"HEY, CHANDLER," said Lan-y Grantz, the jailer, "I can get
fifty to one for a conviction. What d'you think?"
"Go to hell," said Chandler.
"Come on. Let me in on it. You got any surprises for
the judge?"
Chandler didn't answer. He didn't even look at the
jailer. A man who was on his way to hell didn't have to
worry about what people thought of him.
"Now, look," said the jailer, "you could maybe use a
friend or two before long. What do you say? Listen, I can
get five for one if you're going to plead guilty. Are you?"
"Why should I? I'm innocent."
"Oh, yeah, all right, but if you plead guilty and throw
yourself on the mercy of the court No? The hell with
you, then."
The jailer stood in the doorway, picking his nose and
looking at Chandler with dislike. That was all right.
Chandler was getting used to it.
It was hard to  believe that this  was  the late 20th
century. . . the third decade of the Atomic Age, the era of
spaceffight. Of course, there hadn't been much of that
lately. Chandler wondered what the Mars expedition must
be thinking these days, waiting for the relief-and-rotation
ship that must be a year or two overdue by now. Assum-
ing they were still alive, of course. . . .
"You're gonna go in there in a minute. Chandler," said
Grantz, "and then it's too late. Why don't you be a sport
and let me know what's up?"
Chandler said, "I've got nothing to tell you. I'm inno-
cent."
"You gonna plead that way?" pressed the jailer.
7
"I'm going to plead that way."
"Ah, cripes, they'll shoot you sure."
Chandler shook his head. Meaning: that's not up to me.
Grantz stared at him irresolutely.
Chandler changed position gently, since he still hurt
pretty badly. He wished he had a watch, although there
was no particular reason for him to worry about the time
any more.
Five years before, back in the old days before the
demons came, when he was helping design telemetry
equipment for the Ganymede probe. Chandler would not
have believed his life would be at stake in a witchcraft
trial. Not even that. He wasn't accused of being involved
in witchcraft. He was about to go on trial for his life for
the far more serious crime of not being involved in witch-
craft.
It was hard to believe-but believe it or not, it was
happening. It was happening to him.
It was happening right now.
Grantz cocked an ear to a voice from outside the door,
nodded, ground out his cigarette under a heel and said,
"All right, fink. Just remember when they're pulling the
trigger on you, you could have had  a friend on the
firing squad." And he opened the door and marched
Chandler out.
Because of the crowd that was attracted by the sensa-
tional nature of the charges against him, they held Chan-
dler's trial in the all-purpose room of the high school. It
smelled of leather and stale sweat.
There was a mob. There must have been three or four
hundred people present. They all looked at him exactly as
the jailer had.
Chandler walked up the three steps to the stage, with
the jailer's hand on his elbow, and took his place at the
defendant's table. His lawyer was there already.
The lawyer, who had been appointed by the court over
his vigorous protests, looked at him without emotion. He
was willing to do his job, but his job didn't require him to
like his client. All he said was, "Stand up. The judge is
coming in."
Chandler got to his feet and leaned on the table while
the bailiff chanted his call and the chaplain read some
verses from John. He did not listen. The Bible verses came
too late to help him, and besides he ached.
When the police arrested him they had not been gentle.
There were four of them. They were from the plant's own
security force and carried no guns. They didn't need any;
Chandler had put up no resistance after the first few
momentsfliat is, he stopped fighting as soon as he could
stopbut the police hadn't stopped. He remembered that
very clearly. He remembered the nightstick across the side
of his head that left his ear squashed and puffy, he
remembered the kick in the gut that still made walking
painful. He even remembered the pounding on his skull
that had knocked him out.
The bruises along his rib cage and left arm, though, he
did not remember getting. Obviously the police had been
mad enough to keep right on subduing him after he was
already unconscious.
Chandler did not blame themexactly. He supposed he
would have done the same thing.
The judge was having a long mumble with the court
stenographer, apparently about something which had hap-
pened in the Union House the night before. Chandler
knew Judge Ellithorp slightly. He did not expect to get a
fair trial.  The previous  December the  judge  himself,
while possessed, had smashed the transmitter of the
town's radio station, which he owned, and set fire to
the building it occupied. His son-in-law had been killed in
the fire.
Since the judge had had his own taste of hell, he would
not be kind to Chandler.
Laughing, the judge waved the reporter back to his seat
and glanced around the courtroom. His gaze touched
Chandler lightly, like the flick of the hanging strands of
cord that precede a railroad tunnel. The touch carried the
same warning. What lay ahead for Chandler was destruc-
tion.
"Read the charge," ordered Judge Ellithorp. He spoke
very loudly. There were more than six hundred persons in
the auditorium; the judge didn't want any of them to miss
a word.
The bailiff ordered Chandler to stand and informed
him that he was accused of having, on the seventeenth
day of June last, committed on the person of Margaret
Flershem, a minor, an act of rape"Louder!" ordered
the judge testily.
"Yes, Your Honor," said the bailiff, and inflated his
chest. "An Act of Rape under Threat of Bodily Violence,"
he cried; "and Did Further Commit on the Person of Said
Margaret Flershem an Act of Aggravated Assault"
Chandler rubbed his aching side, looking at the ceiling.
He remembered the look in Peggy Flershem's eyes as he
forced himself on her. She was only sixteen years old, and
at that time he hadn't even known her last name.
The bailiff boomed on: "and Did Further Commit
on that Same Seventeenth Day of June Last on the Person
of Ingovar Porter an Act of Assault with Intent to Rape,
the Foregoing Being a True Bill Handed Down by the
Grand Jury of Marecel County in Extraordinary Session
Assembled, the Eighteenth Day of June Last."
Judge Ellithorp looked satisfied as the bailiff sat down,
quite winded. While the judge hunted through the papers
on his desk the crowd in the auditorium stirred and
murmured.
A child began to cry.
The judge stood up and pounded his gavel. "What is it?
What's the matter with him? You, Dundon!" The court
attendant the judge was looking at hurried over and spoke
to the child's mother, then reported to the judge.
"I dunno. Your Honor. All he says is something scared
him."
The judge was enraged. "Well, that's just fine! Now we
have to take up the time of all these good people, proba-
bly for no reason, and hold up the business of this court,
just because of a child. Bailiff! I want you to clear this
courtroom of all children under" he hesitated, calculat-
ing voting blocks in his head"all children under the age
of six. Dr. Palmer, are you there? Well, you better go
ahead with theprayer." The judge could not make him-
self say "the exorcism."
"I'm sorry, madam," he added to the mother of the
crying two-year-old. "If you have someone to leave the
child with, I'll instruct the attendants to save your place
for you." She was also a voter.
Dr. Palmer rose, very grave, as he was embarrassed. He
glared around the all-purpose room, defying anyone to
smile, as he chanted: "Domina Pythonis, I command you,
leave! Leave, Hel! Leave, Heloym! Leave, Sother and
Thetragrammaton, leave, all unclean ones! I command
you! In the name of God, in all of His manifestations!"
He sat down again, still very grave. He knew that he did
not make nearly as fine a showing as Father Lon, with his
resonant in nomina lesu Christi et Sancti Ubaldi and his
censer, but the post of exorcist was filled in strict rotation,
one month to a denomination, ever since the troubles
started. Dr. Palmer was a Unitarian. Exorcisms had not
been in the curriculum at the seminary and he had been
forced to invent his own.
Chandler's lawyer tapped him on the shoulder. "Last
chance to change your mind," he said.
"No. I'm not guilty, and that's the way I want to
plead."
The lawyer shrugged and stood up, waiting for the
judge to notice him.
Chandler, for the first time, allowed himself to meet the
eyes of the crowd.     ~
He studied the jury first. He knew some of them
casuallyit was not a big enough town to command a
jury of total strangers for any defendant, and Chandler
had lived there most of his life. He recognized Pop Mathe-
son, old and very stiff, who ran the railroad station cigar
stand. Two of the other men were familiar as faces passed
in the street. The forewoman, though, was a stranger. Sb
sat there very composed and frownmg, and all he knew
about her was that she wore funny hats. Yesterday's had
been red roses when she was selected from the panel;
today's was, of all things, a stuffed bird.
He did not think that any of them was possessed. He
was not so sure of the audience.
He saw girls he had dated in high school, long before
he met Margot; men he worked with at the plant. They all
glanced at him, but he was not sure who was looking out
through some of those familiar eyes. The visitors reliably
watched all large gatherings, at least momentarily; it would
be surprising if none of them were here.
"All right, how do you plead?" said Judge Ellithorp at
last.
Chandler's lawyer straightened up. "Not guilty, Your
Honor, by reason of temporary pandemic insanity."
The judge looked pleased. The crowd murmured, but
they were pleased too. They had him dead to rights and it
would have been a disappointment if Chandler had plead-
ed guilty. They wanted to see one of the vilest criminals in
contemporary human society caught, exposed, convicted
and punished; they did not want to miss a step of the
process. Already in the playground behind the school three
deputies from the sheriff's office were loading their rifles,
while the school janitor chalked lines around the handball
court to mark where the crowd witnessing the execution
would be permitted to stand.
All this, as Chandler very reasonably told himself, was
quite insane. There were satellites in orbit in the skies
overhead! Every home in the town owned a television set,
although to be sure they now did nothing but serve as
receptacles for the holding of seashells and flowers . . . and
hopes for a better world. This was the 20th century!
But they gave every sign of being about to kill him as
dead as though it were the seventeenth. The prosecution
made its case very quickly. Mrs. Porter testified that she
worked at McKelvey Bros., the antibiotics plant, where the
defendant also worked. Yes, that was him. She had been
attracted by the noise from the culture room lastlet's
see"Was it the seventeenth day of June last?" prompt-
ed the prosecutor, and Chandler's attorney instinctively
gathered his muscles to rise, hesitated, glanced at his client
and shrugged. That was right, it was the seventeenth.
Incautiously she went right into the room. She should have
known better, she admitted. She should have called the
plant police right away, but, well, they hadn't had any
trouble at the plant, you know, andwell, she didn't. She
was a stupid woman, for all that she was rather good-
looking, and insatiably curious. She had seen Peggy Fler-
shem on the floor. "She was all blood. And her clothes
wereAnd she was, I mean herher body was" With
relentless tact the prosecutor allowed her to stammer out
her observation that the girl had clearly been raped. And
she had seen Chandler laughing and breaking up the
place, throwing racks of cultures through the windows,
upsetting trays. Of course she had crossed herself and tried
a quick exorcism but there was no visible effect; then
Chandler had leaped at her. "He was hateful! He was just
foul!" But as he began to attack her the plant police came,
drawn by her screams.
Chandler's attorney did not question.
Peggy Flershem's deposition was introduced without ob-
jection from the defense. But she had little to say anyway,
having been dazed at first and unconscious later. The plant
police testified to having arrested Chandler; a doctor de-
scribed in chaste medical words the derangements Chan-
dler had worked on Peggy Flershem's virgin anatomy.
There was no question from Chandler's lawyerand, for
that matter, nothing to question. Chandler did not hope to
pretend that he had not ravished and nearly killed one girl,
then done his best to repeat the process on another. Sitting
there as the doctor testified, Chandler was able to tally
every break and bruise against the memory of what his
own body had done. He had been a .spectator then, too,
as remote from the event as he was now; but that was
why they had him on trial. That was what they did not
believe.
At twelve-thirty the prosecution rested its case. Judge
Ellithorp looking very pleased. He recessed the court for
one hour for lunch, and Larry Grant~tookk Chandler back
to the detention cell in the basement of the school.
Two Swiss cheese sandwiches and a wax paper carton
of chocolate milk were on the desk. They were Chandler's
lunch. As they had been standing, the sandwiches were
crusty and the milk luke-warm. He ate them anyway. He
knew what the judge looked pleased about. At one-thirty
Chandler's lawyer would put him on the stand, and no
one would pay very much attention to what he had to say,
and the juiy would be out at most twenty minutes, and
the verdict would be guilty. The judge was pleased because
he would be able to pronounce sentence no later than four
o'clock, no matter what.
They had formed the habit of holding the executions at
sundown. As, at that time of year, sundown was after
seven, it would all go very wellfor everyone but Chan-
dler.

LASRY GRANTZ looked m, eating a wedge of pie from the
diner across the street. "You want anything else?" he
demanded.
"Coffee."
"Ah, you won't have time to drink it." Grantz licked his
fingers. "Of course, if you wasn't such a bastard about
tipping me off" He waited a moment and, when Chan-
dler did not reply, closed the door.
Chandler looked out the window. It was a nice day.
Far outside, above and away, a thin pale line of cloud
stretched itself across the horizon. Contrail. Chandler
watched it, listening, and caught the distant thundering
mumble of a transsonic jet.
He wondered what sort of hand was at its controls.
Where they came from no one knew, where they were
going no one could tell. None had ever landed in this little
part of the world in a long time. Not even at the Air
Force base. Not anywhere, in the years since that day of
disaster when the old world came to an end. Every once in
a while one rasped across the sky, on what errands Chan-
dler could not guess.
In any event he had more pressing problems.
The odd thing about his dilemma was not merely that
he was innocentin a way, that isbut that many who
were guilty (in a way; as guilty as he himself, at any rate)
were free and honored citizens. Chandler himself was a
widower because his own wife had been murdered. He had
seen the murderer leaving the scene of the crime, and the
man he had seen was in the courtroom today, watching
Chandler's own trial. Of the six hundred or so in the
court, at least fifty were known to have taken part in one
or more provable acts of murder, rape, arson, theft, sod-
omy, vandalism, assault and battery or a dozen other
offenses indictable under the laws of the state.
Of course, that could be said of almost any community
in the world in those years; Chandler's was not unique.
What had put Chandler in the dock was not what his
body had been seen to do, but the place in which it had
been seen to do it.
For everybody knew that medicine and agriculture were
never molested by the demons.
Chandler's own lawyer had pointed that out to him the
day before the trial. "If it was anywhere but at the Mc-
Kelvey plant, all right, but there's never been any trouble
there. You know that. The trouble with you laymen is you
think of lawyers in terms of Perry Mason, right? Rabbit
out of the hat stuff. Well, I can't do that. I can only
present your case, whatever it is, the best way possible.
And the best thing I can do for your case right now is tell
you you haven't got one." At that time the lawyer was still
trying to be fair. He was even casting around for some
thought he could use to convince himself that his client
was innocent, though he had frankly admitted as soon as
he introduced himself that he didn't have much hope
there.
Chandler protested that he didn't have to commit rape.
He'd been a widower for a year, but
"Wait a minute," said the lawyer. "Listen. You can't
make an ordinary claim of possession stick, but what
about good old-fashioned insanity?" Chandler looked puz-
zled, so the lawyer explained. Wasn't it possible that
Chandler wasconsciously, subconsciously, unconscious-
ly, call it what you willtrying to get revenge for what
had happened to his own wife?
"No," said Chandler, "certainly not!" But then he had
to stop and think. After all, he had never been possessed
before; in fact, he had always retained a certain skepti-
cism about "possession"it seemed like such a conven-
ient way for anyone to do any illicit thing he choseuntil
the moment when he looked up to see Peggy Flershem
walking into the culture room with a tray of agar disks,
and was astonished to find himself striking her with the
wrench in his hand and ripping at her absurdly floral-
printed slacks. Maybe his case was different. Maybe it
wasn't the sort of possession that struck at random; maybe
he was just off his rocker.
Margot, his wife, had been cut up cruelly. He had seen
his friend, Jack Souther, leaving his home hurriedly as
he approached; and although he had thought that the stains
on his clothes looked queerly like blood, nothing in that
prepared him for what he found in the rumpus room. It
had taken him some time to identify the spread-out dis-
section on the ffoor with his wife Margot . . .
"No," he told his lawyer, "I was shaken up, of course.
The worst time was the next night, when there was a knock
on the door and I opened it and it was Jack. He'd come
to apologize. Iwell, I got over it. I tell you I was pos-
sessed, that's all."
"And I tell you that defense will put you right in front
of a firing squad," said his lawyer. "And thafs all."
Five or six others had been executed for hoaxing;
Chandler was familiar with the ritual. He even understood
it, in a way. The world had gone to pot in the previous two
years. The real enemy was out of reach; when any citizen
might run wild and, when caught, relapse into his own
self, terrified and sick, there was a need to strike back.
But the enemy was invisible. The hoaxers were only whip-
ping boysbut they were the only targets vengeance had.
The real enemy had struck the entire world in a single
night. One day the people of the world went about their
business in the gloomy knowledge that they were likely to
make mistakes but with, at least, the comfort that the mis-
takes would be their own. The next day had not such com-
fort. The next day anyone, anywhere, was likely to find
himself seized, possessed, working evil or whimsy without
ever having formed the intention to do so . . . and helpless-
ly. Demons? Martians? No one knew whether the invad-
ers of the soul were from another world or from some
djinn's bottle. All they knew was that they were helpless
against them.
Chandler stood up, kicked the balled-up wax paper from
his sandwiches across the floor and swore violently.
He was beginning to wake from the shock that had
gripped him. "Damn fool," he said to himself. He had no
particular reason. Like the world, he needed a whipping
boy too, if only himself. "Damn fool, you know they're
going to shoot you!"
He stretched and twisted his body violently, alone in the
middle of the room, in silence. He had to wake up. He
had to start thinking. In a quarter of an hour or less the
court would reconvene, and from then it was only a
steady, quick slide 'to the grave.
It was better to do anything than to do nothing. He
examined the windows of his improvised cell. They were
above his head and barred; standing on the table, he could
see feet walking outside, in the paved playyard of the
school. He discarded the thought of escaping that way;
there was no one to smuggle him a file, and there was no
time. He studied the door to the hall. It was not impossible
that when the guard opened it he could jump him, knock
him out, run . . . run where? The room had been a storage
place for athletic equipment at the end of a hall; the hall
led only to the stairs and the stairs emerged into the
courtroom. It was quite likely, he thought, that the hall
had another flight of stairs somewhere farther along, or
through another room. What had he spent his taxes on
these years, if not for schools designed with more than one
exit in case of fire? But as he had not thought to mark an
escape route when he was brought in, it did him no good.
The guard, however, had a gun. Chandler lifted up an
edge of the table and tried to shake one of the legs. They
did not shake; that part of his taxes had been well enough
spent, he thought wryly. The chair? Could he smash the
chair to get a club, which would give him a weapon to get
the guard's gun?...
Before he reached the chair the door opened and his
lawyer came in.
"Sorry I'm late," he said briskly. "Well. As your attor-
ney I have to tell you they've presented a damaging case.
As I see it"
"What case?" Chandler demanded. "I never denied the
acts. What else did they prove?"
"Oh, God!" said his lawyer, not quite loudly enough to
be insulting. "Do we have to go over that again? Your
claim of possession would make a defense if it had hap-
pened anywhere else. We know that these cases exist, but
we also know that they follow a pattern. Some areas seem
to be immunemedical establishments, pharmaceutical
plants among them. So they proved that all this happened
in a pharmaceutical plant. I advise you to plead guilty."
Chandler sat down on the edge of the table, controlling
himself very well, he thought. He only asked: "Would that
do me any good at all?"
"The lawyer reflected, gazing at the ceiling. ". . . No."
Chandler nodded. "So what else shall we talk about?
Want to compare notes about where you were and I was
the night the President went possessed?"
The lawyer was irritated. He kept his mouth shut for a
moment until he thought he could keep from showing it.
Outside a vendor was hawking amulets: "St. Ann beads!
Witch knots! Fresh garlic, local grown, best in town!" The
lawyer shook his head.
"All right," he said, "it's your life. We'll do it your way.
Anyway, time's up; Sergeant Grantz will be banging On
the door any minute."
He zipped up his briefcase. Chandler did not move.
'They don't give us much time anyway," the lawyer add-
ed, angry at Chandler and at hoaxers in general but not
willing to say so. "Grantz is a stickler for promptness."
Chandler found a crumb of cheese by his hand and
absently ate it. The lawyer watched him and glanced at his
watch. "Oh, hell," he said, picked up his briefcase and
kicked the base of the door. "Grantz! What's the matter
with you? You asleep out there?"
Chandler was sworn, gave his name, admitted the truth
of everything the previous witnesses had said. The faces
were still aimed at him, every one. He could not read them
at all any more, could not tell if they were friendly or
hating, there were too many and they all had eyes. The
jurors sat on their funeral-parlor chairs like cadavers, em-
balmed and propped, the dead witnessing a wake for the
living. Only the forewoman in the funny hat showed signs
of life, looking alertly at Chandler, at the judge, at the
man next to her, around the auditorium. Maybe it was a
good sign. At least she did not have the frozen-in-concrete,
guilty-as-hell look of the others.
His attorney asked him the question he had been wait-
ing for: "Tell us, in your own words, what happened."
Chandler opened his mouth, and paused. Curiously, he
had forgotten what he wanted to say. He had rehearsed
this moment again and again; but all that came out was:
"I didn't do it. I mean, I did the acts, but I was
possessed. That's all. Others have done worse, under the
same circumstances, and been let off. Just as Fisher was
acquitted for murdering the Leamards, as Draper got off
after what he did to the Cline boy. As Jack Souther over
there was let off after he murdered my own wife. They
should be. They couldn't help themselves. Whatever this
thing is that takes control, I know it can't be fought. My
God, you can't even try to fight it!"
He was not getting through. The faces had not changed.
The forewoman of the jury was now searching systemati-
cally through her pocketbook, taking each item out and
examining it, putting it back and taking out another. But
between times she looked at him and at least her expres-
sion wasn't hostile. He said, addressing her:
"That's all there is to it. It wasn't me running my body.
It was someone else. I swear it before all of you, and
before God."
"The prosecutor did not bother to question him.
Chandler went back to his seat and sat down and
watched the next twenty minutes go by in the wink of an
eye, rapid, rapid; they were in a hurry to shoot him. He
could hardly believe that Judge Ellithorp could speak so
fast; the jurymen rose and filed out at a gallop, zip, whisk,
and they were back again. Too fast! he cried silently, time
had gone into high gear; but he knew that it was only his
imagination. The twenty minutes had been a full twelve
hundred seconds. And then time, as if to make amends,
came to a stop, abrupt, brakes on. The judge asked the
jury for their verdict and it was an eternity before the
forewoman arose.
She was beginning to look rather disheveled. Beaming at
Chandlersurety the woman was rather odd, it couldn't
be just his imaginationshe fumbled in her pocketbook
for the slip of paper with the verdict. But she wore an
expression of suppressed laughter.
"I knew I had it," she cried triumphantly and waved the
slip above her head. "Now, let's see." She held it before
her eyes and squinted. "Oh, yes. Judge, we the jury, and
so forth and so on"
She paused to wink at Judge Ellithorp. An uncertain
worried murmur welled up in the auditorium. "All that
junk, Judge," she explained, "anyway, we unanimously
but unanimously, love!find this son of a bitch innocent.
Why," she 'giggled, "we think he ought to get a medal, you
know? I tell you what you do, love, you go right over and
give him a big wet kiss and say you're sorry." She stood
drunkenly swaying, laughing at the courtroom.
The murmuring became something more like a mass
scream.
"Stop her, stop her!" bawled the judge, dropping his
glasses. "Bailiff! Sergeant Grantz!"
"Oh, cool it," cried the woman in the floppy hat. "Hi,
there! That you, love?" A man in the front row leaped to
his feet and waved to her. The scream became a shout, a
single word: Possessed!
"I tell you what," shrieked the woman, "let's all sing.
Everybody! 'For he's a fairly good fellow, for he's a fairly
good fellow' Come on now, loves! All together, for His
Honor"
The bailiff, half a dozen policemen, the ludge himself
were scrambling toward her, but they were fighting a tide
of terrified people, flowing away. Possessed she clearly was.
And she was not alone. The man in the front row sang
raucously along with her; then he flopped like a rag doll,
and someone behind him leaped to his feet and carried
along with the song without missing a beat, then another,
another. . . it was like some distant sorcerer at a selector
switch, turning first one on, then another. The noise was
bedlam. As the police closed in on her the woman blew
them kisses. They fell away, as from leprosy, then buried
themselves grimly back, like a lynch mob.
She was giggling as they fell on her.
From under their scrambling bodies her voice gasped,
"Oh, now, not so rough! Say! Got acigarette? I've been
wanting"
The voice choked and spluttered; and then it screamed.
It was a sound of pure hysteria.  The police separated
themselves and helped her up, still screaming, eyes weep-
ing with terror. "Oh!" she gasped. "Oh! I1 couldn't
stop!"
Chandler stood up and took one step toward the door.
So much confusion. Such utter disorganization. There was
a chance
He stopped and turned. They would catch him before
he got outside the door. He made a decision, caught his
lawyer by the arm, jerked at it until he got the man's
attention. All of a sudden he felt alive again. There was
hope! Tiny, insubstantial, but"
"Listen," he said rapidly. "You, damn it! Listen to me.
"The jury acquitted me, right?"
The lawyer was startled. "Don't be ridiculous. It's a
clear case of"
"Be a lawyer, man! You live on technicalities, don't
you? Make this one work for me!"
The attorney gave him a queer, thoughtful look, hesi-
tated, shrugged and got to his feet. He had to shout to be
heard. "Your Honor! I take it my client is free to go."
He made almost as much of a stir as the sobbing
woman, but he outshouted the storm. "The jury's verdict
is  on  record.  Granted  there  was  an  apparent  case  of
possession. Nevertheless"
Judge EUithorp yelled back: "No nonsense, you! Listen
to me, young man"
The lawyer snapped, "Permission to approach the
bench."
"Granted."
Chandler sat unable to move, watching the brief, stormy
conference. It was painful to be coming back to life. It was
agony to hope. At least, he thought detachedly, his lawyer
was fighting for him; the prosecutor's face was a thunder-
cloud.
The lawyer came back, with the expression of a man
who has won a victory he did not expect, and did not
want. "Your last chance. Chandler. Change your plea to
guilty."
"But"
"Don't push your luck, boy! The judge has agreed to
accept a plea. They'll throw you out of town, of course.
But you'll be alive." Chandler hesitated. "Make up your
mind! The best I can do otherwise is a mistrial, and that
means you'll get convicted by another jury next week."
Chandler said, testing his luck: "You're sure they'll keep
their end of the bargain?"
The lawyer shook his head, his expression that of a man
who smells something unpleasant. "Your Honor! I ask you
to discharge the jury. My client wishes to change his plea."
. . . In the school's chemistry lab, an hour later, Chan-
dler discovered that the lawyer had left out one little detail.
Outside there was a sound of motors idling, the police car
that would dump him at the town's limits; inside was a
thin, hollow hiss. It was the sound of a Bunsen burner,
and in its blue flame a crudely shaped iron changed slowly
from cherry to orange to glowing straw. It had the shape
of a letter "H."
"H" for "hoaxer." The mark they were about to put on
his forehead would be with him wherever he went and as
long as he lived, which would probably not be long. "H"
for "hoaxer," so that a glance would show that he had
been convicted of the worst offense of all.
No one spoke to him as Larry Grantz took the iron out
of the fire, but three husky policemen held his arms while
he screamed.

