scene when the sky darkened and the rabble fled

in terror from Calvary.

By now, on the surface beneath us, the rabble, held back by centurions,

were lining the way of the cross and the cross itself was bobbing along

through the mob, held aloft by the red-bearded Reno, aided by the wires

suspended from the standards of the soldiers escorting him.

Then the cowled figure of Christ emerged from the throng, staggering

realistically under his burden. Once he fell and a form of paralysis struck

my heart, causing me to gasp. When Christ fell and rose again, the standards

of the praetorians did not dip under the weight of the cross.

The cowled figure climbing the hill was carrying the cross unassisted,

and there were only two men on this planet who could carry that massive

weight. I was the other one.

Now I understood the meaning of the praetorian guard. They were there

under orders from Bubo, orders they would obey explicitly, and I had advised

the Dean that Red should be nailed to the cross.

Red O'Hara was going to be crucified, and my fever had vanished in my

great loneliness for the sight of another human face.

"Cara, that's Red out there doped with lemming DNA. Bubo's going to kill

him if I don't get to him first!"

I turned and raced for the down ramp, cursing myself fop not obeying my

hunches. It was a mile underground to the top of the knob. They would have

driven the nails by the time I arrived, and the praetorians had, no doubt,

been instructed to form a hollow square to fend me off. But the praetorians

did not know of my laser pistol.

The weapon I had planned to use on Red would be used in his defense. I

would have to face murder charges, but my comrade would be saved. And if I

chose to play out the game according to my own rules, I would have the best

defense lawyer on Harlech in my corner.

I ran, cursing the literal minds of Harlech, but even as I cursed the

grim irony of the situation struck me. Red had wanted realism in this scene.

He would get it in a way he had never planned. The very praetorian guard he

had appointed to Bubo, operating under the discipline Red had imposed, would

drive the nails into Red's own hands.

No wonder I had not found Red. He had been held within the sacrosanct

chambers of the Dean, fed, watered and given strong doses of Cara's "powder of

docility" to prepare him for this ritual sacrifice. No one had thought of

searching those chambers, for they were taboo to the minds of Harlechians.

Never had the tunnels of Harlech seemed so long. After an eternity of

lung-searing effort, I reached the now-empty soccer gym and raced its length

toward the long up-ramp above the playing field. Before I reached the ramp,

an alluvial flood of Harlechians, mouth-breathing in their panic, poured from

the entrance to the ramp. It was a ghastly river pouring down that ramp

impelled by ancestral terror — a fire storm was threatening the surface.

Lowering my shoulders, I plowed into them, splitting the incoming tide

with the force of my charge, flinging the light-bodied beings to right and to

left and straight up. "Fire storm!" they screamed, but I was heedless.

The sheer weight of their numbers slowed me until their acute perception

marked my progress and they began to leap over me. Then I moved faster under

the arch of whizzing bodies that lifted for my passage.

My canopy thinned and changed character. Shorts and panties of the

fast-running students gave way to the crotches of older citizens, the flying

robes of the costumed players and, finally, the black jockstraps of the

praetorians, fleeing without the weapons they had dropped.

"Cowards," I screamed at Bubo's passing and overleaping guardsmen, "you

have abandoned your arms."

But they ran shameless in their panic, and I remembered their spears were

tipped with metal, and that metal drew lightning.

Suddenly the burrow was empty of all save me. Ahead another fifty yards

the exit framed the garish flickerings from the lightning. Remembering the

praetorians, I slowed slightly to tug the metal pistol from its holster and

fling it aside as I stumbled on toward the exit. Still running, I unhooked my

activator belt and threw its metal buckle aside.

I am an Earthman, bravest of God's thinking creatures, and I had no eons

of terror conditioning me against lightning, but let me assure you, Doctor, it

took an act of will to hurl myself from that tunnel into the sizzling light of

the storm. But when I stumbled from the cavern's mouth, into the ankle-deep

mud from the rain, I found I was plunging at the tail-end of a southbound

express train. The line of lightning had passed.

Slithering, staggering, breathing prayers and ozone, I turned in the

darkness toward the knob. As I stumbled up the beginning slope, the blackness

grew opaque as the jet stream swept the clouds into tatters. Slowly, the aura

of sunset returned to the scene, the lightning flicked and died to the

southwest. Now in the growing light from the sun, I lifted my eyes to

Calvary. The cross was gone from the hilltop.

