SUBWAY
TO THE STARS

by
Raymond F. Jones

I

The ad said:

No Golfing
No Fishing
No Boating
No Skiing
Sweat and guts Engineering Only

It gave an address. Harry Wiseman glanced at it and tossed the paper across the room. Some Madison Avenue funny man was trying a switch on the old country-club appeal to engineers. Obviously, he expected it to bring in those who saw themselves as hairy-chested types, immune to the lures of soft suburban living.

Harry's visitor picked up the paper and folded it neatly and laid it on the sofa beside him.

"I'm hardly interested in a kook outfit like that," said Harry.

The visitor raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "We thought you might be," he said, "considering your past record and the fact that you have been out of work for -- let's see -- it's almost six months, now, isn't it?" He looked at the ceiling as if his careful mental calculations must not be disturbed.

"Who the devil are you?" Harry demanded. "CIA?"

He could imagine no other outfit with the crust to demand he take a specified employment because they wanted him to. He could think of nothing, either, that could have brought him to their attention. That Vietnam deal --

The visitor remained expressionless.

"And what do you mean about my past record?" Harry said. "I've kept my nose clean."

"Sure. You've just moved it around too much. Like leaving your Vietnam assignment half finished, for someone else to clean up."

"I had been there almost eighteen months," said Harry.

"Dropping a multi-million dollar operation in midstream -- you cost the Government a lot of money."

"Not if they'd quit buying from outfits owned by Senators' brothers-in-law."

"Technical Contract Negotiator for the Air Force. GS-18. Not a bad salary per diem and income tax rebate for foreign residence. But you walked out. Said you wanted to get back to straight engineering."

"I walked out because I flipped my lid," said Harry. "My wife chose that precise time to surprise me with a divorce suit and I got drunk for three months."

"In the divorce action your wife brought out the fact that you were notably unstable in your work activities. You moved so often you obtained a pretty widely known reputation as a floater."

"You're saying it," said Harry bitterly. "You seem to know all about me."

"So much so that we feel it rather urgent to insist you take this job opening which Smith Industries has available."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't, I can promise that you're not going to get an engineering job anywhere, not even as second assistant foreman in a button hook factory."

"So you are CIA," said Harry.

"Let's say we are able to keep our promises."

An awful illumination burst upon Harry. "It's you who have been keeping me out of work since I got back!"

"The visitor shook his head. "You just don't walk out without notice from top-drawer engineering jobs. Not unless you want a blackball tied permanently to your tail. And that's what you have got. The word has gone out: Harry Wiseman is most unreliable."

"How do you know this Smith Industries will hire me -- with a blackball tied to my tail?"

"They're looking for your type. Independents they want."

"Then I could get a job with them on my own. Your threats don't mean anything!"

"Not quite. We'd be forced to let them know it was undesirable to hire you under those circumstances. They'd see it our way. Operating in foreign countries as they do, it's essential that Smith Industries have Government sanction."

"All right," said Harry wearily. What do you want me to do?"

"Apply for a job with Smith tomorrow. Then report to us regularly on what you are doing, what kind of a job and what kind of a firm you are with."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"Why can't you find out without all this flummery?"

"Because Smith plays it close. We've tried to get a man into his shop before. He takes only top engineering talent and he knows it when he sees it. But we didn't try very hard last time. Now it's urgent that we find out."

"Why?"

"Because they may get wiped off the map at any moment."

"And me with them?"

"Possibly."

"Smith's ad doesn't build up the deal much, and you sure are not doing anything for it."

The visitor ignored Harry's comment. "Smith operates in one of the New Nations of Africa. It's a few thousand square miles right in the middle of the continent. When it was a British Protectorate, Smith obtained a mining concession, and he's managed to hang on to it. The local government of Gambua is made up of spear-throwing natives who still wear white men's teeth as necklaces, but Smith has survived so far. The New Nation next door is the Addabas, hereditary foes of the Gambuans. But they don't throw spears any more. They've got Russian missiles on mobile launchers, and one of them is in place right now with a bead on Smith's operation. We want to know what that operation is before the missile is fired."

"You said it was a mining concession."

"It is -- as a cover for whatever Smith is really doing. He has nearly two hundred people, and he hasn't shipped out any ore for ten years. Maybe the operation is simply a dud. But maybe it's something we ought to know about, since the Communists are willing to expend a few million rubles worth of missiles on it."

"Do the Commies actually know what it is?"

The visitor shook his head. "We don't know. They may be only setting up another provocation, a political probe. Or maybe sheer cussedness. Who knows? We want to find out."

"And I'm to walk into a target area for Russian missiles that might be fired at any moment."

"There's a nice bonus for you when you get back."

"If I get back."

The visitor shrugged. "That's the risk we all take. Maybe tomorrow's sunrise will be a Russian fireball. It's the modern way of life."

"How do I know you're on the level?"

The man rose. "Don't force us to pressure you. It won't do either of us any good. My name is Collins, by the way."

II

Harry stayed motionless in his chair as his visitor left, closing the door quietly. Beyond the window, the lights of Manhattan were distant, cold, and unfriendly. Harry felt an exhaustion as if he had been running for a long time. As if he didn't have enough troubles, why did one of the snoop agencies have to pick on him?

It seemed as if it had been like that ever since Marcia walked out. She had turned out the light in his world when she left. He'd tried to cut every tie with engineering chores he'd once proudly called his career. Gadgets for the Great Society. he's walked out without notice. And so the word had been passed around: Harry Wiseman is not reliable. A hundred personnel offices had that in their files. And now he was vulnerable to Collins and his kind.

He turned on the table lamp and picked up the paper again. Smith Industries. No Golfing. No Boating. No Etcetera. If it were on the level it might be something he'd be interested in. He should have seen it himself before Collins walked in. Maybe he could have been in Africa by now, and Collins would still be looking for his sucker contact.

Who wanted to go to Africa? To a New Nation, where the natives still wear white men's teeth for necklaces?

The office was in one of the slick new buildings off Fifth Avenue. It had pastel carpeting, Danish furniture, and op art on the walls. There was no sign of either sweat or guts.

A half dozen engineering types were ahead of him. Collins or no Collins, he could come back some other time without getting in that line of has-beens.

The blonde at the desk stopped him. "It won't be long, Mr -- "

"Wiseman. Harry Wiseman," Harry said. "I'm too busy to wait. Is the head man ready to see me?"

"If you'll just fill out this application card, Mr. Smith can see you in a few minutes." The blonde smiled persuasively. "It's just a small card -- "

"All right," he said grudgingly. "If I can borrow a pen -- "

It would have to be a guy named Smith. Couldn't they be more original? But the blonde was right. After ten minutes of filling out the small yellow card, Harry was alone. The other six types were gone, and Harry was invited into the office of Mr. Smith.

Smith was a Civil Engineering type. His history was written on his weather-tough face. A dam or a pipeline foreman in his twenties in some desert country. A project supervisor in his thirties. Vice-president and world-wide troubleshooter in his forties. Now in the home office in his fifties. But -- interviewing recruits? It didn't fit.

Harry wondered how much Collins's interest in the company was justified.

Smith looked at Harry's application. "What's your specialty?"

"Microwave. Over-the-horizon radar," said Harry.

"Nice," said Mr. Smith. "Very good." He glanced up. "Married?"

"Was," said Harry. "No more."

"We like our people to be married," said Mr. Smith with sudden fatherliness. "We provide the opportunity." He turned away to a filing cabinet and extracted a folder. He opened it and faced Harry again.

"I'm afraid you have a rather unenviable job record," he said.

There it was again. The same tune Collins had played. Harry wondered if they worked together.

"What do you mean, unenviable?" he flared. "Guyw with forty-grand houses and garden-club wives would give an eye for a job record like mine. I was at Thule when their BMEWS radar was burned in."

"And dismissed shortly thereafter -- "

"The main work was done. No use banging around. Besides, they were already getting behind the state of the art and didn't want good advice on how to update. I was in Korea as Systems Engineer, troubleshooting the -- but that system is still too classified to talk about."

"You walked off that job," said Smith, "when it was half finished and left someone else to clean up. You were making thirty grand a year and you walked off the job." He shook his head. "And now in Vietnam -- How could you do a thing like that?"

Harry looked at the floor, his face slack. "I had problems. He looked up again, pulling his facial muscles into position. "But they're all solved now. Besides, how do you know so much about me? I'm supposed to be answering the questions."

Mr. Smith tapped the folder. "An arrangement with the local employment counselors -- I have a dossier on most unemployed engineers in the locality. I like to be prepared when you come in."

"All right. So you're going to tell me I'm a no-good boomer and your stable little organization can't use a man wh hasn't seen eye to eye with all the dumb supervisors he's encountered in the last twenty years -- and who happens to recognize that the average engineering job can be filled by a well-fed trained seal. Technical knowledge is doubling every 10 to 15 years! Trivia is doubling!"

"On the contrary," said Mr. Smith mildly. "I like what I see. We're what you might call a maverick organization ourselves -- and we sort of run to maverick types in our personnel. Still, with your job record I don't know where you could go unless you decide to team up with us."

"You mean you'll take me on?" Harry hated himself for the eagerness he couldn't keep out of his voice. Collins's threats had nothing to do with it.

"That depends," said Mr. Smith. "That all depends. Shall we get down to business?"