THE PAIN was still burning when Chandler awoke the next
day. He wished he had a bandage, but he didn't, and that
was that.
He was m a freight carhad hopped it on the run at
the yards, daring to sneak back into town long enough for
that. He could not hope to hitchhike, with that mark on
him. Anyway, hitchhiking was an invitation to trouble.
The railroads were safefar safer than either cars or
air transport, notoriously a lightning rod attracting posses-
sion. Chandler was surprised when the train came crashing
to a stop, each freight car smashing against the couplings
of the one ahead, the engine jolting forward and stopping
again.
Then there was silence. It endured.
Chandler, who had been slowly waking after a night of
very little sleep, sat up against the wall of the boxcar and
wondered what was wrong.
It seemed remiss to start a day without signing the
Cross or hearing a few exorcismal verses. It seemed to be
mid-moming, time for work to be beginning at the plant.
The lab men would be streaming in, their amulets exam-
ined at the door. The chaplains would be wandering
about, ready to pray a possessing spirit out. Chandler,
who kept an open mind, had considerable doubt of the
effectiveness of all the amulets and spellscertainly they
had not kept him from committing a brutal rapebut he
felt uneasy without them. . . . The train was still not mov-
ing. In the silence he could hear the distant huffing of the
engine.
He went to the door, supporting himself with one hand
on the wooden wall, and looked out.
The tracks followed the roll of a river, their bed a few
feet higher than an empty three-lane highway, which in
turn was a dozen feet above the water. As he looked out
the engine brayed twice. The train jolted, then stopped
again.
Then there was a very long time when nothing happened
at all.
From Chandler's car he could not see the engine. He
was on the convex of the curve, and the other door of the
car was sealed. He did not need to see it to know that
something was wrong. There should have been a brake-
man running with a flare to ward off other trains; but
there was not. There should have been a station, or at
least a water tank, to account for the stop in the first place.
There was not. Something had gone wrong, and Chandler
knew what it was. Not the details, but the central fact
that lay behind this and behind almost everything that
went wrong these days.
The engineer was possessed. It had to be that.
Yet it was odd, he thought, as odd as his own trouble.
He had chosen this train with care. It contained eia~''
refrigerator cars full of pharmaceuticals, and if anything
was known about the laws governing possession, as his
lawyer had told him, it was that such things were almost
never interfered with.
Chandler jumped down to the roadbed, slipped on the
crushed rock and almost fell. He had forgotten the wound
on his forehead. He clutched the sill of the car door, where
an ankh and fleur-de-lis had been chalked to ward off
demons, until the sudden rush of blood subsided and the
pain began to relent. After a moment he walked gingerly
to the end of the car, slipped between the cars, dodged the
couplers and climbed the ladder to its roof.
It was a warm, bright, silent day. Nothing moved. From
his height he could see the Diesel at the front of the train
and the caboose at its rear. No people. "The train was
halted a quarter-mile from where the tracks swooped
across the river on a suspension bridge. Away from the
river, the side of the tracks that had been hidden from him
before, was an uneven rock cut and, above it, the slope of
a mountain.
By looking carefully he could spot the signs of a num-
ber of homes within half a mile or sothe corner of a
roof, a glassed-in porch built to command a river view, a
twenty-foot television antenna poking through the trees.
There was also the curve of a higher road along which the
homes were strung.
Chandler took thought. He was alive and free, two gifts
more gracious than he had had any right to expect.
However, he would need food and he would need at least
some sort of bandage for his forehead. He had a wool
cap, stolen from the high school, which would hide the
mark, though what it would do to the burn on his skin
was something else again.
Chandler climbed down the ladder. With considerable
pain he gentled the cap over the great raw "H" on his
forehead and turned toward the mountain.
A voice from behind him said, "Hey. What's that you've
got on your head?"
Chandler whirled, mad and scared. There was a man at
the open doorway of the next boxcar, kneeling and look-
ing out at him. He was a small man, by no means young.
He wore a dirty Army officer's uniform blouse over chi-
nos. His face was dirty and unshaven, his eyes were
red-rimmed and puffy, but his expression was serenely
interested.
"Now, where the hell did you come from?" demanded
Chandler. "I didn't see you."
"Perhaps you didn't look," the man said cheerfully,
untangled his legs and slipped down to the crushed gravel
at the side of the roadbed. He caught Chandler's shoulder.
to steady himself. From twenty inches away his breath was
enough to knock Chandler down.
But the man did not seem drunk. He didn't even seem
hung over, though he walked awkwardly, like a man who
is just on his feet after a long illness, or a toddling child.
"Excuse," he said, pushing past Chandler and walking a
step or two toward the head of the train, staring toward
the engine.
As Chandler watched) the little man lurched, recovered
himself and spun to face him. The change in him was
instant; one moment he was staring reflectively down
the track, unhurried and calm; the next he was in a
flap of consternation and terror. His eyes were wide with
fright. His lips worked convulsively.
Alarmed, Chandler snapped, "What's the matter with
you?"
"I" The man swallowed, and stared about him. Then
his eyes returned to Chandler. He took a step, put out a
hand and said, "I"
Then his expression changed again.
His hand dropped. In a tone of friendly curiosity he
said, "I asked you what you had on your head. Fall
against a hot stove?"
Chandler was now thoroughly jumpy. He didn't under-
stand what was going on, but he understood that he didn't
like it. And he didn't like the subject of their conversation.
He snapped, "It's a brand. I got it for committing murder
and rape, all right?"
"Oh?" The man nodded reflectively.
"Yeah. I was possessed . . . but they didn't believe me.
So they put this 'H' on me. It stands for 'hoaxer.' "
"Too bad." The man returned to Chandler and patted
his shoulder. "Why didn't they believe you?"
"Because it happened in a pharmaceutical plant. I don't
know how it is where you come from, buddy, but where I
livelivedthat sort of thing didn't happen in that kind
of place. Only it does now! Look at this train."
The man smiled brightly. "You think the train is
possessed?"
"I think the engineer is."
The man nodd6d, and glanced impatiently toward the
bridge again. "Would that be so bad?"
"Bad? Where've you been?"
The little man apologized, "I mean, do all thewhat do
you call them? Do all the cases of possession have to be
wicked?"
Chandler took a deep breath. He couldn't believe the
little man was for real. He could feel the short hairs at the
back of his neck prickling erect. Something smelled wrong.
Nobody asked questions like that. . . . He said weakly, "I
never heard of any that weren't. Did you?"
"Yes, maybe I did," flared the man defensively. "Why
not? Nothing is evil. It's all what you make of it. . . and I
could imagine times when that sort of affair could be
good. I can imagine it carrying you up to the stars! I can
imagine it filling y6ur brain with a mind grand enough to
crack your own. I can"
His voice tapered off as he noticed Chandler's popeyed
stare.
"I was only saying maybe," he apologized, hesitated,
seemed about to speak again.. . and then turned and
started off toward the head of the train at a dead run.
Chandler stared after him.
He scratched the area of skin around the seared place
on his forehead, then turned and began to climb the
mountain.
Twenty yards uphill he stopped as though he had run
into a brick wall.
He turned and looked down the tracks, but the man
was out of sight. Chandler stood staring down the empty
line of crushed rock, not seeing it.  There was a big
question in his mind. He was wondering just who he had
been talking to.
Or what.
By the time he reached the first shelving roadway he
had put that particular puzzle away in the back of his
mind. He knocked on the first door he came to, a great
old three-storey house with well tended gardens.
Half a minute passed. There was no answer and no
sound. The air smelled warmly of honeysuckle and mown
grass, with wild onions chopped down by the blades of the
mower. It was pleasant, or would have been in happier
times. He knocked again, peremptorily, and the door was
opened at once. Evidently someone had been right inside,
listening.
A man stared at him. "Stranger, what do you want?" He
was short, plump, with an extremely thick and unkempt
beard. It did not appear to have been grown for its own
sake, for where the facial hair could not be coaxed to
grow his skin had the gross pits of old acne.
Chandler said glibly: "Good morning. I'm working my
way east. I need something to eat, and I'm willing to work
for it."
The man withdrew, leaving the upper half of the Dutch
door open. As it looked in on only a vestibule it did not
tell Chandler much. There was one curious thinga lath
and cardboard sign, shaped like an arc of a rainbow,
lettered:
WELCOME TO ORPHALESE
He puzzled over it and dismissed it. The entrance room,
apart from the sign, had a knickknack shelf of Japanese
carved ivory and an old-fashioned umbrella rack, but that
added nothing to his knowledge. He had already guessed
that the owners of this home were well off. Also it had
been recently painted; so they were not demoralized, as so
much of the world had been demoralized, by the coming
of the possessors. Even the elaborate sculpturing of its
hedges had been maintained.
The man came back and with him was a girl of fifteen
or so. She was tail, slim and rather homely, with a large
jaw and an oval face. "Guy, he's not much to look at,"
she said to the pockmarked man. "Meggie, shall I let him
in?" he asked. "Guy, you might as well," she shrugged,
staring at Chandler with interest but not sympathy.
"Stranger, come along," said the man named Guy, and
led him through a short hall into an enormous living
room, a room two storeys high with a ten-foot fireplace.
Chandler's first thought was that he had stumbled in
upon a wake. The room was neatly laid out in rows of
folding chairs, more than half of them occupied. He en-
tered from the side, but all the occupants of the chairs were
looking toward him. He returned their stares; he had had
a good deal of practice lately in looking back at staring
faces, he reflected.
"Stranger, go in," said the man who had let him in,
nudging him, "and meet the people of Orphalese."
Chandler hardly heard him. He had not expected any-
thing like this. It was a meeting, a Daumier caricature of a
Thursday Afternoon Literary Circle, old men with faces
like moons, young women with faces like hags. They were
strained, haggard and fearful, and a surprising number of
them showed some sort of physical defect, a bandaged leg,
an arm in a sling or merely the marks of pain on the
features.
"Stranger, go in," repeated the man, and it was only
then that Chandler noticed the man was holding a pistol,
pointed at him.

CHANDLER SAT in the rear of the room, watching. There
must be thousands of little colonies like this, he reflected;
with the breakdown of long-distance communication the
world had been atomized. There was a real fear, well
justified,  of living in large  groups,  for they too were
lightning rods for possession. The world was stumbling
along, but it was lame in all its members; a planetary
lobotomy had stolen from it its wisdom and plan. If, he
reflected dryly, it had ever had any.
But of course things were better in the old days. The
world had seemed on the brink of blowing itself up, but at
least it was by its own hand. Then came Christmas.
It had happened at Christmas, and the first sign was on
nationwide television. The old President, balding, grave
and plump, was making a special address to the nation,
urging good will to men and, please, let's everyone remem-
ber to use artificial trees because of the fire danger in the
event of H-bomb raids. In the middle of a sentence twenty
million viewers had seen him stop, look dazedly around
and say, in a breathless mumble, what sounded like:
"Disht dvornyet itgt." He had then picked up the Bible on
the desk before him and thrown it at the camera.
The last the televiewers had seen was the fluttering
pages of the Book, growing larger as it crashed against the
lens, then a flicker and blinding shot of the studio lights
as the cameraman jumped away and the instrument swiv-
eled to stare mindlessly upward. Twenty minutes later the
President was dead, as his Secretary of Health, Education
and Welfare, hurrying with him back to the White House,
calmly took a hand grenade from a Marine guard at the
gate and blew the President's party to fragments.
For the President's seizure was only the first and most
conspicuous. "Disht dvornyet ilgt." C.I.A. specialists were
playing the tapes of the broadcast feverishly, electronically
cleaning the mumble and stir from the studio away from
the words to try to learn, first, the language and second
what the devil it meant; but the President who ordered it
was dead before the first reel spun, and his successor was
not quite sworn in when it became his time to die. The
ceremony was interrupted for an emergency call from the
War Room, where a very nearly hysterical four-star gener-
al was trying to explain why he had ordered the immediate
firing of every live missile in his command against Wash-
ington, D.C.
Over five hundred missiles were involved. In most of the
sites the order was disobeyed, but in six of them, unfortu-
nately, unquestioning discipline won out, thus ending not
only the swearing in, the general's weeping explanation,
the spinning of tapes, but also some two million lives in the
District of Columbia, Maryland, Virginia and (through
malfunctioning guidance relays on two missiles) Pennsylva-
nia and Vermont. But it was only the beginning.
These were the first cases of possession seen by the
world in some five hundred years, since the great casting
out of devils of the Middle Ages. A thousand more oc-
curred in the next few days, a hundred in the next hours.
The timetable was made up out of scattered reports in the
wireservice newsrooms, while they still had facilities for
spot coverage in any part of the world. (That lasted afmost
a week.) They identified 237 cases of possession by noon
of the next day. Disregarding the dubious itemsthe Van-
kee pitcher who leaped from the Manhattan bridge -(he
had Bright's disease), the warden of San Quentin w,ho
seated himself in the gas chamber and, literally, kicked the
bucket (did he know the Grand Jury was subpoenaing hLs
books?)disregarding these, the chronology of major
cases that evening was:
8:27 PM, E.S.T.: President has attack on television.
8:28 PM, E.S.T.: Prime Minister of England orders
bombing raid against Israel, alleging secret plot (not yet
carried out).
8:28 PM, E.S.T.: Captain of USN Ethan Alien, sur-
faced near Montauk Point, orders crash dive and course
change, proceeding submerged at flank speed to New
York Harbor.
9:10 PM, E.S.T.: Eastern Airlines four-engine jet makes
wheels-up landing on roof of Pentagon, breaking some
1500 windows but causing no other major damage (ex-
cept to the people aboard the jet); record of this incident
fragmentary because entire site charred black in fusion
attack two hours later.
9:23 PM, E.S.T.: Rosalie Pan, musical comedy star,
jumps off stage, runs up center aisle and vanishes in cab,
wearing beaded bra, G-string and $2500 headdress. Her
movements are traced to Newark airport where she boards
TWA jetliner, which is never seen again.
9:50 PM, E.S.T.: Entire S.A.C. fleet of 1200 jet bomb-
ers takes off for rendezvous over Newfoundland, where
72% are compelled to ditch as tankers fail to keep re-
fueling rendezvous. (Orders committing the aircraft origi-
nate with S.A.C commander, found to be a suicide.)
10:14 PM, E.S.T.: Submarine fusion explosion destroys
40% of New York City. Analysis of fallout indicates U.S.
Navy Polaris missiles were detonated underwater in bay;
by elimination it is deduced that the submarine was the
Ethan Alien.
10:50 PM, E.S.T.: President's party assassinated by
Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare; Secretary then
dies on bayonet of Marine guard who furnished the gre-
nade.
10:55 PM, E.S.T.: Satellite stations observe great nucle-
ar explosions in China and Tibet.
11:03 PM, E.S.T.: Heavily loaded munitions barges
exploded near North Sea dikes of Holland; dikes breached,
1800 square miles of reclaimed land flooded out.. .
And so on. The incidents were countless. But before
long, before even the C.I.A. had finished the first play-
through of the tapes, before their successors in the task
identified Disht dvornyet ilgt as a Ukrainian dialect ren-
dering of, My God, it works!before all this, one fact was
already apparent. There were many incidents scattered
around the world, but not one of them took place in
Russia itself.
Warsaw was ablaze, China pockmarked with blasts,
East Berlin demolished along with its western sector, in
eight rounds fired from a U.S. Army nuclear cannon. But
the U.S.S.R.had not suffered at all, as far as could be told
by the prying eyes in orbit; and that fact was reason
enough for it to suffer very greatly very soon.
Within minutes of this discovery what remained of the
military strength of the Western world was roaring through
airless space toward the most likely targets of the East.
One unscathed missile base in Alaska completed a full
shoot, seven missiles with fusion warheads. The three
American bases that survived at all in the Mediterranean
fired what they had. Even Britain, which had already
watched the fire-tails of the American missiles departing on
suicide missions, managed to resurrect its own two proto-
type Blue Streaks from their racks, where they had mold-
ered since the cancellation of the British missile program.
One of these museum-pieces destroyed itself in launching,
but the other chugged painfully across the sky, the tortoise
following the flight of the hares. It arrived a full half-hour
after the newer, hotter missiles. It might as well not have
bothered. There was not much left to destroy.
It was fortunate for the Communists that most of the
Western arsenal had already spent itself in suicide. What
was left wiped out Moscow, Leningrad and nine other
cities. It was even fortunate for the whole world, for this
was the Apocalypse they had dreaded, every possible nu-
clear weapon committed. But the circumstances were
suchhasty orders, often at once recalled; confusion;
panicthat most were unfused, many others merely tore
great craters in the quickly healing surface of the sea. The
fallout was murderous but spotty.
And the conventional forces invading Russia found
nothing to fight. The Russians were as confused as they.
There were not many survivors of the very top brass, and
no one seemed to know just what had happened.
Was the Secretary of the C.P., U.S.S.R. behind that
terrible brief agony? As he was dead before it was over,
there was no way to tell. More than a quarter of a billion
lives went into mushroom-shaped clouds, and nearly half
of them were Russian, Latvian, Tatar and Kalmuck. The
Peace Commission squabbled for a month, until the break-
down of a communications cut them off from their govern-
ments and each other; and in that way, for a time, there
was peace.
This was the sort of peace that was left, thought Chan-
dler looking around at the queer faces and queerer sur-
roundings, the peace of medieval baronies, cut off from the
world, untouched where the rain of fallout had passed by
but hardly civilized any more. Even his own home town,
trying to take his life in a form of law, reduced at last to
torture and exile to cast him out, was not the civilization
he had grown up in but something new and ugly.
There was a great deal of talk he did not understand
because he could not quite hear it, though they looked at
him. Then Guy, with the gun, led him up to the front of
the room. They had constructed an improvised platform
out of plywood panels resting on squat, heavy boxes that
looked like empty ammunition crates. On the dais was a
dentist's chair, bolted to the plywood; and in the chair,
strapped in, baby spotlights on steel-tube frames glaring on
her, was a girl. She looked at Chandler with regretting
eyes but did not speak.
"Stranger, get up there," said Guy, prodding him from
behind, and Chandler took a plain wooden chair next to
the girl.
"People of Orphalese," cried the teen-age cutie named
Meggie, "we have two more brands to save from the
imps!"
The men and women in the audience cackled or shrilled,
"Save them. Save them!" They all had a look of invisible
uniforms. Chandler saw, like baseball players in the lobby
of a hotel or soldiers in a diner outside the gate of their
post; they were all of a type. Their type was something
strange. Some were tall, some short; there were old, fat,
lean and young among them; but they all wore about them
a look of glowing excitement, muted by an aura of suffer-
ing and pain. They wore, in a word, the look of bigots.
The bound girl was not one of them. She might have
been twenty years old or as much as thirty. She might
have been pretty. It was hard to tell; she wore no makeup,
her hair strung raggedly to her neck, and her face was
drawn into a tight, lean line. It was her eyes that were
alive. She saw Chandler and she was sorry for him. And
he saw, as he turned to look at her, that she was manacled
to the dentist's chair.
"People of Orphalese," chanted Guy, standing behind
Chandler with the muzzle of the gun against his neck, "the
meeting of the Orphalese Self-Preservation Society will
now come to order." There was an approving, hungry
murmur from the audience.
"Well, people of Orphalese," Guy went on in his sing-
song, "the agenda for the day is first the salvation of we
Orphalese on McGuire's Mountain."
("AU saved, all of us saved," rolled a murmur from the
congregation.) A lean, red-headed man bounded to the
platform and fussed with the stand of spotlights, turning
one of them full on Chandler.
"People of Orphalese, as we are saved, do I have your
consent to pass on and proceed to the next order of
business?"
("Consent, consent, consent," rolled the echo.)
"And then the second item of business is to welcome
and bring to grace these two newly found and adopted
souls."
The congregation shouted variously: "Bring them to
grace! Save them from the imps! Keep Orphalese from the
taint of the beast!"
Evidently Guy was satisfied. He nodded and became
more chatty. "Okay, people of Orphalese, let's get down to
it. We got two new ones, like I say. Their spirits have gone
wandering on the wind, or anyway one of them has, and
you all know the et cetera. They have committed a wrong
unto others and therefore unto themselves. Herself, I mean.
Course, the other one could have a flame spirit in him
too." He stared severely at Chandler. "Boys, keep an eye
on him, why don't you?" he said to two men in the front
row, surrendering his gun. "Meggie, you tell about the
female one."
The teen-aged girl stepped forward and said, in a con-
versational tone  but with  modest pride,  "People  of
Orph'lese, well, I was walking down the cut and I heard
this car coming. Well, I was pretty surprised, you know. I
had to figure what to do. You all know what the trouble
is with cars."
"The imps!" cried a woman of forty with a face like a
catfish.
The girl nodded. "Most prob'ly. Well, I1 mean, peo-
ple of OrpMese, well, I was by the switchback where we
keep the chewy-freeze hid, so I just waited till I saw it
slowing down for the curveme out of sight, you know
and I rolled the chewy-freeze out nice and it caught the
wheels. Right over!" she cried gleefully. "Off the shoulder,
people of Orph'lese, and into the ditch and over, and I
didn't give it a chance to bum. I cut the switch and I had
her! I put a knife into her back, just a little, about a
quarter of an inch, maybe. Her pain was the breakin' of
the shell that enclosed her understanding, like it says. I
figured she was all right then because she yelled but I
brought her along that way. Then Guy took care of her
until we got the synod. Oh," she remembered, "and her
tongue staggered a little without purpose while he was
putting it on, didn't it, Guy?" The bearded man nodded,
grinning, and lifted up the girl's foot. Incredulously, Chan-
dler saw that it was bound tight with a three-foot length
of barbed wire, wound and twisted like a tourniquet, the
blood black and congealed around it. He lifted his shocked
eyes to meet the girl's. She only looked at him, with pity
and understanding.
Guy patted the foot and let it go. "I didn't have any
more C-clamps, people of Orphalese," he apologized, "but
it looks all right at that. Well, let's see. We got to make up
our minds about these two, I guessno, wait!" He held
up his hand as a murmur began. "First thing is, we ought
to read a verse or two."
He opened a purple-bound volume at random, stared at
a page for a moment, moving his lips, and then read:
"Some of you say. It is the north wind who has woven
the clothes we wear.'
"And I say. Ay, it was the north wind, but shame was
his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread.
"And when his work was done he laughed in the
forest."
Gently he closed the book, looking thoughtfully at the
wall at the back of the room. He scratched his head. "Well,
people of Orphalese," he said slowly, "they're laughing in
the forest all right, I guarantee, but we've got one here
that may be honest in the flesh, probably is, though she
was a thief in the spirit. Right? Well, do we take her in or
reject her, 0 people of Orphalese?"
The audience muttered to itself and then began to call
out:
"Accept! Oh, bring in the brand! Accept and drive out
the imp!"
"Fine," said the teen-ager, rubbing her hands and look-
ing at the bearded man. "Guy, let her go." He began to
release her from the chair. "You, girl stranger, what's your
name?"
The girl said faintly, "Ellen Braisted."
" 'Meggie, my name is Ellen Braisted,' " corrected the
teen-ager. "Always say the name of the person you're
talkin' to in Orph'lese, that way we know it's you talkin',
not a flame spirit or wanderer. Okay, go sit down." Ellen
limped wordlessly down into the audience. "Oh, and peo-
ple of Orph'lese,' said Meggie, "the car's still there if we
need it for anything. It didn't burn. Guy, you go on with
this other fellow."
Guy stroked his beard and assessed Chandler, looking
him over carefully. "Okay," he said. "People of Orphalese,
the third order of business is to welcome or reject this
other brand saved from the imps, as may be your pleas-
ure."
Chandler sat up straighter now that all of them were
looking at him again; but it wasn't quite his turn, at that,
because there was an interruption. Guy never finished.
From the valley, far below, there was a sudden mighty
thunder, rolling among the mountains. The windows blew
in with a crystalline crash.
The room erupted into confusion, the audience leaping
from their seats, running to the broad windows, Guy and
the teen-age girl seizing rifles, everyone in motion at once.
Chandler straightened, then sat down again. The red-
headed man guarding him was looking away. It would be
quite possible to grab his gun, run, get away from these
maniacs. Yet he had nowhere to go. They might be crazy,
but they seemed to have organization.
They seemed, in fact, to have worked out, on whatever
crazed foundation of philosophy, some practical methods
for coping with possession. He decided to stay, wait and
see.
And at once he found himself leaping for the gun.
No. Chandler didn't find himself attacking the red-
headed man. He found his body doing it; Chandler had
nothing to do with it. It was the helpless compulsion he
had felt before, that had nearly cost him his life; his body
active and urgent and his mind completely cut off from it.
He felt his own muscles move in ways he had not planned,
observed himself leap forward, felt his own fist strike at the
back of the red-headed man's ear. "The man went spinning,
the gun went flying, Chandler's body leaped after it, with
Chandler a prisoner in his own brain, watching, horrified
and helpless. And he had the gun!
He caught it in the hand that was his own hand,
though someone else was moving it; he raised it and half-
turned. He was suddenly conscious of a fusillade of gunfire
from the roof, and a scattered echo of guns all round the
outside of the house. Part of Um was surprised, another
alien part was not. He started to shoot the teen-aged girl
in the back of the head, silently shouting. No!
His fingers never pulled the trigger.
He caught a second's glimpse of someone just beside
him, whirled and saw the girl, Ellen Braisted, limping
swiftly toward him with her barbed-wire amulet loose and
catching at her feet. In her hands was an axe-handle club
caught up from somewhere. She struck at Chandler's head,
with a face like an eagle's, impersonal and determined. The
blow caught him and dazed him, and from behind some-
one else struck him with something else. He went down.
He heard shouts and firing, but he was stunned. He felt
himself dragged and dropped. He saw a cloudy, misty girl's
face hanging over him; it receded and returned. Then a
frightful blistering pain in his hand startled him back into
full consciousness.
It was the girl, Ellen, still there, leaning over him and,
oddly, weeping. And the pain in his hand was the burning
flame of a kitchen match. Ellen was doing it, his wrist in
one hand, a burning match held to it with the other.

CHANDLER YELLED hoarsely, jerking his hand away.
She dropped the match and jumped up, stepping on the
flame and watching him. She had a butcher knife that
had been caught between her elbow and her body while
she burned him. Now she put her hand on the knife,
waiting. "Does it hurt?" she demanded tautly.
Chandler howled, with incredulity and rage:
"God damn it, yes! What did you expect?"
"I expected it to hurt," she agreed. She watched him for
a moment more and then, for the first time since he had
seen her, she smiled. It was a small smile, but a beginning.
A fusillade of shots from outside wiped it away at once.
"Sorry," she said. "I had to do that. Please trust me."
"Why did you have to burn my hand?"
"House rules," she said. "Keeps the flame-spirits out,
you know. They don't like pain." She took her hand off
the knife warily. "It still hurts, doesn't it?"
"It still does, yes," nodded Chandler bitterly, and she
lost interest in him and got up, looking about the room.
Three of the Orphalese were dead, or seemed to be from
the casual poses in which they lay draped across a chair
on the floor. Some of the others miglit have been freshly
wounded, though it was hard to tell the casualties from the
others in view of the Orphalese custom of self-inflicted
pain. There was still firing going on outside and overhead,
and a shooting-gallery smell of burnt powder in the air.
The girl, Ellen Braisted, limped back with the butcher
knife held carelessly in one hand. She was followed by the
teen-ager, who wore a smile of triumphand, Chandler
noticed for the first time, a sort of tourniquet of barbed-
wire on her left forearm, the flesh puffy red around it.
"Whopped 'em," she said with glee, and pointed a .22 rifle
at Chandler.
Ellen Braisted said, "Oh, heMeggie, I mean, he's all
right." She pointed at his burned palm. Meg approached
him with competent care, the rifle resting on her good
right forearm and aimed at him as she examined his bum.
She pursed her lips and looked at his face. "All right,
Ellen, I guess he's clean. But you want to bum 'em
deeper'n that. Never pays to go easy, just means we'll have
to do something else to 'im tomorrow."
"The hell you will," thought Chandler, and all but said
it; but reason stopped him. In Rome he would have to do
Roman deeds. Besides, maybe their ideas worked. Besides,
he had until tomorrow to make up his mind about what
he wanted to do.
"Ellen, show him around," ordered the teen-ager. "I got
no time myself. Shoosh! Almost got us that time, Ellen.
Got to be more careful, 'cause the whitehanded aren't
clean, you know." She strutted away, the rifle at trail. She
seemed to be enjoying herself very much.
The name of the girl in the barbed-wire anklet was
Ellen Braisted. She came from Lehigh County, Pennsylva-
nia, and Chandler's first wonder was what she was doing
nearly three thousand miles from home.
Nobody liked to travel much these days. One place was
as bad as another, except that in the place where you were
known you could perhaps count on friends and as a
stranger you were probably fair game anywhere else.
Of course, there was one likely reason for travel.
Chandler's own reason.
She didn't like to talk about it, that was clear, but that
was the reason. She had been possessed. When the teen-
ager trapped her car the day before she had been the tool
of another's will. She had had a dozen submachine guns in
the trunk and she had meant to deliver them to a party of
hunters in a valley just south of McGuire's Mountain.
Chandler said, with some effort, "I must have been"
"Ellen, I must have been," she corrected.
"Ellen, I must have been possessed too, just now. When
I grabbed the gun."
"Of course. First time?"
He shook his head. For some reason the brand on his
forehead began to throb.
"Well, then you know. Look out here, now."
They were at the great pier windows that looked out
over the valley. Down below was the river, an arc of the
railroad tracks, the wooded mountainside he had scaled.
"Over there. Chandler." She was pointing to the railroad
bridge.
Wispy gray smoke drifted off southward toward the
stream. The freight train Chandler had ridden on had been
stopped, all that time, in the middle of the bridge. The
explosion that blew out their windows had occurred when
another train plowed into itevidently at high speed. It
seemed that one of the trains had carried some sort of
chemicals. The bridge was a twisted mess.
"A diversion, Chandler," said Ellen Braisted. "They
wanted us looking that way. Then they attacked from up
the mountain."
"Who?"
Ellen looked surprised. "The men that crashed the
trains . . . if they are men. The ones who possessed me
and youand the hunters. They don't like these Or-
phalese, I think. Maybe they're a little afraid of them. I
think the Orphalese have a pretty good idea of how to
fight them."
Chandler felt a sudden flash of sensation along his
nerves. For a moment he thought he had been possessed
again, and then he knew it for what it was. It was hope.
"Ellen, I never thought of fighting them. I thought that
was given up two years ago."
"So maybe you agree with me? Maybe you think it's
worth while sticking with the Orphalese?"
Chandler allowed himself the contemplation of what
hope meant. To find someone in this world who had a
plan.' Whatever the plan was. Even if it was a bad plan.
He didn't think specifically of himself, or the brand on his
forehead or the memory of the body of his wife. What he
thought of was the prospect of thwartingnot even de-
feating, merely hampering or annoying was enough!the
imps, the "flame creatures," the pythons, devils, incubi or
demons who had destroyed a world he had thought very
fair.
"If they'll have me," he said, "I'll stick with them, all
right. Where do I go to join?"
It was not hard to join at all.
Meg chattily informed him that he was already practical-
ly a member. "Chandler, we got to watch everybody
strange, you know. See why, don't you? Might have a
flame spirit in 'em, no fault of theirs, but look how they
could mess us up. But now we know you don't, soWhat
do you mean, how do we know? Cause you did have one
when you busted loose in there."
"I don't get it," said Chandler, lost. "You're saying that
you know I don't have a, uh, flame spirit now because I
did have one then?"
"Chandler, you'll catch on," said Meggie kindly, sup-
pressing a smile. "Can't have two at a time, you see? So if
you're the fella you are now, and the same fella you were
before, you got to be honest-in-the-flesh yourself."
Chandler nodded thoughtfully. "Anyway, Chandler,"
the girl added, "we're going to take time off to eat now.
You just make yourself at home. Soon's we start the
synod up again we'll see 'bout letting you in."
Ellen Braisted asked, "Can I help with the food?"
Meggie looked at her patiently and she corrected herself:
"Meggie, can I help with the food?"
"Not this time, Ellen. Just stay out of the way a little."
Ellen took Chandler's arm and led him to a sunporch.
All over the house the Orphalese were putting themselves
back together again after the fight.
They didn't seem terribly upset, neither by their wounds
nor their losses. They had. Chandler thought, a collective
identity. The survival of the community was more impor-
tant than any incidental damage to its members.
After three years of increasing alienation from a life he
could not understand or accept, Chandler found that trait
admirable. He liked their style. . . .
"Sorry about your hand," said Ellen Braisted.
He had not realized that he was rubbing it. "Oh, that's
all right. I understand why you had to do it."
"Come over here." She opened a chest of first-aid
supplies and took out cotton gauze. "Let me put this on it.
You don't want it to stop hurtingthat's the whole idea.
But you don't want it getting infected. What's that busi-
ness on your head?"
He touched the scar with his free hand. He had almost
forgotten it.
He found it easy to tell her about it. When he was
through she patted his arm. "Tough world. You say you
were married?"
"Yes." He told her about Margot. And about Margot's
death. She nodded, her face drawn.
"I was married too. Chandler," she said after a moment.
"Lost my husband two years ago."
"Murdered?"
"Well," she said thoughtfully, "depends on what you
mean by that. It was his own hand that did it. Got up one
morning, went into the kitchen, came back looking like1
don't knowUke his own evil nature. You know those
cartoons? The Good You in white, the Bad You in black,
whispering suggestions into your ear? He looked the Bad
Him. And he cut his throat with a breadknife."
"Oh, God!" The words were jerked out of him. "Did
hedidn't he say anything?"
"Yes, Chandler, he did. But I don't want to tell you
what, because it was dirty and awful."
There was a smell of coffee percolating from inside the
house, and sounds of dishes and silverware. "Let's sit
down over here," said Chandler, pointing to a chained
swing that looked out over the darkening valley. "I guess
your husband was possessed. Or as they say here, he had
a flame spirit"
"Ellen."
"Ellen, I mean," he corrected.
"Chandler," she said thoughtfully, "well, I don't quite
go along with them on that. I've had quite a lot of
experience with them, ever since my husbandever since
two years ago. They used me."
"For what?" Chandler demanded, startled. The concept
of being used by the things was new, and peculiarly
frightening. It was bad enough to view them as strange
diabolic elements out of a hostile universe; to give them
purpose was terrifying.
"You name it, Chandler," said the girl. "I did it. I've
been practically all over the world in two years, because
they used me for a messenger andother things. They
used me for all sorts of things, Chandler," she said very
temperately, "and some of them I don't intend to discuss."
"Of course."
"Of course." Then she brightened. "But it wasn't all
bad. You wouldn't believe some of the things1 flew a jet
airplane to Lisbon once, Chandler! Would you believe it?
And as a matter of fact, I don't even know how to drive a
car very well. When I'm myself, I mean. I've been in
Russia and England. I think I was in Africa once, although
nobody ever mentioned the name and I wasn't sure. Just
now, I came up from San Diego driving a great big truck,
and Well, it's been interesting. But I don't agree with
the 'flame spirit' idea. They aren't ghosts or witches. They
aren't creatures from outer space. Anyway, one of them is
a man named Brad Fenell."
Chandler's heels dropped to the floor. The swing
stopped with a clatter of its chains.
"A man?"
Ellen nodded soberly. "Or he was at one time, anyway,"
she corrected after a moment. "I used to go out with him
when he lived next door to me in Catasauqua."
"But," cried Chandler, "what How How could
ho-"
She shook her head. "Now you're asking hard ques-
tions, Chandler. But I know this onethingwas Brad
Pencil. Brad asked me to marry him, and when I told him
I wouldn't hesaid those words I heard from my hus-
band, just before he killed himself."
She stood up and turned toward the house. "And
now," she said, "Meggie's calling us to eat. I hope I
haven't spoiled your appetite."
All through the meal. Chandler was preoccupied. He
had to be spoken to twice before he responded, and then
he had to be reminded to address the Orphalese by name.
He was trying to understand what Ellen had told him,
and he was not succeeding. Real human beings? The
monsters who had done such things?
It was, he thought somberly, more incredible to think of
them as men than as demons from the pits of hell. . . .
The interrupted meeting was resumed after the place
had been tidied up. The community had counted its losses
and buried its dead.
There had been four of the attacking hunters. Even
without their submachine guns, they had succeeded in
killing eight Orphalese. But it was not all loss to the
Orphalese, because two of the hunters were still alive,
though wounded, and under the rules of this chessboard
the captured enemy became a friend.
Guy had suffered a broken jaw in the scuffle and
another man presided, a fat youth who favored a band-
aged leg. He limped to his feet, grimacing and patting his
leg. "0 Orphalese and brothers," he said, "we have lost
friends, but we have won a test. Praise the Prophet, we
will be spared to win again, and to drive the imps of fire
out of our world. Meggie, you going to tie these folks
up?" The girl proudly ordered one of the hunters into the
spotlighted dentist's chair, another into a wing chair that
was hastily moved onto the platform. The men were bleed-
ing and hurt, but they had clearly been abandoned by
their possessors. They watched the Orphalese with puzzle-
ment and fear.
"Walter, they're okay now," Meg reported as others
finished tying up the hunters. "Oh, wait a minute." She
advanced on Chandler. "Chandler, I'm sorry. You sit
down there, hear?"
Chandler suffered himself to be bound to a camp chair
on the platform and Walter took a drink of wine and
opened the ornate book that was before him on the
rostrum.
"Meg, thanks. Guy, I hope I do this as good as you do.
Let me read you a little. Let's see." He put on his glasses
and read:
" 'Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet
man, but a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist
searching for its own awakening.' "
He closed the book, loojced with satisfaction at Guy and..
said: "Do you understand that, new friends? They are t~ee
words of the Prophet, who men call Kahlil Gibran. Foi'
the benefit of the new folks I ought to say that he died
this fleshly life quite a good number of years ago, but his
vision was unclouded. Like we say, we are the sinews that
batter the flame spirits but he is our soul." There was an
antfphonal murmur from the audience and Walter flipped
the pages again rapidly, obviously looking for a familiar
passage. "People of Orphalese, here we are now. This's
what he says. 'What is this that has torn our world apart?'
The Prophet says: It is life in quest of life, inbodies that
fear the grave.' Now, honestly, nothing could be clearer
than that, people of Orphalese and friends! We got some-
thing taking possession of us, see? What is it? Well, he
says here, People of Orphalese and friends. It is a flame
spirit in you ever gathering more of itself.' Now, what the
heck! Nobody can blame us for what a flame spirit in us
does! So the first thing we got to learn, friendsand
people of Orphaleseis, we aren't to blame. And the
second thing is, we are to blame!"
He turned and grinned at Chandler kindly, while the
chorus of responses came from the room. "Like here," he
said, "people of Orphalese, the Prophet says everybody is
guilty. 'The murdered is not unaccountable for his own
murder, and the robbed is not blameless in being robbed.
The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked,
and the white-handed is not clean in the doings of the
felon.' You see what he's getting at? We all got to take the
responsibility for everythingand that means we got to
sufferbut we don't have to worry about any special
things we did when some flame spirit or wanderer, like,
took us over.
"But we do have to suffer, people of Orphalese." His
expression became grim. "Our beloved founder, Guy,
who's sitting there doing a little extra suffering now, was
favored enough to understand these things in the very
beginning, when he himself was seized by these imps. And
it is all in this book! Like it says, 'Your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you
heals  your  sick  self.'  Ponder  on  that,  people  of
Orphaleseand friends. No, I mean really ponder," he
explained, glancing at the bound "friends" on the platform.
"We always do that for a minute. Ada there will play us
some music so we can ponder."