I knew what had happened. The crucifix had been built from seasoned

timber, and its dry wood had been veined with ferrous oxide. Red had been

nailed to a lightning rod, crucified and cremated. All that remained of

O'Hara and his cross would be a pile of ashes sunk to the bottom of a

waterlogged posthole.

I continued my progress toward the crest with the mud squishing between

my toes. There was one honor left for me to accord my comrade — I would give

the lad a Christian burial.

As I reached the brow of the hill, the cloud mass rolled beneath the

western horizon, and the sun, balanced now on the distant line of the sea,

cast parallel rays over the summit. By its light I found the posthole. On

either side of it glinted two huge nails, rain-cleansed of his blood, which

had pierced O'Hara's hands. Before the hole lay Red's rosary.

In the curl of my toes, I lifted the nails and dropped them into the hole

with its broth of ashes, and with the side of my foot I shoved the mound of

dirt from the excavation on top of Red's remains and tamped firm the burial

mound with my heel and shaped with my instep. Then I lifted the rosary with

my big toe and coiled it atop the mound.

"_Ecce homo_," I said.

Here was a man somewhat higher than the angels and, yes, the father of my

child, whose soul and mine were linked forever, not by a Mandan computer but

by a deeper brotherhood — of shared joys, shared perils, shared dreams and

shared loves. So noble a friend done in by so foul a deed!

Anguish wrenched words from me and I cried aloud, "Mary, Mother of God,

be with him now in the hour of his death. Amen."

Then I made the sign of the cross over his grave. A good old Methodist

had preached a Catholic's funeral.

I turned and walked from the crest, out of the sunlight into the shadow

of Red's Calvary, and the shadow lay as a pall around me. A few yards down,

the ball of my foot struck a plastic skull, which had washed downhill and

imbedded itself in the mud. Looking down on the grin of that death's head, I

gazed on the face of Truth: Through the arc of space I had come with Red but a

little way on his temporal journey. Now O'Hara had made full the infinite

circle, closing it at the beginnings of our spirit, at a Place of Plastic

Skulls, the technological Golgotha.

Unknowingly, I had whored with a god in the Mandan houses of lust, fought

against that god in the drunk tank of Mandan jail; I had stalked the Lord's

anointed through the tunnels of Harlech and, unwittingly, I had been used by

the ultimate Judas as an instrument of Saint O'Hara's betrayal. My sins were

grievous, but I was not done with sinning.

Judas would never spend his silver. Walking into the tunnel, I swore by

Imperial Earth that Bubo the Dean would die.

On my way home, I stopped by the tavern and ordered a boilermaker to do

homage in a ritual an Irishman would appreciate and to steady my shaken

nerves. For once the place was crowded, but I would let no one take the stool

where Red sat when we had planned the overthrow of Bubo. I was on my fourth

drink when the television screen lighted and the news came on. Drawn-faced,

the student announcer spoke of Red's death, paying a tender tribute to "this

far-wanderer who came to us from a remote galaxy and a planet he called Earth,

bringing us the art of drama and giving us the gift of laughter. But there is

something of a mystery shrouding his death. Reno, Cadet General of

Centurions, has promised an investigation. Even the short legs of Red the

Teacher should have borne him to the safety of the burrow. Just a minute — we

pause now for a special bulletin from the office of Bubo the Dean. . . ."

There was a moment of silence as the face of the announcer faded from the

screen and was replaced by a printed form that announced:

On the advice of my legal advisor, Jack the Teacher, this day Red the

Teacher was nailed to the cross atop the soccer knob for the Earth crime of

adultery.

_Bubo the Dean_

Again the announcer appeared, and for a moment he looked shaken.

"Adultery, Harlechians, is a moment's dalliance with someone else's steady, no

more reprehensible than sharing a cup with a friend. For that crime, a light

was extinguished which lit all Harlech."

"I'll drink to that, Mac," I told the bartender.

"You've had your limit at this bar, Jack," he said.

I looked around me and saw, for the first time, the stare of Harlechians.

The eyes were huge, expressionless — and below the eyes were mouths opening

and closing on the silent "_ma-ma-ma_" by which they expressed strong passion.

I felt like a lone specimen in a bowl of air surrounded by an aquarium of

fish, and I rose and walked out, not in fear but in embarrassment.

So it was no longer "us" against "them." It was "them" against "me."

Only Cara, on the whole of Harlech, knew I was innocent, and Cara could not

guard me against such hostility. I had one last errand to accomplish and I

was leaving Harlech forever, but first I must say good-bye to my wife and

child.