Business turned out to be a wringer that squeezed out every bit of data pertaining to Harry Wiseman's existence, as if he were a computer tape dumped for total readout. It lasted three days. Three days of EEG's, IQ's, dexterity tests, aptitude, physical ability, and psychological endurance tests. He had supposed such things happened only to captured secret agents. When it was over, Mr. Smith knew more about Harry Wiseman than Harry had ever known about himself. And Harry knew a few things he wished he didn't know.

There was only one thing lacking. No one had told him what the job was.

"You'll learn as you go along," Mr. Smith said kindly to a drained, exhausted Harry. "We operate according to good, on-the-job training principles."

Three days of probing, analyzing, and embarrassing inquiries had lowered Harry's threshold of tolerance. He felt suddenly enraged. "I don't think I'm interested!" And if it hadn't been for Collins, he might have meant it.

"You should know now that I understand you far better than you understand yourself. Go home and rest up. Come back tomorrow, and we'll complete the details."

He left the building for the first time since entering three days ago. He left hating Smith's guts. But he hated Collins more. There was no way out.

In his apartment he closed the door and leaned against it, feeling still the fury of his resentment against Smith. It was growing dark over the city, and he walked to the window without turning on any of the apartment lights.

The trouble was, Collins and Smith were both right. He could not get a job with a button hook company right now. Marcia had been right, too -- before she walked out. Other engineers his age had given their wives forty-grand homes by now. Their kids had swimming pools and private LSD parties. But Harry Wiseman had always been the smart guy who was going to find the big one just over the horizon.

Yet -- could this be it? Three days ago he had been desperate for a job. Now, he had two -- if Smith took him on. One job with Smith, and one with Collins. He wondered if Collins would give him a decent burial if one of those Russian missiles was fired while he was there. Except there would not be anything to bury.

He was fascinated by Smith, however. The operation smacked of crackpots. But no crackpots had devised the probing analysis to which he had been subjected. Smith radiated a fierce and rational energy that had swept up Harry in his presence. Harry had to admit an attraction by the very force and power of the man. He knew he would have followed through even if Collins was not in the background.

Of course, it was possible that what they were doing was strictly illegal. But he'd handled tougher customers. Up to now, however, he'd always had an idea what he was getting into. If he bought this, however, he'd be going blind.

Still, there was no choice. Not even a button hook company --

"Good morning," said Smith. "You look as if you had a good night's sleep."

"From what you said last night, I take it I'm hired."

"I thought you understood that."

"How much?"

"We'll start at twelve thousand. Maybe a little better as time goes on. Maybe not."

"I was doing better than twice that."

"Of course," said Smith. He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. "But you wouldn't want to go back for three times the amount. We'll feed you and provide your clothers and pay you the twelve thousand. What more do you want? Remote control devices for airplanes! Any two-bit engineer can do that. You want better things."

"All right. Where's the job? And what is it?"

"It's almost precisely in the center of Africa," said Mr. Smith. And, as I told you, you'll find out what you are to do when you get there. Here are your tickets. You leave from Kennedy Airport at noon."

III

He went from New York to Rome to Cape Town by commercial airliner. At Cape Town, he boarded a private, ten-passenger jet with black and orange markings. Three fellow passengers boarded with him. A young Chinese. An East Indian. And a man from South America named Roberto Roderiguez. Only Roderiguez spoke English. But he wouldn't talk. He seemed apprehensive. All of them did.

The pilot accepted the credentials supplied by Smith and said nothing.

They flew straight north, past Tanganyika, over the depths of what was once called Darkest Africa and which was now a bevy of Emerging Nations. Harry knew that would make no difference if the plane were forced down. The ship's occupants might be crucified upside down and roasted over a slow fire.

Where the hell were they going, anyway?

In the late afternoon, a large clearing appeared off the starboard wing. The pilot banked the jet and began a long swing around the clearing, which Harry estimated was about two miles in diameter, roughly circular. The plane dipped toward a runway near the south edge, where a group of buildings crouched. The rest of the area was bare of vegetation or artifact. Harry detected the line of a metal fence against the jungle. And, faintly, there seemed to be a pair of oblate hexagonal markings in the sand of the northern two thirds of the clearing.

That was all.

Harry saw a few people waiting as if to receive them at the small airstrip building. When the plane came to rest, there was a moment of complete silence. The passengers looked at one another. Then the pilot appeared and opened the door.

"End of the line. Everybody out," he called.

Harry slowly followed the others down the short flight of steps to the ground. He stood a moment by the plane, feeling the dense African heat press upon him. Dark green vegetation beyond the clearing seemed like an impenetrable wall. The distant screams of animals pierced the air.

The others were ahead now. He gripped his briefcase and followed. Twelve thousand a year for whatever Smith wanted done in this jungle hole!

From the shade of the broad overhang on the nearest building a girl watched him, but he did not see her until he had almost reached the shadow. After the blinding sunlight, he could scarcely see anything.

She extended a hand and said, "I'm Nancy Harris. You must be Mr. Wiseman. Welcome to Africa Prime." She wore a white dress that contrasted with her sun-browned skin. He had the impression she was young and very lovely. His eyesight, growing accustomed to the shadow, confirmed the impression. He forgot to wonder what was happening to his fellow passengers. "I'll show you to your quarters," the girl said. "I hope you had a nice trip."

"Very nice," said Harry. And he refrained from asking aloud, what in Heaven's name a nice girl like her was doing here -- in a steaming jungle targeted by Russian missiles. But then, she didn't know about the missiles. Collins had warned him not to tell them. Harry had agreed -- he was agreeable to anything ten thousand miles away.

Now, Smith Industries was not ten thousand miles away and totally impersonal. Smith Industries was the ground he walked on, it was the scattering of workmen he watched moving to and fro at a distance.

Smith Industries was suddenly Nancy Harris.

Africa Prime, she had said.

She watched his face as he looked over the compound. She smiled. "It's not as serious as all that, Mr. Wiseman. We do have fun here. We really do."

He brought his eyes back to her and returned her smile. "Harry is the name," he said. "And I'm sure you do have all kinds of fun here -- but I'm just not used to being dropped in the middle of Africa's thickest jungle, and being escorted by a pretty girl guide."

"I'm a nurse," Nancy Harris said. "We all function as guides and escorts when new employees come in. But that really doesn't happen very often. When I learned an American engineer was coming, I asked if I might meet him."

"My pleasure," said Harry. "I hope it's not your disappointment. Do you ever get away to see the outside world?"

"I go every month to Cape Town, at least. I've been to Naples and Paris twice this year. We are not prisoners, you know."

"I really don't know -- for sure. I'm still waiting to find out why I'm here."

"Dr. Ames will explain that detail to you."

Nancy Harris led him through the building, which seemed to be nothing more than a passenger and air freight receiving center. On the other side was parked a Jeep with canvas top. Harry got in beside her.

Nancy drove quickly a quarter mile down the narrow lane that paralleled the fence which held back the jungle. At the end she stopped beside a group of prefab buildings that were the quarters of the station's personnel. "This is home," Nancy said, with a flourish of her hand.

It looked better than Harry had expected.

"Your luggage will be brought up in a little while. I'll show you your apartment, and you can relax until dinner. I'll call for you then and show you our dining hall and other buildings. In the morning, Dr. Ames will want to see you."

She left him at the door of his quarters. Harry entered and shut the door behind him. He flopped on the bed and gave way to the fatigue that had overshadowed him on the flight from another time zone. He lay staring at the ceiling and wondering, what next?

As soon as he could find out the nature of the work at the station, he was prepared to mail a coded message to Collins. Mail was flown to Cape Town weekly on the orange and black jet. After that, he'd be ready to get out himself at the first opportunity. But what of the station personnel? Would Collins warn Smith about the Russian missiles? Should Harry tell them -- or would they by that time find out for themselves? And suppose the Addabas let their itchy fingers fire the missiles first?

Harry found himself thinking of Nancy Harris and what do do about her. He didn't want Nancy Harris incinerated in a Russian fireball.

He speculated on the nature of the work going on here. He could not imagine anything that was of any consequence. It was probably some trivial activity that had no impact on the commerce or destiny of nations. Its only importance was that the Addabas wanted to wipe it out, and Collins' agency wanted to know what they were wiping out. The Russian help was probably just a courtesy, payable in kind at some unknown future date.

He fell asleep from exhaustion and aroused only in time to shave and shower and put on a change of clothes before Nancy showed up to escort him to dinner.

"Some of the families eat at their apartments, for the sake of privacy," said Nancy. "But many of us, both families and single people, eat most of the time in the dining hall. It's free, and wonderfully good."

Harry glanced at here speculatively. "You are a single people?" he said.

"For now," said Nancy soberly. "I wasn't always -- but it didn't work out. I came here a couple of years ago just after -- it didn't work out."

"There ought to be a passwrod," said Harry. "I'm a member of the club, myself."

Harry agreed with Nancy about the food. It was the best meal he'd eaten in a long time. Nancy introduced him to numerous engineers and technicians, and to those wives who were present.

They greeted him warmly, but there was a jolly cliquishness that failed to appeal to him. He had never been a joiner, and he didn't appreciate the atmosphere of health groups and hobby clubs.

He spoke of it to Nancy afterwards.

"They're not all like that," she said.

"There are even some real loners here. If that's the kind you are, nobody'll bother you. We've room for all kinds -- and, believe me, we've got all kinds!"

"I'd like to meet some of them."

"You definitely will -- in the morning."