CHANDLER SHIFTED uncomfortably, while an old woman
crippled by arthritis began fumbling a tune out of an
electric organ. The bum Ellen Braisted had given him was
beginning to hurt badly. If only these people were not
such obvious nuts, he thought, he would feel a lot better
about casting his lot in with them. But maybe it took
lunatics to do the job. Sane people hadn't accomplished
much.
And anyway he had very little choice. . . .
"Ada, that's enough," ordered the fat youth. "Meg,
come on up here. People of Orphalese, now you can listen
again while Meg explains to the new folks how all this got
started, seeing Guy's in no condition to do it."
The teen-ager marched up to the platform and took the
parade-rest position learned in some high. school debating
societyin the days when there were debating societies
and high schools. "Ladies and gentlemen, well, let's start at
the beginning. Guy tells this better'n I do, of course, but I
guess I remember it all pretty well too. I ought to. I was in
on it and all. I" She grimaced and said, "Well, anyway,
ladies and gentlemenpeople of Orphalesethe way Guy
organized this Orphalese self-protection society was, like
Walter says, he was possessed. The only difference between
Guy and you and me was that he knew what to do about
it, because he read the book, you see. Not that that helped
him at first, when he was took over. He was really seized.
Yes, people of Orph'lese, he was taken and while his
whole soul and brain and body was under the influence of'
some foul wanderer fiend from hell he did things tha"~
ladies and gentlemen of Orph'lese, I wouldn't want to tell
you. He was a harp in the hand of the mighty, as it says.
Couldn't help it, not however much he tried. Only while
he was doingthe thingshe happened to catch his hand
in a gas flame and, well you can see it was pretty bad."
With a deprecatory smile Guy held up a twisted hand.
"And, do you know, he was free of his imp right then and
there! Now, Guy is a scientist, people of Orph'lese, he
worked for the telephone company, and he not only had
that training in the company school but he had read the
book, yon see, and he put two and two together. Oh, and
he's my uncle, of course. I'm proud of him. I've alwavs
loved him, and even when hewhen he was not one with
himself, you know, when he was doing those terrible
things to me, I knew it wasn't Uncle Guy that was doing
them, but something else. I didn't know what, though.
And when he told me he had figured out the Basic Rule, I
went along with him every bit. I knew Guy wasn't wrong,
and what he said was from Scripture. Imps fear pain! So
we got to love it. That one I know by heart, all right:
Could you keep your heart from wonder at the daily
miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less
wondrous than your joy.' That's what it savs. ri kt~ So
that's why we got to hurt ourselves, people of Ornh'lpse
and new brothersbecause the Wanderers don't like it
when we hurt and they leave us alone. Simple's that.
"Well" the girl's face stiffened momentarily"I knew
7 wasn't going to be seized. So Guy and I got Else, that's
the other girl he'd been doing things to, and we knew she
wasn't going to be taken either. Not if the imps feared
pain like Guy said, because," she said solemnly, "I want to
tell you Guy hurt us pretty bad.
"And then we came out here, and found this place, and
ever since then we've been adding brothers and sisters. It's
been slow, of course, because not many people come this
way any more, and we've had to kill a lot. Yes, we have.
Sometimes the possessed just can't be saved, but"
Abruptly her face changed.
Suddenly alert, her face years older, she glanced around
the room. Then she relaxed ...
And screamed.
Guy leaped up. Hoarsely, his voice almost inarticulate as
he tried to talk with his broken jaw, he cried, "Wha. . .
Wha's . . . matter, Meg?"
"Uncle Guy!" she wailed. She plunged off the platform
and flung herself into his arms, crying hysterically.
"Who:"'
She sobbed, "I could feel it! They took me. Guy, you
promised me they couldn't!"
He shook his head, dazed, staring at her as though she
were indeed possessedstill possessed, and telling him
some fearful great lie to destroy his hopes. He seemed
unable to comprehend what she had said. One of the
hunters bellowed in stark fear: "For God's sake, untie us!
Give us a chance, anyway!" Chandler yelled agreement. In
one split second everyone in the room had been transmut-
ed by terror into something less than human. No one
seemed capable of any action. Slowly the plump youth
who had presided moved over to the hunter bound in the
dentist's chair and began to fumble blindly at the knots.
Ellen Braisted dropped her head into her hands and began
to shake.
The cruelty of the moment was that they had all tasted
hope. Chandler writhed wildly against his ropes, his mind
racing out of control. The world had become a hell for
everyone, but a bearable hell until the promise of a chance
to end it gave them a full sight of what their lives had
been. Now that that was dashed they were far worse off
than before.
Walter finished with the hunter and lethargically began
to pick at Chandler's bonds. His face was slack and
unseeing.
Then it, too, changed.
The plump youth stood up sharply, glanced about, and
walked off the platform.
Ellen Braisted raised her face from her hands and, her
eyes streaming, quietly stood up and followed. The old
lady with the arthritis about-faced and limped with them.
Chandler stared, puzzled, and then comprehended.
They were marching toward the corner of the room
where the rifles were stacked. "Possessed!" Chandler bel-
lowed, the words tasting of acid as they ripped out of his
throat. "Stop them! YouGuylook!" He flailed wildly
at his loosened bonds, lunged, tottered and toppled, chair
and all, crashingly off the platform.
The three possessed ones did not need to hurry; they
had all the time in the world. They were already reaching
out for the rifles when Chandler shouted. Economically
they turned, raising the butts to their shoulders and began
to fire at the Orphalese. It was a queerly frightening sight
to see the arthritic organist, with a face like a relaxed
executioner, take quick aim at Guy and, with a thirty-
thirty shell, blow his throat out. Three shots, and the
nearest three of the congregation were dead. Three more,
and others went down, while the remainder turned and
tried to run. It was like a slaughter of vermin. They never
had a chance.
When every Orphalese except themselves was down on
the floor, dead, wounded or, like Chandler, overlooked,
the arthritic lady took careful aim at Ellen Braisted and
the plump youth and shot them neatly in the temples.
They didn't try to prevent her. With expressions that
seemed almost impatient they presented their profiles to her
aim.
Then the arthritic lady glanced leisurely about, fired into
the stomach of a wounded man who was trying to rise,
reloaded her rifle for insurance and began to search the
bodies of the nearest dead. She was looking for matches.
When she found them, she tugged weakly at the uphol-
stery on a couch, swore and began methodically to rip and
crumple pages out of Kahlil Gibran. When she had a heap
of loose papers piled against the dais she pitched the
remainder of the book out of the window, knelt and
ignited the crumpled heap.
She stood watching the fire, her expression angry and
impatient, tapping her foot.
The crumpled pages burned briskly. Before they died
the wooden dais was beginning to catch. Laboriously the
old lady toted folding chairs to pile on the blaze until it
was roaring handsomely.
She watched it for several minutes, until it was a great
orange pillar of fire sweeping to the ceiling, until the
drapes on the wall behind were burning and the platform
was a holocaust, until the noise of crackling flame and the
beginning of plaster falling from the high ceiling proved
that there was no likelihood of the fire going out and,
indeed, no way to put it out without a complete fire
department on the scene at once.
The old lady's expression cleared. She nodded to herself.
She then put the muzzle of the rifle in her mouth and,
with her thumb, pulled the trigger that blew the top of her
head off. The body fell into the flames, but it was by then
already dead.
Chandler had not been shot, but he was very near to
roasting. Walter had released one hand and, while the
possessed  woman's  attention was  elsewhere,  he  had
worked on the other knots.
When Chandler saw her commit suicide he redoubled
his efforts. It was incredible to him that his life had been
saved, and he knew that if he escaped the flames he still
had nothing to live forthat blasted brief hope had bro-
ken his spiritbut his fingers had a will of their own.
He lay there, struggling, while great black clouds of
smoke, orange-painted from the flames, gathered under the
high ceiling, while the thunder of falling lumps of plaster
sounded like a child heaving volumes of the Encyclopedia
Britannica down a flight of stairs, while the heat and
shortage of oxygen made Um breathe in violent spasms.
Then he cried out sharply and stumbled to his feet. It was
only a matter of moments before he was out of the house,
but it was very nearly not time enough.
Behind him was a great, sustained crash. He thought it
must have been the furniture on the upper floor toppling
through the burned-out ceiling of the hall. He turned and
looked.
It was dark, and now every window on the side of the
house facing him was lighted. It was as though some mad
householder had decided to equip his rooms only with
orange lights that flickered and tossed. For a second
Chandler thought there were still living people in the
roomsshapes moved and cavorted at the windows, as
though they were gathering up possessions or waving
wildly for help. But it was only the drapes, aflame, thrown
about in the fierce heat.
Chandler sighed and turned away.
Pain was not a sure defense after all.
Evidently it was only an annoyance to the posses-
sors . . . whoever, or whatever, they might be. . . as soon as
they had become suspicious they had exerted themselves
and destroyed the Orphalese. He listened and looked
about, but no one else moved. He had not expected
anyone. He had been sure that he was the only survivor.
He began to walk down the hill toward the wrecked
railway bridge, turning only when a roar told him that the
roof of the house had fallen in. A tulip of flame a hundred
feet tall rose above the standing walls, and above that a
shower of floating red-orange sparks, heat-borne, drifting
up and away and beginning to settle all over the moun-
tainside. Many were still red when they landed, a few still
flaming. It was a distinct risk that the trees would begin to
bum, and then he would be in fresh danger; but so great
was his stupor that he did not even hurry.
By a plowed field he flung himself to the ground. He
could go no farther because he had nowhere to go. He
had had two homes and he had been driven from both of
them; he had had hope twice, and twice he had been
damned. He lay on his back, with the burning house
mumbling and crackling in the distance, and stared up at
the orange-lit tops of the trees and, past them, the stars.
Over his left shoulder Deneb chased Vega across the sky;
toward his feet something moved between the bright rosy
dot that was Antares and another, the same brightness and
hueMars? He spent several moments wondering if Mars
were in that part of the heavens. Then he looked again for
the tiny moving point that had crossed the claws of the
Scorpion, but it was gone. A satellite, maybe. Although
there were few of them left that the naked eye could hope
to see. And there would never be any more, because the
sort of accumulated wealth of nations that threw rockets
into the sky was forever spent. It was probably an air-
plane, he thought drowsily, and drifted off to sleep without
realizing how remote even that possibility had become. . . .
He woke up to find that he was getting to his feet.
Once again an interloper tenanted his brain. He tried to
interfere, although he knew how useless it was, but his
own neck muscles turned his head from side to side, his
own eyes looked this way and that, his own hand reached
down for a dead branch that lay on the ground, then
hesitated and withdrew. His body stood motionless for a
second, the lips moving, the larynx mumbling to itself. He
could almost hear words. Chandler felt like a fly in amber,
imprisoned in his own brainbox. He was not surprised
when his legs moved to carry him back toward the de-
stroyed building, now a fakir's bed of white-hot coals with
brush fires spattered around it. He thought he knew why.
It seemed very likely that what possessor had him was a
sort of clean-up squad, tidying up the loose ends of the
slaughter; he expected that his body's errand was to de-
stroy itself, and thus him, as all the others in the group ol
the Orphalese had been destroyed.

CHANDLER'S BODY carried him rapidly toward the house.
Now and then it paused and glanced about. It seemed to
be weighing some shortcut in its errand; but always it
resumed its climb.
Chandler could sympathize with it, in a way. He still felt
every pain from burn, brand and wound; as they neared
the embers of the building the heat it threw off intensified
them all. He could not be a comfortable body to inhabit
for long. He was almost sympathetic because his tenant
could not find a convenient weapon with which to fulfill
his purpose.
When it seemed they could get no closer without the
skin of his face crackling and bursting into flame his body
halted.
Chandler could feel his muscles gathering for what
would be the final leap into the auto-da-fe. His feet took a
short stepand slipped. His body stumbled and recovered
itself; his mouth swore thickly in a language he did not
know.
Then his body hesitated, glanced at the ground, paused
again and bent down. It had tripped on a book. It picked
the book up, and Chandler saw that it was the ripped
Orphalese copy of Gibran's The Prophet.
Chandler's body stood poised for a moment, in an
attitude of thought. Then it sat down, in the play of heat
from the coals.
It was a moment before Chandler realized he was free.
He tested his legs; they worked; he got up, turned and
began to walk away.
He had traveled no more than a few yards when he
stumbled slightly, as though shifting gears, and felt the
tenant in his mind again.
He continued to walk away from the building, down
toward the road. Once his arm raised the book he still
carried and his eyes glanced down, as if for reassurance.
that it was the same book. That was the only clue he was
given as to what had happened and it was not much. It
was as though his occupying power, whatever it was, had
gonesomewhereto think things over, perhaps to ask a
question of an unimaginable companion, and then re-
turned with an altered purpose.
As time passed, Chandler began to receive additional
clues, but he was in little shape to fit them together, for his
body was near exhaustion. He walked to the road, and
waited, rigid, until a pickup truck came bouncing along.
He hailed it, his arms making a sign he did not under-
stand, and when it stopped he addressed the driver in a
language he did not speak. "Shto," said the driver, a
somber-faced Mexican in dungarees. "Ja nie jestem Ruska.
Czego pragmesh?"
"Czy ty jedziesz to Los Angeles?" asked Chandler's
. mouth.
"Nyef. Acapuico."
Chandler's voice argued, "Wes na Los Angeles."
"Nyet." The voices droned on; Chandler lost interest in
the argument and was only relieved when it seemed some-
how to be settled and he was herded into the back of the
truck. The somber Mexican locked him in; he felt the
truck begin to move; his tenant left him, and he was at
once asleep.
He woke long enough to find himself standmg in the
mist of early dawn at a crossroads. In a few minutes
another car came by, and his voice talked earnestly with
the driver for a moment. Chandler got in, was released,
slept again and woke to find himself free and abandoned,
sprawled across the back seat of the car, which was
parked in front of a building marked Los Angeles Interna-
tional Airport.
Chandler got out of the car and strolled around,
stretching. He realized he was very hungry.
No one was in sight. The field showed clear signs of
having been through the same sort of destruction that had
visited every major communications facility in the world.
Part of the building before him was smashed flat and
showed signs of having been burned; he saw projecting
aluminum members, twisted and scorched but still visible
aircraft parts; apparently a transport had crashed into the
building. Burned-out cars littered the parking lot and what
had once been a green lawn. They seemed to have been
bulldozed out of the way, but not an inch farther than
was necessary to clear the approach roads.
To his right, as he stared out onto the field, was a
strange-looking construction on three legs, several storeys
high. It did not seem to serve any useful purpose. Perhaps
it had been a sort of luxury restaurant at one time, but
now it too was burned out and glassless in its windows.
The field itself was swept bare except for two or three
parked planes in the bays, but he could see wrecked
transports lining the approach strips. All in all, Los Ange-
les International Airport appeared to be serviceable, but
only just.
He wondered where all the people were.
Distant truck noises answered part of the question. An
Army six-by-six came bumping across a bridge that led
from the takeoff strips to this parking area of the airport.
Five men got out next to one of the ships. They glanced at
him but did not speak as they began loading crates of
some sort of goods from the truck into the aircraft, a four-
engine, swept-wing jet of what looked to Chandler like an
obsolete model. Perhaps it was one of the early Boeings.
There hadn't been many of those in use at the time the
troubles began, too big and fast for short hops, too slow
to compete over long distances. But, of course, with all the
destruction, and with no new aircraft being built anywhere
in the world any more, no doubt they were as good as
could be found.
The truckmen did not seem to be possessed; they
worked with the normal amount of gronting and swearing,
pausing to wipe sweat away or to scratch an itch. They
showed neither the intense malevolent concentration nor
the wide-eyed idiot curiosity of those whose bodies were
no longer their own. Chandler settled the woolen cap over
the brand on his forehead, to avoid unpleasantness, and
drifted over toward them.
They stopped work and regarded him. One of them said
something to another, who nodded and walked toward
Chandler. "What do you want?" he demanded warily.
"I don't know. I was going to ask you the same ques-
tion, I guess."
The man scowled. "Didn't your exec tell you what to
do?"
"My what?"
The man paused, scratched and shook his head. "Well,
stay away from us. This is an important shipment, see? I
guess you're all right or you couldn't've got past the
guards, but I don't want you messing us up. Got enough
trouble already. I don't know why," he said in the tones
of an old grievance, "we can't get the execs to let us know
when they're going to bring somebody in. It wouldn't hurt
them! Now here we got to load and fuel this ship and, for
all I know, you've got half a ton of junk around some-
where that you're going to load onto it. How do I know
how much fuel it'll take? No weather, naturally. So if
there's headwinds it'll take full tanks, but it there's extra
cargo I"
"The only cargo I brought with me that I can think of is
a book," said Chandler. "Weighs maybe a pound. You
.-     think  I'm  supposed  to  get  on  that  plane?"
**   The man grunted non-committally.
"All right, suit yourself. Listen, is there any place I can
get something to eat?"
The man considered. "Well, I guess we can spare you a
sandwich. But you wait here. Ill bring it to you."
He went back to the truck. A moment later one of the
others brought Chandler two cold hamburgers wrapped in
wax paper, but would answer no questions.
Chandler ate every crumb, sought and found a wash-
room in the wrecked building, came out again and sat in
the sun, watching the loading crew. He had become quite
a fatalist. It did not seem that it was intended he should
die immediately, so he might as well live.
There were large gaps in his understanding, but it.
seemed clear to Chandler that these men, though not pos-\
sessed, were in some way working for the possessors. It
was a distasteful concept; but on second thought it had
reassuring elements. It was evidence that whatever the
"execs" were, they were very possibly human beingsor,
if not precisely human,  at least they shared the human
trait of working by some sort of organized effort toward
some sort of a goal. It was the first non-random phe-
nomenon he had seen in connection with the possessors,
barring the short-term tactical matters of mass slaughter
and destruction. It made him feelwhat he tried at once
to suppress, for he feared another destroying frustration
a touch of hope.
The men finished their work but did not leave. Nor did
they approach Chandler, but sat in the shade of their
truck, waiting for something. He drowsed and was awak-
ened by a distant sputter of a single-engined Aerocoupe
that hopped across the building behind him, turned sharp-
ly and came down with a brisk little run in the parking
bay itself. From one side the pilot climbed down and
from the other two men lifted, with great care, a wooden
crate, small but apparently heavy. They stowed it in the jet
while the pilot stood watching; then the pilot and one of
the other men got into the crew compartment. Chandler
could not be sure, but he had the impression that the
truckman who entered the plane was no longer his own
master. His movements seemed more sure and confident,
but above all it was the mute, angry eyes with which his
fellows regarded him that gave Chandler grounds for sus-
picion. He had no time to worry about that; for in the
same breath he felt himself occupied once more.
He did not rise. His own voice said to him, "You.
Votever you name, you fellow vit de book! You go get de
book verever you pud it and get on dat ship dere, you
see?" His eyes turned toward the waiting aircraft. "And
don't forget de book!"
He was released. "I won't," he said automatically, and
then realized that there was no longer anyone there to
hear his answer.
Chandler retrieved the Gibran volume from where he
had tossed it, turned and leaped out of the way. Another
truck was racing toward them, gears racketing as the
driver expertly down-shifted and brought it to a halt with
a hiss of airbrakes. Chandler stared at the driver open-
mouthed. The ten-wheeler was being driven by a girl of
about fourteen.
She turned and shouted over her shoulder into the back
of the truck, opened the door of the cab and jumped out.
The side door of the truck swung open.
A girl of about eleven stood there. Behind her a young
boy in a Scout uniform. They hopped to the ground and
were followed by a dozen more, and another dozen, and
more.
At least fifty children were piling out of that truck.
Some were as young as ten, some as old as the girl driver.
They were mixed boys and girls, about half and half.
There were Japanese and Negroes, Mexicans and blue-eyed
blonds. They formed into a ragged line and marched up
the wheeled steps into the jet with a bird-twittering like the
sound of a school bus on the way home.
Chandler followed them up the steps and turned to the
loading crew standing by. They neither looked at him nor
spoke. Inside the ship the children were larking and shout-
ing about the rows of seats.
"What's going on?" Chandler asked.
"Shut up and get in." None of the men were looking at
him. He couldn't even tell which one had spoken. All had
the worried, angry, helpless expressions on their faces.
"Come on! Look, can't you at least tell me where we're
going?"
"Get in." But one of them looked at him at last, for just
a moment, then raised an arm and pointed.
He pointed west, out toward the Pacific, and to ten
million square miles of nearly empty sea.
No lighted sign ordered fastening seat belts, no steward-
ess handed herself down the aisle between the seats to
check on cigarettes. The loading crew slammed down the
door from the outside, and shouted through it for Chan-
dler to dog it down. Pilot and copilot were aboard al-
ready, but the door to their compartment was locked and
Chandler never saw them. As he was levering down the
latches that held the door the plane started its engines,
blipped them once, wobbled over to a taxi strip . . . and
took off. Just like that.
Chandler half fell into a seat and held on. The children
shouted and sang, bouncing around the seats, pointing out
the wrecked buildings of downtown Los Angeles as they
slid by a few hundred feet under their wings. "Sit down!"
Chandler shouted. "All of you! You'll get your necks
broken" But it was useless. They didn't refuse to obey
him. They simply didn't hear. The take-off was quicker
and more violent than any commercial flight. They rock-
eted up at full power (there would be no complaints about
the noise from householders below), turned tightly in a
bank that threw the children, laughing and shouting, into
each other in heaps, and leveled off over the Pacific.
Chandler felt his ears popping. He got up, holding on
to the back of the seat across the aisle. It had been a long
time since he had been in an airplane. For a moment he
thought he might be airsick, but the moment passed. The
children had no such worries. They were acting like a class
trip as the plane headed into the sun.
He counted and discovered there were fifty-two of the
children. They were all around him, squeezing past in the
aisle, calling to each other; but they didn't speak directly
to him, nor he to them. They were in the coach'section of
the plane.
Chandler explored. The connecting door to the first
class compartment was closed, but it was only fabric on a
skeleton of metal rods. Chandler did not debate the advis-
ability of breaking his way in; he just kicked it open and
squeezed through, while the children watched him, and
laughed and whispered to each other.
Most of the first class seats had been removed. A thin
scatter of crates and boxes were strapped to the floor. In
the lounge section the divans were still in place, though,
and Chandler cast himself down on one and closed his
eyes.
He thought that it would be very easy to weep for Ellen
Braisted. In a couple of hours she had come very close to
him.
For that matter, he thought, turning his head to the
back of the divan, the Orphalese were worth mourning
too. Crazy, of course. A kinder term would be cultist. But
out of their oddness had come an attempt to organize a life
on a plan that worked.
Worked too wellfor beyond doubt, the success of their
defenses against the "flame spirits" was what had doomed
them. The destruction of Orphalese was no lunatic caprice.
It had been planned and methodically carried out, by a
concerted effort involving at least a dozen
At least a dozen what?
If Ellen Braisted were to be believed, human beings.
If a person wanted something to weep about, thought
Chandler, the thought that it was human beings who had
done all this was cause for tears enough. . . .
He slept. In spite of everything, he dropped off and did
not wake for at least two or three hours, until the noise of
the children woke him.
He stretched and sat up, feeling unutterably weary.
Neither terror nor worry could stimulate him any more.
He had reached that point of emotional exhaustion when
the sudden thunder of shellfire or the unwarned banzai
charge has lost its power to pump adrenalin into the
blood; the glands were dry. He stared without emotion at
the children standing before him.
"Mister!" cried one of them. "We're hungry."
He remembered having seen the boy before, getting out
of the truck in his Boy Scout uniform, a child of about
twelve, dark and dark-eyed.
"Yes," said Chandler, "I'm hungry too." He wished
they were not therewished they weren't on the plane at
all; Chandler was not prepared to load his fragile con-
fidence with the responsibility for fifty-two, children, not
when he could think of no way to take care even of
himself. As a delaying tactic he asked, "Where'd all of you
come from?"
But the boy would not be swerved. "St. Rose of Lima.
That's a school out Venice way. Do you know if there's
anything to eat?"
Chandler shook his head heavily. "I doubt it." He could
not help trying to find something to discharge his
responsibility, though; he added, "We ought to be landing
pretty soon. Probably they'll feed you then."
The boy nodded, accepting the word of the adult
"Where we going, mister? China?"
Chandler almost laughed. But it might just be China, he
thought; and admitted, "I'm not entirely sure. It might be
Hawaii."
"Hawaii!" cried the teen-age girl behind him. "Keen!
Say, there's surfing in Hawaii, right, mister?"
Chandler looked at her. Although he couldn't be sure,
he thought she was the one who had been driving the truck
and issuing the orders; but evidently the experience of
being occupied had not left her with any extra information.
He chose his words with care. "As a matter of fact, that's
where surfing was invented, I think."
"Hey, that's great! But really," she added, "we're awful-
ly hungry"
Chandler roused himself. "Well, let's take a look," he
said. He had no real hope of finding food, but anything
was better than doing nothing while the children stood
there looking at him. Just across the aisle was the flight
kitchen.
It contained, as a matter of fact, a great deal of food.
Most of it was useless, in stacked trays in the warming
ovens, so thoroughly decayed that it hardly even smeUed
any more. But there were also little packages of crackers,
cheeses, jellies, macadamia nuts. . . and cigarettes. Real
cigarettes! Factory made!
Chandler put the Scout in charge of handing out the
rations and, with trembling fingers, lit a cigarette. It was
dried out with age, but it was delicious. Before he did
anything else he filled his pockets with the little cardboard
packs. Then he made himself some instant coffee with cold
water, opened a can of the nuts and abandoned himself to
his fate.
The children were far braver than he. At first Chandler
thought it was merely the ignorance of youth. But he was
wrong. They knew as much of what was ahead as he
didknew at least on what summons they were trav-
eling, and how vile some of the creatures that summoned
them could be; they had seen it happen in their own
school. They almost reassured him with their careless
pleasures in the food and the excitement of flying. . . until
the hiss of the jets changed key, and Chandler realized his
ears were popping again.
Outside the windows it was almost sunset again. Some
of the children had been asleep in the reclining seats,
others talking or playing with the empty cups and boxes of
their feast. But they all waked and stared and comment-
ed. "It is Hawaii!" chortled the girl surfer. "Right, Mr.
Chandler? I mean, look at those combers!"
"I think sonear as I can tell from the flying time." He
raised his voice. "All of you! Sit down! Fasten the seat
belts!" Surprisingly they obeyed.
The horizon dipped below the wingtip and straightened
again, and there was a chorus of yells as they beheld land.
Chandler never saw the airfield. Only water; then beach;
then water again, and some buildings. Then the plane
staggered, slowedtrees appeared underneath them and to
the sidesthe wheels touched with a squeal and a jolt,
and there was a roar of jets as the clamshells deflected
their thrust forward to slow the plane down.
As the plane stopped. Chandler reached to unbuckle his
seat beltand found himself once more possessed.
His body strained to rise, surged against the belt and fell
back. His lips exclaimed something irritable, in a language
he did not understand; his hands went back to fumble
with the buckle.
The girl surfer rose stiffly and said, "All right, children!
Stay together now. Come with me." She glanced incurious-
ly at Chandler and opened the door. The movable steps
were there already and the children filed out.
Chandler's body, mumbling to itself, got the belt open,
picked up the book and waited impatiently for the children
to get out of the way. Chandler was conscious of a horde
of men off to one side, pushing steps toward the other
door, but he could not turn his head to look.
As he descended the steps, out of the comer of his eye,
he saw the Boy Scout look toward him and wave, but
Chandler could not respond. Another swarm of men was
waiting for him to clear the steps. As soon as they could,
they hurried up and began stripping the aircraft of its
cargo.
He wondered at the rush but could not stop to watch
them; his legs carried him swiftly across a paved strip to
where a police car was cruising.
Chandler cringed inside, instinctively, but his body did
not falter as it stepped into the path of the car and raised
its  hand.
The police car jammed on its brakes. The policeman at
the wheel, Chandler thought inside himself, looked startled,
but he also looked resigned. "To de South Gate, qvickly,"
said Chandler's lips, and he felt his legs carry him around
to the door on the other side.
There was another policeman on the seat next to the
driver. He leaped like a hare to get the door open and get
out before Chandler's body got there. He made it with
nothing to spare. "Jack, you go on, III tell Headquarters,"
he said hurriedly. The driver nodded without speaking. His
lips were white. He reached over Chandler to close the
door and made a sharp U-tum.
As soon as the car was moving Chandler felt himself
able to move his lips again.
"I" he said. "I don't know"
"Friend," said the policeman, "kindly keep your mouth
shut. 'South Gate,' the Exec said, and South Gate is where
I'm going."
Chandler shrugged and looked out the window . . . just
in time to see the jet that had brought him to the islands
once more lumbering into life. It crept, wobbling its wing-
tips, over the ground, picked up speed, roared across taxi
strips and over rough ground and at last piled up against
an ungainly looking foreign airplane, a Russian turbo prop
by its markings, in a thunderous crash and ball of flame ?
its fuel exploded. No one got out.
It seemed that traffic to Hawaii was all one way.