Before I entered my office, I heard the sibilance of prayer arising from

the chapel, and when I opened the door the area was filled with worshipers.

My Good Friday sermon had been taken over by a lay preacher, Bardo the Lawyer,

who was finishing a prayer for the dead. Standing behind the kneeling

worshipers, I heard him finish: "And we ask this blessing in the name of Red.

There is no Lord but the Lord of Moses and Red was His prophet."

"Wait, Bardo," I cried. "Red was not a prophet. Jesus Christ was the

Prophet."

"By law," Bardo answered, "we cannot accept hearsay evidence, and we all

know that Red died on the cross and he spoke only of Moses. So we are of the

Hebrew faith. . . . But go, Jack. Your Cara awaits."

My brain spinning, I entered my office. There was more to be done on

Harlech now than kill a Judas. Slick lawyers were using the rules of evidence

on my Scriptures, and jurisprudence was converting my Christianity to Judaism.

I had to get the Word straight before I left Harlech, and my time was short.

It was one Holy mess!

In my heart I knew what had to be done, but how? I was willing to grant

O'Hara sainthood, but I could not grant him co-equality with the Holy Trinity,

particularly now that these pagans had pared the Trio to a Duo.

Bubo had destroyed Red's body through my inadvertency. Now Red's spirit

must be destroyed on Harlech. I alone would bear the responsibility for that

second death, but Cara would have to become the instrument of my purpose.

Cara awaited me behind the closed door of the library, pacing the floor

in her anxiety. In fact, she had removed Janet's crib to the bedroom to

increase her pacing room. She wheeled to face me when I entered.

"So, Judas, you are back!"

"Judas? You know I tried to save Red."

"You rushed to get him before Bubo's men could get him."

"I rushed to get him from Bubo's men," I protested, alarmed by the slow

opening and closing of her mouth as she gulped oxygen. "Red's blood is on

Bubo's hands, not mine."

"You authorized the administrative decision."

"For that I'm no more responsible than Red, who trained the praetorians

to obey and put them under Bubo's command. Believe me, darling — "

"Believe you, you pious fraud! By your acts you are known, and your acts

led to his death."

None of my sermons had summoned such passion as that which contorted the

face of my wife. She was crouched and leaning forward like an animal ready to

pounce, her mouth scooping oxygen to feed her wildly beating heart. And this

force had been summoned by the memory of a man who was essentially a

confidence man who had been tricked by a slicker operator than he, and who had

been, in fact, an adulterer. It was imperative that I execute Red's spirit on

the spot.

"Darling Cara," I said, "surely you do not kneel at the feet of a

conniver, an adulterer —"

"Who are you to call Red names, you sermonizing hypocrite, cloakroom

conniver, breast-bouncing philanderer, adulterer! I have the report on you

and that hip-twitching Tamar here," she said, tapping a document on my desk.

So it was not spirituality that had triggered her passion but a

misconception gained from a report that had been officially quashed.

"Darling," I said, "I was taken against my will."

"Liar," she hissed. "Now you're breaking Red's Commandments right and

left, and he died for breaking one. So you die, cuckold!"

I had lowered my hands, palms outward, in expostulation, when she leaped,

whipping her legs around me and pinning my arms to my sides. Her legs, the

handles of the chalice of my only true love, were crushing me now in a

python's coils as her once-lovely voice shrieked, "Try fondling my breasts,

you scum of Earth, you beast from a planet of apes."

Slowly her thighs were constricting me. I could feel my elbows dig into

my ribcage. My legs were growing numb from the tourniquet she was applying to

my main aorta. Soon my arms would be welded to my body.

But she reckoned not with the lethal ingenuity of my species. "Unleg me,

Lilith," I gasped, "or I will make an orphan of Red's child."

"Liar again," she hissed. "Now there are two of us on Harlech who know

you are helpless in the legs of a woman."

Behind her was my desk. I stepped forward a pace, bent quickly and

rapped her head against the edge of the desk with a quick, dipping butt of my

head. "Unleg me now," I said, "or on the next tap you die."

In one last spasm of anger, she broke my lower ribs, but she unlegged me

and fell crumpled against the desk. "Get out," she said. "Quit desecrating

the house of Red."

"I'm going," I told her, "but before I leave this planet, I'm setting two

records straight, and the first is for you alone."