He doubted his ability to sleep that night, but he was mistaken. Just before dropping off to sleep, however, he saw -- or later imagined he saw -- a faint blaze of blue, like some corona discharge, hovering over the distant black space of the compound. He slept, wondering what he had seen.

IV

The station was managed by a Director. His name was Dr. Howard Ames, and he was never called Howard. He was the king of loners, Nancy said.

The phone rang before Harry was out of bed. It was Howard Ames's secretary, and she said Dr. Ames would see Harry in fifteen minutes.

He began an irritated protest and gave it up. "I'll be there," he said. A quick shave and a quicker shower left him six minutes to dress and reach Ames's office. Nancy had pointed it out to him the evening before, and he was counting on the Jeep, which she had said he could use, to get him there.

He made it thirty seconds late.

Howard Ames was a man in his late fifties, who looked as if he'd lived in the tropics all his life. He was standing at the window of the dark-panelled office when his secretary ushered Harry in. He wore the same informal garb of open-necked white shirt and cotton trousers that Harry had seen on most of the men he had met. On Ames, however, it seemed like a uniform.

His white hair was short and ruffled. The skin of his neck was sun-wrinkled. He turned slowly to view Harry as if he were some unfamiliar specimen.

"I'm familiar with your file," he said finally. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"I think Mr. Smith obtained all the pertinent data about me," said Harry.

"He usually does. You should know that you were hired more for personal characteristics than for your technical capabilities, although these are essential."

"Mr. Smith thought my personal qualities were rather deficient."

"For some occupations. Not this." Ames topped the desk. "It takes a certain kind of man -- or woman -- to support the occupations here."

"And may I ask, finally, what that occupation is?" said Harry.

"You may. but you won't get the answer now. Some preliminary assignments will be required. Then we'll determine what you need to know."

Harry kept his temper.

"First of all," said Ames, "Mr. Smith probably told you we exist in a somewhat hostile environment."

"He mentioned the Gambuans and the Addabas don't get along."

"Unfortunately, we are right on the border. Forays from one side to the other are conducted constantly past our site. It is necessary to be prepared. All of us are well qualified in various areas of defense. You will report this morning to the rifle range."

"I have a Sharpshooter's Medal -- "

"Good. But acquired in some former war, no doubt. Still, perhaps you will need only a relatively brief refresher to maintain your skill. You will report to the practice range."

Harry felt his control slipping. "I didn't come here as a mercenary guerilla. I was hired for engineering!"

"You came here for whatever purpose we wish to assign you. Let that be abundantly clear. We are not a military organization, but we maintain discipline. Orders are executed without debate."

His eyes challenged Harry to dispute his authority. Harry forced down the tension of muscles that wanted to respond with a hard left to that arrogant jaw. He had a feeling that those muscles would have their way befor his stay at Africa Prime ended.

"Of course," he said quietly. "Is that all?"

"If your marksmanship is as adequate as you think, you will be assigned to helicopter patrol as gunner and observer. We find it necessary to mount a constant air patrol of the border for our own protection. The Gambuans reciprocate for the intelligence information we are able to supply them."

Harry wondered if Ames had any knowledge of the Russian missiles Collins had mentioned. He debated mentioning them, and decided against it. He'd like to spot them himself -- if they existed. There was no proof yet of Collins' story.

"I'll do the best I can," said Harry smugly.

Ames's glance hardened at the time of Harry's response. "If you do well," he said evenly, "you will shortly be assigned to important engineering duties. Report to the practice range. My secretary will instruct you."

Harry was not surprised to find his three companions of the flight from Cape Town also at the range. They appeared a little later, apparently having been interviewed by Ames after he was. They all knew how to handle guns reasonably well, Harry observed. Most men of their age had had the experience somewhere in the world.

Harry was the best.

The instructor was evidently an old drill sergeant from some army and some war. He grunted with reluctant satisfaction at Harry's scores. He snapped orders as if he'd never left the service. But his grunts were unintelligible when Harry tried to find out who he was and where he came from. Even his nationality was doubtful to Harry. He had the accent of a Belgian and the complexion of some Mediterranean national. He released Harry from further routine training and gave him a slip of paper.

"Report for border patrol. Frank Declaux's section. He eats smart boys for lunch."

"Some day," Harry reflected, he was going to have to come back and take on this whole crew.

That night, he saw Nancy Harris again and told her of his adventures of the day. She laughed at his grim description. "That's just part of the preliminaries -- a necessary one, however." Her humor disappeared. "You'll realize in time that this is one of the most important projects in the world, but it's in terrible danger. This conflict between the Gambuans and the Addabas could overrun us at any time. We're attempting to assure our own survival, but we're not at all certain it's enough."

"Tell me something about the project, Nancy. It's all so mysterious and hush-hush. Yet I get the feeling everybody knows all about it but me."

"Don't ask me to tell you. I can't. Dr. Ames will give you the information when he wants you to have it. And then you'll see why he has to be so careful of new employees."

Declaux was an Algerian. At least he boasted as much as he showed his contempt for Harry's naive skills.

"It's an honor to be assigned with so experienced a flyer," said Harry. "I'll be way ahead with you showing me the ropes."

He was Harry's man then. He smiled expansively. "You stick with Frank Declaux; you'll know more than any ten men here about helicopter observation."

Equipment was newer and better than any Harry had seen in Vietnam. Direct-view infra-red cameras permitted constant scanning of the jungle, with picture taking as simple as snapping the shutter of an ancient Brownie.

The jungle-covered trails crossing the border below them stood out on the screen like narrow highways. Motorized escorts were picked up a time or two on the Gambuan side.

Harry eyed a distant Addaban valley. "Do you ever fly over those hills?" he asked.

The pilot shook his head. "We have orders to stay on this side. Sometimes snipers shoot at us even then. They brought down one of our 'copters last week. Keep the camera down!"

Harry had raised the mirror viewer to scan briefly the distant hills and valley. But nothing could be seen across the ridges.

"How do you know there aren't mortars or guns across those hills?" said Harry. "How do you know the Addabas haven't got something even bigger?"

"Like what?" said Declaux.

"Like missiles, maybe."

The pilot scoffed. "Those dumb natives don't have anything like that!"

"Little missiles. Mortars, at least."

Declaux looked worried. "Mortars they could have. Who knows where they'd get them? But they could have mortars, all right. Almost anybody can get mortars nowadays."

"We ought to know," said Harry.

Declaux agreed silently. "But we have orders not to cross the border," he said.

A week later they crossed.

Harry played upon the pilot's desire to excel, until at last Frank Declaux recognized what a coup it would be to be the first to detect the presence of enemy heavy armament. If it existed.

They flew north, crossing the invisible boundary in the mat of jungle below. "But if they start shooting, we go back -- quick!" said Frank Declaux. He looked over the side in uneasy anticipation of a crash landing.

"Those hills to the left," said Harry. "Twenty degrees. If there's anything to be found I think it will be over there."

He pressed his face to the camera viewer, watching the ghostlike spectacle of the jungle. Its bones stood revealed in stark fluorescent glow, the trails and roadways etched out of the growth in twisting lines. He spotted a camp site ahead and steered Declaux away from it. A tiny burst of light off to the left revealed a sniper's pot shots. He steered away from that area, too.

If missile launchers were actually hidden in the jungle, however, the enemy would probably depend on camouflage and jungle cover to keep the position hidden, rather than reveal it now with anti-aircraft fire.

But he had to agree with Declaux. If they ran into any heavy fire they'd have to retreat -- if they were able!

For more than half an hour he guided the pilot in a zig-zag sweep of the approach to the valley beyond the low ridge of hills. Once or twice more, sniper fire burst harmlessly below them, and they swung away. Then they were over the ridge and looking into the valley. Harry swept the camera back and forth. The jungle here was even heavier than around the compound of Africa Prime. The image on the IR screen was almost featureless.

Then he saw it. A faint glow of angular lines, distorted and melting into one another.

"Northeast, sixty-five degrees," he said to Declaux. "Take it easy." If they're going to clobber us, it will be here."

He had no intention of flying directly over the hidden mobile launcher. And it wasn't necessary. In another two minutes the telescopic sight of the IR viewer had picked up a sufficiently discernible outline of the same kind Harry had seen a hundred times in Vietnam.

He turned the film feed and snapped the shutter a dozen times.

Included in the view as an anti-aircraft battery that had them dead targeted.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Harry.

It was his last observation flight.

Dr. Ames called for him to appear the next morning. Another man was with the Director when Harry entered the office.

"Mr. Wiseman," said Dr. Ames, "I want you to meet Steve Martin. This is Harry Wisemen, the engineer I mentioned to you, Steve. Harry has just finished a stint of observation patrol with Declaux."

Harry shook hands with the stranger. Steve Martin was quiet, hard, and purposeful. He had an air of knowing something that was better not known.

"Mr. Martin is Operations Manager," said Ames. "He takes care of everything from ordering thumbtacks to -- Well, Steve will show you. I'm putting you directly under his wing. He doesn't have the time for many of our newcomers. But he saw your record and asked if he might take over your indoctrination."

Harry glanced at the expressionless face of the Operations Manager. He wondered what Steve Martin had seen in his record that moved him to such a request.

"Mr. Smith recommended Mr. Wiseman very highly," said Ames.

"We'll see," said Steve Martin, finally. He turned. "If that's all, Dr. Ames, we've got an urgent module exchange to handle this morning."