VIII

THEY ROARED through downtown Honolulu with the siren
blaring and cars scattering out of the way. At seventy
miles an hour they raced down a road by the sea; Chan-
dler caught a glimpse of a sign that said "Hilo," but where
or what "Hilo" might be he had no idea. Soon there were
fewer cars; then there were none but their own.
The road was a suburban highway lined with housing
developments, shopping centers, palm groves and the occa-
sional center of a small municipality, scattering helter-
skelter together. There was a road like this extending in
every direction from every city in the United States, Chan-
dler thought; but this one was somewhat altered. Something
had been there before them. About a mile outside Honolu-
lu's outer fringe life was cut off as with a knife. There
were no people on foot, and the only cars were rusted
wrecks lining the roads. The lawns were ragged stands of
weeds in front of the ranch-type homes.
It was evidently not allowed to live here.
Chandler craned his neck. His curiosity was becoming
almost unbearable. He opened his mouth, but "I said,
'Shut up,' " rumbled the cop without looking at him.
There was a note in the policeman's voice that impressed
Chandler. He did not quite know what it was, but it made
him obey. They drove for another fifteen minutes in si-
lence, then drew up before a barricade across the road.
Chandler got out. The policeman slammed the door
behind him, ripping rubber off his tires with the speed of
his U-tum and acceleration back toward Honolulu.
Chandler stood staring off after him, in bright warm
sunlight with a reek of hibiscus and rotting palms in his
nostrils. It was very quiet there, except for a soft scratchy
sound of footsteps on gravel. As Chandler turned to face
the man who was coming toward him, he realized he had
learned one fact from the policeman after all. The cop was
scared clear through.
Chandler said, "Hello," to the man who was approach-
ing.
He too wore a uniform, but not that of the Honolulu
city police. It was like U.S. Army suntans, but without
insignia. Behind him were half a dozen others in the same
dress, smoking, chatting, leaning against whatever was
handy. "The barricades themselves were impressively thor-
ough. Barbed wire ran down the beach and out into the
ocean; on the other side of the road, barbed wire ran clear
out of sight along the middle of a side-road. The gate itself
was bracketed with machine-gun emplacements.
The guard waited until he was close to Chandler before
speaking. "What do you want?" he asked without greeting.
Chandler shrugged. "All right, just wait here," said the
guard, and began to walk away again.
"Wait a minute! What am I waiting for?" The guard
shook his head without stopping or turning. He did not
seem very interested, and he certainly was not helpful.
Chandler put down the fragmentary copy of The
Prophet which he had carried so far and sat on the
ground, but again he had no long time to wait. One of the
guards came toward him, with the purposeful movements
Chandler had learned to recognize. Without speaking the
guard dug into a pocket. Chandler jumped up instinctively,
but it was only a set of car keys.
As Chandler took them the look in the guard's eyes
showed the quick release of tension that meant he was free
again; and in that same moment Chandler's own body was
occupied once more.
He reached down and picked up the tattered book.
Quickly, but a little clumsily, his fingers selected a key, and
his legs carried him toward a little French car parked just
the other side of the barrier.
Chandler was learning at last the skills of allowing his
body to have its way. He couldn't help it in any event, so
he was consciously disciplining himself to withdraw his
attention from his muscles and senses. It involved queerly
vertiginous problems. A hundred times a minute there was
some unexpected body sway or movement of the hand,
and his lagging, imprisoned mind would wrench at its
unresponsive nerves to put out the elbow that would brace
him, or to catch itself with a step. He had learned to
ignore these things. The mind that inhabited his body had
ways not his own of maintaining balance and reaching an
objective, but they were equally sure.
He watched his own hands shifting the gears of the car.
It was a make he had never driven, with a clutchless drive
he did not understand, but the mind in his brain evidently
understood it well enough. They picked up speed in great,
gasoline-wasting surges.
Chandler began to form a picture of that mind. It
belonged to an older man, from the hesitancy of its walk,
and a testy one, from the heedless crash of the gears as it
shifted. It drove with careless slapdash speed. Chandler's
mind yelled and flinched in his brain as they rounded
blind curves, where any casual other motorist would have
been a catastrophe; but his hand on the wheel and his
foot on the accelerator did not hesitate.
Beyond the South Gate the island of Oahu became
abruptly wild.
There were beautiful homes, but there were also great,
gap-toothed spaces where homes had once been and were
no longer. It seemed that some monstrous Zoning Com-
missar had stalked through the island with an eraser,
rubbing out the small homes, the cheap ones, the old ones;
rubbing out the stores, rubbing out the factories. This
whole section of the island had been turned into an
exclusive residential park.
It was not uninhabited. Chandler thought he glimpsed a
few people, though since the direction of his eyes was not
his to control it was hard to be sure. And then the
Renault turned into a lane, paved but narrow. Hardwood
trees with some sort of blossoms, Chandler could not tell
what, overhung it on both sides.
It meandered for a mile or so, turned and opened into a
great vacant parking lot. The Renault stopped with a
squeal of brakes in front of a door that was flanked by
bronze plaques:
TWA Flight Message Center.
Chandler caught sight of a skeletal towering form over-
head, like radio transmitter antennae, as his body marched
him inside, up a motionless escalator, along a hall and into
a room.
His muscles relaxed.
He glanced around and, from a huge soft couch beside
a desk, a huge soft body stirred and, gasping, sat up. It
was a very fat old man, almost bald, wearing a coronet of
silvery spikes.
He looked at Chandler without much interest. "Vot's
your name?" he wheezed. He had a heavy, ineradicable
accent, like a Hapsburg or a Russian diplomat. Chandler
recognized it readily. He had heard it often enough, from
his own lips.
The man's name was Koitska, he said in his accented
wheeze. If he had another name he did not waste it on
Chandler. He took as few words as possible to order
Chandler to be seated and to be still.
Koitska squinted at the copy of Gibran's The Prophet.
He did not glance at Chandler, but Chandler felt himself
propelled out of his seat, to hand the book to Koitska,
then returning. Koitska turned its pages with an expression
of bored repugnance, like a man picking leeches off his
arm. He seemed to be waiting for something.
A door closed on the floor below, and in a moment a
girl came into the room.
She was tall, dark and not quite young. Chandler,
struck by her beauty, was sure that he had seen her,
somewhere, but could not place her face. She wore a
coronet like the fat man's, intertwined in a complicated
hairdo, and she got right down to business. "Chandler, is
it? All right, love, what we want to know is what this is all
about." She indicated the book.
A relief that was like pain crossed Chandler's mind. So
that was why he was here! Whoever these people were,
however they managed to rule men's minds, they were not
quite certain of their perfect power. To them the sad, futile
Orphalese represented a sort of annoyancenot important
enough to be a threatbut something which had proved
inconvenient at one time and therefore needed investigat-
ing. As Chandler was the only survivor they had deemed
it worth their godlike whiles to transport him four thou-
sand miles so that he might bring them the book and
satisfy their curiosity.
Chandler did not hesitate in telling them all about the
people of Orphalese. There was nothing worth concealing,
he was quite sure. No debts are owed to the dead; and the
Orphalese had proved on their own heads, at the last, that
their ritual of pain was only an annoyance to the posses-
sors, not a tactic that could defeat them.
It took hardly five minutes to say everything that need-
ed saying about Guy, Meggie and the other doomed and
suffering inhabitants of the old house on the mountain.
Koitska hardly spoke. The girl was his interrogator, and
sometimes translator as well, when his English was not
sufficient to comprehend a point. With patient detachment
she kept the story moving until Koitska with a bored
shrug indicated he was through.
Then she smiled at Chandler and said, "Thanks, love.
Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
"I don't know. I thought the same thing about you."
"Oh, everybody's seen me. Lots of me. Butwell, no
matter. Good luck, love. Be nice to Koitska and perhaps
he'll do as much for you." And she was gone.
Koitska lay unmoving on his couch for a few moments,
rubbing a fat nose with a plump finger. "Hah," he said at
last. Then, abruptly, "And now, d& qvestion is, vot to do
vit you, eh? I do not fink you can cook, eh?"
With unexpected clarity Chandler realized he was on
trial for his life. "Cook? No, I'm afraid1 mean, I can
boil eggs," he said. "Nothing fancy."
"Hah," grumbled Koitska. "Vel. Ve need a couple, three
doctors, but I do not fink you vould do."
"You mean a medical doctor?" Chandler repeated stu-
pidly.
"Da, konyekhno. Vot you fink I mean?" The fat man's
voice was abruptly savage; it was very clear that to him
Chandler was of far less importance than the bougainvillea
that framed the parking lot outside.
Chandler said carefully, "I'm not a doctor, but I am an
electrical engineer. Or was."
"Vas?"
"I haven't had much practice. There has not been a
great deal of call for engineers, the last year or two."
"Hah." Koifska seemed to consider. "Vel," he said, "it
could be. . . yes, it could be dat ve have a job for you.
You go back downstairs andno, vait." The fat man
closed his eyes and Chandler felt himself seized and pro-
pelled down the stairs to what had once been a bay of a
built-in garage. Now it was fitted up with workbenches
and the gear of a radio ham's dreams.
Chandler walked woodenly to one of the benches. His
own voice spoke to him, out of his own lips. "Ve got here
someplaceda, here is cirguit diagrams an de specs for a
sqvare-vave generator. You know vot dat is? Write down
de answer." Chandler, released with a pencil in his hand
and a pad before him, wrote Yes. "Okay. Den you build
vun for me. I areddy got vun but I vant another. You do
dis in de city, no here. Go to Tripler, dey tells you dere
vere you can verk, vere to get parts, all dat. Couple
days you come out here again, I see if I like how you
build."
Clutching the thick sheaf of diagrams, Chandler felt
himself propelled outside and back into the little car. The
interview was over.
He wondered if he would be able to find his way back
to Honolulu, but that problem was then postponed as he
discovered he could not start the car. His own hands had
already done so, of course, but it had been so quick and
sure that he had not paid attention; now he found that the
ignition key was marked only in French, which he could
not speak. After trial and error he discovered the combina-
tion that would start the engine and unlock the steering
wheel, and then gingerly he toured the perimetef of the lot
until he found an exit road.
It was close to midnight, he judged. Stars were shining
overhead; there was a rising moon. He then remembered,
somewhat tardily, that he should not be seeing stars. The
lane he had come in on had been overhung on both sides
with trees.
A few minutes later he realized he was quite lost.
Chandler stopped the car, swore feelingly, got out and
looked around.
There was nothing much to see. The roads bore no
markers that made sense to him. He shrugged and rum-
maged through the glove compartment on the chance of a
map; there was none, but he did find a half-empty pack of
cigarettes. He added them to the store in his pockets, lit up
and relaxed.
Chandler felt exactly as he had felt the day he got his
first  job.
It was absolutely astonishing, he marveled at himself,
but the mere suggestion of a possibility that there might
somehow be some sort of an organized place for him in
the lunatic framework of this world had calmed jumpy
nerves he had almost forgotten he possessed. He puffed
smoke over the top of the little car and admired the pleas-
ant evening. There were the stars Vega and Deneb; it did
not really seem to matter to him that the last time he had
seen those stars, twenty-four hours before, he had just
witnessed the murder of a score of innocents and con-
sidered his own life to be spent.
It would not be  very  hard to build  a  square-wave
generator, if he could get parts. No doubt it was a sort of
test. If he passed, he would get the job; and this Koitska
would have little to worry about, too, because if anyone
should somehow fake the test it would not take long to
discover the deception, and Chandler had a good idea of
what would happen to him or to anyone else whom
Koitska caught in a deception
He felt a light touch at his mind.
Or had he? He flicked the cigarette away, staring
around. It was nothing, really. Or nothing that he could
quite identify. It was as though he had been, well, nudged.
It seemed that someone had paused on the threshold of
usurping his body, but then unaccountably reframed.
As he had just about decided to forget it and get back
into the car, he saw headlights approaching.
A low, lean sports car slowed as it came near, stopping
beside him, and a girl leaned out, almost invisible in the
darkness. "There you are, love," she said cheerfully.
"Thought I spotted someone. Lost?"
She had a coronet, and Chandler recognized her. It was
the girl who had interrogated him. "I guess I am," he
admitted.
The girl leaned forward. "Come in, dear. Oh, that car?
Leave it here, the silly little bug." She giggled as they
drove away from the Renault. "Koitska wouldn't like you
wandering around. I guess he decided to give you a job."
"How did you know?"
She said softly, "Well, love, you're still here) you know.
What are you supposed to be doing?"
"Going to Tripler, whatever that is. In Honolulu, I
guess. Then I have to build some radio equipment."
"Tripler's actually on the other side of the city. I'll take
you to the gate; then you tell them where you want to go.
They'll take care of it."
"I don't have any money for fare . . ."
She laughed at the idea. After a moment she said,
"Koitska's not the worst. But I'd mind my step if I were
you, love. Do what he says, the best you can. You never
know. You might find yourself very fortunate . . ."
"I already think that. I'm alive."
"Why, love, that point of view will take you far."
She drove in silence for a minute. "Those Awful-Awfuls
of yours"
"The Oiphalese?"
"Whatever you call them. They really didn't have much
of a chance, you know." Chandler looked at her face, but
it was shadowed. He wondered why she was taking the
trouble to talk to him. Out of simple compassion? "No-
body does against the Exec," she said, her voice quite
cheerful. "You get along best if you make up your mind
fo that right away."
The sports car slid smoothly to a stop at the barricade.
In the floodlights above the machine-gun nests she looked
more closely at Chandler. "What's that on your forehead,
dear?"
Somehow he had lost the woolen cap, somewhere along
the way. "A brand," he said shortly. " 'H' for hoaxer. I
did something when one of you people had taken me over,
and they thought I'd done it on my own."
The girl caught her breath, then laughed. "Why, this is
wonderful!" she said excitedly. "No wonder I thought I'd
seen you before. Don't you remember? I was the fore-
woman at your trial!"

CHANDLER SPENT the night in a sort of hostel for casual
employees of the Executive Committee. It had once been
an Army hospital and was still run with the military's
casual, loose-jointed efficiency. Everything he needed was
provided for himroom, bedding, food, directionsbut
without anyone ever taking a moment to explain.
Still, the next morning, following the directions the desk
orderly had given. Chandler boarded a pink and silver bus
that took him to downtown Honolulu. The driver did not
collect any fares. Chandler got off, as directed, at Fort
Street and walked a few blocks to the address he had been
given. The name of the place was Parts 'n Plenty. He
found it easily enough. It was a radio parts store; by the
size of it, it had once been a big, well-stocked one; but
now the counters were almost bare.
A thin-faced man with khaki-colored skin looked up
and nodded. Chandler nodded back. He fingered a bin of
tuning knobs, hefted a coil of two-strand antenna wire
and said, "A fellow at Tripler told me to come here to
pick up equipment, but I'm damned if I know what I'm
supposed to do when I locate it. I don't have any money."
The dark-skinned man got up and came over to him.
"Figured you for a malihini. No sweat. Have you got a
list?"
"I can make one."
"All right. Catalogues on the table behind you, if you
want them." He offered Chandler a cigarette and sat
against the edge of the counter, reading over Chandler's
shoulder. "Ho," he said suddenly. "Koitska's square-wave
generator again, right?" Chandler admitted it, and the man
grinned. "Every couple months he sends somebody along,
Mr.?"
"Chandler."
"Glad to know you. I'm John Hsi. Don't go easy on
the job just because Koitska doesn't really need it. Chan-
dler; it could be pretty important to you."
Chandler absorbed the information silently and handed
over his list. The man did not look at it. "Come back in
about an hour," he said.
"I won't have any money in an hour, either."
"Oh, that's all right. I'll put it on Koitska's bill."
Chandler said frankly, "Look, I don't know what's
going on. Suppose I came in and picked up a thousand
dollars worth of stuff, would you put that on the bill,
too?"
"Certainly," said Hsi optimistically. "You thinking about
stealing parts? What would you do with them?"
"Well. . ." Chandler puffed on his cigarette. "Well, I
could"
"No, you couldn't. Also, it wouldn't pay, believe me,"
Hsi said seriously. "If there is one thing that doesn't pay, it
is cheating on the Exec."
"Now, that's another good question," said Chandler.
"Who is the Exec?"
Hsi shook his head. "Sorry. I don't know you. Chan-
dler."
"You mean you're afraid even to answer a question?"
"You're damned well told I am. Probably nobody
would mind what I might tell you. . . but 'probably' isn't
good enough."
Exasperated, Chandler said, "How the devil am I sup-
posed to know what to do next? So I take all this junk
back to my room at Tripler and solder up the generator
then what?"
"Then Koitska will get in touch with you," Hsi said, not
unkindly. "Play it as it comes to you, Chandler, that's the
best advice I can offer." He hesitated. "Koitska's not the
worst of them," he said; and then, daringly, "and maybe
he's not the best, either. Just do whatever he told you.
Keep on doing it until he tells you to do something else.
That's all. I mean, that's all the advice I can give you.
Whether it's going to be enough to satisfy Koitska is
something else again."
There is not much to do in a strange town when you
have no money. Chandler's room at what once had been
Tripler General Hospital was free; the bus was free; evi-
dently all the radio parts he could want were also free. But
he did not have the price of a cup of coffee or a haircut in
the pockets of the suntan slacks the desk man at Tripler
had issued him. He wandered around the streets of Hono-
lulu, waiting for the hour to be up.
At Tripler a doctor had also examined his scar and it
was now concealed under a neat white bandage; he had
been fed; he had bathed; he had been given new clothes.
Tripler was a teeming metropolis in itself, a main building
some ten storeys high, a scattering of outbuildings connect-
ed to it by covered passages, with thousands of men and
women busy about it. Chandler had spoken to a good
many of them in the hour after waking up and before
boarding the bus to Honolulu, and none of them had been
free with information either.
Honolulu had not suffered greatly under the rule of the
Exec. Remembering the shattered stateside cities, Chandler
thought that this one had been incredibly fortunate. Daw-
dling down King Street, in the aromatic reek of the fish
markets. Chandler could have thought himself in any port
city before the grisly events of that Christmas when the
planet went possessed. Crabs waved sluggishly at him from
bins; great pinkscaled fish rested on nests of ice, waiting to
be sold; smells of frying food came from half a dozen
restaurants.
It was only the people who were different. There was a
solid sprinkling of those who, like himself, were dressed in
insignia-less former Army uniformsobviously conscripts
on Exec errandsand a surprising minority who, from
overheard snatches of conversation, had come from coun-
tries  other than  the  U.S.A.  Russian  mostly,  Chandler
guessed; but Russian or American, wearing suntans or
aloha shirts, everyone he saw was marked by the visible
signs of strain. There was no laughter.
Chandler saw a clock within the door of a restaurant;
half an hour still to kill. He turned and wandered up,
away from the water, toward the visible bulk of the hills;
and in a moment he saw what made Honolulu's collective
face wear its careworn frown.
It was an open squareperhaps it had once been a war
memorialand in the center of it was a fenced-off paved
area where people seemed to be resting. It struck Chandler
as curious that so many persons should have decided to
take a nap on what surely was an uncomfortable bed of
flat concrete; he approached and saw that they were not
resting. Not only his eyes but his ears conveyed the
messageand his nose, too, for the mild air was fetid with
blood and rot.
These were not sleeping men and women. Some were
dead; some were unconscious; all were maimed. The pave-
ment was slimed with their blood. None had the strength
to scream, but several were moaning and even some of the
unconscious ones gasped like the breathing of a man in
diabetic coma. Passersby walked briskly around the metal
fence, and if their glances were curious it was at Chandler
they looked, not at the tortured wrecks before them. He
understood that the sight of the dying men and women
was familiarwas painfuland thus was ignored; it was
himself who was the curiosity, for staring at them. He
turned and fled, trying not to vomit.
He was still shaken when he returned to Parts 'n Plenty.
The hour was up but Hsi shook his head. "Not yet.
You can sit down over there if you like." Chandler
slumped into the indicated swivel chair and stared blank-
ly at the wall.
The terror he had just seen was far worse than anything
stateside; the random slaughter of murders and bombs was
at least a momentary thing, and when it was done it was
done; but this was sustained torture. He buried his head in
his hands and did not look up until he heard the sound of
a door opening.
Hsi, his face somehow different, was manipulating a
lever on the outside of a door while a man inside, becom-
ing visible as the door opened, was doing the same from
inside.
It looked as though the lock on the door would not
work unless both levers operated; and the man on the
inside, whom Chandler had not seen before, was dressed,
oddly, only in bathing trunks. His face wore the same
expression as Hsi's.
Chandler guessed (with practice it was becoming easy!)
that both were possessed. The man inside wheeled out two
shopping carts loaded with electronic equipment of varying
kinds, wordlessly received some empty ones from Hsi; and
the door closed on him again.
Hsi tugged the lever down, turned, biinked and said,
"All right, Chandler. Your stuff's here."
Chandler approached. "What was that all about?"
"Go to hell!" Hsi said with sudden violence. "I Oh,
never mind. Sorry. But I told you already, ask somebody
else your questions, not me."
He gloomily began to pack the items on Chandler's list
into a cardboard carton. Then he glanced at Chandler and
said, half apologetically, "These are tough times, buddy. I
guess there's no harm in answering some questions. You
want to know why most of my stock's locked behind an
armor-plate door? Well, you ought to be able to figure
that out for yourself, anyway. The Exec doesn't like to
have people playing with radios. Bert stays in the stock-
room; I stay out here; twice a day the bosses open the
door and we fill whatever orders they've approved. A little
rough on Bert, of courseit's a ten-hour day in the
stockroom for him, and nothing to do. But it could be
worse. Oh, that's for sure, friend: It could be worse."
"Why the bathing suit? Hot in there?"
"Hot for Bert if they think he's smuggling stuff out,"
said Hsi. "You been here long enough to see the Monu-
ment yet?"
Chandler shook his head, then grimaced. "You mean
up about three blocks that way? Where the people?"
"That's right," said Hsi, "three blocks mauka from here,
where the people Where the people are serving as a very
good object lesson to you and me. About a dozen there,
right? Small for this time of year, Chandler. Usually there
are more. Notice anything special about them?"
"They were butchered! Some of them looked like their
legs had been burned right off. Their eyes gouged out,
their faces" Chandler brought up sharply. It had been
bad enough looking at those wretched, writhing semi-
cadavers; he did not want to talk about them.
The parts man nodded seriously. "Sometimes there are
more, and sometimes they're worse hurt than that. Have
you got any idea how they get that way? They do it to
themselves, that's how. My own brother was out there for
a week, last Statehood Day. He jumped feet first into a
concrete mixer, and it took him seven days to die after I
put him on my shoulder and carried him out there. I
didn't like it, of course, but I didn't exactly have any
choice; I wasn't running my own body at the time. Neither
was he when he jumped. He was made to do it, because
he used to have Bert's job and he thought he'd take a
little short-wave set home. Like I said, you don't want to
cheat on the Exec because it doesn't pay."
"But what am I supposed to"
Hsi held up his hand. "Don't ask me how to keep out
of that Monument bunch. Chandler. I don't know. Do
what you're told and don't do anything you aren't told to
do; that is the whole of the law. Now do me a favor and
get out of here so I can pack up these other orders."