I walked over to the phone, lifted it and dialed Flick's number, 1313. A

sergeant answered. "Let me speak to Frick the Police Captain," I said.

"Frick the Snooper has been relieved of duty," the voice answered, "and

assigned to Pottery Station 21, South Continent, by order of General Reno."

"Who's speaking?"

"Beck," the voice answered. "First Centurion, Third Phalanx, Laser

Battery 8, Harlechian Planetary Defense Artillery."

Stunned, I hung up, knowing there was one record, mine, that would never

be set straight. In the space of two hours, there had been a military coup,

Frick ousted and a cadre established for a planetary-defense force. While I

had fiddled with misdemeanors, Red had burned Earth General's investment

department with a felony. He had taught these pagans military science in his

gym classes.

Without a downward glance at Cara, I turned and staggered out. My legs

were lead and my heart was ice as I stumbled through my chapel, their

synagogue now, empty of all save the icon of Jesus hanging beyond my

still-lighted altar. I cast one farewell look around and found they had

painted the beard on the icon red.

Rebuked, scorned and rejected!

Lost forever, my girl with the jade-green eyes. Strayed, my lambs to the

pipings of a wayward shepherd. Before me the tunnel pinpointed infinity while

the walls compressed me into a clanging echo chamber of despair. Now I knew

what must be done, and how, and only the righteousness of my purpose sustained

me after the shock of Cara's last embrace.

Strangely, there was no sentry present outside Bubo's office. Perhaps

after this day's work, he had given them a rest, or perhaps he had released

them permanently in the knowledge that they would never be needed again. In

one way or the other, Bubo was right, and as a precaution I reached for my

laser. My jockstrap was empty. In my grief, I had forgotten to retrieve both

pistol and belt at the tunnel's mouth. But no matter. I could choke the

beast after he had served my purpose.

Bubo was not in his inner office, so I shoved open the door and entered

his library. He sat on a high stool at a workbench in a library without

books. Around the walls were shelves with brooms, mops, oil cans, wrenches,

screwdrivers and wiping rags. In the center of the room was a transisterized

computer attached to a console. He wore a greasy pair of coveralls and was

playing solitaire with a deck of Earth cards.

Bubo the Janitor merely looked up from his cards when I entered. "You

Earthmen keep kicking my mystique around. Don't you know when it's time to

quit?'

"One of us learned the hard way," I said, glancing over his shoulder. A

nine of diamonds lay below a ten of hearts. "You made good use of Red while

you had him," I added. "You even learned to cheat at solitaire."

"With me it's not cheating," he said. "As the Chief of Administration, I

merely change policy to meet new situations."

"As chief maintenance man, you mean, for a self-maintaining computer,

which makes you as useless as . . ." I struggled for the words to express my

contempt.

"Teats on a boar," Bubo said, "which is the end-result in the evolution

of an administrator."

"I haven't evolved that far," I said. "I still do a little typing."

Keeping my eyes on his indifferent back, I eased onto the stool before the

console.

"You aren't supposed to touch those keys," he said. "That's taboo."

"Dead men don't fear taboos," I said. "I'm sending a message on that

machine, with your image, saying that Red and I were military scouts carrying

out an Intelligence and Reconnaissance Patrol on Harlech for the military

forces of Imperial Earth."

"You'll destroy Red's mystique," he said. "I hear the students are

building him up into something of a demigod. But the centurions will kill you

in obedience to the First Commandment. They couldn't let you leave here with

what you know. . . . I don't follow your logic."

"That is the logic. They'll know by my death that I spoke the truth."

"You're making it easier for me," he said, reshuffling the cards. "You

Earthmen are no challenge."

Then I knew I had been manipulated to this point by the man who had

destroyed O'Hara. No doubt he had fed my profile to this very machine and

plotted my moves in advance. Only one point disturbed me as I bent to the

keyboard: How could he have known that I would leave my laser pistol in the

tunnel?

Bubo was shuffling with the riffle of a riverboat gambler as I bent to

the keyboard.

"Attention, all Harlech," I typed onto the compensating tape. "Be it

known to all who worship at the shrine of Red the Prophet that this day I

received a full and voluntary confession from Jack the Teacher, which follows:

I, Jack the Teacher, did come to the planet known by its inhabitants as

Harlech in the company of Red the Teacher bringing not peace but a sword. . .

."