"That's all," said Ames. "I'll see you again in a few days," he said to Harry.

The largest building in the compound, and the one closest to the bare, sandy plain which comprised most of the area had been identified to Harry as the Operations Center. Harry had been warned away from it, but now he rode toward it with Steve Martin.

The building was a square, white block that reminded Harry of a Federal Reserve Bank, weirdly misplaced from a Middle-size American town to the African jungle. A guard house stood inside a fenced entrance like that of some secret defense plant. Steve Martin parked the jeep beside a row of a dozen others. Harry slipped on the special badge Martin had given him.

The guard waved them through without delay.

The building seemed utterly silent. Harry glimpsed the great central section, which was filled with banks of equipment that looked like computing, recording, indicating, and control panels. A couple of operators broke the long emptiness of the aisles.

Steve Martin led the way quickly to an elevator opening off the corridor. Inside, he punched a 10 button. But the elevator did not rise. It dropped swiftly, and Harry watched the indicator. Ten levels. A hundred feet or more beneath the surface. He speculated on the magnitude of engineering and construction responsible for this place.

At the tenth level the door opened silently and Harry followed Steve Martin into the gallery that spread out before them. The aisle was forty feet wide, banked on either side with massive panels twelve high. The brightly-lit ceiling was another five or six feet above the panels. And the gallery stretched for what seemed an immense distance straight ahead. Harry estimated it was several hundred feet long.

"This is what we call the Main Helix Section," said Steve. "None of that will mean anything to you now. Later you'll learn something about the functions here. I brought you along just to give you the feel of the place and show you something of our activities. We maintain this equipment mainly by replacement of modules. One went out of commission last night, and we're in the process of replacement now. Here comes the new one."

From their left, almost silently, a ponderous black module slid forward.

Harry noticed then that small tracks were buried in the floor, and the great mass was rolling on a low dolly whose wheels followed the tracks. A silent motor drove the dolly. It was controlled by crewmen who walked beside it.

That mass seemed to Harry like a chunk of polished black marble. A dozen feet high, it was twenty feet wide and thirty deep.

"We don't have to replace one of these very often, but when we do it's a major operation. Let's go down to the receptacle. You can give us a hand with the reconnections."

They mounted a small personnel car and drove a quarter of a mile down the gallery to the space that gaped like an empty tooth socket with ten thousand hanging nerves and blood vessels waiting to be reconnected.

The module that had been removed was waiting on its dolly beyond the cavity.

"I'm going to assign you to the concentric connector crew. That's our most difficult operation, but you should be able to make yourself useful with your BMEWS experience. Here's the foreman, Howard Maxon. He'll give you a little instruction while the module is moving up."

Harry shook hands with the foreman, a ruddy-faced craftsman whose whole life was his skill in fitting metal objects together in pleasing and satisfying patterns.

Howard took him over to one of the massive connectors. It looked like a giant collapsible cup with thirty or forty concentric rings pushed back from one another. The whole conductor was nearly four feet in diameter. The foreman explained how the rings had to be fitted one by one onto a mating connector on the module so that they were concentric within five ten-thousandths of an inch.

"It really isn't as bad as it looks. Steve likes to make out like it's a real tough job, but all it takes is a little skill. You'll see."

Harry felt he'd see that he was nothing but in the way. He could not possibly be of any help on such an unfamiliar precision job. And as he obtained glimpses of other portions of the work, he got the feeling that the connection of the concentric conductor was the simples operation of all.

For one thing, the massive block itself had to be placed with a precision of three thousandths of an inch. Howard said it weighed a hundred and twenty-five tons.

"What's in it?" said Harry.

"That's what we'd all give ten years of our lives to know," said Howard.

Eighteen hours later the module was in place, and the crew was on the edge of exhausted collapse. The twenty-five-man crew had worked with only moments for breaks. There was a fierce dedication in their work that Harry just could not understand. Any technical crew he had ever known would have demanded double time for loss of lunch breaks, and double that after twelve hours. This crew worked as if it were the personal responsibility of each man to get the job done -- and his life almost depended on it.

Harry mentioned it to Steve.

"Yeah, these guys take their work seriously," said the Operations Manager. "All we have to do now is deliver the defective module and we're through."

"Deliver it where?" said Harry.

"The repair shop," said Steve.

At a mile an hour, the great block moved down the gallery and turned the corner in the direction from which Harry had seen the first module appear. He followed beside Steve Martin and a half dozen other crew members who remained to attend the final operation.

The dolly moved past another section of smaller control panels of unknown purpose and deceptive simplicity. Harry sensed an immense complexity here that was beyond his understanding.

Beyond, a vertical door raised to permit the passage of the module. A vault that must have been fifty feet in height opened beyond. A hemispherical wall scaled it at one end. The other opened to the endless depths of a vast tube that seemed to disappear into some vague and eternal night.

The module moved out to the center of the cavern, and the door was lowered. Harry saw now that it was at least ten feet thick, but when it was closed there was a semi-transparency that formed a window in the great, movable wall.

Steve Martin stepped to the controls, inspected a number of meters and satisfied himself with their readings. Then, in quick succession, he pressed a number of controls.

A gradual blaze of golden light built up in the window of the great door. There was no outward sign, yet Harry felt as if the very space in the room was slowly being twisted by crushing forces. It hurt in some depths of his being that he had never been aware of.

The golden light burst into brilliance like that of an exploding sun. There was no sound. Just the great flame. Then the twisting was gone.

The other crewmen saluted Steve and moved off. "That does it," one of them said.

Steve Martin nodded. He remained unmoving by the panel. He pressed a button, and the thick door moved up. Beyond, the cavern was empty. "Now you know," said Steve.

Harry squinted into the emptiness and looked back at Steve. "Know what?" he said. "What am I supposed to know? I saw a big black box disintegrate in flames. A hundred and twenty-five tons of big black box -- "

Steve shook his head. "No. Think now. Did you see anything disintegrate? Did you see any ash?"

"Then what did I see? Where is the module?"

"Alpha Centauri."

"Alpha -- "

"That's what we say among ourselves. Actually, we don't know where it went. It's just out there somewhere."

Harry shook his head, bewildered. "I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."

"This is a railroad station!" Steve Martin spread his arms wildly, as if the tension of the past hours was being released in a sort of idiocy. "You and I and Dr. Ames and sweet Nancy Harris and all that gang you saw here today -- we're railroaders. We run trains!"

Harry backed off before Steve's idiotic outburst. The the Operations Manager laughed. "I'm not off my rocker. I'm telling you the truth. We operate a rail line. The Alpha Centauri line -- freight, passengers, chickens, dogs -- what have you."

He slapped the bewildered Harry on the shoulder in the gesture of a tavern drunk. "See Ames in the morning. He'll give you the whole story. Tell him I said you pass okay. I didn't tell you, did I -- you did a real nice job today. You're going to fit in with the boys real well. Come on -- I'm tired. Let's get the hell out of here."

Without giving Harry a chance to reply, he led the way back to the elevator and out of the building. On the way back to the barracks he was quiet and stolid and said nothing. Harry remained silent, trying to understand the significance -- if any -- of what he had heard.

In the night, before he went to sleep, he looked out over the compound. The blue glow weaved and swirled like an aurora.

VI

Dr. Ames's secretary called again before Harry had finished shaving. Ames wanted to see him right away.

He was pacing slowly between his desk and the broad window overlooking the bare expanse of the compound. He nodded and kept up his pacing as Harry approached.

"Martin says you did very well," Dr. Ames said. "There's no reason why you can't become a first-class maintenance engineer."

Harry remained standing, staring at the moving figure of the scientist.

"Sit down," said Ames. "Steve told me he gave you a somewhat incoherent hint of our work here."

"He said something about railroading. It didn't make much sense. He said something about Alpha Centauri, too."

Ames sat on the other side of the desk and leaned across it. "Does that make any more sense?"

"I doubt it."

"It could -- couldn't it?"

"You tell me," said Harry.

"Nearly sixty years ago," Ames said reminiscently, "my father was a physicist with the Bureau of Standards. It was long before the days of flying saucers and such, but in any age there are wonderful lights and mysterious presences. My father was approached by one such.

"It wasn't merely wonderful and mysterious. It was an Emissary from another planet of another galaxy. He wasn't here on conquest or trying to collect specimens or any other weird or stupid thing. He simply wanted to set up a transportation station and asked if my father would be willng to get some people together to help them.

"I needn't go into what it took for my father to convince some of his fellow scientist that he wasn't on opium -- the LSD of his generation. He succeeded. The Emissary helped him succeed by presenting himself to the group and explaining his wishes in very plain English.

"Once they were convinced, the group fell over themselves in their anxiety to be of service to this representative of an incredible culture that was beyond any dreams of their day. They had visions of traveling to the worlds spoken of by the Emissary. But he quickly squelched any such ideas. He said he couldn't allow that. He just needed some help in setting up and maintaining the station, and would they give it."

"They leaped at the opportunity. They devoted the rest of their lives to it. And this is it.

"The people represented by the Emissary set up the station pretty much as you see it now. It was on the site of a mining concession, a dummy structure to camouflage the real operation. And our people settled down to operate the station."

"But what is it?" Harry exclaimed. "What kind of transportation is this? What do you have to do?"

"We would call it a matter transmitter," said Ames. "Matter is converted to energy forms far outside any spectrum with which we are familiar, and literally transported through space -- between far distant galaxies. We aren't sure where it originates or where it terminates."