BY THE morning of the fourth day on the island of Oahu
Chandler had learned enough of the ropes to have signed
a money-chit at the Tripler currency office against Koit-
ska's account. That was about all he had learned, except
for a few practical matters like where meals were served
and the location of the fresh-water swimming pool at the
back of the grounds. He was killing time using the pool
when, in the middle of a jackknife from the ten-foot board,
he felt himself seized.
He sprawled into the water with a hard splashing slap,
threshed about and, as he came to the surface, found
himself giggling. "Sorry, dear," he apologized to himself,
"but we don't carry our weight in the same places, you
know. Get that square-what'sit thingamajig, like an angel,
and meet me in front by the flagpole in twenty minutes."
He recognized the voice, even if his own vocal chords
had made it. It was the girl who had driven him back from
the interview with Koitska, the one who had casually
announced she had saved his life at his hoaxing trial.
Chandler swam to the side of the pool and toweled as he
trotted toward his quarters. She was from Koitska now, of
course; which meant that his "test" was about to be
graded.
Quickly though' he dressed, she was there before him,
standing beside a low-slung sports car and chatting with
one of the groundskeepers. An armful of leis dangled
beside her, and although she wore the coronet which was
evidence of her status the gardener did not seem to fear
her.
"Come along, love," she called to Chandler. "Koitska
wants your thingummy. Chuck it in the trunk if it'll fit,
and we'll head waikiki wikiwiki. Don't I say that nicely?
But I only fool the malihinis, like you."
She chattered away as the little car dug its rear wheels
into the drive and leaped around the green and out the
gate.
The wind howled by them, the sun was bright, the sky
was piercingly blue. Riding next to this beautiful girl, it
was hard for Chandler to remember that she was one of
those who had destroyed his world. It was a terrible thing
to have so much hatred and to feel it so diluted.
Not even Koitska seemed a terrible enough enemy to
accept such a load of detestation; it was hate without an
object, and it recoiled on the hater, leaving him turgid and
constrained. If he could not hate his onetime friend Jack
Souther for defiling and destroying his wife, it was almost ~
as hard to hate Souther's anonymous possessor.
It could have been Koitska. It could even have been this
girl by his side. In the strange, cruel fantasies with which
the Execs indulged themselves it was likely enough that
they would sometimes assume the body, and the role, of the
opposite sex. Why not? Strange, ruthless morality; it was
impossible to evaluate it by any human standards.
It was also impossible to think of hatred with her beside
him. They soared around Honolulu on a broad express-
way and paralleled the beach toward Waikiki. "Look,
dear. Diamond Head! Mustn't ignore itvery bad form
like not going to see the night-blooming cereus at the
Punahou School. You haven't missed that, have you?"
"I'm afraid I have"
"Rosalie. Call me Rosalie, dear."
"I'm afraid I have, Rosalie." For some reason the name
sounded familiar.
"Shame, oh, shame! They say it was wonderful night
before last. Looks like cactus to me, but"
Chandler's mental processes had worked to a conclu-
sion. "Rosalie Pan."' he said. "Now I know!"
"Know what? You mean" she swerved around a
motionless Buick, parked arrogantly five feet from the
curb"you mean you didn't know who I was? And to
think I used to pay my press agent five thousand a year."
Chandler said, smiling, and almost relaxed, "I'm sorry,
but musical comedies weren't my strong point. Let's see,
wasn't there something about you disappearing"
She nodded, glancing at him. "There sure was, dear. I
almost froze to death getting out to that airport. Of
course, it was worth it, I found out later. If I hadn't been
took, as they say, I would've been dead. You remember
what happened to New York about an hour later."
"You must have had some friends," Chandler began,
and let it trail off.
So did the girl. After a moment she began to talk about
the scenery again, pointing out the brick-red and purple
bougainvillea, describing how the shoreline had looked
before they'd "cleaned it up." "Oh, thousands and thou-
sands of the komeliest little houses. You'd have hated it.
So we have done at least a few good things, anyway," she
said complacently, and began gently to probe into his life
story.  But as they stopped before the TWA Message
Center, a few moments later, she said, "Well, love, it's been
fun. Go on in; Koitska's expecting you. I'll see you later."
And her eyes added gently: / hope.
Chandler got out of the car, turned . . . and felt himself
taken. His voice said briskly, "Zdrastvoi, Rosie. Gd'yeh
Koitska?"
Unsurprised the girl pointed to the building. "Kto
gowrit?"
Chandler's voice answered in Enghsh, with a faint Ox-
ford accent: "It is I, Rosie, Kalman. Where's Koitska's
tinkertoy? Oh, all right, thanks; I'll just pick it up and
take it in. Hope it's all right. I must say one wearies of
breaking in these new fellows."
Chandler's body ambled around to the trunk of the car,
took out the square-wave generator on its breadboard
base and slouched into the building. It called ahead in the
same language and was answered wheezily from above:
Koitska. "Zdrastvoi. Kto, Katman? Iditye suda ko mneh."
"Konyekhno!" cried Chandler's voice and he was car-
ried in and up to where the fat man lounged in a leather-
upholstered wheelchair. There was a conversation, long
minutes of it, while the two men poked at the generator.
Chandler did not understand a word until he spoke to
himself: "Youwhat's your name."
"Chandler," Koitska filled in for him.
"You, Chandler. D'you know anything at all about
submillimeter microwaves? Tell Koitska." Briefly Chandler
felt himself freelong enough to nod; then he was pos-
sessed again, and Koitska repeated the nod. "Good, then.
Tell Koitska what experience you've had."
Again free, Chandler said, "Not a great deal of actual
experience. I worked with a group at Cal Tech on spectro-
scopic measurements in the million megacycle range. I
didn't design any of the equipment, though I helped put it
together." He recited his degrees until Koitska raised a
languid hand.
"Shto, I don't care. If ve gave you diagrams you could
build?"
"Certainly, if I had the equipment. I suppose I'd
need"
But Koitska stopped him again. "I know vot you need,"
he said damply. "Enough. Ve see." In a moment Chandler
was taken again, and his voice and Koitska's debated the
matter for a while, until Koitska shrugged, turned his head
and seemed to go to sleep.
Chandler marched himself out of the room and out into
the driveway before his voice said to him: "You've secured
a position, then. Go back to Tripler until we send for you.
It'll be a few days, I expect."
And Chandler was free again.
He was also alone. The girl in the Porsche was gone.
The door to the TWA building had latched itself behind
him. He stared around him, swore, shrugged and circled
the building to the parking lot at back on the chance that
a car might be there for him to borrow.
Luckily there wasthere were four, in fact, all with
keys in them. He selected a Ford, puzzled out the likeliest
road back to Honolulu and turned the key in the starter.
It was fortunate, he thought, that there had been several
cars; if there had been only one he would not have dared
to take it, for fear of stranding Koitska or some other
Exec who might easily blot him out in annoyance. He did
not wish to join the wretches at the Monument.
It was astonishing how readily fear had become a part
of his life.
The trouble with this position he had somehow
securedone of the troubleswas that there was no
union delegate to settle employee grievances. Like no
transportation. Like no clear idea of working hours, or
duties. Like no mention  at allof courseof wages.
Chandler had no idea what his rights were, if any at all, or
of what the penalties would be if he overstepped them.
The maimed victims at the Monument supplied a clue,
of course. He could not really believe that that sort of
punishment would be applied for minor infractions. Death
was so much less trouble. Even death was not really
likely, he thought, for a simple lapse.
He thought.
He could not be sure, of course. He could be sure of
only one thing: He was now a slave, completely a slave, a
slave until the day he died. Back on the mainland there
was the statistical likelihood of occasional slavery-by-
possession, yet; but there it was only the body that was
enslaved, and only for moments. Here, in the shadow of
the Execs, it was all of him, forever, until death or a
miracle turned him loose.
On the second day follovidng, he returned to his room
at Tripler after breakfast,  and found a Honolulu city
policeman sitting hollow-eyed on the edge of his bed. The
man stood up as Chandler came in. "So," he grumbled,
"you take so long! Here. Is diagrams, specs, parts lists, all.
You get everything three days from now, then we begin."
The policeman, no longer Koitska, shook himself,
glanced stolidly at Chandler and walked out, leaving a
thick manila envelope on the pillow. On it was written, in
a crabbed hand: All secret! Do not show diagrams f
Chandler opened the envelope and spilled its contents
on the bed.
An hour later he realized that sixty minutes had passed
in which he had not been afraid. It was good to be
working again, he thought, and then that thought faded
away again as he returned to studying the sheaves of
circuit diagrams and closely typed pages of specifications.
It was not only work, it was hard work, and absorbing.
Chandler knew enough about the very short wavelength
radio spectrum to know that the device he was supposed to
build was no proficiency test; this was for real. The more
he puzzled over it the less he could understand of its
purpose. There was a transmitter and there was a receiver.
Astonishingly, neither was directional: that ruled out ra-
dar, for example. He rejected immediately the thought that
the radiation was for spectrum analysis, as in the Cal Tech
projectunfortunate, because that was the only applica-
tion with which he had first-hand familiarity; but impossi-
ble. The thing was too complicated. Nor could it be a
simple message transmitterno, perhaps it could, assuming
there was a reason for using the submillimeter bands
instead of the conventional, far simpler shortwave spec-
trum. Could it? The submillimeter waves were line-of-sight,
of course, but would ionosphere scatter make it possible
for them to cover great distances? He could not remember.
Or was that irrelevant, since perhaps they needed only to
cover  the  distances  between  islands  in  their  own
archipelago? But then, why all the power? And in any
case, what about this fantastic switching panel, hundreds
of square feet of it even though it was transistorized and
subminiaturized and involving at least a dozen sophisti-
cated technical refinements he hadn't the training quite to
understand? AT&T could have handled every phone call in
the United States with less switching than thisin the days
when telephone systems spanned a nation instead of a
fraction of a city. He pushed the papers together in a pile
and sat back, smoking a cigarette, trying to remember
what he could of the theory behind submilUmeter radia-
tion.
At half a million megacycles and up the domain of
quantum theory began to be invaded. Rotating gas mole-
cules, constricted to a few energy states, responded directly
to the radio waves. Chandler remembered late-night bull
sessions in Pasadena during which it had been pointed out
that the possibilities in the field were enormousalthough
only possibilities, for there was no engineering way to
reach them, and no clear theory to point the way
suggesting such strange ultimate practical applications as
the receiverless radio, for example. Was that what he had
here?
He gave up. It was a question that would burn at him
until he found the answer, but iust now he had work to
do, and he'd better be doing it. Skipping lunch entirely, he
carefully checked the components lists, made a copy of
what he would need, put the original envelope and its
contents in the safe at the main receiving desk and caught
the bus to Honolulu.
At the Parts 'n Plenty store, Hsi read the list with a faint
frown that turned into a puzzled scowl. When he put it
down he looked at Chandler for a few moments without
speaking.
"Well, Hsi? Can you get all this for me?" The parts
man shrugged and nodded. "Koitska said in three days."
Hsi looked startled, then resigned. "That puts it right up
to me, doesn't it? All right. Wait a moment."
He disappeared in the back of the store, where Chan-
dler heard him talking on what was evidently an intercom
system. He came back in a few minutes and slipped
Chandler's list into a slit in the locked door. "Tough for
Bert," he  said.  "He'll be working  all  night,  getting
startedbut I can take it easy till tomorrow. By then
he'll know what we don't have, and I'll find some way to
get it." He shrugged again, but his face was lined. Chan-
dler wondered how one went about finding, for example, a
thirty megawatt klystron tube; but it was Hsi's problem.
He said;
"All right, ril see you Monday."
"Wait a minute, Chandler." Hsi eyed him. "You don't
have anything special to do, do you? Well, come have
dinner with me. Maybe I can get to know you. Then
maybe I can answer some of your questions, if you like."
They took a bus out Kapiolani Boulevard, then got out
and walked a few blocks to a restaurant named Mother
Chee's. Hsi was well known there, it seemed. He led
Chandler to a booth at the back, nodded to the waiter,
ordered without looking at the menu and sat back. "The
food's all fish," he said. "You'll only find meat in the
places where the Execs sometimes go. . . . Tell me some-
thing, Chandler. What's that scar on your forehead?"
Chandler touched it, almost with surprise. Since the
medics had treated it he had almost forgotten it was there.
He said, "What's the score? You testing me, too? Want to
see if I'll lie about it?"
Hsi grinned. "Sorry. I guess that's what I was doing. I
do know what an 'H' stands for; we've seen them before.
Not many. The ones that do get this far usually don't last
long. Unless, of course, they are working for somebody
whom it wouldn't do to offend," he explained.
"So what you want to know, then, is whether I was really
hoaxing or not. Does it make any difference?"
"Damn right it does, man! We're slaves, but we're not
animals!" Chandler had gotten to him; the parts man
looked startled, then sallow, as he observed his own
vehemence.
"Sorry, Hsi. It makes a difference to me, too. Well, I
wasn't hoaxing. I was possessed, just like any other every-
day rapist, only I couldn't prove it. And it didn't look too
good for me, because the damn thing happened in a phar-
maceuticals plant. That was supposed to be about the only
place in town where you could be sure you wouldn't be
possessed, or so everybody thought. Including me. Up to
the time I went ape."
Hsi nodded. The waiter approached with their drinks.
Hsi looked at him appraisingly, then did a curious thing.
He gripped his left wrist with his right hand, quickly, then
released it again. The waiter did not appear to notice.
Expertly he served the drinks, folded small pink floral
napkins, dumped and wiped their ashtray in one motion
and then, so quickly that Chandler was not quite sure he
had seen it, caught Hsi's wrist in the same fleeting gesture
just before he turned and walked away.
Without comment Hsi turned back to Chandler. He
said, "I believe you.  Would you like to know why it
happened? Because I think I can tell you. The Execs have
all the antibiotics they need now."
"You mean" Chandler hesitated.
"That's right. They did leave some areas alone, as long
as they weren't fully stocked on everything they might
want for the foreseeable future. Wouldn't you?"
"I might," Chandler said cautiously, "if I knew what I
wasbeing an Exec."
Hsi said, "Eat your dinner. I'll take a chance and tell
you what I know." He swallowed his whiskey-on-the-
rocks wth a quick backward jerk of the head. "They're
mostly Russiansyou must know that much for yourself.
The whole thing started in Russia."
Chandler said, "Well, that's pretty obvious. But Russia
was smashed up as much as anywhere else. The whole
Russian government was killedwasn't it?"
Hsi nodded. "They're not the government. Not the
Exec. Communism doesn't mean any more to them than
the Declaration of Independence doeswhich is nothing.
It's very simple. Chandler: they're a project that got out of
hand."
Back three years ago, he said, in Russia, it started in the
last days of the Second Stalinite Regime, before the neo-
Khrushchevists took over power in the January Push.
The Western World had not known exactly what was
going on, of course. Russia had become queerer and even
more opaque after the Maoist trials and the revival of such
fine old Soviet institutions as the Gay Pay Oo. That was
the development called the Freeze, when the Stalinites
seized control in the name of the sacred Generalissimo of
the Soviet Fatherland, a mighty-missile party, dedicated to
bringing about the world revolution by force of sputnik.
The neo-Khrushchevists, on the other hand, believed that
honey caught more flies than vinegar; and, although there
were few visible adherents to that philosophy during the
purges of the Freeze, they were not all dead. Then, out of
the Donbas Electrical Workshop, came sudden support for
their point of view.
It was a weapon.  It was more than a weapon,  an
irresistible toolmore than that, the way to end all dis-
putes forever.
It was a simple radio transmitter (Hsi said)or so it
seemed, but its frequencies were on an unusual band and
its effects were remarkable. It controlled the minds of men.
The "receiver" was the human brain. Through this little
portable transmitter, surgically patch-wired to the brain of
the person operating it, his entire personality was trans-
mitted in a pattern of very short waves which could invade
and modulate the personality of any other human being in
the world.
"What's the matter?" Hsi interrupted himself, staring at
Chandler. Chandler had stopped eating, his hand frozen
midway to his mouth. He shook his head.
"Nothing. Go on." Hsi shrugged and continued.
While the Western World was celebrating Christmas
the Christmas before the first outbreak of possession in the
outside worldthe man who invented the machine was
secretly demonstrating it to another man. Both of. them
were now dead; the inventor had been a Pole, the other
man a former Party leader who, four years before, had
pardoned the inventor's dying father from a Siberian work
camp. The Party leader had reason to congratulate himself
on that loaf cast on the water. There were only three
working models of the transmitterwhat ultimately was
refined into the coronet Chandler had seen on the heads
of Koitska and the girlbut that was enough for the
January Push.
The Stalinites were out. The neo-Khrushchevists were
in.
A whole factory in the Donbas was converted to manu-
facturing these little mental controllers as fast as they could
be producedand that was fast, for they were simple in
design to begin with and were quickly refined to a few
circuits. Even the surgical wiring to the brain became
unnecessary as  induction coils tapped  the  encephalic
rhythms. Only the great amplifying hookup was really
complicated. Only one of those was necessary, for a single
amplifier could serve as rebroadcaster-modulator for thou-
sands of the headsets.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Hsi demanded.
Chandler put down his fork, lit a cigarette and beck-
oned to the waiter. "I'm all right. I just want another
drink."
He needed it, for now he knew what he was building
for Koitska.
The waiter brought two more drinks and carried away
the uneaten food. "We don't know exactly who did what
after that," Hsi said, "but somehow or other it got out of
hand. I think it was the technical crew of the factory that
took over. I suppose it was an inevitable danger." He
grinned savagely. "I can just imagine the Party bosses in
the factory," he said, "trying to figure out how to keep the
workers in linebribe them or terrify them? Give them
dachas or send a quota to Siberia? Neither would work, of
course, because there isn't any bribe you can give to a man
who only has to stretch out his hand to take over the
world, and you can't frighten a man who can make you slit
your own throat. Anyway, the next thing that happened
the following Christmaswas when they took over the
world. It wasn't a Party movement at all any more. A lot
of the workers were Czechs and Hungarians and Poles,
and the first thing they wanted to do was to even a few
scores.
"So here they are! Before they let the whole world go
bang they got out of range. They got themselves out of
Russia on two Red Navy cruisers, about a thousand of
them; then they systematically triggered off every ballistic
missile they could find. . . and they could find all of them,
sooner or later, it was just a matter of looking. As soon as
it was safe they moved in here.
"There are only a thousand or so of them here on the
Islands, and nobody outside the Islands even knows where
they are. If they did, what good would it do them? They
can kill anyone, anywhere. They kill for fun, but some-
times they kill for a reason too. When one of them goes
wandering for kicks he makes it a point to mess up all the
transport and communications facilities he comes across
especially now, since they've stockpiled everything they're
likely to need for the next twenty years. We don't know
what they're planning to do when the twenty years are up.
Maybe they don't care. Would you?"
Chandler drained his drink and shook his head. "One
question," he said. "Who's 'we'?"
Hsi carefully unwrapped a package of cigarettes, took
one out and lit it. He looked at it as though he were not
enjoying it; cigarettes had a way of tasting stale these days.
As they were. "Just a minute," he said.
Tardily Chandler remembered the quick grasp of the
waiter's fingers on Hsi's wrist, and that the waiter had
been hovering, inconspicuously close, all through their
meal. Hsi was waiting for the man to return. ,
In a moment the waiter was back, looking directly at
Chandler. He looped his own wrist with his fingers and
nodded. Hsi said softly, " 'We' is the Society of Slaves.
That's all of usslavesbut only a few of us belong to
the Society. We"
There was a crash of glass. The waiter had dropped
their tray.
Across the table from Chandler, Hsi looked suddenly
changed. His left hand lay on the table before him, his
right hand poised over it. Apparently he had been about
to show Chandler again the sign he had made.
But he could not do it. His hand paused and fluttered
like a captured bird. Captured it was. Hsi was captured.
Out of Hsi's mouth, with Hsi's voice, came the light, tonal
rhythms of Rosalie Pan: "This is an unexpected pleasure,
love! I never expected to see you here. Enjoying your
meal?"
Chandler had his empty glass halfway to his lips, auto-
matically, before he realized there was nothing in it to
brace him. He said hoarsely, "Yes, thanks. Do you come
here often?" It was like the banal talk of a language
handbook, wildly inappropriate to uihat had been going
on a moment before. He was shaken.
"Oh, I love it," cooed Hsi, investigating the dishes
before him. "All finished, I see. Too bad. Your friend
doesn't feel like he ate much, either."
"I guess he wasn't hungry," Chandler managed.
"Well, I am." Hsi cocked his head and smiled like a
clumsy female impersonator. "I know! Are you doing
anything special right now, love? I know you've eaten,
butwell, I've been a good girl and I guess I can eat a
real meal, I mean not with somebody else's teeth, and still
keep the calories in line. Suppose I meet you down at the
beach? There's a place there where the luau is divine. I
can be there in half an hour."
Chandler's breathing was back to normal. Why not?
"I'll be delighted."
"Luigi the Wharf Rat, that's the name of it. They won't
let you in, though, unless you tell them you're with me.
It'sspecial." Hsi's eye closed in Rosalie Pan's wink.
"Half an hour," he said, and was again himself.
He began to shake.
The waiter brought him straight whiskey and, pretense
abandoned, stood by while Hsi drank it. After a moment
he said, "Scares you. But1 guess we're all right. You'd
better go. Chandler. I'll talk to you again some other
time."
Chandler stood up. But he couldn't leave Hsi like that.
"Are you all right?"
Hsi almost managed control. "Oh1 think so. Not the
first time it's come close, you know. Sooner or later it'll
come closer still and that will be the end, butyes. I'm all
right for now."
Chandler tarried. "You were saying something about
the Society of Slaves."
"Damn it, go!" Hsi barked. "She'll be waiting for
you. . . . Sorry, I didn't mean to shout. But go." As Chan-
dler turned, he said more quietly, "Come around to the
store tomorrow. Maybe we can finish our talk then."

LUIGI THE Wharf Rat's was not actually on the beach but
on the bank of a body of water called the Ala Wai Canal.
Across the water were the snowtopped hills. A maitre-d'
escorted Chandler personally to a table on a balcony, and
there he waited. Rosalie's "half-hour" was nearly two; but
then he heard her calling him from across the room, in the
voice which had reached a thousand second balconies, and
he rose as she came near.
She said lightly, "Sorry. You ought to be flattered,
though. It's a twenty-minute driveand an hour and a
half to put on my face, so you won't be ashamed to be
seen with me. Well, it's good to be out in my own skin for
a change. Let's eat!"
The talk with Hsi had left a mark on Chandler that not
even this girl's pretty face could obscure. It was a pretty
face, though, and she was obviously exerting herself to
make him enjoy himself. He could not help responding to
her mood.
She talked of her life on the stage, the excitement of a
performance, the entertainers she had known. Her conver-
sation was one long name-drop, but it was not vanity: the
world of the famous was the world she had lived in. It
was not a world that Chandler had ever visited, but he
recognized the names. Rosie had been married once to an
English actor whose movies Chandler had made a point of
watching on television. It was interesting, in a way, to
know that the man snored and lived principally on vitamin
pills. But it was a view of the man that Chandler had not
sought.
The restaurant drew its clientele mostly from the Execs,
young ones or young-acting ones, like the girl. The coro-
nets were all over. There had been a sign on the door:
KAPU, WALIHINI!
to mark it off limits to anyone not an exec or a collab-
orator. Still, Chandler thought, who on the island was not
a collaborator? The only effective resistance a man could
make would be to kill everyone within reach and then
himself, thus depriving them of slavesand that was, after
all,  only what the Execs themselves had  done in  other
places often enough. It would inconvenience them only
slightly. The next few planeloads or shiploads of possessed
warm bodies from the mainland would be permitted to
live, instead of being required to dash themselves to de-
struction, like the crew of the airplane that had carried
Chandler. Thus the domestic stocks would be replenished.
An annoying feature of dining with Rosalie in the flesh,
Chandler found, was that half a dozen times while they
were talking he found himself taken, speaking words to
Rosie that were not his own, usually in a language he did
not understand. She took it as a matter of course; it was
merely a friend, across the room or across the island, using
Chandler as the casual convenience of a telephone. "Sor-
ry," she apologized blithely after it happened for the third
time. "You don't like that, love, do you?"
"Can you blame me?" He stopped himself from saying
more; he was astonished even so at his tone.
She said it for him. "I know. It takes away your
manhood, I suppose. Please don't let it do that to you,
love. We're not so bad. Even" She hesitated, and did
not go on. "You know," she said, "I came here the same
way you did. Kidnapped off the stage of the Winter
Garden. Of course, the difference was the one who kid-
napped me was an old friend. Though I didn't know it at
the time and it scared me half to death."
Chandler must have looked startled. She nodded.
"You've been thinking of uS as another race, haven't you?
Like the Neanderthals orwell, worse than that, maybe."
She smiled. "We're not. About half of us came from
Russia in the first place, but the others are from all over.
You'd be astonished, really." She mentioned several names,
world-famous scientists, musicians, writers. "Of course, not
everybody can qualify for the club, love. Wouldn't be
exclusive otherwise. The chief rule is loyalty. I'm loyal,"
she added gently after a moment, "and don't you forget it.
Have to be. Whoever becomes an exec has to be with us,
all the way. There are tests. It has to be that waynot
only for our protection. For the world's."
Chandler was genuinely startled at that. Rosie nodded
seriously. "If one exec should give away something he's not
supposed to, it would upset the whole applecart. There are
only a thousand of us, and I guess probably two billion of
you, or nearly. The result would be complete destruction."
Of the Executive Committee, Chandler thought she
meant at first, but then he thought again. No. Of the
world. For the thousand execs, outnumbered though they
were two million to one, could not fail to triumph. The
contest would not be in doubt. If the whole thousand
execs at once began systematically to kill and destroy,
instead of merely playing at it as the spirit moved them,
they could all but end the human race overnight. A man
could be made to slash his throat in a quarter of a minute.
An exec, killing, killing, killing without pause, could de-
stroy his own two million enemies in an eight-hour day.
And there were surer, faster ways. Chandler did not
have to imagine them, he had seen them. The massacre of
the Orphalese, the victims at the Monumentthey were
only crumbs of destruction. What had happened to New
York City showed what mass-production methods could
do. No doubt there were bombs left, even if only chemical
ones. Shoot, stab, crash, blow up; swallow poison, leap
from window, slit throat. Every man a murderer, at the
touch of a mind from Hawaii; and if no one else was near
to murder, surely each man could find a victim in himself.
In one ravaging day mankind would cease to exist as a
major force. In a week the only survivors would be those
in such far off and hopelessly impotent places that they
were not worth the trouble of tracking down.
"Yon hate us, don't you?"
Chandler paused and tried to find an answer. Rosie was
neither belligerent nor mocking. She was only sympatheti-
cally trying to reach his point of view. He shook his head.
"Not meaning 'no'meaning 'no comment?' Well, I
don't blame you, love. But do you see that we're not
altogether a bad thing? Until we came along the world
was getting ready to kill itself anyway."
"There's a difference," Chandler mumbled. He was
thinking of his wife. He and Margot had loved each other
as married couples dowithout any very great, searing
compulsion; but with affection, with habit and with spo-
radic passion. Chandler had not given much thought to
the whole, though he was aware of the parts, during the
last years of his marriage. It was only after Margot's
murder that he had come to know that the sum of those
parts was a quite irreplaceable love.
But Rosie was shaking her head. "The difference is all
on our side. Suppose Koitska's boss had never discovered
the coronets. At any moment one country might have got
nervous and touched off the whole thingnot carefully,
the way we did it, with most of the really dirty missiles
fused safe and the others landing where they were sup-
posed to go. I mean, touched off a war. The end, love.
The bloody finis. The ones that were killed at once would
have been the lucky ones. No, love," she said, in dead
earnest, "we aren't the worst things that ever happened to
the world. Once the bad part is over, people will under-
stand what we really are."
"And what's that, exactly?"
She hesitated, smiled and said modestly, "We're gods."
It took Chandler's breath awaynot because it was
untrue, but because it had never occurred to him that gods
were aware of their divinity.
"We're gods, love, with the privilege of electing mortals
to the club. Don't judge us by anything that has gone
before. Don't judge us by anything. We are a New Thing.
We don't have to conform to precedent because we upset
all precedents. From now on, to the end of time, the rules
will grow from us."
She patted her lips briskly with a napkin and said,
"Would you like to see something? Let's take a little
walk."
She took him by the hand and led him across the room,
out to a sundeck on the other side of the restaurant. They
were looking down on what had once been a garden.
There were people in it; Chandler was conscious of sounds
coming from them, and he was able to see that there were
dozens of them, perhaps a hundred, and that they all
seemed to be wearing suntans like his own.
"From Tripler?" he guessed.
"No, love. They pick out those clothes themselves.
Stand there a minute."
The girl in the coronet walked out to the rail of the
sundeck, where pink and amber spotlights were playing on
nothing. As she came into the colored lights there was a
sigh from the people in the garden. A man walked for-
ward with an armload of leis and deposited them on the
ground below the rail.
They were adoring her.
Rosalie stood gravely for a moment, then nodded and
returned to Chandler.
"They began doing that about a year ago," she whis-
pered to him, as a murmur of disappointment came up
from the crowd. "Their own idea. We didn't know what
they wanted at first, but they weren't doing any harm.
You see, love," she said softly, "we can make them do
anything we like. But we don't make them do that."
Hours later, Chandler was not sure just how, they were
in a light plane flying high over the Pacific, clear out of
sight of land. The moon was gold above them, the ocean
black beneath.
Chandler stared down as the girl circled the plane,
slipping lower toward the water, silent and perplexed. But
he was not afraid. He was almost content. Rosie was good
companygay, cheerfuland she had treasures to share.
It had been an impulse of hers, a long drive in her sports
car and a quick, comfortable flight over the ocean to cap
the evening. It had been a pleasant impulse. He reflected
gravely that he could understand now how generations of
country maidens had been dazzled and despoiled. A touch
of luxury was a great seducer.
The coronet on the girl's body could catch his body at
any moment. She had only to think herself into his mind,
and her will, flashed to a relay station like the one he was
building for Koitska, at loose in infinity, could sweep into
him and make him a puppet. If she chose, he would open
that door beside him and step out into a thousand feet of
air and a meal for the sharks.
But he did not think she would do it. He did not think
anyone would, really, though with his own eyes he had
seen some anyones do things as bad as that and sicken-
ingly worse. There was not a corrupt whim of the most
diseased mind in history that some torpid exec had not
""visited on a helpless man, woman or child in the past
years. Even as they flew here. Chandler knew, the gross
bodies that lay in luxury in the island's villas were surging
restlessly around the world; and death and shame re-
mained where they had passed.
It was a paradox too great to be reconciled, this girl
and this vileness. He could not forget it, but he could not
feel it in his glands. She was pretty. She was gay. He
began to think thoughts that had left hhn alone for a long
time.
The dark bulk of the island showed ahead and they
were sinking toward a landing.
The girl landed skillfully on a runway that sprang into
light as she approachedelectronic wizardry, or the coro-
net and some tethered serf at a switch? It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered very greatly at that moment to Chan-
dler.
"Thank you, love," she said, laughing. "I liked that. It's
all very well to use someone else's body for this sort of
thing, but every now and then I want to keep my own in
practice."
She linked arms with him as they left the plane. "When
I was first given the coronet here," she reminisced, amuse-
ment in her voice, "I got the habit real bad. I spent six
awful monthsreally, six months in bed! And by myself
at that. Oh, I was all over the world, and skin-diving on
the Barrier Reef and skiing in Norway andwell," she
said, squeezing his arm, "never mind what all. And then
one day I got on the scales, just out of habit. Do you
know what I weighed?" She closed her eyes in mock
horror, but they were smiling when she opened them
again. "I won't do that again, love. Of course, a lot of us
do let ourselves go. Even Koitska. Especially Koitska. And
some of the women But just between us, the ones who
do really didn't have much to keep in shape in the first
place."
She led the way into a villa that smelled of jasmine and
gardenias, snapped her fingers and subdued lights came
on. "Like it? Oh, we've nothing but the best. What would
you like to drink?"
She fixed them both tall, cold glasses and vetoed
Chandler's choice of a sprawling wicker chair to sit on.
"Over here, love." She patted the couch beside her. She
drew up her legs, leaning against him, very soft, warm and
fragrant, and said dreamily, "Let me see. What's nice?
What do you like in music, love?"
"Oh . . . anything."
"No, no! You're supposed to say, 'Why, the original-
cast album from Fancy Free.' Or anything else I starred
in." She shook her head reprovingly, and the points of her
coronet caught golden reflections from the lights. "But
since you're obviously a man of low taste I'll have to do
the whole bit myself." She touched switches at a remote-
control set by her end of the couch, and in a moment
dreamy strings began to come from tri-aural speakers
hidden around the room. It was not Fancy Free. "That's
better," she said drowsily, and in a moment, "Wasn't it
nice in the plane?"
"It was fine," Chandler said. Gentlybut firmlyhe sat
up and reached automatically into his pocket.
The girl sighed and straightened. "Cigarette? They're on
the table beside you. Hope you like the brand. They only
keep one big factory going, not to count those terrible
Russian things that're all air and no smoke." She touched
his forehead with cool fingers. "You never told me about
that, love."
It was like an electric shockthe touch of her fingers
and the touch of reality at once. Chandler said stiffly,
"My brand. But I thought you were there."
"Oh, only now and then. I missed all the naughty
partsdiough, to tell the truth, that's why I was hang-
ing around. I do like to hear a little naughtiness now and
then.. . but all I heard was that stupid lawyer and that
stupid judge. Made me mad." She giggled. "Lucky for
you. I was so irritated I decided to spoil their fun too."
Chandler sat up and took a long pull at his drink.
~iously,,, it seemed to sober him. He said: "It's nothing.
I happened to rape a young girl. Happens every day. Of
course, it was one of your friends that was doing it for me,
but I didn't miss any of what was going on, I can give
you a blow-by-blow description if you like. The people in
the town where I lived, at that time, thought I was doing
it   on   my   own,   though,   and   they   didn't   approve.
Hoaxingyou know? They thought I was so perverse and
cruel that I would do that sort of thing under my own
power, instead of with some execor, as they would have
put it, being ignorant, some imp, or devil, or demon
pulling the strings."
He was shaking. He waited for what she had to say;
but she only whispered, "I'm sorry, love," and looked so
contrite and honest that, as rapidly as it had come upon
him, his anger passed.
He opened his mouth to say something to her. He
didn't get it said. She was sitting there, looking at him,
alone and soft and inviting. He kissed her; and as she
returned the kiss, he kissed her again, and again.
But less than an hour later he was in her Porsche, cold
sober, raging, frustrated, miserable. He slammed it through
the unfamiliar gears as he sped back to the city.
She had left him. They had kissed with increasing pas-
sion, his  hands  playing  about  her,  her  body  surging
toward him, and then, just then, she whispered, "No,
love." He held her tighter and without another word she
opened her eyes and looked at him.
He knew what mind it was that caught him then. It was
her mind. Stiffly, like wood, he released her, stood up,
walked to the door and locked it behind him.
The lights in the villa went out. He stood there, boiling,
looking into the shadows through the great, wide, empty
window. He could see her lying there on the couch, and as
he watched he saw her body toss and stir; and as surely as
he had ever known anything before he knew that some-
where in the world some womanor some man!lay
locked with a lover, violent in love, and was unable to tell
the other that a third party had invaded their bed.
Chandler did not know it until he saw something glis-
tening on his wrist, but he was weeping on the wild ride
back to Honolulu in the car. Her car. Would there be
trouble for his taking it? God, let there be trouble! He was
in a mood for trouble. He was sick and wild with revul-
sion.
Worse than her use of him, a casual stimulant, an
aphrodisiac touch, was that she thought what she did was
right. Chandler thought of the worshipping dozens under
the sundeck of the exec restaurant, and Rosalie's gracious
benediction as they made her their floral offerings. Blind,
pathetic fools!
Not only the deluded men and women in the garden
were worshippers trapped in a vile religion, he thought. It
was worse. The gods and goddesses worshipped at their
own divinity as well!

THREE DAYS later Koitska's voice, coming from Chandler's
lips, summoned him out to the TWA shack again.
Wise now in the ways of this world, Chandler comman-
deered a police car and was hurried out to the South
Gate, where the guards allowed him a car of his own. The
door of the building was unlocked and Chandler went
right up.
He was astonished. The fat man was actually sitting up.
He was fully dressedmore or less; incongruously he wore
flowered shorts and a bright red, short-sleeve shirt, with
rope sandals. His coronet perched on his plump old head;
curiously, he carried another, less ornate one. He said,
"You fly a gilikopter? No? No difference. Help me." An
arm like a mountain went over Chandler's shoulders. The
man must have weighed three hundred pounds. Slowly,
wheezing, he limped toward the back of the .room and
touched a button.
A door opened.
Chandler had not known before that there was an
elevator in the building; that was one of the things the
Exec did not consider important for his slaves to know.
The elevator lowered them with great grace and delicacy to
the first floor, where a large old Cadillac, ancient but
immaculately kept, the kind that used to be called a
"gangster's car," waited in a private parking bay.
Chandler followed Koitska's directions and drove to an
airfield where a small, Plexiglass-nosed helicopter waited.
More by the force of Chandler pushing him from behind
than through his own fat thighs, Koitska puffed up the
little staircase into the cabin. Originally the copter had
been fitted for four passengers. Now there was the pilot's
seat and a seat beside it, and in the back a wide, soft
couch. Koitska collapsed onto it, clutching the extra coro-
net. His face blanked outhe was, Chandler knew, some-
where else, just then.
In a moment his eyes opened again. He looked at
Chandler with no interest at all, and turned his face to the
wall.
After a moment he wheezed. "Sit down. At de con-
trols." He breathed noisily for a while. Then, "It von't pay
you to be interested in Rosalie," he said.
Chandler was startled. He craned around in the seat but
saw only Koitska's back. "I'm not! Or anyway" But he
had no place to go in that sentence, and in any case
Koitska no longer seemed interested.
After a moment, Koitska stirred, settled himself more
comfortablyand Chandler felt himself taken.
He turned, easily and surely, to face the split wheel and
the unfamiliar pedals of the helicopter. He started the
motor, scanned the panels of instruments, and through
maneuvers which he did not understand but whose effect
was accurate and sure, caused the machine to roar, tilt and
whir up and away. It was an admirable performance.
Chandler could not guess what member of the Exec was
inhabiting his body at that moment; there were no clues;
but whoever it was, it had turned him into a first-class
helicopter pilot.
For more than an hour Chandler was imprisoned in his
own body, without let or intermission. Flying a helicopter,
it seemed, was a job without coffee breaks. The remote.
exec who was controlling him did not trust his attention
away even for a moment.
It was like being the prisoner of  a dream,  thought
Chandler, watching his right hand advance a throttle and
his feet press the guiding pedals. From time to time his
head turned and his voice spoke over his shoulder to
Koitska; but as the conversation seemed to be in Russian
or Polish he gleaned nothing from it. There was not much
talk, though; the fluttering roar of the vanes overhead
drowned out most sounds. Chandler fell into a light,
somber, not unpleasant reverie, thinking of Ellen Braisted
and the Orphalese, of the girl Rosalie Pan and the fat,
murderous slug behind him. It occurred to him, as a
phenomenon worthy of study, that he was actually aiding
and abetting the monsters who had destroyed his own wife
and caused him to defile a silly but blameless girl. . . .
The moral issues were too deep for him. He preferred to
think of Rosalie Pan, and then of nothing at all.
They crossed a wide body of ocean and approached
another island; from one quick glance at a navigation map
that his eyes had taken, Chandler guessed it to be Hilo. He
landed the craft expertly on the margin of a small airstrip,
where two DC-3s were already parked and being unload-
ed, and felt himself free again.
Two husky young men) apparently native Hawaiians by
their size, rolled up a ramp and assisted Koitska down it
and into a building. Chandler was left to his own devices.
"The building was rundown but sound. Around it stalky
grass clumped, long uncut, and a few mauve and scarlet
blossoms, almost hidden, showed where someone had once
tended beds of bougainvillea and poinsettias.
He could not guess what the building had been doing
there, looking like a small office-factory combination out in
the remote wilds, until he caught sight of a sign the winds
had blown against a wall: Dole. Apparently this had been
headquarters for one of the plantations. Now it was
stripped almost clean inside, a welter of desks and rusted
machines piled heedlessly outside where there once had
been a parking lot. New equipment was being loaded into
it from the cargo planes. Chandler recognized some of it as
from the list he had given the parts man, Hsi. There also
seemed to be a gasoline-driven generatora large one
but what the other things were he could not guess.
Besides Koitska, there were at least five coronet-wear-
ing execs visible around the place. Chandler was not
surprised. It would have to be something big to winkle
these torpid slugs out of their shells, but he knew what it
was, and that it was big enough to them indeed.
In fact it was their lives. He deduced that Koitska's
plans for his future comfort required a standby transmitter
to service the coronets, in case something went wrong
perhaps a slightly modified one, judging by the extra
coronet Koitska had brought. And clearly it was this that
they were to put together here.
For ten hours, while the afternoon became dark night,
they worked at a furious pace. When the sun set one of
the execs gestured and the generator was started, rocking
on its rubber-tired wheels as its rotors spun and fumes
chugged out, and they worked on by strings of incandes-
cent lights.
It was pick-and-shovel work for Chandler. No engineer-
ing, just unloading and roughly grouping the equipment
where it was ready to be assembled. The execs did not
take part in the work. Nor were they idle. They busied
themselves in one room of the building with some small
deviceChandler could not see whatand when he
looked again it was gone. He did not see them take it
away and did not know where it was taken. Toward mid-
night he suddenly realized that it was likely some essential
part which they would not permit anyone but themselves to
handle . . . and that, no doubt, was why they had come in
person, instead of working through proxies.
Weary as he was, that realization seemed pregnant with
possibilities to Chandler. What could be so important?
And what use could he make of the information? So much
had happened to Chandler, so quickly, that he seemed to
have numbed his reflexes. He was not reacting as rapidly
or as surely as he should; in this Wonderland if the Red
Queen were to come up to him and lop off his head he
might not even remember to die. Dizzying, worryinghis
sensory network simply could not cope with the demands
on it. But all the same, he thought slowly and painfully,
there was a weapon here, a lever. . . .
Just before they left Koitska and two or three of the
other execs quizzed him briefly.
He was too tired to think beyond the questions, but
they seemed to be trying to find out if he were able to do
the simpler parts of the construction without supervision,
and they seemed satisfied with the answers. He flew the
helicopter home, with someone else guiding his arms and
legs, but he was half asleep as he did it, and he never quite
remembered how he managed to get back to his room at
Tripler.
The next morning he went back to Parts 'n Plenty with
an additional list, covering replacement of some compo-
nents that had turned out defective. Hsi glanced at it
quickly and nodded. "All this stuff I have. You can pick it
up this afternoon if you like."
Chandler offered him a cigarette out of a stale pack.
"About the other night "
But Hsi shook his head violently. He began to perspire,
but he said, casually enough, "Interested in baseball?"
"Baseball?"
Hsi said, as though there had been nothing incongruous
about the question, "Why, there's a little league game this
afternoon. Back of the school on Punahou and Wilder. I
thought I might stop by, then we can come back and pick
up the rest of your gear. Two o'clock. Hope I'll see you."
Chandler walked away thoughtfully. Something in Hsi's
attitude suggested more than a ball game; after a quick
and poor lunch he decided to go.
The field was a dirty playground, scuffed out of what
had probably once been an attractive campus. The players
were ten-year-olds, of the mixture of hair colors and
complexions typical of the islands. Chandler was puzzled
Surely even the wildest baseball rooter wouldn't go far out
of his way for this, and yet there was an audience of at
least fifty adults watching the game. And none seemed to
be related to the ballplayers. The little leaguers played
grave, careful ball, and the audience watched them without
a word of parental encouragement or joy.
Hsi approached him from the shadow of the school
building. "Glad you could make it. Chandler. No, no
questions. Just watch."
In the fifth inning, with the score aggregating around
thirty, there was an interruption. A tall, red-headed man
glanced at his watch, licked his lips, took a deep breath
and walked out onto the diamond. He glanced at the
crowd, while the kids suspended play without surprise.
Then the red-headed man nodded to the umpire and
stepped off the field. The ballplayers resumed their game,
but now the whole attention of the audience was on the
red-headed man.
Suspicion crossed Chandler's mind. In a moment it was
confirmed, as the red-headed man raised his hands waist
high and clasped his right hand around his left wristonly
for a moment, but that was enough.
The ball game was a cover. Chandler was present at a
meeting of what Hsi had called The Society of Slaves, the
underground that dared to pit itself against the Execs.
Hsi cleared his throat and said, "This is the one. I
vouch for him." And that was startling too, Chandler
thought, because all these wrist-circled men and women
were looking at him.
"All right," said the red-headed man nervously, "let's
get started then. First thing, anybody got any weapons?
Sure? Take a lookwe don't want any slip-ups. Turn out
your pockets."
There was a flurry and a woman near Chandler held up
a key ring with a tiny knife on it. "Penknife? Hell, yes; get
rid of it. Throw it in the outfield. You can pick it up after
the meeting." A hundred eyes watched the pearly object
fly. "We ought to be all right here," said the red-headed
man. "The kids have been playing every day this week and
nobody looked in. But watch your neighbor. See anything
suspicious, don't wait. Don't take a chance. Holier 'Kill the
umpire!' or anything you like, but holier. Good and loud."
He paused, breathing hard. "All right, Hsi. Introduce
him."
The parts man took Chandler firmly by the shoulder.
"This fellow has something for us," he said. "He's working
for the Exec Koitska, building what can't be anything else
but a duplicate of the machine that they use to control
us!"
Chandler was jolted out of his detached calm. "Hey!"
he cried. "I never said anything like that!"
"You didn't have to," Hsi said tightly. "What the hell
do you think I am, an idiot? I've filled all your parts
orders, remember? It's higher frequency, but otherwise it's
a duplicate of the master transmitter."
"But they never told me"
"Told you? Did they have to tell you? What else would
they be so busy at?"
Chandler hesitated, staring around. The words had been
actually frightening. And yetand yet, he realized, he had
been sure within himself that the project he was working
on was something very like that. A duplicate of the con-
trolling machine. And that meant
A tail, thin, bearded man was moving forward, staring
at Chandler angrily. He said dangerously,  "You don't
seem too reliable, friend. Which side are you on?"
Chandler shrugged. "Whyyours, of course, I guess. I
mean"
"You guess, hub?" The man nodded, then leaned for-
ward and peered furiously into Chandler's face. "Look at
his head!"  he  cried, his  face  only inches  away  from
Chandler's own. "Don't you see? He's branded!"
Chandler fell back, touching his scar. The man followed.
"Damned Hoaxer! Look at him! The lowest species of life
on the face of the earthsomeone who pretended to be
possessed in order to do some damned dirty act. What was
it, hoaxer? Murder? Burning babies alive?"
Hsi economically let go of Chandler's shoulder, half
turned the bearded man with one hand and swung with
the other, knocking him down. "Shut up, Linton. Wait till
you hear what he's got for us."
The bearded man, sprawling and groggy, slowly rose as
Hsi explained tersely what he had guessed of Chandler's
workas much as Chandler himself knew, it seemed.
"Maybe this is only a duplicate. Maybe it won't be used.
But maybe it willand Chandler's the man who can
sabotage it! How would you like that? The Exec switch-
ing over to this equipment while the other one is down
for maintenanceand their headsets don't work!"
"There was a terrible silence, except for the sounds of the
children playing ball. Two runs had just scored. Chandler
recognized the silence. It was hope.
Linton broke it, his blue eyes gleaming above the beard.
"No! Better than that. Why wait? We can use this fellow's
machine. Set it up, get us some headsetsand we can
control the Execs themselves!"
The silence was even longer; then there was a babble of
discussion, but Chandler did not take part in it. He was
thinking. It was a tremendous thought.
Suppose a man like himself were actually able to do
what they wanted of him. Never mind the practical
difficultieslearning how it worked, getting a headset,
bypassing the traps Koitska would surely have set to
prevent just that. Never mind the penalties for failure.
Suppose he could make it work, and find fifty headsets,
and fit them to the fifty men and women here in this
clandestine meeting of The Society of Slaves . . .
Would there, after all, be any change worth mentioning
in the state of the world?
Or was Lord Acton, always and everywhere, right?
Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. The
power locked in the coronets of the Exec was more than
flesh and blood could stand; he could almost sense the rot
in those near him at the mere thought.
But Hsi was throwing cold water on the idea. "Sorry,
but I know that much: One exec can't control another.
The headpieces insulate against control. Well." He glanced
at his watch. "We agreed on twenty minutes maximum for
this meeting," he reminded the red-headed man,  who
nodded.
"You're right." He glanced around the group. "I'll make
the rest of it fast. News: You all know they got some
more of us last week. Have you all been by the Monu-
ment? Three of our comrades were still there this morning.
But I don't think they know we're organized, they think
it's only individual acts of sabotage. In case any of you
don't know, the execs can't read our minds. Not even
when they're controlling us. Proof is we're all still alive.
Hanrahan knew practically every one of us, and he's been
lying out there for a week with a broken back, ever since
they caught him trying to blow up the guard pits at East
Gate. They had plenty of chance to pump him if they
could. They can't. Next thing. No more individual attacks
on one exec. Not unless it's a matter of life and death, and
even then you're wasting your time unless you've got a
gun. They can grab your mind faster than you can cut a
throat. Third thing: Don't get the idea there are good
execs and bad execs. Once they put that thing on their
heads they're all the same. Fourth thing. You can't make
deals. They aren't that worried. So if anybody's thinking
of selling outI'm not saying anyone isforget it." He
looked around. "Anything else?"
"What about germ warfare in the water supply?" some-
body ventured.
"Still looking into it. No report yet. All right, that's
enough for now. Meeting's adjourned. Watch the ball
game for a while, then drift away. One at a time"
Hsi was the first to go, then a couple of women, togeth-
er, then a sprinkling of other men. Chandler, still numbed
by the possibility that had opened before him, was in no
particular hurry, although it seemed time to leave anyway.
The ball game appeared to be over. A ten-year-old with
freckles on his face was at the plate, but he was leaning on
his bat, staring at Chandler with wide, serious eyes.
Chandler felt a sudden chill.
He turned, began to walk awayand felt himself seized.
He walked slowly into the schoolhouse, unable to look
around. Behind him he heard a confused sob, tears and a
child's voice trying to blubber through: "Something funny
happened."
If the child had been an adult it might have been
warning enough. But the child had never experienced
possession before, was not sure enough, was not clear
enough. Chandler was clear into the schoolhouse before
the remaining members of The Society of Slaves awoke to
their danger. He heard a quick cry of They got him'. Then
Chandler's legs stopped walking and he addressed himself
savagely. A few yards away a stout Chinese lady was
mopping the tiles; she looked up at him, startled, but no
more startled than Chandler was himself. "You idiot!"
Chandler blazed. "Why do you have to get mixed up in
this? Don't you know it's wrong, love? Stay here!" Chan-
dler commanded himself. "Don't you dare leave this build-
ing!"
And he was free again, but there was a sudden burst of
screams from outside.
Bewildered, Chandler stood for a moment, as little able
to move as though the girl still had him under control.
Then he leaped through a classroom to a window, staring.
Outside in the playground there was wild confusion. Half
the spectators were on the ground, trying to rise. As he
watched, a teen-age boy buried himself at an elderly lady,
the two of them falling. Another man flung himself to the
ground. A woman swung her pocketbook into the face of
the man next to her. One of the fallen ones rose, only to
trip himself again. It was a mad spectacle, but Chandler
understood it: What he was watching was a single member
of the execs trying to keep a group of twenty ordinary, un-
armed human beings in line. The exec was leaping from
mind to mind; even so, the crowd was beginning to
scatter.
Without thought Chandler started to leap out to help
them; but the possessor had anticipated that. He was
caught at the door. He whirled and ran toward the wom-
an with the mop; as he was released, the woman flung
herself upon him, knocking him down.
By the time he was able to get up again it was far too
late to help... if there ever had been a time when he
could have helped.
He heard shots. Two policemen had come running into
the playground, guns drawn.
The exec who had looked at him out of the boy's eyes,
who had penetrated this nest of enemies and extricated
Chandler from it, had taken first things first. Help had
been summoned. Quick as the coronets worked, it was no
time at all until the nearest persons with weapons were
located, commandeered and in action.
Two minutes later there no longer was resistance.
Obviously more execs had come to help, attracted by
the commotion perhaps, or summoned at some stolen
moment after the meeting had first been invaded. There
were only five survivors on the field. Each was clearly
controlled. They rose and stood patiently while the two
police shot them, shot them, paused to reload and shot
again. The last to die was the bearded man, Linton, and
as he fell his eyes brushed Chandler's.
Chandler leaned against a wall.
It had been a terrible sight. The nearness of his own
death had been almost the least of it. Far worse, far more
damagingand how many times had it tortured him
now?was the death of hope. For one moment there he
had seen a vision of freedom again. Him on the island of
Hilo, somehow magically gimmicking the controlling ma-
chine that gave the Executive Committee its power, here in
Honolulu the Society of Slaves somehow magically using
the hour of freedom he gave them to destroy their oppres-
sors. ...
But it was all gone now, and it would not come again.
His own escape was both miraculous and, very likely,
only a temporary thing. He had no doubt of the identity
of the exec who had interfered to save him . . . and had
destroyed the others. Though he had heard the voice only
as it came from his own mouth, he could not mistake it. It
was Rosalie Pan.
He looked out at the red-headed man, sprawled across
the foul line behind third base, and remembered what he
said. There weren't any good execs or bad execs. There
were only execs.

XIII

WHATEVER CHANDLER'S life might be worth, he knew he
had given it away and the girl had given it back to him.
He did not see her for several days, but the morning
after the massacre he woke to find a note beside his bed
table. No one had been in the room. It was his own
sleeping hand that had written it, though the girl's mind
had moved his fingers:
If you get mixed up in anything like that again I
won't be able to help you. So don't! Those people are
just using you, you know. Don't throw away your
chances. Do you like surfboarding?
Rosie
But by then there was no time for surfboarding, or for
anything else but work. The construction job on Hilo had
begun, and it was a nightmare. He was flown to the island
with the last load of parts. No execs were present in the
flesh, but on the first day Chandler lost count of how
many different minds possessed his own. He began to be
able to recognize them by a limp as he walked, by tags of
German as he spoke, by a stutter, a distinctive gesture of
annoyance, an expletive. As he waS a trained engineer he
was left to labor by himself for hours on end; it was worse
for the others in the construction crew. There seemed to
be a dozen execs hovering invisible around all the time; no
sooner was a worker released by one than he was seized
by another. The work progressed rapidly, but at the cost
of utter exhaustion.
By the end of the fourth day Chandler had eaten only
two meals and could not remember when he had slept last.
He found himself staggering when free and furious with
the fatigue-clumsiness of his own body when possessed.
At sundown on the fourth day he found himself free for
a moment and, incredibly, without work of his own to do
just then, until someone else completed a job of patch-
wiring. He stumbled out into the open air and had time
only to gaze around for a moment before his eyes began
to close. He had time to think that this must once have
been a lovely island. Even unkempt as it was the trees were
tall and beautiful; beyond them a wisp of smoke was pale
against the dark-blue evening sky; the breeze was scent-
ed. . . . He woke and found he was already back in the
building, reaching for his soldering gun.
There came a point at which even the will of the execs
was unable to drive the flogged bodies farther, and then
they were pefmitted to sleep for a few hours. At daybreak
they were awake again.
The sleep was not enough. The bodies were slow and
inaccurate. Two of the Hawaiians, straining a hundred-
pound component into place, staggered, slippedand
dropped it.
Appalled, Chandler waited for them to kill themselves.
But it seemed that the execs were tiring too. One of the
Hawaiians said irritably, with an accent Chandler did not
recognize: "That's pan. All right, you morons, you've won
yourselves a vacation; we'll have to fly you in replace-
ments. Take the day off." And incredibly all eleven of the
haggard wrecks stumbling around the building were free at
once.
The first thought of every man was to eat, to relieve
himself, to remove a shoe and ease a blistered footto do
any of the things they had not been permitted to do. The
second thought was sleep.
Chandler dropped off at once, but he was over-tired; he
slept fitfully, and after an hour or two of turning on the
hard ground, sat up, blinking red-eyed around. He had
been slow. The cushioned seats in the aircraft and cars
were already taken. He stood up, stretched, scratched
himself and wondered what to do next, and he remem-
bered the thread of smoke he had seenwhen? three nights
ago?against the evening sky.
In all those hours he had not had time to think one
obvious thought: There should have been no smoke there!
The island was supposed to be deserted.
It was of no importance,  of course.  What could it
matter to him? But he had nothing else to do. He stood
up, looked around to get his bearings, and started off in
the direction be remembered.
It was good to own his body again, in poor condition
as it was. It was delicious to be allowed to think consecu-
tive thoughts.
The chemistry of the human animal is such that it heals
whatever thrusts it may receive from the outside world.
Short of death, its only incapacitating wound comes from
itself; from the outside it can survive astonishing blows,
rise again, and flourish. Chandler was not flourishing, but
be had begun to rise.
Time had been so compressed and blurred in the days
since the slaughter at the Punahou School that he had not
had time to grieve over the deaths of his briefly met
friends, or even to think of their quixotic plans against the
execs. Now he began to wonder.
He understood with what thrill of hope he had been
receiveda man like themselves, not an exec, whose touch
was at the very center of the exec power. But how firm
was that touch? Was there really anything he could do?
It seemed not. He barely understood the mechanics of
what he was doing, far less the theory belund it. Con-
ceivably knowing where this installation was he could
somehow get back to it when it was completed. In theory
it might be that there was  a way to dispense with the
headsets and exert power from the big board itself.
A Piltdowner at the controls of a nuclear-laden jet
bomber could destroy a city. Nothing stopped him. Noth-
ing but his own invincible ignorance. Chandler was that
Piltdowner; certainly power was here to grasp, but he had
no way of knowing how to pick it up.
Stillwhere there was life there was hope. He decided
he was wasting time that would not come again. He had
been wandering along a road that led into a small town,
quite deserted, but this was no time for wandering. His
place was back at the installation, studying, scheming,
trying to understand all he could. He began to turn, and
stopped.
"Great God," he sad softly, looking at what he had
just seen. The town was deserted of life, but not of death.
There were bodies everywhere.
They were long dead, perhaps years. They seemed natu-
ral and right as they lay there; it was not surprising they
had escaped his notice at first. Little was left but bones
and an occasional desiccated leathery rag that might have
been a face. The clothing was faded and rotted away; but
enough was left of the bodies and the clothes to make it
clear that none of these people had died natural deaths. A
rusted blade in a chest cage showed where a knife had
pierced a heart; a small skull near his feet (with a scrap of
faded blue rompers near it) was shattered. On a flagstone
terrace a family group of bones lay radiating outward, like
a rosette. Something had exploded there and caught them
all as they turned to  flee.  There was  a woman's face,
grained like oak and eyeless, visible between the fender of
a truck and a crushed-in wall.
Like exhumed Pompeii, the tragedy was so ancient that
it aroused only wonder. The whole town had been blotted
out.
The Execs did not take chances; apparently they had
sterilized the whole islandprobably had sterilized all of
them except Oahu itself, to make certain that their isola-
tion was complete, except for the captive stock allowed to
breed and serve them in and around Honolulu.
Chandler prowled the town for a quarter of an hour,
but one street was like another. The bodies did not seem
to have been disturbed even by animals, but perhaps there
were none big enough to show traces of such work.
Something moved in a doorway.
Chandler thought at once of the smoke he had seen,
but no one answered his call and, though he searched, he
could neither see nor hear anything alive.
The search was a waste of time. It also wasted his best
chance to study the thing he was building. As he returned
to the cinder-block structure at the end of the airstrip he
heard motors and looked up to see a plane circling in for
a landing.
He knew that he had only a few minutes. He spent
those minutes as thriftily as he could, but long before he
could even grasp the circuitry of the parts he had not
himself worked on he felt a touch at his mind. The plane
was rolling to a stop. He and all of them hurried over to
begin unloading it.
The plane was stopped with one wingtip almost touch-
ing the building, heading directly into itconvenient for
unloading, but a foolish nuisance when it came time to
turn it and take off again, Chandler's mind thought while
his body lugged cartons out of the plane.
But he knew the answer to that. Take-off would be no
problem, any more than it would for the other small
transports at the far end of the strip.
These planes were not going to return, ever.
The work went on, and then it was done, or all but,
and Chandler knew no more about it than when it wa?
begun. The last little bit was a careful check of line
voltages and balancing of biases. Chandler could help only
up to a point, and then two execs, working through the
bodies of one of the Hawaiians and the pilot of a Piper
Tri-Pacer  who  bad  flown  in  some  last-minute  test
equipmentand remained as part of the labor pool
laboriously worked on the final tests.
Spent, the other men flopped to the ground, waiting.
They were far gone. All of them. Chandler as much as
the others. But one of them rolled over, grinned tightly at
Chandler and said, "It's been fun. My name's Bradley. I
always think people ought to know each other's names in
cases like thisimagine sharing a grave with some utter
stranger!"
"Grave?"
Bradley nodded. "Like Pharaoh's slaves. The pyramid is
just about finished, friend. You don't know what I'm
talking about?" He sat up, plucked the end of a tall blade
of stemmy grass and put it between his teeth. "I guess you
haven't seen the corpses in the woods."
Chandler said, "I found a town half a mile or so over
there, nothing in it but skeletons."
"No, heavens, nothing that ancient. These are nice fresh
corpses, out behind the junkheap there. Well, not fresh.
They're a couple of weeks old. I thought it was neat of the
Execs to dispose of the used-up labor out of sight of the
rest of us. So much better for morale . . . until Juan Simoa
and I went back looking for a plain, simple electrical
extension cord and found them."
With icy calm Chandler realized that the man was
talking sense. Used-up labor: the men who had unloaded
the first planes, no doubtworked until they dropped,
then efficiently disposed of, as they were so cheap a
commodity that they were not worth the trouble of haul-
ing back to Honolulu for salvage. "I see," he said. "Be-
sides, dead men tell no tales."
"Ami spread no disease. Probably that's why they did
their killing back in the tall trees. Always the chance some
exec might have to come down here to inspect in person.
Rotting corpses just aren't sanitary." Bradley grinned
again. "I used to be a doctor at Molokai."
"Lep" began Chandler, but the doctor shook his
head.
"No, no, never say leprosy.' It's 'Hansen's disease.'
Whatever it is, the execs were sure scared of it. They wiped
out every patient we had, except a couple who got away
by swimming; then for good measure they wiped out most
of the medical staff, too, except for a couple like me who
were off-island and had the sense to keep quiet about
where they'd worked. Right down the beach it was."
Chandler said, "I was back in the village today. I
thought I saw someone still alive."
"You think it might be one of the lepers? It's possible.
But don't worry," said the doctor, rolling over on his back
and putting his hands behind his head. "Don't let a little
Hansen's disease scare you; we suffer from an infection far
worse than that." He yawned and said drowsily, "You
know, in the old days I used to work on pest-control for
the Public Health Service. We sure knocked off a lot of
rats and fleas. I never thought I'd be one of them...."
He was silent. Chandler looked at him more closely and
admired his courage very much. The man had fallen
asleep.
Chandler looked at the others. "You going to let them
kill us without a struggle?" he demanded.
The remaining Hawaiian was the only one to answer.
"Malihini," he said, "you just don't know how much
pilikia you're in. It isn't what we let them do."
"We'll see," Chandler promised grimly. "They're only
human. I haven't given up yet."
But in the end he could not save himself; it was the girl
who saved him.
That night Chandler tossed in troubled sleep, and woke
to find himself standing, walking toward the Tri-Pacer.
The sun was just beginning to pink the sky and no one
else was moving. "Sorry, love," he apologized to himself.
"You probably need to bathe and shave, but I don't know
how. Shave, I mean." He giggled. "Anyway, you'll find
everything you need at my house."
He climbed into the plane. "Ever fly before?" he asked
himself. "Well, you'll love it. Here we goclose the
door . . . snap the belt . . . turn the switch." He admired the
practiced ease with which his body started the motor,
raced it with a critical eye on the instruments, turned the
plane and lifted it off, up, into the rising sun.
"Oh, dear. You do need a bath," he told himself,
wrinkling his nose humorously. "No harm. I've the nicest
tubpink, deepand nine kinds of bath salts. But I
wish you weren't so tired, love, because it's a long flight
and you're wearing me out." He was silent as he bent to
the correct compass heading and cranked a handle over
his head to adjust the trim. "Koitska's going to be so
huhlt," he said, smiling. "Never fear, love, I can calm him
down. But it's easier to do with you in one piece, you
know, the other way's too late."
He was silent for a long time, and then his voice began
to sing.
"They were songs from Rosalie's own musical comedies.
Even with so poor an instrument as Chandler's voice to
work with, she sang well enough to keep both of them
entertained while his body brought the plane in for a land-
ing; and so Chandler went to live in the villa that belonged
to Rosalie Pan.

XIV

"LOVE," SHE said, "there are worse things in the world
than keeping me amused, when I'm not busy. We'll go to
the beach again one day soon, I promise." And she was
gone again.
It was like that every day.
Chandler was a concubinenot even that; he was a
male geisha, convenient to play gin rummy with, or for
company on the surfboards, or to make a drink.
He did not quite know what to make of himself. In bad
times one hopes for survival. He had hoped; and now he
had survival, perfumed and cushioned, but on what mad
terms! Rosalie was apretty girl, and a good-humored one.
She was right. There were worse things in the world than
being her companion; but Chandler could not adjust him-
self to the role.
It angered him when she got up from the garden swing
and locked herself in her roomfor he knew that she was
not sleeping as she lay there, though her eyes were closed
and she was motionless. It infuriated him when she casu-
ally usurped his body to bring an ashtray to her side, or to
stop him when his hands presumed. And it drove him
nearly wild to be a puppet with her friends working his
strings.
He was that most of all. One exec who wished to
communicate with another cast about for an available
human proxy nearby. Chandler served for Rosie Pan: her
telephone, her social secretary, and on occasion he was the
garment her dates put on. For Rosalie was one of the few
execs who cared to conduct any major part of her life in
her own skin. She liked dancing. She enjoyed dining out.
It was her pleasure to display herself to the worshippers at
Luigi the Wharf Rat's and to speed down the long comb-
ers on a surfboard. When another exec chose to accompa-
ny her, it was Chandler's body which gave the remote
"date" flesh.
He ate very well indeedin surprising variety. He drank
heavily sometimes and abstained others. Once, in the per-
son of a Moroccan Exec, he smoked an opium pipe; once
he dined on roasted puppy. He saw many interesting
things and, when Rosalie was occupied without him, he
had the run of her house, her music library, her pantry
and her books. He was not mistreated. He was pampered
and praised, and every night she kissed him before she
retired to her own room with the snap-lock on the door.
He was miserable.
He prowled the house in the nights after she had left
him, unable to sleep. It had been bad enough on Hilo,
under the hanging threat of death. But then, though he
was only a slave, he was working at something that used
his skill and training.
Now? Now a Pekingese could do nearly all she wanted
of him. He despised in himself the knowledge that with a
Pekingese's cunning he was contriving to make himself
indispensable to herher slippers fetched in his teeth, his
silky mane by her hand to strokeif not these things in
actuality, then their very near equivalents.
But what else was there for him?
There was nothing. She had spared his life from Koit-
ska, and if he offended her Koitska's sentence would be
carried out.
Even dying might be better than this, he thought.
Indeed, it might be better, even, to go back to Honolulu
and life.
In the morning he woke to find himself climbing the
wide, carpeted steps to her room. She was not asleep; it
was her mind that was guiding him.
He opened the door. She lay with a feathery coverlet
pulled up to her chin, eyes open, head propped on three
pillows; as she looked at him he was free. "Something the
matter, love? You fell asleep sitting up."
"Sorry."
She would not be put off. She made him tell her his
resentments. She was very understanding and very sure as
she said, "You're not a dog, love. I won't have you
thinking that way. You're my friend. Don't you think I
need a friend?" She leaned forward. Her nightgown was
very sheer; but Chandler had tasted that trap before and
he averted his eyes. "You think it's all fun for us. I
understand. Tell me, if you thought I was doing important
workoh, crucial work, lovewould you feel a little
easier? Because I am. We've got the whole work of the
island to do, and I do my share. We've got our plans to
make and our future to provide for. There are so few of
us. A single H-bomb could kill us all. Do you think it
isn't work, keeping that bomb from ever coming here?
There's all Honolulu to monitor, for they know about us
there. We can't let some disgusting nitwits like your Society
of Slaves destroy us. There's the problems of the world to
see to. Why," she said with pride, "we've solved the whole
Indian-Pakistani population problem  in  the  last  two
months. They'll not have to worry about famine again for
a dozen generations! We're working on China now; next
Japan; nextoh, all the world. Well have three-quarters
of the lumps gone soon, and the rest will have space to
breathe in. It's work!"
She saw his expression and said earnestly, "No, don't
think that! You call it murder. It is, of course. But it's the
surgeon's knife. We're quicker and less painful than starva-
tion, love. . . and if some of us enjoy the work of weeding
out the unfit, does that change anything? It does not! I
admit some of us are, well, mean. But not all. And we're
improving. The new people we take in are better than the
old."
She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.
Then she shook her head. "Never mind," she said
apparently to herself. "Forget it, love. Go like an angel
and fetch us both some coffee."
Like an angel he went. . . not, he thought bitterly, like
a man.
She was keeping something from him, and he was too
stubborn to let her tease him out of his mood. "Every-
thing's a secret," he complained, and she patted his cheek.
"It has to be that way." She was quite serious. "This is
the biggest thing in the world. I'm fond of you, love, but I
can't let that interfere with my duty."
"Shto, Rosie?" said Chandler's mouth thickly.
"Oh, there you are, Andrei," she said, and spoke quick-
ly in Russian.
Chandler's brows knotted in a scowl and he barked:
"Nyeh mozhet bit!"
"Andrei..." she said gently. "Ya vas sprashniva-
yoo..."
"Nyet!"
"No Andrei. . ."
Rumble, grumble; Chandler's body twitchedand fumed.
He heard his own name in the argument, but what the
subject matter was he could not tell. Rosalie was coaxing;
Koitska was refusing. But he was weakening. After min-
utes Chandler's shoulders shrugged; he nodded; and he
was free.
"Have some more coffee, love," said Rosalie Pan with
an air of triumph.
Chandler waited. He did not understand what was
going on. It was up to her to enlighten him, and finally
she smiled and said: "Perhaps you can join us, love. Don't
say yes or no. It isn't up to you . . . and besides you can't
know whether you want it or not until you try. So be
patient a moment."
Chandler frowned; then felt his body taken. His lips
barked: "Khorashaw!" His body got up and walked to
the wall of Rosalie's room. A picture on the wall moved
aside and there was a safe. Flick, flick. Chandler's own
fingers dialed a combination so rapidly that he could not
follow it. The door of the safe opened.
And Chandler was free, and Rosalie excitedly leaping
out of the bed behind him, careless of the wisp of nylon
that was her only garment, crowding softly, warmly past
him to reach inside the safe. She lifted out a coronet very
like her own.
She paused and looked at Chandler.
"You can't do anything to harm us with this one, love,"
she warned. "Do you understand that? I mean, don't get
the idea that you can tell anyone anything. Or do some-
thing violent. You can't. I'll be right with you, and Koitska
will be monitoring the transmitter." She handed him the
coronet. "Now, when you see something interesting, you
move right in. You'll see how. It's the easiest thing in the
world, and- Oh, here. Put it on."
Chandler swallowed with difficulty.
She was offering him the tool that had given the execs
the world. A blunter, weaker tool than her own, no doubt.
But still it was power beyond his imagining. He stood
there frozen as she slipped it on his head. Sprung elec-
trodes pressed gently against his temples and behind his
ears. She touched something. . .
Chandler stood motionless for a moment and then,
without effort, floated free of his own body.
Floating. Floating; a jellyfish floating. Trailing tentacles
that whipped and curled, floating over the sandbound
claws and chitin that clashed beneath, floating over the
world's people, and them not even knowing, not even
seeing...
Chandler floated.
He was up, out and away. He was drifting. Around him
was no-color. He saw nothing of space or size, he only
saw, or did not see but felt-smelled-tasted, people. They
were the sandbound. They were the creatures that crawled
and struggled below, and his tentacles lashed out at them.
Beside him floated another. The girl? It had a shape,
but not a human shapea cinctured area-rule shape.
Female? Yes, undoubtedly the girl. It waved a member at
him and he understood he was beckoned. He followed.
Two of the sandbound ones were ahead.
The female shape slipped into one, he into the other. It
was as easy to invest this form with his own will as it was
to order the muscles of his hand. They looked at each
other out of sandbound eyes. "You're a boy!" Chandler
laughed. The girl laughed: "You're an old washerwoman!"
They were in a kitchen where fish simmered on an electric
stove. The boy-Rosie wrinkled his-her nose, biinked and
was empty. Only the small almond-eyed boy was left, and
he began to cry convulsively. Chandler understood. He
floated out after her.
This way, this way, she gestured. A crowd of mudbound
figures. She slipped into one, he into another. They were
in a bus now, rocking along an inland road, all men, all
roughly dressed. Laborers going to clear a new section of
Oahu of its split-level debris. Chandler thought, and looked
for the girl in one of the men's eyes, could not find her,
hesitated andfloated. She was hovering impatiently. This
way!
He followed, and followed.
They were a hundred people doing a hundred things.
They lingered a few moments as a teen-age couple holding
hands in the twilight of the beach. They fled from a room
where Chandler was an old woman dying on a bed, and
Rosalie a stolid, uncaring nurse beside her. They played
follow-the-leader through the audience of a Honolulu
movie theater, and sought each other, laughing, among the
fish stalls of King Street. Then Chandler turned to Rosalie
to  speak  and . . . it  all  went out . . . the  scene disap-
peared . . . he opened his eyes, and he was back in his own
flesh.
He was lying on the pastel pile rug in Rosalie's bed-
room.
He got up, rubbing the side of his face. He had tum-
bled, it seemed. Rosalie was lying on the bed. In a mo-
ment she opened her eyes.
"Well, love?"
He said hoarsely, "What made it stop?"
She shrugged. "Koitska turned you off. Tired of moni-
toring us, I expectit's been an hour. I'm surprised his
patience lasted this long."
She stretched luxuriously, but he was too full of what
had happened even to see the white grace of her body.
"Did you like it, love?" she asked. "Would you like to
have it forever?"
FOR NINE days Chandler's status remained in limbo. He
spent those days in a state of numb detachment, remember-
ing the men and women he had worn like garments,
appalled and exhilarated.
He did not see Rosalie again that day. She kept to her
room, and he was locked out.
He was still a lapdog.
But he was a lapdog with a dream dangling before him.
He went to sleep that night thinking that he was a dog
who might yet become a god, and had eight days left.
The next day Rosalie wheedled another hour of the
coronet from Koitska. She and Chandler explored the ice
caves on Mount Rainier, wearing the bodies of two sick
and dying hermits they had found inhabiting a half-
destroyed inn on its slopes. The mountain wore its cloudy
flag of ice crystals in a bleak, pale evening. The air was
thin and stinging, and their borrowed bodies ached. They
left them and found two others, twenty-five hundred miles
to the east, and wandered arm in arm under stars, neared
the destroyed International Bridge at Niagara, breathing
the spray of the unchanging Falls. They came back in a
flash when Koitska's patience ran out again and sprawled
on her hot, dry lawn, and he had seven days left.
They passed like a dream.
Chandler saw a great deal of the inner workings of the
Exec. He had privileges, for he was up for membership in
the club. Rosalie had proposed him.
He talked with two Czechoslovakian ballet dancers in
their personslean, dark girls who laughed and frowned
alternatelyand with a succession of heavily accented
Russians and Poles and Japanese, who came to him only
through the mouth of the beach boy-servant who worked
on Rosalie's garden. Chandler thought they liked him. He
was pleased that he had penetrated where he had not been
allowed before. . . until he realized that these freedoms
were in themselves a threat.
They allowed him this contact for a reason. They were
looking him over.
If their final decision was to reject him, as it well might
be, they would have to kill him, because he had seen too
much.
But he had little time to dwell on fears of the future.
The present was crowded. On the fourth day one of the
members of the exec invited him to join them.
"You'll do for a gang boss, Shanda-lerra," he said
through the beach boy's mouth; and once again Chandler
found himself working on an executive committee project,
though no one had told him what it was. He swam up
into the strange, thin sea of the mind, in company with a
dozen others, and they arrowed through emptiness to a
place Chandler could not recognize. He watched the others
spiral down and slip into the bodies of the tiny mud-
dwelling dolls that were human beings. When they were all
gone he sought a doll-body of his own.
He opened his eyes on a bleak, snow-laden Arctic
dawn.
A shrieking blast from the North Pole was driving
particles of gritty ice into his eyes, his ears, the loose,
quilted clothes his body wore. The temperature, he was
sure, was far below zero. The cold made his teeth ache,
filled his eyes with tears.
All around him great floodlights mounted on poles cast
a harsh glare over a hundred acres of barren earth, stud-
ded with sheds and concrete pillboxes, heaped over with
dirt and snow. In the center of the great lighted ice-desert
loomed a skeletal steel object that looked like a madly
displaced skyscraper.
It rose hundreds of feet into the air, its top beyond the
range of the floodlights, its base fogged by driving snow.
Chandler looked again; no, it was not a single skyscraper
but two of them, two tall steel towers, one like an elon-
gated projectile standing on its tail, tHe other like the Eiffel
Tower, torn out of context.
Someone caught Chandler's arm and bellowed hoarsely:
"Come on, darling! That is you, isn't it? Come over here
where Djelenko's handing out the guns."
He recognized Rosalie, clad in the corpus of a Siberian
yak-herder, and followed her docilely toward a man who
was unlocking a concrete bunker. It was not only the girl
he had recognized. With an active shock of surprise he
saw that the twin towers were a rocket and its gantry. By
the size of it, an orbital rocket at the least.
"I didn't think there were any satellites left!" he bel-
lowed into the flat, dirty ear that was at present the prop-
erty of Rosalie Pan.
The broad, dark-browed face turned toward him.
"This'un's about the last, I guess," she shouted. "Wouldn't
be out in this mess otherwise! Miserable weather, ain't it?"
She pushed him toward the bunker. "Go see Djelenko,
love! Faster we get to work, faster we get this over with."
But Djelenko was shouting something at them that
Chandler could not understand.
"Oh, damn," cried Rosalie. "Love, you went and got
yourself the wrong body. This chap's one of the old
experts. Zip out of it and pick yourself a nice Mongol like
mine."
Confused, Chandler brought his body's fist up before
his eyes. The hand was calloused, scarred and twisted with
coldand one finger, its nail mashed, was trying its best
to hurt in the numbing chill of the Siberian airbut the
fingers had started out to be long and white. They were
not the blunt fists of the yak-herders.
"Sorry," shouted Chandler, and took himself out of the
body.
What price the Orphalese? What price the murder of so
many innocents, including his own wife? For them, and all
of them, Chandler did not have a thought. This was his
tryout at the spring training of the team, his first day on
the new job. Conscientiously he was attempting to acquire
the knack of being a demon.
If he regretted anything at this moment, it was only his
own lack of expertise. He wished he were a better demon
than he was. He hung irresolute in the queemess of this
luminous, distorted sea. He saw the sand-dweller he had
just quit, moving in its shapeless way toward the place
where he knew the gantries stood. There were others like it
aboutbut which should he enter? He swore to himself.
No doubt there were recognition marks that were easy
enough to find; neither Rosalie nor the other members of
the Exec seemed to have much difficulty making their way
about. But he lacked pieces for the puzzle, and he was
confused.
He reasoned the pattern out: The gantries meant a
rocket flight. The European body he had tenanted for a
moment was not native to the region: a slave expert, no
doubt, once perhaps an official on this project and now
impressed into the service of the executive committee. No
doubt the Mongols were mere warm bodies, casually
commandeered from their nearby villages, to be used for
haul-and-lift labor as need be.
Probably the largest groups of doll-bodies would be the
Mongols; so he selected one at random, entered it and
stood up again into the noise and pain of the freezing gale.
He had a pick in his hand. There were forty or fifty like
him in this work crew, digging with antlike tenacityand
antlike resultsinto the flinty, frozen ground. Apparently
they were trying to set stakes to help moor the gantries
against the gale.
He dropped the pick and rubbed numbed fingers to-
gether. He realized at once that he had not chosen a very
good body. For one thing, it had a squint which made
everything look fuzzy and doubled; until he learned to
adjust to it he was almost blind. For another, it ached
with the effects of a very long time of forced labor and
hunger. And it was lousy.
Well, he thought, I can stand anything for a while. Let's
get to work. . . . And then he saw that a body very like his
ownbut a body which was inhabited by a member of
the Exec, since it was carrying a riflegestured to him,
screaming something he could not understand.
He doesn't know I am me, thought Chandler, half
amused. He started toward the rifleman. "Wait a minute,"
he called. "I'm Chandler. I'm ready to go to work, if
you'll just tell me what tohey! Wait!"
He was very surprised to see that the rifleman was not
even making an attempt to understand him. The figure
raised its rifle, pointed it at him and fired. That was all.
Chandler was very seriously annoyed. It was a clear,
careless matter of mistaken identity, he thought angrily.
How stupid of the man!
He felt the first shock of the bullet entering his body but
did not wait for more. He did not linger to taste death, or
even pain. Before either could reach his mind he was up
and out of the body again, fuming and mad. Stupid! he
thought. Somebody ought to get called down for this!
A dizzying sense of falling. A soundless explosion of
light.
Then he was back in a body: his own.
He picked himself up and stood looking out of Rosalie
Pan's picture window onto the thin green lawn, still angry.
He had been turned off. Somehow Koitska, or whatever
other member of the executive committee had been
watching over him, had observed his blundering. His relay
coronet had been turned off, and he was back in Hawaii.
Well, he thought grudgingly, that part was all right. He
probably was better off out of the wayat least, if they
didn't have sense enough to brief him ahead of time. But
the rest of the affair was plain stupidity! He had been
frozen, scared and pushed about for nothing!
He rubbed his ear angrily. It was soft and warm, not
the chilled, numbed thing he had worn moments before.
He muttered imprecations at the damned foolishness of the
executive committee. If he couldn't run things better than
they, he told himself, he would just give up. . . .
Ten or fifteen minutes later it occurred to him that he
had not, after all, been the greatest loser from that particu-
lar blunder.
A few minutes later still something else occurred to him.
He was not merely beginning to live the life of the execs;
he was beginning to think like them, too.
An hour later Rosalie came lightly down the stairs,
yawning and stretching. "Love," she cried, catching sight
of Chandler, "you really screwed that one up. Can't you
tell a Kraut missile expert from a Mongolian cowboy?"
Chandler said glumly, "No."
She said consolingly, but with a touch of annoyance,
too, "Oh, don't be frightful, love. I know it was a disap-
pointment, but"
"It must've disappointed the man I got killed, too," said
Chandler.
"You are being frightful. Well, I understand." She pat-
ted his arm. "It's the waiting. It's so nervous-making.
Embarrassing, too."
"How would you know?"
"Why, love," she said, "don't you think I went through
it myself? But it passes, dear, it passes. Meanwhile come
have a drink."
Moodily Chandler allowed the girl to soothe him, al-
though he thought she was taking far too light a view of
it. He accepted the Scotch from her and tasted it without
comment.
"Is something wrong with it, love?"
He said patiently, "You know I don't like too much
water in a drink."
"I'm sorry, love."
He shrugged.
Well, he thought, she was right. In a way. He was
indeed being frightful. He did not see why she would
respond with annoyance, however. He had a right to act a
little  odd,  when  he  was,  after  all,  betraying  all  of  his
friends, even the memory of his dead wife. She certainly
could not expect him to take all of that in his stride,
without a moment's regret.
Rosalie yawned and smothered it. "I'm sorry, love.
Funny how it tires you out to work in somebody else's
body!"
"Yes."
"Oh, really, now!" she was angry at last. "For cat's
sake, love! Mooning around like a puppy that's been
swatted for making a mess!"
He said, "I'm sorry if I have been in any way annoying
to"
"Come off it! This is Rosie you're talking to." She
cradled his head in her arm like a motheran irritated
mother, but a mother. " 'Smarter? Are you scared?"
He put down the Scotch and admitted, "A little bit. I
think so."
"Well, why didn't you say so? Dear heart, everybody's
scared waiting for the votes to come in. Very nervous-
making waiting to know."
He demanded, "When will I know?"
She hesitated. "I'm not supposed to discuss some things
with you, love, you know that. Not yet."
"When Rosie?"
She capitulated. "Well, I don't suppose it makes much
difference under the circumstances"
He knew what circumstances she meant.
"so I'll tell you that much, anyway. See, love, you
need a little over seven hundred votes to get in. That's a
lot, isn't it? But that's the rules of the game. And right
now you have, let's see"
Her eyes glazed for a moment. Chandler knew that she
was looking out at something else, through some clerk's
vision somewhere on the islandor somewhere in the
world.
"Right now you have about a hundred and fifty. Takes
time, doesn't it?"
"That's a hundred and fifty to let me in, right? And
how many 'no' votes?"
She patted his hand and said gently, "None of those,
love. You wouldn't ever have but one." She got up and
refilled his drink. "Never fear, dear," she said. "Rosie's
on your side! And now let's have something to eat, eh?"
And he had seven days left.

XVI

TIME PASSED. Chandler wheedled information out of Ros-
alie until he had  a clear picture of what he was up
against. Two-thirds of all the members of the executive
committee had to cast an affirmative vote for him (but
they would vote in blocs, Rosalie promised; get this one
on his side and she would bring in fifty more, get that one
and he could deliver a hundred). If there were a single
blackball he was out. And he had ten days to be ac-
cepted, which were going fast.
Very fast. He had no idea that so many things could be
done so rapidly. He was meeting people by the dozen and
score, members of the Exec who were Rosalie's personal
friends, all of them votes if he could please them. He did
everything he could think of to please them. He was
working, toonot on the rocket project any more; and
not on any of the other off-island projects of the exec
(which was all right with him, as he felt pretty sure that
most of these involved selective murder and demolition);
but on little odds and ends of electronic jobs for Koitska
and others. He was allowed to go into Honolulu for more
parts, which the new owner of Parts 'n Plenty provided for
him in silence. Her eyes were red with weeping; she was
Hsi's widow. Chandler tried to find something to say to
her, ran through every possible word in his vocabulary,
and left without speaking at all.
Chandler knew that his very great measure of freedom
was a dangerous sign. Koitska did not trouble to hide
from him any more just what it was that they had built on
Hilo. He even allowed Chandler to do some patch-cording
and soldering on the installation in the former TWA Mes-
sage Centerwatching him every minute, gasping and
snoring as he lay on his couch across the roomand
made no effort to keep Chandler from guessing that the
Hilo assembly was almost a duplicate of the one here. Hilo
had more power, Chandler thought; there had been some
hint that more power was needed for the really remote
control applications involved in the Execudve Committee's
Mars project; but basically it was only a standby.
Checking current flows under Koitska's eye, Chandler
thought detachedly that it might just be possible, if one
were both daring and very lucky, to overcome the Exec,
destroy the installation, find a way to Hilo and destroy that
one too. . . . One did not take that sort of risk lightly, of
course, he acknowledged. It was an easy way to get killed.
And he did not want to get killed.
He wanted to live very much. . .as a member in good
standing of the Executive Committee.
The Russian POWs who manned Hitler's Atlantic Wall
would have understood Chandler's reasoning; so would
the Americans who broadcast for the enemy in Korea. The
ultimately important thing for any man was to stay alive.
Chandler had not forgotten Peggy Flershem or the
Orphalese, or Hsi and his tortured friends around the
Monument. He merely thought, quite reasonably, that he
could do nothing to help them any more; and meanwhile
he had to pick up several hundred more votes or he would
join them all in death. He acknowledged that it was in
some sense degrading that, chances were, the men and
women he curried favor with today were perhaps the very
ones who had shot Ellen Braisted in Orphalese, raped and
murdered his wife through the person of his friend, Jack
Souther, kidnaped the children who had flown across the
Pacific with him. . . there was no sense in cataloguing all
the possible abominations these men and women had
committed, he told himself firmly. All that was as dead as
Hsi.
Life was important. On any terms, life.
Considered objectively, the Orphalese and the people in
his own home town who had been destroyed by the execs
were of no more importance than the stolid, half-frozen
Siberians whom he had actually helped (even if ineffec-
tually!)  to  work to death.  Or the  inhabitants of the
destroyed village in Hilo. Or the peaceful people of New
York when the submarine exploded itself in the harbor.
Or....
He sighed. It was very difficult to stop making cata-
logues, or to turn from that to a friendly smile and a gay,
friendship-winning quip.
But he managed the task. It revolted him, said Pooh-
Bah. But he did it.
When she could Rosalie borrowed the use of a coronet
for him and they roamed the world, to night clubs in
Juarez and lamaseries under the Himalayan peaks, to every
place that she thought might amuse and divert him. On
the fourth day she took him to a very special place indeed.
"You'll like it," was all she would say. "Oh! I haven't
been there for months."
It was half a world away. Chandler had never learned
to read the topologically insane patterns of grayed light
but he knew it was very distant, and it turned out in fact
to be in Italy. They found bodies to wear and comman-
deered a boat and headed out over blue water, Rosalie
claiming she knew where she was going. But when, after
repeated sightings on the coast behind them, she cut the
little electric motor, the water in which they drifted looked
like any other water to Chandler. "I hope you know what
you're doing," he said.
"Of course, love! And I adore your mustachios."
He preened them. He rather fancied the body he had
found, too; it had come with a gun and a plumed hat, but
he had discarded them on the beach where they found the
boat. Rosalie had done herself well enough, in a costume
of flesh that was not more than eighteen years old, not
taller than five feet one and darkly beautiful. She stood up,
rocking the boat. "Everybody in the water!" she called.
"Last one in's a malihinil"
"Swimming? Swimming where?" he demanded. She was
already taking off her clothes, the ruffled shirt, the tore-
ador pants; in brief underwear she climbed to the gunwale
and tugged at his mustache.
"Straight down, love. You'll like it."
He stood up and began taking off the coat and the
uniform pants with their broad stripe of gold. "Wait a
minute," he grumbled. "It always takes longer for a man
to get his clothes off. He doesn't get as much practice, I
suppose."
"Love! You're terribly anti-woman! Follow me!" And
she dived from the gunwale, neat and clean, heading
down.
Chandler followed. He had never been a great swimmer
and was, in fact, not very fond of water sports. You can't
get hurt, he reminded himself as he swam down into the
dark after the pale, wriggling shape that was Rosalie's
body. But it felt as if he could get hurt. He was ten yards
down, and fifteen, and the end not in sight; and he could
feel his borrowed heart pounding and the carabinieri's
lungs craving to breathe. The warm Adriatic water was
clouded and dim. He could see nothing except for Rosalie,
down belowno. There was something else, he could
not be sure what. Something darker, and square in out-
line. ...
Rosalie's slim, pale form slipped under it and disap-
peared.
Grimly Chandler followed, his muscles tiring, his lungs
bursting. With the last of his strength he skirted the dark
square thing and came up beneath it. It was a thirty-foot
rectangle of metal, he could see now, pierced with dark-
ened windows, swinging on long chains that stretched
downward into invisibility.
Where Rosalie had gone there was a square of a
different color. It looked like a hatch.
It was a hatch. He bobbed up through it and into a
dark bubble of air, puffing and gasping.
Rosalie was there before him, sprawled out of the water
onto the metal deck, wheezing like himself. "Whew, love,"
she panted. "Come on up. You've done the hard part.
Now let's see if I can find the lights."
The lights were tiny lanterns for which Rosalie found
flashlight cells somewhere. They illuminated a chamber
containing tables, chairs, beds, racks of instruments, cup-
boards of food.
"Isn't it nice, love? Wasn't I lucky to find it?"
Chandler stared about, beginning to breathe normally
again. "What is it?"
"Some sort of experiment, I think." She had found a
mirror, coated with grime and was scrubbing it clean with
someone's neatly folded sweatshirt. "People used to live
here in the old days," she said, propping the mirror against
a wall and pirouetting in front of it. "Oh, lovely! Really I
looked a little bit like this once, back inwell!"
"Now what do we do?"
She pressed her hair back, squeezing water out of it.
"Why, we rest for a minute, love. And if I can find it, we
drink some champagne. And then we do something very
nice."
Chandler picked up a harpoon gun and put it down
again. He could not help wondering who had built this
trapped bubble of underwater living-space. "Cousteau," he
said out loud, remembering.
"You mean that skin-diver? Well, no, I don't think so,
love. He was French. But it's the same idea." She pro-
duced a bottle from a chest. "Champagne!" she crowed.
"Just as I promised. A bit warm, I'm afraid, but still it'll
give you heart for the next bit."
"And what's that?"
But she would not tell him, only fussed over him while
he popped the scarlet plastic cork out with his thumbs and
retreated, laughing, from the gush of foam.
They drank, out of a mug and a canteen cup. Chandler
could not help prodding at her for information. "The
boat's going to be drifted away, you know. How do we
get back?"
"Oh, love, you do worry about the most peculiar things.
I do wish you'd relax."
"It's not entirely easy" he began, but she flared at
him.
"Oh, come on! I must say, you've got a pretty" But
she relented almost at once. "I'm sorry for snapping at
you. I know it's a scary time." She sat down beside him,
her bare arm touching his, and said, "We might as well
finish the champagne before we go. Want me to tell you
about when I went through it?"
"Sure," he said, stirring the wine around in the glass and
drinking it down, hardly hearing what she said, although
the sound of her voice was welcome.
"Oh, that lousy headdress! It weighed twenty pounds,
and they put it on with hatpins." He caressed her absent-
ly. He had figured out that she was talking about the night
New York was bombed. "I was in the middle of the big
first-act curtain number when" her face was strained,
even after years, even now that she was herself one of the
godlike ones"when something took hold of me. I ran off
the stage and right out through the front door. There was
a cab waiting. As soon as I got in I was free, and the
driver took off like a lunatic through the tunnel, out to
Newark Airport. I tell you, I was scared! At the toll-
booth I screamed but myfriendlet go of the driver for
a minute, smashed a trailer-truck into a police car, and in
the confusion we got away. He took me over again at the
airport. I ran bare as a bird into a plane that was just
ready to take off. The pilot was under control. . . . We flew
eleven hours, and I wore that damn feather headdress all
the way."
She held out her glass for a refill. Chandler busied
himself opening the second bottle. Now she was talking
about her friend. "I hadn't seen him in six years. I was
just a Md, living in Islip. He was with a Russian trade
commission next door, in an old mansion. Well, he was
one of the ones, back in Russia, that came up with these."
She touched her brow where her coronet usually rested.
"So," she said brightly, "he put me up for membership
and by and by they gave me one. You see? It's all very
simple, except the waiting."
Chandler pulled her to him and made a toast. "Your
friend."
"He's a nice guy," she said moodily, sipping her drink.
"You know how careful I am about getting exercise and
so on? It's partly because of him. You would have liked
him, love, onlywell, it turned out that he liked me well
enough, but he began to like what he could get through
the coronet a lot more. He got fat. A lot of them are
awfully fat, love," she said seriously. "That's why they
need people like me. And you. Replacements. Heart trou-
ble, liver trouble, what can they expect when they lie in
bed day in and day out, taking their lives through other
people's bodies? I won't let myself go that way. . . . It's a
temptation. You know, almost every day I find some poor
woman on a diet and spend a solid hour eating cream-
puffs and gravies. How they must hate me!"
She grinned, leaned back and kissed him.
Chandler put his arms around the girl and returned the
kiss, hard. She did not draw away. She clung to him, and
he could feel in the warmth of her body, the sound of her
breath that she was responding.
And then she whispered, "Not yet, love," and pushed
him away. "Time for water sports!" she cried, getting to
her feet. "You've loafed here long enoughnow let me
show you what's fun!"
Ten minutes later, wearing scuba gear Rosalie had
turned up from somewhere, he was following her out
through the grayish green sea.
After the first minute, it was not like swimming at all.
For one thing, you didn't feel wet. And you were breath-
ing, through the mask and the tube in your teeth. It was
interesting, he thought; but he could not help wondering
if this was what Rosalie had meant by "fun."
They had weighted themselves with belts of metal slugs,
but he was still buoyant and had to fight continually
against rising to the surface, where Rosalie seemed to
have overweighted herself and kept sloping down toward
the distant bottom. Swimming was slow, especially as
Rosalie had insisted he carry a long-bladed butcher
knife"In case of sharks, love!"
But still! He was under the water and breathing. He
followed her, expecting something, but not knowing quite
what.
There were sharks, all right. He had seen a dozen of
them, and there was something off to the side right now,
circling behind him, almost invisible in the distance. He
regarded it with great suspicion and dislike. Even if you
couldn't get really killed in a borrowed bodyyou your-
self couldn't; he was not prepared to think about what
happened to the prisoned owner of the bodythere were
things that were not attractive about the prospect of great
unseen jaws suddenly slicing a ham away.
Rosalie half turned to him, beckoned and started down.
Dimly he could see the bottom now, or at any rate
something that was where the bottom ought to be. Rosalie
was spinning there below him, waiting for him.
It was quite dim, this far from the surface of the sea,
but Chandler could see the gleam of her eye and her
cheerful wink behind the mask. She stretched out a hand
and pointed above him and behind.
Chandler half turned to see. There were five of the great
shadowy bulks there now, and they seemed to be moving
toward him.
Frantically he kicked and squirmed to face them, but
Rosalie caught his arm. She held him, and gestured for
him to hand her the knife.
Chandler was frankly terrified. Every childhood fear
sprang to life in him; his breath caught, his heart pounded,
something churned in his belly and forced its way into his
throat. It was no good telling himself that this was not
really his body, that his own flesh lay secure in a split-level
living room twelve thousand miles away; he cringed from
the threat of the grim, silent shapes and it was all he could
do to stay in this threatened corpus to see what Rosalie
wanted to do.
He gave her the knife. She glanced upward at the
sharks calculatingly, then pursed her lips, winked, blew
him a kiss and neatly, carefully, sliced his airhose in two.
His oxygen blew out in a cascade of great, wriggling
bubbles. Water rushed in. He felt her tearing his facemask
off, but water was already in his eyes, mouth, nose. He
coughed and strangled, more startled than he had ever
been in his life; and then she touched his chest with the
blade, daintily and precisely. Fire leaped along his side and
a cloud of blood began to diffuse through the water.
She ripped off her own facemask and slit a careful line
across the eighteen-year-old's borrowed abdomen, then
reached out her arms to him.
They kissed. Her arms locked around him like manacles.
He felt his lungs bursting as they kissed and spun,
thrashing, through the water, while the feathery clouds of
blood spread out; and as they turned Chandler saw the
great torpedo shapes, now incredibly close, coming toward
them incredibly fast.
The last he saw was the great yawning grin of teeth;
and then he could not help it, he fled. He abandoned
Rosalie, abandoned the borrowed body of the carabinieri,
fled and did not stop until he was back in his own flesh,
still frightened, and violently ill.

XVII

CHANDLER COULD sleep only tardily that night, and not
well. His sleep was punctuated with sudden wakenings,
illuminated with dreams. Ellen Braisted came and spoke
to him, and Margot his wife. They did not threaten or
terrify him. They only looked at him with reproach...
and when he woke and it was broad daylight, and the
Kanaka was whirring the lawnmower across the grass out-
side just as though no murders had been committed by
the inmates of the house, he slouched angrily around the
living room for an hour and then began to drink.
By the time Rosalie Pan came downstairs, yawning and
looking slaked and contented, he was drunk enough to
coax her into breakfasting on. Bloody Marys.
By the time she had had her third, and no longer
minded the fact that she had not eaten, Chandler was
stumbling and stammering. Rosalie did not object. Perhaps
she understood, or understood at least that she had shown
him something of herself that took getting used to. Even
when the other members of the exec began calling in,
usually through the person of the beach boy who was her
handyman, she laughed and made excuses for Chandler.
But when they were gonewhen it was only the Kanaka
who was in the room with them, turning to leave with a
tired fearshe reproached him gently:  "Not quite so
much of the arm-around-the-neck, love. Do you mind? I
mean, everything in its place."
"You didn't mind yesterday," said Chandler sullenly.
"Oh, really! I'm not trying to reform you, you know.
But these are members of the exec, and you need then-
votes."
"I certainly wouldn't want to behave badly in the pres-
ence of a member of the exec," said Chandler, and lurched
to the kitchen for another bottle. He was at that stage of
drunkenness when he felt he was not going to be able to
get drunk: he observed the symptoms of hands and feet
and mouth, and cursed the clarity of his brain that would
not anesthetize him. In the kitchen he paused, staggered
over to the sink and on impulse put his head under the
cold-water tap.
When Rosalie came looking for him minutes later she
found him brewing coffee. "Why, that's better, love," she
cried. "I thought you were going to drink the island dry!"
He poured a cup of the stuff, hot and black, and began
to swallow it in small, painful gulps. Rosalie fetched a cup
for herself, added cream and sugar and sat at the table.
"Time's wasting," she said practically, "and you don't have
the votes yet, love. I want you to work on Koitska today.
Tell him  all  about the  geraniums  and what-you-call-
thems; he can bring you fifty votes if he wants to."
Chandler finished the coffee and poured another cup.
This time he added a generous shot of whiskey to it.
Rosalie tightened her lips, but only said, "Then there's that
bunch from the East Coast, the Embassy girls and Brad
and Tony. They've already voted, but they could get out
some more for you if you got them interested. Brad's been
a doll, but the girls have all sorts of friends they haven't
done anything with."
Chandler lit a cigarette and let her talk. He knew it was
important to him. He knew she was trying to help him,
and indeed that without her help he was a dead man. He
simply could not bring himself to play up to her mood. He
stood up and said, "I'm going to take a bath." And he left
her sitting there.
And ten minutes later he came shouting into her room,
his body still wet from the shower, wearing a pair of
khaki shorts and nothing else. "Who?" he cried. "Who did
you say? What's the name of your friend?"
Rosalie, sitting at her vanity mirror, wearing nothing
but underwear and her coronet, took her hands away
from her hair and looked at him. "Love! What's the
matter?"
"Answer me, damn it! Brad! Brad who?"
She said, with little patience, "Do you mean Brad Fe-
nell? I must say, the way you're acting I don't know why
be should go out of his way What's the matter?"
Chandler's eyes were glaring and he had begun to
shake. He sat down limply on her bed, staring at her.
"You mean Brad Fenell is helping me? If I get elected to
the exec, it will be because of Brad Fenell?"
"Well, love, I have a little something to do with it, too.
But Brad's been lovely."
Chandler nodded. "Lovely," he said faintly. "A real
doll."
"You remember him, don't you? At the party night
before last? The little dark fellow?"
"I remember him." And he did; but he hadn't, there for
a while. He hadn't remembered at all what Ellen Braisted
had told him. The Brad Fenell who had debased and
tortured her, who had finally murdered her, was now a
powerful friend. There was a joke about that, mused
Chandler. With that sort of friend, you didn't need any
enemy.
But on all the Executive Committee, what other sort of
friend could there possibly be?
Rosalie's irritation was lost in alarm now. Something
was clearly wrong with Chandler. She was in very little
doubt what it was; she knew nothing of Ellen Braisted,
but she knew enough of the exec in general, herself includ-
ed, to have a shrewd notion of what personal nerve had
somehow been touched, and she came over and sat beside
him. "Love," she said gently, "It's not as bad as you think.
There are good things, too."
Chandler said unrelentingly, "Name one."
"Oh, love! Don't be awful." She put her arm around
him. "It's just another few days," she soothed, "and then
you can do what you like. Isn't that worth it? I mean
really what you like, love. A whole world to play in. . . ."
Get thee behind me, thought Chandler numbly. But she
was right. It was too bad, but facts were facts, he told
himself reasonably. Good-by, Ellen, he thought. Good-by,
Margot. And he turned to the girl beside him. . . .
And stiffened and felt himself seized.
"Vi myenya zvali?" his own voice demanded, harsh
and mocking.
The girl tried to push him away. Her eyes were bright
and huge, staring at him. "Andrei!"
"Da, Andrei! Kok eto dosadno!"
"Andrei, please. I know you're"
"Filthy!" screamed Chandler's voice. "How can you? I
do not allow this carrion to touch you sonot vot is mine
1 do not allow him to live!" And Chandler dropped her
and leaped to his feet.
He fought. He struggled; but only in his mind, and help-
lessly; his body carried him out of the room in spite of
his struggles, running and stumbling, out into the drive,
into her waiting car and away.
He drove like a madman on roads he had never seen
before. The car's gears bellowed pain at their abuse, the
tires screamed.
Chandler, imprisoned inside himself, recognized that
touch. Koitska! He knew who Rosalie Pan's lover had
been. If he had been in doubt his own voice, raucous and
hysterical with rage, told him the truth. All that long drive
it screamed threats and obscenities at him, in Russian and
tortured English.
The car stopped in front of the TWA facility and, still
imprisoned, his body hurried in, bruising itself deliberately
against every doorpost and stick of furniture. "I could have
smashed you in the car!" his voice screamed hoarsely. "It
is too merciful. I could have thrown you into the sea! It is
not painful enough."
In the garage his body stopped and looked wildly
around. "Knives, torches," his lips chanted. "Shall I gouge
out eyes? Slit throat?"
A jar of battery acid stood on a shelf.  "Da,  da!"
screamed Chandler, stumbling toward it. "One drink, eh?
And I von't even stay vith you to feel it, the painjust a
momentthen it eats the guts, the long slow dying..."
And all the time the body that was Chandler's was clawing
the cap off the jar, tilling it
He dropped the jar, and leaped aside instinctively as it
splintered at his feet.
He was free!
Before he could move he was seized again, stumbled,
crashed into a wall
And was free again.
He stood waiting for a moment, unable to believe it; but
he was still free. The alien invader did not seize his mind.
There was no sound. No one moved. No gun fired at him,
no danger threatened.
He was free; he took a step, turned, shook his head and
proved it.
He was free and, in a moment, realized that he was in
the building with the fat bloated body of the man who
wanted to murder him, the body that in its own strength
could scarcely stand erect.
It was suicide to attempt to harm an exec. He would
certainly lose his lifeexceptthat was gone already any-
how; he had lost it. He had nothing left to lose.

xvm

CHANDLER LOPED silently up the stairs to Koitska's suite.
Halfway up he tripped and sprawled, half stunning
himself against the stair rail. It had not been his own
clumsiness, he was sure. Koitska had caught at his mind
again. But only feebly. Chandler did not wait. Whatever
was interfering with Koitska's control, some distraction or
malfunction of the coronet or whatever. Chandler could not
bank on its lasting.
The door was locked.
He found a heavy mahogany chair, with a back of solid
carved wood. He flung it onto his shoulders, grunting, and
ran with it into the door, a bull driven frantic, lunging
out of its querencia to batter the wall of the arena. The
door splintered.
Chandler was gashed with long slivers of wood, but he
was through the door.
Koitska lay sprawled along his couch, eyes staring.
Alive or dead? Chandler did not wait to find out but
sprang at him with hands outstretched. The staring eyes
flickered; Chandler felt the pull at his mind. But Koitska's
strength was almost gone. The eyes glazed, and Chandler
was upon him. He ripped the coronet off and flung it
aside, and the huge bulk of Koitska swung paralytically off
the couch and fell to the floor.
The man was helpless. He lay breathing like a steam
engine, one eye pressed shut against the leg of a coffee
table, the other looking up at Chandler.
Chandler was panting almost as hard as the helpless
mass at his feet. He was safe for a moment. At the most
for a moment, for at any time one of the other execs
might dart down out of the mind-world into the real,
looking at the scene through Chandler's eyes and surely
deducing what would be even less to his favor than the
truth. He had to get away from there. If he seemed busy
in another room perhaps they would go away again.
Chandler turned his back on the paralyzed monster to flee.
It  would  be  even  better  to  try  to  lose  himself  in
Honoluluif he could get that farhe did not in his own
flesh know how to fly the helicopter that was parked in
the yard or he would try to get farther still.
But as he turned he was caught.
Chandler's body turned to see Koitska lying there, and
screamed.
His eyes were staring at Koitska. It was too late. He was
possessed by someone, he did not know whom. Though it
made little enough difference, he thought, watching his
own hands reach out to touch the staring face.
His body straightened, his eyes looked around the room,
he went to the desk. "Love," he cried to himself, "what's
the matter with Koitska? Write, for God's sake!" And he
took a pencil in his hand and was free.
He hesitated, then scribbled: I cMt know. I think he
had a stroke. Who are you?
The other mind slipped tentatively into his, scanning the
paper. "Rosie, you idiot, who did you think?" he said
furiously. "What have you done?"
Nothing, he began instinctively, then scratched the word
out. Briskly and exactly he wrote: He was going to kill
me, but he had some kind of an attack. I took his coronet
away. I was going to run.
"Oh, you fool," he told himself shrilly a moment later.
Chandler's body knelt beside the wheezing fat lump, taking
its pulse. The faint, fitful throb meant nothing to Chan-
dler; probably meant nothing to Rosie either, for his body
stood up, hesitated, shook its head. "You've done it now,"
hesobbed, and was surprised to find he was weeping real
tears.  "Oh,  love,  why?  I  could have  taken  care  of
Koitskasomehow No, maybe I couldn't," he said
frantically, breaking down. "I don't know what to do. Do
you have any ideasoutside of running?"
It took him several seconds to write the one word, but
it was really all he could find to write. No.
His lips twisted as his eyes read the word. "Well," he
said practically, "I guess that's the end, love. I mean, I give
up."
He got up, turned around the room. "I don't know," he
told himself worriedly. "There might be a chanceif we
could hush this up. I'd better get a doctor. He'll have to
use your body, so don't be surprised if there's someone
and it isn't me. Maybe he can pull Andrei through. Maybe
Andrei'll forgive you then Or if he dies," Chandler's
voice schemed as his eyes stared at the rasping motionless
hulk, "we can say you broke down the door to help him.
Only you'll have to put his coronet back on, so it won't
look suspicious. Besides that will keep anyone from occu-
pying him. Do that, love. Hurry." And he was free.
Gingerly Chandler crossed the floor.
He did not like to touch the dying animal that wheezed
before him, liked even less to give it back the weapon that,
if it had as much as five minutes of sentience again, it
would use to kill him. But the girl was right. Without the
helmet any wandering curious exec might possess Koitska
himself. The helmet would shield him from
Would shield anyone from
Would shield even Chandler himself from possession if
he used it!
He did not hesitate. He slipped the helmet on his head,
snapped the switch and in a moment stood free of his own
body, in the gray, luminous limbo, looking down at the
pallid traceries that lay beneath.
He did not pause to think or plan; it was as though he
had planned every step, in long detail, over many years.
Chandler for at least a few moments had the freedom to
battle the execs on their own ground, the freedom that any
mourning parent or husband in the outside world would
know well how to use.
Chandler also knew how. He was a weapon.
The coronet that he wore now was no limited, moni-
tored slave device; it was Koitska's own. While he wore it
Chandler could not be touched.
Perhaps it was the aftermath of these wearing, terrifying
days; perhaps it was the residual poison of his morning of
drinking and night of little sleep. Chandler felt both placid
and prepared. There would be a way to use this weapon
against the Exec, and he would find it. Margot, Ellen
Braisted, Meggie, Hsia billion othersall would be re-
venged. He would very likely die for it, but he was a dead
man anyway.
In any case it was not a great thing to die; millions had
done it for nothing under the rule of the execs, and he was
privileged to be able to die trying to kill them.
He stepped callously around the hulk on the floor and
found a door behind the couch, a door and a hall, and at
the end of that hall a large room that had once perhaps
been a message center. Now it held rack after rack of
electronic gear. He recognized it without elation.
It was the main transmitter for all the coronets of the
exec.
He had only to pull one switchthat one thereand
power would cease to flow. The coronets would be dead.
The execs would be only human beings again. In five
minutes he could destroy enough parts that it would be at
least a week's work to build it again, and in a week the
slaves in Honolulusomehow he could reach them, some-
how he would tell them of their chancecould root out
and destroy every exec on all the islands.
Of course, there was the standby transmitter he himself
had helped to build.
He realized tardily that Koitska would have made some
arrangement for starting that up by remote control.
He put down the tool-kit with which he had been
advancing on the racks of transistors, and paused to think.
He was a fool, he saw after a moment. He could not
destroy this installationnot yetnot until he had used it.
He remembered to sit down so that his body would not
crash to the floor, and then he sent himself out and up, to
scan the nearby area.
There was no one there, nobody within a mile or more,
except the feeble glimmer that was dying Koitska. He did
not enter that body. He returned to his own long enough
to lock the door, and then he went up and out, grateful to
Rosalie, who had taught him how to navigate in the
curious world of the mind, flashing across water to the
island of Hilo.
There had to be someone near the stand-by installation.
He searched; but there was no one. No one in the
building. No one near the ruined field. No one in the
village of the dead nearby. He was desperate; he became
frantic; he was on the point of giving up, and then he
foundsomeone? But it was a personality feebler than
stricken Koitska's, a bare swampfire glow.
No matter. He entered it.
At once he screamed silently and left it again. He had
never known such pain. A terrifying fire in the belly, a
thunder past any migraine in the head, a thousand lesser
aches and woes in every member. He could not imagine
what person lived in such distress; but grimly he forced
himself to enter again.
Moaningit was astonishing how thick and animal-like
the man's voice wasChandler forced his borrowed body
stumbling through the jungle. Time was growing very
short. He drove it gasping at an awkward run across the
airfield, dodged around one wrecked plane and blundered
through the door.
The pain was intolerable. He was hardly able to main-
tain control; waves of nausea washed into his mind. How
could he drive this agonizing hulk into the protracted,
thoroughgoing job of total destruction?
Chandler stretched out the borrowed hand to pick up a
heavy wrench even while he thought. But the hand would
not grasp. He brought it to the weak, watering eyes.
The hand had no fingers. It ended in a ball of scar
tissue. The other hand was nearly as misshapen.
Panicked, Chandler retreated from the body in a flash,
back to his own; and then he began to think.
What sort of creature had he been inhabiting? Human?
Why yes, it must be humanthe coronets gave no
power over the bodies of animals. But it had not felt
human. Chandler experienced one vertiginous moment
when all possibilities seemed real, when visions of elves
and beings from flying saucers danced in his brain; then
sanity returned. Certainly it was humansomeone sick,
perhaps. Or insane. But human.
He could not understand that clawed club of a hand.
But it didn't matter; he could use it, because he had used
it.  It was only  a matter of figuring out how.
At that moment he heard a car race into the parking
lot, spraying gravel. He looked out the window and saw
Rosalie Pan's Porsche.
He unlocked the door for her and she came clattering
up the stairs as though chased by bears, glanced at
Chandler, passed him by and dropped to her knees be-
side Koitska's body.
She looked up and said, "He's dead."
"I didnt kill him."
"I didn't say you did." She got up slowly, watching him.
"You almost might as well be, love," she said. "I don't
know what I can do for you now."
"No," agreed Chandler, nodding as though very frank
and fair, "you can't help me much if he's dead." Full of
guile he approached her, staring at Koitska's body. "But
is he? I think I saw him breathe." Perplexed, she turned
back to the body.
Chandler took a quick step, reached out and knocked
the coronet off her head. It clung to her coiffure. Ruthless-
ly he grabbed it and yanked, and it came away with locks
of her hair clinging to it.
She cried out and put a hand to her head, looking at
him with astonishment and fear overriding the pain.
He said, breathing hard: "Maybe I can do something
for myself."
Rosalie sobbed, "Love, you're crazy. You don't have a
chance. Give it back to me, and I'll try to help you,
but Love! Give it back, please!"
Chandler controlled his breathing and asked, very rea-
sonably, "If you were me, would you give it back?"
"Yes! Please!" She took a step toward him, then
stopped. Her pretty face was a grimace now, her hair torn
and ffying. She dropped her hands to her side and sobbed,
"No, I wouldn't. But you must, love. Please. . . ."
Chandler said, "Sit down. Over there, next to his body.
I want to think and I don't want you close to me." She
started to object and he overrode her: "Sit down! Or"
He touched the coronet on his own head.
She turned like a golem and sat down beside the obese
old corpse. She sat watching him, her face passive and
drained. Chandler tried to imagine for a moment what it
must be like for her, in one second a member of that god-
like society of superbeings who ruled the Earth, in another
a mere mortal, a figure of clay whose body could be
seized by him, Chandler or by any other of the Executive
Committee....
There was a threat in that. Chandler frowned. "I can't
leave you there," he said, thinJdng out loud. "Your friend
Fenell might drop in on you. Or somebody." Her expres-
sion did not change. He said briskly: "Get up. Get in that
closet." When she hesitated, he added, "I'm not too good
at controlling people. I might not be able to make you tie
yourself up. But Rosalie, I could make you kill yourself."
The closet was small and uncomfortable, but it would
hold her, and it had a lock. With Rosalie out of the way,
Chandler paused for only a moment. There were details to
rtiinic out. . . .
But he had a plan. He could strike a blow. He could
end the menace of the Executive Committee forever!
The key to the whole thing was that crippled creature
on Hilo. He knew now what it was, and wondered that he
had not understood before.
A leper! One of the patients at Molokaithe doctor
had told him some had got away. Through that leper,
Chandler calculated, he could find a way to destroy the
installation on Hiloif nothing else offered, he could
contrive to disable the generator, or break open its fuel
storage supply and set fire to the building.
And the other installation was right here in this build-
ing, within his grasp! He could destroy them both, one
through the leper, the other in his own personi And that's
the end of the Executive Committee, he thought trium-
phantly, and then And then
He paused, suddenly downcast.
And then, of course, they would know something was
wrong. There were a thousand of them. They would come
here. They would kill him.
And they would rebuild the equipment that would give
them back the world.
Chandler was close to weeping. So near to victory! And
yet it was out of his reach. . . .
Except, he thought, that there was something about the
standby installation that was different. What had Hsi said?
A different frequency. And Koitska had had two coronets
with him on the island. . ..
Chandler did not delay. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps
it would not work. Perhaps his memory played him false,
or his assumptions were in error, or Koitska had reset the
frequency in the days since . . . perhaps anything, there
were more unknown factors than he could guess at . . . but
still there was  a chance!
He leaped out of his body, poised himself to get his
bearings and fled through the luminous gray mists toward
Hilo. Steeling himself to the pain, he entered the body of
the leper and loped shamblingly back toward the duplicate
installation.
Five minutes later the generator coughed and spun, and
the components came to life. Chandler had no way to test
them, to determine what sort of signal they were generat-
ing; but he had helped put the installation together and, as
far as he could see, it was operating perfectly.
He abandoned the body of the leper with gratitude, and
stood up in his own.
Five minutes more and the master transmitter was
stilled. Chandler had pulled the switch.
When he found Koitska's standby-frequency coronet
and placed it on his head there was only one person in all
the world who possessed the terrifying powers of a mem-
ber of the Executive Committee, and that person was
Chandler.
He stood there for a moment with his eyes closed, very
tired and very calm. He knew what he had to do, but
there was something, he felt, that he should do first. He
waited, but could not remember what it was; and so a
moment later he left his body and soared off in search of
his first quarry.
It was not for some time that it came to him what he
had wanted to do. He had wanted to pray.
It was all working; his best hopes were coming true!
The installation on Hilo functioned perfectly and Chandler
was, in fact, the master of the islands and thus of the
world!
He accepted it without triumph. Perhaps the triumph
would come later, but first he had work to do. For he had
been wrong, he saw now, in thinking that the destruction
of the machines would free the world from its tyranny.
Koitska had not been the only scientist among the exec.
Surely others knew the theory behind the electronic wiz-
ardry that gave them control; surely there were plans and
wiring diagrams in some safe file, perhaps in a dozen of
them, that could be brought out and used again. It was
necessary to destroy the machinery, yes; but it was also
necessary to destroy the plans . . . not only the plans on
paper but the plans that might linger in the brains of the
members of the Exec.
It was, in fact, necessary to kill them all.
It was not only necessary, thought Chandler objectively,
it was rather easy. It was child's play. All you had to do
was the sort of thing members of the Exec had been doing
for fun or in furtherance of a purpose every day for years.
All you had to do was what he was doing. Up out of the
body, and search for the queerly distorted sluggish sort of
creature that turned out to be a human mind; enter it; and
there you were in the body of a man or woman. You
glanced in a mirror or touched the body's head with the
body's handto check to see if it wore a coronet, of
course. It if did, the body had to be destroyed. There were
many ways of doing that. Simple household objects could
be employeda knife, a bottle of iodine to drink, some-
times you could find a gun.
Carefully and scientifically Chandler experimented with
modes of suicide. He tried them all. He discovered that,
failing all else, you really could choke yourself to death;
but it was difficult and slow, and quite painful; he only did
that once. He discovered that even a nail file, Sawed
vigorously enough across a throat, would ultimately open
the artery that would spill out the life. He set fire to one
house and trapped himself in a closet, but that was slow,
too; drowned himself in a bathtub, but it took so irritat-
ingly long for the tub to fill. Knives were almost always
available if you just took the trouble to look, though; and
saws, chisels, barbecue forks, scythesalmost anything
with an edge could be used.
When Chandler had first learned that the "flame spirits"
were human beings he had dreamed at night about them,
and wakened to wonder how it must feel to kill oneself
over and over again in some other flesh.
Now he knew. It felt very painful and very wearing; but
of emotionregret, sorrow, shamethere was little or
none. It became very quickly a job. Like any other job, it
was susceptible to time study and rationalization; after the
first hour, when Chandler realized he had only managed
seven deaths and would at that rate pass out from exhaus-
tion before he had made himself safe against attack, he
systematically improved his methods, finally settling for the
quickest and easiest of them all. Too bad, he thought as
he slew and slew, that it was only good in two-story
buildings; annoying that the Hawaiians had gone in so
heavily for ranch houses; but it was quite possible to kill
yourself by leaping from a second-story window, provided
only that you had the resolution to land headfirst. . . . The
orgy of killing went on and on, all that day, and all that
night, killing, killing in widening circles from the TWA
Message Center, killing everything that wore a coronet and
then as he grew wearier and more carelessand realized
that the execs might by then have begun taking their useless
coronets off, killing everything that moved.
He stopped only when he realized that he was in the
fringes of Honolulu itself.
He had lost count long since, but he had surely killed a
thousand timesand died a thousand times. No doubt
some execs still survived, but he no longer had a way to
distinguish them from the slaves. He stopped for that
reason... and because he was tired beyond further
effort . . . and most of all because blood had washed away
his passions.
He was spent.
He slumped against a wall for a moment, back in his
own body. And then he stood up, and took off the
coronet and, dangling it from one hand, walked out into
the dawn of a new world.
Chandler the giant killer looked upon his world and
did not find it good.
Exhaustion diminished all his emotions, but he was
aware that this was wrong. He should be exultant! He
should be shouting with joy, caroling his gratitude to God;
and he was not.
Why, he told himself reasonably, every most fantastic
prayer of the past years had been granted at once! In one
night he had avenged New York and the Orphalese, the
incinerated millions of Russia and the raped slaves in
Honolulu....
But he could not help feeling that the job was not really
done after all. He swung the coronet idly in his hand,
staring blankly at the lightening sky, while a sly and
treasonable voice in a corner of his mind whispered to
him.
Who held this coronet held the world, said the voice in
his mind.
He nodded, for that was true. Absently he poke4 at the
steel-bright filigree of the thing, as a man might caress the
pretty rug which once had been the skin of a tiger poised
to kill him. It was such a small thing to hold so much
power....
Chandler went back into the building and brewed him-
self strong black coffee. He could hear Rosalie Pan stirring
inside the closet where he had left her; in a minute he
would let her out, he thought. Not just yet, but in a
minute. As soon as he had thought things out. As soon as
he had made up his mind to an extremely important
decision. For tt was true that the job was not quite done
yet.  The plans had to be locatedand destroyed, of
course. Naturally, destroyed. Survivors of the Exec had to
be found, and also destroyed.
Yes, there was much to do. While he was waiting for
the coffee to seep through its filter he slipped the coronet
casually back atop his head. Only for a while, of course. A
very little while. He pledged himself solemnly that there
would definitely be no question about that. He would
wear it just long enough to clean up all the loose ends
just that long and not one second longer, he pledged, and
knew as he pledged it that he lied.