That was the last I remember. The heel of a Harlechian who had hidden in

Bubo's bedroom whipped down on the back of my skull.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I awakened to a throbbing in my head of such intensity that my whole body

seemed to shake. What a clout, I thought, and when I opened my eyes I was

still seeing stars. I tried to raise my hand to rub my eyes and found my arms

were paralyzed.

It took a full minute for me to recognize the configuration of the stars

and realize they were real. When I saw the hairline of a marker creeping

toward the Milky Way, I knew that my body quivered from the spinning of a

gyro-stabilizer. It followed that my arms were not paralyzed but strapped to

the control seat of a starship by a gravity lock.

I was about to be launched.

To confirm my impressions, I rolled my eyes downward and found an

instrument panel. According to the timer, I was in the final twenty seconds

of an automatic countdown. Tilting my eyes above the viewing port, I saw

dangling the green leprechaun of Red O'Hara. Pinned to the leprechaun's belly

was a pink slip. In the faint glow from the panel, I could decipher the

message:

This day, Jack the Teacher was expelled from Harlech for violating the

Dean's Sanctum.

_Bubo the Dean_

Then the lasers fired and I swallowed my eyeballs.

When I heard the gravity lock on my seat click open to release me, my

release was purely academic. Obviously, Bubo wanted me off the planet in a

hurry, for I was lifting off at a constant acceleration that peaked at eight

gravities, which gave me a body weight slightly under one ton, and I

remembered Red's remark, "I could ram that baby through the barrier fast

enough to get back to Earth before the marriage . . . if you had guts enough

to stand the Gs."

At the moment, I was far less worried about my guts than my backbone, but

it took the weight without being crushed, and I knew that Bubo had not won.

Our game was still being played, and I, too, could change the rules to fit

changing policy. As the governors took effect and the G forces gradually

subsided, I whipped out my slide rule to do a few computations.

I intended to get back to Earth before I had left and scratch the

Adams-O'Hara Probe.

Ideally, here's the way it works. If you go out at a constant

acceleration of one gravity and return at a constant acceleration of two

gravities, you'll touch down on the same day you launch. But that's the ideal

situation. No one's going to land anywhere at a constant acceleration of two

gravities. There's a point in the continuum where you become anti-light and

exceed simultaneity. You can bore through the sun unharmed because the day

after tomorrow has become the day before yesterday. You reverse the Lorentz

Factor.

There's where I made my first error.

When I whipped out my slide rule, I was still at two gravities, and I

forgot to compensate for my slip-stick, which was foreshortened by the Lorentz

Factor. When I figured my deceleration factor, which is computed on a

geometric curve, and compensated for my time spent on Harlech I got a figure

of 3.2 gravities which would get me back to Earth in time to stop the mission.

But I was figuring 3.2 on a slide rule that was registering 4.1.

Although I didn't compensate, the ship's computer did.

So I set my speed at 3.2 and settled back in my seat, way back. I

reckoned my body weight at 653 pounds, which was 184 pounds under my actual

weight. Relatively fat, dumb and happy, I relaxed, not that I would have been

skipping any ropes at 837 pounds, and waited to hit the barrier.

Great gourds and little crabapples!

I hit the Minkowski Zone so fast it was nothing but a gray blur between

ultraviolet and infrared. Once I reversed my frame, my weight was thrown

forward. My back sores were still hurting when my stomach started catching

it. But the worst part was my eyes. Bulging out like they were, I had

terrific peripheral vision but I couldn't see a thing ahead.

Boy, howdy, Doc, that was some ride! Once through the Zone, I squinted

to get a cross-bearing on Cassiopeia and Camelopardus; but by the time I

plotted the fix, Cepheus was whizzing past my starboard beam. Then I knew I

had to slow down. Around about Polaris, I fired my retros, but I was trying

to stop an oceanliner with the drag from a broomstick.

I skidded out of the Milky Way like a flat rock off a frozen millpond and

was halfway through Orion before I could get my buggy headed toward home. I

made a revenuer's reverse around the Horse's Neck and was feeling like a

Birmingham bootlegger with the cops on his tail. But Betelgeuse was dead

astern, so I got a bearing on the sun. Skidding around like I was, I knew I

was losing time, so I gunned it flat-out for the solar system.

When the sun exploded like a nova in my viewing screen, I knew I was in

trouble again, so I slammed on the retros full blast. All they did was jam my

nose into the instrument panel. I got a good peripheral look at the sun as I

went past, but I couldn't even wave. My hands weighed 280 pounds apiece.