"Don't you ever see what's transported?"

"This is a relay station," said Ames. "Much like a communications repeater station. It receives the transmitted energy from somewhere else a hundred or a thousand light-years beyond. We have never been told where."

"What is your function?"

"Actually, we have few duties. We don't understand how the process or the equipment works, of course. And it is either self-programmed or functionally controlled by signals from central control stations. We do have important duties in replacing failed modules, as you saw today. We also, of course, provide general protective and custodial service for the station."

"Such as running off the Addabas when they get too close."

Ames nodded. "That -- among other things."

"It's in a poor location."

"But one that can't be moved. When it was first established, this was the most remote corner of the Earth."

Harry settled heavily into his chair. It was hard to believe Ames's bewildering story, but he had no reason not to believe it.

"Consider the implications," Dr. Ames said. "They have a federation of hundreds, maybe thousands of races that live in harmony with one another. They have a technology that's light-years ahead of us. We've got to have a piece of that. We've got to make them let us into the club!"

Harry shook his head. "It doesn't make sense that they would come to us for assistance in running their railroad. They wouldn't need us if what you say is true. They'd either set up an automatic station or they'd just put in some of their own people. They would have a station somewhere in space, rather than needing a planet to put it on."

"You don't understand. This isn't of great importance to them. It's just a little branch-line railroad running out into the sticks. The main center of their civilization is so far away that you can't comprehend it. This is just a rural milk run to them. And for the most part, their station is automatic. We don't know how it works. We don't know how to run it or repair it. All we know is what they've taught us: to make a few mechanical adjustments and replace modules when indications of trouble appear."

"They could still get along without you. It doesn't make sense."

"Yes, they could. But they'd have to put in a lot more automatic equipment. This little branch line isn't worth it. They can hire the local natives to do a little footwork and save a big expense. As far as reliability goes, the equipment if foolproof. If there are indications of malfunction that we can't handle, they just shut it down."

"Has that ever happened?"

"No. The station has never broken down that far."

"So you sweep the floor of the station and empty the ash trays for these alien characters. What do you get out of it?"

Dr. Ames had been facing the window. Now he turned in astonishment to face Harry. "What do we get out of it? Can you imagine what it's like to be in contact with a super-civilization whose science is so far ahead of ours it makes us feel like children learning to crawl? Their need to have a transporter station in this galaxy provides us this one tenuous thread of contact.

"Fortunately, we were the most adaptable to their needs. We have an association with a science so far beyond ours that we cannot comprehend the magnitude of this great unknown."

"Yes, but what do they pay you for these services?" Harry insisted.

"Pay? There is no pay as such! Who could estimate the worth of this association? They supply us enough to maintain ourselves in good circumstances. What more could we ask?"

"They give you subsistence. But do they teach you this great science of theirs? Have you obtained knowledge and products that are commercially useful?"

"Commercial!"

"Yes, commercial. It's a fundamental law of nature, you know. Cells operate that way, on the basis of I'll do this for you and you do this for me. When such associations become a one-way street, the organism dies. You try to operate that way, and you're already part of something that is dead."

"Your analogy is hardly pertinent."

"Well, then, how about something socially useful? Have they given you anything you'd call socially useful for the human race?"

Dr. Ames's eyes brightened. "That is the great hope that keeps us going! So far we've obtained only nibbles through our own deductions about what is around us here. We know the time will come, however, if we show the human race is worthy, that the Emissary's people will teach us and lift us into a sphere that will make the present condition of man seem like that of prehistoric cave-dwellers."

"Someday out of the goodness of their hearts they're going to invite the ignorant natives to join their exclusive brain club," Harry said disdainfully.

"It's the best hope the human race has ever had! Could you -- now that you know what this represents -- turn your back on it and forget it?"

Harry made an unpleasant, snorting noise. "I think you have been had. These characters come along with a sob story and wangle services worth millions of dollars in exchange for peanuts. You sweep cigar butts and empty spittoons in their little railroad station. And they must be laughing like hell at such a bargain. Or else they think they've conned some simple-minded natives into minding the store for the glory of association with the Great Feathered God. You have non-profit transactions only with groups too primitive to deal, on value, to negotiate. It's always been an insult to give a man something. He'll slap you in the face for it the first time he gets on his feet. It's a sign of primitiveness not to ask for a deal."

Dr. Ames stared at him coldly. But there was pain in his voice when he spoke. "I'm sorry you see the situation from such a viewpoint. Mr. Smith's report -- which is obviously erroneous -- indicated a high degree of idealism that is not apparent in you. We thought you would be delighted at this opportunity to participate in the intelligent growth of the Universe."

Harry swore. "Look, I'm as idealistic as the next guy, and I could see how nice it would be to have a slice of the science that can build matter transmitters. But if you can't get your hands on it, you may as well have never heard of it. It's not doing you any good. What does growth of the Universe mean if you're not part of it?"

"When the human race is worthy -- "

"Nuts! The human race will never be worthy. And who sets the standards of worth, anyhow? A few people within the human race could undoubtedly make good use of this science and maybe elevate the race as a whole because of it. But it's no good unless it's in your hands. And you have given these creatures two generations of service -- !"

"Our service has been very small," said Ames, "for the privilege of association with such an advanced culture."

"You've been caught in a bare-faced con game. They sound like some of the contractors I've seen who propose to build world-beating weapons systems for the Government, and when you look into it you find they're working out of a barn. When I was a Technical Contract Negotiator I learned that people respect a man who asks a fair price for what he does. Nobody respects the outfit that tries to buy in on a program by offering a job below cost. These characters needed a base manned by intelligent natives in this part of the galaxy. Obviously, there aren't any others within fifty thousand light-years. We're them! And there you had the Emissary's crowd over a barrel and didn't even try to dicker a fair deal out of them.

"Sometimes it's better to say 'Right deal or no deal at all.' It's not true that a deal at any cost is right. Every deal has a price that's too high for the benefit received. A seller will always try to force the buyer above that point. A little old-fashioned horse trading can make a deal profitable for both sides. If it can't, the deal is not worth consummating. Everybody knows that, except some scientists and U.S. foreign policy experts. You're being played for suckers."

"It may be necessary to extend your probationary period," said Dr. Ames. "You can guess that we occasionally find potential employees who do not fit into our program. Hypno-chemical methods must be used to prevent their revelation of our program after we expose it. I'm sure Mr. Smith explained this to you."

"Mr. Smith didn't explain anything. But it really doesn't matter much. You're done for, anyway. This very unworthy human race -- or some members thereof -- are about to blow the entire operation off the map."

"What exactly do you mean?"

"I mean this little hotbed of a border war going on around you. You aren't dealing merely with spear-throwing natives. The other side has Russian missiles, and they're zeroed in on this station right now."

VII

Dr. Ames seemed to shrink as he sank into his chair, his face green-lined and gray. His eyes seemed to retreat in their sockets as he stared at Harry. "How do you know?" he said at last.

"They showed up on the IR camera during helicopter patrol. I saw enough of them in Vietnam to recognize them."

"I haven't seen any such pictures."

"I don't know what happened to the pictures. Maybe somebody's hiding them from you. But I took them, and you should be able to recognize the mobile launchers yourself."

Dr. Ames nodded slowly. His eyes focused over Harry's shoulder and an infinity beyond. "I see," he said slowly. "I see. You have done us a great service, Wiseman. Now I wonder if I could prevail upon you to assist in our final function."

"What are you talking about?"

"You spoke the truth a moment ago when you said things didn't matter now. They don't. This is the end of two lifetimes of dreaming. Whatever you think of the rationality of our actions, you must agree we've been faithful to our dream. Now we must perform one final act of faith."

"I don't understand."

"If one of those missiles is fired and destroys the station, the Train will also be destroyed. You see, we're not talking about a discrete thing, made up of cars, an engine, and so on. The 'Train' is more a pipeline. It is in continuous operation and is filled with merchandise, raw materials -- and inhabitants of a thousand worlds. If the station is destroyed, it will mean the destruction of an inestimable volume of goods and the deaths of hundreds of creatures of the galaxy. We must not let that happen."

"How can you prevent it?"

"We can institute a procedure known as shunting. It has never been used by us, but it has been established by the operators as an emergency procedure that will shunt the train to another track, so to speak, and enable it to reach an emergency station. But once we use it, they will never reinstate Earth as a relay point."

"Why? This is a legitimate emergency."

"Ames smiled bitterly. "I'm afraid they don't like our brand of emergencies. During the two World Wars they closed the station and threatened to move it completely. We assured them such things could not happen again and that the station would be safe. Now the station is in more danger than it has ever been, and we have tried to keep the information from them for fear they would move it. I'm afraid we haven't been wise. We have been greedy. Now, shunting is our only choice."

"What do you want me to do?"

"A shunting procedure would be opposed by many of our people. They are fiercely determined to maintain the station at all costs. But they forget the cost would be paid by our friends of other galaxies, rather than ourselves. So I might be opposed and overpowered if it were known I was going to shunt. I will get a dozen technicians I can trust. I can use your help. Will you join me?"

Harry felt caught now in forces he understood not at all. But he felt a kinship with Ames and his dreams. Regretfully, he wished the decision did not have to be so final. But with the missile zeroed on the station, there was no time to defend or negotiate. The risk was too great. The Train had to be put out of danger.

"I'll do anything I can," he said.

"Good. It will take a little time to make preparations. Meet me in the Operations Center an hour from now. Don't be late. It will be dangerous to delay any longer."

Harry left the office with a feeling of some infinite sadness. It was all too new for him to fully comprehend or sense the feeling among the station personnel. But now he could understand something of the intense devotion that had seemed so mysterious before.

In front of the Administration Building he met a junior technician who was just alighting from a Jeep. "Mr. Martin wants to see you right away. It's very urgent," the technician said. "He sent me to look for you."

The technician gestured toward the Operations Center and waited expectantly for Harry to climb into the Jeep. Harry waited deliberately. The technician seemed too anxious. Yet this couldn't possibly have anything to do with Harry's conversation with Ames. He wanted to help Ames now. Nothing must hold him back from that.

"Can't it wait until later?" he said. "I have some appointments to keep."

"It won't take long. Mr. Martin is very anxious."

"With the same slow deliberation, Harry got into the Jeep beside the technician. A few moments later he was in Steve Martin's office in the Operations Center.

Two other men were present. Harry had not met either.

"Sit down," said Steve. He gestured to a chair. His face was hard and unfriendly.

Harry sat on the edge of a desk. Steve watched, challenging Harry to decline his invitation. Harry remained where he was.

"Who are you?" Steve said.

"You know who I am."

"No, we don't. I've seen your pictures of the Addabas missile launcher. You knew it was there. Frank Declaux says you led the way right to it. You knew where to look. Who are you, Wiseman? What are you doing here? How did you know about that launcher?"

"I saw plenty of them in Vietnam," said Harry. "They're easy to recognize once you've seen one."

"That's not good enough. You led Frank Declaux right to it. You knew where to look."

"I've seen enough gun sites and missile pads to know where they are supposed to be."

"Right where you knew it would be."

"So you're telling the story," said Harry. "What's the next chapter?"

"I don't know." Steve dropped in a chair and put his feet up on the desk and watched Harry's face with minute inspection. "Smith couldn't have been that wrong about you. His tests are better than that."

"They're pretty thorough," Harry agreed.

"Look, Wisemen. I'm going to give you the whole story now. And your life depends on what you decide to do about it. There's no place to run to from here, and nobody to call for help. Is that clear?"

"Quite clear."

"All right. You've heard Ames's side of the story. Now hear ours. Two generations of good men have been wasted waiting for the Emissary and his people to give us something more than a grubstake for taking care of their station. They've given us nothing. We've made the best possible psychological analysis of the Emissary. Dr. James here -- " Steve nodded to one of the other men, " -- Dr. James is among the world's best qualified psychologists in the field of antagonistic cultures. His analysis is that the Emissary is never going to give us anything. They're playing us for patsies."

"I told Ames exactly that," said Harry. "We seem to be in full agreement."

"Good. That makes the rest of it much easier."

"And what's the rest of it?"

"We're going to take something in return for the years of service Earthmen have given the Emissary." Steve pointed out to the barren compound. "Out there, every hour there passes knowledge and wealth of artifacts of a super-science beyond valuation. We're going to stop the train and help ourselves. For fifty years we've been doing janitor work for these creeps. They're never going to invite us into the club. But one trainload -- just one trainload would repay us for everything. It would advance our basic science by a dozen generations. We'd get enough to reach out to the stars and make contact with the galaxies on our own."

"I'll be damned," said Harry. "A regular old-fashioned train robbery!"

"Call it that if you like. We prefer to view it simply as a long overdue collection."

"And you want me in?" said Harry. "How come? What do I do?"

"You keep your mouth shut. That's absolutely all. Just keep your mouth shut. It's on that that your survival depends. The stakes are too high for us to be fooling around."

"I'm afraid you lost me on that round. What am I supposed to keep shut about?"

"The missile launcher."

Now you have lost me. What's the connection between the missile and your proposed hijacking of the train?"

"The missile is the means. It's zeroed in on the north grid, the transmission grid. When that grid is blown out of commission, the Train will automatically materialize on the reception grid, the south one. It will pop up right here in the compound with its load of goodies."

"It seems to me it would be a lot easier to just pull a switch somewhere."

Steve laughed. "It might -- if we could find a switch to pull. You saw the modules we deal with. We honestly don't know how to disable any selected part of the station. We've been looking for five years."

"Your proposal is a little on the risky side. Even Russian missiles aren't that accurate."

"We've zeroed this one in with accuracy we consider sufficient."

"And suppose it works? Do you think the Emissary is going to hold still for that? How do you know those people won't be down here with fire and wipe out the whole Eartho out of the Universe?"

"The probability is better than 99% that they won't react. We show them that this is the product of intra-group dispute. They're used to our wars. They will pull their station out as they threatened to do the last time, but they won't retaliate. Dr. James is sure of it."

"I wish I was as sure as Dr. James is," said Harry. "No offense -- " he nodded to the psychologist.

"Of course not," said Dr. James. "We are adequately certain of our ground. Our explanation of a missile blast will be accepted. Sabotage of the equipment -- even if we could do it -- would be recognized as deliberate. That could cause retaliation."

"So you're Communists," said Harry with finality.

"No," said Steve, "That's one thing we aren't. They think we are. We're using them. They've used us long enough. Don't you think it's time for a turn around?"

"It's a case of supping with the Devil."

"We can handle them. Don't worry about that."

"The famous last words of a lot of good men."

"Forget it. You've got the picture of the situation. Where do you stand?"

"On the sidelines -- if you don't mind. I think you're a bunch of damned fools."

"That's all right with us. But just keep your mouth shut about the missile. Is that clear?"

"Clear. I'm just curious about one point. What would Dr. Ames and his people do if they learned about it?"

"Ames is an old fool. His whole crowd is a bunch of old women, thinking they're going to get something out of the Emissary. But if you told them about this they would start an operation called shunt. It would turn the Train aside, and we'd be out of luck forever -- and you would be as dead as it's possible to get."

Harry started to move from the table. The door burst open with sudden fury, and the same technician who'd escorted him here almost fell into the room. He was panting heavily and white-faced. "Dr. Ames -- " he gasped. "Dr. Ames has been looking at the batch of IR pictures Mr. Wiseman took. He's seen the missile and launcher."

Steve stood up. He and James looked at each other. "It's got to be now," said James. "We can't risk a delay."

Steve nodded faintly in agreement. They moved to the door. Then he turned back to Harry. "You're remembering real hard."

Harry nodded. "I'm remembering real hard."

VII

Harry glanced at the clock. Dr. Ames would be in the Operations Center by now. Harry didn't know what Steve might do to the Director if they met at this moment. But if they didn't meet, Steve would be off to whatever rendezvous he had to keep to order the firing of the missile. And Ames had to be helped --

But if the missile were off course -- Harry swore to himself. The damned, damned fools!

Ames must be out there by now, but he stopped by the phone and dialed a number.

"Nancy? Harry. I'm at the Operations Center. Can you drop whatever you're doing and come right over? There's something important -- "

She begged off, and Harry insisted, as much as he dared with their somewhat fragile relationship. At last she agreed in a puzzled voice.

"Right now!" said Harry. "I'll be waiting."

It would be the safest place. He could send her down to one of the lower levels on some pretext. But he had to find Ames now.

The Director was at the central control panel with six engineers. Harry was acquainted with two of them, Kripps and Sanderson.

"We thought you weren't coming," Ames said. "We've got to hurry. Take panel Two and follow Ed's commands exactly. He will give you the sequence of steps when we reach that point."

Harry nodded. The controls were complex and unfamiliar. He didn't see how he was going to follow any kind of critical sequence the first time through. The engineer Ed began filling him in quickly, explaining what was to be done.

Before he was well started, the voice of Dr. Ames called out the beginning of the control sequence in strong, defiant tones. "Jam!"

A sequence of controls was operated by the engineers. Harry followed their glances as they watched the indicators. Some of those consisted of small poles with changing hues of colors. Others were little balls that moved through a tell-tale maze in response to the commands of the controllers.

After minutes, Ames called out the second command. "Trade!" His eyes followed anxiously the movements of his engineers as they wiped out his dream and the dream of his father and all those who had spent their lives at the station.

"Switch!"

"Float!"

One by one, the obscure signals were called. Ames's face glistened with a sheet of sweat as he watched the responses of his crew. Then his hands reached for a control -- it was halfway there. His lips shaped to give the command. The engineers held their readiness for the next step.

The actions were never finished. Sudden light flamed over the station. It flowed into every corner of the control room and burned eyes that shut in sudden agony against it.

Then shock. It hurled the scientists to the floor. Walls shattered, and wild cries of pain told of those pinned beneath the debris.

And sound. It roared and blasted and tore. Its dying away was a huge vacuum into which the senses fell.

Harry groped helplessly from his prone position. His mouth was filled with dust and blood. The scene was lit by flames from the grid area.

"Dr. Ames -- Nancy -- !" he called out.

"They struck the grid," Dr. Ames cried in anguish. "They hit the grid before we completed the shunt."

Harry struggled to his knees and crawled toward the scientist. "Dr. Ames -- are you all right?"

"All right," Ames gasped. He twisted painfully to a sitting position. "Look to the others. We have got to get out of here. And the Train -- it will materialize on the receiving grid!"

But Harry was thinking of Nancy Harris, whom he'd so stupidly asked to come to Operations to be safe in case of attack. He limped back toward the entrance while Ames called out to him in dismay, "Wiseman -- the grid!"

He found her by the door. She had just entered when the blast came and had been thrown to the floor. She stirred dazedly now and looked up at him. "Harry -- Harry -- what's happened?"

He reached down and lifted her gently. "The Addabas blasted the grid. Control is knocked out. The Train is materializing."

"Oh, no -- ! Oh, no, Harry -- " She cried a moment in his arms.

She had shared the dream of Ames and the others. It didn't matter now that it was a phony dream, Harry thought. It had been Nancy's dream, too.

Now the roaring rose and became like that of a thousand jets far beyond the horizon. It approached and increased at the speed of jets, but did not pass. From the center of the South Grid the sound crashed against the jungle, the station buildings, and the people who staggered and groaned against it in terror and amazement.

Harry pushed through the sound as if it were a physical barrier, supporting Nancy with an arm around her waist. Dr. Ames and Kripps and Sanderson got to their feet and moved to the empty windows overlooking the Grid.

There was mass out there, a strange mountain of mass that grew as they watched. As if from some internal heat, it glowed. Through blood-red, crimson, to white brilliance even in the African noon-day sun, the light rose and flamed. The mass moved as if in pain, and out of the midst of it came new alien sounds like the cries of beings from another world.

"Materializing -- " Ames groaned.

"But it's out of synch!" Kripps exclaimed. "It's a conglomerate mass!"

"Freight -- goods -- people from dozens of alien worlds," Nancy murmured. "Like a crashed ship. Dr. Ames, we've got to help them!"

Ames seemed dazed by the disaster. "Yes -- yes," he agreed. "We've got to help them. Please notify the medical staff, Nancy. Tell them I order them here at once to do what they can."

"Our own people need help, too," said Harry. The cries of injured continued to come from other parts of the building. He turned back to the room. Some figures lay still upon the floor in concerted shapes. Others were standing, like himself, gazing numbly at the desolation.

Nancy tried the phone and found it dead. "I'll get Dr. Bintz and Dr. Walker," she said. "I'll go back to the barracks and get everyone to bring supplies and help."

"You're sure you're all right?" said Harry.

"I'm fine."

"Kripps -- Sanderson!" Harry called. "Check our people in the building, will you? Find out who needs help. The medics will be here in a few minutes."

The engineers nodded in dazed agreement. Harry moved toward the window where he'd last seen Ames, but the scientist was no longer there.

Harry called his name. Kripps said, "I think Dr. Ames went down toward the Grid."

Harry saw him then. The proud figure was shambling painfully toward the mountain of rubble that was growing, a half mile away. Harry crawled over the debris of the fallen wall and raced toward him. The roar of crashing materials was a physical force. A gale wind of displaced air speared at him. Amid the maelstrom, a quieter sound of seething, hissing substances was like a counterpoint.

"Dr. Ames! You can't go out there! It's too dangerous!"

Ames turned, his face reflecting his inner agony. "There are people out there. People of other galaxies. They're alive in that burning mound. We've got to help!"

"There's nothing you can do. We'll get a fire truck and the medics and do anything that's possible, but it's too dangerous for you to get near the pile while it's growing."

"If they aren't crushed in that mountain of junk, our alien atmosphere will kill them."

Ames paused, and Harry stood by him, and for the first time absorbed the magnitude of the catastrophe. The inferno of materializing objects was growing as if, literally, a cosmic train were piling into an immovable obstacle. There were flames rising from scattered points on the mound, but the crimson glow was caused more by the release of radiant energy as the flowing beam reconverted to tangible atoms.

The walls seemed almost vertical, as if the mass were growing from within. Like a moving lava front, the upper edges curled and toppled and were borne under the slowly expanding wall.

"We always wondered what would happen -- " said Ames almost inaudibly. "Some of us thought the Train would materialize in good order. But others thought that synchronization would be lost and only a conglomerate mass would appear. They were the ones who were right."

Harry wondered if Ames had any idea that Steve Martin was responsible for the disaster. Surely he must have suspected what Steve was thinking.

And then they saw him. The desperate figure of the Operations Manager was leaping from a Jeep and racing toward the mound from the direction of the barracks buildings. He seemed to have no intention of stopping. His ant-like figure was almost at the base of the expanding mound.

"Martin!" Harry shouted vainly through the chaos.

Steve Martin was at the very edge of the mound, retreating as it spilled toward him. Harry surged through the blast of air and heat and sound. The expanding wall of debris was nearly vertical as he reached Steve Martin. The top curled outward and fell with avalanche fury.

"Martin!" Harry grasped the Manager's arm and pulled him back from the edge of the inferno.

Steve Martin fought loose, oblivious to danger as the mass tumbled at his feet.

"Come back, Martin!" Harry shouted. "That stuff will bury you!"

"No, it's all right. We're safe here. Look, Wiseman -- we missed getting what we wanted because synchronization didn't hold. But you can make out the shapes of stuff, and it's still good. We can still find out what it's made of and how it works. Look, now -- what is that? Household goods -- machinery -- scientific equipment? From where? This stuff has come from Andromeda Alpha Centauri -- worlds a hundred million light-years away. This is what they've been holding back -- the Emissary and his chiseling crowd. They thought they could use us like some foreign natives. And Ames, old mother Ames -- he thought by being nice to the Emissary they would turn loose some of this stuff in time. When the human race is worthy, he used to say. Did he give you that line, Wiseman?

"If we knew the sciences, the technologies behind this stuff -- even this scrap -- But we'll find it, Wiseman. And you'll help us, won't you? You're remembering real good, aren't you, Wiseman? Remembering real good -- "

"Look out!"

Harry glanced up at the mass that burned and curled outward above them. He gripped Steve Martin's arm and dragged fiercely.

Martin tore loose from his grasp and moved even closer to the moving, surging mound, as if to embrace it wildly. Then the curling mass plunged down. Harry heard faintly the cry of pain and terror.

IX

Dr. Ames limped painfully to Harry's side. "I saw it. That was an awful way to go, but a man like Martin doesn't deserve much better."

"You knew?"

Ames nodded. "I knew he wanted to materialize the Train. I didn't think he'd go this far, but when I saw your pictures of the missile launcher, I knew there was no time left. We had no other course but to abandon the project."

Harry looked back at the surging, growing mass that seethed and hissed and represented the science and technology of worlds more fabulous than all man's dreams. "There could have been a better way," he said. "It didn't have to end like this. We could have made a deal with them. You can always make a deal with anybody if you just try hard enough -- if they've got something you want, and you've got something they want. All it takes is a little decent horse trading -- "

A movement far down at the edge of the pile caught Harry's eye. Dr. Ames saw it, too, and he gasped as he saw a figure -- a creature -- and then another.

Ames gripped Harry's arm. "Harry -- people. Passengers from the Train -- they're still alive!"

A grotesque shape struggled up from the ground, groping with two arms. In despair, it tumbled on its side, shuddered and lay still. It was a furry, unfamiliar shape, but Harry could see it was burned and torn with lethal injuries.

Beyond it, another alien, a biped, struggled up, staggered and took a step forward. It had giant eyes, like a lemur's, that shone even in the sunlight. Short, fluffy hair covered its body -- a barrel-like torso with pipestem limbs.

Ames sucked in his breath. "The Emissary! But it can't be -- it's one of the same race. They're air breathers. They can survive in our atmosphere. Most of these others can't."

The creature stumbled, then steadied itself. Finally it bent down and picked something from the ground.

"A child!" Ames exclaimed. "One of their children."

"On its way to grandmother's house on the other side of the galaxy," murmured Harry. He felt it was silly, but it could well be true.

As they watched, Nancy drove up in a Jeep and saw what was taking place. She jumped out and ran to them.

"We've just got to help those people!" The fiery wind buffeted her as she raced toward the two creatures.

She approached the alien and held out her arms for the infant. The adult whirled and slashed out with one arm. The blow struck nancy on the side of the head and knocked her to the ground.

Harry and Dr. Ames rushed to ward off further attack.

"Don't!" cried Nancy. "It didn't understand. It thought I meant harm to the baby. They must be half crazy with shock, anyway."

They faced the alien in a moment of doubtful hostility. Then, slowly the alien slumped. The spidery arms grew lax, and the huge eyes softened with infinite imploring.

"Catch the baby!" Nancy cried.

Harry stepped forward and caught the young one as the adult collapsed. Words of a sibilant, uncomprehended tongue slipped from the furry lips, and then the strange body was still.

"I'll take the infant to the dispensary," said Nancy. "We've got to help as many as we can."

"We don't understand their metabolism or their anatomy," said Dr. Ames. "We couldn't even safely apply an antiseptic to their wounds -- or give an anesthetic for an operation we wouldn't know how to perform. There's almost nothing we can do for them."

"We've really got to try."

"What about our own people?" said Harry.

"Everything is under control. The doctors are at the Operations Center now. They have plenty of help. But six of our own people are dead."

Dr. Ames looked at the spot where Steve Martin had disappeared. "Seven," he said. "But maybe you're right. We shouldn't count him as one of our people."

Nancy laid the small furry alien in the back of the Jeep and drove to the dispensary in the barracks area. Harry and Dr. Ames walked back to the Operations Center. It was swarming now with station personnel under the direction of the doctors. Stretcher patients were being ferried to the dispensary for treatment of wounds and operations on internal injuries.

"The end of a dream," said Dr. Ames. "Maybe you were right, Wiseman. We were idiots to dream. Man is an idiot to dream in a world where dreams can't come true."

"I didn't say that," said Harry. "There's nothing wrong with dreaming. You just have to go about it in the right way."

"If I weren't too old to learn, I might ask you to show me the right way."

And who am I to tell anyone how to dream, Harry thought. When all of my own have turned so sour --

The pile of debris continued growing through the day. By nightfall, it diminished its rate of growth slightly, but continued to glow and roar and stir fierce winds. Dr. Ames said that the transmission had undoubtedly stopped long ago, but whatever was in the pipeline would have to feed on through to its own destruction.

They knew that some salvage of a thousand priceless technologies might be possible from the debris, but they gave little thought to that now.

During the afternoon, living conditions were restored as best they could. The dead were buried and an airlift of the injured to Cape Town was begun.

They bore the aliens to the expanded, makeshift quarters in the barracks buildings, gave them such medical care as seemed feasible while they took care of their own injured.

Harry looked for Nancy near the end of the day and found her at the bedside of the alien child.

"I've been able to talk with her a little," said Nancy. "She speaks the language of the Emissary, which we've all learned a little. She's about the age of a ten-year-old among us. She was on the way across the Galaxy to visit others of her family. It was the first trip she had ever been allowed to take alone. The one who picked her up was an older woman with whom she'd made an acquaintance just before the trip. She's like a little girl on the way to visit her grandmother in the country!"

So it hadn't been so silly, after all.

Harry looked at the little lemur face. The huge eyes seemed to plead for succor he could not give. "Do you have any idea how to treat her? Do you know what she eats?"

Nancy shook her head. "We've read something in their books about their native foods, but we can't compare them with ours. We've taken blood and tissue specimens for analysis to see if we can estimate food requirements. We know, of course, they're on a carbon-oxygen cycle, so we ought to be able to come close."

X

On the morning after the disaster, they saw what Harry had been told everyone expected to see.

The Emissary.

His ship was like an eight-foot crystal egg. It appeared after sunrise between the South Grid and the ravaged Operations Center. All station personnel who were able to walk were waiting and watching for him. And dreading the sight when he came.

The Emissary emerged from his ship and walked toward the ruin. The station fire truck was still pouring foam onto the outbreaks of fire. The Emissary watched it, and the personnel of Africa Prime watched him. The silence was total. Only the squeals of jungle animals beyond the compound and the hiss of foam on the mountain of debris were heard.

Dr. Ames walked slowly from the crowd toward the Emissary. He passed the crystal egg, and then the Emissary turned and saw him. They stood a moment. The crowd could not hear their words. Harry guessed Dr. Ames was telling how the accident happened: An act of war by the enemies of the Gambuans.

The alien and the scientist began walking back. They stopped in front of the crowd. Dr. Ames began speaking slowly.

"I have expressed our deep regret to our friend, the Emissary, that our condition of warfare has finally resulted in such a tremendous disaster to their transportation system. I am told that there can be no consideration of the continuation of the relay station, even though I have suggested relocation to other, mor remote areas, such as the poles or the Australian outback. They have made a comprehensive computer-type prognostication of the political and martial future of Earth's civilizations, and it is not favorable to their continuing operation here. There is no other answer except to end the association. The Emissary would like to express his regrets and his thanks to you."

In halting bursts of gutturally-spoken English, the Emissary began to speak. At first, Harry could not distinguish the words, but gradually he was able to get the intent of the alien's words.

"It is with regret that I end our establishment," the Emissary said. "You have served faithfully and long, but our establishment is not safe. Our merchandise has been destroyed and the lives of our people have been lost -- and we shall have to account to the Dmwar and the Ectoba Galaxies for the loss of their travelers, and it will not be a pleasant negotiation. This must end. We give you our many thanks for your services. But this must end."

He seemed to glance over the crowd without seeing and then turned. Disbelief and uncomprehending disappointment were on the faces of the engineering and technical personnel of Africa Prime. But nobody spoke.

None except Harry Wiseman.

He plunged out of the crowd and stopped within a half dozen feet of the Emissary.

"Just a minute, please. I think you're forgetting something."

The Alien turned at the strange sound of Harry's voice, scanned him with the lemur eyes and finally spoke disparagingly, "Nothing has been forgotten."

"Payment," said Harry. "You forgot to say anything about payment for the services rendered to date."

The eyes scanned him again. "You have not been here before. I would have remembered you."

"I'm new, all right. I've been appointed Technical Contracts Negotiator. That's my business. Sometimes a contractor and a customer don't see eye to eye on the cost of a program, and it's my business to iron out any discrepancies."

"You talk gibberish," said the Emissary. "I don't understand a thing you are saying."

"I'm saying you owe these people payment for their services. They have done something for you, now you must do something for them."

The Emissary turned and faced Harry squarely. "You excite my interest. They made no request for any kind of payment -- except to come to our planet, which we could not permit because of restrictions on lower cultures. It disturbed us at first. We could not understand why you made no request in return. We concluded your culture was just too primitive. I estimated we were adored, and we gave small things like gold bobs."

"You misestimated completely, I'm afraid," said Harry. "those gold bobs were used to buy goods to sustain these people, but it was strictly subsidence. A payment in terms of profit is desired. Do you understand me?"

"Yes -- I think I do," the Emissary said. "And you astonish me. I did not know this was so high a culture."

Harry flet a burst of elation. He'd been right in his sizing up of the situation. The scientists had been taken for boobs because they had acted like boobs. Harry smiled expansively and hooked his thumbs in his belt.

"Well, now -- so you recognize that we haven't had a very good deal. So you'll see how we just couldn't take another contract like this one. We've lost our shirts, and I know you wouldn't want to see that happen again -- "

"This must end," the Emissary said with discernible frost in his voice. "We have agreed to that."

Harry ignored his interruption.

"We haven't had a very good deal. But we might be persuaded to continue if some arrangement for back remuneration could be made. In turn, we would be agreeable to establishing fully secure facilities."

"There is no place on your planet that is secure. We would not risk establishing our station again under such conditions as prevail here."

Harry nodded in agreement. "We are more than aware of our own grave deficiencies. We feel deeply our own negligence in exposing your station to the hazards we did. But we also recognize your great need of a terminal in this area. That is why we are prepared to make extraordinary concessions in reestablishing the station in a positively secure site."

"Name such a place!"

"Mars. The planet Mars."

The Emissary stared, his mouth opening silently. Dr. Ames stared in disbelief.

Nancy Harris gave a little scream. "Mars!"

Harry nodded. "Mars."

The Emissary closed his mouth and started over. "You have no facilities or access to Mars." He glanced around in despair. "You are the most preposterous people in all the Five Hundred Million Galaxies."

"It's just as easy for you to set up the equipment on Mars as on Earth," said Harry. "That's not a pinpoint's difference in location on your Galaxy maps."

"You certainly know what the Martian terrain and atmosphere are like! You couldn't exist there -- "

Harry shrugged carelessly. "A protective dome with captive Terran environment would be a simple matter for your engineers."

The Emissary stared from one to the other as if trying to absorb the impact of this proposal. "This would be a great effort -- so great a change -- for your people."

"That's right," said Harry hastily. "And that's why I mentioned remuneration to begin with. We could only consider such a project on the basis of very adequate remuneration -- which you agree we haven't had so far. But we'll consider taking on this job -- if you care to make an offer."

"There has been difficulty in staffing even this station. There would not be enough of you willing to go to Mars for such a project."

Harry laughed heartily and turned slowly to those behind him. Now was the moment of truth. His laugh died as he caught Ames's apoplectic eye, and the confused countenances of Kripps, Stevenson, a score of engineers. He forced himself to laugh again. "He thinks we wouldn't want to go to Mars. Can you imagine that, folks? We'd jump at the chance to go to Mars, wouldn't we? Wouldn't we, Dr. Ames? Kripps, you'd jump at the chance to run this station on Mars, wouldn't you?"

The throats of some seemed to work with strangled words. Ames stood tight-lipped and stiff.

Harry wheeled desperately. "We'd go to Mars and love it, wouldn't we? Wouldn't we -- ?" He searched with rising panic for a responsive face in the immobile crowd. A smile was like a sudden light in the gloom. "Wouldn't we, Nancy?"

"Of course we would!" Nancy exclaimed. "I've always wanted to go to Mars. It's the one place I'd rather see than any other." She turned to Ames and shook his immobile arm. "Don't you agree, Dr. Ames? Won't it be wonderful, living and working on Mars?"

Ames's immobile stature seemed to break, and he turned, smiling down at Nancy. "I can't imagine anything more delightful, my dear."

Kripps simply shook his head in disbelieving wonder. "You did it, Wiseman. Damned if you didn't do it."

"But you'll go with us to Mars, won't you?" Harry persisted.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure I'll go. Do you think you could leave me out of it?"

They were all laughing then and pounding each other on the back and shaking hands and kissing the girls. Harry turned to the Emissary. "You see? There's no question about our going to Mars if you wish to provide the means and a proper contract."

The Emissary nodded uncomprehendingly. "Yes, I see," he said. "I see."

"If you care to step into the office back there, I think we can clear a desk and perhaps discuss terms of the contract -- "

The Emissary strode slowly forward at Harry's invitation. Behind his back, Nancy threw her arms around Harry's neck and kissed him exuberantly.

It would be a long time, Harry thought, before Collins got his report on Smith Industries.

Table of Contents

Start