By the sainted cinders of O'Hara, I bit a four-parsec chunk out of the

Milky Way. Lordy Mercy, I've never seen so many stars. I reckon it was about

1928 when I made my first pass of the solar system, but there was nothing left

for me to do but slow down to a crawl. When you're coming out of a reversed

frame, time telescopes back, and every minute used up a year on Earth. It

took me five hours to ease back into a Galilean Frame, and you know the rest.

I flipped my frame, so it can be done, but I didn't do it. As you see,

Doc, I'm a year late, Red's still dead, Bubo's still Dean, and all I got was

varicose veins. But, you know, all the way back, when I thought I was going

to make it, I kept worrying about what I would say to myself when I introduced

myself to myself.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I'd like to say a little prayer and

apologize to Red for failing him. He wouldn't have failed me. That old boy

would have known when to start his retros by instinct, and he would have

button-hooked the sun, not some nebula in Orion.

Red O'Hara! Now, there was a laser jockey.

As I watched the gaunt-faced man with the bloated ankles bowed in prayer,

I knew he was too far gone for analytical therapy, particularly from a

Platonist. Perhaps a frontal lobotomy might help, or DNA dust inhalation —

about three barrels full. I felt sympathy for John Adams, but no empathy

since I did not fully understand what he had done.

He said he had flipped his reference frame and I had to take his word for

it. I wasn't qualified to question his mathematics. I could question his

logic, but I had no desire to point out his errors in deduction, since I was

sure he had flipped something.

"We sent out a space sailor and got back a blithering divine," a voice

said beside me, and I turned to a colonel in the black uniform of the Harrier

Corps. In the light from the decontamination chamber, the death's heads on

his lapels seemed to glow with a ritual significance, as Adams would say.

"Doctor," the Colonel continued, "there's something radically wrong with

the personality-testing program here when such misfits are given command of a

forty-million-dollar star-ship."

"Colonel, I suggest you complain to Space Surgeon Commander Harkness.

He's in charge of the Mandan program."

Adams finished his prayer, looked up and saw the Colonel. "Colonel," he

blurted, "I recommend you decode my flight recorder and get a bunch of your

boys to Heaven in one hell of a hurry. It'll take no time at all to convert

those trylons into laser batteries."

"You're a little late, mister." The Colonel's voice almost cracked the

glass. "The flight recorder was unshipped and removed from the vessel. It

would take us a thousand years to relocate that planet, with or without green

polka-dot drawers."

"Now, who could have done that?" Adams's mouth opened wide in an

exaggerated gesture of astonishment.

"I don't know who did it, but I know who's responsible, the probe

commander. Get back into your miniskirt and jockstrap, Adams. You're under

arrest, for five felony and seventeen misdemeanor violations of Navy

Regulations."

He slapped a riding crop against his thigh and a squad of Harriers

double-quicked from an antechamber into the decontamination room.

"Thank you, Doctor," the Colonel said. "At least your debriefing was a

success. The culprit will be punished."

As I watched the squad parade out at lock step with Adams in the center

of their square, I knew John Adams could not be punished. He had guilt

feelings as wide as the Powder River with a martyr complex to match. The more

he suffered for the death of O'Hara, the happier he would be.

And the irony of it was that O'Hara, who could have been a true martyr,

was not dead. There had been a crucifixion, but there had been a

resurrection, probably three days later. The heel of the Harlechian that had

knocked Adams senseless was more likely a shillelagh.

My certainty was not entirely from logic. There was a singing in my

blood, an intuition, if you will, which was more than a hunch. I was gripped

with the noncognitive awareness of truth which every psychiatrist learns to

recognize, and it was telling me that O'Hara was still King Con, the king of

confidence men.

Apparently the Colonel agreed with me.

"This case doesn't close with Adams," he said. "O'Hara's an Irishman.

We'll have to station a picket ship in the Lynx window to keep a lookout,

probably for a kelly-green ship. The wrong man came back."

Again my instincts spoke to me, telling me that if O'Hara came back, it

would not be to this world. I could almost pinpoint the place and time of his

return: Phoenix Park, Dublin, in 1882.

"Doctor, would you be kind enough to introduce me to your Surgeon

Harkness?" the Colonel said, turning to me. "My name is Evans, Colonel Neil

Ewart Evans."

Behind Evans, I could see Harkness descending from the gallery.

"Gladly, Colonel," I said as we shook hands. "My name is O'Sullivan,

Doctor Michael Timothy O'Sullivan."

THE END

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN