EVIL EARTHS   Brian W. Aldiss           EVIL EARTHS was first published in hardeover by Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 11St. John'sHill, LondonSWllENGLAND         AVONBOOKS     A division of     The Hearst Corporation     959Eighth Avenue     New York,New York10019     Copyright c 1975 by Brian W. Aldiss     Published by arrangement with the author.     Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 79-52182     ISBN: 0-380-44636-7         Cover illustration by Alex Ebel         All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Georges Borehardt, Inc.,136 East 57th Street, New York,New York10022         FirstAvonPrinting, August, 1979         AVONTRADEMARK REG.U.S.PAT. OFf'. AND IN'     OTHERCOL,'NTRI MAR. CA REOIS'RADA HECHO EI',I     U.S.A.         Printed in theU.S.A.         ù CONTENTS         Introduction         I     "What is wrong? What is right? Anwcr, we're here..."     The Last WordChadOliver and     Charles Beaumont     Film of Death ]. $.Campbell The Wound Howard Fast         II     Three green blades of grass     The Golden Man Philip K. Dick     Guest Expert Allen K. Lang     The Valley ltichard Stockham         Dark they were and Golem-eyed     Down canong the Dead Men William Tenn Among the Hairy Earthmen R. A. Lafferfy Later Than You Think Fritz Leiber         Yesterdal, tomorrow, amd the deser[ The Time Trap Henry Kuttner         1         5     16     31         45     51     83     86         103     107     133     145         153     157         V     Towards the fall o! night 265     The Men Return ]ack Vance 270     Heresies of the Huge God Brian AIdiss 280     "If I Forqet Thee, Oh Earth..." Arthur C. Clarke 292 Night ]ohn W. Campbell 297         ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS         Howard Fast "The Wound" Copyright c 1969, 1970 Howard Fast from The General Zapped an Angel lished by William Morrow Co. Inc., New York.     J. S. Campbell "Film of Death" Copyright c 1948 Street & Smith Publications Inc., iR USA and Great Britt     1     ' ':A. Lafferty "Among the Hairy Earthmen" Copyright ù @'1956 R. A. Lafferty.     Philip K. Dick "The Golden. Man" Copyright () I! Mag zine, April 1954 (Quinn Publishing Co.).     Richard Stockham "The Valley" Copyright ) 1954. published in Worlds o! 1)Magazine.     Allen K. Lang "Gust Expert" Copyright ) 1951 Stories. William Term "Down among the Dead Men Copyright () William Tenn.     Chad Oliver and Chas Beaumont "The Last Copyright () 1955 by Fantasy House Inc. Reprinted permission of Chad Oliver and A. D. Peters & Fritz Leiber "Later Than You Think" Copyright () by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by sion of the author and E. J. Carnell Literary Agency. Henry Kuttner 'Fhe Time Trap" Copyright () 1938 Postal Publications. Copyright renewed 1955.     Jack Vance "The Men Return" Copyright () 1957 Publications.     Brian Aldiss "Heresies of the Huge God.Copyright 1956 by Brian Aldiss.     Arthur C. Clarke "If I Forget Thee, Oh Earth..." right () 1951 Future. First published by Harcourt & Jovanovich.     John W. Campbell "Night" Copyright ) 1935 by & Smith Publications Inc., for Astounding Stories, ber 1935.         INTRODUCTION         It's odd how there are fashions in ideas as in clothes. What is modish goes by reaction, as the mini-skirt is chased away by the ankle-length skirt. If things are going to be different, they must be seen to be different. Late Victorian men went in for great beards; after which, a whole generation reacted against fa. ce-fungus, regarding it as .a token of a stuffy and hypocritical age. In the sixties, however, a new generation took to beards and long hair and as much hirsuteness as the head could carry. ]hat was a sign of youth. Perhaps coincidentally, the Victorian Age returned to popularity.     It is possible that in a year or two face-fungus will hit another nadir of popularity, as reaction against the drug generation which cultivated such things sets in. And then, as the fortunes of the West decline still further--if they do--the drug generation will once more be admired. And so on and so on.     Readers of this anthology will doubtless know that clio-metrics is one of the new sciences made possible by computers, in which mathematical and statistical methods are applied to the study of history. Cliometricsin the shape of a new book entitled Time on the Cross has just come up with a fresh look at the history of slavery in the Southern United States.     At the slum end of the paperback industry, there is quite a fashion for novels of slavery, with much emphasis on the whip and the exploitation of luscious black female slaves by wicked white plantation owners. Time on the Cross contradicts this traditional caricature of life on the old plantation, claiming that the slave farms were efficient         and nm by black managers as often as not; that the whip was used less often then positive incentives; that slave diets were good, even by moderu standards; and that the black family unit was rarely broken up, since the landowners realised that stable work-units paid off best.     These findings are being strongly challenged, by both black and white historians in the States. There are obvious good reasons for disputing the facts as here laid out, and not only because they contradict the previous set of facts in which there was general belief. For beyond the dispute lies the question of fashion in ideas; it is unfashionable to recognise that there may be something to be said for slavery, and that it might be a viable economic system. Morality infuses itseff even into economics.     Unfashionable and unpopular ideas are a mainstay of science fiction, even more than original ideas. I have as- ù sembled this anthology, like the others in the series, for     entertainment's sake; yet it contain.q a sack-full of notions unacceptable for one reason or another.     Two of the stories, in entirely different ways, suggest that homo sapiens may soon be replaced by a more efficient species. Other insulting messages get through: that terrestrial history is accident, created in mischievous fun; that there is no other planet in the whole galaxy for us to go to; that impersonal forces might wipe out civilization and its beliefs tomorrow; that the dead may have to defend our rights; that we are mere parasites on a body whose properties we are not equipped to understand; that the universe about us is random. Evil Earths indeedl     All of which may suggest that this is not a particularly cheerful collection. The contrary is true, although there are melancholy stories here--but the melancholy of Clarke and John Campbell is elegaie, pleasing rather than despairing. Science fiction likes to wear a bogjrman mask, but the effect is meant to cause only a friss0n of alarm. As the anthologist, I can exercise my prejudices, and I have not represented here any of those preachy tales which show Earth depleted, overpopulated and ransacked by greed and stupidity and capitalism. I know that men are greedy and stupid, but so far the greedy and the stupid have never triumphed for long and we may hope it         will continue so. A considerable amount of cheerfulness breaks in among these stories.     Such themes as depletion of resources and overpopulation are touched on, although I have gone for a fight old-fashioned approach (one of the marks of fifties sf, incidentally, before the sociologists got sf by the throat). There is some concern with ecology. There is a feeling for--if I can put it like this---the earthly quality of Earth, which lies at the basis of ecology. And, beyond that, a primitive feeling for the magical quality of Mother 'Earth.     That's how it should be. Throughout Earth history, various theories of its birth (and hence of its nature) have been tried out and one by one discarded. The present version, of the slow evolutionary cooling and the gathering ›0mplexity of organic forms which modified its atmosphere whi, e being modified by it, is now orthodox; it may give way soon to a new version,, perhaps with a moro sophisticated theory of evolution and organic-inorganic-interaction as its basis.     Earth was the first planet ever discovered by homo sapiens. It still holds magic and excitement for us. We have still not finished exploring its geography, let alone its geology, its life-forms (how much do you know about tho breeding habits of the scorpion?), or the elaborate perceptual-conceptual-systems on which mankind's cultural history is based.     Science fiction, which is slightly mad as well as enormously sane, has always shown, in the person of its writers, an ambiguity about its first planet. The urge to wreck it has been very strong--and not always resisted. We may observe a tendency which goes back to H. G. Wells's The Time Machine to depict Earth in the throes of one terrible senescence or another (if men don't wreck it, it destroys itself). There is also the tendency to get as far away from Earth as possiblea tendency well developed in Space Opera and Space Odysseys, the first two volumes in this series. Pushed to its limits, this trait produces stories in which Earth is never mentioned, or is a minor planet on the fringes of a great galactic empire, or has been lost millenia ago in cosmic history.     However, in the stories collected here, the third planet         from the sun lies all the while in brooding focus. You may agree that it is science fiction's Number One Planet. Anything Mars can do, Earth can do better.     As I have done before, I append to the stories the blurbs which heralded their first appearance in the magazines. Where the original blurbs have not been available, I have made them up; can you tell genuine from fake? Blurbs were a minor art form brought to perfection under such sf editors as John W. Campbell and Anthony Boucher. If my publishers will ever indulge me to that extent, I shall bring out an anthology of One Hundred Best Blurbs. They were often better than the stories they prefaced.     The idea of this series is to do a job of archaeology among the strata of ancient sf magazines, well-known and ill-known, and bring up scraps of bone, broken pots and jewels beyond price for those who have no access to he magazines (who number some 99.805 percent of the population at a rough count). In this volume, as it happens, the span is less wide than hitherto. We have fourteen stories from nine different magazines; those magazines are among the less obscure; and three decades of writing are covered.     The magazines have gone out of fashion. But we have already remarked on the fickleness of fashion.         Heath House     Southmoor     December 1974         BRIAN ALDISS         Chad Oliver and Charles   Beau mont: THE LAST WORD 5     J. S. Campbell: FILM OF DEATH 16         Howard Fast: THE WOUND 31         Let us beg/n as we mean to go on--monstrously, and hay-hag the last word.     One of the attractions of Earth which no other planet can offer a science fiction writer is a ready-made cultural history. Messrs. Oliver and Beaumont play fast and loose with the concept, with an intrepid time-traveller who manages to be both First and Last Man on Earth. And to marry an android. Morality gets as short shrift as space and time. That's what science fiction is all about.     Yet the props with which these authors deal so lightly ar essential to modern science fiction. Many of the themes and forms of science fiction have been in existence since antiquity--the immortality theme is an example. Such ancient themes have been adapted and used in modem sr. But evolutionary theory changed everything, springing as it did from a better comprehension of Earth's history. Only then was the principle of remorseless and unending change introduced, and only when the principle of change is grasped does one have the mainspring of modern sr. Well, things certainly change ha The Last Word. Even if human nature remains astonishingly the same.     The other two stories ha this section represent all those catastrophes which befall Earth though man's interference. You might call them moral stories, except that John Scott Campbell's story mixes hope and fear in equal quantities ha a delightful way, as his two inventions cancel each other out.     Howard Fast's story brings memories of one of the more desperate exploits of Arthur Conan Doyle's Professor ChaLlenger. He is dealing, in a way, with a legend, and legends have to be reinterpreted for every generation. For a generation brought up on the Whole Earth movement, a generation which was the first to gaze upon our globe from outer space, The Wound has a particular mysterious meaning. In essence, it would have been found just as meaningful a couple of million years ago.         And I can't resist adding that Fast's story was published five years ago; in that period, with the power crisis which has hit western civilisation, the symbolism of the men drill-lng for oil and finding something altogether more tragic only reinforces one of the aspects of Mr. Fast's magical little tale. I like it. I know it isn't true. But how truthful is itl         ,ds a special service to scholars o] the Iuture, two o[ the leading young authors o[ science fiction, have prepared this time capsule: a succinct presentation, tn under 5,000 words o! every theme and situation characteristic o] routine conventional s]. This short story ts guaranteed to contain material equivalent to three anthologies . . . and to bt much more fun to read.         THE LAST WORD     by Chad Oliver and Charles Beaumont         Claude Adams stood in the collapsed ruins of the city and sifted sand through his fingers, noting with appoval that     his hands were steady. He cocked his head and listened. There was nothing.     A sluggish breeze pushed sand through the piles of junk that had once housed a mighty civilization.     Claude called out; he called not in desperation but with a scientific aloofness that he found singularly admirable, under the circumstances. "Hellol Can anyone hear me? Am I alone?"     There was only the wind, and the sand.     "I am alone," Claude concluded, not displease&         He had known it for some little time now. He, Claude Adams, was the Last Man in the World. He thought of it in appropriate capitals, and the symbolism appealed to him.     He walked over to the machine he had built and re garded it with a critical eye. A bit sloppy about the edges, he would have to admit that. A trifle foggy about the dials, perhaps. Still, a not unworthy piece of construction.     He would have to use it; his inflexible logic told him that much. It was not, of course, that he was fond of crowds, or         anything of that sort. Actually, he had always tended toward a rather solitary type of existence. However, he was a believer in moderation. It was good to be thrown on     one's own resources and all that, but there were limits.     He frowned at his machine.     The problem was easily stated: he was the Last Man in the World, alone in a desert of sand, shrubs, and ruins. He was, so to speak, at the end of time's tether. To resolve this dilemma, he would have to step into his machine and travel backward through time until he found somebody.     Not just anybody, of course.     But somebody.     "He who hesitates," Claude observed, "is lost."     He squared his shoulders and climbed into his rectangular machine. His sensitive fingers set the dials. He seated himself and took out a pocket edition of Shoogly's Advanced Theoretical Physics, with which he hoped to     amuse himself en route through time.     He waved farewell.     He pushed the red button.         The machine stopped.     Claude put down the book, stood up and yawned. He glanced at the temporal indicator, wondering when he was.     "Two million B.C.," he read.     He did not panic. He sat down, filled his pipe and lit it. He smoked until he was quite calm.     "Shoddy postwar materials," Claude said. "Must have overshot the mark."     He activated the portal and stepped outside. A warm sun and soft, pleasant breezes greeted him. He stood in an immense green field, dotted with flowers. He took a deep breath and smiled.     "A lot of years," he mused. He tapped his pipe on his boot. "I am now, beyond a doubt, the First Man in the World."     He sat in the fragrant grass and stretched. How did one go about being the First Man in the World? He was not altogether sure. The symbolism of the moment did not         escape. Sh'll, apart from skipping about in the sunbeams and feeling significant, what was there for him to do?     His reverie was disturbed by a rasping clank from the other side of his machine. Claude stood up with unaccustomed alacrity.     "Good heavens," he Said.     A being confronted him. Piteously, it clasped its hands together in supplication. It moved again, its gears grinding horribly.     Claude examined the object with interest. It was humanoid in appearance.     "I am still the First Man in the World," he said.     The clanking humanoid was indubitably intended to be female. She was pitiably rusted and several of her plates were sprung. Her skin hung slackly on her metallic flame. 'Her eyes were dull and her hair a matted disaster..     "Robet?" he wondered. "Or ,android? Clearly, it has a mechanical basis, but it faintly resembles a woman."     The thing creaked to her feet. "Brrrkl?" she wheezed. Claude did not permit himself to be trapped by emotionalism. He rapped the creature smartly on the forehead     and analyzed the hollow bong which followed.     "Oil," he said, snapping his fingers.     He stepped into his time machine and produced a tube of oil from the supply closet. He had intended it for his own machine, but then oil was oil, he reasoned, and he     could not abandon a lady in distress.     Besides, his curiosity was piqued.     Maintaining an air of clinical detachment, he located a small hole in the back of her neck, hidden by her stringy hair. While she whimpered gratefully, he squeezed a   gen erous portion of oil into her interior.     The result was instantaneous.     The thing drew herself up with some grace and became a woman. She smiled and produced a comb, running it through her tangled hair. Her skin tautened on its frame and her eyes sparkled.     "Brrkl," she purred, trying to snuggle against him. He pushed her away. "The transformation is not yet complete," he said judiciously, eying her with some distaste. "Try to control yourself, my dear."         7         She seemed disappointed, but rallied quickly. She pointed to the west, jumped up and down eagerly on the newly oiled limbs, and gestured for him tO accompany her.     "What next?" Claude asked of the sunshine and the silence.     He followed her gamboling form across the grasslands. He noticed that she was becoming better-looking as the oil worked itself into her vitals.     ù q'he Dawn of Man," Claude mused.     Unexpectedly, he heard music. His trained ears pos?vely recognized the soft strains of lutes, infinitely sad, i:,finitely melancholy.     They topped a slight rise and there they were. Musicians, no doubt of that. But what kind of musicians? Ahead, in a slight clearing by the side of a still lake, was the most singular assemblage of beings he had ever seen. They lay in various supine positions in the pleasant grass, models of relaxation. "What's this?" Claude whispered. "Who are these people?"     "Brrkl." The android's arm moved up (still with a trace of stiffness at the shoulder ioint) and a finger whirred, pointing.     Claude looked and came quite close to losing his composure. There, leaning precariously, was a ship; its naked metal was ached with great splotches of rust and decay, its glass fogged, its once bright paint faded from the sun.     The elegiac music seemed to quaver slighfiy: the notes trembled loose from the heart-shaped lutes and hung briefly on the air.     Claude moved toward the lissome group of musicians. Aside from flesh-tones which suggested seaweed, these people were little different from humans. They had arms and legs, in the proper number. But never had Claude seen such palpable fragility; they were like porcelain figurines.     He watched his step.     A silent voice spoke to him: "Greetings!"     Claude nodded. Telepaths, eh?     The figures did not stir, apart from the movement of their graceful fingers over the silver strings.         The voice murmur.ed in Claude's mind. "We are from the planet which you call Mars."     The music took on a more profound mournfulness. One of the green men smiled tragically. He plucked a small flower and burst into tears. Others followed his example.     "We were exploring the solar system when our craft fell to the Earth. It was.., terrible. Now, we are here."     Claude brightened. "Mechanical difficulties?" he said. "Yes. We would like to go on, somehow."     Claude rubbed his hands together. "Perhaps a little   old fashioned know-how would be in order." "It is hopeless, but you are good." "Let's have a look-see."     Sighing, two of the Martians rose from the grassy hillock. It seemed to Claude that they were nearly transparent.- They proceeded to the spaceship.     "Just-let me poke around a little," Claude said, and entered. '     'With|n, it was a maze of coils, tubes, knobs, dials, and antennae. Claude shook his head. Then he noticed something on the lowest level.     Clearly, it was a furnace.     Beside it, stood a huge stack of wood.     "Ah," he said. It was the most devilishly clever device he had ever seen. The Ship was operated on the absurdly simple--and therefore ingenious--principle of outer   com bustion, or spontaneous ignitionl     The solution was at hand.     Claude left the ship, beaming. "I've got her fixed, I think;" he said.     Sadly, the Martians went up the ladder. Claude took some ten-dollar credits from his wallet--useless now!-and broke up some kindling. He applied his pipe lighter     to the bills. In moments there was a crackling blaze.     The ship quivered.     Claude left in a hurry and decided he had better close the airlock for them. "Impractical fools," he chuckled.     He found the increasingly female android waiting for him.     He turned back, but the ship was already off the ground.     The voice inside his brain was imperially calm.         "Earthling, you have done us a service. Martians do not forget. The android is yours."     Then, in a shower of sparks and heat, the ship smoked into the sky.     The android's hand touched his.     He turned and touched her shoulders. They were sur-c, risingly soft.     "I'll call you Eve," he said.     The symbolism did not escape him,         In the fullness of time, a child was born.     Torn between Cain and Abel, Claude Adams called the >y Son. The compromise preyed on his precision-hungry find, but it was the best that he could do.     The first indication they had that Son was somehow -ifferent came when the boy was three months old. He ilted a rabbit by staring weakly at it with his watery     yes. This caused Claude some discomfiture, but his   in atiable curiosity got the upper hand. He began to watch me boy closely.     When Son began to nurse while Eve was yet a good hundred yards away, that was good enough for Claude. Son was different from other children he had known.     "Psi factors," Claude said, stamping on the grass. "The mysterious chemisms of blood. Post-atomic radiation. Exposure to the time stream. Alteration of the gene   chromo somes. The boy's a mutantl"     And so he was.     Yet they had their Son, and in the main these were happy times. They had the sunlight and the green fields     and the long summer days.     And the nights.     Eve was enough to drive a man mad, when properly oiled.     Still, Claude reflected, there was a price tag on Paradise. You had to pay to play in the Garden of Eden. The     halcyon years went by, and no honeymoon lasts forever. Little things began to come between them.     Eve grew cross and irritable, and took to sleeping late in the mornings and slouching about the fields in unkempt leaves. Claude felt a growing restlessness. He took to polishing up his time machine, and would retire to its         10         cabin for long periods, smok. ing Ms pipe and idly twiddling with the dials.     Finally he called Son to his side.     "Running away, Pop?" Son said, knowingly, lying at his ease in mid:air. "You ditching Mom?"     "In a nutshell," Claude admitted, "that's it. I'm going into the future, Son. Maybe I'll come back later. Would you like to go with meT'     Son gracefully rolled over in the air and touched his chin with his knees. "You go ahead, Pop, I'll catch up with you laer."     "But you have no machine, Son."     Son smiled tolerantly. "I'll get there," he said.     "Stout lad."     Claude made his preparations with care. Exactly twelve years since 'he had first set foot on the grassy fields, he climbed back ifito his machine. His heart was somehow heavy within him     He took the old, long-empty oil tube with him, and there     was a suspicion of moisture about his eyes.     He set the dials.     He pressed the red button for the second time.         There was a sort of hiss, followed by grindings. The machine stopped.     Claude moved toward the portal. "Well," he said, "the twentieth century, if I'm not mistaken!" He glanced at the temporal indicator.     He was mistaken.     The long red arrow trembled slightly at 3042 A.D. Claude frowned. "Damned strange," he muttered.     The machine could not be set into operation agahl until it had properly cooled, of course.     Claude activated the door. It wheezed pneumatically inward, colliding with a rather shapeless object in the corner, that Claude knew instantly, had not been there before.     "Eve!"     She rose stiffly from her cramped position.     "I stowed away," she said. "Was it very wrong of me, dear?"         11         Claude sighed. "What is wrong? What is right? Anyway, we're here."     They stepped out the cabin door.     The day was a riot of sunshine and crisp breezes. Claude sniffed and examined his surroundings.     He was in a city. Tall, lean buildings rose all around him. The buildings were girdled by insect swarms of tiny 'planes, and crowds of people stood on mobile sidewalks. Claude watched the people. They seemed strangely alike, as if there were only one person, reflected and reflected again, thousandly. They were, without exception, expressionless. They stared at tiny antennaed boxes, which depended from their necks.     "Do you love me?" Eve asked.     "Yes and no," Claude answered, evasively, and con-tinned at a brisker gait.     Then he stopped. At his feet was a clump of dandelions. He plucked one ofthe healthier specimens.     Instantly, a plane dropped from the sky and landed at his side.     The door of the plane opened. There was no one side.     "Name?"     "Claude Adams. And yours?"     "Address?"     "At the moment, I'm afraid that I am not permanently located."         "You are under arrest. We're booking you on a 703 -A."     "A 703-A?"     "That's right. A 703-A. Curiosity."     Claude was suddenly unable to control his feet. They marched him into the cabin. He sat down. The door closed. The plane lifted.     "I'll get you outl" Eve called from far below. "Don't worry. I'll talk to someoneI"     Her voice faded with distance.         Tamping down a quantity of strong shag tobacco---the last of his supply--Claude stretched out on the fibrous pallet and attempted to think.     Undoubtedly this was a jail, although it did not   re     12         semble a jail. there were no bars: only a shallow moat, easily leaped, and a decided ascetic touch in the   furnish ings suggested the concept of imprisonment.     There was a baffled sob.     Claude turned and saw that he was not alone. A youngish man in a far corner sat disconsolately, twirling the knobs of a blank TV set.     "What's the difficulty?" Claude asked democratically.     'q'he TV," the man groaned. "It doesn't work. You understand? It does not workl"     At this moment there came a hollow laugh.     From another corner an older man arose. He was bearded. "It'll never work, either," he gibbered.     The young man turned on the bearded gentleman angrily and Claude turned away, wondering. After the commotion died down he addressed himseff to the bearded     man.     "Tell me 'something about this civilization," he said. "I seem to have a touch of amnesia."     "What's to tell?" the bearded man shrugged. "when the Overmasters arrived fifty years ago, from Mars, they dim-inated all war, suffering, crime, disease, and work. It seems that this was in payment for a favor an Earthman once did them. Since then we've lived off the fat of the     land. The Big Machine runs the show---"     "The Big Machine?"     "A highly Complex Mechanism," the bearded man said, warming to his topic. "Cybernetics and all that. It has taped the neural indices of every human being on Earth--it can steam your brains out if you step out of line. Not only that, but it serves as the electronic matrix of every structure on the planet. Without the Big Machine, friend, there wouldn't be a manufactured molecule around     here big enough to spit on." "Hmmm," said Claude. He continued to think.     Eve came to him the following day. He spotted her     moving slowly across the smooth green lawn.     "Eve!"     She stopped at the water and did not look up.     Claude rushed to the edge of the moat. "Eve," he cried. "What news?"         13         "I got through," Eve said. '5 spoke to it. The Big Machine."     "Ah! It's here, in this very city?"     "Yes."     "Well, then. I am going to be released immediately?" Eve toed at a daisy. She seemed to blush. "No," she murmured. "It has extended your sentence to ninety years."     Claude reeled. "You're angry," he groped. "I left you and this is your revenge---"     "No." Eve raised her head. Of her two prime expressions, she did not use ioy. "You must try to understand, Claude. I went to the Big Machine. My intentions were excellent. Then . . . something happened. Chemical   affin ities, meshing circuits--oh, I don't knowl"     "Meshing circuits?"     Eve smiled, remembering. "I am mechanical," she said slowly. "The Big Machine is mechanical. It was one of     those things. He's been lonely, Claude."     "That's enough. Do not go on."     Claude leaped the moat. He grasped Eve's shoulders. "Where is he?" he rasped. "Come on, I know he's around here somewhere."     "There. The domed building on the corner. Oh, Claud"     Claude moved fast. His blood was up now. The Big Machine, since it had the neural indices of every person on Earth, had no need of guards. Claude entered the Central Rotunda without difficulty.     The Big Machine, resembling an immense dynamo, hummed.     "Machine," Claude murmured, "say your prayers." Claude inspected the machine. It was forged of heavy materials. It appeared to be impenetrable. It hummed     and banks of lights flickered in its cavernous recesses. Somewhere, it must have an Achilles' heel.     Claude applied his scientific know-how to the problem and got nowhere. He kicked the Big Machine with something akin to desperation.     Then he noticed something odd floating directly above his head.     It was Son.         14         "The plug, Dad," Son said.     "Beg pardofi?"     "The plug. Pull the plugI"     "Of coursel"     The Big Machine sent up sonic Vibrations, It hummed and quivered as Claude approached the socket. It knew Fear.     "Damned clever," Claude said, and yanked the plug out.     ".Umph!" cried Son. "Hang on, PopI"     The world began to lose its bearings. Things   effer vesced. Claude swayed and' was hit by attackg of nausea. Buildings crumbled, their electronic matrix destroyed.     People dropped in their tracks, their neural indices triggered.     Claud.e fet. himself falling ....     There was d. arkness.         He awoke to find himself in the collapsed ruins of the city. A sluggish breeze pushed sand through the piles of     junk that had once housed a mighty civilization.     There was silence everywhere.     Son flew over astride a large boulder and ground to a stop at his father's side. "Mom is here," he said. "She wants you, Dad."     Side by side, they walked into a clearing, surrounded by scorched foliage. Eve sat silently on a block of broken     masonry. Her face was moist with tears.     Claude took her hand.     "Eve," he said. "You and I and Son are now   civiliza tion. Do you understand what this means?"     "Yes."     "And are you afraid?"     "A little. It isn't easy to be the mother of a whole new         "No," Claude conceded, "not easy. The job is too big for the two of us. We must have a wife for Son. We must     have a female child."     Son smiled.     Claude squared his shoulders.     Together, he and Eve marched into the bushes.         15         Water ts enormously important to man--but the most important part o[ an ocean is the top ten thousandths oI an inch!         FILM OF DEATH     by J. Scott Campbell         Text of an address delivered before the Thirty-fifth Anniversary Banquet of the Federation of American Scien-fists, December 6, 1980.         Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen:     We of the older generation hold somewhat of an advantage over most of the membership of this Association in that we have seen with our own eyes the tremendous events which transformed the world into what it is today. We recall as vivid reality what many of you know only as history. I am, therefore, sure that you are more interested in me as an eyewitness than as an astrophysicist of rather obscure reputation, and so I shall simply tell you, in my own words, and with the flavor of the times as far as I can, how these amazing and dramatic events took place.     It began, as you well know, in the winter of 1949-50. I find difficulty in remembering just what I was doing then, but you will agree, I am sure, that this was the year when the great worry over the plutonium bomb, then called simply the Atomic Bomb, began to subside. The Atomic Development Authority had been finally set up; all bombs, and supplies of uranium, thorium and plutonium had been transferred to it, and all mines, piles and other dangerous facilities were out of nationalistic hands. Even the Soviet Union was happy, although there were plenty of critics of our part in the Iranian affair.     In the United States production was at last under way. Inflation had been checked, and food and steel were   plea     16         l         tiful again. Strikes were still .occurring, but these were regarded more as '"after shocks" from the great upset, than as portents of troubles to come. In fact, for the first time in many decades, there were no ominous clouds on the horizon.     And yet the danger was there, hidden, disguised even from the men most intimately connected with it. Schneider, working patiently with his mass speetograph in Chicago, laboriously piling up, atom by atom, the rare isotope 204 of lead. And Ordway, here at the Institute in the organic chemistry lab, mixing fatty acids and hydrocarbon chains, searching and searching.     Did he know what he was after? What would he have said, if someone had asked him? Well, I know, because I asked him.     It was during the Christmas recess of 1949. ! had been doing some rea.ding in the Chem Library, and dropped down to.his lab to tempt him into a walk 'and a midnight cup of coffee. He wouldn't go, but we did talk a little about his work.     "It's an organic hydropolar acid," he explained. "It forms chain molecules having a preferential orientation with respect to water."     "What will you call it?" I asked.     "Well, it really can't be named yet, because I haven't actually found it," he admitted. "But when I do, it'll probably be"whe hesitated--"something like, well, zetylsul-fonic acid."     "I see," I said hurriedly. "Z-acid for short, eh?"     Dr. Ordway nodded happily, evidently visualizing that monumental name as a title in Chemical Abstracts.     "But, what will it do?" I pursued. "That is, what are its properties?"     "I'm not sure yet, but I hope that it may have some practical value. You see, a hydropolar molecule attaches itseff very closely to water. What I hope is, if I can get the structure just right, that it will form a thin film, a mono-molecular film, which will lie over a water surface like a tough skin and prevent gas absorption, or evaporation, or any other transfer to or from the water."     I probably looked a little blank, for he hurried to explain further.         17         'at would lead to most important economic results. In chemical processes--oil refining or paper making, for example, or even on reservoirs and irrigation ditches to prevent evaporation Why, there's no limit to what it can do---that is, if I get it.'     I thought he ended a little lamely, and so, as it was getting late, I said good night and headed for my own homo and bed.         I think it was a month later that Dr. Ordway at last succeeded in synthesizing Z-acid. I say "think" because it was ouly a few days after this, on January 5, 1950, that Schneider announced the fission of lead, and after that, of course, everything else was forgotten.     The sensation created by the little red-headed physicist's discovery was simply beyond description- Of course, it could have been handled in a much less sensational way, but of all parties, Schneider was least to blame.     Dr. Schneider, you must understand, was both a eau-tious and reticent man. He may have guessed the consequences of his work, but he wasn't going to go out on any limb until he was absolutely sure. He may also have been a little frightened by the notoriety which had plagued Oppenheimer since Los Alamos. And the ADA hog-tied by the absurd stipulation that fission could occur only in uranium, thorium and plutonium, did not check into his calculations at all.     In any case, he took some Lead 204, and a small amount of ordinary lead in a launch, anchored his experiment twenty miles out in Lake Michigan with a time clock, and then prudenfiy retired near the shore to await results.     They were not long in coming. Schneider had never seen a plutonium bomb go off, but when he saw the enormous fireball, and the cloud of smoke and vapor which soon towered fifteen miles into the sky, he knew what he had.     He came fairly close to not knowing it for long, because his boat was nearly swamped by the tidal wave which presenfiy came rolling over the horizon. The same wave crashed all along Chicago's waterfront, p'ding yachts in         18         Grant Park, and inundating much of the loop district. Schneider, unable to find any trace of his own anchorage, waded ashore near the Planetarium and hailed a taxi.     By the time he reached his laboratory he was famous.     . The press met him at the front door, with an interview which is historic.     "Tell us, Dr. Schneider, was that a U-235, or a plutonium bomb?"     "Neither. It was lead."     "Lead? But lead is stableI" This from a graduate student in physics.     "It /s stable," agreed the scientist, wet and confused, "until it is activated by emissions from Lead 204."     Pencils were going fast now. Perhaps Schneider thought it was a class, taking lecture notes.     ' 'My bomb,-if YOu so choose to call it, consisted of five hundred grams of-ordinary lead. A half centimeter diameter hole was drilled into it, and in this w. as placed two milllgTams Of Lead 204, separated by means of a mass spectrograph from a sample enriched in the lighter isotopes by the diffusion process. The Lead 204 wa brought to a high temperature by means of an electric spark, start-lng a thermonuclear disintegration. Emission from this process, whose exact nature is rather complex, at once caused fission in the whole mass of lead "     It was out, the damage had been done. The Chicago ADA representative, who was doing some fishing off the Florida coast, read about it in the Miami paper. What he said has not been recorded.     Within a day it was common knowledge throughout the world. At first the headlines were boasting: AMERICA DOES IT AGAIN. OUR LEADERSH IN NUCLEAR PHYSICS NOW UNQONED. Then the ton6became frightened. ATOMIC WAR AGAIN A POSSIBILITY. LEAD BOMBS TERRIFY WORLD. And inaccurately, EVERY LEAD PENCIL A MENACE.         The Atomic Development Authority, and then the UN Security Council hurriedly met. Dr. Schneider was hauled on the carpet, where he dissolved into tears and remorse.         19         The Council was at fa'st in favor of trying him for international treason, and then it realized that more serious problems were at hand. The Soviet and Argentine representatives were called home for consultation. The headlines died down, but now throughout the world there was a mounting undercurrent of terror.     Uranium bombs had been bad enough, but they were nothing like this. Lead was plentiful, lead was cheap, and the deadly isotope could be extracted in sufficient quantities in any one of a hundred laboratories. No massive piles, no billion dollar factories were needed; just a pound or so of common lead, and a few months production from a mass spectrograph. Anyone could produce Lead 204, and with the process explained so lucidly by Dr. Schneider, anybody could, after a few months, start producing bombs. Big countries, little countries, political factions, crackpots, all were on a common footing now. The laboriously created balance of power, the careful treaties between nations, the endless compromises that had gone into the ADA, all were now futile.     Only a faint concept of the world's state of mind can be obtained by reading the old papers. Confusion, anger, fear seemed in the very air. The Russian press denounced America for loosing the devil. The American press accused the Soviets of turning a great peaceful discovery toward the path of war. And, at the same time, the press of both nations united in denouncing Schneider as a traitor to humanity. The poor physicist, crushed, was spirited away by some of his colleagues and for a time vanished from the sight of the world.     By the first of February the excitement had reached a crescendo of debate and accusation. Congress was in continuous session, the UN Security Council was deadlocked over control measures, and the American people were taking matters into their own hands, and moving out into the country.     It was about this time, I believe, that I met Dr. Ordway in front of the Chemistry Building. He seemed very pleased, which was enough, in those days, to startle me.     "Well, Ordway, what brings you out looking so satisfied?''         20         Tempers and courtesy were both a bit short at that time, but Ordway didn't seem to mind.     "Isn't it wonderful," he cried happily. "It's so easy to     manufacture, we'll have tons of it in a few monthsl"     I blinked, completely off the track.     "Zetylsulfonic acid, of course," he explained. "It can be synthesized from oil refinery by-products. The Coast Oil Company is going to manufacture it for me, and we already have orders. Dear me, I fear that I am about to become richl You know, they want to use it in Arizona and New Mexico to coat the water in irrigation reservoirs. It's very durable. If it isn't allowed to run off, it'll last for ten years. Why, it's even going abroad. The Iranian Soviet Republic had an order in for eight thousand tons, for evaporation control."     "Eight .thousand tons," I started, still half thinking of lead.     "That's light. It's an enormous ,mount--thousands of times more than they need, but perhaps, with all this uncertainty in the world, they want to be provident."     I blinked a few times, and then steered the conversation to the subject of the bomb. Ordway knew very little about physics, and contented himself with a few generalized r marks to the effect that maybe scientists should take over the government.         During the next few months I lost track of Dr. Ordway and his marvelous Z-acid. Momentous things were happening in the world, and what time I had free from my own research and teaching was mostly consumed in speaking and writing in behalf of the Federation of Scientists. We were making a last desperate effort to convince people that reason could prevail, and that even this terrible danger could be averted if men of good will got together and reasoned. I think we all knew, inwardly, that it was hopeless, but we kept it up during that long spring, while tho lead stockpiles grew.     By June, when the dear sunny weather came to South-em California, and the beaches were crowded, a sort of uneasy hush descended over the press. Congress adjourned, with major accomplishment, while the members         21         of the Security Council watched each other like wary dogs. Something was up, }veryone knew, but what, or where, could not be guessed. There was an unusual number of summer visitors to the mountain areas around Los Angeles; everyone, it seemed, wanted to get away from the congested cities.     Even the faculty seemed infected by the fever. I was standing in my office counting days on the calendar until the end of finals, when the door opened to admit Dr. Ordway.     I turned to him with relief, for his pleasant disposition was very cheering, and then I gasped with surprise. It wasn't the same Ordway. Gone was the smile. Instead his countenance was as haggard as that of a Security Council member. He appeared to have gone without sleep for days. Guiding him to a chair, I asked in amazement: "Fred, what's the matter? What's happened?"     In reply, he mutely handed me a paper, and pointed to a small paragraph near the bottom of the front page. I read:     "Typhoon sinks tanker. The new Soviet Tanker Vlaclirnir Stuloreported by raSio that it was broken in two and sinking five hundred miles east of Hokkaido, in the season's worst typhoon. The ship, normally used for gasoline transport, carried an eight-thousand-ton cargo of Z-acid, a new evaporation inhibitor developed by Dr.     Frederick Ordway, well known chemist of..."     I looked up with understanding.     "Why, that's terrible, Fred. That must be your whole production. I suppose they won't pay for it, unless there's insurance."     "Pay "Ordway looked blank. "Pay-- Don't you realize what this means? I never should have allowed it. Eight thousand tons of Z-acid "     With a shiver of premonition, I began to grasp what Ordway was driving at.     "Do you know how much Z-acid it takes to cover an acre of water?" he asked abruptly, and then answered the question himself. "It takes 0.0018 ounce. That means that one ounce will cover 556 acres, one pound will cover 13.9 square miles, one ton will cover 27,800 square miles. Eight thousand tons is enough to cover all the oceans of         22         the world almost twic over. It will stop all evaporation, don't you see? The rivers and lakes will dry up, all vegetation will wither. It doesn't 'matter now whether we blow each other up or not. We'll all be dead anyway in three or four years."     I sat heavily on my chair, trying to reorient my thoughts. It was no use asking Fred if he had checked his figures. The black circles under his eyes attested to the time he had spent in that. And there was no use in asking whether his fundamental theory was sound. I knew Fred too well for that. He was a careful and thorough worker, and when he said that Z-acid would do certain things, that was final.     I think I just sat quietly for a minute and stared at him.     Then "Have you told anyone else?"     He shook his head.     "Good. Above all, we don't want to repeat Schneider's performance. But we must notify he authorities. Z-acid is not permanent. H we start saving water and food right now     Ordway shook his head. "A single layer is good for ten years. With this dose, no one knows how long the sea will will be covered--fifteen years, maybe twenty... I don't know."     I was struck by an idea. "Maybe we have some grace. You know, it can't cover the whole ocean instantly."     "It spreads fast. In a month it'll be all over the Pacific. By October it will reach the Cape of Good Hope, and by early next summer all of the Atlantic will be covered, lqo, we can't get away from it."         Well, as you know, Dr. Ordway and I notified the authorities. We started at what we consider to be the proper level, the Secretary General of the United Nations. We were unable to contact him. We tried the President, with the same results. Then, alarmed, we visited the President of the Institute, whom we convinced in short order. He telephoned the Army Chief of Staff, but the General was out of town. He told his story to a subordinate officer, who promised that it would be brought to the General's attention. We urged the utmost secrecy, but somehow the story         23         leaked out. We had called Washington on a Friday. On Sunday the local paper carried an AP dispatch datelined Washington:     "Scientist states that the oceans will dry up as a result of the loss of a shipload of mysterious Z-acid"     Sunday night Ordway was aboard a plane for Washington. I stayed home; I still had my examinations to give.     The transition of mass hysteria from one object to another which occurred in the next few days will probably occupy psychologists for many years. I was in a unique position. I knew in advance what was coming, and I started a clipping collection with that write-up of our first     efforts as a warning.     At first the news was vague. I knew that Ordway was active, because his name kept appearing in news items connected with certain secret experiments and demonstrations. Once an army courier came to the Institute, and I arranged for him to secure a fifty-five gallon drum of Z-acid. I commenced watching the weather maps for the north Pacific, but saw nothing dramatic, such as a lifting of the Aleutian fogs.     Then, on June 22, 1950, a carefully worded announcement was carried by all papers:     "The President announced at 4:40 a.m. today that an unavoidable accident on the high seas has presented this nation and the world with a new situation holding the gravest dangers. There is no immediate risk, but the general public is urged to co-operate with the authorities in action directed toward the conservation of water"     There followed a clear r6sum6 of what had happened, in the unmistakable style of Dr. Ordway. It was pointed out that there would be no immediate change in climate. Billions of tons of water were already ak-borne, and it would be many months before this vast burden would be squeezed from the atmosphere in the form of rain. Meanwhile conservation measures were put into effect. The spillways of the great irrigation dams were closed, and coffer dams were hurriedly erected along their crests to retain excess floodwater. The rapids above Niagara and at Sioux were blocked to retain the waters of the Great Lakes, the largest reservoir of fresh water in the world. Earth dams were thrown across a thousand rivers and         24         creeks, and even strings of empty tank cars were fi/led with water.     The public reacted with gusto. Here was no vaghe and distant threat about which they could do nothing, but a simple and real emergency, into which every man, woman and child could pitch. Cisterns, 'ponds, tanks, barrels and even kitchen utensils were filled with water and stored away. Z-acid itself was suddenly in tremendous demand, as a protective cover for the precious fresh water.     Abroad the reaction was the same. The foreign press thundered against American meddling, but all governments, large and small, went to work on the conservation program. The bomb vanished from papers and conversation, and with it went the war fever. Humanity bucked up its challenge, united as it had never been before.         As preparations for the drought eontinued during the summer, 'the first weather changes made themselves felt. At first, they were merely statistical, and noted only by the meteorologists. A decrease in the percentage of foggy days along the southeast Alaska coast. An unseasonable cold dry wind blowing over Canada. In late August, a two-week period of clear weather at normally foggy Cape Flattery. Then, as the film spread over the whole north Pacific, the drought came. Over the Pacific Northwest there spread a blue sky of incredible depth and clarity. Daily through September the sun grew warmer and the nights colder. Water vapor, the great heat regulator, was gone. At noon the merciless rays of the sun were unscreened, but after nightfall, there was no vapor blanket to hold the warmth in, and the temperature dropped as it formerly did only ia deserts and on mountain-tops.     The situation was soon mitigated in the northwest by the smoke from forest fires, which restored some of the temperature regulation.     In the dry southwest of the United States, the change was not serious until far into the winter. To be sure, San Francisco was for the first time without her famous fogs, but California, used to long dry summers, did not feel the pinch until the spring of 1951, when the snow run-off failed because there was no snow.         25         By this time the catastrophe had become world-wide. With the covering of the Indian Ocean, the torrential rains of the monsoon failed, and the jungles of southeast Asia sweltered and turned brown. Rivers and swamps vanished, and fierce head-hunters, in terror as elemental as that of the jungle animals, came down the dry stream beds until 2aey reached the salty ocean.     The exact courses of the meterological changes have een amply documented, and I shall not even attempt to race their general outline. The western shores of the c,:eans were affected first, with the failure of the moist trade winds and cyclones. Oddly, normal rainfall continued in the eastern United States for months; only later was it realized how much water could be taken up from supposedly dry land.     During all of this time, of course, the program of conservation and utilization of water went forward. In the United States, the Great Lakes were the key source. Pumping stations were established to supply an intensive irrigation project for the raising of food. Had only the population of the central states been involved, this reservoir would have lasted for twenty years, but unfortunately, the Great Lakes were unique on earth. In Europe and Asia, and even in the American west, the local water supplies were nowhere near sufficient.     The first blow to the west came with the shutting off of all hydroelectric power. Overnight, Los Angeles was back in the gaslight era, with the closing down of Boulder Dam. The power output of available steam-generating plants was diverted to vital industrial uses. In a week, after a vain appeal for voluntary rationing of city water, the mains were shut off and water was delivered by tank truck. But, even with these desperate measures in force, people would slip out at night with a pail in the vain hope of keeping lawn or flowers alive. Illegal watering became a serious crime throughout the United States.     From the very start people were assured that they would not die of thirst. If drinking water was the only requirement, humanity could exist for centuries on the available fresh water. The fatal lack was food--food which could only be raised with the aid of water.     I will not bore you with figures on the water   consump     26         tion of various crops, nor with an account of the frantic research which was put under way to determine which crops required the least water. No matter how the figures were juggled, the answer always came out the same--death for most of the race in five years, by slow starvation.         It was at this point that the secret conferences began. No word of these was ever released to the press, but it got around. Humanity was doomed, but some might be saved. If the population were reduced to a tenth, that tenth could survive. But only if the reduction was made quickly. And so the fear of the bombSchneider's terrible discovery which had been completely forgotten--revived. Rumors spread malignantly through the hot dry spring of 1951. Soviet -Russia was preparing to wipe out the population of America-in one super raid, and then seize control of the Great Lakes.' Meetings were called in. Washington, under a tropic sun which raised day temperatures to 110 degrees, and in the depths of arctic nights which saw ponds frozen over in a few hours. Several times Dr. Schneider was seen hurrying in and out of the Pentagon. Obviously, something was up. America would strike first, would save herself by stopping the aggressor before he could strike.     And then the incredible happened. The President announced that a broadcast of "historic importance" would be made at 9 p.m. Eastern time, June 10, 1951. At that hour the greatest radio audience of all time assembled. Magically the lights of Los Angeles and other coast cities came on--under orders from Washington, the penstocks of Boulder Dam had been opened, and the great generators were again turning. Wondering, the people listened.     The broadcast proceeded without the formality and fanfare usual on such occasions. Obviously everyone in Washington was too tired for ceremony. An announcer stated: "Ladies and gentlemen, the President," and then the tired, familiar voice began, without even the usual "Fellow citizens."     "You have been very patient with us in these difficult times, and I am happy to say that a solution has been reached which will give all of us a good fighting chance to survive. This solution is not war. The heads of the   gev     27         ernments of Britain, France, China and the Soviet Union are with me here Wday to coordinate work in their countries with us. The real hero of the occasion is also here today, and I shall let him explain the proposal he brought to us four weeks ago.I present Dr. Alexander Schneider."     Ordway and I were listening over the small radio in my office. I suppose our reaction was typical, for I recall that he exclaimed: "What, mass suicide by the lead bomb?" Then we listened. It was the first time I had ever heard he physicist. His voice was high-pitched, uncertain, and eemed at times about to break altogether. His delivery nas slow and hesitating at first, but became more confident is he went along.     "Ladies and gentlemen: On May 14th I contacted the President with regard to a suggestion concerning the present.., ah... difficulty in which.., ah... many of us find ourselves. Calculation indicates that the fission of lead liberates two billion electron volts of energy, or, in more familiar terms, one pound of lead will produce 3.96 X 10zBritish Thermal Units. This process, in contrast to the fission of plutonium, may be caused to proceed at a moderate rate. The expenditure of a pound of lead is sufficient to evaporate forty-four million gallons of water. Since the annual production of lead is just short of a million tons per year, it is not difficult to see that a very large quantity of water may be evaporated. The technological problems are not of a too serious nature. I thank you."     The voice ended abruptly. Fred and I looked at each other blankly for an instant, and then the President's voice broke in, quite obviously extemporaneously.     "What Dr. Schneider means," he said a bit testily, "is that we may uso atomic energy from lead to distill fresh water from the ocean for irrigation, until the Z-acid is gone from the ocean .and normal evaporation can commence again."     Well, that was it. Fred and I literally jumped from our chairs, with most unacademic howls of joy, and completely missed the similar announcements made in French, Russian, Chinese and all the other languages of the globe. The public reaction throughout the world was, as you well know from history, a riot almost as devastating as a lead bomb. The relief was simply tremendous. For a couple of         28         days nothing could be.done toward implementing Schneider's proposal, because there was no labor available. Then everyone went to work.     The work was divided into two phases. The first job was the locating of tremendous stills along the coast adjacent to arable land, with pipe lines connecting them to the fields. The first system in operation, as I recall, was at San Luis Obispo, and opened the whole Salinas Valley to cultivation. The second was at Bombay. After that stills were set up by the thousands, until the inevitable bottle- neck was reached in the manufacture of pumps and pipe         When this point was reached, the second planned phase of the project began. Evaporation plants were set up at coastal locations where onshore winds prevailed, and immense jefs of steam were simply shot into the air, to be carried inland. The first plants had little effect on the weather, but at last, after almost a thousand stations had been established along the California coast, the first dividends came, in the form of a cloud--a white, natural cloud---over the Sierra Nevada range.     People drove hundreds of miles to see that first cloud, and the others which soon followed. And then, on the day the six thousandth evaporation plant was set up, there was a thunderstorm in the mountains. As the precipitation moved to the valleys, people rushed from their homes to feel the raindrops. Men and women threw themselves into the gutters to soak up the first muddy water, and churches held open-air services in the rain.     The showers really weren't much, according to present-day standards. They were scattered and light; at its best, our artificial weather was very close to desert climate. But it made dry farming possible, and along with the irrigation stills and rigorous evaporation control, it brought back food production, first to normal, and then to a level beyond anything the world had ever seen before. For there was now a new factor present, which had never existed before, even in the lusbest pre-drought years. That was the factor of world-wide human co-operation. For the first time in all history, everyone was working for the common benefit of humanity. For the first time thought and energy were directed away from war, and toward a constructive project.         29         Where all the efforts of diplomats had failed, the grim necessity of survival succeeded. The heads of the States gathered to save themselves, and then, by a miracle, stayed together.     Well, there is little more for me to say tonight. You all know how the world has been transformed. Doctors Schneider and Ordway were both proclaimed heroes, and both created a sensation by being most embarrassed about the whole thing. I doubt if the public ever did understand the view which they took of the matter, although I believe that most scientists had some appreciation of the amazing way in which Providence, or at least something resembling that agency, stepped in, particularly with regard to the timing.     I think that there is no better way for me to close, than to quote a statement made by Schneider a few years ago, upon his retirement from the directorship of the ADA, which is, as you know, strictly honorary, as the ADA has little to do. He said earnestly:     "Dr. Ordway and I have always maintained that we are fraudulent heroes. Either of our discoveries, by itself, would have destroyed humanity. If they had been made at different times--even so little as a year apart--the end would have been disaster. The fact that they came together, and in such a way that their application could cause so much good, must remain in my mind the most wonderful coincidence in history. Either that, or we must assume that it was all the result of the conscious effort of some superhuman power. Which it was, I am not prepared to state.'*         3O         you ntay think you don't need telling, all this business drilling Ior oil can go too [ar.         THE WOUND     by Howard Fast         Max Gaffey always insisted that the essence of the oil industry could be summed up in a simple statement: the fight .thing in the wrong place. My wife, Martha, always disliked him and said that he was .a spoiler. I suppose he was, but how was he different from any of us in that sense? We were all spoilers, and if we were not the actual thing, we invested in it and thereby became rich. I myself had invested the small nest egg that a college professor puts away in a stock Max Gaffey gave me. It was called Thunder Inc., and the company's function was to use atomic bombs to release natural gas and oil locked up in the vast untouched shale deposits that we have here in the United States.     Oil shale is not a very economical source of oil. The oil is locked up in the shale, and about 60 per cent of the total cost of shale oil consists of laborious methods of mining the shale, crushing it to release the oil, and then disposing of the spent shale.     Gaffey sold to Thunder Inc. an entirely new method, which involved the use of surplus atomic bombs for the release of shale oil. In very simplistic terms, a deep hole is bored in shale-oil deposits. Then an atomic bomb is lowered to the bottom of this hole, after which the hole is plugged and the bomb is detonated. Theoretically, the heat and force of the atomic explosion crushes the shale and releases the oil to fill the underground cavern formed by the gigantic force of the bomb. The oil does not burn because the hole is sealed, and thereby, for a compara.         tively small cost, untold amounts of oil can be tapped and released--enough perhaps to last until that time when we experience a complete conversion to atomic energy--so vast are shale deposits.     Such at least was the way Max Gaffey put the proposition to me, in a sort of mutual brain-picking operation. He had the utmost admiration for my knowledge of the earth's crust, and I had an equally profound admiration for his ability to make two or five or ten dollars appear where only one had been before.     My wife disliked him and his notions, and most of all the proposal to feed atomic bombs into the earth's crust.     "It's wrong," she said flatly. "I don't know why or how, but this I do know, that everything connected with that wretched bomb is wrong."     "Yet couldn't you look at this as a sort of salvation?" I argued. "Here we are in these United States with enough atom bombs to destroy life on ten earths the size of ours---and every one of those bombs represents an investment of millions of dollars. I could not agree more when you hold that those bombs are the most hideous and frightful things the mind of man ever conceived."     "Then how on earth can you speak of salvation?" "Because so long as those bombs sit here, they represent a constant threat--day and night the threat that some feather-brained general or brainless politician will begin the process of throwing them at our neighbors. But here Gaffey had come up with a peaceful use for the bomb. Don't you see what that means?"     'Tm afraid I don't," Martha said.     "It means that we can use the darrm bombs for something other than suicidebecause ff this starts, it's tho end of mankind. But there are oil-shale and gas-shale deposits all over the earth, and if we can use the bomb to supply man with a century of fuel, not to mention the chemical by-products, we may just find a way to dispose of those filthy bombs."         "Oh, you don't believe that for a moment," Martha snorted.     "I do. I certainly do."     And I think I did. I went over the plans that Gaffey and his associates had worked out, and I could not find any         flaw. If the hole were plugged properly, there would be no fallout. We knew that and we had the know-how to plug the hole, and we had proven it in at least twenty underground explosions. The earth tremor would be inconsequential; in spite of the heat, the oil would not ignite, and in spite of the cost of the atom bombs, the savings would be monumental. In fact, Gaffey hinted that some accommodation between the government and Thunder Inc. was in the process of being worked out, and if it went through as planned, the atom bombs might just cost Thunder Inc. nothing at all, the whole thing being in the way of an experiment for the sOCial good.     After all, Thunder Inc. did not own any oil-shale deposits, nor was it in the oil business. It was simply a service organization with the proper kno-how, and for a fee---if the-process worked--it would release the oil for others. Whht the fee would be was left unsaid, but Max Gaffey, in return' for my consultation, suggested that I might buy a 'few shares, not only of Thunder Inc., but of General Shale Holdings.     I had altogether about ten thousand dollars in savings available and another ten thousand in American Telephone and government bonds. Martha had a bit of money of her o..wn, but I left that alone, and without telling her, I sold my Telephone stock and my bonds. Thunder Inc. was selling at five dollars a share, and I bought two thousand shares. General Shale was selling for two dollars, and I bought four thousand shares. I saw nothing immoral--as business morality was calculated--in the procedures adopted by Thunder Inc. Its relationship to the government was no different than the relationship of various other companies, and my own process of investment was perfectly straightforward and honorable. I was not even the recipient of secret information, for the atom-bomb---shale-oil proposal had been widely publicized if little believed.     Even before the first test explosion was undertaken, the stock of Thunder Inc. went from five to sixty-five dollars a share. My ten thousand dollars became one hundred and thirty thousand, and that doubled again a year later. The four thousand shares of General Shale went up to eighteen dollars a share; and from a moderately poor   pro     fessor I became a moderately rich professor. When finally, almost two years after Max Gaffey first approached me, they exploded the first atom bomb in a shaft reamed in the oil-shale deposits, I had abandoned the simple anxieties of the poor and had developed an entirely new set tailored for the upper middle class. We became a two-car family, and a reluctant Martha joined me in shopping for a larger house. In the new house, Oaffey and his wife came to dinner, and Martha armed herself with two stiff martinis. Then she was quietly pome until Gaffey began to talk about the social good. He painted a bright picture of what shale oil could do and how rich we might well become.     "Oh, yes---yes," Martha agreed. "Polute the atmosphere, kill more people with more cars, increase the speed with which we can buzz around in circles and get precisely nowhere."     "Oh, you're a pessimist," said Gaffey's wale, who was young and pretty but no mental giant.     "Of course there are two sides to it," Gaffey admitted. "It's a question of controls. You can't stop progresa, but it seems to me that you can direct it."     'l'he way we've been directing it--so that our rivers stink and our lakes are sewers of dead fish and our atmosphere is polluted and our birds are poisoned by DDT and our natural resources are spoiled. We are all spoilers, aren't we?"     "Come now," I protested, "this is the way it is, and all         of us are indignant about it, Martha." "Are you reallyT' "I think so."     "Men have always dug in the earth," Gey said.     "Otherwise we'd still be in the Stone Age."     "And perhaps a good bit happier."     "No, no, no," I said. "The Stone Age was a very unpleasant time, Martha. You don't wish us back there."     "Do you remember," Martha said slowly, "how there was a time when men used to speak about the earth our mother? It was Mother Earth, and they believed it. She     was the source of life and being."     "She still is."     "You've sucked her dry," Martha said curiously. "When a woman is sucked dry, her children perish."         34         It was an odd and poetical thing to say, and, as I thought, in 'bad taste. I punished Martha by leaving Mrs. Gaffey with her, with the excuse that Max and I had some business matters to discuss, which indeed we did. We went into the new study in the new house and we lit fifty-cent cigars, and Max told me about the thing they had aptly named "Project Hades."     'øThe point is," Max said, "that I can get you into this at the very beginning. At the bottom. There are eleven companies involvedmvery solid and reputable companies" -he named them, and I was duly impressed--"who are puttirgg up the capital for what will be a subsidiary of Thunder Inc. For their money they get a twenty-five-percent interest. There is also ten percent, in the form of stock warrants, put aside for consultation and advice, and you will understand why. I can fit you in for one and a half prcefit roughly three quarters of a million---simply for a few 'eeks of your time, and we will pay all expenses, plus an opinion."     "It sounds interesting."     "It should sound more than that. If Project Hades works, your interest will increase tenfold within a matter of five years. It's the shortest cut to being a milllonairo that I know."     "All right--I'm more than interested. Go on."     Gaffey took a map of Arizona out of his picket, unfolded it, and pointed to a marked-off area. "Here," he said, "is what shouldmaccording to ail our geological knowledge--be one of the richest oil-bearing areas in tho country. Do you agree?"     "Yes, I know the area," I replied. "Ie been over it. Its oil potential is purely theoretical. No one has ever brought     in anything there--not even salt water. It's dry and dead." "Why?"     I shrugged. 'Fhat's the way it is. If we could locate oil through geological premise and theory, you and I would both be richer than Getty. The fact of the matter is, as you well know, that sometimes it's there and sometimes it isn't. More often it isn't."     "Why? We know our job. We drill in the right places." "What are you getting at Max?"     "A speculationparticularly for this area. We have   dis     cussed this speculation for months. We have tested it as best we can. We have examined it from every possible angle. And now we're ready to blow about five million     dollars to test our hypothesi?--providing "     "Providing what?"     "That your expert opinion agrees with ours. In other words, we've cast the die with you. You look at the situation and tell us to go ahead--we go ahead. You look at it and tell us it's a crock of beans--well, we fold our tents     like the Arabs and silently steal away."     "Just on my say-so?"     "Just on your brains and know-how."     "Max, aren't you barking up the wrong tree? I'm a simple professor of geology at an unimportant western state university, and there are at Ieast twenty men in the field who can teach' me the right time "     "Not in our opinion. Not on where the stuff is. We know who's in the field and we know their track records. You keep your light under a bushel, but we know what we want. So don't argue. It's either a deal or it isn't. Well?"     "How the devil can I answer you when I don't even know what you're talking about?"     "All right--I'll spell it out, quick and simple. The oil was there once, right where it should be. Then a natural convulsion--a very deep fault. The earth cracked anal the oil flowed down, deep down, and now giant pockets of it     are buried there where no drill can reach them."     "How deep?"     "Who knows? Fifteen, twenty miles."     'øIlaat's deep."     "Maybe deeper. When you think of that kind of distance under the surface, you're in a darker mystery than Mars or Venus---all of which you know."     "All of which I know." I had a bad, uneasy feeling, and     some of it must have shown in my face.     "What's wrong?"     "I don't know. Why don't you leave it alone, Max?" ,,Why?"     "Come on, Max--we're not talking about drilling for oil. Fifteen, twenty miles. There's a rig down near the Pecos in Texas and they've just passed the twenty-five-thousand-foot level, and that's about it. Oh, maybe another         36         thousand, but you're talking about oil that's buried in one hundred-thousand feet of crust. You can't drill for it; you     can only go in and "     "And what?"     "Blast it out."     "Of course--and hoTM do you fault us for that? What's wrong with it? We know-or least we have good reason to believe--that there's a fissure that opened and closed. The oil should be under tremendous pressure. We put in an atom bomb--a bigger bomb than we ever used befor --and we blast that fissure open again. Great God almighty, that should be the biggest gusher in all the history of gushers."         "You've drilled the hole already, haven't you, Max?" 'hat'.s right." "How deep?"     "Twenty-two thousand feet."     "Andyou have the bomb?"     'Max nodded. "We have the bomb. We've been working on this for five years, 'and seven months ago the boys in Washington cleared the bomb. It's out there in Arizona waiting- "     "For what?"     "For you to look everything over and tell us to go ahead."     "Why? We have enough oil "     "Like hell we have! You know damn well why--and do you imagine we can drop it now after all the money and time that's been invested in this?"     "You said you'd drop it if I said so."     "As a geologist in our pay, and I know you well enough to know what that means in terms of your professional skill and pride."     I stayed up half that night talking with Martha about it and trying to fit it into some kind of moral position. But the only thing I could come up with was the fact that here was one less atom bomb to murder man and destroy the     life of the earth, and that I could not argue with. A day later I was at the drilling site in Arizona.     The spot was well chosen. From every point of view thia was an oil explorer's dream, and I suppose that fact had been duly noted for the past haft century, for there wer         37         the mouldering remains of a hundred futile rigs, rotting patterns of wooden and metal sticks as far as one could see, abandoned shacks, trailers left with lost hopes, ancient trucks, rusting gears, piles of abandoned pipe--all testifying to the hope that springs eternal in the wildcatter'a breast.     Thunder Inc. was something else, a great installation in the middle of the deep valley, a drilling rig larger and more complex than any I had ever seen, a wall to contain the oil should they fail to cap it immediately, a machine shop, a small generating plant, at least a hundred vehicles of various sorts, and perhaps fifty mobile homes. The very extent and vastness of the action here deep in the badlands was breathtaking; and I let Max know what I thought of his statement that all this would be abandoned if I said that the idea was worthless.     "Maybe yes--maybe no. What do you say?"     "Give me time."     "Absolutely, all the time you want."     Never have I been treated with such respect. I prowled all over the place and I rode a jeep around and about and back and forth and up into the hills and down again; but no matter how long I prowled and sniffed and estimated, mine would be no more than an educated guess. I was also certain that they would not give up the project if I disapproved and said that it would be a washout. They believed in me as a sort of oil-dowser, especially ff I told them to go ahead. What they were really seeking was an expert's affirmation of their own faith. And that was apparent from the fact that they had already drilled an expensive twenty-two-thousand-foot hole and had set up all this equipment. If I told them they were wrong, their faith might be shaken a little, but they would recover and find themselves another dowser.     I told this to Martha when I telephoned her.     "Well, what do you honestly think?"     "It's oil country. But I'm not the first one to come up with that brilliant observation. The point isdoes their     explanation account for the lack of oil?"     "Does it?"     "I don't know. No one knows. And they're dangling a million dollars right in front of my nose."         38         "I can't help you," Martha said. "You've got to play this one yourself."     Of course she couldn't help me. No one could havo helped me. It was too far down, too deeply hidden. We knew what the other 'side of the moon looked like and we knew something about Mars and other planets, but what have we ever known about ourselves and the placo where we live?     The day after I spoke to Martha, ! met with Max and his board of directors.     "I agree," I told them. "The oil should be there. My opinion is that you should go ahead and try the blast."     They questioned me after that for about an hour, but when you play the roll of a dowser, questions and answers become a sort of magical ritual. The plain fact of the matter is that no one had ever exploded a bomb of such power at stich a depth, and until it was done, no one knew what would happen.     I watched the preparations for the explosion with great interest. The bomb, with its implosion casing, was specially made for this task--or remade would be a bettr way of putting it--very long, almost twenty feet, very slim. It was armed after it was in the rigging, and then the board of directors, engineers, technicians, newspapermen, Max, and myself retreated to the concrete shelter and control stations, which had been built almost a mile away from the shaft. Closed-circuit television linked us with the hole; and while no one expected the explosion to do any more than jar the earth heavily at the surface, the Atomic Energy Commission specified the precautions we took.     We remained in the shelter for five hours while the bomb made its long descent--until at last our instruments told us that it rested on the bottom of the drill hole. Then we had a simple countdown, and the chairman of the board pressed the red button. Red and white buttons are man's glory. Press a white button and a bell rings or an electric light goes on; press a red button and the hellish force of a sun comes into being--this time five miles neath the earth's surface.     Perhaps it was this part and point in the earth's surface; perhaps there was no other place where exactly the         same thing would have happened; perhaps the fault that drained away the oil was a deeper fault than we had ever imagined. Actually we will never know; we only saw what we saw, watching it through the closed-circuit TV. We saw the earth swell. The swell rose up like a bubble--a bubble about two hundred yards in diameter--and then the surface of the bubble dissipated in a column of dust or smoke that rose up perhaps five hundred feet from the valley bottom, stayed a moment with the lowering sun behind it, like the very column of fire out of Sinai, and then lifted whole and broke suddenly in the wind. Even in the shelter we heard the screaming rumble of sound, and as the face of the enormous hole that the dust had left cleared, there bubbled up a column of oil perhaps a hundred feet in diameter. Or was it oil?     The moment we saw it, a tremendous cheer went up in the shelter, and then the cheer cut off in its own echo. Our closed-circuit system was color television, and this column of oil was bright red.     "Red oil," someone whispered.     Then it was quiet.     "When can we get out?" someone else demanded. "Another ten minutes."     The dust was up and away in the opposite direction, and for ten minutes we stood and watched the bright red oil bubble out of the hole, forming a great pond within the retaining walls, and filling the space with amazing rapidity and lapping over the walls, for the flow must have been a hundred thousand gallons a second or even more, and then outside of the walls and a thickness of it all across the valley floor, rising so quickly that from above, where we were, we saw that we would be cut off from the entire installation. At that point we didn't wait, but took our chances with the radiation and raced down the desert hillside toward the hole and the mobile homes and the trucks --but not quickly enough. We came to a stop at the edge of a great lake of red off.     "It's not red oil," someone said. "Goddamnit, it's not oil!" "The hell it's not! It's oil?'     We were moving back as it spread and rose and covered         4O         the trucks and houses, and then it reached a gap in the valley and poured through and down across the desert, into the darkness of the shadows that the big rocks threw --flashing red in the sunset and later black in the darkness.     Someone touched it and put a hand to his mouth.     "It's blood."     Max was next to me. "He's crazy," Max said.     Someone else said that it was blod.     I put a finger into the red fluid and raised it to my nose. It was warm, almost hot, and there was no mistaking the smell of hot, fresh blood. I tasted it with the tip of my tongue.     "What is it?" Max whispered.     The others gathered around ow--silent, with the red ù s,un setting across the red lake and the red reflected on     our faces, ottr eyes glinting with the red. "Jesus God, wffat is it?" Max demanded, , "It's blood," I replied. "From where?"     Then we were all silent.     We spent the night on the top of the butte where the shelter had been built, and in the morning, all around us, as far as we could see, there was a hot, steaming sea of red blood, the smell so thick and heavy that we were all sick from it; and all of us vomited half a dozen times before the helicopters came for us and took us away.     The day after I returned home, Martha and I were sitting in the living room, she with a book and I with the paper, where ! had read about their trying to cap the thing, except that even with diving suits they could not get down to where it was; and she looked up from her book and said:     "Do you remember the thing about the mother?"     "What thing?"     "A very old thing. I think I heard once that it was half as old as time, or maybe a Greek fable or something of the sort--but anyway, the mother has one son, who is the joy of her heart and all the rest that a son could be to a mother, and then the son falls in love with or under the spell of a beautiful and wicked woman--very wicked and         41         very beautiful. And he desires to please her, oh, he does indeed, and he says to her, 'Whatever you desire, I will bring it to you'. "     "Which is nothing to say to any woman, but ever," I put in.     "I won't quarrel with that," Martha said mildly, "bemuse when he does put it to her, she replies that what she desires most on this earth is the living heart of his mother, plucked from her breast. So what does this worthless and murderous idiot male do, but race home to his mother, and then out with a knife, ripping her breast to belly and     tearing the living heart out of her body "     "I don't like your story."     "--and with the heart in his hand, he blithely dashes back toward his ladylove. But on the way through the forest he catches his toe on a root, stumbles, and falls headlong, the mother's heart knocked out of his hand. And as he pulls himself up and approaches the heart, it says to him, 'Did you hurt yourself when you fell, my 8on?'"     "Lovely story. What does it prove?"     "Nothing, I suppose. Will they ever stop the bleeding?     Will they ever close the wound?"     "I don't think so."     'rhen will your mother bleed to death"     "My mother?"         "Oh."     "My mother," Martha said. "Will she bleed to death?" "I suppose so."     "That's all you can say--I suppose so?"     "What else?"     "Suppose you had told them not to go ahead?"     "You asked me that twenty times, Martha. I told you,     They would have gotten another dowser." "And another? And anotherT' "Yes."     "Why?" she cried out. "For god's sake, whyS"     "I don't know."     "But you lousy men know everything else."     "Mostly we only know how to kill it. That's not everything else. We never learned to make anything alive."         42         "And now it's too late," Martha said.     "It's too late, yes," I agreed, and I went back to reading the paper. But Martha just sat there, the open book in her lap, looking at me; and then after a while she closed the book and Went upstaLrs to         II         Three Green Blades of Grass         Philip K. Dick: THE GOLDEN     MAN     Allen K. Lanq: GUEST EXPERT     Richard Stockb. am: THE     VALLEY         51     83         86         In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, sermons were so popular they could not be confined only to churches. Many divines found a sale for their printed sermons, which .gentlemen would bind in treed calf and place in imposing rows in their libraries.     The fashion for sermons has never died. It lives on in science fiction. Indeed, in the last decade, sermons have acquired new life, rather like Frankenstein's monster, and threatened to take over completely. Many authors, among them well-lmow, n names like Robert Silverberg, John Bruuner, and Mack Reynolds, have devoted a considerable amount of time and talent to showing/as how rapidly the human race is ruining itself by over-populating, overproducing, over-polluting, and all the rest of it. One bows the head in agreement at first, saying yes, yes, it's all my fault.     But I once caught myself doing the head-bowing act while reading Silverberg's novel The Time-Hoppers on the Norfolk Broads. Now The Time-Hoppers is a novel of many small delights, written before Silverberg turned modern and became New Silverberg. (I'm not la. ughing at Bob Silverberg; he is a respected friend of mine. I greatly admire both his courage in making the change and the success with which he has forged ahead since. But I happen to enjoy also the oeuvre of the Late Early Silverberg period.)     The delights of The Time-Hoppers include the precision with which the buttoned-down little middle-aged central character is drawn, the modesty of his African bolt-hole, and suchlike. In the background is the whole loused-up world only too familiar from fifties and sixties think-tank projections of western "progress," with one vast megalopolis covering all the Eastern seaboard of the States, automation, massive unemployment, and sterile pleasures.     Before I get back to what I was doing reading this novel on the Norfolk Broads, let me say as an aside that         47         events of recent years have made that megalopolis less certain than it oaee was. Five years ago, Silverberg's model was orthodoxy itself, its probability seemed almost 99.00 per cent, and one argued against it at one's peril.     Along came the Arab nations and changed all that, by refusing to increase the rate at which oil was pumped out of the ground. It has taken the general public a while to realise how widely and deeply their civilization w03 based on that cheap oil from the war-tom Middle East. Even sf writers seem to have been a bit vague about the facts. The unlimited technological progress prognosticated by writers like Isaac Asimov seems to take little note of fossil fuel--though of course one is always at liberty to invent miracle fuels. (Last week as I write, a fresh threat to peace in the Middle East prompted some Arab states to talk about about a fifteen per cent cutback in oil production. That would really do itl With suoh alarms about, people start hoping for let-outs like Uti Geller, and Edc Laithwaite's new anti-gravity machino. We really need that miracle fuel.)     On the Norfolk Broads, comfortably drifting along reading Silverberg, I was floating above one of the miracle fuels of the past.     There was Silverberg telling me how we were rulnlng our precious earthly heritage. There was I, moving over a complex and unique stretch of waterway, haunted by rare birds, alive with fish, drowsy with lovely trees and plants. The Broads are not really very extensive, even by English standards, yet they encompass great variety. Each broad has a different setting, some being small and intimate, set about with trees and tall rushes, while others like Hiclding Broad are open to the sky and can be dangeroua places at times.     Only this century was it discovered that the Broads are not natural but artificial. They were tubaries in medieval times. This was fenland, from which the great abbeys of Norfolk cut their turf for fuel. Turf formed a considerable part of the medieval economy and, by the fourteenth century, some 2600 acres of Norfolk had been spoiled by turf-pits. These pits flooded and were gradually abandoned. Soon their very purpose was forgotten. Now they form the best-known and most-used lakc-system in tho         48         British Isles. One generation's pollution is another generation's pleasure.     Of course, Norfolk will never be the same as it was before the great change. But what is final is not necessarily fatal.     Which is perhaps an unnecessarily roundabout way of saying that the solemn theme of over-population, which many regard as Earth's current central problem, is represented here by Allen Lane's little joke (and, incidentally, his first published story). Over-population is a serious question, no doubt of it. But sermons won't solve it--and this couatry was over-populated way back in medieval times. They had need for a miracle fuel even then.     Richard Stockham's nice story is less about technology than about a change of mind towards it. Hence its pres-euee in this section. Hence, too, those three blades of grass, which stand for all the vulnerable green good things towards, which technology--or the men who wield it--is seen often to be opposed.     If medieval technology was a pain in the neck, how much more so is present-day technology It is not only increasing unity of political purpose in the Middle East which strikes at western supremacy; there is also the diffusion of nuclear weapons among minor nations. The hitherto unchallenged power-balance is shifting.     Just now, sf stories about nuclear bombs and radiation and mutation are out of fashion. That could be because we had a glut of them in the fifties. Often, they ran on too-easy assumptions--for instance, that radiation would bring mutations in human stock, and that such mutations might stand apart from the human stock and challenge it. There were lots of stories about mutants with telepathic powers or super-powers, many of them more sensational than credible.     The Philip K. Dick novella which follows may seem at first to fall into such a category. But Dick is never commonplace. Moreover, he uses the theme in a disconcerting way of his own. We entirely see why his golden man is both successful and loathsome. Nor does the surface improbability of such a mutation matter, because, in this author's hands, the mutant becomes part of something we already find all too probable, evil wrapped in an insidiously beautiful package.         Well, man may be superceded one day. We ourselves are late arrivals on the planet. There is a new animal surviving and, at times, reaching plague proportions in the Norfolk Broads. The coypu, a South American rodent, was bred on Norfolk farms for its dense coat, marketed as nutria fur. During World War II, some coypus escaped. They survived, reproduced rapidly, colonised the-broad-land waterways, changed some of their old habits, and adapted well to the new environment--so well that they became a menace and were hunted.     They still have not been entirely exterminated. After each purge, the coypus come back smiling. They are big placid creatures with two cutesy orange front teeth. They live on vegetation and have contented family lives. In captivity, they eat liquorice allsorts. Maybe they--and we --are just waiting for Tho Golden Coypu to come along.. ù         5O         The powvrs o! earth had finally exterminated the last of the horrible tribes of mutant [reaks spawned by atomic *var. Menace to homo sapient supremacy was about ended rebut not quite. For out o! the countryside came a great, golden, godlike youth whose extraordinary powers, combining the world's oldest and newest methods o! survival promied a new and superior type of mankind . .,         THE GOLDEN MAN by Philip K. Dick         "Is it always hot like this?" the salesman demanded. He addressed everybody at the lunch counter and in the shabby booths against the wall. A middle-aged fat man with the good-natured smile, rumpled gray suit, sweat-stained white shixt, a drooping bow)Jo, and a panama hat.     "Only in the summer," the waitress answered.     None of the others stirred. The teen-age boy and girl in one of the booths, eyes fixed intently on each other. Two workmen, sleeves rolled up, arms dark and hairy, eating bean soup and rolls. A lean, weathered farmer. An elderly businessman in a blue-serge suit, vest and pocket watch. A dark rat-faced cab driver drinking coffee. A tired woman who had come in to get off her feet and put down her bundles.     The salesman got out a package of cigarettes. He glanced curiously around the dingy cafe, lit up, leaned his arms on the counter, and said to the man next to him. "What's the name of this town?"     The man grunted. "Walnut Creek."     The salesman sipped at his coke for awhile, his cigarette held loosely between his plump white fingers. Presently he reached in his coat and brought out a leather wallet. For a long time he leafed thoughtfully through         51         cards and papers, bits of notes, ticket stubs, endless odds and ends, soiled fragments---and finally a photograph.     He grinned at the photograph, and then began to chuckle, a Iow moist rasp. "Look at this," he said to the man beside him.     The man went on reading his newspaper.     "Hey, look at this." The salesman nudged him with his elbow and pushed the photograph at him. "How's that strike you?"     Annoyed, the man glanced briefly at the photograph. It showed a nude woman, from the waist up. Perhaps thirty-five years old. Face turned away. Body white and flabby. With eight breasts.     "Ever seen anything like that?" the salesman chuckled, his little red eyes dancing. His face broke into lewd smiles and again he nudged the man.     "I've seen that before." Disgusted, the man reamed reading his newspaper.     The salesman noticed the lean old farmer was look-lng at the picture. He passed it genially over to him. "How's that strike you, pop? Pretty good stuff, eh?"     The farmer examined the picture solemnly. He turned it over, studied the creased back, took a second look at the front, then tossed it to the salesman. It slid from the counter, turned over a couple of times, and fell to the floor face up.     The salesman picked it up and brushed it off. Carefully, almost tenderly, he restored it to his wallet. The waitress' eyes flickered as she caught a glimpse of it.     "Damn nice," the salesman obssrved, with a wink. "Would not you say so?"     The waitress shrugged indifferently. "I don't know. I saw a lot of them around Denver. A whole colony."     "That's where this was taken. Denver DCA Camp." "Any still alive?" the farmer asked.     The salesman laughed harshly. "You kidding?" He made a short, sharp swipe with his hand. "Not any more."     They were all listening. Even the high school kids in the booth had stopped holding hands and were sitting up straight, eyes wide with fascination.     "Saw a funny kid down near San Diego," the farmer said. "Last year, some time. Had wings like a bat. Skin; not feathers. Skin and bone wings."         52         The rat-eyed taxi .driver chimed in. "That's nothing. There was a two-headed one in Detroit. I saw it on ex, hibit.'     "Was it alive?" the waitress asked.     "No. They'd already euthed it."     "In sociology," the high school boy spoke up, "we saw tapes of a whole lot of them. The winged kind from down south, the big-headed one they found in Germany, an awful-looking one with sort of cones, like an insect. And     'The worst of all," the elderly businessman stated, "are those English ones. That hid out in the coal mines. The ones they didn't find until last year." He shook his bead. "Forty years, down there in the mines, breeding and de veloping. Almost a hundred of them. Survivors from a group that went underground during the War."     "They just found a new kind in Sweden," the waitress said. "I was reading about it. Controls minds at a distance, they said. Only a couple of them. The DCA got there plenty fast."     "That's a variation of the New Zealand type," one of the workmen said. "It reads minds."     "Reading and controlling are two different things," the businessman said. "When I hear something like that I'm plenty glad there's the DCA."     "There was a type they found right after the War," the farmer said. "In Siberia. Had the ability to control objects. Psychokinetic ability. The Soviet DCA got it right away. Nobody remembers that any more."     "I remember that," the businessman said. "I was just a kid, then. I remember because that was the first deeve I ever heard of. My father called me into the livingroom and told me and my brothers and sisters. We were still rebuilding the house. That was in the days when the DCA inspected everyone and stamped their arms." He held up his thin, gnarled wrist. "I was stamped there, sixty years ago."     "Now they just have the birth inspection," the waitress said. She shivered. "There was one in San Francisco this month. First in over a year. They thought it was over, around here."     "It's been dwindling," the taxi driver said. "Frisco wasn't too bad hit. Not like some. Not like Detroit."         'aey still get ten or fifteen a year in Detroit," the high school boy said. "All around there. Lots of pools still left. People go into them, in spite of the robot signs."     "What kind was this one?" the salesman asked. ''he one they found in San Francisco."     The waitress gestured. "Common type. The kind with no toes. Bent over. Big eyes."     "The nocturnal type," the salesman said.     "The mother had hid it. They say it was three years old. She got the doctor to forge the DCA chit. Old friend of the family."     The salesman had finished his coke. He sat playing idly with his cigarette, listening to the hum of talk he had set into motion. The high school boy was leaning excitedly toward the girl across from him, impressing her with his fund of knowledge. The lean farmer and the businessman were huddled together, remembering the old days, the last years of the War, before the first Ten-Year Reconstruction Plan. The taxi driver and the two workmen were swapping yarns about their own experiences.     The salesman caught the waitress's attention. "I guess," he said thoughtfully, 'that one in Frisco caused quite a     stir. Something like that happening so close."     '$'eah," the waitress murmured.     "This side of the Bay wasn't really hit," the salesman continued. "You never get any of them over here."     "No." The waitresB moved abruptly. "None in this area. Ever." She scooped up dirty dishes from the comater and headed toward the back.     "Never?" the salesman asked, surprised. "You've never. had any deeves on this side of the Bay?"     "No. None." She disappeared into the back, where the fry cook stood by his burners, white apron and tattooed wrists. Her voice was a little too loud, a little too harsh and strained. It made tho farmer pause suddenly and glance up.     Silence dropped like a curtain. All sound cut off instantly. They were all gazing down at their food, suddenly tense and ominous.     "None around here," the taxi driver said, loudly and clearly, to no one in particular. "lqono ever."     "Sure," the salesman agreed genially. "I was only----"     54         "Make sure you get that straight," one of the workmen sai&     The salesman blinked. "Sure, buddy. Sure?' He fumbled nervously in his pocket. A quarter and a dime jangled to the floor and he hurriedly scooped them up. "bio   of     For a moment there was silence. Then the high school boy spoke up, aware for the first time that nobody was saying anything. "I heard something," he began eagerly, voice full of importance. "Somebody said they saw something up by the Iohnson farm that looked like it was one of those "     "Shut up," the businessman said, without turning his head. Scarlet-faced, the boy sagged in his seat. His voice -wavered and broke off. He peered hastily down at his ' hafids and swallowed unhappily.     Tile salesman paid the waiti'ess for his coke. "What's the quickest road to Frisco?" he began. But the waitress had already turned her back.     The people at the counter were immersed in their food. None of them looked up. They ate in frozen silence. Hostile, unfriendly faces, intent on their food.     The salesman picked up his bulging briefcase, pushed open the screen door, and stepped out into the blazing sunlight. He moved toward his battered 1978 Buick, parked a few meters up. A blue-shirted traffic cop was standing in the shade of an awning, talking languidly to a young woman in a yellow silk dress that clung moistly to her slim body.     The salesman paused a moment before he got into his car. He waved his hand and hailed the policeman. "Say, you know this town pretty good?"     The policeman eyed the salesman's rumpled gray suit, bow-tie, his sweat-stained shirt. The out-of-state license. "What do you want?"     "I'm looking for the Iohnson farm," the salesman said, "Here to see him about some litigation." He moved toward the policeman, a small white card between his     gers. "I'm his attorney--from the New York Guild. Can you tell me how to get out there? I haven't been through here in a couple of years."         $$         Nat Johnson gazed up at the noonday sun and saw that it was good. He sat sprawled out on the bottom step of the porch, a pipe between his yellowed teeth, a lithe, wiry man in red-checked shirt and canvas jeans, powerful hands, iron-gray hair that was still thick despite sixty-five years of active life.     He was watching the children play. Jean rushed laugh-lng in front of him, bosom heaving under her sweat shirt, black hair streaming behind her. She was sixteen, bright-eyed, legs strong and straight, slim young body bent slightly forward with the weight of the two horseshoes. After her scampered Dave, fourteen, white teeth and black hair, a handsome boy, a son to be proud of. Dave caught up with his sister, passed her, and reached the far peg. He stood waiting, legs apart, hands on his hips, his two horseshoes gripped easily. Gasping, Jean hurried toward him,     "Go aheadl" Dave shouted. "You shoot first. I'm waiting for you."     "So you can knock them away?"     "So I can knock them closer."     Jean tossed down one horseshoe and gripped the other with both hands, eyes on the distant peg. Her lithe body bent, one leg slid back, her spine arched. She took careful aim, closed one eye, and then expertly tossed the shoe. With a clang the shoe struck the distant peg, circled briefly around it, then bounced off again and rolled to one side. A cloud of dust rolled up.     "Not bad," Nat Johnson admitted, from his step. "Too hard, though. Take it easy." His chest swelled with pride as the girl's glistening, healthy body took aim and again threw. Two powerful, handsome children, almost ripe, on the verge of adulthood. Playing together in the hot sun. And there was Cris.     Cris stood by the porch, arms folded. He wasn't playing. He was watching. He had stood there since Dave and Jean had begun playing, the same half-intent, half-remote expression on his finely-cut face. As if he were seeing past them, beyond the two of them. Beyond the field, the barn, the creek bed, the rows of cedars.     "Come on Cris!" Jean called as she and Dave moved across the field to collect their horseshoes. "Don't you want to play?"         56         No, Cris didn't want to play. He never played. He was off in world of his own, a world into which none of     them could come. He never joined in anything, games or chores or family activities. He was by himself always. Remote, detached, aloof. Seeing past everyone and everything --that is, until all at once something clicked and he momentarily rephased, re-entered their world briefly.     Nat Johnson reached out and knocked his pipe against the step. He refilled it from his leather tobacco pouch, his eyes on his eldest son. Cris was now moving into life. Heading out onto the field. He walked slowly; arms folded calmly, as if he had, for the moment, descended from his own world into theirs. Jean didn't see him; she had turned her back and was getting ready to pitch.     "Hey," Dave said, startled. "Here's Cris."     -Cris reached his sister, stopped, and held out his hand. A' great dignified figure, calm and impassive. Uncertainly, lean gave him one of the horseshoes. "You want this? You Want to play?"     Cris said nothing. He bent slightly, a supple arc of his incredibly graceful body, then moved his arm in a blur of speed. The shoe saited, struck the far peg, and dizzily spun around it. Ringer.     The corners of Dave's mouth turned down. "What a lousy darn thing."     "Cris," Jean reproved. "You don't play fair."     No, Cris didn't play fair. He had watched half an hour--then come out and thrown once. One perfect toss, one dead ringer.     "He never makes a mistake," Dave complained.     Cris stood, face blank. A golden statue in the mid-day sun. Golden hair, skin, a light down of gold fuzz on his bare arms and legs.     Abruptly he stiffened. Nat sat up, startled. "What is it?" he barked.     Cris turned in a quick circle, magnificent body alert. "Cris!" Jean demanded. "What- "     Cris shot forward. Like a released energy beam he bounded across the field, over the fence, into the barn and out the other side. His flying figure seemed to skim over the dry grass as he descended into the barren creek-bed, between the cedars. A momentary flash of gold--and ho         57         was gone. Vanished. There was no sound, lxlo motion. He had utterly melted into the scenery.     "What was it this time?" Jean asked wearily. She came over to her father and threw herself down in the shade. Sweat glowed on her smooth neck and upper-lip; her     sweat shirt was streaked and damp. "What did he see?" "He was after something," Dave stated, coming up. Nat grunted. "Maybe. There's no telling."     "I guess I better tell mom not set a place for him," lean said. "He probably won't be back."     Anger and futility descended over Nat Johnson. No, he would not be back. Not for dinner and probably not the next day--or the one after that. He'd be gone God only knew how long. Or where. Or why. Off by himself, alone some place. "H I thought there was any use," Nat began, "I'd send you two after him. But there's no     He broke off. A car was coming up the dirt road toward the farmhouse. A dusty, battered old Buick. Behind the wheel sat a plump red-faced man in a gray suit, who waved cheerfully at them as the ear sputtered to a stop and the motor died into silence.     "Afternoon," the man nodded, as he climbed out of the ear. He tipped his hat pleasantly, lie was middle-aged, genial-looking, perspiring freely as he crossed the dry ground toward the porch. "Maybe you folks can help me."     "What do you want?" Nat Johnson demanded hoarsely. He was frightened. He watched the creek bed out of the corner of his eye, praying silently. God, if only he stayed away. Jean was breathing quickly, sharp little gasps. She was terrified. Dave's face was expressionless, but all color had drained from it. "Who are you?" Nat demanded.     "Name's Baines. George Baines." The man held out his hand but Johnson ignored it. "Maybe youhe heard of me. I own the Pacifica Development Corporation. We built all those little bomb-proof houses lust ouide town. Those little round ones you see as you come up the main highway from Lafayette."     "What do you want?" Johnson held his hands steady with an effort. He'd never heard of the man, although he'd noticed the housing tract. It couldn't be missed--a great ant-heap o pounds ugly pill-boxes straddling the highway. Baiaes         58         looked like the kind of man who'd own them. But what did be want here?     "I've bought some land up this way," Baines was explaining. He rattled a sheaf of crisp papers. "This is the deed, but I'll be damned if I can find it." He grinned good-naturedly. "I know it's around this way, someplace, this side of the State road. According to the clerk at the County Recorder's Office, a mile or so this side of that hill over there. But I'm no damn good at reading maps."     "It isn't around here," Dave broke in. "There's only farms around here. Nothing for sale."     "This is a farm, son," Baines said genially. "I bought it for myself and my missus. So we could settle down." He wrinkled his pug nose. "Don't get the wrong idea--I'm not putting up any tracks around here. This is strictly for -myself. An old farm house, twenty acres, a pump and a 'few'oak trees "     "L6t me see the deed." Johnson grabbed the sheaf of papers, and while Baines blinked in astonishment, he leafed rapidly through them. His face hardened and he handed them back. "What are you up to? This deed is for parcel fifty miles from here."     "Fifty miles*." Baines was dumb-founded. "No kidding? But the clerk told me "     Johnson was on his feet. He towered over the fat man. He was in top-notch physical shape---and he was plenty damn suspicious. "Clerk, hell. You get back into your car and drive out of here. I don't know what you're after, or what you're here for, but I want you off my land."     In Johnson's massive fist something sparkled. A metal tube that gleamed ominously in the mid-day sunlight. Baines saw it--and gulped. "No offense, mister." He backed nervously away. "You folks sure are touchy. Take it easy, will you?"     Johnson said nothing. He gripped the lash-tube tighter and waited for the fat man to leave.     But Baines lingered. "Look, buddy. I've been driving around this furnace five hours, looking for my damn place. Any objection to my ming your facilities?"     Johnson eyed him with suspicion. Gradually the suspicion turned to disgust. He shrugged. "Dave, show him where the bathroom is."         59         "Thanks." Baines grinned thankfully. "And if it wouldn't be too much trouble, maybe a glass of water. I'd be glad to pay for it." He chuckled knowingly. "Never let ù the city people get away with anything, eh?"     "Christ." Johnson turned away in revulsion as the fat man lumbered after his son, into the house.     "Dad," Jean whispered. As soon as Baines was inside she hurried up onto the porch, eyes wide with fear. "Dad, do you think he "     Johnson put his ann around her. "Just hold on fight. He'll be gone soon."     The girl's dark eyes flashed with mute terror. "Every time the man from the water company, or the tax collector, some tramp, children, anybody come around, I get a terrible stab of pain--here." She clutched at her heart, hand against her breasts. "It's been that way thirteen years. How much longer can we keep it going? How long?"         The man named Baines emerged gratefully from the bathroom. Dave Johnson stood silently by the door, body rigid, youthful face stony.     "Thanks, son," Baines sighed. "Now where can I get a glass of cold water?" He smacked his thick lips in anticipation. "After you've been driving around the sticks looking for a dump some red-hot real estate agent stuck you with- "     Dave headed into the kitchen. "Mom, this man wants a drink of water. Dad said he could have it."     Dave had turned his back. Baines caught a brief glimpse of the mother, gray-haired, small, moving toward the sink with a glass, face withered and drawn, without expression.     Then Baines hurried from the room, down a hall. He passed through a bedroom, pulled a door open, found himself facing a closet. He turned and raced back, through the living room, into a dining room, then another bedroom. In a brief instant he had gone through the whole house.     He peered out a window. The back yard. Remains of a rusting truck. Entrance of an underground bomb shelter. Tin cans. Chickens scratching around. A dog, asleep under a shed. A couple of old auto tires.     He found a door leading out. Soundlessly, he tore the         60         door open and stepped outside. No one was in sight. Thero was a barn, a leaning, ancient wood structure. Cedar trees beyond, a creek of some kind. What had once been an outhouse.         Baines moved cautiously around the side of the house. He had perhaps thirty seconds. He had left the door of the bathroom closed; the boy would think he had gone back in there. Baines looked into the house through a window. A large closet, filled with old clothing, boxes and bundles of magazines.     He turned and started back. He reached the corner of the house and started around it.     Nat Johnson's gaunt shape loomed up and blocked his way. 'All fight, Baines. You asked for it." ' A 'pink flash blossomed. It shut out the sunlight in a single 'blinding burst. Baines leaped back and clawed at ù his coat pocket. The edge of the flash caught him and he half-fell, stunned by the force. His suit-shield sucked in the energy and discharged it, but the power rattled his teeth and for a moment he jerked like a puppet on a string. Darkness ebbed around him. He could feel the mesh of the shield glow white, as it absorbed the energy and fought to control it.     His own tube came out--and Johnson had no shield. "You're under arrest," Baines muttered grimly. "Put down your tube and your hands up. And call your family." He made a motion with the tube. "Come on, Johnson. Make it snappy."     The lash-tube wavered and then slipped from Johnson's fingers. "You're still alive." Dawning horror crept across     his face. "Then you must be "     Dave and Jean appeared.         "Come over here," Baines ordered. "Where's your mother?"     Dave jerked his head numbly. "Inside."     "Get her and bring her here."     "You're DCA," Nat Johnson whispered.     Baines didn't answer. He was doing something with his neck, pulling at the flabby flesh. The wiring of a contact         61         mike glittered as he slipped it from a fold between two chins and into his pocket. From the dirt road came the sound of motors, sleek purrs that rapidly grew louder. Two teardrops of black metal came gliding up and parked beside the house. Men swarmed out, in the dark gray-green of the Government Civil Police. In the sky swarms of black dots were descending, clouds of ugly flies that darkened the sun as they spilled out men and equipment. The men drifted slowly down.     "He's not here," Baines said, as the first man reached     him. "He got away. Inform Wisdom back at the lab." "We've got this section blocked off."     Baines turned to Nat Johnson, who stood in dazed silence, uncomprehending, his son and daughter beside him. "How did he know we were coming?" Baines demanded.     "I don't know," Johnson muttered. "He just--knew." "A telepath?" "I don't know."     Baines shrugged. "We'll know, soon. A damp is out, all around here. He can't get past, no matter what the hell he can do. Unless he can dematerialize himself."     "What'll you do with him when you--if you catch him?"     Jean asked huskily.     "Study him."     "And then kill him?"     "That depends on the lab evaluation. If you could give me more to work on, I could predict better."     "We can't tell you anything. We don't know anything more." The girl's voice rose with desperation. "He doesn't talk."     Baines jumped. "What?"     "He doesn't talk. He never talked to us. Ever." "How old is he?" "Eighteen."     "No communication." Baines was sweating. "In eighteen years there hasn't been any semantic bridge between you? Does he have any contact? Signs? Codes?"     "Ho--ignores us. He eats here, stays with us. Sometimes he plays when we play. Or sits with us. He's gone days on end. We've never been able to find out what he's doing-or where. He sleeps in the baxn--by himself."         62         "Is he really-gold-colouredT'     ù "Yes."     "Skin, as well as hair?"     "Skin, eyes, hair, nails. Everything."     "And he's large? Well-formed?'?     "It was a moment before the girl answered. A strange emotion stirred her drawn features, a momentary glow. "He's incredibly beautiful. A god. A god come down to earth." Her lips twisted. "You won't find him. He can do things. Things you have no comprehension of. Powers so far beyond your limited "     "You don't think we'll get him?" Baines frowned. "More teams are landing all the time, You've never seen an Agency clamp in operation. We've had sixty years to work out all the bugs. If he gets away it'll be the first time '     Baines broke off abruptly. Three men were quickly ap-pr'oaching the porch. Two green-clad Civil Police. And a third man between them. A man who moved silently,     lithely, a faintly luminous shape that towered above them. "Cris.t" Jean screamed.     "We got him," one of the police said.     Baines fingered his lash-tube uneasily. "Where? How?" "He gave himself up," the policeman answered, voice full of awe. "He came to us voluntarily. Look at him. He's like a Metal statue. Like some sort or--god."     The golden figure halted for a moment beside Jean. Then it turned slowly, calmly, to face Baines.     "Cris!" Jean shrieked. "Why did you come back?"     The same thought was eating at Baines, too. He shoved it aside--for the time being. "Is the jet out front?" he demanded quickly.     "Ready to go," one of the CP answered.     "Fine." Baines strode past them, down the steps and onto the dirt field. "Let's go. I want him taken directly to the lab." For a moment he studied the massive figure who stood calmly between the two Civil Policemen. Beside him, they seemed to have shrunk, become ungainly and repellent. Like dwarves .... What had Jean said? ,d god come to earth. Baines broke angrily away. "Come on," he muttered brusquely. "This one may be tough;         63         we've never run up against one like it before. We don't know what the hell it can do."         The chamber was empty, except for the seated figure.' Four bare walls, floor and ceiling. A steady glare of white light relentlessly etched every corner of the chamber. Near the top of the far wall ran a narrow slot, the view windows through which the interior of the chamber was scanned.     The seated figure was quiet. He hadn't moved since the chamber locks had slid into place, since the heavy bolts had fallen from outside and the rows of bright-faced technicians had taken their places at the view windows. He gazed down at the floor, bent forward, hands clasped together, face calm, almost expressionless. In four hours he hadn't moved a muscle.     "Well?" Baines said. "What have you learned?"     Wisdom grunted sourly. "Not much. If we don't have him doped out in forty-eight hours well go ahead with the euth. We can't take any chances."     "You're thinking about the Tunis type," Baines said. He was, too. They had found ten of them, living in the ruins of the abandoned North African town. Their survival method was simple. They killed and absorbed other life forms, then imitated them and took their places. Chameleons, they were called. It had cost sixty lives, before the last one was destroyed. Sixty top-level experts, highly trained DCA men.     "Any clues?" Baines asked.     "He's different as hell. This is going to be tough." Wisdom thumped a pile of tape-spools. "This is the complete report, all the material we got from lohnson and his family. We pumped them with the psych-wash, then let them go home. Eighteen years--and no semantic bridge. Yet, he looks fully developed Mature at thirteen--a shorter, faster life-cycle thaxt ours. But why the mane? All the gold fuzz? Like a Roman monument that's been gilded."     "Has the report come in from the analysis room? You had a wave-shot taken, of course."     "His brain pattern has been fully scanned. But it takes time for them to plot it out. We're all Intoning around like         lunatics while he just sits there!" Wisdom poked a stubby finger at the window. "We caught him easily enough. He can't have much, can he? But I'd like to know what it is. Before we euth him."     "Maybe we should keep him alive until we know." "Euth in forty-eight hours," Wisdom repeated stubbornly. "Whether we know or not. I don't like him. He gives me the creeps."     Wisdom stood chewing nervously on his cigar, a redhaired, beefy-faced man, thick and heavy-set, with a barrel chest and cold, shrewd eyes deep-set in his hard face. Ed Wisdom was Director of DCA's North American Branch. But right now he was worried. His tiny eyes darted back and forth, alarmed flickers of gray in his brutal, massive face.     "You think," Baines said slowly, "this is it?" ù     '"I always think so," Wisdom snapped. "I have tøthink         "I mean '     "I know what you mean." Wisdom paced back and forth, among the study tables, technicians at their benches, equipment and humming computers. Buzzing tape-slots and research hookups. "This thing lived eighteen years with his family and they don't understand it. They don't     know what it has. They know what it does, but not how." "What does it do?" "It knows things." "What kind of things?"     Wisdom grabbed his lash-tube from his belt and tossed it on a table. "Here." "What.*"     "Here." Wisdom signalled, and a view window was slid back an inch. "Shoot him."     Baines blinked. "You said forty-eight hours."     With a curse, Wisdom snatched up the tube, aimed it through the window directly at the seated figure's back, and squeezed the trigger.     A blinding flash of pink. A cloud of energy blossomed in the center of the chamber. It sparkled, then died into dark ash.     "Good God? Baines gasped. You- "     He broke off. The figure was no longer sitting. As Wisdom fired, it had moved in a blur of speed, away from the         65         blast, to the corner of the chamber. Now it was slowly coming back, face blank, still absorbed in thought.     "Fifth time," Wisdom said, as he put his tube away. "Last time Jamison and I fired together. Missed. He knew exactly when the bolts would hit. And where."     Baines and Wisdom looked at each other. Both of them were thinking the same thing. "But even reading minds wouldn't tell him where they were going to hit," Baines said. "When, maybe. But not where. Could. you have called your own shots?"     "Not mine," Wisdom answered flatly. "I fired fast, damn near at random." He frowned. "Random. We'll have to make a test of this." He waved a group of technicians over. "Get a construction team up here. On the double." He grabbed paper and pen and began sketching.         While construction was going on, Baines met his fiancee in the lobby outside the lab, the great central lounge of the DCA Building.     "How's it coming?" she asked. Anita Ferris was tall and blonde, blue eyes and a mature, carefully cultivated figure. An attractive, competent-looking woman in her late twenties. She wore a metal foil dress and cape--with a red and black stripe on the sleeve, the emblem of the A-Class. Anita was Director of the Semantics Agency, a top-level Government Coordinator. "Anything of interest, this time?"     "Plenty." Baines guided her from the lobby, into the dim recess of the bar. Music played softly in the background, a shifting variety of patterns formed mathematically. Dim shapes moved expertly through the gloom, from table to table. Silent, efficient robot waiters.     As Anita sipped her Tom Collins, Baines outlined what they had found.     "What are the chances," Anita asked slowly, "that he's built up some kind of deflection-cone? There was one kind that warped their environment by direct mental effort. No tools. Direct mind to matter."     Psychokmettcs. Balnes drummed restlessly on the table top. "I doubt it. The thing has ability to predict, not to control. He can't stop the beams, but he can sure as hell get out of the way."         66         "Does he jump between the molecules?"     Baines wasn't amused. "This is serious. We've handled these things sixty years--longer than you and I have been around added together. Eighty-seven types of deviants have shown up, real mutants that could reproduce themselves, not mere freaks. This is the eighty-eighth. We've been able to handle each of them in turn. But     this "Why are you so worried about this one?"     "First, it's eighteen years old. That in itself is incredible. Its family managed to hide it that long."     '`Those women around Denver were older than that. Those ones with-. "     "They were in a Government camp. Somebody high up was toying.with the idea of allowing them to breed. Some sort of industrial use. We withheld euth for years. But Cris Johnson stayed alive outside our control. Those things at Denver were under constant scrutiny.".     "Maybe he's harmless. You always assume a deeve is a menace. He might even be beneficial. Somebody thought those women might work in. Maybe this thing has something that would advance the race."     "Which race? Not the human race. It's the old 'the operation was a success but the patient died' routine. If we introduce a mutant to keep us going it'll be mutants, not us, who'll inherit the earth. It'll be mutants surviving for their own sake. Don't think for a moment we can put padlocks on them and expect them to serve us. If they are really superior to homo sapiens, they'll win out in even competition. Io survive, we've got to cold-deck them right from the start."     "In other words, we'll know homo superior when he comes--by definition. He'll be the one we won't be able to euth."     "That's about it," Baines answered. "Assuming there is a homo superior. Maybe there's just homo peculiar. Homo with an improved line."     "The Neanderthal probably thought the Cro-Magnon man had merely an improved line. A little more advanced abLlity to conjure up symbols and shape flint. From your description, this thing is more radical than a mere improvement.''         67         'his thing," Baines said slowly, "has an ability to predict. So far, it's been able to stay alive. It's been able to cope with situations better than you or I could. How long do you think we'd stay alive in that chamber, with energy beams blazing down at us? In a sense it's got the ultimate survival ability. If it can always be accurate "     A wall-speaker sounded. "Baines, you're wanted in the lab. Get the hell out of the bar and upramp."     Baines pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "Come along. You may be interested in seeing what Wisdom has got dreamed up."         A tight group of top-level DCA officials stood around in a circle, middle-aged, gray-haired, listening to a skinny youth in a white shirt and rolled-up sleeves explaining an elaborate cube of metal and plastic that filled the center of the view-platform. From it jutted an ugly array of tube snouts, gleaming muzzles that disappeared into an intricate maze of wiring.     "This," the youth was saying briskly, "is the first real test. It fires at random---as nearly random as we can make it, at least. Weighted balls are thrown up in an air stream, then dropped free to fall back and cut relays. They can fall in almost any pattern. The thing fires according to their pattern. Each drop produces a new configuration of timing and position. Ten tubes, in all. Each will be in constant motion."     "And nobody knows how they'll fire?" Anita asked.     "Nobody." Wisdom rubbed his thick hands together. "Mind-reading won't help him, not with this thing."     Anita moved over to the view windows, as the cube was     rolled into place. She gasped. "Is that him?"     "What's wrong?" Baines asked.     Anita's cheeks were flushed. "Why, I expected a--a thing. My God, he's beautifull Like a golden statue. Like a deityl"     Baines laughed. "He's eighteen years old, Anita. Too young for you."     The woman was still peering through the view window. "Look at him. Eighteen? I don't believe it."     Cris Johnson sat in the center of the chamber, on the         68         floor. A posture of contemplation, head bowed, arms folded, legs tucked under him. In the stark glare of the overhead lights his powerful body glowed and rippled, a shimmering figure of downy gold.     "Pretty, isn't he?' Wisdom muttered. "All right. Start it going."     "You're going tokill him?" Anita demanded.     "We're going to try."     "But he's "She broke off uncertainly. "He's not a monster. He's not like those others, those hideous things with two heads, or those insects. Or those awful things from Tunis."     "What is he, then?" Baines asked.     "I don't know. But you can't just kill him. It's terrible !'     The cube clicked into life. The muzzles jerked, silently altered position. Three retracted, disappeared into the body of the cube. Others came out. Quickly, efficiently, they moved into position--and abruptly, without warning, opened fire.     A staggering burst of energy fanned out, a complex pattern that altered each moment, different angles, different velocities, a bewildering blur that cracked from the win-flows down into the chamber.     The golden figure moved. He dodged back and forth, expertly avoiding the bursts of energy that seared around him on all sides. Rolling clouds of ash obscured him; he was lost in a mist of crackling fire and ash.     "Stop itl" Anita shouted. "For God's sake, you'll destroy himl"     The chamber was an inferno of energy. The figure had completely disappeared. Wisdom waited a moment, then nodded to the technicians operating the cube. They touched guide buttons and the muzzles slowed and died. Some sank back into the cube. All became silent. The works of the cube ceased humming.     Cris Johnson was still alive. He emerged from the set-fling clouds of ash, blackened and singed. But unhurt. Ho had avoided each beam. He had weaved between them and among them as they came, a dancer leaping over glittering sword-points of pink fire. He had survived.     "No," Wisdom murmured, shaken and grim. "Not a         69         telepath. Those were at random. No prearranged pattern."     The three of them looked at each other, dazed and     frightened. Anita was trembling. Her face was pale and     her blue eyes were wide, "What, then? She whispered.     "What is it? What does he have?"     "He's a good guesser," Wisdom suggested.     "He's not guessing," Baines answered. "Don't kid   your self. That's the whole point."     "No, he's not guessing." Wisdom nodded slowly. "He     knew. He predicted each strike. I wonder  Can he     err? Can he make a mistake?" "We caught him," Baines pointed out. "You said he came back voluntarily." There was a strange look on Wisdom's face. "Did he come back a/ter the clamp was up?" Baines jumped. "Yes, after." "He couldn't have got through the clamp. So he came back," Wisdom grinned wryly. "The clamp must actually have been perfect. It was supposed to be." "if there had been a single hole," Baines murmured, "he would have known it--gone through." Wisdom ordered a group of armed guards over. "Get him out of there. To the euth stage." Anita shrieked. "Wisdom, you can't " "He's too far ahead of us. We can't compete with him." Wisdom's eyes were bleak. "We can only guess what's going to happen. He knows. For him, it's a sure thing. I don't think it'll help him at euth, though. The whole stage is flooded simultaneouslY. Instantaneous gas, released throughout." He signalled impatiently to the guards. "Get     going. Take him down right away. Don't waste any time." "Can we?" Baines murmured thoughtfully.     The guards took up positions by one of the chamber locks. Cautiously, the tower control slid the lock back. The first two guards stepped cautiously in, lash-tubes ready.     Ch'is stood in the center of the chamber. His back was to them as they crept toward him. For a moment he was silent, utterly unmoving. The guards fanned out, as more of them entered the chamber. Then     Anita screamed. Wisdom cursed. The golden figure spun and leaped forward, in a flashing blur of speed, past     70         the triple line of guards, through the lock and into the corridor.     "Get him!" Baines shouted.     Guards milled everywhere. Flashes of energy lit up the corridor, as the figure raced among them, up the ramp.     "No use," Wisdom said calmly. "We can't hit him." He touched a button, then another. "But maybe this Will help."     "What ..' Baines began. But the leaping figure shot abruptly at him, straight at him, and he dropped to one side. The figure flashed past. It ran effortlessly, face without expression, dodging and jumping as the energy beams seared around it.     For an instant the golden face loomed up before Baines. It passed and disappeared down a side corridor. Guards rushed after it, kneeling and firing, shouting orders excitedly. In the bowels of the building, heavy guns were rumbling up. Locks slid into place as escape cord- dors were systematically sealed off.     "Good God," Baines gasped, as he got to his fet. "Can't he do anything but run?"     "I gave orders," Wisdom said, "to have the building isolated. There's no way out. Nobody comes and nobody goes. He's loose here in the building--but he won't get out."     "If there's one exit overlooked, he'll know it," Anita pointed out shakily.     "We won't overlook any exit. We got him once; we'll get him again."     A messenger robot had come in. Now it presented its message respectfully to Wisdom. "From analysis, sir."     Wisdom tore the tape. open. "Now we'll know how it thinks." His hands were shaking. "Maybe we can figure out its blind spot. It may be able to out think us, but that doesn't mean it's invulnerable. It only predicts the future --it can't change it. If there's only death ahead, its ability won't..."     Wisdom's voice faded into silence. After a moment he passed the tape to Baines.     "I'll be down in the bar," Wisdom said. "Getting a good stiff drink." His face had turned lead-gray. "All I can say is I hope to hell this isn't the race to come."         71         "What's the analysis?" Anita demanded impatiently, peering over Baines' shoulder. "How does it think?"     "It doesn't," Baines said, as he handed the tape back to his boss. "It doesn't think at all. Virtually no frontal lobe. It's not a human being--it doesn't use symbols. It's nothing but an animal."     "An animal," Wisdom said. "With a single highly developed faculty. Not a superior man. Not a man at all."         Up and down the corridors of the DCA Building, guards and equipment clanged. Loads of Civil Police were pouring into the building and taking up positions beside the guards. One by one, the corridors and rooms were being inspected and sealed off. Sooner or later the golden figure of Cris Johnson would be located and cornered.     "We were always afraid a mutant with superior intellectual powers would come along," Baines said eflec-tively. "A deeve who would be to us what we are to the great apes. Something with a bulging cranium, telepathic ability, a perfect semantic system, ultimate powers of symbolization     and calculation. A development along our own     A better human being."     pat"hIIe acts by reflex," Anita said wonderingly. She had the analysis and was sitting at one of the desks studying it intently. "Reflex--like a lion. A golden lion." She pushed the tape aside, a strange expression on her face. "The lion god."     "Beast," Wisdom corrected tartly. "Blond beast, you mean."     "He runs fast," Baines said, "and that's all. No tools. He doesn't build anything or utilize anything outside himself. He lust stands and waits for the right opportunity and then he runs like hell."     "This is worse than anything we've anticipated," Wisdom said. His beefy face was lead-gray. He sagged like an old man, his blunt hands trembling and uncertain. "To be replaced by an animal! Something that runs and hides. Something without a language!" He spat savagely. "That's why they weren't able to communicate with it. We wondered what kind of semantic system it had. It hasn't got any! No more ability to talk and think than a--dogl"     2         "That means inteigence has failed," Baines went on huskily.."We're the last of our line---like the dinosaur. We've carried intelligence as far as it'll go. Too far, maybe. We've already got to the point where we know so much--think so much--we can't act."     "Men of thought," Anita said. "Not men of action. It's begun to have a paralyzing effect. But this thing "     "This thing's faculty works better than ours ever did. We can recall past experiences, keep them in mind, learn from them. At best, we can make shrewd guesses about the future, from our memory of what's happened in the past. But we can't be certain. We have to speak of probabilities. Grays. Not blacks and whites. We're only guessing.'     "Cris Johnson isn't guessing," Anita added.     'He Can look ahead. See what's coming. He can--pre-think. Let's call it that. He can see into the future. Probably he doesn't perceive it as the .future."     . "No," Anita said thoughtfully. "It would seem like the present. He has a broader present. But his present lies ahead, not back. Our present is Ielated to the past. Only the past is certain, to us. To him, the future is certain. And he probably doesn't remember the past, any moro than any animal remembers what's happened."     "As he develops," Baines said, "as his race evolves, it'll probably expand its ability to pre-think. Instead of ten minutes, thirty minutes. Then an hour. A day. A year. Eventually they'll be able to keep ahead a whole lifetime. Each one of them will live in a solid, unchanging world. There'll be no variables, no uncertainty. No motion! They won't have anything to fear. Their world will be perfectly static, a solid block of matter."     "And when death comes," Anita said, "they'll accept it. There won't be any struggle; to them, it'll already have happened."     "Already have happened," Baines repeated. "To Ch'is, our shots had already been fired." He laughed harshly. "Superior survival doesn't mean superior man. If there were another world-wide flood, only fish would survive. If there were another ice age, maybe nothing but polar bears would be left. When we opened the lock, he had alrcady seen the men, seen exactly where they were   stand     73         lng and what they'd do. A neat faculty--but not a development of mind. A pure physical sense."     "But if every exit is covered," Wisdom repeated, "he'B see he can't get out. He gave himself up before--he'll give himself up again." lie shook his head. "An animal. Without language. Without tools."     "With his new sense," Bines said, "he doesn't need anything else." He examined his watch. "It's after two. Is the building completely sealed off?"     "You can't leave," Wisdom stated. "You'll have to stay here all night---or until we catch the bastard."     "I meant her." Baines indicated Anita. "She's supposed to be back at Semantics by seven in the morning."     Wisdom shrugged. "I have no control over her. If she wants, she can check out."     "I'll stay," Anita decided. "I want to be here when he --when he's destroyed. I'll sleep here." She hesitated. "Wisdom isn't there some other way? If he's just an animal couldn't we     "A zoo?" Wisdom's voice rose in a frenzy of hysteria. "Keep it penned up in the zoo? Christ riel It's got to be killedl'         For a long time the great gleaming shape crouched in the darkness. He was in a store room. BOxes and cartons stretched out on all sides, heaped up in orderly rows, all neatly counted and marked. Silent and deserted.     But in a few moments people burst in and search the room. He could see this. He saw them in all parts of the room, clear and distinct, men with lash-tubes, grim-faced, stalking with murder in their eyes.     The sight was one of many. One of a multitude of clearly etched scenes lying tangent to his own. And to eachwas attached a further multitude of interlocking scenes, that finally grew hazier and dwindled away. A progressive vagueness, each syndrome less distinct.     But the immediate one, the scent that lay closest to him, was clearly visible. He could easily make out the sight of the armed men. Therefore it was necessary to be out of the room before they appeared.     The golden figure got calmly to its feet and moved to 74         the door. The corridor was empty; he could see himself already outside, in the vacant, drumming hall of metal and recessed lights. He pushed the door boldly open and stepped out.     A lift blinked across the hall. He walked to the lift and entered it. In five minutes a group of guards would come running along and leap into the lift. By that time he would have left it and sent it back down. Now he pressed a button and rose to the next floor.     He stepped out into a deserted passage. No one was in 'sight. That didn't surprise him. He couldn't be surprised. The element didn't exist for him. The positions of things, the space relationships of all matter in the immediate future, were as certain for him as his own body. The only thing that was unknown was that which had already passe:d out of being. In a vague, dim fashion, he had oc-casionalls; wondered where things went after he had passed the.     He came to a small supply closet. It had just been searched. It would be a half an hour before anyone opened it again. He had that long; he could see that far ahead. And   then- And then he would be able to see another area, a region farther beyond. He was always moving, advancing into new regions he had never seen before. A constantly unfolding panorama of sights and scenes, frozen landscapes spread out ahead. All objects were fixed. Pieces on a vast chess board through which he moved, arms folded, face calm. A detached observer who saw objects that lay ahead of him as clearly as those under foot.     Right now, as he crouched in the small supply closet, he saw an unusually varied multitude of scenes for the next half hour. Much lay ahead. The half hour was divided into an incredibly complex pattern of separate configurations. He had reached a critical region; he was about to move through worlds of intricate complexity.     He concentrated on a scene ten minutes away. It showed, like a three dimensional still, a heavy gun at the end of the corridor, trained all the way to the far end. Men moved cautiously from door to door, checking each room again, as they had done repeatedly. At the end of         75         the half hour they had reached the supply closet. A scene showed them looking inside. By that time he was gone, of course. He wasn't in that scene. He had passed on to another.     The next scene showed an exit. Guards stood in a solid line. No way out. He was in that scene. Off to one side, in a niche just inside the door. The street outside was visible, stars, lights, outlines of passing cars and people.     In the next tableau he had gone back, away from the exit. There was no way out. In another tableau he saw himseff at other exits, a legion of golden figures, duplicated again and again, as he explored regions ahead, one after another. But each exit was covered.     In one dim scene he saw himself lying charred and dead; he had tried to run through the line, out the exit.     But that scene was vague. One wavering, indistinct still out of many. The inflexible path along which he moved would not deviate in that direction. It would not turn him that way. The golden figure in that scene, the miniature doll in that room, was only distantly related to him. It was himself, but a far-away self. A self he would never meet. He forgot it and went on to examine the other tableau.     The myriad of tableaux that surrounded him were an elaborate maze, a web which he now considered bit by bit. He was looking down into a doll's house of infinite rooms, rooms without number, each with its furniture, its dolls, all rigid and unmoving. The same dolls and furniture were repeated in many. He, himseff, appeared often. The two men on the platform. The woman. Again and again the same combinations turned up, the play was redone frequently, the same actors and props moved around in all possible ways.     Before it was time to leave the supply closet, Cris Johnson had examined each of the rooms tangent to the one he now occupied. He had consulted each, considered its contents thoroughly.     He pushed the door open and stepped calmly out into the hall. He knew exactly where he was going. And what he had to do. Crouched in the stuffy closet, he had quietly and expertly examined each miniature of himself, observed which clearly etched configuration lay along his         76         inflexible path, the one room of the doll house, the one set out of legions, toward which he was moving.         Anita slipped out of her metal-foil dress, hung it over a hanger, then unfastened her shoes and kicked them under the bed. She was just starting to unclip her bra when the door opened.     She gasped. Soundlessly, calmly, the great golden shape closed the door and bolted it after him. ù Anita snatched up her lash-tube from the dressing table. Her hand shook; her whole body was trembling. "What do you want?" she demanded. Her fingers tightened convulsively around the tube. "I'll kill you."     The figure regarded her silently, arms folded. It was the first time she had seen Cris Johnson closely. The great dignifibd fce, handsome and impassive. Broad shoulders. The golden'mane of hair, golden ,skin, pelt of radiant   fuzz-Z--"Why?" she demanded breathlessly. Her heart was pounding wildly. "What do you want?"     She could kill him easily. But the lash-tube wavered. Cris Johnson stood without fear; he wasn't at all afraid. Why not? Didn't he understand what it was? What the small metal tube could do to him?     "Of course," she said suddenly, in a choked whisper. "You can see ahead. You know I'm not going to kill you. Or you wouldn't have come here."     She flushed, terrified-and embarrassed. He knew exactly what she was going to do; he could see it as easily as she saw the walls of the room, the wall-bed with its covers folded neatly back, her clothes hanging in the closet, her purse and small things on the dressing table.     "All right." Anita backed away, then abruptly put the tube down on the dressing table. "I won't kill you. Why should I?" she fumbled in her purse and got out her cigarettes. Shakily, she lit up, her pulse racing. She was scared. And strangely fascinated. "Do you expect to stay here? It won't do any good. They've come through the dorm twice, already. They'll be back."     Could he understand her? She saw nothing on his face, only' blank dignity. God, he was hugel It wasn't possibl,         77         he was only eighteen, a boy, a child. He looked more like some great golden god, come down to earth.     She shook the thought off savagely. He wasn't a god. He was a beast. The blond beast, come to take the place of man. To drive man from the earth.     Anita snatched up the lash-tube. "Get out of betel You're an animal! A big stupid animal! You can't even understand what I'm saying--you don't even have a language. You're not human."     Cris Johnson remained silent. As if he were waiting. Waiting for what? He showed no sign of fear or impatience, even though the corridor outside rang with the sound of men searching, metal against metal, guns and energy tubes being dragged around, shouts and dim rumbles as section after section of the building was searched and sealed off.     "They'H get you," Anita said. "You'll be trapped here. They'll be searching this wing any moment." She savagely stubbed out her cigarette out. "For God's sake, what do you expect me to do?"     Cris moved toward her. Anita shrank back. His powerful hands caught hold of her and she gasped in sudden terror. For a moment she struggled blindly, desperately.     "Let go!" She broke away and leaped back from him. His face was expressionless. Calmly, he came toward her, an impassive god advancing to take her. "Get away? She groped for the lash-tube, trying to get it up. But the tube slipped from her fingers and rolled onto the floor.     Cris bent down and picked it up. He held it out to her, in the open palm of his hand.     "Good God," Anita whispered. Shakily, she accepted the tube, gripped it hesitantly, then put it down again on the dressing table.     In the half-light of the room, the great golden figure seemed to glow and shimmer, outlined against the dark-ness. A god--no, not a god. An animal. A great golden beast, without a soul. She was confused. Which was he---or was he both? She shook her head, bewildered. It was late, almost four. She was exhausted and confused.     Cris took her in his arms. Gently, kindly, he lifted her face and kissed her. His powerful hands held her tight. She could not breathe. Darkness, mixed with the   shim     78         mering golden haze,, swept around her. Around and around it spiralled, carrying the senses away. She sank down into it gratefully. The darkness covered her and dissolved her in a swelling torrent of sheer force that mounted in intensity each moment, until the roar of it beat against her and at last blotted out everything.         Anita blinked. She sat up and automatically pushed her hair into place. Cris was standing before the closet. He was reaching up, getting something down.     He turned toward her and tossed something on the beck Her heavy metal foil traveling cape.     Anita gazed down at the cape without comprehension. "What do you want?"     Cis stood by the bed, waiting.     She picked up the cape uncertainly. Cold creepers of fear pluck:ed at her. "You want, me to get you out of     here," she said softly. "Past the guards and the CP."     Cris said nothing.     "They'll kill you instantly." She got unsteadily to her feet. "You can't run past them. Good God, don't you do anything but run? There must be a better way. Maybe I can appeal to Wisdom. I'm Class A---Director Class. I can go directly to the Full Directorate. I ought to be able to hold them off, keep back the euth indefinitely. The odds     are a billion to one against us if we try to break past " She broke off.     "But you don't gamble," she continued slowly. "You don't go by odds. You know what's coming. You've seen the cards already." She studied his face intently. "No, you can't be cold-decked. It wouldn't be possible."     For a moment she stood deep in thought. Then with a quick, decisive motion, she snatched up the cloak and slipped it around her bare shoulders. She fastened the heavy belt, bent down and got her shoes from under the bed, snatched up her purse, and hurried to the door.     "Come on," she said. She was breathing quickly, cheeks flushed. "Let's go. While there are still a number of exits to choose from. My car is parked outside, in the lot at the side of the building. We can get to my place in an hour. I have a winter home in Argentina. If worst comes to worst we can fly there. It's in the back country, away from         79         the cities. Jungle and swamps. Cut-off from almost everything." Eagerly, she started to open the door.     Cris reached out and stopped her. Gently, patiently, he moved in front of her.     He waited a long time, body rigid. Then he turned the knob and stepped boldly into the corridor.     The corridor was empty. No one was in sight. Anita caught a faint glimpse, the back of a guard hurrying off. If they had come out a second earlier     Cris started down the corridor. She ran after him. He moved rapidly, effortlessly. The girl had trouble keeping up with him. He seemed to know exactly where to go. Off to the right, down a side hall, a supply passage. Onto an ascent freight-lift. They rose, then abruptly halted.     Cris waited again. Presently he slid the door back and moved out of the lift. Anita followed nervously. She could hear sounds: guns and men, very close.     They were near an exit. A double line of guards stood directly ahead. Twenty men, a solid wall--and a massive heavy-duty robot gun in the center. The men were alert, faces strained and tense. Watching wide-eyed, guns gripped tight. A Civil Police officer was in charge.     "We'll never get past," Anita gasped. "We wouldn't get ten feet." She pulled back. "They'll "     Cris took her by the arm and continued calmly forward. Blind terror leaped inside her. She fought wildly to get away, but his fingers were like steel. She couldn't pry them loose. Quietly, irresistibly, the great golden creature drew her along beside him, toward the double line of guards.     "There he is!" Guns went up. Men leaped into action. The barrel of the robot cannon swung around. "Get him?'     Anita was paralyzed. She sagged against the powerful body beside her, tugged along helplessly by his inflexible grasp. The lines of guards came nearer, a sheer wall of guns. Anita fought to control her terror. She stumbled, haft-fell. Cris supported her effortlessly. She scratched,     fought at him, struggled to get loos     "Don't shoot!" she screamed.     Guns wavered uncertainly. "Who is she?" The guards were moving around, trying to get a sight on Cris without including her. "Who's he got there?"     One of them saw the stripe on her sleeve. Red and black. Director Class. Top-level.         8O         "She's Class A." Shocked the guards retreated. "Miss, get out of the wayt"     Anita found her voice. "Don't shoot. He's--in my custody. You understand? I'm taking him out."     The wall of guards moved back nervously. "No one's supposed to pass. Director Wisdom gave orders ... "     "I'm not subject to Wisdom's authority." She managed to edge her voice with a harsh crispness. "Get out of the way. I'm taking him to the Semantics Agency."     For a moment nothing happened. There was no reaction. 'Then slowly, uncertainly one guard stepped aside.     Cris moved. A blur of speed, away from Anita, past the confused guards, through the breach in the line, out the exit, and onto the street. Bursts of energy flashed wildly after him. Shouting guards milled out. Anita was .left behind, forgotten. The guards, the heavy duty gun, were pouring out into the early morning darkness. Sirens wailed. Patrol caYs roared into life.     Anita 'stood dazed, confused, leaning against the wall, tying to get her breath.     He was gone. He had left her. Good God--what had she done? She shook her head, bewildered, her face bur. led in her hands. She had been hypnotized. She had lost her w/Il, her common sense. Her reason! The animal, the great golden beast, had tricked her. Taken advantage of her. And now he was gone, escaped into the night.     Miserable, agonized tears trickled through her clenched fingers. She rubbed at them futilely; but they kept on coming.     "He's gone," Baines said. "We'll never get him, now. He's probably a million miles from here."     Anita sat huddled in the comer, her face to the wall. A little bent heap, broken and wretched.     Wisdom paced back and forth. "But where can he go? Where can he hide? Nobody'Il hide himl Everybody knows the law about deevesl"     "He's lived out in the woods most of his life. He'll hunt --that's what he's always done. They wondered what he was up to, off by himself. He was catching game and sleeping under trees." Baines laughed harshly. "And the first woman he meets will be glad to hide him-ashe was." He indicated Anita with a jerk of his thumb.         81         "So all that gold, that mane, that god4ike stance, was for something. Not just ornament." Wisdom's thick lips twisted. "He doesn't have just one faculty--he has two. One is new, the newest thing ill survival methods. The other is as old as life." He stopped pacing to glare at the huddled shape in the corner. "Plumage. Bright feathers, combs for the roosters, swans, birds, bright scales for the fish. Gleaming pelts and manes for the animals. An animal isn't necessarily bestial. Lions aren't bestial. Or tigers. Or any of the big cats. They're anything but bestial."     "He'll never have to worry," Baines said. "He'll get by --as long as human women exist to take care of him. And since he can see ahead, into the future, he already knows he's sexually irresistible to human females."     "We'll get him," Wisdom muttered. "I've had the Government declare an emergency. Military and Civil Police will be looking for him. Armies of men--a whole planet of experts, the most advanced machines and equipment. We'll flush him, sooner or later."     "By that time it won't make any difference," Baines said. He put his hand on Anita's shoulder and patted her ironically. You'll have company, sweetheart. You won't be the only one. You're just the first of a long procession.''     "Thanks,Anita grated.     "The oldest survival method and the newest. Combined to form one perfectly adapted animal. How the hell are we going to stop him? We can put you through a sterilization tank-.-but we can't pick them all up, all the women he meets along the way. And if we miss one we're finished.''     "We'll have to keep trying," Wisdom said. "Round up as many as we can. Before they can spawn." Faint hope glinted in his tired, sagging face. "Maybe his characteristics are recessive. Maybe ours will cancel his out."     "I wouldn't lay any money on that," Balnes said. "I think I know already which of the two strains is going to turn up dominant." He grinned wryly. "I mean, I'm make lng a good guess. It won't be us."         82         Earth had a'problem . . . and the Martian visitors had a very deadly means o! solving it.. o         GUEST EXPERT By Allen K. Lang         "I'm only here to help you," said the man from Mars.     "You've proved that," the Secretary admitted. "In the six weeks that you've been here, you've wiped out rabies, measles, and the common cold: but sir,, this latest proposal of yours is blasphemous["     The man from Mars waved an appendage in the direction of the Secretary's desk, atop which a newspaper was lying open. "After reading what that paper has to say can you still doubt that what I propose is necessary?"     The young man in uniform crossed the room and picked up the newspaper. He read the headlines aloud, bitterly: "INDIAN FAMINE ARMY STORMS NEW DEHLI"; "TASM3.N REPUBLIC BIDS FOR PLACE IN SUN" "PLAGUE DECIMATE8 LOWER NILE."     "You could end that plague." The Assistant's voice was accusing.     "I could, of course. The battles and the starvation would still be with you, though. Why do .you persist in treating the symptoms instead of the sickness? I am an objective observer, far enough away from your problems too see them clearly, something which no human can ever hope to do. You EartMngs suffer war and famine and plague for one reason only: that there are four and eight-tenths billion of you living on an Earth which can feed only about two and a half billion of you well. Gentlemen, the population of your planet must b reduced by half if your race is to survive."     "Couldn't we send our surplus population to Mars, or to Venus?" the Assistant asked.         83         The man from Mars winced. "The sands of Mars can't support cactuses, much less fields of wheat and rice and corn. Venus is a solid sea of formaldehyde solution." He glanced around to each of the three men in the room. "To you, my scheme may seem heartless. But would it be more cruel to kill millions now than to allow billions to die in continual war in the next thousand years? Do you remember your last such war? The Ukrainian wheatlands scorched to desert by the thermonuclears? New England swept by epidemics of anthrax and tularemia? All China tortured by starvation and the hundred nagging sicknesses that follow hunger?"     "Yes, I remember." The Secretary rolled his pen between his fingers, staring at it. "How do you intend to--liquidate--the excess two billions?"     "I can't explain it to you; you lack the basic knowledge. It will be quick and painless though, I promise. Then Earth will see peace and hope; a new start?'     "I couldn't take all the responsibility for this decision upon myself," the Secretary said. He glanced hopefully toward the Assistant and the young man in uniform. Their eyes flinched away.     "You might take a vote," suggested the man from Mars. He picked up the Secretary's scratch pad and tipped off three sheets of paper. "Just mark Yes or No. I will respect your decision: after all, I'm only here to help you."     The Secretary stared at the slip of paper lying on his desk. He glanced toward the other two humans for encouragement; but the Assistant was stating at the wall across the room, and the young man in uniform was silently contemplating the carpet at his feet.     Convulsively the Secretary scooched the paper toward him and scribbled his vote. Folding the paper, he looked demandingly toward his two companions. The young man in uniform looked up, then turned to hold his paper against the wall as he wrote his decision. The Assistant remained seated, holding the paper on top of a book while he lettered out his vote.     The man from Mars collected the three ballots, unfolded them, and read the three votes. "It's two to one," he announced. He crushed the papers into small, white pellets and tossed them out the open window. "What I have to do will be finished by noon tomorrow."         84         The man from Mars-left the room, closing the door very softly behind him. The other three sat silent a moment and then got up and left without looking one another in the faco.         The next day the Secretary and the Assistant sat in tho office, staring at the clock above the door. At twelve-oh-seven the door slammed open for the young man in uniform.     ' "Is it done?" the Assistant asked.     "Done? Of course, it's done!" The young man in uniform leaned against the door and shook with spasmic laughter. "Now there's food enough and room enough for everyone. The man from Mars promised to solve our population problem. He did. At twelve noon, Eastern Daylight Saving Time, every woman and girl on Earth dropped defid."         85         1[ you can't [nd it countless millions o[ miles in space,     come back to Earth. You might nd it lust on the other Mde oj the [ence--where the grass is always greener.         THE VALLEY     By Richard Stockham         The ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silver fish.     Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse of land that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow ground cracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains and the seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how the city circled the sea, as a circle of men surrounded a water hole in a desert under a blazing sun.     The ship's radio cried out. "You've made itl Thank God! You've made it!"     Another voice, shaking, said, "President--Davis overwhelmed. He can't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people--with our hope that was almost dead, we greet you." A pause. "Please come inl"     The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship.     "I can't tell them," said the man.     "Please come in!" said the radio. "Do you hear me?"     The woman looked up at the man. "You've got to, Mi-chaell"         "Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not one grain of dust we can live on. lust Earth. And it's burned to a cinder." '     A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. "Are you all right? Stand byl We're sending a rescue ship."         86         "They've got a rig.hr to know what we've found," said the woroan. "They sent us out. They've waited so long "     He stared into space. "It's hopeless. If we'd found another planet they could .live on, they'd do the same as they've done here."     He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. "Right now, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce would be over."     "No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them."     "We'll go back out into space," he said. "It's clean out there. I'm tired. Two thousand years of reincarnation."     She spoke softly. 'We've been together for a long time. I've loved you. I've asked very little. But I need to stay onEarth. Please, Michael."     He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. "Milky Way to Earth. Nver mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in."         The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain after flood waters have drained away.     The man and woman came out into the blazing   sun     A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke over them. The man and woman descended the gangplank toward the officials gathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field of white faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turned toward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and the cries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand had stood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff.     And, as then, there were no children among the milling,. grasping throng. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking for an answer, a salvation, a happy end.     Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke to them in voices of reverence.     A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whispered admonition to tell the people of the great new         87         life waiting for them, open and green and moist, on a virgin planet.     The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growing like an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing, sucking the water from the seas.     And then Michael's voice, 'øThe thousand who left with us are dead. For some time we've known the other planets in our solar system were uninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other. And this is what we've found .... We were given Earth. There's no place else for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given to others. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to make the best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're here to stay     mand die." He handed the microphone back.     The silence did not change.     The President grasped Michael's arm. "What're you saying?"     A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightened bees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. The din and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and a fluttering beneath it.     Michael and the woman stood above them in the centre of the pale, hovering faces of the officials.     "Good God," said the President. "You've got to tell them what you said isn't truel"     "We've been searching two thousand years for a truth," said Michael. "A thousand of us have died finding it. I'vo told it. That's the way it's got to be."     The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands.     "There's been some mistake!" he cried. "Go back to     'the pumps and the distilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and the flocks! Go back! Work and waitl We'll get the full truth to you. Everything's going to be all right,t"     Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spun away on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, like pebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, white ship.     They ushered the man and woman into the beamed         88         and paneled council chambers and sat them in thick chairs befor, the wall f polished wood desks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. And on a far wall, facing them ail, hung a silver screen, fifty feet square.     The President stOOd. "Members of the council." He paused. "As you heard, they report---complete failure." He turned to Michael. "And now, the proof."     Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair. The lights dimmed. There was only tho sound of the pumps throbbing in the darkness dose and far away, above and beneath and all around. Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filled with a mass of glowing white, which extended into the rOOm around the watching people, seeming to touch them' and then spreading, like an ocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance.     Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a ù swarm of lightning bugs, the thia sharp-nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling, like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughts flashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of time passing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until they themselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness toward blinding balls of white light, the size of moons.     The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones moved forward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and many mixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seeming to be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was a razor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson. Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. A roaring rose and fell like a roaring of a million winds. Then fear flowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that they grasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphere of this planet would disintegrate a human being.     Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness and the blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaks of rocket flame shooting away in all directions.         89         Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a natch, and died, and the watchers caught from the screen he awareness of the death of a ship.     They were also aware of the rushing of time through :enturies and they saw the streaking rocket flames and >lanets rushing at them; saw creatures in squares and ch'-:les, in threads wriggling, in lumps and blobs, rolling [umping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whisking about, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of vater. They saw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling at incredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legs and arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there but invisible.     And those watching the screen on which time and distance were a compressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet and thousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinks and whistles; screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they were aware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, some that would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst into flame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid. They saw and heard chemical analysis, were aware of this ocean of blackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and must ever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speck that was Earth.     The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle-nosed crafts, showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while the man cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of the woman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments where solution dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature was held at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused upon them from many pencil4ike tubes.     The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell into human embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces and extend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles and cared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling the ship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of their bodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated them in the coffin-like tubes and let their         9O         dust be sucked out into spa.ce-all this through millions of miles and a hundred years, compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet of space.     Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingers of flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships.     And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into a blazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker; saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness past the swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a dark nothingness.     Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing them into grotesque tin cans. The steam of fire at the tail of another ship suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great, yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it. Another 'burst like a comb, flinging a man and woman out into the darkness, where.they hung suspended, fr, ozen into statues, like bodies drowned in the depths of an Arctic sea.     At this instant from the watching council, there were screams of horror and voices crying out, "Shut it off! Shut it off!" There was a moving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapproval grew in volume.     Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor and the bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, the contorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screams and cries of the spectators rose higher, "Shut it off .... Oh Lord .... "     Lights flashed through the room and the picture died.         Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, the agonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden in clutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa. There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbing of the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk to quiet his trembling.     "There there have been changes," he said, "since you've been out in space. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death for hundreds of years."     Michael faced him, frowning. "I don't follow you."         91         "Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time, the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a man was struck by one of the ground cars and everyone who saw it went insane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, no one is aware that death by violence is even a possibility." "I'm sorry," said Michael, "we've been so close to   vio lent death for so long  What you have seen is part of the proof you asked for." "What you showed us was a picture," said the President. "If it had been real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the people there'd be mass hysteria." "But even ff we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it would involve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the people who left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out in space." "We couldn't tolerate such a possibility," said the President gravely. "We'd have to find a way around it."' The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in the council chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothing out; the terror in them was fading away. "And yet the Earth is almost dead," said Michael quietly, "and you can't bring it back to life." "The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson," said the President. "The Atomic wars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a long time ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And now you've come back to us with this terrible news." He looked around, slowly, then back to Michael. "Can you give us any hope at all?" "None."     "Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader?" Michael shook his head. "We're finished with expeditions, Mr. President." There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whispered consultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again. "We feel," said the President, "it would be dangerous to allow you to go out among the people. They've been informed that your statement wasn't entirely true. This     92         was necessary, to avoid a panic. The people simply must not kqow the whol truth." He paused. "Now we ask you to keep in mind that whatever we decide about the two     of you will be for the good of the people."     Michael and Mary were silent.     "You'll wait outside the council chambers," the President went on, "until we have reached our decision."         As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness, and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were being pulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier of artificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around the shoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behind the gardens were growing into mountains.         In their rooms, Michael'and Mary were talking through the hours, and waiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs and translucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sun when they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight.     Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter. Michael saw, far below, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along the shoreline of the sea.     "We should have delivered our message by radio," he said, "and gone back into space."     "You could probably still go," she said quietly.     He came and stood beside her. "I couldn't stand being out in space, or anywhere, without you."     She looked up at him. "We could go out into the wilderness, Michael, outside the force walls. We could go far away."     He turned from her. "It's all dead. What would be the use?"     "I came from the Earth," she said quietly. "And I'vo got to go back to it. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness and the rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison."     "But to die out there in the desert, in that dust." Then         he paused and looked away from her. "We're   crazy- talking as though we had a choice."     "Maybe they'll have to give us a choice."     "What're you talking about?"     "They went into hysterics at the sight of those   bod ies in the picture. Those young bodies that didn't die of     old age."     He waited.     "They can't stand the sight of people dying violently."     Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny     locket.     "These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice     between suffering or quick painless death  We still have a choice." He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a long moment. "So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. What would it do to them?" He was still for a long time. "Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't know you at all." A pause. "And so now you and I are back where we started. Which'Il it be, space or Earth?"     "Michael." I-Ier voice trembled. "I--I don't know how to say this." He waited, frowning, watching her intenfiy. "I'm--going to have a child." His face went blank. Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw the softness there in her face; 'saw her eyes bright as though the sun were shining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had been running. And suddenly his throat was full. "No," he said thickly. "I can't believe it." "It's true." He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside.     "Yes, I can see it is." "I---I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael."     He shook his head. "I don't know--what to--to say. It's so incredible." "Maybe I got so---tired--just seeing the two of us over and over again and the culturing of the scar tissue,     94         for twenty centuries.. Maybe that was it. It was jnst--something I felt I had to do. Some--real life again. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out of myself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting close to the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of the ship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the night or morning like we'd seen on Earth--so--so long ago. And then I had to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There was something forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemed to be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing." She paused, frowning. "I didn't stop to think--it would be like this."     "Such a thing," he said, smiling grimly, "hasn't happened on Earth for three thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the history books, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and water had to Be rationed and then how, the laws were passed forbidding birth and after that how the people died and there weren't anymore babies born, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give, for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about the culturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but they were soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population was stabilized." He paused. "After all this past history, I don't think the council could endure what you've done."     "No," she said quietly. "I don't think they could."     "And so this will be just for us." He took her in his arms. "If I remember rightly, this is a traditional action." A pause. "Now I'll go with you out onto the Earth--ff we can swing it. When we get outside the city, or ff we do---Well, we'll see."     They were very still together and then he turned and stood by the window and looked down upon the city and she came and stood beside him.     They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking, both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched the giant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lush planet showed bright with ships standing among the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gently like the swells         95         on a calm ocean, while into their minds came the thoughts projected from the screen:     '`This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But another expedition will be sent to find it again. Be of good hope. Everything will be all right."     Michael turned from the window. "So there's our evidence. Two thousand years. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, it becomes a lie."     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     "What a terrible failure there's been here," said Michael. "The neglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family letting their home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smaller rooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since they can't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room."     "I can't face dying," Mary said quietly, "squeezed in -with all these people, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have the open sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when I die. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. I want to be a real part of the Earth again."     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mournera at a funeral, and went into the council chambers.         Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with the faces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed to set himlf as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     "Michael and Mary," he said, his voice struggling against a tightness, "we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with you and the report you brought back to us from the galaxy." He took another swallow of water. "To protect the sanity of the people, we've changed your report. We've also decided that the         96         people must be protected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you did at the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll be isolated. All corn~ forts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it has been in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until the time when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel that hope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sent out. It     may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able ù to take your place in our society."     He paused. "Is there anything you wish to say?" "Yes, there is." "Proceed."     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, he raised his hand to the tiny locket at his throht. '     "Perhaps, you remember," he said, "the lockets given toevery member of the expedition the night before we left. I still have mine." He raised it. "So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantly and painlessly if he were ever faced with a pain or a terror he couldn't endure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade of desks.         "We can't endure the city," went on Michael, "or its life and the ways of the people." He glanced along the line of staring faces.     "If what I think you're about to say is true," said the President in a shaking voice, "it would have been better if you'd never been born."     "Let's face the facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven't died--yet." A pause. "And we can kill ourselves right here before your eyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would be horrible convulsions, and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted and torn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happened a long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at the sight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see."     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirring and muttering and a jumping up         97         along the desks. Voices cried out, in anger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped and unclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a per mell rushing around the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each .other by the shoulders, and then suddenly became very still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, the President leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gathering around them in a wido half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. The half circle of people, with the President at its centre, was moving closer and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry white ones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's wrist. He felt the     trembling in her body and the waiting for death.     "StopI" he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     "If you want to see us die--just come a step closer .... And remember what'll happen to you."     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone of muttering and whispering. "A ghastly     thing  Instant Nothing to do  Space's broken their minds  They'll do it  Eyes're mad .... What can we do?... What? . . ." The sweaty faces, the cold white ones, the flushed hot ones: ail began to turn to the President, who was staring at the two before him like a man watching himseff die in a mirror. "I command you," he suddenly said, in a choked-voice, "to--to give me those---lockets! It's your---duty!" "We've only one duty, Mr. President," said Michael sharply. 'Fo ourselves." "You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you." "We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! ow!"     The President's body sagged. "W'hat--what is it you want?"     Michael threw the words. "To go beyond the force fields of the city. To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then to die a natural death."     98         The half circle of faced turned to each other and muttered and whispered again. "In the name of God .... Let them go .... Contaminate us .... Like animals .... Get them out of here .... Let them be finished .... Best for us a/L... And them....'         There was a turning lo the President again and hands thrusting him forward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standing there close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, "Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth --to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city or your people again."     "We want. a ground car," said Michael. "And supplies." "A ground car," repeated the President. "And supplies...'. Yes."     "You can 'give us an escort, if you' want to, out beyond the first range of mountains."     "There will be no escort," said the President firmly. "No one has been allowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundreds of years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear the sight of it." He took a step back. "And we can't bear the sight of you any longer. Go nmv. Quicklyl"     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched the half circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses that should sink to the floor.         It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earth that rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. The ground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the ear's driving blister, they saw the stars sunk into the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Way along which they had rushed, while they had been searching frantical/y for the plae of salvation.     "If any one of the other coup/es had made it back," said Mary, "do you think they'd be with us?"     "I think they'd either be with us," he said, "or out in space again---or in prison."         99         She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into the night over the decaying road.     "How sorry are you," she said quietly, "coming with me?"     "All I know is, if I were in space for long without you, I'd kill myself."     "Are we going to die out here, Michael?" she said, gesturing toward the wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, "with the land?"     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward, watching the headlights push back the   dark     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept across the bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon the desolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They sat for a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched and inflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a great pile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionless waves of dead Earth with a     slight breeze stirring up little swirls of duSt.     "I'm getting out," she said.     "I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why," said Michael shrugging. "It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountains and sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out in space. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enough concentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why? When?"     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of     the sun and strolled toward the top of the hill.     "The air smells clean," he said.     "The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes." She did. "Take off your boots, Michael. Try it."     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. "It takes me back."     "Yes," she said and began walking toward the hilltop.         He followed, his boots slung around his neck. "There was a road somewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?"         100         "I guess when 'the past is old enough," she said, "it becorhes a dream."     He watched her footprints in the dust. "God, listen tø the quiet.'     "I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always been the sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities."     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel the dust squishing up between his toes.     Then suddenly:     "MaryI"     She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze.     "It's grass?' He bent down. "Three blades."       She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. "They're new," he said.     ù The stared, like religious devotees, concentrating upon some sacred obiect.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hill and stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tiny patches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, a pale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the centre of the valley and     there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its centre.     "Oh!"     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touch their feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to the little spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water that trickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. They saw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a bird and saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of a bee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at the sweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     "It's so cool. It must come from deep down."     "It does," he said. There were tears in his eyes and a     tightness in his throat. "From deep down."     "We can live here, Michaell"     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at         101         the bottom of a hill. "We'll build our house juse beyond those rocks. We'll dig and plant and you'll have the child!"     "Yes!" she said. "Oh yes?'     "And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometime we'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive." He paused. "By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found a way to save them."     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time. They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth of the water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them and of themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it the life that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth toward the base of the hill where he had dided to build the house.         102                 III     ù         Dark They Were and     Golem-Eyecl         William Tenn: DOWN AMONG     THE DEAD MEN 107     R. A. Lafferty: AMONG THE     HAIRY EARTHMEN 133     Fritz Leiber: LATER THAN YOU     THINK 145         This is the section where most of the aliens on Earth congregate. Of course, there are aliens and aliens, and hero are three special varieties.     We have already met one special variety of alien, tho mutant. The mutant really functions much better in a story than any monstrous being from Jupiter or other planets because he is a part of us, as well as being apart. A naughty alien from elsewhere in the galaxy, near or far, is likely to work as an externalisation of evil. So that any humans he finds himself up against function as Goodies.     Or it works the other way round. If the alien comes as a '.Goodie, then the humans ranged against him are cast as Baddies.     We understand well enough that human beings, either separately or in the mass, are neither all good nor all bad, and it is a misrepresentation of fundamental experience to imply otherwise. (Of course, that does not matter, or can even be turned to advantage, in certain types of story.)     TV's two most famous sf series, "Star Trek" and "Dr. Who" have markedly different approaches to this question of the externalisation of evil. In "Star Trek," Earthmen, to wit the crew of the Starship Enterprise, are always the Good People who defeat the Bad People (who live on other planets). Who knows, it may be because even unsophisticated viewers find this simplistic line-up hard to swallow that the hero of the show has become big-eared Mr. Speck who, not being human, is slightly more credibly cast as Totally Good.     "Dr. Who" has always been aimed at a iuvenile audience. Yet its approach to externalised evil is intrinsically more sophisticated (however crude the sets!). The aliens opposing Dr. Who are always predatory and vile and cold, and moreover generally look it; they reach their epitome in the Daleks, a loathsome symbiosis of robots and foetus-like homunculi, whose command "Exterminate" became a catchword for a generation of school-children. But Earthmen in "Dr. Who" are never represented as   unmiti     105         gated Goodies. There is invariably a faction of wicked men which stands to gain from an alien invasion, and with Whom Dr. Who and his amateur band also have to cope.     This arrangement is based on historical precedent as well as psychological observation. The British conquered India by just such methods as the Daleks use, by dividing ind ruling.     At first, aliens in sf appeared singly, as rare creatures fo be marvelled at or as apparitions bringing us news of our perfectability or our insignificance. It was H. G. Wells who changed all that. The War o! the Worlds brought the Martians down on us in droves, and they've been troubling us ever since. Mutants have never been able to marshall their ranks to the same extent. They generally appear singly, like Philip Dick's Golden Man, to represent, perhaps, the dangerous outcast in society.     In Fritz Leiber's story, dangerous outcasts there are in-deedI It is not the meek that inherit his Earth.     The jocular aliens in Lafferty's tale represent a special sort of invasion of Earth, getting into the History as well as the Geography. This eccentric little story is to be prized, not least for its meditative ending.     As for the long William Term story, it is a pleasure to anthologise it here. I have tried and failed to get it into print in anthologies before (it appeared originally in Ga/axy, where nobody turned a hair, but English publishers have revealed themselves to have dainty stomachs). Here it is, in all its ghastly glory.     In one respect, it stands as representative of all those invasion-of-Earth stories which we have enjoyed since Welis's War o! the Worlds. Tenn's invading aliens, the Eoti, are sufficiently nasty to gratify all tastes. Insect-like, completely without understanding of or interest in other species, they come buzzing in from beyond Pluto to take over the entire solar system, including Earth. Battle after baffle is fought; and the Eoti can replenish themselves faster than the terrestrials. Which is the reason for the story--and the reason for Earth's having to invent a gruesome sort of alien life to help out its defences. Like all of Tenn's stories, it is soundly built on logic, with just a dash of sneaky madness to it. And, in this case, a whiff of decay.         106         In.the gravest crisis ever to hit Earth, every man was expected to do his duty, not once but again and again and again. To death--and beyond. No wonder some oI them made a stink about itl         DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN     by William Tenn         i stqod in front of the junkyard's outer gate and felt my stomach turn over slowly, grin, dingly, the way it had when I saw a whole terrestrial subfleet--close to 20,000 men--blown to bits in the Second Battle of Saturn more than eleven years ago. But then there had been shattered fragments of ships in my visiplate and imagined screams of men in my mind; there had been the expanding images of the Eoti's box-like craft surging through the awful, drifting wreckage they had created, to account for the icy sweat that wound itself like a flat serpent around my fore head and my neck.         Now there was nothing but a large, plain building, very much like the hundreds of other factories in the busy suburbs of Old Chicago, a manufacturing establishment surrounded by a locked gate and spacious proving grounds--the Junkyard. Yet the sweat on my skin was colder and the heave of my bowels more spastic than it had ever been in any of those countless, ruinous battles that had created this place.     All of which was very understandable, I told myself. What I was feeling was the great-grandmother hag of all fears, the most basic rejection and reluctance of which my flesh was capable. It was understandable, but that didn't help any. I still couldn't walk up to the sentry at the gate. I'd been almost all right until I'd seen the huge square         107         can against the fence, the can with the slight stink coming out of it and the big colorful sign on top:         DON'r WASTE WASTE     PLACE ALL WASTE HERE     remember- WHATEVER IS WORN CAN BE SHORN WHATEVER IS MAIMED CAN BE RECLAIMED     WHATEVER IS USED CAN BE RE-USED     PLACE ALL WASTE HERE     --Conservation Police         I'd seen those square, compartmented cans and those signs in every barracks, every hospital, every recreation center, between here and the asteroids. But seeing them, now, in this place gave them a different meaning. I wondered if they had those other posters inside, the shorter     ones. You know: "We need all our resources to defeat the enemy--and GARBAGE IS OUR BIGGEST NATURAL RESOURCE." Decorating the walls of this particular building with those posters would be downright ingenious.     Whatever is maimed can be reclaimed .... I flexed my right arm inside my blue jumper sleeve. It felt like a part of me, always would feel like a part of me. And in a couple of years, assuming that I lived that long, the thin white scar that circled the elbow joint would be completely invisible. Sure. Whatever is maimed can be reclaimed. All     except one thing. The most important thing.     And I let less like going in than ever.     And then I saw this kid. The one from Arizona Base. He was standing right in front of the sentry box, paralyzed just like me. In the center of his uniform cap was a brand-new, gold-shiny Y with a dot in the center: the insignia of a sling-shot commander. He hadn't been wearing it the day before at the briefing; that could only mean the commission had just come through. He looked real young and real scared.     I remembered him from the briefing session. He was the one whose hand had gone up timidly during the question period, the one who, when he was recognized, had half risen, worked his month a couple of times and finally         108         blurted out: "Excuse me, sir, but they don't--they don't ù smell at all bad, do they?"     There had been a cyclone of laughter, the yelping laughter of men who've felt themselves close to the torn edge of hysteria' all afternoon and who are damn glad that someone has at last said something that they can make believe is funny.     And the white-haired briefing officer, who hadn't so much as smiled, waited for the hysteria to work itself out, before saying gravely: "No; they don't smell bad at all. Unless, that is, they don't bathe. The same as you gentlemen."     That shut us up. Even the kid, blushing his way back into his seat, set his jaw stiffly at the reminder. And it wasn't until twenty minutes later, when we'd been dis' missed, that I began to feel the ache in my own face from ù the unrelaxed muscles there.         The same as you gentlemen ....     I shook myself hard and walked over to the kid. "Hello, Commander," I said. "Been here long?"     He managed a grin. "Over an hour, Commander. I caught the eight-fifteen out of Arizona Base. Most of the other fellows were still sleeping off last night's party. I'd gone to bed early: I wanted to give myself as much time to get the feel of this thing as I could. Only it doesn't seem to do much good."     "I know. Some things you can't get used to. Some things you're not supposed to get used to."     He looked at my chest. "I guess this isn't your first sling-shot command?"     My first? More like my twenty-first, son! But then I remembered that everyone tells me I look young for my medals, and what the hell, the kid looked so pale under the ch------ "No, not exactly my first. But I've never had a blob crew before. This is exactly as new to me as it is to you. Hey, listen, Commander: I'm having a hard time, too. What say we bust through that gate together? Then the worst'Il be over."     The kid nodded violently. We linked arms and marched up to the sentry. We showed him our orders. He opened         109         the gate and said: "Straight ahead. Any elevator on your left to the fifteenth floor."     So, still arm in arm, we walked into the main entrance of the large building, up a long flight of steps and under the sign that said in red and black:         HUMAN PROTOPLASM RECLAMATION CENTER THIRD DISTRICT FINISHING PLANT         There were some old-looking but very erect men walking along the main lobby and a lot of uniformed, fairly pretty girls. I was pleased to note that the most of the girls were pregnant The first pleasing sight I had seen in almost a week.     We turned into an elevator and told the girl, "Fifteen."     She punched a button and waited for it to fill up. She didn't seem to be pregnant. I wondered what was the matter with her.     l'd managed to get a good grip on my heaving imagination, when I got a look at the shoulder patches the other passengers were wearing. That almost did for me right there. It was a circular red patch with the black letters TAF superimposed on a white (7-4. TAF for Terrestrial Armed Forces, of course: the letters were the basic insignia of all rear-echelon outfits. But why didn't they use G-I, which represented Personnel? G-4 stood for the Supply Division. Supply!     You can always trust the TAF. Thousands of morale specialists in all kinds of ranks, working their educated heads off to keep up the spirits of the men in the fighting perimeters--but every damn time, when it comes down to scratch, the good old dependable TAF will pick the ugliest name, the one in the worst possible taste.     Oh, sure, I told myself, you can't fight a shattering, noquarter interstellar war for twenty-five years and keep every pretty thought dewy-damp and intact. But not Supply, gentlemen. Not this place--not the. lnnkyard. Let's at least try to keep up appearances.     Then we began going up and the elevator girl began announcing floors and I had lots oI other things to think about.     110         "Third floor--Corpse Reception and Classification," the oerator sang out.     "Fifth floor--Preliminary Organ Processing."     "Seventh floor--Brain R.onstitutiou and Neural Alignment."     "Ninth floor---Cosmetics, Elementary Reflexes, and Muscular Control."     At this point, I forced myself to stop listening, the way you do when you're on a heavy cruiser, say, and the rear engine room gets flicked by a bolt from an Eoti scrambler. After you've been around a couple of times when it's happened, you learn to sort of close your ears and say to yourself, "I don't know anybody in that damned engine room, not anybody, and in a few minutes everything will be nice and quiet again." And in a few minutes it is. Only -.trou.ble is that then, like as not, you'll be part of the detail that's ordered into the steaming place to scrape the     ù guck off the alls and get the lets firing again.     Same way now. Just as soon as I had that girl's voice blocked out, there we were on the fifteenth floor ("Final Interviews and Shipping") and the kid and I had to get out.     He was real green. A definite sag around the knees, shoulders sloping forward like his clavicle had curled. Again I was grateful to him. Nothing like having some,-body to take care of.     "Come on, Commander," I whispered. "Up and at 'em. Look at it this way: for characters like us, this is pracfi-caily a family reunion."     It was the wrong thing to say. He looked at me as ff I'd punched his face. "No thanks to you for the reminder, Mister," he said, "even ff we are in the same boat." Then he walked stiffly up to the receptionist.     I could have bitten my tongue off. I hurried after him. "I'm sorry, kid," I told him earnestly. 'Whe words just slid out of my big mouth. But don't get sore at me; hell, I had to listen to myseff say it too."     He stopped, thought about it, and nodded. Then he gave me a smile. "O.K. No hard feelings. It's a rough war, isn't it?"     I smiled back. "Rough? Why, if you're not careful, they tell me, you can get killed in it."         111         The receptionist was a soft little blonde with two wedø ding rings on one hand, and one wedding ring on the other. From what I knew of current planet-side customs that meant she'd been widowed twice.     She took our orders and read jauntily into her desk mike: "Attention Final Conditioning. Attention Final Conditioning. Alert for immediate shipment the following serial numbers: 70623152, 70623109, 70623166, and 70623123. Also 70538966, 70538923, 70538980, and 70538937. Please route through the correct numbered     sections and check all data on TAF AGO forms 362 aa per TAF Regulation 7896, of 15 June, 2145. Advise when available for Final Interviews."     I was impressed. Almost exactly the same procedure aa when you go to Ordnance for a replacement set of stra exhaust tubes.     She looked up and favored us with a lovely smile. "Your crews will be ready ia a moment. Would you have a seat, gentlemen?"     We had a seat gentlemen.     After a while, she got up to take something out of a file cabinet set in the wall. As she came back to her desl I noticed she was pregnant---only about the third 'or fourth month-and, naturally, I gave a little, satisfied nod. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid make the same kind of nod. We looked at each other and chuckled. "It's a rough, rough war," he said.     "Where are you from anyway?" I asked. 'l'hat doesn't sound like a Third District accent to me."     "It isn't. I was born in Scandinavia--Eleventh Militar District. My home town in Goteborg, Sweden. But after I got mymmy promotion, naturally I didn't care to see the folks any more. So I requested a transfer to the Third, and from now on, until I hit a scrambler, this is where I'll be spending my furloughs and Earth-side hospitalizations.''     I'd heard that a lot of the younger sling-shotters felt that way. Personally, I never had a chance to find out how I'd feel about visiting the old folks at home. My father was knocked off in the suicidal attempt to retake Neptune 'way back when I was still in high school learning elementary combat, and my mother was Admiral         112         Raguzzi's staff secretary when the flagship Thermopylae took a direct hit'two years later in the famous dfense of Ganymede. That was before the Breeding Regulations, of course, and women were still serving in administrative positions on the fighting perimeters.     On the other hand, I realized, at least two of my brothers might still be alive. But I'd made no attempt to contact fhem since getting my dotted Y. So I guessed I felt th same way as the kid--which was hardly surprising.     "Axe you from Sweden?" the blonde girl was asking. "My second husband was born in Sweden. Maybe you knew him---Sven Nossen? I understand he had a lot of relatives in Oslo.'     The kid screwed up his eyes as ff he was thinking real hard. You know, running down a list of all the Swedes in Oslo. Finally, he shook his head, "No, can't say that I do. But I wasn't out of Goteborg very mu.ch before I was called upf     She clucked sympathetically at his provincialism. The baby-faced blonde of classic anecdote. A real dumb kid. And yet--there were lots of very clever, high-pressure curies around the inner planets these days who had to content themselves with a one-fifth interest in some abysmal slob who boasted the barest modicum of maleness. Or a certificate from the local sperm bank. Blondie here was on her third full husband.     Maybe, I thought, if I were looking for a wife myself, this is what I'd pick to take the stink of scrambler rays out of my nose and the yammer-yammer-yammer of Irvingles out of my ears. Maybe I'd want somebody nice and simple to come home to from one of those complicated skirmishes with the Eoti where you spend most of your conscious thoughts trying to figure out just what battle rhythm the filthy insects are using this time. Maybe, d I were going to get married, I'd find a pretty fiuffhead like this more generally desirable than--oh, well. Maybe. Considered as a problem in psychology it was interesting.     I noticed she was talking to me. "You've never had a crew of this type before either, have you, Commander?" "Zombies, you mean? No, not yet. I'm happy to say." She made a disapproving pout with her mouth. It was         113         fully as cute as her approving pouts. "We do not like that word."     "All right, blobs then."     "We don't like bl--that word either. You are talking about human beings like yourself, Commander. Very much like yourseff."     I began to get sore feet, just the way the kid had out in the hall. Then I realized she didn't mean anything by it. She didn't know. What the hell--it wasn't on our orders. I relaxed. "You tell me. What do you call them here?"     The blonde sat up stiffly. "We refer to them as soldier surrogates. The epithet 'zombie' was used to describe the obsolete Model 21 which went out of production over five years ago. You will be supplied with individuals based on Models 705 and 706, which are practically perfect. In fact, in some respects     "No bluish skin? No slow-motion sleepwalking?"     She shook her head violently. Her eyes were lit up. Evidently she'd digested all the promotional literature. Not such afl. ffhead, after all; no great mind, but her husbands had evidently had someone to talk to in between times. She rattled on enthusiastically: 'The cyano-sis was the result of bad blood oxygenation; blood was our second most difficult tissue reconstruction problem. The nervous system was the hardest. Even though the blood cells are usually in the poorest shape of all by the time the bodies arrive, we can now turn out a very serviceable rebuilt heart. But, let there be the teensiest battle damage to the brain or spine and you have to start right from scratch. And then the troubles in reconstitutionl My cousin Lorna works in Neural Alignment and she tells me all you need to make is just one wrong connection--you know how it is, Commander, at the end of the day your eyes are tired and you're kind of watching the clock--just one wrong connection, and the reflexes in the finished individual turn out to be so bad that they just have to send him down to the third floor and begin all over again. But you don't have to worry about that. Since Model 663, we've been using the two-team inspection system in Neural Alignment. And the 700 series---oh, they've just been wonderful."         114         ''hat good, eh? Better than the old-fashioned mother's son type?"     "Well-l-l," she considered. "You'd really be amazed, Commander, if you could see the very latest performance charts. Of course, there is always that big deficiency, the one activity we've never been able to "     "One thing I can't understand," the kid broke in, "why do they have to use corpses! A body's lived its life, fought its war--why not leave it alone? I know the Eoti can out-breed us merely by increasing the number of queens in their flagships; I know that manpower is the biggest single TAF problem--but we've been synthesizing protoplasm for a long, long time now. Why not synthesize the whole damn body, from toe nails to frontal lobe, and turn out real, honest-to-God androids that don't wallop you with the stink of death when you meet them?"     The .little blonde got mad. "Our product does not stinkl Cosmetics can now guarantee that the new models have even less of a body odor than ou, young man! And we do not reactivate or revitalize corpses, I'll have you know; what we do is reclaim human protoplasm, we reuse worn-out and damaged human cellular material in the area where the greatest shortages currently occur, militaj personnel. You wouldn't talk about corpses, I assure you, if you saw the condition that some of those bodies are in when they arrive. Why, sometimes in a whole baling package--a baling package contains twenty casualties--we don't find enough to make one good, whole kidney. Then we have to take a little intestinal tissue here and a bit of spleen there, alter them, unite them carefully, activa "     "That's what I mean. If you go to all that trouble, Why not start with real raw material?"     "Like what, for exampte, she asked him.     The kid gestured with his black-gloved hands. "Basic elements like carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and so on. It would make the whole process a lot cleaner."     "Basic elements have to come from somewhere," I pointed out gently. "You might take your hydrogen and oxygen from air and water. But where would you get your carbon from?"         115         "From the same place where the other synthetics manufacturers get it--coal, oil, cellulose."     The receptionist sat back and relaxed. "Those are organic substances," she reminded him. "If you're going to use raw material that was once alive, why not use the kind that comes as close as possible to the end-product you have in mind? It's simple industrial economics, Commander, believe me. The best and cheapest raw material for the manufacture of soldier surrogates is soldier bodies."     "Sure," the kid said. "Makes sense. There's no other use for dead, old, beaten-up soldier bodies. Better'n shoving them in the ground where they'd be just waste, pure waste."     Our little blonde chum started to smile in agreement, then shot him an intense look and changed her mind. She looked very uncertain all of a sudden. When the communicator on her desk buzzed, she bent over it eagerly.     I watched her with approval. Definitely no fiuffhead. Just feminine. I sighed. You see, I figure lots of civilian things out the wrong way, but only with women is my wrongness an all-the-time proposition. Proving again that a hell of a lot of peculiar things turn out to have happened for the best.     "Commander," she was saying to the kid. "Would you go to Room 15917 Your crew will be there in a moment." She turned to me. "And Room 1524 for you, Commander, if you please."     The kid nodded and walked off, very stiff and erect. I waited until the door had closed behind him, then I leaned over the receptionist. "Wish they'd change the Breeding Regulations again," I told her. "You'd make a damn fine rear-echelon orientation officer. Got more of the feel of the Junkyard from you than in ten briefing sessions."     She examined my face anxiously. "I hope you mean that, Commander. You see, we're all very deeply involved in this project. We're extremely proud of the progress the Third District Finishing Planet has made. We talk about the new developments all the time, everywhere ---even in the cafeteria. It didn't occur to me until too late that you gentlemen mightm'' she blushed deep, rich         116         red, the way only a blonde can blush "--might take what I said personally. I'm sorry ff I "     "Nothing to be sorry about," I assured her. "All you did was talk what they call shop. Like when I was in the hospital last month and heard two surgeons discussing how to repair a man's arm and making it sound as if they were going to nail a new arm on an expensive chair. Real interesting, and I learned a lot."     I left her looking grateful, which is absolutely the only way to leave a woman, and barged on to Room 1524.     ù It was evidently used as a classroom when recon-vetted human junk wasn't being picked up. A bunch of chairs, a long blackboard, a couple of charts. One of the charts was on the Eoti, the basic information list, that contains all the limited information we have been able to assemble on the bugs in the bloody quarter-century since they came. busting in past Pluto to take over the solar system. It hadn't been changed much since the one I had to memorize in high school: the only difference was a slightly longer section on intelligence and motivation. Just theory of course, but more carefully thought-out theory than the stuff I'd learned. The big brains had now concluded that the reason all attempts at communicating with them had failed was not because they were a conquest-crazy species, but because they suffered from the same extreme xenophobia as their smaller, less intelligent communal insect cousins here on Earth. That is, an ant wanders up to a strange anthill--zok! No dscussion, he's chopped down at the entrance. And the sentry ants react even faster if it's a creature of another genus. So despite the Eoti science, which in too many respects was more advanced than ours, they were psychologically incapable of the kind of mental projection, or empathy, necessary if one is to realize that a completely alien-looking individual has intelligence, feelings--and rights!--to substantially the same extent as oneself.     Well, it might be so. Meanwhile, we were locked in a murderous stalemate with them on a perimeter of never-ending battle that sometimes expanded as far as Saturn and occasionally contracted as close as Jupiter. Barring the invention of a new weapon of such unimaginable power that we could wreck their fleet before they could         117         duplicate the weapon, as they'd been managing to up to now, our only hope was to discover somehow the stellar system from which they came, somehow build ourselves not one starship but a fleet of them--and somehow wreck their home base or throw enough of a scare into it so that they'll pull back their expedition for defensive purposes. A lot of somehows.     But if we wanted to maintain our present position until the somehows started to roll, our birth announcements had to take longer to read than the casualty lists. For the last decade, this hadn't been so, despite the more and more stringent Breeding Regulations which were steadily pulverizing every one of our moral codes and sociological advances. Then there was the day that someone in the Conservation Police noticed that almost half our ships of the line had been fabricated from the metallic junk of previous battles. Where was the personnel that had managed those salvage derelicts, he wondered ....     And thus what Blondie outside and her co-workers were pleased to call soldier surrogates.     I'd been a computer's mate, second class, on the old Jenghiz Khan when the first batch had come aboard as battle replacements. Let me tell you, friends, we had real good reason for calling them zombies! Most of them were as blue as the uniforms they wore, their breathing was so noisy it made you think of asthmatics with built-in pub-lie address systems, their eyes shone with all the intelligence of petroleum jelly---and the way they walked,t     My friend, Johnny Cruro, the first man to get knocked off in the Great Breakthrough of 2143, used to say that they were trying to pick their way down a steep hill at the bottom of which was a large, open, family-size grave. Body held strained and tense. Legs and arms moving slow, slow, until suddenly they'd finished with a jerk. Creepy as hell.     They weren't good for anything but the drabbest fatigue detail. And even then--if you told them to polish a gun mounting, you had to remember to come back in an hour and turn them off or they might scrub their way clear through into empty space. Of course, they weren't all that bad. Johnny Cruro used to say that he'd met one or two who could achieve imbecility when they were feeling right.         118         Combat was what finished them as far as the TAF was concerned. Not that they broke under battle conditions--just the reverse. The old ship would be rocking and screaming as it changed course every few seconds, every Irvingle, scrambler, and nucleonic howitzer along the firing corridor turning bright golden yellow from the heat it was generating; a hoarse yelping voice from the bulkhead loudspeakers pouring out orders faster than human muscles could move, the shock troops--their faces ugly with urgency--running crazily from one emergency station to another; everyone around you working like a blur and cursing and wondering out loud why the Eoti were taking so long to tag a target as big and as slow as the Khan... and suddenly you'd see a zombie clutching a broom in his rubbery hands and sweeping the deck in the slack--jawed, moronic, and horribly earnest way they had ....     I' remember whole gun crews going amuck and slamming' into the zombies with long crowbars and metal-gloved fists; once, even an officer, sprinting back to the control room, stopped, flipped out his side-arm and pumped bolt after bolt of jagged thunder at a blue-skin who'd been peacefully wiping a porthole while the bow of the ship was being burned away. And as the zombie sagged uncomprehendingly and uncomplainingly to the floor plates, the young officer stood over him and chanted soothingly, the way you do to a boisterous dog: "Down, boy, down, down, down, damn :you downl"     That was the reason the zombies were eventually pulled back, not their own efficiency: the incidence of battle psycho around them just shot up too high. Maybe if it hadn't been for that, we'd have got used to them eventuallyGod knows you get used to everything else in combat. But the zombies belonged to something beyond mere war.     They were so terribly, terribly unslirred by the prospect of dying againl     "Well, everyone said the new-model zombies were a big improvement. They'd better be. A sling-shot might be one thin notch below an outright suicide patrol, but you need peak performance from every man aboard if it's going to complete its crazy mission, let alone get back. And it's an awful small ship and the men have to kind of get along with each other in very close quarters ....         119         I heard feet, several pairs of them, rapping along the corridor. They stopped outside the door.     They waited. I waited. My skin began to prickle. And then I heard that uncertain shuffling sound. They were nervous about meeting mel     I walked over to the window and stared down at the drill field where old veterans whose minds and bodies were too worn out to be repaired taught fatigue-uniformed zombies how to use their newly conditioned reflexes in close-order drill. It made me remember a high-school athletic field years and years ago. The ancient barking commands drifted tinnily up to me: "Hup, two, three, four. Hup, two, three, four." Only they weren't using hup.t, but a newer, different word I couldn't quite catch.     And then, when the hands I'd clasped behind me had almost squeezed their blood back into my wrists, I heard the door open and four pairs of feet clatter into the room. The door closed and the four pairs of feet clicked to attention.     I turned around.     They were saluting me. Well, what the hell, ! told myself, they were supposed to be saluting me, I was their commanding officer. I returned the salute, and four arms whipped down smartly.     I said, "At ease." They snapped their legs apart, arms behind them. I thought about it. I said, "Rest." They relaxed their bodies slightly. I thought about it again. I said, "Hell, men, sit down and let's meet each other."     They sprawled into chairs and I hitched myself up on the instructor's desk. We stared back and forth. Their faces were rigid, watchful: they weren't giving anything away.     I wondered what my face looked like. In spite of all the orientation lectures, in spite of all the preparation, I must admit that my first glimpse of them had hit me hard. They were glowing with health, normality, and hard   put pose. But that wasn't it.     That wasn't it at ail.     What was making me want to run out of the door, out of the building, was something I'd been schooling myself to expect since that last briefing session in Arizona Base.         120         Four dead men were staring at me. Four very famous dead men.     The big man, lounging all over his chair, was Roger Grey, who had been killed over a year ago when he rammed his tiny scout ship up the forward jets of an Eoti flagship. The flagship had been split neatly in two. Almost every medal imaginable and the Solar Corona. Grey was to be my co-pilot.     The thin, alert man with the tight shock of black hair was Wang Hsi. He had been killed covering the retreat to the asteroids after the Great Breakthrough of 2143. According to the fantastic story the observers told, his ship had still been firing after it had been scrambled fully three times. Almost every medal imaginable and the Solar Corona.. Wang was to be my engineer.     The darkish little fellow was Yussuf Lamehd. He'd beeia killed in a very minor skirmish off Titan, but when he died 'he was the most decorated man in the entire TAF. A double Solar Corona. Lamehd was to be my gunner.     The heavy one was Stanley Weinsteln, the only prisoner of war ever to escape from the Eoti. There wasn't much left of him by the time he arrived on Mars, but the ship he came in was the first enemy craft that humanity could study intact. There was no Solar Corona in his day for him to receive even posthumously, but they're still naming military academies after that man. Weinstein was to be my astrogator.     Then I shook myself back to reality. These weren't the original heroes, probably didn't have even a particle of Roger Grey's blood or Wang Hsi's flesh upon their reconstructed bones. They were just excellent and very faithful copies, made to minute physical specifications that had been in the TAF medical files since Wang had been a cadet and Grey a mere recruit.     There were anywhere from a hundred to a thousand Yussuf Lamehds and Stanley Weinsteins, I had to remind myself---and they had all come off an assembly line a few floors down. "Only the brave deserve the future," was the Junkyard's motto, and it was currently trying to assure that future for them by duplicating in quantity any TAF man who went out with especial heroism. As I         121         happened to know, there were one or two other categories who could expect similar honors, but the basic reasons behind the hero-models had little to do with morale.     First, there was that little gimmick of industrial efficiency again. If you're using mass-production methods, and the Junkyard was doing just that, it's plain common sense to turn out a few standardized models, rather than have everyone different--like the stuff an individual creative craftsman might come up with. Well, if you're using standardized models, why not use those that have positive and relatively pleasant associations bound up with their appearance rather than anonymous characters from the designers' drawing boards?         The second reason was almost more important and harder to define. According to the briefing officer, yesterday, there was a peculiar feeling--a superstitious feeling, you might almost say--that if you copied a hero's features, musculature, metabolism, and even his cortex wrinkles carefully enough, well, you might build yourself another hero. Of course, the original personality would never 'reappear--that had been produced by long years of a specific environment and dozens of other very slippery factors--but it was distinctly possible, the biotechs felt, that a modicum of clever courage resided in the body structure alone ....     Well, at least these Zombies didn't look like zombies!     On an impulse, I plucked the rolled sheaf of paper containing our travel orders out of my pocket, pretended to study it and let it slip suddenly through my fingers. As the outspread sheaf spiraled to the floor in front of me, Roger Grey reached out and caught it. He handed it back to me with the same kind of easy yet snappy grace. I took it, feeling good. It was the way he moved. I like to see     a co-pilot move that way. "Thanks," I said. He just nodded.     I studied Yussuf Lamehd next. Yes, he had it too. Whatever it is that makes a first-class gunner, he had it. It's almost impossible to describe, but you walk into a bar in some rest area on Eros, say, and out of the five slingshotters hunched over the blow-top table, you know right off which is the gunner. It's a sort of carefully bottled         122         nervousness or a dead. calm with a hair-trigger lttach-meat. Whatever it is, it's what you need sitting over a firing button when you've completed the dodge, curve, and twist that's a sling-shot's attacking dash and you're barely within range of the target, already beginning your dodge, curve, and twist back to safety. Lamehd had it so strong that I'd have put money on him against any other gunner in the TAF I'd ever seen in action.     Astrogators and engineers are different. You've just got to see them work under pressure before you can rate them. But, even so, I liked the calm and confident manner with which Wang Hsi and Weinstein sat under my amination. And I liked them.     Right there I felt a hundred pounds slide off my chest. I felt relaxed for the first time in days. I really liked my crew, zombies or no. We'd make it.     I decided to tell them. "Men," I said, "I think we'll really get along. I think were got ,the, makings of a sweet, smooth sling-shot. Youql find mc.     And I stopped. That cold, slightly mocking look in their eyes. The way they had glanced at each other when I told them I thought we'd get along, glanced at each other and blown slightly through distended nostrils. I realized that none of them had said anything since they'd come in: they'd just been watching me, and their ey.es weren't exactly warm.     I stopped and let myself take a long, deep breath. For the first time, it was occurring to me that I'd been worrying about just one end of the problem, and maybe the least important end. I'd been worrying about how I'd react to them and how much I'd be able to accept them as shipmates. They were zombies, after all. It had never occurred to me to wonder how they'd feel about me.     And there was evidently something very wrong in how they felt about me.     "What is it, men?" I asked. They all looked at me inquiringly. "Wh. at's on your mind?"     They kept looking at me. Weinstein pursed his lips and tilted his chair back and forth. It creaked. Nobody said anything.     I got off the desk and walked up and down in front of the classroom. They kept following me with their eyes.         123         "Grey," I said. "You look as if you've got a great big knot inside you. Want to tell me about it?"     "No, Commander," he said deliberately. "I don't want to tell you about it."     I grimaced. "If anyone wants to say anything--any-thing at all--it'll be off the record and completely off the record. Also for the moment we'll forget about such matters as rank and TAF regulations." I waited. "Wang? Lamehd? How about you, Weinstein?" They stared at me quietly. Weinstein's chair creaked back and forth.     It had me baffled. What kind of gripe could they have against me? They never met me before. But I knew one thing: I wasn't going to haul a crew nursing a sub-surface grudge as unanimous as this aboard a sling-shot. I wasn't going to chop space with those eyes at 'my back. It would be more efficient for me to shove my head against an Irvingle lens and push the button.     "Listen," I told them. "I meant what I said about forgetting rank and TAF regulations. I want to run a happy ship and I have to know what's up. We'll be living, the five of us, in the tightest, most cramped conditions the mind of man has yet been able to devise; wel be operating a tiny ship whose only purpose is to dodge at tremendous speed through the fire-power and screening devices of the larger enemy craft and deliver a single, crippling blast from a single oversize Irvingle. We've got to get along whether we like each other or not. If we don't get along, if there's any unspoken hostility getting in our way, the ship won't operate ht maximum efficiency. And that way, we're through before we     "Commander," Weinstein said suddenly, his chair coming down upon the floor with a solid whack, "I'd like to ask you a question."     "Sure," I said and let out a gust of relief that was the size of a small hurricane. "Ask me anything."     "When you think about us, Commander, or when you talk about us, which word do you use?"     I looked at him and shook my head. "Eh?"     "When you talk about us, Commander, or when you think about us, do you call us zombies2 Or do you call us blobs? That's what I'd like to know, Commander."         124         He'd spoken in such a polite, even tone that I was a long time ha getting the full significance of it.     "Personally," said Roger Grey in a voice that was just a little less even, "personally, I think the Commander ia the kind who refers to us. aa canned meat. Right, Commander?''     Yussuf Lamehd folded his arms across his chest and seemed to consider the issue very thoughtfully. "I think you're right, Rog. He's the canned-meat type. Definitely the canned-meat type."     "No," said Wang Hsi. "He doesn't use that kind of language. Zombies, yes; canned meat, no. You can observe from the way he talks that he wouldn't ever get mad enough to tell us to get back in the can. And I don't think he'd call us blobs very often. He's the kind of guy who'd buttonhole another sling-shot commander and tell him, .'Man, have I got the sweetest zombie crew you ever saw? That' the way I figure him. Zombies."     And then they were sitting quietly staring at me again. And it wasn't mockery in their eyes. It was hatred.     I went back to the desk and sat down. The room was very still. From the yard, fifteen floors down, the marching commands drifted up. Where did they latch on to this zombie-blob-canned meat stuff? They were none of them more than six months old; none of them had been ousido the precincts of the Junkyard yet. Their conditioning, while mechanical and intensive, was supposed to be absolutely foolproof, producing hard, resilient, and entirely human minds, highly skilled in theft various specialties and as far from any kind of imbalance as the latest psychiatric knowledge could push them. I knew they wouldn't have got it in their conditioning. Then where     And then I heard it clearly for a moment. The word. The word that was being used down in the drill field instead of Hup! That strange, new word I hadn't been able to make out. Whtyever was calling the cadence downstairs wasn't saying. "Hup, two, three, four."     He was saying, "Blob, two three, four. Blob, two, three, four."     Wasn't that just like the TAF? I asked myseff. For that matter, like any army anywhere anytime? Expanding fortunes and the best minds producing a highly necessary         125         product to exact specifications, and then, on the very first level of military use, doing something that might invalidate it completely. I was certain that the same officials who had been responsible for the attitude of the receptionist outside could have had nothing to do with the old, superannuated TAF drill-hacks putting their squads through their paces down below. I could imagine those narrow, nasty minds, as jealously proud of their prejudices as of their limited and painfully acquired military knowledge, giving these youngsters before me their first taste of barracks life, their first glimpse of the "outside.m It was so stupidi     But was it? There was another way of looking at it, beyond the fact that only soldiers too old physically and too ossified mentally for any other duty could be spared for this place. And that was the simple pragmatism of army thinking. The fighting perimeters were places of abiding horror and agony, the forward combat zones in which sling-shots operated were even worse. If men or material were going to collapse out there, it could be very costly. Let the collapses occur as close to the rear echelons as possible.     Maybe it made sense, I thought. Maybe it was logical to make live men out of dead men's flesh (God knows humanit7 had reached the point where we had to have reinforcements frorsomewhere!) at enormous expense and with the kind of care usually associated with things like cotton wool and the most delicate watchmakers' tools; and then to turn around and subject them to the coarsest, ugliest environment possible, an environment that perverted their carefully instilled loyalty into hatred and their finely balanced psychological adjustment into neurotic sensitivity.     I didn't know if it was basically smart or dumb, or even if the problem had ever been really weighed as such by the upper, policy-making brass. All I could see was my own problem, and it looked awfully big to me. I thought of my attitude toward these men before getting them, and I felt pretty sick. But the memory gave me an idea.     "Hey, tell me something," I suggested. "What would you call me?"     They looked puzzled.         126         "You want to know what I call you, I explained. 'øTell me first .what you call people like me, people who are---who are born. You must have your own epithets."     Lamehd grinned so that his teeth showed a bright, mirthless white against his dark skin. "Realos," he said. "We call you people realos. Sometimes, realo trulos."     Then the rest spoke up. There were other names, lots of other names. They wanted me to hear them all. They interrupted each other; they spat the words out as /f     they were so many missiles; they glared at my face, as ù they spat them out, to see how much impact they had.     Some of the nicknames were funny, some of them were rather nasty. I was particularly charmed by utie and wombat.     "All right," I said after a while. "Feel better?"     They were all breathing hard, but they felt better. I could .tell it, and they knew it. The air in the room felt softer now.     ù "First off," I said, "I want you to notice that you are all big boys and as such, can take care of yourselves. From here on out, if we walk into a bar or a rec camp together and someone of approximately your rank says something that sounds like zombie to your acute ears, you are at liberty to walk up to him and start taking him apart--if you can. If he's of approximately my rank, in all probability, l'll do the taking apart, simply becau I'm a very sensitive commander and don't like having my men depreciated. And any time you feel that I'm not treating you as human beings, one hundred per cent, full solar citizenship and all that I give you permission to come up to me and say, 'Now look here, you dirty utie, sir "     The four of them grinned. Warm grins. Then the grins faded away, very slowly, and the eyes grew cold again. They were looking at a man who was, after all, an outsider. I cursed.     "It's not as simple as that, Commander," Wang Hsi said, "unfortunately. You can call us hundred-percent human beings, but we're not. And anyone who wants to call us blobs or canned meat has a certain amount of right. Because we're not as good as--as you mother's         sons, and we know it. And we'll never be that good. Never."     "I don't know about that," I blustered. "Why, some of your performance charts "     "Performance charts, Commander," Wang Hsi said softly, "do not a human being make."     On his right, Weinstein gave a nod, thought a bit, and added. "Nor groups of men a race."     I knew where we were going now. And I wanted to smash my way out of that room, down the elevator, and out of the bmqding before anybody said another word. ù This is it, I told myself: here we are, boy, here we are. I found myself squirming from corner to corner of the desk; I gave up, got off it, and began walking again.     Wang Hsi wouldn't let go. I should have known he wouldn't. "Soldier surrogates," he went on, squinting as if he were taking a close look at the phrase for the first time. "Soldier surrogates, but not soldiers. We're not soldiers, because soldiers are men. And we, Commander, are not men."     There was silence for a moment, then a tremendous blast of sound boiled out of my mouth. "And what makes you think that you're not men?"     Wang Hsi was looking at me with astonishment, but his reply was still soft and calm. "You know why. You've seen our specifications, Commander. We're not men, real men, because we can't reproduce ourselves."     I forced myself to sit down again and carefully placed my shaking hands over my knees.     '?e're as sterile," I heard Yussuf Lamehd say, "as boil-lng water."     'q'here have been lots of men," I began, 'ho have been "     "This isn't a matter of lots of men," Weinstein broke in. 'nais is a matter of all--all of us."     "Blobs thou art," Wang Hsi murmured. "And to blobs returneth. They might have given at least a few of us a chance. The kids mightn't have turned out so bad."     Roger Grey slammed his huge hand down on the arm of his chair. "That's just the point, Wang," he said savagely. ''The kids might have turned out good--too good. Our kids might have turned out to be better than     128         their kids--and where .would that leave the proud and cocky, the goddam name-calling, the realo trulo human race?"     I sat staring at them once more, but now I was seeing a different picture. I wasn't seeing conveyor belts moving along slowly covered With human tissues and organs on which earnest biotechs performed their individual tasks. I wasn't seeing a room filled with dozens of adult male bodies suspended in nutrient solution, each body connected to a conditioning machine which day and night clacked out whatever minimum information was necessary for the body to take the place of a man in the bloodiest part of the fighting perimeter.     This time, I saw a barracks filled with heros, many of them in duplicate and triplicate. And they were sitting around griping, as men will in any barracks on any planet, whether they look like heroes or no. But their gripes concerned humiliations as basic as the .fabric of human personality.     "You believe, then," and despite the sweat on my face, my voice was gentle, "that the reproductive power was deliberately withheld?"     Weinstein scowled. "Now, Commander. Please. No bedtime stories."     "Doesn't it occur to you at all that the whole problem of our species at the moment is reproduction? Believe me, men, that's all you hear about on the outside. Grammar school debating teams kick current reproductive issues back and forth in the district medal competitions; every month scholars in archaeology and the botany of fungi come out with books about it from their own special angle. Everyone knows that if we don't lick the reproduction problem, the Eoti are going to lick us. Do you seriously think under such circumstances, the reproductive powers of anyone would be intentionally impaired?"     "What do a few male blobs matter, more or less?" Grey demanded. "According to the latest news bulletins, sperm bank deposits are at their highest point in five years. They don't need us."     "Commander," Wang Hsi pointed his triangular chin at me. "Let me ask you a few questions in your turn. Do you honestly expect us to believe that a science capable         129         of reconstructing a living, highly effective human body with a complex digestive system and a most delicate nervous system, all this out of dead and decaying bits of protoplasm, is incapable of reconstructing the germ plasm in one single, solitary case?"     "You have to believe it," I told him. "Because it's so."     Wang sat back, and so did the other three. They stopped looking at me.     "Haven't you ever heard it said," I pleaded with them, "that the germ plasm is more essentially the individual than any other part of him? That some whimsical biologists take the attitude that our human bodies and all bodies are merely vehicles, or hosts, by means of which our germ plasm reproduces itself? It's the most complex bio-technical riddle we have! Believe me, men," I added passionately, "when I say that biology has not yet solved     the germ-plasm problem, I'm telling the truth. I know." That got them.     "Look," I said. "We have one thing in common with the Eoti whom we're fighting. Insects and warm-blooded animals differ prodigiously. But only among the community-building insects and the community-building men are there individuals who, while taking no part personally in the reproductive chain, are of fundamental importance to their species. For example, you might have a female nursery school teacher who is barren but who is of unquestionable value in shaping the personalities and even physiques of children in her care."     "Fourth Orientation Lecture for Soldier Surrogates," Weinstein said in a dry voice. "He got it fight out of the book."     "I've been wounded," I said. "I've been seriously wounded fifteen times." I stood before them and began rolling up my right sleeve. It was soaked with my perspiration.     "We can tell you've been wounded, Commander, Lamehd pointed out uncertainly. 'qe can tell from your medals. You don't have to     "And every time I was wounded, they repaired me good as new. Better. Look at that arm." I flexed it for them. "Before it was burned off in a small razzle six years ago, I could never build up a muscle that big. It's a         130         better arm they built on the stump, and, believe me, my reflexes never had it so good."     "What did you mean," Wang Hsi started to ask me, "when you said before--"     "Fifteen times I was Wounded," my voice drowned him out, "and fourteen times, the wound was repaired. The fifteenth time--- 2'he i/teenth time-- Well, the fifteenth time it wasn't a wound they could repair. They     couldn't help me one little bit the fifteenth time."     Roger Grey opened his mouth.     "Fortunately," ! whispered, "it wasn't a wound that showed."     Weinstein start-d to ask me something, decided against it and sat back. But I told him what he wanted to know.     "A nucleonic howitzer. The way it was figured later, it had' been a defective shell. Bad enough to kill half the men on 6ur second-class cruiser. I wasn't killed, but I was in rang[ of the back-blast."     "That back-blast," Lamehd was figuring it out quickly in his mind. "That back-blast will sterilize anybody for two hundred feet. Unless you're wearing "     "And I wasn't. I had stopped sweating. It was over. My crazy little precious secret was out. I took a deep breath. "So you see--well, anyway, I know they haven't solved that problem yet."     Roger Grey stood up and said, "Hey." He held out his hand. I shook it. It felt like any normal guy's hand. Stronger maybe.     "Sling-shot personnel,'' I went on, "are all volunteers. Except for two categories: the commanders and soldier surrogates."     "Figuring, I guess," Weinstein asked, "that the human race can spare them most easily?"     "Right," I said. "Figure that the human race can spare them more easily." He nodded.     "Well, I'll be damned," Ynssuf Lamehd laughed as he     got up and shook my hand, too. "Welcome to our city." "Thanks," I said. "Son."     He seemed puzzled at the emphasis.     'What's the rest of it," I explained. "Never got married and was too busy getting drunk and tearing up the pavement on my leaves to visit a sperm bank."         131         "Oho," Weinstein said, and gestured at the walls with a thick thumb. "So this is it."     "That's right: this is it. The Family. The only one I'll ever have. I've got almost enough of these "I tapped my medals "--to rate replacement. As a slingshot commander. I'm sure of it."     "All you don't know yet," Lamehd pointed out, "is how high a percentage of replacement will be apportioned to your memory. That depends on how many more of these chest decorations you collect before you become au --ah, should I say raw material?"     "Yeah," I said, feeling crazily light and easy and relaxed. I'd got it all out and I didn't feel whipped any more by a billion years of reproduction and evolution. And I'd been going to do a morale job on theml "Say raw material, Lamehd."     "Well, boys," he went on, "it seems to me we want the commander to get a lot more fruit salad. He's a nice guy and there should be more of him in the club."     They were all standing around me now, Weinstein, Lamehd, Grey, Wang Hsi. They looked real friendly and real capable. I began to feel we were going to have one of the best sling-shots in What did I mean one of the best? The best, mister, the best.     "Okay," said Grey. "Wherever and whenever you want to, you start leading us--Pop."         132         The Children'went to Earthù They played some childish games--and the Earthmen called them Historyl         AMONG THE HAIRY EARTHMEN by R. A. Lafferty         There is one. period of our World History that has     ù aspects so different from anything that went before and after that ve can only gaze back on those several hundred years and ask: '     "Was'that ourselves who behaved so?"     Well, no, as a matter of fact, it wasn't. It was beings of another sort who visited us briefly and who acted so     gloriously and abominably.     This is the way it was:     The Children had a Long Afternoon free. They could go to any of a dozen wonderful places, but they were already in one.     Seven of them--full to the craw of wonderful places --decided to go to Eretz.     "Children are attracted to the oddest and most shambling things," said the Mothers. "Why should they want to go to Eretz?"     "Let them go," said the Fathers. "Let them see---before they be gone---one of the few simple peoples left. We ourselves have become a contrived and compromised people. Let the Children be children for half a day."     Eretz was the Planet of the Offense, and therefore it was to be (perhaps it recently had been) the Planet of the Restitution also. But in no other way was it distinguished. The children had received the tradition of Eretz as children receive all traditions--like lightning.     Hobble, Michael Goodgrind, Ralpha, Lonnie, Laurie,         133         Bea and Joan they called themselves as they came down on Eretz--for these were their idea of Eretz names. But they could have as many names as they wished in their     games.     An anomalous intrusion of great heat and force! The rocks ran like water where they came down, and there was formed a scarp-pebble enclave.     It was all shanty country and shanty towns on Eretz--clumsy hills, badly done plains and piedmonts, ragged fields, uncleansed rivers, whole weed-patches of provinces --not at all like Home. And the Towns! Firenze, Praha, Venezia, Londra, Colonia, Gant, Roma--why, they were nothing but towns made out of stone and wood! And these were the greatest of the towns of Eretz, not the meanest.     The Children exploded into action. Like children of the less transcendent races running wild on an ocean beach for an afternoon, they ran wild over continents. They scattered. And they took whatever forms first came into their minds.     Hobble-clark and smoldering like crippled Vulcan.     Michael Goodgrind--a broken-nosed bull of a man.     How they all howled when he invented that first form[ Ralpha--like young Mercury.     And Lonnie--a tall giant with a golden beard.     Laurie was fire, Bea was light, Joan was moon-darkness.     But in these, or in any other forms they took, you'd always know that they were cousins or brethren.     Lonnie went pure Gothic. He had come onto it at the tail end of the thing and he fell in love with it.     "I am the Emperor!" he told the people like giant thunder. He pushed the Emperor Wenceslas off the throne and became Emperor.     "I am the true son of Charles, and you had thought me dead," he told the people. "I am Sigismund." Sigismund was really dead, but Lonnie became Sigismund and reigned, taking the wife and all the castles of Wenceslas. He grabbed off gangling old forts and mountain-rooks and raised howling Eretzi armies to make war. He made new castles. He loved the tall sweeping things and raised them to a new height. Have you never wondered that the last of those castles--in the late afternoon of the Gothicwere the tallest and oddest?         134         One day the deposed Wenceslas came back, and he was possessed of a new power.     "Now we will see who is the real Emperorl" the new Wenceslas cried like a rising storm.     They clashed their two forces and broke down each other's bridges and towns and stole the high ladies from each other's strongholds. They wrestled like boys. But they wrestled with a continent.     Lonnie (who was Sigismund) learned that the Wen-ceslas he battled was Michael Goodgrind wearing a contrived     Emperor body. So they fought harder.     There came a new man out of an old royal line.     "I am Iobst,' the new man cried. "I will show you two princelings who is the real Emperorl"     He fought the two of them with overwhelming verve. He raised fast-striking Eretzi armies, and used tricks that only a .young Mercury would know. He was Ralpha, en--tering the game as the third Eaperor. But the two combined against him and broke him at Constance.     They smashed Germany and France and Italy like a clutch of eggs. Never had there been such spirited conflict. The Eretzi were amazed by it all, but they were swept into it; it was the Eretzi who made up the armies.     Even today the Eretzi or Earthers haven't the details of it right in their histories. When the King of Aragon, for an example, mixed into it, they treated him as a separate person. They did not know that Michael Goodgrind was often the King of Aragon, just as Lonnie was often the Duke of Flanders. But, played for itself, the Emperor game would be quite a limited one. Too limited for the Children.     The girls played their own roles. Laurie claimed to be thirteen different queens. She was consort to all three Emperors in every one of their guises, and she also dabbled with the Eretzi. She was the wanton of the group.     Bea liked the Grande Dame part and the Lady Bountiful bit. She was very good on Great Renunciations. In her different characters, she beat paths from thrones to nunneries and back again; and she is now known as five different saints. Every time you turn to the Common of the Mass of Holy Women who are Neither Virgins nor Martyrs, you are likely to meet her.         135         And Joan was the dreamer who may have enjoyed the afternoon more than any of them.     Laurie made up a melodrama--Lucrezia Borgia and the Poison Ring. There is an advantage in doing these little melodramas on Eretz. You can have as many characters as you wish--they come free. You can have them act as extravagantly as you desire---who is there to object to it? Lucrezia was very well done, as children's burlesques go, and the bodies were strewn from Napoli to Vienne. The Eretzi play with great eagerness any convincing part offered them, and they go to their deaths quite willingly if the part calls for it.     Lonnie made one up called The Pawn-Broker and the Pope. It was in the grand manner, all about the Medici family, and had some very funny episodes in the fourth act. Lonnie, who was vain of his acting ability, played Medici parts in five succeeding generations. The drama left more corpses than did the Lucrezia piece, but the killings weren't so sudden or showy; the girls had a better touch at the bloody stuff.     Ralpha did a Think Piece called One, Two, Three---In-finity. In its presentation he put all the rest of the Children to roast grandly in Hell; he filled up Purgatory with Eretzi-type people--the dullards; and for the Paradise he did a burlesque of Home. The Eretzi use a cropped version of Ralpha's piece and call it the Divine Comedy, leaving out a lot of fun.     Bea did a poetic one named the Witches' Bonfire. All the Children spent many a happy evening with that one, and they burnt twenty thousand witches. There was something satisfying about those Eretzi autumnal twilights with the scarlet sky and the frosty fields and the kine lowing in the meadows and the evening smell of witches burning. Bea's was really a pastoral piece.     All the Children ranged far except Hobble. Hobble (who was Vulcan) played with his sick toys. He played at Ateliers and Smithies, at Furnaces and Carousels. And often the other Children came and watched his work, and joined in for a while.     The played with the glass from the furnaces. They made gold-toned goblets, iridescent glass poems, figured spheres, goblin pitchers, glass music boxes, gargoyle heads,         136         dragon chargers, princess salieras, figurines of lovers. So many thing to make of glassl To make, and to smash when madel     But some of the things they exchanged as gifts instead of smashing them--glass birds and houses, fortune-telling globes that showed changing people and scenes within, tuned chiming balls that rang like bells, glass cats that sparked when stroked, wolves and bears, witches that flew.     The Eretzi found some of these things that the Children discarded. They studied them and imitated them.     . 'And again, in the .interludes ,of their own games, the Children came back to Hobble s shops where he sometimes worked with looms. They made costumes of wool and linen and silk. They made trains and cloaks and man-ties, all the things for their grand masquerades. They fabricated tapestries and rugs and wove in all sorts of scenes: vlstasof Home and of Eretz, people and peacocks, fish and crans, dingl and dromedaries, larks and lovers. They set their creations in the strange ragged scenery of Eretz and in the rich contrived gardens of Home. A spark went from the Children to their weaving so that none could tell where they left off and their creations began.     Then they left poor Hobble and went on to their more vital games.         There were seven of them (six, not counting the backward Hobble), but they seemed a thousand. They built themselves Castles in Spain and Gardes in Languedoc. The girls played always at Intrigue, for the high pleasure of it, and to give a causus for the wars. And the wars were the things that the boys seldom tired of. It is fun to play at armies with live warriors; and the lretzi were live... in a sense.     The Eretzl had had wars and armies and sieges long before this, but they had been lmless things. Oh, this was one field where the Eretzi needed the Children. Consider the battles that the Children engineered that afternoon:     Gallipoli--how they managed the ships in that one! The Fathers could not have maneuvered more intricately in their four-dimension chess at Home.     Adrianople, Kunovitza, Dibra, Varna, Hexamilion!It's tim just to call out the bloody names of battles.     137         Constantinople! That was the one where they first used the big cannon. But who cast the big cannon for the Turks there? In their histories the Eretzi say that it was a man named Orban or Urban, and that he was Dacian, or he was Hungarian, or he was Danish. How many places did you tell them that you came from, Michael Goodgrind?     Belgrade, Trebizond, Morat, Blackheath, Napoli, Dor-nach!     Cupua and Taranto--Ralpha's armies beat Michael's at both of those.     Carignola--Lonnie foxed both Michael and Ralpha there, and nearly foxed himself. (You didn't intend it all that way, Lormie. It was seven-cornered luck and you know it!)     Garigliano where the sea was red with blood and the ships were like broken twigs on the water!     Brescia! Ravenna! Who would have believed that such things could be done with a device known as Spanish infantry?     Villalar, Milan, Pavia! Best of all, the sack of Rome! There were a dozen different games blended into that one. The Eretzi discovered new emotions in themselves there---a deeper depravity and a higher heroism.     Siege of Florence! That one called out the Children's every trick. A wonderfully well played game!     Turin, San Quentin, Moncontour, Mookerhidel     Lepanto! The great sea-siege where the castled ships broke asunder and the tall Turk Ochiali Pasha perished with all his fleet and was drowned forever. But it wasn't so forever as you might suppose, for he was Michael Goodgrind who had more bodies than one. The fish still remember Lepanto. Never had there been such feastings.     Alcazar-Quivar! That was the last of the excellent ones --the end of the litany. The Children left off the game. They remembered (but conveniently, and after they had worn out the fun of it) that they were forbidden to play Warfare with live soldiers. The Eretzi, left to themselves again, once more conducted their battles as dull and uninspired affairs.     You can put it to a test, now, tonight. Study the conflicts of the earlier times, of this high period, and of the time that followed. You will see the difference. For a short two         138         or three centuries you will find really well contrived bat-ties. And before a. nd after thee is only ineptitude.         Often the Children played at Jealousies and raised up all the black passions in themselves. They played at Immoralities, for there is an abiding evil in all children.     Maskings and water-carnivals and balls, and forever the emotional intriguel     Ralpha walked down a valley, playing a lute and wearing the body of somebody else. He luted the birds out of the trees and worked a charm on the whole countryside.     An old crone followed him and called, "Love me when I'm old."     "Sernpermal, tuttavia," sang Ralpha in Eretzi or Earth-ian. "For Ever, For Always."     A small girl followed and called, "Love me when I'm young."     "Forever, for'always," sang Ralpha.     The weirdest witch in the world follOWed him and called, "Love me when I'm ugly."     "For always, forever," sang Ralpha, and pulled her down on the grass. He knew that all the creatures had been Laurie playing Bodies.     But a peculiar thing happened: the prelude became more important than the play. Ralpha fell in love with his own song, and forgot Laurie who had inspired it. He made all manner of music and poem--aubade, madrigal, chanson; and he topped it off with one hundred sonnets. He made them in Eretzi words, Italy words, Languedoe words, and they were excellent. And the Eretzi still copy them.     Ralpha discovered there that poetry and song are Passion Deferred. But Laurie would rather have deferred the song. She was long gone away and taking up with others before Ralpha had finished singing his love for her, but he never noticed that she had left him. After Hobble, Ralpha was the most peculiar of them all.     In the meanwhile, Michael Goodgrind invented another game of Bodies. He made them of marble--an Eretzi limestone that cuts easily without faulting. And he painted them on canvas. He made the People of Home, and the Eretzi. He said that he would make angels.         139         "But you cannot make angels," said Joan.     "We know that," said Michael, "but do the Eretzi know that I cannot? I will make angels for the Eretzi."     He made them grotesque, like chicken men, like bird men, with an impossible duplication of humeral function. And the Children laughed at the carven jokes.     But Michael had sudden inspiration. He touched his creations up and added an element of nobility. So an iconography was born.     All the Children did it then, and they carried it into other mediums. They made the Eretzi, and they made themselves. You can still see their deep features on some of those statues, that family look that was on them no matter what faces they wore or copied.     Bronze in fun! Bronze horses are the best. Big bronze doors can be an orgy of delight, or bronze bells whose shape is their tone.     The Children went to larger things. They played at Realms and Constitutions, and Banks and Ships and Provinces. Then they came down to smaller things again and played at Books, for Hobble had just invented the printing thing.     Of them all, Hobble had the least imagination. He didn't range wide like the others. He didn't outrage the Eretzi. He spent all his time with his sick toys as though he were a child of much younger years.     The only new body he acquired was another one just like his own. Even this he didn't acquire as did the other Children theirs. He made it laboriously in his shop, and animated it. Hobble and the Hobble Creature worked together thereafter, and you could not tell them apart. One was as dull and laboring as the other.         The Eretzi had no effect whatsoever on the Children, but the Children had great effect on the Eretzi. The Children had the faculty of making whatever little things they needed or wanted, and the Eretzi began to copy them. In this manner the Eretzi came onto many tools, processes, devices and arts that they had never known before. Out of ten thousand, there were these:     The Astrolabe, Equatorium, Quadrant, Lathes and Traversing Tools, Ball-Bearings, Gudgeons, Gig-Mills,         140         Barometers, Range-Finders, .Cantilever Construction, Machine-Saws, Screw-Jacks, Hammer-Forges and Drop-Forges, Printing, Steel that was more than puddled Iron, Logarithms Hydraulic Rams, Screw-Dies, Spanner-Wrenches, Flux-Solder, Telescopes, Microscopes, Mot-rising Machines, Wire-Drawing, Stanches (Navigation Locks), Gear Trains, Paper Making, Magnetic Compass and Wind-Rhumb, Portulan Charts and Projection Maps, Pinnule-Sights, Spirit-Levels, Fine Micrometers, Porcelain, Fire-Lo%k Guns, Music Notation and Music Prinfihg, Complex Pulleys and Snatch-Blocks, the Seed-Drill, Playing Cards (the Children's masquerade faces may still be seen on them), Tobacco, the Violin, Whisky, the Mechanical Clock.     They were forbidden, of course, to display any second-apeet powers or machines, as these would disrupt thin/is. Bfit they disrupted accidently in building, in tooling, in armies and navies in harbors and canals, in towns and bridges, in ways of thinking and recording.' They started a thing that couldn't be reversed. It was only the One Afternoon they were here, only two or three Eretzi Centuries, but they set a trend. They overwhelmed by the very number of their new devices, and it could never be simplo on lgretz again.         There were many thousands of Eretz days and nights in that Long Afternoon. The Chikiren had begun to tire of it, and the hour was growing late. For the last time they wandered off, this time all Seven of them together.     In the bodies of Kings and their Ladies, they strode down a High Road in the Levant. They were wondering what last thing they could contrive, when they found their way blocked by a Pilgrim with a staff.     "Let's tumble the hairy Eretzi," shouted Ralpha. "Let him not stand in the way of Kings!" For Ralpha was King of Bulgaria that day.     But they did not tumble the Pilgrim. That man knew how to handle his staff, and he laid the bunch of them low. It was nothing to him that they were the high people of the World who ordered Nations. He flogged them flat.     "Bleak Childrenl" that Pilgrim cried out as he beat them into the ground. "Unfledged little oafs! Is it so that         141 ,         you waste your Afternoon on Earth? I'll give you what your Fathers forgot."     Seven-colored thunder, how he could use that staff! He smashed the gaudy bodies of the Children and broke many of their damnable bones. Did he know that it didn't matter? Did he understand that the bodies they wore were only for an antic?     "Lay off, old FatherI" begged Michael Goodgrind, bleeding and half beaten into the earth. "Stay your bloody bludgeon. You do not know who we are."     "I know you," maintained the Pilgrim mountainously. "You are ignorant Children who have abused the Afternoon given you on Earth. You have marred and ruined and warped everything you have touched."     "No, no," Ralpha protested---as he sat in new bones for his old damaged ones---"You do not understand. We have advanced you a thousand of your years in one of our afternoons. Consider the Centuries we have saved you! It's as though we had increased your life by that thousand years."     "We have all the time there is," said the Pilgrim solidly. "We were well and seriously along our road, and it was not so crooked as the one you have brought us over. You have broken our sequence with your meddling. You've set us back more ways than you've advanced us. You've shattered our Unity."     "Pigs have unityI" Joan shouted. "We've brought you diversity. Think deep. Consider all 'the machines we have showed you, the building and the technique. I can name you a thousand things we've given you. You will never be the same again."     'True. We will never be the same," said the Pilgrim. "You may not be an unmixed curse. I'm a plain man and I don't know. Surety is one of the things you've lost us. But you defouled us. You played the game of lmmoltaii-ties and taught it to us earthlings."     "You had it already," Laurie insisted. "We only brought elegance instead of piggishness to its practice." Immoralities was Laurie's own game, and she didn't like to hear it slighted.     "You have killed many thousands of us in your   bat     142         tles," said the Pilgrim. "You're a bitter fruit--sweet at the first taste only."     "You would yourself have killed the same numbers in battles, and the battles wouldn't have been so good," said Michael. "Do you not realize that we are the higher race? We have roots of great antiquity."     "We have roots older than antiquity," averred the Pilgrim. "You are wicked Children without compassion."     "Compassion? For the Eretzi?" shouted Lonnie in disbelief.     !'Do you have compassion for mice?" demanded 'Ralpha. "Yes. I have compassion for mice," the Pilgrim said softly.     "I make a guess," Ralpha shot in shrewdly after they     bad all repaired their damaged bodies. "You travel as a Pilgrim,. and Pilgrims sometimes come from very far away. You are not Eretzi. You are one of the Fathers from Home going in the guise of an'Ei'etzi Pilgrim. You have this routine so that sometimes one of you comes to this world---and to every world--to see how it goes. You may have come to investigate an event said to have happened on Eretz a day ago."     Ralpha did not mean an Eretzi day ago, but a day ago at Home. The High Road they were on was in Coele-Syria not far from where the Event was thought to have happened, and Ralpha pursued his point:     "You are no Eretzi, or you would not dare to confront us, knowing what we are."     "You guess wrong in this and in everything," said the Pilgrim. "I am of this Earth, earthy. And I will not be intimidated by a gaggle of children of whatever speciesl You're a weaker flesh than ourselves. You hide in other bodies, and you get earthlings to do your slaughter. And you cannot stand up to my staff!     "Go home, you witless weanllngsl" and he raised his terrible staff again.     "Our time is nearly up. We will be gone soon," said Joan softly.         The last game they played? They played Saintsfor the Evil they had done in playing Bodies wrongly, and in         143         playing Wars with live soldiers. But they repented of the things only after they had enjoyed them for the Long Afternoon. They played Saints in hair-shirt and ashes, and revived that affair among the Eretzi.     And finally they all assembled and took off from the high hill between Prate and Firenze in Italy. The rocks flowed like water where they left, and now there would be a double scarp formation.     They were gone, and that was the end of them here. There is a theory, however, that one of the Hobbles remained and is with us yet. Hobble and his creature could not be told apart and could not finally tell themselves apart. The flipped an Eretzi coin, Emperors or Shields, to see which one would go and which one would stay. One went and one stayed. One is still here.     But, after all, Hobble was only concerned with the sick toys, the mechanical things, the material inventions. Would it have been better if Ralpha or Joan stayed with us? They'd have burned us crisp by now! They were damnable and irresponsible children.         This short Historical Monograph was not assembled for a distraction or an amusement. We consider thc evidence that Children have spent their short vacations here more than once and in both hemispheres. We set out the theses in ordered parallels and we discover that we have begun to tremble unaccountably.     When last came such visitors here? What thing has beset us during the last long Eretzi lifetime?     We consider a new period--and it impinges on the Present--with aspects so different from anything that went before that we can only gasp aghast and gasp in sick wonder:     "Is it ourselves who behave so?     "Is it beings of another sort, or have we become those beings.     "Are we ourselves? Are these our deeds?"     There are great deep faces looking over our shoulder, there axe cold voices of ancient Children jeering "Compassion? For Eaxthlings?", there is nasty frozen laughter that does not belong to our species.         144         When life .on Earth is nlshed and the alien archeologists arrive to sort through what 'happened to the late civilization, then you know   it's-     LATER THAN YOU THINK     By Fritz Leiber         Obviously the Archeologist's study belonged to an era vastly distant from today. Familiar similarities here and there dnly'sharpened the feeling of alienation. The sunlight that fil{ered through the windows in the ceiling had a wan and greenish cast and was augmented by radiation from some luminous material impregnating the walls and floor. Even the wide desk and commodious hassocks glowed with a restful light. Across the former were scattered metal-backed wax tablets, styluses, and a pair of large and oddly formed spectacles. The crammed bookcases were not particularly unusual, but the books were bound in metal and the script on their spines would have been utterly unfamiliar to the most erudite of modem linguists. One of the books, lying open on a hassock, showed leaves of a thin, flexible, rustless metal covered with luminous characters. Between the bookcases were phosphorescent oil paintings, mainly of sea bottoms, in sombre greens and browns. Their style, neither wholly realistic nor abstract, would have baffled the historian of art.     A blackboard with large coloured crayons hinted equally at the schoolroom and the studio.     In the centre of the room, midway to the ceiling hung a fish with iridescent scales of breathtaking beauty. So invisible was its means of support that--also taking into account the strange paintings and the greenish light---one would have sworn that the object was to create an underwater scene.     The Explorer made his entrance in a theatrical swirl of     145         movement. He embraced the Archeologist with a warmth calculated to startle that crusty old fellow. Then he set-fled himself on a hassock, looked up and asked a question in a speech and idiom so different from any we know that it must be called another means of communication rather than another language. The import was, "Well, what about it?'     If the Archeologist were taken aback, he concealed it. His expression showed only pleasure at being reunited with a long-absent friend.     "What about what' he queried.     "About your discovoryl"     "What discovery?" the Archeologisfs imcomprehension was playful.     The Explorer threw up his arms. "Why, what else but your discovery, here on Earth, of the remains of an intelligent species? It's the find of the ageI Am I going to have to coax you? Out with itl"     "I didn't make the discovery," the other said tranquilly. "I only supervised the excavations and directed the correlation of material. You ought to be doing the talking. You're the one who's just returned from the stars."     "Forget that." The Explorer brushed the question aside. "As soon as our spaceship got within radio range of Earth, they started to send us a continuous newscast covering the period of our absence. One of the items, exasperatingly brief, mentioned your discovery. It captured my imagination. I couldn't wait to hear the details." He paused, then confessed, "You get so eager out there in spaee---a metal-filmed droplet of life lost in immensity. You rediscover your emotions . . ." He changed eolour, then finished rapidly. "As soon as I could decently get away, I came straight to you. I wanted to hear about it from the best authority--yourself."     The Archeologist regarded him quizzically. 'Tm pleased that you should think of me and my work, and I'm very happy to see you again. But admit it now, isn't there something a bit odd about your getting so worked up over this thing? I can understand that after your long absenco from Earth, any news of Earth would seem especially ina-portant. But isn't there an additional reason?"     The Explorer twisted impatiently. "Oh, I Suppose there         146         is. Disappointment, for one thing. We were hoping to get in touch with. intelligent lie out there. We were specially trained in techniques for establishing mental contact with alien intelligent life forms. Well, we found some planets with life upon them, all right. But it was primitive life, not worth bothering about."     Again he hesitated embarrassedly. "Out there you get to thinking of the preciousness of intelligence. There's so little of it, and it's so lonely. And we so greatly need intercourse with another intelligent species to give depth and balance to our thoughts. I suppose I set too much store by my hopes of establishing a contact." He paused. "At any rate, when I heard that what we were looking for, you had found here at home--even though dead and done fermi felt that at least it was something. I was suddenly very eager. It is odd, I know, to get so worked up about an extinct species--as if my interest could mean anything to them now--but that's the way it hit me."     Several small shadows crossed the' windows overhead. They might have been birds, except they moved too slowly.     "I think I understand," the Archeologist said softly.     "So get on with it and tell me about your discoveryl the Explorer exploded.     "I've already told you that it wasn't my discovery," the Archeologist reminded him. "A few years after your expedition left, there was begun a detailed resurvey of Earth's mineral resources. In the course of some deep continental borings, one party discO'ered a cache--either a very large box or a rather small room--with metallic walls of great strength and toughness. Evidently its makers had intended it for the very purpose of carrying a message down through the ages. It proved to contain artifacts; models of buildings, vehicles, and machines, objects of art, pictures, and books--hundreds of books, along with elaborate pictorial dictionaries for interpreting them. So nor we even understand their languages."     "Languages?" interrupted the Explorer. "That's queer. Somehow one thinks of an alien species as having just one language."     "Like our own, this species had several, though them were some words and symbols that were ali.ke in all their         147         languages. These words and symbols seem to have come down unchanged from their most distant prehistory."     The Explorer burst out, "I am not interested in all that dry stuff! Give me the wet! What were they like? How did they live? What did they create? What did they want7"     The Archeologist gently waved aside the questions. "All in good time. If I am to tell you everything you want to know, I must tell it my own way. Now that you are back on Earth, you will have to reacquire those orderly and composed habits of thought which you have partly lost in the course of your wild interstellar adventur-ings."     "Curse you, I think you're just trying to tantalize me." The Archeologist's expression showed that this was not altogether untrue. He casually fondled an animal that had wriggled up onto his desk, and which looked rather more like an eel than a snake. "Cute little brute, isn't it?" he remarked. When it became apparent that the Explorer wasn't to be provoked into another outburst, he continued. "It became my task to interpret the contents of the cache, to reconstruct its makers' climb from animalism and savagery to civilization, their rather rapid spread across the world's surface, their first fumbling attempts to escape from the Earth."     "They had spaceships?"     "It's barely possible. I rather hope they did, since it would mean the chance of a survival elsewhere, though the negative results of your expedition rather lessen that." He went on, "The cache was laid down when they were first attempting space flight, just after their discovery of atomic power, in the first flush of their youth. It was probably created in a kind of exuberant fancifulness, with no serious belief that it would ever serve the purpose for which it was intended." He looked at the Explorer strangely. "If I am not mistaken, we have laid down similar caches."     After a moment the Archeologist continued, "My reconstruction of their history, subsequent to the laying down of the cache, has been largely hypothetical. I can only guess at the reasons for their decline and fall. Supplementary material has been very slow in coming in,     148         though we are still making extensive excavations at widely separated points. Here are the last reports." He tossed the Explorer a small metal-leaf pamphlet. It flew with a curiously slow motion.     "That's what struck me so queer right from the start," the Explorer observed, putting the pamphlet aside after a glance. "If these creatures were relatively advanced, why haven't we learned about them before? They must have left so many things--buildings, machines, engineering projects, some of them on a large scale. You'd think we'd be turning up traces everywhere."     "I have four answers to that," the Archeologist replied. "The first is the most obvious. Time. Geologic ages of it. The second is more subtle. What if we should have been looking in the wrong place? I mean, what if the creatures occupied a very different portion of the Earth than our own? Third, it's possible that atomic energy, out of control, finished the race and destroyed its traces. The present distribution of radioactive compounds throughout the Earth's surface lends some support to this theory."     "Fourth," he went on, "it's my belief that when an intelligent species begins to retrogress, it tends to destroy, or, rather, debase all the things it has laboriously created. Large buildings are torn down to make smaller ones. Machines are broken up and worked into primitive tools and weapons. There is a kind of unravelling or erasing. A cultural Second Law of Thermodynamics ben. to operate, whereby the intellect and all its works are gradually degraded to the lowest level of meaning and creativity."     "But why?" The Explorer sounded anguished. "Why should any intelligent species end like that? I grant the possibility of atomic power getting out of hand, though one would have thought they'd have taken the greatest precautions. Still, it could happen. But that fourth answer --it's morbid."     "Cultures and civilizations die," said the Archeologist evenly. "That has happened repeatedly in our own history. Why not species? An individual dies--and is there anything intrinsically more terrible in the death of a species than in the death of an individual?"     He paused. "With respect to the members of this one species, I think that a certain temperamental instability         149         hastened their end. Their appetites and emotions were not sufficiently subordinated to their understanding and to their sense of drama--their enjoyment of the comedy and tragedy of existence. They were impatient and easily incapacitated by frustration. They seem to have been singularly guilty in their pleasures, behaving either like gloomy moralists or gluttons.     "Because of taboos and an overgrown possessiveness," he continued, "each individual tended to limit his affection to a tiny family; in many cases he focused his love on himself alone. They set great store by personal prestige, by the amassing of wealth and the exercise of power. their notable capacity for thought and manipulative activity was expended on things rather than persons or feelings. Their technology out-stripped their psychology. They skimped fatally when it came to hard thinking about the purpose of life and intellectual activity, and the means for preserving them."     Again the slow shadows drifted overhead.     "And fi:fially," the Archeologist said, "they were a strangely haunted species. They seem to have been obsessed by the notion that others, greater than themselves, had prospered before them and then died, leaving them to rebuild a civilization from ruins. It was from those others that they thought they derived the few words and     symbols common to all their languages."     "Gods?" mused the Explorer.     The Archeologist shrugged. "Who knows?"     The Explorer turned away. His excitement had visibly evaporated, leaving behind a cold and miserable residue of feeling. "I am not sure I want to hear much more about them," he said. "They sound too much like us. Perhaps it was a mistake, my coming here. Pardon me, old friend, but out there in space even our emotions become undisciplined. Everything becomes indescribably poignant. Moods are tempestuous. You shift in an instant from zenith to nadir--and remember, out there you can see both.     "I was very eager to bear about this lost species," he added in a sad voice. "I thought ! would feel a kind of         150         fellowship with them across the eons. Instead, I touch only corpsds. It reminds me of when, out in space, there looms up before your prow, faint in the starlight, a dead     sun. They were a young race. They thought they were getting somewhere. They promised themselves an eternity of effort. And all the while there was wriggling towards them out of that future for which they yearned . . . oh, it's so completely futile and unfair."     "I disagree," the Archeologist said spiritedly. "Really, your absence from Earth has unsettled you even more than I first surmised. Look at the matter squarely. Death comes to everything in the end. Our past is strewn with our dead. That species died, it's true. But what they achieved, they achieved. What happiness they had, they had. What,they did in their short span is as significant as what .hey.might have done had they lived a billion years. The present, is always more important than the future. And no creature can have all the 'future---it must be shared, left to others."     "Maybe so," the Explorer said slowly. "Yes, I guess you're right. But I still feel a horrible wistfulness about them, and I hug to myself the hope that few of them escaped and set up a colony on some planet we haven't yet visited." There was a long silence. Then the Explorer turned back. "You old devil," he said in a manner that showed his gayer and more boisterous mood had returned, though diminished, "you still haven't told me anything definite about them."     "So I haven't," replied the Archeologist with guileful innocence. "Well, they were vertebrates."         '*Yes. What's more, they were mammals." "Mammals? I was expecting something different." "I thought you were."     The Explorer shifted. "All this matter of evolutionary categories is pretty cut-and-dried. Even a knowledge of how they looked doesn't mean much. I'd like to approach them in a more intimate way. How did they think of themselves? What did they call themselves? I know the word won't mean anything to me, but it will give me a feeling---of recognition."     "I can't say the word," the Archeologist told him,   "be     151         cause I haven't the proper vocal equipment. But I know enough of their script to be able to write it for you as they would have written it. Incidentally, it is one of those words common to all their languages, that they attributed to an earlier race of beings."     The Archeologist extended one of his eight tentacles towards the blackboard. The suckers at its 'tip firmly grasped a bit of orange crayon. Another of his tentacles took up the spectacles and adjusted them over his three-inch protruding pupils.     The eel-like glittering pet drifted back into the room and nosed curiously about the crayon as it traced:         RAT         152         IV         Yesterday, Tomorrow, and the Desert         Ienry Kuttner: THE TIME TRAP 157         This marvellous gaudy melodrama, The Time Trap, forms the centrepiece of the anthology. It is virtually a short novel. I do not believe that it has been reprinted since its first appearance in an obscure American magazine in 1938. Certainly it has never been published before i.n this country.     In The .Time Trap, terrestrial civilisations from the dis-rant past, the present, and the distant future, meet in a struggle of wills.     Deep below the Sahara lies a great city, tower above shining tower rising up to meet and merge with the rocky roof overhead.     To this forbidden city comes Kent Mason, the man from our century. He has been drawn from the present to a strange barbaric world which existed a thousand years before the Roman Empire. No--not exactly strange! For this is Atlantis the Legendary, unchanged from its earliest days, although now buried beneath the shifting sand.     Here Mason encounters the lovely dark-haired Alasa, and rescues her from the robots of the Time-Master--not to mention a rape-mad centaur. Out of the distant future has come a sinister creature, his ancient life-forces main. tained by machines: Greddar Klon, mighty Time-Master.     Mason must defeat the Time-Master. And first he has to confront the fascinating and evil beauty of Nirvor, the Silver Priestess, a mystery woman from another time also caught in the time trap. He sees an odd resemblance between her and the two leopards, one ebony, one white as ivory, who accompany her. Only when he has enjoyed her embrace does he discover     Well, that must wait till we get there. Kuttner has a         155         gorgeous plot, stuffed with feathers, baubles, beauties and other props, !eft over from Rider Haggard, A. Men'itt, and The Island o! Dr. Moreau, yet with a considerable power of its own.     Henry Kuttner (1914--1958) was a master of many styles, and a prolific master at that. Dozens of his short stories are still held in affection by sf readers. His best-known novel is probably Fury. Here is another prize Kuttner item for them to cherish.     This story was the one which convinced me that maga-zinc sf held something meaningful. As a boy, I bought     Marvel Science Stories No. 2 in a branch of Woolworth's, and read it all through with avid enjoyment; but it was Kuttner's colourful story---splendidly illustrated by Frank R. Paul--with all the erotic details and the sense of the endless possibilities of terrestrial life which captivated me.     When mentioning erotic detail, I should say that that aspect of the story appears less adventurous nowadays. All the same, it was daring for its time. For years afterwards, scienc› fiction took on a fit of prudery it has never entirely lost.         Sf's a fine and private place;     But none I think do there embrace.         Nothing like that in The Time Trap. "The tentacles of the monsters reached out, deftly removing the girl's clothing. In a moment she lay utterly nude . . . Her body glistening with perspiration, she flung herself on   Ma son . . .     That's life on Earth for you... Now read on.         156         Hurled by unleashed atomic orCe tnto time, Kent Mason's solo chance o[ saving lonely Alasa--who ruled a thousand years be[ore Rome's birth---and o! returning to the year 1939 /ID, was to give Greddar KIon, the Time-Master, his brain!     ,4 startling book-length novel o men and women drawn [rom time-sectors five hundred centuries apart and hurled into civilization's Dawn-Era.t By the Author o Avengers of Space.         THE TIME TRAP by Henry Kuttner         cHAPTF,R I     The Green Monoliths         Kent Mason stumbled to the top of the ridge, staring about him with sun-swollen eyes. His cracked lips twisted wryly as he viewed the endless wilderness of rock, the death-trap of the Arabian desert, dimmed now by driving gusts of icy rain. In the valley below him two pinnacles of rock towered, and as Mason stared at them a curious expression crept over his sun-burned face. He recognized those great obelisks, and, recognizing them, knew that his search and his life would end almost simultaneously. For before him lay the fabulous twin towers of the lost city of A1 Bekr, ancient metropolis of lost wisdom, City of Science!     Two months ago an expedition had set out from the port of Merbat to search for Al Bekr, and for two months had been vainly pushing through the arid wastes that the Arabs call the Rubh el Khali. Old Doctor Cordell, the leader of the expedition, had pinned his hopes on legends, obscure hints on archaic shards--but mostly upon         157         a tablet which had been recently uncovered on the site of primeval Ur, the import of which was that a remarkable state of civilization had been attained in the "Forbidden City."     According to the inscription, A1 Bekr had been merely a little-visited town in the Great Desert, until suddenly, inexplicably, fantastically advanced arts and sciences     gan to flourish there. But this perfection of science died almost as swiftly as it had been born, for a reason that was either not known or not set down; and the great days of A1 Bekr were over forever. It was, in fact, a compressed version of the Atlantean legend--an advanced, scientific culture destroyed by some mysterious doom.     Mason, the archeologist of the party, was also the youngest. Now, through the irony of fate, he had accomplished, unguided and lost, what his colleagues had despaired of doing. Doctor Cordell had decided to give up the search and return to Merbat, and when Mason, determined to investigate a little-known mountain range near by, had insisted on one last try, Cordell had refused to permit it.     That morning Mason slipped away from camp, taking a speedy camel, thinking he could reach the mountains and rejoin the slow-traveling party in a day or two at the most. But his plans had miscarried. The camel had fallen, breaking its leg. The compass had been smashed, and for three days Mason had been lost in this desolate, sunbaked inferno. The water had not lasted long. He had shot a vulture and forced himself to eat the tough, stringy meat; then, during his nearly delirious wanderings, Mason had lost his revolver. Now, hollow-eyed and exhausted, he saw beneath him A1 Bekr, City of Science!     The centuries had left little of the fabled metropolis. Two giant pinnacles protruding from the drifted sand, a riven block half buried here and there. That was all. Grim and desolate in the drenching rain, the valley lay lifeless and silent below. Yet there would be shelter there, and the storm was momentarily growing fiercer. There are few storms in the Rubh el Khali, but they are cataclysmic in their fury. Lightning forked above Mason.     He made his way down the slope, staggering in his weakness. The tumbled fragments of masonry seemed to         158         increase in size as he .drew nearer. The city in its heyday must have.been an awe-inspiring sight.     Thunder snarled behind the hills. The two obelisks were not far apart, and provided some shelter. Mason collapsed against one of them. He breathed a great sigh of relief, let his aching muscles relax. Then, suddenly, his lean face was alight with interest. The surface of the monolith against which he leaned was not stone. Rough, worn, pitted with the teeth of the ages, it was nevertheless unmistakably metall     But what race of people could have reared these tremendous spires, nearly forty feet high? The thing was impossible. Mason examined the texture of the metal, frowning. He did not recognize it. Hard and rough-grained, with a peculiar greenish tinge, it was apparently some unfamiliar alloy.     Ominously thunder growled overhead. Then without warning lightning struck. Like an .incandescent white-hot sword it raced down the skies, enveloping the twin spires in blinding brilliance. Mason felt himself lifted, flung aside. He had a momentary glimpse of a sheet of roaring, flashing flame playing between the two pinnacles. There was a moment of unendurable tension, as though the air was becoming surcharged with electricity. Then there was wrenching agony that tore at the fibre of Mason's being, agony such that he shrieked aloud and knew that no sound came from his paralyzed lips. He felt a surge of incredibly swift movement. Blackness took him, blackness, and vertigo, and then quickly the shadow fled back and vanished. Blazing light flared into his eyes.     The desolate valley of Al Bekrmwas gone! Gone the drenching rain, the growling of thunder overhead, the wet sand beneath his bodyl He lay on his back, staring up with amazed eyes at a tremendously high roof, lit with strange green brilliance. And towering up toward that high-arched ceiling werethe monolithsl     The twin towers--but changed! Gone were the sears and pits of centuries of erosion. Their surfaces were smooth, glistening with greenish sheen, and beyond them marched row upon row of fantastic machines, shining and brilliant in the strange light. Mason had never seen such machinery, could only guess at the purposes of         159         oddly shaped pistons, wheels, tubes. The room was wide, circular, paved and walled with white stone. In the walls at intervals were set bars of some greenish substance that glowed with cold flame.     Mason put out a hand, touched the smooth surface of the green monolith beside him. Th touch was reassuring. He wasn't mad, he told himself desperately. The lightning stroke must have unleashed some undreamed-of power in the mysterious towers, wrought some astounding change which as yet he could not understand. He got slowly to his feet, half expecting the incredible scene to shift and change to the rain-drenched desert valley.     Behind him a voice barked a deep-toned question. Mason turned quickly. A man stood near, a swarthy, stock figure in loin-cloth and sandals; startlingly pale blue eyes set in a harsh, weather-beaten face of seamed tan leather glared at him. A great beak of a nose jutted over the thin-lipped mouth. Again the man snarled his question.     Madness! For he spoke the ancient, forgotten Semite tongue, the purest form of the root-language of Arabic, that had not been used save among scholars for almost four thousand years! Some faint inkling of the truth sent the blood dropping from Mason's head. He braced himself, searched his memory gropingly. He knew the root-language ....     "I come--from a distant land," Mason said slowly, tentatively, eyeing the great scimitar the warrior carried.     "None may enter this city," the other responded, re-tine eyes gleaming. "The Master permits none to enter A1 Bekr. Or to leave1"     A1 Bekr! Mason cast a swift glance around. Was time, after all, not the changeless thing science had thought it? Had he been flung back into an incredibly distant past by some strange power in the lightening-riven monoliths? Yet these machines, the very mansonry beneath his feet, bespoke not the past but the powers of a distant future.     Mason eyed the warrior, felt a tug of recognition pull at his mind. He said, "Al Bekr is not your home."     The man grunted. "It takes no magic to know that. I am a Sumerian."         160         Mason's jaw dropped. A Sumerianl That mysterious, archaic people whose ivilization had existed in the Euphrates-Tigris valleys long before the Semites had come conquering. The warrior, suddenly suspicious, moved forward, his movements catlike,, the gleaming scimitar menacing. Swiftly Mason said, "I mean no harm. By El-lil--I swear it!"     The Sumerian's eyes widened. He stared. "El-Iii7 You swear by '     Mason nodded. He knew the reverence in which the Sumerians had held the name of their chief god. "I've no wish to be your enemy," he said. A surge of weakness struck him, the culminations of three days and nights in the terrible Rubh el Khali. Mason felt his muscles relaxing, tried vainly to keep his balance while a veil of blackness rUShed up to overwhelm him.     The Sumerian sprang forward, put a great arm about Mason's shoJlders, supporting him., The warrior thrust his scimitar back into its scabbard, caught Mason in his arms as though the archeologist were a child, lifted him.     The Sumerian bellowed an oath. "Now by Baal and all the other milk-and-water gods of the north," he concluded, "I fight no man who swears by El-Iii!"     Dimly Mason was conscious of being swung across a brawny shoulder, carried through interminable green-lit corridors. He was too weak to resist. At last he was deposited lightly on a mound of furs. He felt liquid trickling between his lips, clutched at a flask the warrior held and lifted it. Water . . . no not water, though the liquor was tasteless and very cold. Energy seemed to trickle through every fibre of Mason's parched body with the fluid. He drained the flask, put it aside.     His weakness had gone. He sat up, staring about the room--bare, stone-walled, carpeted with furs. The Sumerian put down the flask with a ruefully thirsty glance. "Now who are you?" he growled. "Nobody in this cursed land knows of El-lil. And you are no man of Sumer."     Mason chose his words carefully. "I come from a dis-rant land," he said. "A land far to the west, where   E1 lil's fame has traveled. How I came here--I don't know." "The Master would know. How are you named?" "Masou."         161         "Ma-zhon.He rolled the syllables upon his tongue, giving them a curiously guttural sound. "And I--well, call me Erech. I was born in the city of Erech, and sometimes it isn't wise for men to give their own names. If I ever leave thia city, it would not be well for men to know that I once served Greddar Klex." The Sumerian's harsh face darkened, and he sent a suspicious glance toward Mason. "You know the Master?"     Before Mason could answer a thudding sounded beyond the door. He was staxtled at the expression that flashed over Erech's face, in which fear and resentment were strangely mingled. The door opened.     Framed in the portal stool--a metal man! Seven feet tall, barrel-bodied, with three jointed legs of silvery metal ending in flat, broad metal plates, the thing stood there --watching! Rubbery, tentacular arms dangled loosely; the head was a metal sphere, incongruously small atop that bulky body, featureless save for a multiple-faceted eye. The robot stared.     The Sumerian did not move. Mason saw the sinews of his right hand crawl beneath the skin. Imperceptibly the hand edged toward the hilt of the scimitar.     The robot spoke, in a flat, toneless voice. "The Master summons you. Come at once."     It turned, retreated. The door shut silently. With a muttered oath Erech relaxed on the furs.     "What--what was that?" Mason asked, feeling a nameless terror stirring within him. The metal creature had seemed alivel     "One of the Master's servants," said the Sumerian, getting to his feet. "One of those he created. Powerful is the MasterI' Irony tinged his tone.     "Well, I must go," he went on. "You wait here. I'll be back as soon as I can."     "Didn't that robot see me?" Mason asked uneasily. Erech shrugged.     "EMil knows Sometimes they see nothing--some-times everything. I'll be back soon enough, and we'll find a hiding-place for you. There's no time now."     He hurried out, and Mason stared at the closed door, trying to integrate his thoughts. Unconsciously for the last quarter-hour he had been trying to convince   him     162         self that this was a dream, a hallucination born of delirium. But he knew this was' not so. The reality of this strange city was clear enough, and Mason was young enough to realize how elastic are the boundaries of known science. Time was not fixed, unchangeable. In theory it would be possible to 'travel in to the future or the past. And ff in theory--why not in fact?     Strange, yes, and incredible and terrifying---but not impossible. Furtively Mason ran his hand over the smooth surface of the metal wall behind him, smoothed the furs on which he sat. He felt a desperate longing for a cigarette.     There were so many things unexplained! This fantastic city, ruled by a mysterious Master of whom the Sumerian was seemingly terrified. That tied in with the known legends, but it explained woefully little. And it did not tell Mason.what he most wanted to know: whether he Was among .enemies or friends.     A noise in the corridor brought Mason ale, rtly to his feet. Some vague impulse made him open the door, peering out. A robot was advancing along the passage, still almost thirty feet away, and Mason quickly closed the door again, flattening himself against the wall beside it. The creature might pass by, but there was no assurance of that.     The footsteps stopped. The door opened under the pressure of a metallic tentacle. Flattened against the wall Mason saw, from the corner of his eye, the monstrous looming form of the robot moving forward. It had not seen him.     The creature crossed the threshold and abruptly halted, as though realizing Mason's proximity. But the man had already sprung forward, thrusting at the robot with his shoulder, attempting to squeeze past into the corridor. He had not realized the frightful power of the thing.     Even caught off balance, the robot was immensely strong. It wheeled, and the arm-tentacles gripped Mason, pulled him back. He tried vainly to fight free.     The creature held him effortlessly, and one coiling limb slid out to close the door. That done, the robot stumped forward into the room, dragging Mason with it, ignoring the man's struggles. The faceted eye glared passionlessly down.     Then Mason caught sight of the empty flask he had drained, that had been flung aside carelessly by the   Su     163         merian. It was lying within easy reach and with a quick lunge he snatched it up, his fingers tightening about the neck. The robot's eye was not high to reach--and Mason's arm curved in a swift arc, sent the bottle smashing viciously forward.     Glass showered h/s face painfully. He put all his strength in a frantic attempt to wriggle free, managed to tear the last tentacle from /ts anchorage about his waist. The robot blundered forward, smashing against the wall. Its eye was shattered, Mason saw; it was blind.     Swiffiy he gained the door, crept out quietly into the corridor. Behind him came a thunderous crashing as the robot pounded about the room, reducing it to pulped wreckage. Mason glanced around. The passage was empty. He could not wait here for Erech; if one robot had been sent, there would be others. Choosing a direction at random, Mason moved cautiously to the left. The corridor was broken at intervals by doors, but he did not try them, fearing to alarm some inhabitant of the city.     But he was given no choice. The distant pounding of feet came mechanically, running toward him, and Mason guessed that additional robots were arriving. A turn in the passage hid them from his sight. He hesitated. Perhaps the ruler of A1 Bekr--whoevor directed the metal men--was not an enemy. The robot had not actually attacked him--it had merely tried to subdue and capture. If he submitted peacefully     But as the hurrying feet came closer a wave of cold horror chilled Mason, and on impulse he opened the nearest door and slipped through, closing the panel behind him. His eyes examined the room as he heard the robots race past. And, almost, Mason cried out in amazement, as, for the first time, he saw the woman who was called Nirvor--the Silver Priestess!         164         CHAPTER II     The Woman Out of Time         Mason stood on a low balcony, from which a sloping ramp Ied down to a broad, low-ceilinged room, lazy and perfumed with musky incense. Furs and rugs carpeted the floor. Below him, in the center of the chamber, was an '.alter, low and square, from which a flower of flame blossomed. Gleaming with cold silver radiance, it cast flickering' gleams over the two 'huge beasts that stood beside the altar--two leopards, stretched in sinuous ease.     One leopard of polished ebony     One white as the fabled gates of ivory through which,     legends say, evil dreams pour from the Hell-city Dis to torment men's sleep ..     Two leopards, brilliant green eyes intent on the woman who crouched before the flaming altar, a woman such as Mason had never seen before!     She was like a silver statue, exquisitely moulded, her     i slender body half revealed by a lacy silken robe of black.     Long unbound hair, moon-silver, drifted about her ivory     shoulders. Her face Mason could not see; the woman     knelt before the altar, and her voice, murmuring sorcerous     music, whispered words in a tongue completely unfamiliar     to the man.     And the pale fires seethed up coldly, whispering. The     leopards watched unmoving. The woman's voice rose to     a shrill, high keening.     "Oh, ohg!" She spoke in the Semite tongue now, and     ù Mason understood the words. "My city and my people     and my kingdom! Ruined and fallen, and the beasts of     the forest walk in the lonely streets of Corinoor ....         165         ohdl" The woman mourned, her hair falling loose about her face. With a sudden gesture she sprang erect, ripped her robe in tattered shreds from her body. For a moment her nude form was silhouetted against the milky fires, and Mason caught his breath at sight of the woman's undraped loveliness, the sleek perfection of limbs and torso, lithe as the forms of the watching leopards. Then the woman crouched down in utter self-abasement before the altar, her hands outstretched in appeal.     "Soon, let it be soon," her voice sobbed. "Let the Master succeed and bring power again to Corinoor . . . dead and lovely C0rinoor. I, queen and priestess of Corinoor, ask this of you like the meanest slave, naked and abased .... Selene, mighty, Selene, turn your face again toward my people!"     Silence, and the soft whisper of the moon-fires. The leopards were statue-still. Their green eyes dwelt enigmatically on the woman.     Mason felt a queer chill touch him. Once more the eerie mystery of this haunted city shadowed him. He made a swift involuntary movement; one of the leopards coughed, sprang up on alert feet. The white leopard remained quiet, but the black one stalked forward, eyes intent on Mason. And there was something disturbingly strange about those eyes, the man realized--an intelligence that was more than a beast should possess.     The woman leaped up in one quick movement, stood staring, red lips parted. Mason felt his throat tighten at sight of her loveliness. Her eyes were deep pools of jet. And, perhaps, she read something of Mason's undisguised admiration, for the lips curved in a smile, and the     low voice called a command.     "Bokyal To me!"     The black leopard halted, one paw lifted. Growling softly, it returned to the woman's side. She made a peremptory gesture.     Obeying, Mason walked forward down the ramp. His heart was thudding madly as he drew closer to the woman's pale beauty, and a pulse of passion was beating in his temples. She was Aphrodite, goddess of love and all delight     Something he read in her eyes made Mason halt.         166         Beauty was there, yes. But there was something else, something coldly alien and dreadful, that seemed to lurk hidden in those cryptic depths, a quality of soullessness that sent a shock of repulsion tingling through Mason. But before he could speak a thudding of racing feet sounded nearby.     In Mason's apprehensive glance at the door the woman read something of the truth. For a long moment she stood silent; then     "In here," she whispered in Semite. "Make no sound[" She bent, touched the altar. The pale fires died, The altar was a bare block of dark stone. At the woman's urging Mason mounted upon it hesitantly, stood rigid. Then, abruptly regretting his move, he made as though to leap down.     ~         He was. too. late. The moon-flames sprang up, crackling softly. All around Mason now was a wall o pounds silver fire, hiding the woman and all else from hi eyes. Oddly there was no perceptible heat. Rather, a queer chill seemed to emanate from the weird flames. Slowly Mason relaxed, realizing that he was in no immediate danger. Yet why had the woman helped him?     Voices came from beyond the altar. Someone he could not see was speaking---questioning, demanding. The woman's voice answered. Then, for a time there was silence.     Again the moon-f/ames died. The room was empty, save for the leopards and the woman. She had cast a robe of white fur about her shoulders. Laughing a little, she beckoned Mason.     "One of the Master's servants," she said. "He was searching for you. I sent him away. You're safe---for a while, at least."     Mason got down from the a/tar, with a wary glance at the leopards. But, save for a growl or two, they paid him no heed. He came close to the woman, said in Semite:     "You have my thanks, 0 goddess who rules men's hearts."     Her face clouded at the flowery phrase. "Do not speak of goddesses. I worship one goddess--and I have fear of her, but no love. Well--what is your name?"     "Mason."         167         '[ason--yes. And I am Nirvor. I do not think you have been in Al Bekr long, eh?"     "Half an hour at most. You're the first human being I've seen, except "Some indefinable /nstinct of caution made Mason stop before he mentioned the Sumerian.     Nirvor's iet eyes grew keen. "Except ?" "The robots."     The woman smiled slightly. "What year do you come from?"     Mason caught his breath. This confirmed his wild guesses. The power of the twin monoliths had flung him into time--as he had thought. Fighting back his questions, he said as calmly as he could, "1939." And added, as an afterthought, "A.D."     'øThen--as you would reckon it I come from 2150, long in your future. I was caught by the time trap, as you were, and drawn back to this dawn-era before Egypt or Rome ever sprang from the dust. And here, in long-forgotten A1 Bekr, I found--the Master."     Nirvor watched, but Mason made no sign. She said,     "You have not seen him yet?"     "No. Who is he?"     "He is from the future--my future as well as yours. Five thousand years later than your time-sector--nearly ten thousand years from now, in earth's dusk. He built the time projector, and with its aid traveled back to this almost prehistoric city. The projector was wrecked, but the Master determined to rebuild it. He conquered Al Bekr, and with the robots he made, turned it into a city of scienoe. Then he set to work to repair the projector."     "How did you get here?" Mason asked. "I don't seo     "The twin monoliths have in them atomic power, and when this is released, the time-warp is set in operation. Any object within their field of force is hurled into time. This is true now, or a million years from now. Mason, the green time-towers that the Master builds now will stand in this valley when Al Bekr is a lifeless wilderness. They will stand in your day, and they will stand in mine, and through the ages, holding within them the power of time travel. Once in a thousand years, perhaps, a human being         168         will be within range of the towers when the force is released, perhaps by lightning, as it was when I was captured. My caravan had camped beneath the palms of an oasis in the valley of A1 Bekr, and I, wandering in the storm, sleepless, was between the green towers when lightning struck. I was drawn back through time to the period in which the proiector first existed--now, when the Master rules Al Bekr."     Mason's mind was busy with this explanation. He said, "Are we the only ones who have been captured by the monoliths?"     "You and I, and the Master--and one other. He " Nirvor hesitated. "We shall not speak of him." She sank down beside the altar, stretching like a cat. The leopards watched silently. Nirvor eyed Mason from half-lowered lids, pale ash-blonde lashes sweeping her cheeks.     "It has .been lonely here," she said. "Sit down, Mason." He obeyed. The woman went on. "Long and long have I waited. Th Master has promised to return me to my own time, to aid me in rebuilding my dead city, marble Corinoor. But in the meantime I wait among these barbarians--I wait, and I worship Selene, and my leopards guard me . . . they, too, were captured by the time-towers when I was." A slim hand caressed the furry jaw of the black beast. From half-closed eyes it peered at her, growling softly.     "They are wise, Mason--Bokya and Valesta. Long before Corinoor fell our scientists had evolved certain creatures, and the sacred leopards were wisest of all. Remember, Mason--Bokya and Valesta are very wise .... "     With a lithe movement Nirvor moved close to Mason. She whispered, "But I grow tired of wisdom. I am-woman."     Slim arms stole about Mason's neck. Nirvor's perfumed breath was warm in the man's nostrils, a perfumed madness that mounted headily to his brain. His throat was dry and clamped.     He bent his head, pressed his lips against Nirvor's scarlet ones. When he drew back he was trembling a little.     "Mason," the woman whispered. Her eyes met and locked with the man's. And, for the second time, Mason saw something alien in them.         169         A cold, cruel, distant something that made him draw back involuntarily, appalled By the subtle horror in Nirvor's eyes. Mason could not understand exactly what repulsed him; he was not to know this until much later. But he knew, with a dreadful certainty, that the woman was a Horror ....     Her lips were suddenly twisted with menace. But she choked back a flood of Words, stood up, and Mason stood up beside her. This time she did not let her gaze meet the man's. She lifted pale hands to her throat, unbuckled the clasp that held the robe. It slipped down rustling to her feet.     Mason tried to look away--and found he could noL Nirvor might be evil--but she was a goddess indeed, a marble Galatea sprung to life and instinct with passion. She stepped forward; her bare arms went about Mason's neck.     Setting his jaw, he tore them free, thrust the woman back. Remembrance of the inexplicable strangeness in lqirvor's eyes was too strong.     "You say you come from the future," Mason whispered, gripping the woman's wrists. "How do I know what--creatures---may exist then?"     She caught the implication. Fury blazed in the jet eyes.     She tore free, sprang back, shrilled an angry command. "Slay him, Bokya--slay!"     The black leopard sprang erect. It crouched, stalking slowly toward Mason.     A voice said sharply, "This man is the Master's, lqirvor. Slay him--and you diel"         170         CHAPTER III     Vengeance of the Master         Mason turned his head, saw Erech, the Sumerian, at the door. The man came striding swiftly down the ramp, his cold eyes harsh.     "Hear me7 Nit, or "     The 'silver .priestess hissed shriJly. The black leopard hesitated, slunk back to its place. Nirvor turned blazing eyes on the Sumerian.     "Since when have you commanded me?"     "! speak for the Master," Erech said smoothly, with an undertone of faint mockery. "And I do not think that even you care to defy him."     With an angry gesture Nirvor turned away, touched the altar. Again the pallid moon-fires sprang up. The Sumerian said, "I shall not speak of this episode to Greddar K/on. Nor would I advise you to do so."     The priestess made no reply, and Erech gripped Mason's arm, nodding toward the door. Silently Mason followed the other. Once they were in the corridor Erech blew out a long breath of relief.     "She's a demon, Ma-zhon---she and her familiars, those giant cats. Come alongI" He pulled Mason with him till they reached the Sumerian's apartment. There, safely ensconced on furs, Erech grinned wryly.     "I thought the metal men had you. But you're not safe yet. Unless you want to take your chances with the Master "     "Why should he harm me?" Mason asked, without     much assurance.     "Well, there was another man who came as you did, out of nothing--a man named Murdach. He's in the vaults,         chained and captive. I don't know why. True, 13reddar Klon may not chain you "     "I'd rather not make the experiment," Mason said. "But doesn't the Master know I'm here?"     "He isn't sure. Nirvor won't betray you, for that would mean betraying herself. I think you can hide in Al Bekr for a while, anyway. It's easy to find a white camel in a herd, but if it's dyed brown "The Sumerian got up, found a length of cloth and a light cloak. "You'd best wear these."     Mason nodded. "When in Rome," he observed, but tho other only stared. Then he remembered--Rome would not be born for thousands of years. Quickly Mason stripped, fashioned himself a loin-cloth, threw the cloak over his shoulders. Erech handed him a dagger. "I have no better weapon," he apologized. "My scimitar I need myself."     He led the way out into the passage, talking as he walked. "As for the Master, I don't know where he came from. Once Al Bekr was a paradise. Then Greddar Klon came, and with his magic enslaved us all. I was visiting Al Bekr when he arrived, having had occasion to flee Nippur." Diabolic mirth tinged his grim face for a moment.     "When my caravan got here, Alasa ruled. Then suddenly Greddar Klon came. I did not see that. Some say he sprang out of empty air, in broad daylight. He made himself ruler, took Alasa as hostage, and keeps her imprisoned. He has made this into a city of fear. Look about youl' Erech flung out an arm at the green-lit corridor. "Al Bekr was not unduly beautiful before, but now it's like living underground with devilsl Well, cities are no places for men anyway. If Imbut none can escape. Some have tried, and died. Greddar Klon's slaves are everywhere."     The passage broadened. Behind them came quick footsteps. Mason felt the Sumerian nudge him. Racing past came a metal robot. If it saw them, it gave no heed. From the distance came the thudding tramp of many feet. The clanging note of a bell rang out.     Erech cursed. His eyes rolled, as though seeking a way of escape. More robots passed them. Mason gripped his dagger.     "NoI" The Sumerian seized his wrist, pulled his hand         172         from the weapon. His voice was low and urgent. "Fhere's danger, but we may escape. Come? He quickened his footsteps.     The metal men moved on, arm-tentacles swinging, bulging eyes astare. The clatter of their footsteps filled the passage. The bell clanged out again.     "It summons the city to the Council Room," Erech said. "All must be there. We've no chance to find a hiding place for you now. We must wait .... "     Five minutes later they emerged into a great high-ceilinged room. It was vast, awe-inspiring in its bare hugeness. It was of white stone, windowless, lit with the inevitable green-glowing bars. Tunnel mouths ringed the walls. A multitude of men and women, a few children, were pouring from the passages.     ù Guided by Erech, Mason joined the rest. At one end of the great chamber was a raised dais, bare save for a silvery metal ovoid that hung in the air, app. arently without support. It' was perhaps seven feet long. Strangely it reminded Mason of a colTan. At sight of it he felt Erech grow tense beside him.     The room was filling with a surging multitude, brown-faced, furtive-eyed. They spoke in hushed tones among themselves, casting occasional quick glances toward the dais. To Mason it was strange indeed to hear the low mutterings of a language which no longer existed save among a few scholars--in his time, at least.     From the high ceiling a black disk dropped. Its descent was arrested, and it hung swaying above the crowd. The whisperings died into silence.     Two robots, side by side, emerged from a tunnel mouth beyond the dais. At their heels came rolling something like a great metal sphere, with the top sliced off--a huge hollow cup. Over its edge Mason saw a swollen, blue-veined bald head, bulbous and hideous--a monstrously bloated caricature of a human skull. Two sharp, beady eyes peered out intently from beneath that tremendous brain case.     Mason cast a sidelong glance at the Sumerian. Erech's eyes were cynical--yet they were troubled, too. Mason realized that the warrior's haft-contempt for the Master had been not quite real--that it masked an uneasy, reluctant fear of Greddar Klon. To Erech the Master must appear         173         that led the room Mason muttered, "It's trickery, Erech."     The Sumerian turned doubtful eyes upon him, glanced back swiftly to the dais. From the corner of his mouth he whispered, "You are wrong, Ma-zhon. This is not the first time it has happened. I--I do not like being afraid, Ma-zhonl"     The girl shrieked, her voice knife-edged with pain. Tho frightful suction tore at her flesh. Blood spurted into the glass cups. Nerves and veins and arteries were ripped into ghastly chaos. Her body became a shapeless mass of puffy, bleeding meat.     Someone shouted. Mason turned his head in time to see a spear flash through the air, hurled by the grey-beard he had already noticed. Like a white flame the weapon flashed through the room, raced at the Master--and bounded, fell clattering to the stonesI     A beam of yellow light darted out from the dais. There was a shrill scream as the ray impinged on tender skin. It swung toward the greybeard. The man shouted, toppled back, his face a blackened cindery mass. "Bewarel" the disk roared. "Beware the vengeance of the Masterl"     "I knew him?' the Sumerian muttered. "It was his daughter whom the Master slew just now "He stopped as the murmuring of the throng suddenly died away.     In the stillness the voice of the black disk sounded unnaturally loud. "Let Nine-Seven-Four come forward," it said. Erech drew in his breath sharply.     Then, without a glance at Mason, the Sumerian rose and strode toward the dais. Just before he reached it he came to a stop, facing the Master.     "Where is the stranger who was in your quarters?" The voice came from G-reddar Klon's thin lips, not from the amplifying disk overhead.     Erech said loudly. "I do not know. He escaped from my quarters." Mason knew the words were intended for his own ears.     So, apparently, did 3reddar Kinn. The Master's voice rang out again flatly.     "I speak to you, stranger. Come forward."     Mason did not move. A robot stepped forward. Its         176         tentacle-arm coiled about Erech's neck. The Sumerian's hand leaped to the lilt of his scimitar, and then fell away. Amazingly the toneless voice spoke--in English, oddly accented but retort, niT-hie.     "I--mean you no--harm. Come forward, if you--wish to return to your ownfime-sector."     Startled, Mason involuntarily made a movement, hesi= tared, and then stood up quickly. After all, he had no choice. The tentacle about Erech's neck silently warned him of the torture that would be inflicted on the Sumerian if the Master were not obeyed.     Mason hurried forward, the target of furtive glances, passing Erech without a word. The swarthy warrior stared straight ahead, his face immobile. Greddar Klon nodded, and the robot uncoiled its tentacle from Erech's neck, twined it instead about Mason's upper arm. There was no menace in the gesture--rather, it seemed as though the creature had taken his arm, to gu/de him. Mason felt a gentle tug, and the robot urged him toward the tunnel mouth behind the dais. The weird, spherical metal head, with its strange, faceted eye, stared down at him blankly.     With a glance at Erech, Mason followed the robot past the still form of Alasa, motionless within her transparent prison. Again the elfin beauty of her caught at Mason's throat. Then the green-lit depths of a passage swallowed him ....     He was taken to the great room of the two monoliths. There he waited, still with the cold tentacle curled about his arm, till the sound of tramping footsteps came. Into the huge chamber came the two guardian robots; behind them Greddar Klon in his metal car. The Master stopped the vehicle, swung open a door, laboriously climbed out to the floor.     Now Mason had an opportunity to study the strange man more closely. He was short, kis body dwarfed but thickset, and the arms were slender, boneless, terminating in elongated fingers. The bowed legs were thick and strong. They had to be, in order to support that tremendous brain-case. A dose-fitting black garment covered the stocky body, the shoulders of which scarcely came to Mason's waist. The dwarf's head was papery-white, blue-veined. Almost Mason could/mag/ne it pulsated with the         177         throb of the living 'brain within. The bones of the skull must be very thin--the thought stirred something in his mind.     The tiny, pointed jaw moved, and a shrill voice spoke in syllables Mason did not understand. He said, in English, "I am sorry but I do not speak your tongue."     The other replied haltingly in the same language, "I--know yours. Have studied--records "He lapsed into pure Semite, speaking more fluently. "Let us speak the root tongue. I have had reason to speak it much of late, though at firs it gave me difficulty. You are from the future. So am I--but a future far later than yours." He nodded. The tentacle unwound from Mason's arm. The robot paced away, returned with a heap of furs. Greddar Klon dropped upon them, and the robot brought more furs, threw them in a heap beside Mason. He, too, sank down.     "Let me explain. In my day I built a time-machine, a projector which hurled me back into the past. There was an error in my calculations, almost fatal. I had intended to move only a few days into the future. But the time current was very swift .... I emerged in this ancient city. And I had no way of returning. My time projector was not, of course, in existence. It would not exist till I built it, far in the future."     The cold eyes dwelt enigmatically on Mason. "I rebuilt my device. This time--somewhat differently. For I do not wish to err again--I do not care to go back to the Pliocene, or on to a dying, airless world. I have not yet finished my experiments. Do you know why I have told you this?"     Mason shook his head. Cameos of muscle ridged on his jaw.     "Not friendlinesswno. I want your brain. Your intelligence. The robots will obey--but they are mindless. There are certain delicate operations and calculations . . . in my own time I had capable assistants, but I cannot use these barbarians, of course. You can help me. Your mind is undeveloped, but the rudiments of scientific knowledge are there. I wish your aid."     He watched Mason for a moment and then went on, "It is the only way in which you can return to your own         178         time. Do not let emotion sway yo These people here are nothing'to me. Nor are you, save that I can use you. Help me--or die."     The archeologist hesitated. He did not doubt that refusal Would mean death, or, at least, torture. He must play for time . . . until he understood more of this alien, enigmatic world.     "Very well. I'll help you," Mason spoke weariedly. "Good." Greddar Klon peered closely at Mason. "You are tired. You must sleep now, and when you are refreshed we can begin."     A robot came forward. It took Mason's arm, urged h|m toward a passage.     The voice of the Master came, flat and ominous.     "Remember--I do not trust you. But I think you understand that treachery will mean your death!"         179         CHAPTER IV     The Conspirators         For seven hours Mason slept drearnlessly, on a mound of furs in one of the bare apartments of Al Bekr. Once he roused at an unfamiliar sound to go to the door and open it. Outside the portal one of the metal robots stood motionless on guard. Smiling wryly, Mason returned to his couch and relaxed in sleep.     The next time he awoke it was to find a hard, calloused palm clamped over his mouth. Startled, he fought desperately for a moment, and then paused as he heard the urgent whisper of Erech.     "Quiet, Ma-zhonl Be silentl"     The Sumerian's swarthy face was glistening with sweat. lie took his hand from Mason's mouth, said, "We must be quick. There's a journey you must make before the Master sends for you."     "The robot--" Mason nodded toward the door. Erech's thin lips broadened in a grin.     "I've taken care of him. With this--sceT' lie brought out from the folds of his cloak a curious egg-shaped contrivance, milkily luminescent. 'q got it from Murdach."     Murdach! Mason remembered--the man from the future whom Greddar Klon had imprisoned in the vaults of     A1 Bekr.     "How-----"     "Murdach is wise--and powerful, though he's in chains. I visited him--after the Master had punished me for hiding you." The Sumerian rubbed his back gingerly, wincing. "I do not love the lash's kissno! Well, I told Murdach of you, and he has made a plan: He gave me this weapon against the metal men, and asked me to bring     180         you to him. And Alasa, too--for the Master intends to slay her."     "What are we waiting for?" Mason asked. He sprang lightly to his feet, moved toward the door. His hand     strayed toward the dagger at his belt, but Erech merely chuckled.     "No danger-so long as we move quiefiy. Murdach's weapon is powerful."     The Sumerian opened the door. The robot stood silent across the threshold, its faeeted eye blank and dull It     made no move as the two men passed it. Erech said:     "It's under a spell."     Mason lifted quizzical eyebrows. True, to the superstitious Sumerian this must seem magic indeed, but the cause of the robot's paralysis could be guessed. The egg-like weapon of Murdach, perhaps, emitted a ray which 'temporarily short-c/rculted the energy that activated the     robot. How long, Mason wondered, would the metal man remain thus?     "Come on," Erech said, leading the way along the corridor. Silenfiy the archeologist followed. Through green-lit, empty tunnels they went swiffiy, and at last came out into the great room of the dais, where Greddar Klon had tortured and killed the Semite girl before the assembled multitudes of Al Bekr. The chamber was vacant now, save for the glass coffin that hung in empty air. Erech ran lightly toward it, Mason at his heels.     From a tunnel mouth a robot came striding. The Sumerian flung up h/s arm, the luminous, enigmatic weapon of Murdach's gripped in his thick fingers. From the shin-lng object a pencil-thin beam of light sprang out.     It struck the robot's body. It spread, crawling over the metal surface like liquid. Suddenly the robot was a glowing figure of living light.     The monster stopped in mid-stride, tentacles rigidly outstretched. It stood frozen.     The light-beam died. Erech hid the weapon in his gar-mcnts.     "Now for Pla.m," he growled. "Murdach told me how to free her. If I can remember. "     The Sumerian touched the opaque coffin, ran his hand lightly over its surface. He cursed softly--and then caught         181         his breath. Beneath his fingers something clicked; there was a high-pitched, strange sound, as though a violin     string had abruptly broken.     The coffin sank down, opening as it dropped. Within it lay Alasa--unmoving, asleep.     Mason leaned forward, his eyes intent on the girl Alasa's beauty seemed scarcely earthly as she lay there, and for a moment Mason feared that she would not awaken.     Then the long, dark lashes lifted; warmly golden eye looked into the man's. In that gaze a queer understand-lng came, and Alasa---smiled. bio longer goddess---but human ileed!     Fear come into her face. She arose with a lithe motion, and looked around with the wariness of a hunted thing. In Semite Mason said:     "Do no! be afraid. We come to free you--not to harm." Alasa eed him doubtfully. The Sumerian said: "That is te. You know me, ! think--and you know how I fought when the Master first came."     For the first time Alasa spoke, her voice low, a little husky, as though her vocal cords had not been ued for long. "Yes, ! know you, Erech. I trust you. But--tell me, how long have ! been in this pron."     'Fhrice fora' moons," Erech said. "But come; we'll talk as we go. There's no time to waste." He turned to the coffin, closed it, lifted it into the air, where it hung unsus-pended. "The Master may not discover you're gone for a while, anyhow.'     The Sumerian led the way. He .seemed thoroughly familiar with the intricate maze of A1 Bekr, though more than once ^lasa's eyes widened in wonder at sight of her transformed city. Glancing aside at her, Mason felt his pulse leap at the girl's strangely elfin beauty. Once she looked at him with undisguised curiosity.     "You are from a distant land, I think," she observed. "Men of A1 Bekr are either strong or handsome, but seldom both. You are not vet handsome"--she chuckled, golden eyes lighting with mirth---"yet ! like you!"     Before Mason could answer a shadow flitted past in the distance. It was the white leopard of Nirvor. It paused, eyeing the group inscrutably. Mason felt a shiver         182         crawl down h/s spine. The creature was only a beast, of course-yet in its stare was a deadly malignancy and a queer spark of intelligence ....     The leopard slipped away and was gone. Erech whispered, "It is a demon. Bokya, the black one, is a killer but white Valesta is like Malik Taus, peacock-devil of the eastern tribes. Hurry"     The way led downward now, along steeply sloping ramps, deserted, lit by the pale green radiance. Once they encountered a robot, but Erech's rayweapon swiftly reduced 'it to immobility. Down they went, into the hidden depths beneath lost Al Bekr ....     And fear crept at Mason's heels, stalking him. A dread he could not suppress had risen within him ever since the     white leopard had appeared. An inexplicable certainty that ù danger was drawing closer ....     Without Warning disaster struck. From the gloom of a side passage a blhck bolt of lightning sprang--the black leopardl Right at Erech's head it leaped, and the Sumerian would have died then beneath grinding fangs had not Mason, almost without thought, lunged forward into the man's back. Hurtling him aside. A razor claw raked Mason's arm. He felt fur brush his cheek, so close did death pass. Then the leopard seemed to turn in midair, green eyes blazing.     But Erech had drawn his scimitar. With fury no less than the beast's he crouched, teeth bared in a savage grin.     "Back, Ma-zhon! Guard Alasa! Your dagger is shorter than my blade--let me deal with this hell-spawn."     Mason thrust the girl behind him. He drew his dagger. The leopard advanced on Erech, tail switching erratically. And.     Darkness fell.     The green-growing bars blinked out. Intense blackness shrouded the passage.     The nearness of doom sent inspiration lancing into Mason's mind. He cried, 'rhe weapon, Erech! Murdach'$ weapon., "     Whether the ray would paralyze the Ieopard Mason did not know. But at least, the glowing egg would provide light--light enough so that the leopard could not kill unseen in the blackness.         183         Whether Erech heard Mason did not know. The floor trembled beneath his feet. It shuddered and sank down as he fought for footing. He felt Alasa's soft body cannon into his, and then the two of them were plummeting down into the abyss.     They did not fall far, and a mound of furs saved them from injury. In the stygian gloom Mason heard the girl's unsteady breathing. He put out an exploring hand, touched the warm softness of an arm.     "Are you all right," Mason asked.     "I think so. But--Erech?"     Mason called the Sumerian's name. There was no response.     Light blazed into the room.     They were in a tiny cell, twelve feet square or less, walled and roofed with bare metal. Mason stood up, gripping his dagger.     A voice said mockingly, 'qhough Bokya fail--I do not. I am wiser than my leopard."     The voice of Nirvorl The Silver Priestess!     Mason looked around quickly. The unseen woman laughed softly.     "You cannot escape, either of you. You will die. Nor will the Master know I slew you. For when the centaur feeds, he leaves not even bones."     Even at that moment Mason found time to wonder why Nirvor bore him such hatred. Then he remembered his words and his shocked revulsion at the alien horror he had sensed in the eyes of the Silver Priestess. Nivor remem-bered-and, to her, the offence was beyond forgiveness.     "I followed you," the cool voice went on, "till you reached the trap above the centaur's den. If the Master is too confident to guard himself against treachery, I shall guard him. For Greddar Klon has promised to bring back the glories of Corinoor under Selene, and you, who are his enemies, shall dinowV'     The floor tilted sharply. Once more Mason and Alasa dropped through space, alighting sprawled on a carpet of crackling straw. They were in a dim-lit chamber, high-roofed and huge. It seemed empty, though a black huddle loomed in a far corner.     Nirvor's voice came again. "Soon the centaur will         184         awaken. When you see him, pay homage to the Master's skill. For the'centaur was once a man of A1 Bekr, a fool and a murderer, who was bestialized in body and brain by Greddar Klon's science. He is not fed often. Nor are maidens often thrown into his den. And he is still     partly human  "Ironic laughter died away into silence. Mason glanced at Alasa's white face. "Buck up," he said, lapsing into English, and then in Semite, "Have courage. We're not dead yet." The girl's lips were pale. "Yet I leaf'--this is magiel" "I'm quite a sorcerer myself," Mason jested with an as. surance he did not feel. He had noticed that the dark bulk in the corner was stirring. It arose. Slowly it came forward into the light .... Icy horror chilled the man. A centaur--living,   breath ing, alive--stood before him, a monster out of mythology     sprung to sudden life. The Master's surgery had created it,     Mason. told h'nself, yet he could not force down his   repul sion. The creature was monstrousl     It had the body of a beast, a dun horse, all caked and     smeared with filth. From the shoulders grew the torso and     arms of a man, hairy and knotted with great muscles. The     head was human, and yet, in some indefinable   manner- bestialized. There was no intelligence in the shallow eyes,     but a pale shining of dull hatred and menace.     The eyes flickered over him, swung to the girl. Light     flared within them. The monster's loose, slobbering mouth     twitched. It mouthed unintelligible sounds. The thick arms     swung up. It pranced forward.     "Stay behind me," Mason said curtly. The dagger's hilt     was cold in his hand. He lifted the weapon.     The centaur hesitated, looking down on the man. It     seemed to sink down, crouching. And then it leaped.     It bounded forward, front hoofs flying, bellowing rage.     As that gigantic mountain of flesh crashed down Mason     thrust up desperately with the dagger. Whether his blow     found a mark he did not know; a hoof smashed against     his head, a glancing blow that sent him hurtling back,     stunned. He fell in a limp heap on the straw.     Blackness surged up. Frantically he fought it back. His     head was a blinding, throbbing ache of red agony, and         185         when he forced open his eyes, he could not focus them properly.     Alasa's scream brought Mason back to full consciousness.     Unable to move, his muscles water-weak, he lay staring at the horror before him. The man-beast had gripped the girl in its hairy arms. The shallow eyes glared at her. One taloned hand swept out, snatched Alasa's garment, ripped it brutally away.     Frantically Mason battled his overpowering weakness, the sickening dizziness that nauseated him. The centaur bellowed mad laughter.     And again the scream of Alasa cameterrified, hopeless!         186         CHAPTER V     Madness of the Centaur         The centaur's monstrous head bent; watery orbs avidly dwelt on the girl's nudity. She struck out vainly, her nails ripping at the creature's face. Though blood came, the centaur paid no attention to its wounds.     Mason managed to crawl dizzily to his feet, The dagger lay glinting in the straw near him. He bent, picked it up. He turned toward the man-beast[     Alasa lay pale and motionless in the centaur's arms. The monster had no other thought than the girl. Its eyes were glaring and bloodshot. Spittle drooled from the sagging mouth. It did not see Mason as he crept forward.     The man had but one chance, and he knew it. Silently he stole up behind the beast. At the last moment the centaur sensed danger, started to whirl, roaring menace.     Mason's arm slashed down. The dagger ripped into the centaur's throat, slicing through skin and flesh and cartilage. A great gout of blood burst out, spattering the nude girl with scarlet.     With a deafening scream of agony the centaur dropped Alasa. Its hands clawed up to the ruined throat. It plunged at Mason.     He managed to dodge, though flying hoofs grazed his side. As the creature lunged past Mason put aH his strength into a desperate leap. He felt iron-hard flesh under him, came down on the centaur's back, his arms locked about the monster's throat. The dagger was still in his hand.     The beast-man went beserk. Screaming, it flung back its hands, seeking its prey.     The taloned fingers sought Mason's eye.         187         The man ripped out blindly with the dagger. He felt himself flung through the air, fell heavily on his side, rolling over and over. Clashing hoofs thundered past. Swaying, Mason sprang up--and halted, staring.     The centaur was blind. The dagger's chance stroke had ripped across its eyeballs, slashing them open. The beastfaee was veiled with blood. And if the monster had been enraged before--now it was a demon incarnate!     Blind and dying, it shrieked mad rage and murder-lust. Hoofs grinding down viciously on the straw, great arms winging, the centaur drive around the den, hunting the man who had slain it. Mason saw Alasa lying near by. He dashed toward her, lifted her nude body in his arms. He staggered into a corner, and the centaur flashed past him like a Juggernaut.     It was a mad, fantastic game they played there, with the dying monster blindly seeking prey, and with Mason, carrying the girl, dodging and waiting alternately, his breath a raw, singeing flame in his throat. All at once the centaur grew still, its bloody arms hanging laxly, blind head lifted questingly as it listened.     The creature stiffened as the girl in Mason's arms moaned and stirred. Guided by the sound, it sprang forward       And dropped--dead! It rolled in a gory, shapeless huddle over and over on the straw, the great wound in the throat ceasiag to bleed as the mighty beast-heart slowed and stopped. It lay quiescent, its dreadful life ended for ever.     Reaction shook Mason. Dizzily he lowered the girl to the ground, relaxed beside her, weak and sick. But after a moment he rallied his strength and turned to Alasa. She was still and white as a marble statue, her pale body splotched with the centaur's blood. Mason's throat was suddenly dry. Was she even alive?     Swiftly he chafed her arms, striving to bring her back to consciousness. And at last the girl's lashes lifted; golden eyes looked into Mason's, wide and feaul. With a shuddering little cry Alasa clung to the man, no longer the queen of a mighty city, but a gil, frightened and thoroughly human. Involuntarily Mason bent his head,         kissed the soft hollow of. her throat, her rounded shoulders.     A flush turned Alasa's face rosy. She drew away, freed herself.     "There ought to be a way out of here," Mason said abruptly, unsteadily. "The Master depended on the centaur's killing his victims. There'd be no need to make this place a real prison. I--I'll look around."     In a corner Mason found a tiny stream that emerged from a hole in the wall and ran along a channel to disappear into a drain. Where the stream emerged there was a tube that slanted up into the darkness. It did not look inviting, but after a careful search of the den Mason realized that it was the only means of egress.     "Want to try it, Alasa?" he asked. The girl had been watching him, and now she nodded and came to his side. 'Tll go first," Mason offered. "If I can get through you'll be able to."     He 'fell on hand and knees, crept into the hole. The water was not deep. It rilled beneath him, icy-cold and murmuring softly.     Mason was in a tunnel, a tube barely wider than the width of his shoulders, so smooth that at times he almost lost his footing, ff the slope grew much steeper, he knew, it would be impossible to mount it. Behind him he heard the girl, her breathing soft and uneven.     The faint light that filtered from behind them grew dim and died away entirely. They clambered through utter darkness.     Interminable lourney through the hidden heart of Al Bekr! More than once Mason felt chill despair touch him, but he knew that to retrace his steps would be useless, probably fatal. In the den of the centaur they would be at the mercy of Nirvor and ,the Master, but here they had at least a chance, though a slim one.     The tube grew level again. Fumbling in the dark, Mason felt emptiness beside him. The sound of falling water came. He realized that the tunnel branched here, forking into two tubes up one of which they had climbed. He ›ailed, "Not too fast, Alasa! Take hold of my foot "     Slowly they edged past the unseen abyss. Then forward again, on hands and knees that were raw and   bleed     189         ing--on and on interminably. Until, at last, a faint greenish glow heartened Mason. He increased his pace.     A mesh grating was set in the tube above him. He fumbled with it vainly. It was fast. With a word to the girl, Mason braced himself, thrusting his back against the barrier. Veins bulged in his forehead as he strained to lift it.     There was a faint creaking, but the grating did not give. Mason rested, and then tried again. This time he managed to burst open the grated metal.     Warily he lifted his head through the gap, peering around. They were in a room, green-lit and vacant, filled with water-tubes, pumps, unfamiliar machinery. Mason wriggled out through the gap he had made, helped Alasa climb free. Both of them were drenched and shuddering with cold.     "So far, so good," Mason said grimly. "Know where we are?"     The girl shook her head. Dark hair clung damply to her bare shouders. "This city is strange to me also. I don't know how we can escatm---or where we can hide."     "Well, we can't stay here," Mason grunted. "Come along." He led the way to a tunnel-mouth in the wall. Warily they hurried along it. Al Bekr was still sleeping --but it would awaken soon, Mason thought. Moreover, if they encountered one of the robot guards, they no longer had Murdach's paralysis-weapon.     Twice they saw robots in the distance, but managed to evade them. It seemed hours later when, hurrying along a green-lit corridor, Mason heard footsteps approaching. He stopped short.     Alasa's face was white. She whispered, "What "     "We passed a door a minute ago," Mason said softly. "Come on!"     They ran back swiftly. The door was unlocked; Mason swung it open, revealing a tiny closet bristling with switches and apparatus. "In we go," he commanded. "Hope we don't electrocute ourselves."     The footsteps were louder. The two tumbled into the closet, and Mason drew the door shut. He had intended to leave a tiny crack for vision, but the panel swung         190         closed with a click. In the darkness Mason fumbled for a latch. There was none.     The steps grew louder, hesitated, and faded in the distance. Mason could feel Alasa's warm breath on his cheek. He said quietly, "We can't get out. We're locked         The girl said nothing for a moment, and then came into his arms, shuddering with cold and fear, clinging to him. The touch of her cool flesh dried Mason's throat. He resisted for briefly--and then a flame of passion swept away his caution. His hands touched silken curves; he felt Alasa's soft lips. Their touch was like fire.     He drew the girl close. With a little sob she put slim arms about Mason's neck. Their lips merged, and a trembling shudder shook Alasa's body as she strained toward , hil.     The fo0tstes came again--and another sound that     electrified Masofi. Soft, furious oaths--in a, voice he knew. The VOice of Erechl     The girl had heard it too. She drew away, unseen in     the darkness. Mason called with quiet urgency:     "Erechl Erech!"     Silence. Then the Sumerian's low tones.     "Eh? Who's that?"     "Mason. And Alasa. In here "     The door swung open. Erech stood wide-eyed, his mouth open. His cloak was ribboned, his swarthy chest bleeding in a dozen places.     "I've found you--El-Iii be praised I've been searching all Al Bekr "     He whipped off his cloak, gave it to the girl. She nodded gratefully, wrapping it around her nude form.     "INe no cloak for you, Ma-zhonmbut you'll be back in your apartment in a moment. What happened to you?"     Mason told him. The Sumerian whispered an oath. "That she-devilmNirvorl You saved my life, Ma-zhon, when you cried out for me to use Murdach's weapon. It gave me enough light to beat off the leopard. I didn't kill it--but ! gave the beast some wounds to lick." He grinned unpleasantly.     "Now listen, Ma-zhon-and you, Alasa. I went to Mur-dach. I told him what had happened. He said there would         191         ')e no time for him to talk to you now. A1 Bekr will twaken soon. If you livedmhe saidmgive you this mes-iage. Alasa I will hide safely. You, Ma-zhon, must pretend to obey the Master. Work with him as he wishes. Try :o learn his secrets. Murdach knows something of them, ut not enough. Later Murdach will join his knowledge to yours, and the two of you--with my aidmmay defeat Greddar Klon."     Mason nodded. "Okay. I mean--it is well, Erech. You say Alasa will be safe?"     "For a time. I know the hidden places of Al Bekr. We must hurry, Ma-zhon "The Sumerian gave Mason explicit directions for returning to his apartment. "Go now. Swiftly. Obey the Master till you hear from me."     Alasa ran to the archeologist, her golden eyes anxious. "And you will guard yourselffor my sake?" She lifted her pale face, and     Mason kissed her again. He heard the Sumerian whistle, shrill with astonishment. The girl turned to Erech, said imperiously, "Let us go. Now?'     Shrugging, Erech led Alasa along the corridor. His lips still fragrant with the honey-musk of the girl's kiss, Mason went in the opposite direction, smiling a little.     And soon he found his apartment. The robot guard still stood before the door, unmoving as Mason slipped within. He cleansed and bathed his wounds as well as he could, donned a cloak that would hide them from the Master's suspicious eyes. Then he relaxed on the mound of furs.     He slept, but not for long. The robot was beside him, gently gripping his arm, urging him to his feet. A little thrill of fear shook Mason. Had the Master discovered what had happened? Had Nirvor spoken?     No--the Silver Priestess would be silent, for her own sake. Reason told Mason that the Master would be merciless if he knew Nirvor had tried to kill the man Greddar Klon needed to aid him. With an assumption of nonchalance the archeologist accompanied the robot to the room of the green monoliths.     The Master was reclining on furs. He thrust a flask at Mason. "Drink," the shrill voice piped. "It is not a drug. Rather a food, neutralizing the toxins of weariness."     Mason drank. His fatigue dropped from him.         192         The Master made no reference to Alasa's escape, if he knew of it; which Mason did not think likely. He arose on his bowed legs.     "Now we shall beginl'     The ordeal started. And it-was a racking and cruel one; Mason's brain had never worked so fast, and, despite the energizing effect of the liquid, a dull headache began to oppress him. He could only guess at much of the nature of the work he did. Remembering Erech's command, he tried to memorize his activities and those of Greddar Klon.     Under the Master's direction he moved levers, spun .wheels, sent light-rays impinging on huge machines. From time to time, at the dwarf's dictation, he made cryptic notations with a stylus upon a camera-shaped device on which a scroll was wound--a variation on a notebook. And, as Mason worked, a trickle of knowledge crept into his brain. He began to understand some of the machines and 'powers of the Master of, Al, Bekr.     Several times he had attempted to hand objects to the dwarf, and had felt an invisible solid repel his hands--a shell of energy, Greddar K!on explained, which protected him from danger. "An atomic mesh guarding my body, through the interstices of which I can breathe, but which cannot be penetrated otherwise---by weapons or rays." The cold yes examined Mason impassively.     Remembering the spear that had rebounded from this invisible armor, the archeologist realized its necessity. And, as they worked, Mason noticed several of the transparent ovoids about, similar to the one which had imprisoned Alasa. Several were large, fully twenty feet long. "I use them for aerial travel when I have need to leave Al Bekr," the dwarf said.     One thing Mason learned was that the air pressure within these ovoids could be controlled--increased or decreased. This he remembered, though at the time he did not realize the importance of the device.     "I have given the barbarians of Al Bekr comforts they never knew before," Greddar Klon said. "Of course, I built the city for my own comfort primarily, while I was working on my projector. But they will still have it when I'm gone, though they'll be unable to actuate the machines. Come."         193         He led the way to one of the ovoids--twenty feet krug, of opaque silvel metal. Greddar Klon touched a stud, and a disk-shaped door swung open. He motioned Mason within followed him. As he turned to the instrument panel Mason watched his movements closely. The walls of the ship shimmered, faded---became shadowy, transparent. The ovoid lifted, drove up.     They raced up swiftly beside the giant pillars. At their summit, between them, a platform had been constructed and on this the ship alighted. At a dizzy height above the floor the work continued, amazingly intricate adjustments and calculations which Mason did his best to understand. And presently the dwarf, his voice emotioniess as ever, announced, "It is finished. There remains only one thing."     The two were within the ship, but now Greddar. Klon opened the port. He pointed to a lever on the platform a dozen feet away. "Pull that over. Then retum--swiftlyl'     Mason obeyed. As he returned to the ship he caught a fleeting glance from the Master, curiously veiled, and wondered. The dwarf said, "I have improved my original projector. Watch."     Silently a pale shimmer of white flame began to spread in empty air between the summits of the green towers. Glowing filaments and tentacles, like tatters of some huge curtain, danced and fluttered, spreading, even closing the gap between the monoliths. The green light faded, fled back. In the white glare distorted shadows marched grotesquely on the distant walls.     "Before--I guessed at my destination in time. Now I can control it. The energy of the projector is being transmitted to this ship, giving it the power to move in time."     Now the white curtain was unbroken, flaming all around the ovoid's transparent walls. Mason's eyes ached as he watched it.     Then it snapped out and vanished. It was gone.     Coldly Greddar Klon said, "It is ended. My experiment is finishednd suecesssul."     He touched the control board. "One tes, though. We'll move back in time-for one revolution of the Earth."     The ship trembled, swayed. And suddenly utter, stygian blackness fell, through which screamed the v/bration of energy inconceivaMe         194         CHAPTER VI Terror in Al Bekr         Before Mason could do more than catch his breath fight came again. The ship had apparently not moved--yet the scene visible through the transparent walls was entirely different.     No longer .were they in the room of the twin monolitl. The ship hung in empty air twemy feet above the roofs of a strange, archaic city. It was A1 Bki', Mason knew--but A1 Bekr as it had been before the Master's arrival     A city of roughly cut stone and mud-daubed huts, such a city as Babylon might have been before the days of splendor--like Chaldean Ur before its ruin. Men and women moved quietly about the streets. They had not as yet glimpsed the ship hovering above.     "I am satisfied," the Master said. "I can control the time-change accurately. Now we return."     Again darkness. And again it lifted, to show the room of the green towers. Greddar Klon sent the ship drifting down to the distant floor.     "When are you going to start?" Mason asked. The cold ù eyes probed him.     'romorrow. You had best return to your apartment and rest. I will need your aid soon."     Mason turned to the opening port. He vaulted lightly down and went to a tunnel-mouth. But something he had read in the Master's glance made him wary. He lurked in the passage out of sight, waiting.     Nor had he long to wait. Presently a/ow, distant voice ounded.     "You sent for me, Oreddar Klon."     The voice of Nirvor, the Silver Priestess.         195         And the Master's reply:     "All is ready. We can start now."     A pause. Then Nirvor said, "My leopards. I must get tem?     Mason wiped his forehead. So Greddar Klon intended betrayal. He planned to return to the future with Nirvor, leaving Mason behind. Well---Mason would not have gone without Alasa; but the thought came to him: would it not be best thus? With Nirvor and Greddar Klon gone, Aiasa could rule A1 Bekr as before.     And then--what? Mason himself would be marooned in a long-forgotten time sector, together with Murdach, the man from the future. Perhaps Murdach could help. True, Mason had been ordered to obey the Master till he received word from the Sumerian, but this was aa emergency.     If he could only find Erech! But he did not know whe to look. Mason, about to turn away, was halted by Nirvor's return. He edged forward cautiously, listening to the priestess' soft laughter, and caught sight of the woman. She was moving toward the time-ship, the two leopards beside her. She entered it. The leopards sprang lithely through the portal. Greddar Klon followed.     What now? Indecision held Mason motionless. His impulse was to halt the Master, kill him if possible. But how? The atomic shield could not be penetrated by any weapon made by man. And there were the leopards     The problem was solved for him. The ship suddenly grew hazy, a shimmering oval shadow. It faded and was gone.     Where the time-ship had been was nothing. I had been launched on its incredible journey into the future.     A hand gripped Mason's shoulder. He whirled to face Ere, ch.     "Murdach sent me," the Sumerian said. "The Master's gone, eh?"     Mason nodded wordlessly. Suddenly Erech grinned. "Good! That's what Murdach wanted. He sent me to watch you, to stop you from doing anything rash. There was no time before to warn you. Come along now. I've freed Murdach, with the aid of his magic weapon. He's with Aiasa."         196         Mason was conscious of a heightening of his pulses as he followed the. Sumerian aJong the corridor. The robots were not visible; Mason wondered what they would do without the Master's will to direct them.     Soon he was to find out, in a manner that would not be pleasant. No premonition of this came to him now as he paused with Erech before a metal door, followed the other over the threshold. In the bare room two people were standing, Alasa, and a slim, hawk-faced patrician figure who was, Mason knew, Murdach. The man from the future wore the renmants of a tattered leather uniform. His forehead, while high and broad, did not have the bulging malformation of Greddar Klon's. Red hair stood up stiy, but of eyebrows and lashes he had no trace.     Murdach said, his voice smooth and velvety, "You've brought him. Good." Enigmatic black eyes regarded Mason intently.     "Greddar K. Ion's gone," the archeologist ,said, frowning. "You know that?"     "Yes. And that is well. He is out of the way, while we make our plans to follow him."     -At the audacity of the scheme Mason's eyes widened. Murdaeh went on:     "You do not know Greddar Klon's plan. He intends to become the ruler of the greatest civilization ever erected. A cosmic pirate, traveling through all ages, picking the best brains and the mightiest scientific powers from ancient times to the furthermost future. He told me of this, and asked my aid. Mason--that is your name, eh? He plans to build his civilization in a time-sector which can offer little resistance. He has chosen your decade.''     Mason caught his breath. "He can't     "He has the power, with the time-ship to ald him. When he has looted time, he'll halt in 1929, wipe out mankind, subjugating a few races into slavery, and rear his civilization there. My plan is to follow him, building another timeship--and kill him ff I can. Will you aid me?"     Mason nodded. 'That goes without saying!" A nightmare vision rose up in the archeologist's mind; a vision of a world in which time had lost its meaning, a world cowering beneath the tremendous powers of Gredclar         197         Klon. He drew a deep breath. "Can you build the ship?"     "With your aid. That was why I told you to watch the Master as you helped him. In collaboration we can fit together the pieces of the     Alasa put a slim hand on Mason's arm. "I'm going with you, of course."     "You can't," Mason told her. "Therel be danger, and lots of it."     She lifted an imperious head. "What of that? Greddar Klon put me to shameenslaved me and slew my subjects. Also, you have saved me, and I pay my debts. I go with you!"     "And I, too," the Sumerian broke in. "I've a wish to try my scimitar on the Master's neck, when his magic isn't guarding him."     "No more argument," Murdach said. "They will accompany us, if they wish. They hate Greddar Klon--and hatred is sometimes a powerful weapon." He turned to the door, and the others followed. Mason slipped the girl's arm within his own, squeezing it reassuringly. Her golden eyes laughed up at him gaily. They might be going into deadly peril--but Alasa was not lacking in courage.     In the room of the green monoliths all was still. Quickly Murdach moved about, his keen black eyes tal6ng in all that was to be seen. He indicated a twenty-foot ovoid nearby.     "We can use that for our time-ship," he said. "But it's necessary first to build up the atomic force Greddar Klon used. Do you remember how he used this ray-device?"     Mason explained as well as he was able. Murdach nodded with satisfaction and made hasty adiustments. Slowly, gradually, the brain of the man from the future duplicated the Master's experiments. Mason began to feel hope mounting within him.     He was beneath one of the moaoliths, explaining a control board to Murdach, when the girl cried warning. Mason swung about. From a tunnel-mouth raced two robots, faceted eyes alight, arm-tentacles swinging. They made for the group under the time towers.     Swiftly Murdach brought up his egg-shaped weapon. From it the ray sprang out, stilling the robots with   fan     198         tasfie swiftness. They stood silent, unmoving. But from the passage ca'me the thunder of racing feet.     Murdach bit his lips. "I was afraid of this," he whispered. "Greddar Klon foresaw that we might follow him. Before he left, he ordered his robots tO kill us. I doubt if we'll have time now."     "TimeT" It was the Sumerian, battle-lust in his eyes. He stooped, snatched up a huge sledge-hammer. "Give Alasa your weapon, Murdach. You and Ma-zhon finish your task. We'll hold off those demonsl"     Alasa snatched the ray-projector, raced toward the     ù lamnel-mouth, Erech at her heels. Murdach smiled grimly. "Let us hurry. We may have a chance, after all."     Mason was frowning, looking around for a weapon. The other gripped his arm.     "You' can best help by aiding me. We can't battle all the robots. 0.nly if we get the time-ship completed can we escape.'     A metal man lunged into view, silent and menacing. The ray-projector in Alasa's hand stilled him. But there were others---hundreds of them, pressing eagerly forward. Some the girl halted. Others fell victim to Ereeh.     The Sumerian roared red battleeurses. The sledge rose and fell in sweeping, crashing blows, grinding the metal heads of the robots beneath its drive. But slowly the two were pressed back--slowly, inexorably.     Murdach's fingers flew, adjusting, testing. Mason stole a glance at the battling pair, and straightened, his breath hissing between his teeth as he saw Erech go down beneath a flailing tentacle. The archeologist leaped forward. The girl might hold back the robots for a momentmno longer.     Leaping over the Sumerian's body, Mason snatched up the sledge. He saw the featureless blank head of a robot looming before him. A tentacle slashed down, vicious and deadly. Mason swung the hammer in a great arc.     Metal sang under the blow. The robot fell away and was gone. But behind him came others. Erech sprang up, spitting blood.     "The hammer, Ma-zhon! Let me ."     Behind them came Murdach's urgent cry. "Come! It's finishedl"         199         Mason gripped Alasa's hand, ran toward Mttrdaeh, half     dragging the girl. Behind him Erech shouted triumphantly, and then followed. The robots came in pursuit wi a dull thudding of swift feet.     Murdach was waiting at the port of the ship. He sprang back into the interior as Mason thrust the girl aboard, tumbled after her, Erech behind him. The door clanged shut just as the robots reached the ovoid. With insensate, brainless fury they attacked the metallic walls.     White-faced, Murdach turned to the control board, sent the ship driving up. He lowered it gently on the platform at the summit of the twin monoliths.     "That lever," he said, pointing. "You moved that one?" Mason nodded. "Shall I .' "Yes."     The archeologist opened the port, slipped out. He glanced over the platform's edge to see the robots milling about aimlessly beneath. Then he moved the lever and raced back to the ship.     Breathlessly the four waited. Presently white flame fingered out from the monoliths. Silently it spread, lacing and     interweaving, till the walls were a sea of pale flame.     And it died.     For a moment no one spoke.     "Think it'll work?" Mason asked shakily.     "It must!" But Murdach's voice was none too steady. Nevertheless he turned to the controls, fingering them tentatively. Though Mason had expected it, nevertheless he felt a shock when darkness blanketed them.         It lifted. The ship hung above a green oasis, with high palms growing about a pool. In the cloudless blue sky the sun blazed brilliantly. For miles around the oasis was a desolate wilderness of sand and rock.     Alasa whispered. "Our legends say Al Bekr was like this once, long and long ago."     "There was no oasis in my day," Mason said. "We've gone back into the past."     "Then we'll go forward again," Murdach smiled, his eyes no longer grim and cold. "All time lies before us."         20O         "Godsl" the Sumerian said hoarsely. 'This is magic indeed!"     The girl touched Murdach's arm. "What of my people? The robots may slay them."     "NO. Their energy must be renewed periodically, or they're lifeless and inanimate. Without Greddar Klon to do that, they'll run down--lose their lifeforce. Your people are safe enough, Alasa."     "But my epoch isn't," Mason grunted. He was beginning to understand something of the incredible task before them. How could they find Greddar Klon in the vast immensity of time---and, if they succeeded in finding him, how could they defeat the super-science of the Master, augmented, perhaps, by the powers of a dozen future civilizations?     As though guessing his thought, Murdach said, "I can locate Greldar Klon easily enough. His ship causes a warp in the' space-time continuum that instruments can detect. But as for fighting him--I would like to get aid first. We can best do that far in the future. Surely there must exist there some weapon that will destroy the Master!''     He touched the instrument board. Once more darkness blanketed them. Mason felt the girl's soft body huddle against him, and he put a protective arm about her. The Sumerian was cursing softly and fluently.     And the ship raced into time, into the cryptic twilight of Earth, driving blindly toward mystery and toward horror inconceivable!         201         CHAPTER VII     In Time's Abyss         Light came. They hung a thousand feet above the black, sullen waters of a sea that stretched to the horizon. There was no sign of land. In a black, star-studded sky loomed a globe of dull silver, incredibly vast. Its diameter covered fully a third of the heavens.     Mason said uncomprehendingly, "The Moon but it's close, Murdach--very close! How far in the future have we gone?"     Murdach's face was white. He eyed the instruments, reached out a tentative hand, withdrew it. Hesitating, he said, "Something is wrong. I did not know "     "Wrong?" The Sumerian growled an oath. "You said you'd mastered this hell-chariot!"     "I--I thought I had. But it is abstmse--Greddar Klon came from a more advanced world than mine."     "We're not "Mason felt oddly cold as he asked the question. "We're not marooned here, are we?"     Murdach's lips tightened. He gripped a lever, swung it over. His slim fingers danced over the control panel. Nothing happened.     "For a while, at least," he said at last. "I cannot send the machine into time. But soon I can discover what's wrong, or at least I think so."     Alasa smiled, though her eyes were frightened golden pools. "Then do your best Murdach. The sooner you succeed, the sooner we'll find the Master."     "No, no," Murdach told her impatiently. "We'll find Greddar Klon in a certain time-sector. Whether we start now or in an hour or in fifty years will make no differ›Ilce."                 202 o         "Fifty years?' Erech's volturine face was worried. "And in the meantimwhat will we live on? What will we eat[}"     Ten hours later the question reoccurred. Both Murdach and Mason were haggard and red-eyed from their calculations and their study of the time-ship's principles. The former said at last, "How long this will take I don't know. We'd better find food. Too bad we took none with us."     "Where?" the Sumerian asked. He glanced around expressively at the bleak, lonely expanse of sea and Moon'rifled sky. I think Ran, the goddess of the Northmen, has claimed the world for her own. The ocean-goddess .... "     "There'll be land," Mason said rather hopelessly as Murdach sent. the ship lancing through the air. "If we go far enough."     But it Was bo long distance to the shore--a flat, barren plain of grayish sandy soil, eroded to a horizontal monotony by 'the unceasing action of wind and wave. No mountains were visible. Only the depressingly drab land, stretching away to a dark horizon. And there was no life. No animals, no vegetation; a chill emptiness that seemed to have no end. The dreadful loneliness of it made Mason shudder a little.     "Is this the end?" he wondered softly, aloud. "The end of all Earth?"     Sensing his mood, through not comprehending the reason for it, Alasa came close, gripped his arm with slim fingers. "We'll find food," she said. "Somewhere."     "We don't need to worry about water, anyway," he     grunted. "It's easy to distill that. And there's "     "Hail"     Erech shouted, pointing, his pale eyes ablaze. "Men--see? There "     Below them, a little to the left of the drifting ship, a great, jagged crack loomed in the Plain. There was movement around it, life--vague figures that were busy in the     unchanging silvery twilight of a dying Earth.     "Men?" Murdach whispered. "No .... "     Nor were they men. As the ship slanted down Mason was able to make out the forms of the strange creatures.         203         Vaguely anthropoid in outline, there was something   curi ously alien about these people of a dying world.     "Shall we land?" Murdach asked.     Mason nodded. "Might as well. If they show signs of fight, we can get away in a, hurry."     The craft grounded with scarcely a jar near the great crack in the ground. Confusion was evident among the creatures. They retreated, in hurried confusion, and then a group of four advanced slowly. Through the transparent walls Mason scrutinized them with interest.     They were perhaps eight feet tall, with a tangle of tentacles that propelled them swiftly forward. Other tentacles swung from the thick, bulging trunk. The head was small, round, and without features--a smooth knob, covered with glistening scales. The bodies were covered with pale,     pinkish skin that did not resemble human flesh.     Murdach said, "They are--plants!"     Plant-men! Amazing people of this lost time-sector! Yet evolution seeks to perfect all forms of life, to adapt it perfectly to its environment. In earlier days trees had no need to move from their places, Mason knew, for their food was constantly supplied from the ground itself. With the passing of slow eons perhaps that food had been depleted; limbs and branches had stretched out slowly, gropingly, hungrily. Painfully a tree had uprooted itself. The mutant had given life to others. And now, free of age-old shackles, Mason saw the plant-men, and fought down his unreasoning horror at the sight.     Murdach said, "Listen! I think they're speaking to         "Speaking?"     "With their minds. They've developed telepathy. Don't you feel some sort of message?"     "I do," Alasa broke in. "They're curious. They want to know who we are."     Mason nodded. "I don't think they're dangerous." He opened the port, stepped out into the thin, icy air. A cold wind chilled him. Among the plant-men a little wave of panic came. They shrank back. Mason lifted his hand, palm outward, in the immemorial gesture of peace.     Within his mind a wordless message stirred. "Who you? You are not of the Deathless Ones?"     204         At a loss, Mason answered aloud. "We are friends. We seek food :'     Again the strange fear shook the creatures. They drew back further. One stood his ground, blind glistening head     turned toward the man, tentacles dangling limply.     "Food? What sort of food?"     They understood Mason's thoughts, apparently. Conscious that he was on dangerous ground, he said,   "Any thing you can spare. What you eat ù,," "Who are you?"     awe come from the past," Mason answered at a     ture. Would they understand that?     "You are not Deathless Ones?"     "No." Mason sensed that the Deathless Ones, whoever they were, were enemies of the plant-men. And his reply seemed tb reassure the creatures.     They confb.rred, and again their spokesman stood forward. "We will give you food, what we can spare. We are the G0riehen." So Mason translated the plant-man's thought message. There was more corrfidenee in the creature's mind now, he sensed.     "You must hurry, however. Soon the Wave will come .... "     Puzzled, Mason nodded agreeably. "Bring what food you can spare, then."     "You must come with us. We may not carry food to the surface."     Mason considered, glanced back at the ship. "How far must I go?"     "Not far."     "Well, wait a minute." He went back to the others and     explained what had happened. Murdach shook his head. "I don't like it."     "They seem harmless enough, I'm not afraid of 'em. It's probably the other way around. They'll be glad to se the last of us. They're in deadly fear of some creatures they call the Deathless Ones, and they think we're related to them somehow."     "Well--" Murdaeh rubbed his lean jaw. "If you're not back soon, we'll come after you."     With a smile for Alasa, Mason leaped out through the         205         port and approached the Gorichen. "I'm ready," he told them. "Let's get started."     Keeping a safe distance from the man, the plant-creatures led him to the edge of the great earth-crack. A sloping ladder led down into the depths. Several of them began to descend it swiftly, and more gingerly Mason followed.     It grew darker. A hundred feet down the ravine narrowed to a silt-covered floor, into which Mason's feet sank. The Gorichen led him toward a round metal disk, ten feet in diameter, that protruded from the ground. One of them fumbled at the disk with its pinkish tentacles. Silently metal slid aside, revealing a dimlit hollow beneath.     Another ladder led down. At its bottom Mason found himself in a sloping corridor cut out of rock, leading into     hazy distances. The plant-men urged him along this. "How far?" Mason asked again. "Soon, now."     But it was fully half an hour later when the Gorichen halted before a gleaming door at the end of the passage. It opened, and beyond it Mason saw a vast and shining cavern, hot with moist warmth. A musky, strong odor blew dankly against his face.     "We feed here," one of the Oorichen told Mason. USee?"     At a little distance was ranged a long row of flat, shallow basins let into the stone floor. Intense heat blazed down upon them. Within the basins was a black-scummed, oily liquid. As Mason watched a plant-man marched forward on his tentacles and lowered himself into a tank. He remained there unmoving.     "The rays from the great lamps overhead give us strength," a Gorichen told Mason with its thought-message. "Within the pits we have food, created artificially and dug out of our mines, dissolved in a liquor that aids the transmutation to chlorophyl."     The arrangement was logical enough, Mason realized. Plant-food, absorbed through the roots--radiation from the huge lights in the cavern's roof, a substitute for solar radiation, waning with the inevitable cooling of the Solar System. But such food was useless for human beings.         206         Mason said so. One of the Gorichen touched his arm with a soft tentacle-tip.     "It does not matter."     "What?" A chill premonition shook Mason. He glanced around swiftl3at the blankly shining heads of the plant-men. "What d'you mean?"     "You are to be used in our experiments, that is all." "Like Hell!" Mason snarled--and struck. His fist crashed out, pulping the body of one of the Gorichen. Its flesh was horribly soft and fungoid. Moist, soft stuff clung to Mason's hand. The Gorichen, a gaping hole in its torso, halted and then came forward again, apparently uninjured. And the others pressed toward the man, tentacles waving.     The battle was brief. Mason's muscles were toughened with fury. and desperation, but he had no chance against overwhelming, numbers. So at last he went down; was bound tightly, .still struggling, with fle, xible metal ropes. Then the plant-men retreated, and Mason saw something that made his throat dry with horror.     A group of Gorichen were carrying a figure into the cavern--the body of Alasa, bound and silent, bronze hair hanging in disheveled ringlets about her pale face. She saw Mason.     "Kentl They attacked us after you leftl They killed Erech, I think. They "     "Are you all right?" Mason asked, trying to regain his breath. "You're not hurt?"     She shook her head. "No. But Murdach escaped in the ship."     The Gorichen waited silently.     "Murdach escaped!" A little flare of hope mounted within Mason. Alasa seemed to read his thought.     "He can't help. We're under the ocean. These demons took me underground just as a great wave came out of the east .... "     Now Mason realized why the plant-men dwelt underground. The Moon's nearness caused giant tides that swept resistlessly over the surface of the planet. Now they were far beneath the sea--and would be, until the tide retreated.     Mason grimaced. He tugged unavailingly at his bonds.         207         One of the Gorichen came forward. His thought-message was clear.     "We bear you no hatred. You say you are not of tho Deathless Ones, our enemies. Yet you are v.ery like them. For ages we have tried to find a way of defeating the Deathless Ones, and never yet have we succeeded. They cannot be captured. We cannot experiment on them. But you--if we find how you are vulnerable, we may use that knowledge on the Deathless Ones. Certain things we already know. Steel is useless. So are poisonous gases. But there are certain combinations of ray .... "     The creatures fell silent. His tentacles gestured, and the two captives were lifted, borne toward a glass block that towered near by. A door was opened in its side; Mason was thrust into its hollow interior. Cursing, he struggled with his bonds as the piant-men retreated with Alasa. Rolling over on his side, he peered through the transparent walls. And, watching, he went cold with horror.     To the Gorlchen the two humans were guinea-pigs, valuable only as material for their experiments. They dragged Alasa to an altar-like block of stone. Vainly she fought.     The tentacles of the monsters reached out, deftly moving the girl's clothing. In a moment she lay utterly nude, chained to the stone block so that she could scarcely move. A Gorichen wheeled a lens into position. From it a pale ray-beam fingered out, enveloping Alasa's ivory body in lambent moonglow.     She was unconscious, or seemed so. For a second the ray was visible; then it snapped ou. Working hurriedly, the plant-men unbound the girl, carried her to Mason's prison, and thrust her within. They remained in little knots outside the glass walls, their blankly glistening heads inclined forward as though they stared attentively at the results of their experiment.     Cursing, Mason struggled to free himself. Useless attempt! The unyielding metal merely chafed and cut his wrists, and presently he stopped to glance at the girl. She was regaining consciousness.     She moaned, lifted a slim hand to brush bronze hair from her face. Slowly she opened her eyes. In them was         208         a blind dreadful staring that made Mason catch his breath, his thrQat dry.     The girl dragged herself to her hands and knees. Her gaze moved questingly about the prison. She saw Mason.     Silently she crept forward. An angry flush was mount-lng in her face and bossom, and the glaring eyes grew wider.     "Alasa!" Mason called. "llasa!"     No answer. The nude girl crawled toward him--and stopped. She arose.     Her breasts rose and fell more swiftly. A harsh cry Came from her lips.     Then suddenly she sprang at him.     Mason was caught unawares. He felt soft flesh pressed against his face, fever-hot, caught a glimpse of Alasa's flashing t. eeth,bared in a snarl. What madness had the Gorichen:s hellish ray worked?     Mason rolled away just in time as Alasa's teeth drove at his throat. Finger-nails raked his face. Then Alasa leaped again, eyes blazing.     "God Alrnighty!" Mason groaned. Would he have to kill Alasa to escape being murdered? He drove the thought from his mind; he knew that he could never harm the girl even if she were insane. Yet, for her own sake, he must subdue her somehow. And he had little chance of     doing that, bound as he was.     "Alasa!" he called again.     The girl did not heed. Her body glistening with perspiration, she flung herself on Mason, fingers clawing, teeth seeking his throat. He tried to roll over, but could not.     A sharp pain lanced, through his neck. He felt the warm stickiness of blood trickling across his skin.     Agonizingly the girl's teeth drove deeper ....         209         CHAPTER VIII     The Deathless Ones         Dimly, through a red haze, Mason realized that the glrl's weight no longer bore him down. Two plant-men held her writhing body in their tentacles, dragging her toward the door. A trickle of blood wormed from her lips. In silence she struggled, striving to break free.     The Gorichen pulled her outside. As Mason watched he saw her body suddenly sag limply in unconsciousness. A pang darted through him. Was Alasa---dead?     The same idea had come to the plant-men. Tentacles were waved excitedly. They lowered the girl to the floor, examining her carefully. A movement of Alasa's arm assured Mason; the girl tried feebly to get to her feet.     The Gorichen dragged her back to Mason's prison.     They thrust her within it. Again the door was shut. Alasa ran to the man. "Kent! What happened?"     "You--" Mason hesitated. In the girl's eyes he read the knowledge that she remembered nothing of her nightmare atack on him. The madness of the plant-men had passed from her brain. "Nothing much," he flushed. "Can you untie me, Alasa?"     She bent forward, fumbled at the metal ropes. Wonld the Gorichen permit her to free the man?     At last the task was finished. Mason got to his feet, rubbing his legs to restore circulation. He went quickly to the door, kicked it tentatively.     The plant-men outside seemed to watch undisturbed. Again Mason kicked the glass, but it did not shatter. He crashed his shoulder against it, but only bruised his arm. The cell was empty, and there was nothing he could txs as a weapou.         210         A cry from Alasa made him turn. She was pointing to a corner of the cell, where walls joined ceiling. Greenish-white, a plume of vapor was entering the prison, coiling ominously in the still air.     Fear gripped Mason. He sprang forward, tried to reach the valve. If he could manage to stuff it closed, ut it was too high. Baffled, he retreated to the door and renewed his onslaught on it.     But the substance, tougher than steel, would not yield.     Mason paused only when he could scarcely see the door 'through a thickening cloud of greenish mist. Alasa     touched his arvn.     "Kent? What is happening?" uI don't know," he said slowly. "They're experimenting on us. What they expect--well, I just don't know. Maybe it'll .kill us. If it does, I hope it's a quick death."     With a ,soft little cry Alasa moved close to Mason, and he. put protecting arms about her: She buried her face on his shoulder, and for a while they stood there, while the green mists thickened thickened     There came a time when Mason was completely blinded. Oddly he had no trouble with his breathing. There was a slight exhilaration, due, he thought, to oxygen in the strange gas, but he was not discommoded. Perhaps the vapor--admittedly experimental--would havo no effect on human beings.     He dropped to the floor, cradling the girl in his arms. In that blind emerald emptiness they waited, and Mason soothed and calmed Alasa as best he could. In spite of himself his pulses mounted at the nearness of the girl's warm, satiny body. The weird gas, he knew, was exciting him; yet the madness grew on him. And Alasa, too, felt the intoxicating effect. Her hands crept up, touched Mason's hair. She drew down his head, guiding his lips in the green blindness till they touched her own. Flame of dark passion blazed up within Mason ....     Desperately he fought it down. The girl's breathing mingled with his own, hoarse and uneven. His fingers touched the silken smoothness of rounded flesh, and the touch was like fire. Suddenly his muscles were weak as water.     "Alasa!" he whispered. "Alasat"         211         In a surge of newfound strength he pressed the girl's form against him, sought her lips. Fantastic visions flashed through his mind. Weird madness of the plant-men's poisoned gas ....     Alasa seemed to slide away, to vanish in a green-lit abyss. She was gone. Mason was alone. The clouds whirled about him, and very faintly he heard a distant throbbing, steadily growing louder. With the portion of his brain that remained sane he knew that this was     real, a drug-bom hallucination, as the deep pounding roared louder in his ears and dark shadows moved slowly down the emerald distance. Clearer the shadows grew, and clearer .... Bat-winged horrors that mocked and tittered obscene laughter as they raced down on him . . . and ever the drumming roar grew deeper, louder, crash-lng like the tocsin of a demon in his ears ....     Faster the green mists swirled. They were a whirlwind of chaotic, blinding brilliance. The devils danced a grotesque saraband, screaming a mocking chant.     It swelled to frightful crescendo of sound and motion that rocked Mason's giddy senses. He felt blackness creeping up and overwhelming him.     And it was with gratitude that he sank down into deepest unconsciousness!     Slowly Mason awoke, with a blinding headache and an acrid, unpleasant taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes, stared up at the transparent roof of his prison. He was still imprisoned in the crystal cage, but the green gas had been pumped out. Alasa's still body lay beside him. Head swimming. Mason tried to revive her. He stripped off his cloak, wrapped it about the girl.     A grating overhead made him look up. The roof of the cage was sliding aside, leaving a gap four feet wide, running the length of the prison. Plant-men were busy with a kind of crane, swinging its burden, an enigmatic metal block, into place so that it could be dropped into the two human's prison. There came an interruption.     The Gorichen sprang into frenzied activity. Mason could not interpret their thoughts, but he sensed sudden, deadly danger. Frantically the plant-men went racing     ward the corridor that led into the upper world. A stray thought-fragment flashed into Mason's mind.         212         "The Deathless O. nesl They have broken the gateway "     In five minutes the cavern was deserted. Now, if ever was a chance to escape. Mason looked up once more. The smooth sides of the cell were unscalable. But above the gap in the xoof hung the metallic block from the crane's arm, too high to be reached--unless     A rope? Mason 'ore only the loincloth Erech had given him in A1 Bekr, and neither that nor the cloak would support his weight. His glance fell on the metal ropes that had bound him, now discarded in a mound on the floor, and Mason knew he had solved the problem. If only they were long enoughl     Picking them up, he paused to examine Alasa. Already assured of her safety, it was with relief that he saw the girl's laShes flutter, and her golden eyes open. She saw Mason..     "Oh, Kent! Help me up!" Sh.e .clutched his arm, got unsteadily to her feet. "We're not dead, it seems. I thought we were both slain and in the Pit of Abad-don.     "Maybe you're right about the last," Mason said grimly. He told her what had happened. "If I can loop the rope over that metal block, we can climb out, I think."     "Can you do it?"     He shook his head doubtfully. ' can try .... "     But only after repeated attempts did Mason manage to loop the doubled end of the metal cord over the suspended block. Then a careless move undid his work, and for another ten minutes he tried, a fury of apprehension mounting within him, till at last the anxious work was done. The two ends of the rope hung down within the cell. Mason knotted them together.     "I'll go first. Then Iq.l pull you up "     The metal cord was slippery, scoring Mason's skin. He twisted his legs about it, fought his way up, while Alasa held the rope steady from below. And at last he reached the roof of the cell, swung on to it, sweating with exertion.     "Hurryl" he told the girl. Distant sounds of conflict made him fear that the cavern would not be isolated for long.         213         His muscles, weary with exertion and lack of food, cracked and strained as he hauled Alasa painfully to his side. But it was easier thereafter. They slid down to the floor of the cavern, and swiftly made for the passage that led to freedom.     "It's the only way out, apparently," Mason said, glancing around. "Hold on! There's something I want."     He retrieved a bar of silvery metal, longer than his arm, that would make a formidable bludgeon. He tested it with a vicious swing that smashed the crytic gears of a machine.     "Good! It isn't soft or brittle. This'Il help, Alasa!"     The girl responded by picking up a smaller bar for herself. Battle-light glowed in her golden eyes. She hurried at Mason's side, the cloak occasionally flaring to reveal the pale flesh of her thighs.     But before they reached the passage-mouth a battling horde spewed from it, struggling in insane conflict. Swiftly Mason caught the girl, drew her down out of sight. Crouching, they watched.     The Gorichen were fighting for their fives. And their enemies were     The Deathless Ones! Icy cold crawled down Mason's back as he saw the invaders, creatures that were unmistakably human beings, yet more alien to him than the grotesque plant-men. For the Gorichen were normal products of evolution, and the Deathless Ones, Mason sensed, were not.     They were the living dead. In their bodies dwelt life undying, forms that had once been tall and stalwart and god-like in their beauty. Even now some remnant of past splendor fingered, made dreadful by the foul corruption that had overtaken the Deathless Ones.     The name itself explained much. They were men who had conquered death but not disease! Not--corruption!     Ail the hideous plagues of mankind had burst into foul ripening on the bodies of the Deathless Ones. None was whole. Loathsome gaping wounds and sores showed the flesh and bone beneath. Tatters of granulated flesh hung in ribbons from some. There were unspeakable skull-faces glaring blindly, and there were mutilations from which Mason turned away, sickened.         214         Man had conquered death--and, too late, had discovered'his error.     The Deathless Ones seemingly could not be iniured. Scores of the Gorichen would leap upon an enemy, bearing him down by their weight. And presently the pile of struggling figures would fall away, and show that at the bottom the Deathless One had been busy--feeding.     Mason remembered he had seen no plant or animal life on the surface of the planet. Possibly the Gorichen were the only food of the Deathless Ones ....     The struggle swept away from the tunnel-mouth. With a whispered command Mason gripped Alasa's arm, sprang out from concealment. They heard a dreadful cry go up, heard feet thudding in pursuit. A hand closed on Mason's arm; he whirled; struck out blindly with his '.weapon, felt unclean flesh pulp under the blow. The grip fell tway and was gone.     Th two humans fled up the passage, black fear pacing them.     Were there more of the monsters in the tunnel.9 Mason gripped the metal bar fighter at the thought. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter, but did not die away.     Slowly the couple's speed grew less. Their hearts were throbbing painfully; their throats parched and dry. An increasing tumult from below made them increase their pace. But they could not keep it up. Once more the Deathless Ones gained.     Alasa stumbled, almost fell. Mason dragged her upright, ran on supporting her with his arm about her waist. "We ought to be near the surface now," he told the girl,     and she looked up with a quick smile.     "Soon, now, Kent .... "     The pursuers came faster. Mason caught sight of a gleam of silvery daylight lancing down from overhead. The door to the outer Earth!     They reached the ladder, climbed it with frantic haste, the clamoring monsters almost within arm's length. In the ravine Mason pointed up.     "The ladder, Alasa, I'll hold 'em back and then come after you."     She hesitated, and then obeyed. Mason's inattention was almost his undoing. A talon-like hand seized his foot,         215         almost overbalancing him. A frightful skull-face rose out of the pit, screaming with wordless, dreadful hunger. Mason sent the metal bar smashing down, sick revulsion clawing at his stomach.     Bone and brain shattered under the blow. Blindly tho thing tried to crawl up, though its head was a pulped, gory horror. The mouth of the pit was choked with dozens of the Deathless Ones, greedy for flesh to feed their avid maws, heedless of blows, pushing up and up ....     Mason battered them down, till the very weight of tho monsters bore them in a tangled heap to fall back into the passage. Then, gripping the bar in one hand, he ran swiftly up the ladder and rejoined Alasa on the surface.     "I've an idea," he said, grinning feebly, swaying on his feet. "Those things can't be very intelligent. Tho plant-men are, but "     Mason stooped, pulled up the ladder. A group of Deathless Ones emerged from the pit, roaring monaco. Spying Mason, they tried to climb the walls of the ravine, but failed. Presently a few of them set off to right and left.     "There may be another way out. We'd better scram--depart, I mean," Mason said at Alasa's puzzled look. "Come on."     "But--where?"     The man scanned the dark sky. A wail San glowed huge and red. The Moon had vanished. A chill wind blew over a plain of wet, featureless silt.     "I don't know. Away from the coast, anyway. If we can find Murdach and the ship .... "     Silently they set out, trudging across the lonely waste, shuddering in the icy wind that rushed bleakly over the surface of a dying planet.         216         CHAPTER IX     Tower of the Mirage         For hours the two struggled through the sticky ooze, up the slope of a slowly rising plain. In the thin air their lungs pumped painfully. Twice Mason saw something   fly 'rog overhead, vague in the distance, but he could not make. out its nature. It was apparently winged, and was clearly, not the time-ship.     ù But they found the ship at'la'st, almost by chance. Its silvery surface glowed like a flame in the gray, dull plain. It seemed hours before they reached it.         And it was empty. Murdach and Erech had vanished. There were signs of struggle, and a pool of dried blood on the floor. In the mud outside a confused track led toward the east. Frowning, Mason swung shut the door and turned to the controls.     "I can move the ship, Alasa. Maybe we can find Erech and Murdach. That spoor's pretty clear."     The girl wrapped her cloak more closely to her slender body. "Do so, Kent." She found a flask of water and offered it to Mason before she drank.     Slowly the craft rose, drifted on above the waste, following the track. On the horizon a spire rose, growing taller as they advanced. It was a cyclopean crag--not the work of nature. It was too regular, Mason realized, a great cylindrical shaft that thrust itself from the grey empty plain into the grey sky, flat-topped, desolate and colossal.     "They may be in that," Mason suggested. "See if you can find some weapons, Alasa."     Presently the girl gave him Murdach's egg-shaped projector. "It worked on the metal men," she told him.         217         "Whether it will succeed in killing living beings I do not know."     "We!l, it's better than nothing. I still have my club." Mason glanced down at the metal bar.     The surface of the tower was, perhaps, two miles across, and quite flat. There was an odd flickering in the air above it, and once or twice Mason caught a fugitive glimpse of bright color that flashed out from the grey desolation of the tower and was gone. In the exact center was a round, black opening, and toward this Mason lowered the ship slowly.     He landed on the rim--almost losing control of the craft in his surprise. For directly beneath him, springing out of empty nothingness, loomed a great granite boulder! It was twenty feet high, and he was slanting toward it, paralyzed with astonishment and horror. With a grating crash the ship landed.     The shock almost threw him from his feet. The boulder --was gone! He followed the direction of Alasa's astonished gaze, turned and saw the boulder behind the ship. Apparently they had passed through it as though it were a phantom.     Nor was this all. All around, where he had seen nothing but a flat, metallic surface from the air, was a wilderness of tumbled, riven rock. To all sides towered the great boulders, and overhead a blazing white sun glared down.     "Good lord!" Mason gasped. "We haven't moved in time! What's happened?"     "Magic," Alasa said, solving the problem to her own satisfaction. "Do you think Erech and Murdach are here?"     "If they are, they flew in." As Mason spoke he realized his guess was not too far-fetched. He had seen creatures flying in the airmperhaps the very beings that had captured the vanished pair.     "I hope Erech is not dead," the girl murmured. "Shall we search, Kent?"     qodding, Mason opened the port, stepped out, followed by the girl. He approached the great rock and tried to touch it. His hand passed through the brown, rugose surface as though it did not exist.         218         "It's a mirage," Mason said suddenly, with convletion. "An unbelievably perfect one! Three-dimcnsionalI Artificially created, I'm sure. Look at your feet, Alasa."     The girl's slim ankles were hidden, seemingly, in grey, slate-like rock. But she stepped forward without hindrance. Mason moved to her side, felt the smooth surface of the flat tower top beneath him. He got down and felt the cold metal with his hands. Then, smiling a little, he plunged first his hand and then his head into one of the great phantom boulders, and found himself instantly in profound darkness. He heard Alasa cry out.     He moved back, and there was the white sun pouring down its non-existent, heatless rays, and all around was the tumbled wilderness of jagged rock.     "Yourhead," the girl said shakily. "It--vanishedI" "yeah," Mason nodded. "And I've just thought of somethitig. That hole in the roof. We'd better be careful, or we'll Ioth vanish for good. There may be a stairway going down it, though."     Trying to remember the location of the gap, he stepped forward cautiously, gripping the girl's hand. They waded through intangible rocks that sometimes came up to their waist. It was fantastic, incredible science of an alien world.     And suddenly Mason felt a mighty throbbing that grew and pulsed all about him. The wilderness of barren rock trembled and shivered, like a painted curtain rustling ia the wind, and abruptly it-changed! Like a motion-picture fading from one scene to another the panorama of rocks that seemed to stretch to the horizon grew vague and disappeared, and in its place grew another scene, a weird, alien landscape that hemmed in the pair as though they had been transported to another world.     All about them now was a tangled forest of luxuriant vegetation, and the bark of the trees, as well as the leaves, the thick masses of vines, even the grass underfoot was an angry brilliant crimson. Nor was that the worst. The things were alive1     The vines writhed and swung on the trees, and the trees themselves swayed restlessly, their branches twist-lng in the air. No wind stirred them. They were living         219         beings, and even the long, curiously serpentine red grass at their feet made nauseating little worm-motions.     There was no Sun--just an empty blue sky, incongruously beautiful and peaceful amid the writhing horrors that hemmed them in, the forest that was as immaterial as the phantom rocks had been.     "Wait a minute," Mason said. He took a few steps back, for a curious theory was forming in his mind. And again came the mighty throbbing and the strange crawl-lng and shifting of the red forest, and as he retreated it melted swiftly into the familiar wilderness of jagged rock. Alasa had vanished. Looking over his shoulder, Mason could see the time-ship beside the great boulder. He moved forward again and Alasa sprang into view, her golden eyes wide and frightened.     "Okay," he told her. "Let's hunt for the hole, eh?" "Here it is, Kent. I almost fell into it." She pointed at the wormy tangle of red grass near by. Mason stared. Of course, he could not see down into the gap. The scarlet vegetation hid it. He knelt and, overcoming his repugnance, thrust his face down through the twisting grasses. He was in empty blackness--below the ground level in the world of the red plants, Mason knew.     A curious conviction came to the man that these scenes, the strange mirages on the tower, were not merely created phantoms, but actual reflections of real worlds that exist, or did exist, or will exist in the future. He circled cautiously about the gap.     It was about twenty feet across. His fumbling hands found an incline going down into the darkness, slippery and too steep to walk upon. It went down at an angle of about forty-five degrees, as well as Mason could judge, crawling on his hands and knees and feeling there in the empty darkness.     "Kent," the girl said with quiet urgency. "Listen!"     "Eh? What "     Then he heard it--a harsh, very loud scratching noise. It came from the depths of the invisible shaft. It grew louder, and a sudden premonition made Mason seize Alasa's hand and retreat swiftly. It was lucky that he did.     The thing came out of the shaft, and first they saw a bristle of waving antenna, and two huge claws jerking         220         convulsively in empty air. It came rising inexorably out of the grotmd, and in a moment they saw the whole frightful being.     "An ant!" Mason heard himself whispering. "A winged anti"     But it was a colossus. Twenty-five feet long it towered, mandibles clashing, wings outspread, rustling dryly as they clashed against the wing-cases, crawling up blindly.     The creature moved forward. It was blind, Mason gUessed. No eyes were visible, but the antennae apparently took their place. The claws clicked menacingly.     Horror turned Mason cold. As the thing advanced he     flung himself back, pulling Alasa with him.     "The ship!" he said unsteadily. "Come?     The white-faced girl nodded, kept pace with him. At a venture Mason raced in the direction he thought the ship lay. His guess was wrong.     Almost immediately he heard the throbbing and saw the wavering and shifting, and then they were rushing through--nothingness! Empty fog, grey billows of thick stuff that were so turbid he was completely blinded. Thinking with lightning speed, Mason turned at right angles, dragging Alasa, and cut across in a frantic attempt to locate the ship.     He heard a clashing, a dry rustling--the giant ant, hurrying in pursuit. Madness of fear tugged at Mason's brain. It was the quintessence of horror, wading through rocks he could not feel, racing through trees that did not exist. The ant trailed its prey by scent, or by some less familiar sense, and as it was blind the shifting three-dimensional mirages made no difference to it. They had been created, apparently, to confuse the enemies of the ant-monsters.     Mason and Alasa would be sprinting through what seemed to be a field of emeralds, glinting under a hazy sky with a low-hanging moon, when there would come the shifting and throbbing, and the panorama would fade away like the mirage it was. And in its place would come, perhaps, a vast field of frozen white, with not an object visible and a black, starless sky overhead. Once they were hurrying through a green swirl of water, with seaweed drifting by and curious creatures swimming past         221         them--through theml A thing le a great opaque white ball, pulsating and writhing, drifted at Mason, and he leaped aside, shuddering.     Then they would hear the dry rustling, and it would be bolt, sprint, race with temples throbbing and sweat running into their eyes, till the two would be forced to '2ing themselves down and rest while they gasped for reath. They went zig-zagging and plunging through a veird and fantastic array of alien worlds and scenes. Ma-on could not help flinching when a great tree or wall of ge would loom in his path, though he knew the thing vas an impalpable phantom.     Then, too, there was the ever-present fear that they vould plunge off the edge of the tower. What saved them was nearly their doom, for as they went racing through a curiously regular rank of thin columns, like bamboo, that stretched up to a far whiteness that was either the sky or an incredibly lofty roof, they burst suddenly into the world of living vegetation. Mason went rushing through a swaying red tree. The rasping sound of pursuit was loud in his ears--and his feet went from under him.     Letting go of Alasa's hand, he fell heavily on his side, sliding down till his hips were on the polished slide that led down into the interior of the tower and the lair of the ant-monster. He kept on sliding.     Desperately, Mason gave a frantic twist and squirm that nearly broke his back; he felt Alasa's hands pulling him to safety. The girl's white body gleamed through the flaring cloak. Somehow, Mason scrambled to his feet, his breath a flaming agony within his lungs.     The monster was nearly on them. Remembering Murach's weapon. Mason clawed it out, aimed it. A thin beam sprang at the giant ant. Light crawled weirdly over the frightful head.     And the thing---died! Without a sound it dropped, though its impetus carried it forward till it slid over the brink of the abbyss and vanished from sight, l'qo sound came from below.     Trembling a little, Mason replaced the weapon. "Come on, Alasa," he said shakily. "We've got to find the ship. There may be more of those devils around."     But it was not easy to locate the vessel. The two played         222         a weird game of blind-man's-bluff there on the top of the tower, hckrrying through mirages, some they recognized, others totally unfamiliar. Some were horrible and others pleasant enough.     The worst was hurrying over a black, gelatinous substance that heaved restlessly underfoot like the hide of some Cyclopean monster. It might have been, for all he knew, Mason thought. The black, heaving skin seemed to stretch for miles around, and sometimes the two were buried to their hips in it.     Again they were hurrying across a field of hard, frozen brown earth, with a phenomenally beautiful night sky overhead, studded with constellations and gleaming planets, entirely unfamiliar. A great comet glowed in its white glory among the stars. Then there was a surface of ice or glass, and looking down Mason could see, far below, vague and indistinct figures that seemed entirely inhuman, as far as he could make o. ut through the cloudy crystalline substance.     They staggered through a world of blazing fire, flinching as heatless tongues of flame licked at them. They reeled across a vast desert of sand that crawled and billowed beneath them, stirring with a monstrous embryonic life.     But at last they found the ship. With heartfelt relief Mason followed Alasa aboard and closed the door, sent the vessel lancing up. The girl sank down in a limp heap, her breasts heaving tumultuously.     At a safe distance above the tower Mason stopped the ship, hovering there, while he pondered. Were Erech and Murdach captive within the huge eidolon? Or     A cry from Alasa made him turn. She was pointing. "Look! It's- "     "Erech!" Mason finished excitedly. "And Murdach!" Crawling across the grey plain, almost at the foot of the tower now, was one of the giant ants, carrying in its claws two limp figures that were, even at the distance, unmistakably human. His hand closing on the weapon in his pocket, Mason sent the ship flashing down.     But--the thought came--could he use the ray projector on the monster without killing his friends? No, he couldn't risk it.         223         The huge ant seemed to tenna questing, as the shi dropping its burdens, it spr do battle!         sense danger. It paused, an-ip dropped toward it. Then, ead its wings and mounted to         CHAPTER X     The People of the Pyramid         Grimly Mason guided the ship forward. The tensile strength of the craft he did not know, but he suspected that under the ant's chitinous armour it was fragile. In this he was wrong.     A blow of the monster's wing crashed against the ship, sent it wlir, ling, hurling Mason and Alasa from their feet. He .caught a glimpse of the tower rushing toward him, managed to drag himself upright against the controls. With scarcely a foot to spare the vessel looped around, went driving back toward the winged colossus.     The creature came to meet them. In the last moment before impact Mason's fingers stabbed at the panel, attempting to change course. But he was too late. With a grinding, frightful impact winged monster and time-ship came together--catastrophically.     Mason was hurled back, his fingers raking blindly over the control keys. He had a flashing vision of the ant's shattered body plummeting to the plain below, and then intense blackness was all around him. Something thudded against his head, and in his last second of consciousness Mason realized what the darkness meant. The ship, unguided, was racing through time!     Only for a moment, it seemed, was Mason out. Groaning with pain in his throbbing head, he lifted himself to his feet and fumbled blindly in the darkness for the con-trois. Then, suddenly, he realized that the gloom was not complete. Through the ship's transparent walls he saw a star-bright sky above, and an uneven black wall around, apparently a rampart of trees. The ship lay tilted perilously on its side. He saw a pale blotch in a corner, Alasa's face.         225         He could not aid her while she lay on the sharply slanting floor. Mason opened the port, managed to scramble out, half carrying Alasa. Underfoot was a layer of humus, half-rotted vegetation with a dank, musky odour. The air was uncomfortably hot and moist.     Fumbling in the starlight, Mason tried to revive the girl. She sat up eventually, clinging to him, rubbing a bruise on her shoulder.     'The ant--where are we, Kent? Did we find Erech and Murdach?'     "I guess not," Mason told her. "Apparently the time-controls were accidentally moved when we hit the giant ant. We've probably come through time to this sector, and crashed while we were unconscious. It's sheer luck that we didn't have our necks broken. I guess the ground surface is higher here than in the future time--that may account for it."     "But where are we?"     "I haven't the slightest idea, I don't think we went for-ward--this thick forest, and the heat, indicates a past era. I hope it isn't the Cretaceous. I'd hate to meet a ty-rannosaur."     "What's that?" the girl asked, her eyes wide.     "A--a dragon. The name means thunder lizard. But ."     And then the attack came. Mason had heard no noise in the underbrush. But out of the forest dark figures came charging. There was no warning. Before Mason had a chance to brace himself he went down, a dozen wiry bodies swarming over him--and then fire burst in the back of his head. Red fire that was swallowed up by abysmal     blackness ....     He awoke in the dimness of what seemed to be a crudely built hut. Warm sunlight slanted through the doorway; a human shadow--shadow of a guardark-ened the floor. Mason shook his head, groaning. He heard a low, muffled chanting.     And--recognized it! In his archeulogical work, probing into the far corners of the globe, Mason had acquired a sound knowlege of little-known dialects. He had heard similar sounds, long ago, floating down a South   Amer     226         ican river in a hollow log dugout, his arm throbbing and festering-with the wound of an arrow.     Had he, by some incredible chance, returned to his own time-sector?     The doorway darkened. Men filed in, near-naked little men, with brown, muscular bodies. They were grotesquely painted, and feathers nodded and waved in their hair. Chanting, they freed Mason's legs. Leathern thongs, he realized, still bound his wrists.     Hesitatingly Mason spoke, trying to remember that     alien dialect of years ago.     "I am---a friend. "     A native struck his mouth. "Silence!" The word was oddly accented, but recognizable. "You are to watch, not to speak.'     .Again the chant rose.     "Heat our prayers, 0 Thunderer! Hear the prayers of the Curuluri.--"     'The natives urged him outside the hut. Mason blinked, accustoming his eyes to the strong sunlight. He stared around.     The towering walls of the crater marched on the horizon. Black basalt ramparts hemmed them in. To the east was a jagged gap, apparently a pass. At their feet the ground sloped down to the motionless, sullen waters of a lake.     No wind ruled its surface. Dark, enigmatic, it filled the crater, save for the narrow strip of land on which the native village stood. The score of flimsy huts were in curious contrast to the stone pyramid that stood on the lake's shore.     Mason was pushed toward it. Its shadow fell on him. It was perhaps thirty feet high, built of huge blocks of stone, without mortar. In one side was a gaping aperture. Into this the white man was conducted.     A short passage, and then a room, half underground --a temple, Mason realized. Amazement lanced through him. At one end of the chamber was a raised dais, on which stood a chair--a throne, gleaming dully in the light of torches. A golden throne, jewel studded!     Its build was suggestive of Incan workmanship. Yet         227         these brown-skinned natives were not Incas. Perhaps Incas had built this pyramid, and had been killed by the invading tribe---the Curupuri, as they called themselves, Mason hazarded.     This was the past, he knew. A time perhaps long before Columbus had reached the Indies, certainly prior to the coming of the Spanish Conquistadores.     On the throne a corpse sat. A mummy, withered and shrunken and dry, in whose eye-sockets glowed two flaming rubies. Golden breast-plates and a girdle of gold hung loosely on the skeletal figure.     Beside the throne stood a native girl, her amber body scarcely hidden by a translucent feathery cape, through which alluring curves were visible. Her sullen eyes brooded on the white man.     On the walls were heads2 Smaller than coconuts, shrunken by some secret process that preserved flesh and features, their multitude almost hid the rough stones. Natives' heads, all of them.     The chanting grew louder. A dozen gaudily painted Curupuri filed into the chamber. Among them was Alasa.     For a moment her golden eyes met Mason's.     "Kent!" she cried. "They "     A guard clapped a rough hand over her mouth. Cursing, Mason wrenched at his bonds. His captors held him, silent and impassive.     The Curupuri took the girl up to the dais, clamped golden rings around her ankles. From the throng a dwarfish native stepped to stand beside the girl. His face was hideous with paint. From a bald, shaved head white feathers nodded, set in a jewel-studded headdress. The     man lifted his hand, and the noise quieted. From the Curupuri came a great shout. "Zol!"     The native girl stepped forward. Mason read hatred     in her eyes as she glanced at the dwarfish Zol. Again came the deep-throated roar. "Yana! HoYana!"     Zol threw back his head, the white feathers bowing.         228         He cried, 'fhe Thunderer looks with favour upon us." He pointeto the withered corpse on the throne.     "For years she has sat there, ruling the Curupuri in death. Since she lived we have found no girl with a skin     white enough to be our priestess. So Yana has servedw' He glanced slyly at the priestess beside him.     "But now her toil has ended. From the skies has fallen a maiden with a skin white as foam. Almost we     slew her--but the Thunderer stayed my stroke."     From the Curupuri came a roaring chant.     "Ho! Dweller in the Abyss, Dark Thunderermhear usI"     The girl Yana cried, "Hear our prayersl Drink---eat of our sacrifice!" Her red lips were cruel.     "Lord of the Lakel" thundered the Curupuri. "Look on our sacrifice!"     Then silence, heavy and ominous. Yana said, 'øThe priestess must be unblemished." Her voice was sweetly malicious.     Zol nodded, turned to Alasa. His hands went out, ripping the tattered cloak from her. A gasp went up from the natives.     The girl stood nude. Her bronze hair spilled in a tumbled mass on bare shoulders. Instinctively her hands went up in an attempt to cover herself.     Zol shouted laughter as he gazed at the nude girl, at the sweeping curves of her body, flawless in its beauty. Then the priest tore the feather cloak from Yana and cast it about Alasa's shoulders.     Nausea tore at Mason's throat as he saw the body of the priestess naked save for a brief loincloth. From neck to ankles she had been tattooed. Red and blue designs circled the mounds of her breasts, fled across her rounded hips. Understanding the months of agony the girl must have endured made Mason feel suddenly sick.     The shouting died. Zol chanted, "She is unmarried--perfect! Tonight the testing begins. The mark of the Thunderer shall be put upon her."     The mark of the Thunderer? Alasa shuddered, drew the translucent cloak closer. In the eyes of Yana, Mason saw a red blaze of rage. Her lashes drooped, she turned away.     The Curupuri closed about Mason. Vainly struggling,         229         he was forced from the temple, taken back to the hut. There, legs once more bound, he was left alone.     The afternoon dragged on, Occasionally the guard would enter to test the captive's bonds. Though Mason tried to engage in conversation with the man, he met with no success. Perhaps the Curupuri were forbidden to converse with their prisoners.     Just after sunset Mason heard voices outside the hut, and presently Yana, the priestess, entered. Two natives were at her heels.     One was the guard. He freed Mason's feet, and with the other Curupuri, left the hut. The priestess knelt beside Mason.     In the dimness the disfiguring tattooing was invisible, and Mason could see only the smooth curves of the girl's body, scarcely hidden by thin cloth. She said softly, "The guard is gone. I told him Zol wished him to hunt in the forest. And the other who waits without--is my friend."     Mason stared at her. Fumbling with the Curupuri dialect, he said, "One has need of friends here." She nodded. "It is true. I--would like to save the     white girl?"     "Yes!" Mason said swiftly."Will you help me?"     "Perhaps."     "Why?" He did not entirely trust this girl in whose     eyes murderous rage sprang so easily.     "In your place I should not hesitate. You are   stran gers, I know that. You are not gods, as some said, else     you would not be bound and helpless now. Whence you     come I do not care, so long as you leave here swiftly."     "The-the place where we were captured. Is it far     from here?"     "No. You saw the gap in the mountainsthe pass?     It is not far, just beyond that. You can reach it in a fourth     part of a day. And as for why I shall help you--it is   be cause the white girl will take my placel For years a     pale-skinned priestess of our tribe has ruled us. When     the last one died I took her place. Zol did not like   that- for I would not always obey him. Now he sees a chance     to depose me and gain a puppet priestess  I would kill this white girl, but it would be sacrilege. I would be     23O         tortured.., but if you escape with her, it will be different.''     "Then untie me," Mason said, his voice eager.     The girl bent down, her hair brushing Mason's face. "But you must not fail! For there is another way Again the mad rage flared in her eyes. "I have been the priestess of the Thunderer for more than a year. And I have learned much--the words of power that call the Dark Lord from the lake." Her tone was brooding. "I had it in mind to use those words. Once before it was done ages ago, and the Dweller rose from the depths. The Curupuri died--all but a few, who fled."     She shrugged, and her knife flashed, slicing through the last thongs that bound Mason. He stretched cramped muscles.     'Yell me," he said curiously, "have you ever seen any white men'not 'of your tribe? Like me?"     "No. Never. I did not think any existed: Our priestesses had golden skin, not as white as yours." She watched Mason speculatively. "You must wait. It will be dark soon. If you leave the hut now you will be killed."     The hard anger was gone from Yana's eyes; they were strangely tender. "You are not like the Curupuri. And--since I became a priastess--I have not known--love .... "     Suddenly her arms were about Mason's neck, her breath hot against his cheek as she strained against him. Mad torrents of passion seemed unleashed in the priestess. She whispered softly, "I have not known love. And- '     Mason tried to free himself. The girl drew back, her face hardening. She said, "No? Remember--you have not freed the white girl yet. If I should summon aid- "     Mason grinned wryly. Then Yana was in his arms once more. It was not easy to resist--no! Under the thin cloth of her garment he felt the alluring curves of her body.     Shrugging, Mason bent his head, touched the glrl's lips. He did not draw back. The moist inferno of her mouth quickened his pulses. Within the priestess was the hot soul of flame, breath of the searing Zonda that blows across the pampas--hungry passion that surged through Mason like a rushing tide.         231         She shuddered, moaned. A noise came from outsido     the hut. Instantly Yana pulled away, a finger at her lips. "Wait .... "     She disappeared outside. Mason heard her voice raised in dispute with a deeper one; then the two died slowly in the distance. He crept to the entrance, peered out. No one was visible nearby, though a few Curupuri moved aimlessly about the village in the distance. The sun was already low.     He would not have to wait long.     Two hours after it was dark enough to make the venture. The guard had not returned. He slunk out of his prison. The moon had just risen, and he kept in the shadows of the huts. A heavy club discarded by a dying fire caught his eye, and he confiscated it.     He moved toward the pyramid, a muffled chanting waking ominous apprehensions within him. He caught a glimpse of motion on the summit, and he thought he saw Alasa's bronze hair, though he could not be sure.     Glancing aside at the lake, Mason involuntarily shuddered. What had Yana said? A Thunderer in the depths --a monster-god to whom the Curupuri sacrificed. In this dawn of history, could some strange survival actually exist beneath those sullen waters? Even in his day there had been legends of the South American swamps and jungles ....         CHAPTER XI     Blood on the Pyramid         Mason halted near the base of the pyramid. On the structure's flat top gleamed a golden throne, and on it was the ù mummified corpse of the former priestess. In the moonlight Mason. saw. Zol, the squat priest, standing there, and beside him a group of other natives.     And Alasa was there, wearing the feathe robe, in the grip of two natives. The Iow chant grew louder. Abruptly Zol turned, removed the breast-plates and girdle from the corpse, and lifted the mummy from the throne. He swung the body thrice around his head--sent it .arcing down till the black waters of the lake broke in a silvery spray.     The mummy floated briefly; then there was a brief eom-motion, and the thing was dragged down. It vanished. The chanting swelled to a triumphant roar.     Mason moved forward cautiously, the cudgel in his hand, as Zol lifted the feather cape from Alasa's bare shoulders. She stood nude in the moonlight, a glorious statue of loveliness. Vainly she struggled as she was dragged to the throne, seated within it, her arms and legs bound securely. Zol beckoned, and a Curupuri came forward, a deep bowl in his hands.     Others advanced, bearing a long pole to which a native was bound. A great shout thundered out.     From the shadows men came--the Curupuri tribe, thronging about the base of the pyramid, watching the drama being enacted on its summit. Mason drew back, his fingers whitening on the club.     Zol's hand moved swiftly. A bubbling scream of agony came. from the captive. Blood fountained from his throat.         233         Deftly the priest thrust the bowl beneath the gaping wound, filled the vessel     The men on the pyramid were silent--waiting. Zol dipped his hands into the bowl, lifted them dripping red. He smeared the blood on Alasa's nude body, till from neck to ankles her slender form gleamed crimson. He lifted thc knife again, lowered it gently. Its point touched Alasa's bare stomach.     The girl cried out sharply. This, Mason guessed, was the beginning of the tattooing ceremony. For months thereafter Alasa would endure the frightful torture of sharp knives, of agonizing pain of pigments rubbed into the raw wounds till the body was covered, like the priestess', with fantastic designs.     Again the knife came down. Again Alasa cried out--a soft, frightened cry that send red madness surging into Mason's brain.     He lifted the cudgel as he sprang forward. A line of natives barred him from the pyramid, but he broke through the Curupuri with a murderous sweep of his weapon that sent a man sprawling head smashed into pulp. Shouting, Mason sprinted forward.     Behind him he heard a deep-throated roar. He ignored it, racing up the rough stones of the pyramid that offered easy foothold. On the summit men were milling about, staring down, their weapons drawn. Before they could organize he was among them.     He saw a snarling face, pale in the moonlight, looming up before him--and swung the club. The man went down, screaming.     'Fake him!" Zol shouted. 'øTake him--alivel"     Then suddenly the priest was racing forward, a spear in his hand, arm drawn back for the throw. Mason sent the cudgel spinning at his opponent.     His aim was true. The missile Crashed into Zol's face, obliterating the brown features in a smear of blood. Red spurted from the man's flattened nose. Screaming, he went down.     But already a dozen Curupuri were on Mason; grimly he slugged and kicked and clawed. A bare foot kicked viciously at his face. He twisted his hea. d away in time to avoid the blow.         234         But Mason went down at last, fighting desperately. He felt his hands being drawn behind him, saw Alasa straining forward on the throne, her body darkly crimson. She cried, "Kent, are you hurt? Did they "     "I'm okay," he said--and Zol came forward, his ruined face bloody and hideous. He glared down at the white man.     "Soon you will die." His whisper was fury-soft. "But not slowly--nol"     He turned to the lake, lifted the sacrificial knife.     "Dweller in the Abyss," he chanted. "The priestess is prepared. Soon she will serve you."     Mason strained to escape from the arms that held him. Useless!     The Curupuri below the pyramid roared applause at the priest.     Then silence. And cutting through it a thin, high scream that made' the short hairs prickle on, Mason's neck. There w defiance in that scream---desperate rage, and horror, and something above and beyond alt these. The priest hesitated, looked down. His jaw dropped.     Mason turned his head. On the beach, knee-deep in the black waters, was Yana the priestess, nude, a golden statue in the moonlight. Her black hair streamed in the wind. She lifted her arms; her red lips parted. From them came     again that dreadful cry Alien, summoning! Summoning--what?     The priest shrilled, "Slay her! Slay her!"     The others streamed down from the pyramid's summit, racing toward Yana, save for two who still held Mason motionless. The priestess cried again that strange call.     In Zol's face Mason read something that made him look out across the lake. A few ripples troubled the black surface. That was all.     No. There was more. Something was moving toward the shore, a dark and tremendous bulk that glided through the waters with unhurried smoothness. Something that could never exist in a sane world ....     And now Mason rememberd Yana's words: "I have learned much--the words of power that call the   Thun     235         derer from the lake. Once before it was done, ages ago, and the Dweller rose from the depths ....     The god of the Curupuri had answered the summoning of his priestess. Through the dark inky waters the thing glided, and a black, shining bulk arose in the moonlight, a fiat and serpentine head and a long, undulating columu of neck ....     Zol's face was a Gorgon mask of horror abysmal. The natives were almost at the lake's shore--and they shrank back. Yana screamed her weird call--and the cry turned into a shriek as the monster was upon her.     The giant head swooped, lifted with the girl's body dangling from immense jaws. Cold, reptilian eyes surveyed the village. As the girl vanished into the thing's maw the creature lumbered up onto the beach.     Desperately Mason tried to rationalize his fear. Some prehistoric survival--an aquatic reptile that had dwelt for ages in this secret crater, untouched by the changes of evolution. It was possible, he knew. Always there had been tales of such monsters filtering through the jungles, gigantic beasts that dwelt in the Patagonian swamps and the hidden fastnesses of the Andes. Yet he could not control the cold horror that crept over him at sight of the thing that was emerging from the lake.     Its body was over fifty feet long, torpedo-shaped, with great flippers that propelled it slowly forward. The snakelike head and neck writhed, curved. All over its shining, reticulated body grew algae; shells clung to the armoured hide. It came plunging up into the village, and the Curupuri went stampeding in a frenzied panic that made them easy prey for their god.     The two natives holding Mason went with the rest. Only Zol stood his ground, glaring around, bruised lips working silently. He saw Mason. He sprang forward, knife upraised.     This time Mason was ready. Grinning unpleasantly, he dived at the priest, tackled him viciously. Zol stabbed down with his knife, sending a white-hot streak of agony along Mason's ribs.     The white man clutched his enemy's wrist, held it motionless. Yelling rage, Zol bent his head, tried to sink his teeth in Mason's throat.         236         The screams of the fleeing Curupuri came up from below. And a cry-claser, nearerl Alasal     "Kentl The devil-god--it's coming here "     The sweating, bloody face of Zol was a gargoyle mask; the man's breath was foul in Masons nostrils as the priest tried to reach his enemy's throat with his teeth. Beyond, a gargantuan shadow in the moonlight, Mason saw the head of the monster---coming closerl     Mason let go of the other's knife-wrist. Zol was not expecting that move. Before he could recover, the white man had gripped the priest by neck and crotch, hurled him up in mid-air. Mason's muscles cracked under the strain. He spun about swiftly, staggering.     The priest tried to stab down, missed. He had no other chance.     Out of the flight came rushing the devil-god, silent and menacing. The hu.e head was not twelve feet from the     pyramid's summit when Mason let go of his captive.     Sent Zol hurtling straight for the monsterI     His aim was true. The jaws dipped slightly, and gripped the priest. One agonized shriek Zol gave, and then his bones and flesh were ground into pulp between remorseless fangs.     Mason waited to see no more. There was no time to free the girl; he leaped to the throne, picked up her bound, nude form, and slung it over his shoulder, hoping that Alasa would suffer no injury by such treatment. But it was that or death, for already the monster's head was snaking out as Mason leaped down the pyramid's side, keeping his balance with difficulty. He was trying to reach the passage that led into the structure, and he succeeded just as the giant reptile's jaws clicked closer than Mason cared to guess.     But they were safe, for the monster could not reach them in the narrow tunnel. Mason retreated further into the darkness, warily trying to pierce the gloom. Other Curupuri might have retreated here. Perhaps, though, their panic fear had driven all thought but instant flight from their minds. ù     Later Mason realized that this was indeed the ease. But at present he was busy freeing Alasa, comforting her hysterical tears as well as he could. There was no sound from         237         outside; either matters had quieted down, or it was difficult to hear within the pyramid. Mason drew Alasa close, and she, too frightened and exhausted to resist, relaxed in the man's arms, and, presently, slept. Mason did not arouse her. Though his position was cramped, he endured it, fearing that any movement on his part would waken the girl.     When an hour or more had passed, he judged it time to move,     "Alasa," he whispered. She stirred.     "Kent? What's wrong?"     "Nothing," ho told her. "But we'd better be moving." The girl arose and followed Mason to the portal. Peer-hag out into the moonlit night, they could see nothing of tho Curupuri, though a distant commotion in the jungle hinted of the monster's activity. Mason was quick to act. Seizing Alasa's hand, he hurried around the pyramid's base and slipped through the village, keeping carefully in the shadows. Once the girl paused to pick up a discarded length of cloth and wrap it about her nude body. Both of them, shivering in the cooi night air, would have been glad to search for warmer clothing, but they dared not spare the time.     They headed for the pass in the crater's walls. "You can reach it in the fourth part of a day," the priestess had said. If anything, she had overestimated the distance. Presently Alasa and Mason reached the gap, having seen nothing of either the Curupuri or the monster.     Below them lay a broad stretch of moonlit jungle, slant-hag down to a distant horizon. Far, far beyond that horizon, Mason guessed, lay the Atlantic Ocean, the Ocean Sea of a pre-Columbian Europe. For a moment a queer thought was strong in his mind; he would like to visit that lost, strange world, dim in the forgotten past. How odd it would be to see and speak with the legendary figures of historyl     He saw the time-ship. Half a mile away, it lay in a little clearing in the forest, the moonrays reflecting from it in a blaze of cold brilliance. Mason wished he had brought a weapon. There might be jaguars--perhaps even the prehistoric giant sloth lumbered through this teeming jungle.     Night-prowlers were abroad, but they did not menace         238         the two humans. Once some beast stalked them for a while; they could hear it 'rustling in the underbrush. But it gave up presently and disappeared. And once a jewel-bright macaw fluttered sleepily across their path, screaming its harsh cry.     But they came to the ship and without hindrance. The Curupuri had apparently feared to enter it, for Mason found nothing amiss within the craft. He felt oddly relieved when he had closed the port, locking Alasa and himself within.     . 'I hope nothing was wrecked When w.e crashed," he told the girl. "It wouldn't be-pleasant."     Mason set to work examining the instruments. For more than an hour he puzzled over the intricate dials and gauges. Something he had learned from Greddar Klon, and more from Murdach. So, after a time, he felt that it might be possible to return to the future-world from which they had come.     "This dial," he said slowly, "indicates our time-rate, I think. Each time we stop, a permanent record of that halt is marked on the dial--those red spots, see? This one, at zero, is your own world, I imagine, where the ship was built. This dot, further up, is right under the needle. That's where we are now. And the third dot is where we left Murdach and Erech. If I can set the controls to that   time sector "     It was another half-hour before Mason was satisfied. He tested the mechanism, lifted the ship fifty feet into the air. The atomic power worked smoothly enough. With a grim not at Alasa, Mason threw the time-switch.     Blackness. A second, an hour, or an eon--a brief eternity in which there was no consciousness of time. Then light came again.     The tower of the giant ants sprang into visibility nearby. They had reached their destination. The amazingly curate controls of the craft had brought them back to the lost world of the future. But something was wrong.     From the tower's summit a horde of giant winged ants were pouring down, racing toward the ship. On the ground below lay the crushed form of another monster. But of Murdach and Erech there was no trace!     Instantly Mason guessed the reason. They had come         239         too far--a few moments, or a few hours. No longer, certainly. His famiharity with the instruments helped him now. He made a quick adjustment and again moved the     time-control.     Blackness--and light. The ship had apparently not moved. Only the Sun was in a different position in the sky, and the horde of ants had gone. Looking down, for a brief incredible moment Mason saw a replica of the time-ship, with two figures in it, rushing forward, colliding in mid-air with a huge ant. And as he watched--the ship vanishedl     It was gone--back, Mason knew, to the pre-Columbian South American jungle. The ant, crushed, was falling toward the ground--toward two figures, missing them by a few feet. Erech and Murdach[     They waved tiny hands upwards, gesticulating. Mason sent the ship down, grounded it, flung open the port. Toward the craft raced the two men, eyes wide with hope they had long abandoned.     Erech pushed Murdach aboard, sprang after him. "By El-lill" he swore. "You come in time, Ma-zhon! Let's get out of here, quick!"     Murdach was fumbling with the controls. The time-ship lifted, lanced across the desolate plain.     At last the four were reunited. Now--now, Mason thought triumphantly, they could seek Greddar Klon. Seek the Master--and slay him!         240         CHAPTER XII Strange Quest         The ship hung above the leaden sea, safe from attack, while the four talked, and Murdach and Mason planned. Murdach's tattered leather uniform was hanging in rags. His hawk-face was gaunt and tired; his red hair dark with grime. But .Erech seemed unchanged. His pale eyes watched coldly above the beak of a ,nose; the thin lips were g .rim as ever.     "What I can't understand," Mason observed, "is how I got from Arabia--Al Bekr--to South America, a continent on .the other side of the globe. I was moving in time, not in space."     "Globe?" murmured Alasa, p-led. "Surely the Earth is fiat, surrounded by an abyss?"     Murdach said, "You travelled in space, too. In a million years, or more or less, the world travels with the Sun, naturally, along its orbit. But the gravitational drag keeps the ship bound to Earth, which is lucky or we might find ourselves in space, light-years from any Solar System. The ship's bound but not too tightly. The Earth revolves, the time-ship lags; and so you found yourself once in Al Bekr, once in--what did you say?--South America, and once here. But all three places are near the equator."     He turned to pages of calculations. "I've located Gred-dar Klon, I think. But nothing's certain. We cannot stay here, though, or we'll starve to death soon enough. Shall we---?" He read the answer in the other's eyes. Without speaking he sent the ship into time.     The light failed, and grew again. They hung above a craggy mountain range, gigantic, towering to the sky. The         241         Sun was warmer, closer and larger. Earth was green again, lacking the dead, leaden grimness of the ultimate future.     'øThis is before my own time, and after yours, Mason," Murdach said. "About 2150."     "2150 A.D.? That was Nirvor's time-sector," Mason said, remembering the words of the silver priestess. He went on, as a sudden thought came to him, "Hadn't we better find weapons first? In my time I can dig up a few --machine-guns, bombs--and you probably have better ones in your time, Murdach."     The other looked at him oddly, a curious expression in his eyes. "My time---I do not wish to return to it. Not yet, at least. As for weapons, the Master will not be expecting us. And we can perhaps find arms on our way. The needle points to the east, and we must /o there. We'll watch as we travel."     Mason was not satisfied, but said no more. He scanned the barren mountains and plains, the teeming jungles, the lakes and broad sea over which they fled. Once he saw a gleaming globe on a mountaintop, and pointed it out to Murdach. The other brought the ship down.     A transparent globe, miles in diameter, hanging in empty air. Within it, as they hovered, Mason could see unfamiliar-looking machines, rows upon rows of long cylinders of glass. Within the cylinders were human beings, men and women, dead or asleep.     Murdach landed the ship, and they tried to find some way of entering the giant globe, but in vain. There were no openings, and the transparent substance was steel-hard.     "We have a legend of this," Murdach said. "In the days of beast rule, ages ago, when experimenters sought to create human beings out of animals. Man-kind foresaw some danger, a temporary waning of the solar rays, I think. They built huge spheres and sealed themselves within, throwing themselves into suspended animation for years. A few scientists tried to adapt themselves to the changing radiation, and spent their time making beasts into men, having some thought of creating an empire of their own to defeat the sleepers when they awakened. But they failed."         242         "We can't get weapons here,n Mason grunted. "That's sure, anyway."     "There was some weapon those last scientists perfected,'' Murdach mused. "It was lost, forgotten. Only its power was remembered. No shield could bar it. If we could find that weapon, use it against Greddar Klon- " His eyes were alight.     "You need such magic to battle the Master," said Erech. "My scimitar would fail. I know that!"     The ship rose, drifted on. A jungle slipped beneath. Far away, steadily growing nearer, was a city--and Mason caught his breath at its heartbreaking beauty. Not Rome or Babylon nor Capri had ever had the delicate, poignant splendor of this strange metropolis, hidden in the iungie, crumbling and cracked with age at closer view, but still a matchless jewel of architecture.     "A rose-red city half as old as time," Mason quoted softly, half to himself.     ù The ship drove down. There was furtive movement in the jungle metropolis--not human movement. Animals scurried from sight. A leopard loped swiftly away, Birds flew startled.     "Greddar Klon is close," Murdach whispered. "My instruments show that."     The ship .landed in a marble street. Hesitating, Mason opened the port, stepped out. Nothing happened. The still, humid air was utterly silent.     Far away a beast cried, lonely and strangely poignant. In the distance Mason saw a human figure. It came forward slowly, with a shambling, dragging gait. A man Nan old man.     An Oriental, Mason guessed, noting the distinctive shape of the eyes, the facial contours, the hue of the skin. The oldster's face was withered, shrunken and dry as a walnut. Sparse white hair patched the skull. The thin lips moved endlessly, whispering. Filmed eyes dwelt unsee-ingly on Mason and the others.     But the man halted, and a new look came into his face. He spoke louder, in a language Mason thought he recognized. It was Chinese, but oddly changed, with a different stress and accent. Yet if Chinese has persisted for so many centuries, there was no reason why it should not             243         exist in 2150 AD. Two hundred years would made little difference.     The Chinese said, "The Sleepers have awakened, then?"     Guessing at his meaning, Mason replied carefully, "We are not Sleepers. We come from another time--another age."     The man closed his eyes, tears trickled from the wrinkled lids. "I thought I had been forgiven. Ah, we have     been punished indeed."     "Punished?"     "When the Sleepers went to their globes of refuge, we refused to join them. We thought to build a kingdom of beast-men. We reared cities for them, took possession of those already existing. We raised up the beasts . . . but that was long ago. Only a few are left now. They warred one upon another, slew and were slain . . . so now I, Li Keng, live alone in Corinoor, since Nirvor went across the desert with her leopards .... "     Murdach had caught the familiar names. "Nirvor?" he broke in. "Ask him more of this, Mason! Is she here? What does he say?"     "I have met Nirvor," Mason said in Chinese. "She is alive, I think. You are her friend?"     Li Keng did not reply. Into his eyes crept a dull gaze. His lips twitched, writhed. He mumbled wordlessly.   Sud denly he broke into a maniacal cackle of laughter.     A chill shook Mason. The oldster was mad!     Li Keng sobered. He ran skeletal fingers through his thin hair. "I am alone," he murmured. "Have the Sleepers forgiven? Did they send you?"     "We are from another time," Mason said, striving to pierce the mists about the dulled brain.     "The Sleepers? Have they forgiven?" But Li Keng had lost interest. His low, insane laughter rang out again.     Apparently the man knew nothing of Nirvor or Gred-dar Klon, though Mason could not be sure. He touched the Chinese's shoulder.     "Is there food here? We are hungry."     "Eh? There is fruit in the forest, and good water."     "Ask him of the weapon?' Murdach whispered. "Ask him?         244         Mason obeyed. Li Keng peered through rheumy eyes.     "Ah, yes. The Invincible Power. But it is forbidden ùùù forbidden."     He turned to go. Mason stepped forward, gripped the oldster's arm gently. The other tried feebly to disengage it.     "We mean no harm," Mason explained. "But we need your help. This Invincible Power "     "You are from the Sleepers? They have forgiven?"     Mason hesitated. Then he said slowly, emphatically, ù "The Sleepers sent us to you. They have forgiven."     Would the ruse work? Would the crazed brain respond?     Li Keng stared, his lips worldng nervously. A th/n hand plucked at his scant hair.     "This is true? They will let me enter a globe of refuge?'     "Yes. But you betrayed them before. They demand that you prove your faith."     The Chinese shook his head. "They--they---.--"     "You must give them the Invincible Weapon as proof that you will not betray them again."     Li Keng did not answer for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Yes. You shall have it. Come."     He lifted a hand as Mason beckoned to the others. "They may not come."     "Why not?" The other's voice was suspicious.     "There are only two suits of protective armour. The radium rays would kill you unless these are worn. We must go down into the radioactive caverns beneath     Corinoor  "Li Keng paused, and a dull glaze crept over his eyes. Swiftly Mason translated. "I don't dare cross him now. Might set him off his head entirely. You three stay with the ship--guard it till I get back with the weapon." "But Kent!" Alma's face was worried. "There may be danger ' " "Not from Li Keng, at least," Mason smiled. "I can look out for myself. Even if I were sure there's danger, I'd have to go. Until we get the weapon, we're unarmed."     "Let him go," Murdach said quietly. Erech said nothing, but his brown hand tightened on his scimitar-hilt.         245         "Let us start, Li Keng," Mason told the old Chinese, and followed the other along the deserted marble street. Presently Li Keng turned into a half-ruined building, passing between sagging gates of bronze, curiously carved. He halted in the portal.     "You must wait," he said. "Only worshippers of Selene and the condemned may enter here. I must tell the goddess my plans."     Before Mason could reply he slipped through an inner door and was gone. Whispering an oath, Mason took a stride forward--and halted. He peered through the narrow crack left by the half-closed panel.     He saw a huge, dim chamber, cryptic with gloom, and towering at the further end a monstrous female statue. Li Keng was moving across the floor, and as Mason watched he dropped to hands and knees, supplicating himself before the idol.     Well, there was nothing to fear from a goddess of stone or metal. Grinning crookedly, Mason drew back, and caught his breath as heard a tumult from outside. An angry   shout- With a leap Mason reached the bronze doors. He peered out. His stomach moved sickeningly at the sight before him.     Dozens of malformed, half-human figures filled the marble street. They milled uncertainly about the time-ship, and in their midst were two bound, prostrate fig-ures--Alasa and Murdach. Coming toward Mason was--Greddar Klon!     The Master, moving forward with quick, hurried steps, pointed jaw set, eyes cold and deadly. Behind him came more of the strange creatures, being more bestial than human, Mason sensed. He remembered the weird science that had changed animals to men, and guessed that the malformed, hairy, brute-faced monsters were products of that eerie experiment. Simultaneously Mason knew what he must do.     He saw Erech, scimitar red and lifted, running forward. The Sumerian roared a battle-cry. He sprang at the Master, set himself for a stroke that, for all its force, could not penetrate the shielding atomic mesh.     Mason charged out through the bronze gates. He         246         caught a glimpse of Greddar Klon whiffing, involuntarily shrinking uhder the Sumerian's blow, lifting a metal tube in a tiny hand.     Mason's shoulder hit Erech, sent the giant driving aside. He flung himseff on the Sumerian, striving to wrench the scimitar free, reading stark amazement in the other's pale eyes. Amazement--and anger, red rage that surged through Erech's viens and gave him strength enough to throw Mason down with ease. But the beast-men by now had surrounded the two.     ' Mason felt rough hands seize him. He made no resistance. Quietly he stood up, let the beast-men drag him toward Greddar Klon. Erech was still battling furiously, but without his scimitar he was handicapped. He went down at last, still struggling. His captors trussed him up with thongs.     The MaSter's cold eyes were probing. The shrill voice said, "Is EreEh, then, your enemy, Mason?"     "Yes." The archeologist was playing for time. He had acted on impulse, knowing instinctively the best plan. But now he needed a chance, to scrutinize his cards, to see which ones to play. He said, "Can we talk alone, Greddar Klon?" He nodded toward Erech.     For a long moment the other did not reply. Then he called a command, and two of the beast-men pulled Mason toward a nearby doorway. The Master followed.     Inside the building, in a fungus-grown, ill-smelling little room, Greddar Klon sat cross-legged on the floor. He signalled for the beast-men to release their captive.     'ølnanks," Mason grunted. "There's a lot to explain. I didn't know if I'd ever find you."     "And now that you have--what?'     "Well--I still want to hold you to your bargain."     The other shrugged narrow shoulders. "Return you to your own time-sector?"     "Something more, now," Mason said quietly. "After you left A1 Bckr, Erech asked me to help him release Alasa and Murdach. I did. Murdach explained your plans, that you intended to conquer a civilization and rule. My own civilization isn't that so?"     "I, too, shall be frank," Greddar Klon conceded. "That is true."         247         "They wanted to find you and kill you. Murdach built another time-ship. I helped him. I pretended to feel as they did. It wasn't difficult--for I wanted to find you, for reasons of my own. Back in A1 Bekr I'd have been satisfied if you had returned me to my own time. But now, knowing what you intend, I want something more. I want a part in your kingdom, Greddar Klon?'     "I had thought of offering you that," the Master muro muted. "But I did not need your aid."     "Are you sure? My world is unfamiliar to you. You will not know where to strike--what countries and cities to attack, what shipping and trade routes to block. I know my own world, and with my help, the information I can giye you, you'll be able to subdue your enemies     more swiftly and more easily."     "And you want?"     "Rule. Rule of a nation, under you, of course. I want power     The Master stood up. "I see. You are very clever, Kent Mason--but whether you are speaking the truth I do not know, as yet. You may be in earnest, and you may be trying to trick me. Until I have reached a decision, therefore, you will remain a prisoner--but safe."     He gestured. The beast-men seized Mason, pulled him out into the street. He made no resistance. He had planted a seed in Greddar Klon's mind, and now there was nothing to do but play a waiting game. He had not dared to bargain for the lives of Alasa and the others---that would have made the Master instantly suspicious.     His captors led him into another rose-marble building, and down to vaults far below. In a bare stone room he was locked. A torch set in the wall gave light, but how long it would last Mason did not know.     The shaggy, hulking forms of the beast-men lumbered out of sight. Mason was left alone, captive, his mind haunted with fear for his friends.         248         CHAPTER XIII Court of the Beasts         After a time Mason rose and examined his prison. The walls, though cracked and lichened, were sturdy enough. The barred door was of metal, and too strong to force. Nor were.ceiling or floor any more promising. Mason shiv'ered in the chill air, wishing he had something warmer than a loincloth.     But the torch gave heat as well as 'light, until it expired. In the darkness it was somehow harder to judge time, though Mason guessed it was nightfall when at last one of the beast-men came with food. He poked it through the bars, a mess of frUits, specked and half-rotten, which Mason found it difficult to swallow. The beast-man brought a new torch, however.     It could not have been more than half an hour later that Mason saw a glimmer of light approaching. He went to the door, peering between the bars at the stooped, withered figure approaching. He made out a shriveled, Oriental face---Li Keng!     The Chinese slowly unbarred the door. He beckoned Mason out.     "We must be silent," he mumbled in his cracked voice. "lqirvor has returned, and has brought an evil one with her. They seek the Invincible Power, but they do not know its hiding-place. Nor do they Know I hold the secret. Come!"     He shuffled along the corridor, his skinny hand gripping a torch. Mason kept pace with him.     "The others?" he asked softly. "My friends? Where are they?' Li Keng did not hear. His wheezing voice went on,         249         "Nirvor has brought the beast-men from the forest into Corinoor. But she shall not have the weapon. You shall take it to the Sleepers as proof of my faith."     Mason felt a pang of pity for the old man. They turned into another underground passage, and another, a veritable labyrinth, until Mason was hopelessly lost. Once he saw a white shadow slipping away in the distance, and remembered Valesta, Nirvor's leopard. But the beast did not reappear, if it had been Valesta.     They stopped before a metal door. Li Keng fumbled in a recess in the wall, brought out two clumsy lead-sheathed suits. "We must wear these. The radium rays -"     Mason donned the garment. It had a transparent hood which covered his head completely. The Chinese, ungainly in'the armour, pushed open the door.     They stood on the brink of a cliff that sloped down into a grey fog of distance. A narrow path ran perilously slanting down, and along this Li Keng started, keeping his balance without difficulty. Mason followed, with an inward tremor as he glanced aside into the dim gulf.     For perhaps a hundred yards they skirted the cliff, and then rounded a shoulder. Mason paused, blinked blinded eyes. A flame of roaring brilliance blazed up from the gulf before him, and all through his body a curious tingling raced. The deadly radium radiations, he knew.     The path ran out on a spur of rock, narrow and dangerous, that hung over the abyss. Below it was a cauldron of fire, like the pit of a volcano. But more potent than liquid lava was the fire that burned here, having within the frightful power of radiuml     A sound came from behind them. Mason turned. He cried out, his voice drowned in the roar of the inferno. Stalking along the path toward him was Valesta, the white leopard.     Behind her--Nirvor, and at her heels the black leopard, Bokya. And dozens of the beast-men, fangs gleaming redly in the flame-light, eyes glowing.     From Li Keng came a cry so piercing that Mason heard it even above the thunder of the radium pit. The Chinese flung out an arm, gesturing Nirvor back.     The priestess laughed. Her silver hair floated unbound         250         about her shoulders, half bared by her diaphanous black robe. She took'a step forward.     Li Keng turned. He raced out on the spur. On its end he went on hands and knees, and then sprang erect, gripping a metal box in his gloved hands. Before the watchers could move Li Keng, gripping the box, had leaped out into the abyssl     A shriek came from Nirvor. Mason had a glimpse of her face, twisted into a despairing Gorgon mask---and then the white leopard was upon him. He went down, under the onslaught. Only the width of the path here, at the base of the spur, saved him from toppling over. As it was, he hung for a moment on the brink, the leopard's weight bearing him down, the snarling beast-mask above his face.     Rough 'hands gripped him. The leopard leaped lightly away. Beast-nien drew Mason back onto the ledge, lifted him to his feet.' He was held motionless facing the   priest     She made a quick gesture, and Mason was forced hack along the path. No use to resist, he knew. It would mean destruction, and even though he killed a few of his captors, he would inevitably be thrust into the gulf. So Mason let the beast-men prod him hack to the metal door, where they stripped the armour from him.     Nirvor's face was white. "I have dared much," she whispered. "Men do not live long above the radium pit. A little more, and I would have died . . . horribly!" She shuddered, ran white hands along her slender body.     The white lopard muzzled her leg, was thrust aside by the black one. The priestess said, "I thought Li Keng had the secret, and so I watched him. But he has destroyed the Invincible Power, and himself with it. He is beyond my reach. But you--you are not, Kent Mason!" A red blaze was in her jet eyes.     "We hold court tonight," she murmured. "Your three friends will die then. And you will die with them."     She gestured. The beast-man thrust Mason forward. Silently he let himself be taken back along the interminable corridors, back to his cell. But Nirvor did not pause there. Up and up they went, till at last they emerged in the streets of Corinoor.         251         "In here," the priestess commanded.     Mason recognized the building the same one into which Li Keng had led him earlier that day. In the moonlight its ruin was not evident; it seemed a veritable palace of enchantment, a symphony in marble.     Through the bronze gates they went, through the inner door. The huge chamber was no longer dim. It was ablaze with torches, swarming with the beast-men. At the further end was a gigantic statue of a nude female form, moon-crowned.     Nirvor made a gesture toward the image. "It is Selene," she said. "Goddess of Corinoor---Corinoor that is soon to rise again in its former splendour!"     The priestess paused before a panel in the wall. It     opened at her touch, and she pointed within.     "Go there, Kent Mason. Quickly?'     He obeyed, finding himself in a dusky, luxuriously furnished little room, ornate with tapestries and cushions. A small image of Selene stood in an alcove in the wall. The air was curiously dark, heavily scented with perfumes that rose headily to Mason's brain. He turned.     Nirvor stood alone before the closed door. Her black eyes dwelt on him cryptically.     "I have told you you must die," she said.     "I heard you," Mason grunted. "So what?"     "I--have hated you. I have reason to do so. My   king dom, my goddess, my city of Corinoor these I worship. For them I would destroy you utterly. Yet "The jet eyes were strange, strange! "Yet you remember something I told you long ago in A1 Bekr. I am woman .... "     She made a hopeless gesture. "Now my heart is sick within me. For I know you should die, I know you hate me     The priestess dropped to the floor, her silver hair bound veiling her face. "Ohd, ohd!" she sobbed. "In all my life I have known no man like you. There were the scientists, like Li Keng--and the barbarians of A1 Bekr--and Greddar Klon. And the beast-man. I am woman, Kent Mason! I long for something I have never known ù.. and that is love."     Mason did not reply. The honey-musk perfume was very strong. He felt oddly detached from his body, slightly     252         drunk. He did not move when Nirvor arose and came toward him. She drew him down into the cushions.     Cool hands were against his cheeks; a flame-hot mouth avid on his own. And the strange eyes were close ....     Once more Mason read a message in them---a--mes-sage of alienage! He drew back.     "You fear my eyes," Nirvor whispered. "But you do not fear my body .... "     She stood up, her gaze hidden by long lashes. She fumbled at the fastenings of her black robe, let it fall in a lacy heap about her ankles. Mason caught his breath at sight of the priestess' voluptuous body. His throat was suddenly dry and parched.     Nirvor sank down again, her eyes closed. Her hands touched Mason's face, guided his lips to her own.     Something clicked in Mason's mind, like a blind springing up 'abrtiptly, letting light into a foul and darkened room. Immediately the dulling soporificspell of the perfumed' incense was gone. For now Mason   knew- His stomach seemed to move sickeningly. He thrust the girl away. Her eyes glared into his.     Hoarsely Mason whispered, "I should have guessed the truth! What you and Li Keng and Murdach told me.--"     Nirvor's lips were a scarlet wound in the pallor of her face. She shrilled, "You dare look at me like thatl You     dare I"     "No. You don't like me to look at you now that I     know. The scientists and their experiments--changing     beasts into human beings--Godl" Mason was shuddering as he remembered the passion the girl's body had aroused in him. He went on softly, unsteadily, "You are the outcome of such an experiment, Nirvorl You're not human. You were a beast!"     The priestess sprang up, bosom heaving, fingers clawed. "Aye! And what of that? They made me into a woman. "     Mason's face betrayed his horror. He whispered scarcely audibly, "What were you?"     Nirvor was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Bokya and Valesta. "     "The leopards?"         253         "They are my sisters!"     Her face contorted, Nirvor sprang to the door. She flung it open. From the great chamber beyond welled a deep-throated roar.     She cried a command. Beast-men poured into the room, seized Mason. Too sick with repugnance to speak, he fought desperately until weight of numbers bore him down, the foul odour of the beast-men strong in his nostrils.     Nirvor stood above him, a statue of living evil. Then she said, "You are proud of your humanity, Kent Mason? You may have cause to regret it. For now you come to the Court of the Beastsl"     The huge chamber was filled with surging multitudes of the beast-men. On a low dais before the statue of Selene, Mason saw, were three bound figures, Alasa, Murdach, and Erech. Mason was dragged to the dais, flung down upon it. Two beast-men held him motionless.     Nirvor stood beside him, a slim hand lifted. She cried something in the guttural language of the monsters. They roared a response.     "The verdict is death," the priestess said mockingly to Mason. "First--the girl. Prepare her, my peoplel"     She nodded, :and a beast-man lifted the slim figure of Alasa, carried her into the midst of the horde. Shaggy, bestial figures closed around her. A scream broke from the girl.     Mason had a glimpse of rough hands loosening the cords, ripping the cloak roughly from Alasa. The girl was thrust upright, stood for a second staring wildly around, her bronze hair fall/ing about her white shoulders She cried out, held out imploring hands toward Mason. She took a few steps toward ihim     The pack closed in, bnatal hands mauling the girl's body. Cursing, Mason struggled with his captors. They held him motionless; their binding arms tightened, shutting off his breath. Gaspiag and sweating, Mason forced himself to relax.     Nirvor screamed a command. The beast-men drew back slowly. One of them threw Alasa's body over his shoulder and loped toward the dais. The priestess pointed up.         :254         The pulley hung from thc roof, thongs dangling from it. The beast-man, in obedience to Nirvor's words, bound Alasa's wrists tightly to the hanging ropes and then turned to a windlass near by. lie turned it. Slowly Alas was lifted till she swung by her hands, her hair falling like a veil over her face and breasts. Up and up, till her feet no longer touched the floor...,     .At last Nirvor nodded. The beast-man drew back. Alaska hung perhaps ten feet above their heads, a vision of tortured loveliness.     The priestess snarled at Mason, "She is human. But soon it will be difficult to be sure of that?     Nirvor touched a lever. A grinding of machinery came from above. Staring up, Mason saw an arm of the image of Selene swing slowly down. God! Was Alasa to be ù crushed to death between the metal hands of the idol?     No, that' could not be it, or both arms would be moving. The left arm of Selene halted about three feet from Alarm's dangling form. From the hand billowed a jet of white cloud--and the girl screamed in utter agony!     Steam! Live, bolling steam, hot enough to sear flesh from bone! Again Mason fought with his captors---and again they subdued him.     The hissing from above stopped. The steam had been on for only moments, but already Alarm's white body was flushed to a deep pink.     The image's arm swung back, lifted. The other arm descended slowly, with a ponderous creaking of gears. No steam issued from the metal palm, but Alasa's form writhed in pain, while a blast of chill air blew over   Ma     The torture of boiling steam, alternated with currents of icy, frigid air! This would be no quick death for Alasa, but a lingering hell of torment unendurable. She was sobbing softly, low moans of pain that made Mason feel sick and giddy.     "Nirvor!" he said urgently. "For God's sake, stop itl I'll do anything "     "You are too late," the priestess whispered. In her jet eyes was torture-lust; on her face was stamped the cruelty of the beast. Her heritage, the leopard stigmata, was ruling now.         255         'roo late, Kent Mason! She shall die, and the others but more quickly than you. Not for many moons shall yu perish, and before you do you shall know the deep-e. pits of pain ....     Erech snarled a lurid oath. "Ma-zhon! Cannot you gt free? These cursed ropes are too strong for mci"     Murdach's thin face was a pale, grimy mask of hope-lissness. ,Tbey've destroyed the time-ship," he called. '3reddar Klon wrecked it."     Nirvor touched the lever again; once more the arm of tie goddeSS began its slow descent. But before the live seam could jet forth there came an interruption. Into the chamber, through the open bronze doors, drifted a shimering, transparent ovoid.     The tin,e-ship of the Masterl And within itGreddar glonl         256         CHAPTER Vengeance in Corinoor         The ovoid dropped beside the dais. Greddar Klon flung open the port, stood there, his cold eyes roving over the scene. He said harshly, "You take strange liberties, Nirvor."     As though se?sing peril, black leopard and white slunk on to the dais, ,ranging themselves on either side of the priestess..     Nirvor said, "These captives are of no value."     "I am the judge of thatl This man--" Greddar Klon pointed at Mason "--I told you to leave alone."     "I caught him with Li Keng, in the hiding place of the Invincible Power '     "You found it?" Mason read eagerness in the Master's eyes. And so he spoke quickly, breaking in before Nirvor could answer.     "She lost it for you, Greddar Klon! She burst in on us with her leopards and beast-men, and Li Keng destroyed himself and the treasure rather than let it fall into Nirvor's         "Is this true?" The Master glanced at the priestess.     "True---aye! As far as it goes. But ask him why he was seeking the Invincible Power. Ask him that!"     "I was seeking it for you," Mason said smoothly. "Li Keng set me free from my cell, told me he would not give the secret to you or Nirvor. I convinced him that I could guard the Power safely. I planned to secure it and give it to you, Greddar Klon, so you could know what my aid is worth."     "He lies!" the priestess spat. "He lies?'     "Set him free," Greddar Klon said. No one moved for a while. Then the Master's hand lifted, in it a metal tube.         257         A beam of light flickered out, touched one of the beast-men that held Mason. The creature bellowed in agony, clawed at its chest--and dropped. It was dead.     The other beast-man waited for no more; he fled into the throng. The two leopards moved forward, guarding lqirvor witl their bodies, green eyes baleful.     Mason swiftly tuned to the windlass. He lowered Alasa to the dais, freed her wrists. Then he unbound Erech and Murdaeh.     Nirvor watched him, her lips a thin white line. Abruptly she turned on Greddar Klon, snarled, "I say this man lies! And I say he shall die--and the others."     The Master said in English, a language Mason did not realize he knew, "Come with me into the ship. Leave the others. Nirvor means to attackmand the beast-men will follow her."     Mason hesitated. His gaze went to the time-ship. Their own vessel had been destroyed, Murdach had said. Well how could this situation be best turned to advantage?     Suddenly Mason knew. It would be a long chance, a desperate one, but the only one possible. With a sudden movement he sprang down from the dais and was at Greddar Klon's side.     His motion caused chaos. The priestess thrust out her arms, screamed a command. The leopards shot forward, snarling. The beast-men surged closer, and Greddar Klon hastily leaped into the ship. Mason followed him. The port slammed shut.     Through the transparent wail Mason could see Erech thrust Alasa behind him, guarding the girl with his body. Murdach was not in sight. Mason looked around.     He blessed the hours he had spent mastering the time-ship's controls. This vessel was identical in construction.     Greddar Klon was at the controls. He touched a button. The ship lifted, hung a dozen feet above the floor, out of reach of the beast-men.     Mason saw the lever he had been searching for. He sidled close to it. Briefly he felt an impulse to depend on his mucles to overcome Greddar Klon, but he knew that the Master's atom/c mesh armour was impregnable. No, it must be this way---or failure.     There was a sudden tension in the air withln the ship,             a gentle breeze that brushed Mason's face. Oreddar Klon turned. For he first time Mason saw motion on that tiny, mask-like face. Bewilderment, apprehension, rage     twisted the sllRed mouth. The dwarf took a step forward. And paused, gasping.     The air pressure was changing.     Mason had adjusted the atmospheric controls within the vessel, and now compressed air was pumping into the ship at dangerous speed. He had considered exhausting the air, creating a vacuum, but he knew that increased .pressure would be far more harmful to Greddar KIøn. And to himself, also! Already an intolerable weight was pressing in bis eyes and ears; he found it almost impossible to breathe. The atmospheric pressure bore down on his chest, expelling air with a rush. It was incredibly cult to draw another breath.     Greddar Klon's tiny mouth was wide as he gasped for air. He clutched at his belt, brought .up the my-tube. A searing yellow beam darted out at Mason. He twisted     aside.     The ray swung toward him. Blood pumped painfully in his temples, and he felt blinding agony as the pressure be,-gan to collapse his capillaries and veins. The face of tho Master seemed oddly distorted as Mason's eyeballs were crushed out of shape.     The ray seared his shoulder. Greddar Klon staggered forward. And then what Mason had been waiting for happened.     The huge cranium of Greddar Klon--burst!     Burst and spattered and hung in tatters like a smashed egg, the great brain, scarcely protected by a boneless membrane, crushed by the tremendous atmospheric pressure. The dwarfed body tottered and fell. With every movement agony, Mason managed to lift an arm, turn off the air pump. He reversed it, felt a breath of relief, was once more able to see.     Although Mason knew that sudden decrease of pressure could cause caisson disease--the "bends"--he nevertheless sent the air pumping out as swiftly as he dared. Peering down through the transparent floor of the vessel, he saw the beast-men staring up, saw Nirvor near the dais, the leopards beside her. On the dais, unharmed, were Alasa, Murdach, and Erech.         259         Mason drove the ship down. Taking a chance, he swung open the door, and for a second felt sick and dizzy with the atmospheric change. But already beast-men were plunging toward him.     He whirled, scooped up the my-tube from where it had fallen from Greddar Klon's fingers. Murdach and the others ran forward. Beast-men cut them off.     Mason burned them down with the heat-ray. A heavy weight landed on his back; he went down, the tube flying from his hand. Iron fingers dug into his neck.     Mason reached up and back, felt furry flesh under his hands. He bent forward suddenly, and the beast-man, taken by surprise, went hurtling down. His back hit the marble floor with a sickening crack. He lay still     Mason looked around. Ereeh and Alasa were beside him, the girl's nude body still flushed with the steam-torture. Murdach was running toward them, gripping the ray-tube Mason had lost.     The silver priestess stood on the edge of the dais, shrieking rage. Murdach turned, saw her.     He lifted tho heat-ray. From the tube a yellow beam flashed out.     And Nirvor, the beast-woman, priestess of Selene in Corinoor, stood frozen for a brief second, and then dropped down silently and lay dead upon the marble.     The black leopard screamed, a cry that turned Mason a little sick, for he knew the relationship between Nirvor and the leopard. The beast charged straight for Murdach. He killed it with the heat-ray.     Then he turned and came running toward the ship, scrambling with the others through the open port, slamming it shut, lifting the vessel into the air as a white fury raved and snarled against the transparent walls---the leopard Valesta. The beast-men surged in in a mad charge that was insane with rage. Haft-involuntarily Mason touched the controls, sent the ship into time. The fantastic scene outside was hidden by a curtain of darkness.     The black veil lifted. They hung once more in the temple of Selene---but it was empty now. The bronze gates were ajar, and through them a pale, chill radiance crept wanly. Nor were there torches burning in the temple.         260         It was dark---and cold,.cold!     Age had dropped doWn upon it.     "We are in the future," Murdaeh whispered, with a glance at the dials. "A jump of ten years--"     That hell of battle that had raged a moment ago was, in reality, ten years in the Past, Mason knew. Silently he brought the ship doWn. At his feet was the mangled body of Greddar Klon, and he put this outside the ship, without looking at the ruined head and face.     "We cannot stay here long," Murdaeh said. "The solar radiation has waned. I think life will not exist long on the Earth, save in the globes of refuge. It will be a hundred years and more before the Sun regains its former brightness and the Sleepers awaken. But let us see what ten years has done to Corinoor."     "Is it safe?" Alasa whispered.     "Safe enough," Murdach told her. He led the way out of the ship..     Gloom shadowed the great temple. The jungle had encroached with weeds and fungi and grasses; one of the arms of the statue of Selene had fallen. It was utterly silent.     Alasa came into the circle of Mason's arm. She was shivering.     Murdach said, "One moment. I have something to tell you."     Mason turned. Murdach was standing beside the port of the ship, a dozen feet away. He held the heat-ray in his hand.     His red hair looked black in the shadow. "Don't come any nearer," he went on. "I do not wish to ki// you. I prefer to leave you here, alive."     Unbelievingly Ma,son took a step forward. Murdach's hand steadied. The ray-tube was ahned at his middle.     "Stop where you are?' the other said warningly. mean itl"     "Murdach" Alasa gasped. "What are you doing?" "Doing? I'm doing what Greddar Klon planned. You never knew why I didn't wish to return to my own t/me. I'm an outlaw there, a hunted criminal. I tried to overthrow the rulers, and escaped only by flight across the         261         desert, where the time trap caught me. Oh, you've aided me, the three of you--aided me in overcoming Greddar Klon. But now that he's dead, it will be possible for me to do as he intended-le, onquer a time-sector and rule it!"     "You dog? Erech roared, pale eyes blazing."You foul traitor!"     "Say what you like--but come no nearer, or you'll die. The Master's plan shall be carried through as he intended, with this difference I'll take his place. As for you three, I shall be merciful. I'll leave you here. Perhaps you will live for a time. Perhaps the decreased solar radiation will kill you soon."     Mason felt Alasa's slim, nude body shrink against his. His throat felt dry and tight. To fail now, through Murdach's betrayal, after their struggle! The idea was insupportable.     Mason glanced at Erech, caught a look of understanding in the Sumerian's eye. They would attack at the same time. Murdach would certainly kill one of them, but perhaps the   other- Murdach realized their intention. His jaw tightened. He lifted the ray-tube as Mason's muscles tensed.     And then--out from the shadows charged the impossible! A white, roaring thunderbolt that crashed down on Murdach and sent the man toppling back, struggling vainly against the creature. Instantly Mason knew.     Valesta, the white leopard! For ten years she had lurked in the temple, watching and waiting for the man who had slain the silver priestess. And now, after a decade, he had returned to the fangs and claws of vengeance.     The heat ray blazed out. Flesh ribboned under tearing talons. From Murdach came a shrill, agonized cry that screamed up and up unendurably, and ended suddenly in a choking, wordless sound that was sheer horror.     Then it was over. Man and leopard lay still and   silent Unmoving--deadI     Mason felt a queer sense of unreality as he dosed the port of the time-ship after he followed the others aboard. He glanced out at the vast, gloomy temple of Selene,         262         sagging into dark ruin. Tere was an overwhelming awe upon him as' he thought of the countless lives that had existed in dead Corinoor, the incredible multitude of people that would dwell upon Earth until the last mas gasped out his breath in the' chill twilight of a heatless, lightless planet.     He shuddered involuntarily. Alasa moved close, her golden eyes tender. Mason, glancing down, felt his depression leave him.     "Alasa," he said softly, "What now?"     "We can return "The girl's voice was hesitant. "Return--bah!" Erech grunted. "I am tired of Al Bela', Ma-zhon. Also I am tired of my world. This world of yours, now--I should like to see it. And I should llke to be with you., But "He hesitated, an odd look in the pale eyes. "But I serve you, Alasa. If you wish me to go back to'Al Bekr--why, I shall keep faith. But, by NJ-IR, Ma-zhon is a inan to cleave to?'     "I think you are right," the girl said. abut what does Mason think of this?"     For answer Mason took a step forward, gripped the Sumerian's brown hands. "We have fought well together," he said, "and we would have died together. Ail that I have is yours, Brech. If you come with me, I do not think you'll regret it."     "And I?" Alasa broke in. Mason turned.     "You will go back to A1 Bekr, I suppose," he said, a dull ache in his throat at the thought of losing the girl. "I know how to work the time-ship. I can "     "Oh, Kent--you foolI" Alasa murmured. "We too have fought together and would have died together. My people are safe in Al Bekr now. Nothing draws me back there. But--would you let me join you and Ereeh?"     For answer Mason took Alasa into his arms. "Let you? It's the only thing I want. But I didn't dare ask "     The girl gave a little chucMe as she leaned her bronze curls against Mason's shoulder. "I would not have let you escape me, Kent. Never fear thatI"     The Sumerian gave a deep-throated laugh. "Come, Ma-zhon! Let us start. I am anxious to sec this world of yOurS,"         263         Jack Vance'. THE MEN RETURN 270 Brian Aldiss: HERESIES OF THE     HUGE GOD 280     Arthur C. Clarke: "IF I FORGET     THEE, OH EARTH..." 292     John W. CarnpJselh NIGHT 297         In the hurly-burly of Kuttner's novella, there is a glimpse of the dying Earth, with a motionless sea and a moon hanging heavy in the sky. It is a vision which owes something to H. G. Wells's picture of the last days of Earth in his short novel The Time Machine. Somehow, one keeps coming hack to H. G. Wells, just as one keeps returning to the beginning or the end of time on Earth.     I cannot think of any good story which deals with tho beginning Of Earth's history. There are several good stories dealing with the end of it, and one of them is included hero as the last item, Night.     Night was first published in 4}tounding in 1935 by the pseudonymous Don A. Stuart, who went on to become the long-reigning editor of the magazine (now lnalog) under his real name of John W. Campbell; he was one of the great formative influences of modern sr. As Wells was interested in the processes of evolution, Campbell was interested in the physics o pounds processes, and their different stories exemplify these interests, both to splendid effect.     The preoccupation with Earth's end may signify a somewhat dark vision, and sf writers certainly do not lack dark vision, though they are a cheerful bunch--a gregarious bunch when you meet them at science fiction conventions. I met John W. Campbell at a couple of conventions in London; he was an impossible man in an argument, preferring to win rather than to debate, but he had formidable charm and it was easy to see how the writers who formed his loose-knit team fell under his influence. In Night, I believe he was under H. G. Wells's influence.     Arthur Clarke, as an English writer, is more markedly under the Wellsian influence, particularly in his early stories. The note of dying fall is essentially a [in de sicle touch as used in The Time Machine. In If I Forget Thee, Oh Earth . . . , he takes the story of Earth's decline a         267         stage further, while shortening the time span to great dramatic effect. Clarke, it must be said, is a boon to any hard-working anthologist. He always writes gracefully, and his stories have covered almost every theme in the     cnono     About many of these stories, there is more than a touch of Ecclesiastes... "Vanity of vanities," saith the preacher, "AH is vanity." Although this anthology is designed as eh-tertainment, and my marked preference is for Kuttner having fun rather than for Mr. X thumping his tub, I could not help noticing how many of the stories which were candidates for inclusion sounded a distinctly cautiona note.     As I said in the introduction, unfashionable and un?opular ideas are a mainstay of science fiction---even more so than original ideas. Science fiction readers in the main have speculative natures and perhaps agree with homas Hardy that:         If hope for the better there be     It exacts a full look at the worst.         My own story presents Earth as a small object in space, ubject to the Unknown. With Jack Vance's fascinating ,'ameo of the future, we are back with Man in the centre )f the picture--though here too Earth has been subject to she Unknown, in this case "a pocket of non-causality". It's a strange story. You may think it a little mad. But the history of the Earth sometimes seems that way too.     None of the stories in this section is designed to make you laugh aloud. All the same, they exact a wry grin. Their pleasure value is that they put us in cahoots with the preacher in Ecclesiastes; the authors nod to us in genial agreement, knowing that we, as they, have seen through the whole human charade and are prepared to step back a pace or two and watch the curtain coming down.     If you grant that something like this is the ease, then some sort of general rule emerges /rom this anthology. There is a particular branch of science fiction, hitherto unidentified, which might be called the Anti-vanity School The writers in this school--which anyone can join--prefer to stay close to Earth when tackling their themes. Then         268         by-pass Mars, they avoid the stars, they shun the galaxy, they give other universes the cold shoulder. Earth is their meat. The nearer home you deliver your message, the further it goes.     But the next volume in 'this series is entitled Galactic Empires. Science fiction pays little real heed to the second law of thermodynamics. It found out long ago how to have its cosmic cake and eat it.         269         One o! a]'s best-loved wrlters comes up with a New Kind of Story.t We do not guarantee that you will like it, but we are sure that you will either like it tremendously or hate it violently...         THE MEN RETURN by Jack Vance         The Relict came furtively down the crag, a shambling gaunt creature with tortured eyes. He moved in a series of quick dashes, using panels of dark air for concealment, running behind each passing shadow, at times crawling on all fours, head low to the ground. Arriving at the final low outcrop of rock, he halted and peered across the plain.     Far away rose low hills, burning into the sky, which was mottled and sallow like poor milk-glass. The intervening plain spread like rotten velvet, black-green and wrinkled, streaked with ochre and rust. A fountain of liquid rock jetted high in the air, branched out into black coral. In the middle distance a family of grey objects evolved with a sense of purposeful destiny: spheres melted into pyramids, became domes, tufts of white spires, sky-piercing poles; then, as a final tour de ]orce, tesseraets.     The Relict eared nothing for this; he needed food and out on the plain were plants. They would suffice in lieu of anything better. They grew in the ground, or sometimes on a floating lump of water, or surrounding a core of hard black gas. There were dank black flaps of leaf, clumps of haggard thom, pale green bulbs, stalks with leaves and contorted flowers. There were no recognizable species, and the Relict had no means of knowing if the leaves and tendrils he had eaten yesterday would poison him today. ,         270         He tested the surface of the plain with his foot. The glassy surface (though it likewise seemed a construction of red md grey-green pyramids) accepted his weight, then suddenly sucked at his leg. In a frenzy he tore himself free, jumped back, squatted on the temporarily solid rock.     Hunger rasped at his stomach. He must eat. He eon-templated the plain. Not too far away a pair of Organisms played--sliding, diving, dancing, striking flamboyant poses. Should they approach he would try to kill one of     ù them. They resembled men, and so should make a good meal.     He waited. A long time? A short time? It might have been either; duration had neither quantitative nor qualitative reality. The sun vanished, and there was no standard. cycle or recurrence. Time was a word blank of meaning,     Matters had not always been s9. .The Relict retained a few tattered recollections of the old days, before system and logic had been rendered obsolete. Man had dominated Earth by virtue of a single assumption: that an effect could be traced to a cause, itself the effect of a previous cause.     Manipulation of this basic law yielded rich results; there seemed no need for any other tool or instrumentality. Man congratulated himself on his generalized structure. He could live on desert, or plain or ice, in forest or city; Nature had not shaped him to a special environment.     He was unaware of his vulnerability. Logic was the special environment; the brain was the special tool.     Then came the terrible hour when Earth swam into a pocket of non-causality, and all the ordered tensions of came-effect dissolved. The special tool was useless; it had no purchase on reality. From the two billions of men, only a few survived--the mad. They were now the Organisms, lords of the era, their discords so exactly equivalent to the vagaries of the land as to onstitute a peculiar wild wisdom. Or perhaps the disorganized matter of the world, loose from the old organization, was peculiarly sensitive to psycho-kinesis.     A handful of others, the Relicts, managed to exist, but only through a delicate set of circumstances. They were the ones most strongly charged with the old causal         271         dynamic. It persisted sufficiently to control the metabolism of their bodies, but could extend no further. They were fast dying out, for sanity provided no leverage against the avironment. Sometimes their own minds sputtered and angled, and they would go raving and leaping out across the plain.     The Organisms observed with neither surprise nor curiosity; how could surprise exist? The mad Relict might pause by an Organism, and try to duplicate the creature's existence. The Organism ate a mouthful of plant; so did the Relict. The Organism rubbed his feet with crushed water; so did the Relict. Presently the Relict would die of poison or rent bowels or skin lesions, while the Organism relaxed in the dank black grass. Or the Organism might seek to eat the Relict; and the Relict would run off in terror, unable to abide any part of the world--running, bounding, breasting the thick air, eyes wide, mouth open, calling and gasping until finally he foundered in a pool of black iron or blundered into a vacuum pocket, to bat around like a fly in a bottle.     The Relicts now numbered very few. Finn, he who crouched on the rock overlooking the plain, lived with four others. Two of these were old men and soon would die. Finn likewise would die unless he found food.     Out on the plain one of the Organisms, Alpha, sat down, caught a handful of air, a globe of blue liquid, a rock, kneaded them together, pulled the mixture like taffy, gave it a great heave.'It uncoiled from his hand like rope. The Relict crouched low. No telling what deviltry would occur to the creature. He and all the rest of them--unpredictable. The Relict valued their flesh as food; but they also would eat him if opportunity offered. In the competition he was at a great disadvantage. Their random acts baffled him. If, seeking to escape, he ran, the worst terror would begin. The direction he set his face was seldom the direction the varying frictions of the ground let him move. But the Organisms were as random and uncommitted as the environment, and the double set of vagaries sometimes compounded, sometimes canceled each other. In the latter case the Organisms might catch         272         It was inexplicable. But then, what was not? The word "explanation" had n meaning.     They were moving toward him; had they seen him? He flattened himself against the sullen yellow rock.     .The two Organisms paused not fH away. He could hear their sounds, and crouched, sick from Conflicting pangs of hunger and fear.     Alpha sank to his knees, lay flat on his back, arms and legs flung out at random, addressing the sky in a series of musical cries, sibilants, guttural groans. It was a personal language he had only now improvised, but Beta understood him well.     "A vision," cried Alpha. "I see past the sky. I see knots, spinning circles. They tighten into hard points; they will never come undone."     Beta 'perched on a pyramid, glanced over his shoulder at the mottled sky.     "An intuition," chanted Alpha,. "a picture out of the other time. It is hard, merciless, inflexible."     Beta poised on the pyramid, dove through the glassy surface, swam under Alpha, emerged, lay fiat beside him.     "Observe the Relict on the hillside. In his blood is the whole of the old race--the narrow men with minds like cracks. He has excluded the intuition. Clumsy thing--a blunderer," said Alpha.     "They are all dead, all of them," said Beta. "Although three or four remain." (When past, present and future are no more than ideas left over from another era, like boats on a dry lake---then the completion of a process can never be defined.)     Alpha said, "This is the vision. I see the Relicts swarming the Earth; then whisking off to nowhere, like gnats in the wind. This is behind us."     The Organisms lay quiet, considering the vision.     A rock, or perhaps a meteor, fell from the sky, struck into the surface of the pond. It left a circular hole which slowly closed. From another part of the pool a gout of fluid splashed into the air, floated away.     Alpha spoke: "Again--the intuition comes strong! There wilI be lights in the sky."     The fever died in him. He hooked a finger into the air, hoisted himself to his feet.         273         Beta lay quiet. Slugs, ants, flies, beetles were crawling on him, boring, breeding. Alpha knew that Beta could arise, shake off the insects, stride off. But Beta seemed to prefer passivity. That was well enough. He could produce another Beta should he choose, or a dozen of him. Sometimes the world swarmed with Organisms, all sorts, all colors, tall as steeples, short and squat as flower-pots.     "I feel a lack," said Alpha. "I will eat the Relict." He set forth, and sheer chance brought him near to the ledge of yellow rock. Finn the Relict sprang to his feet in panic.     Alpha tried to communicate, so that Finn might pause while Alpha ate. But Finn had no grasp for the many-valued overtones of Alpha's voice. He seized a rock, hurled it at Alpha. The rock puffed into a cloud of dust, blew back into the Relict's face.     Alpha moved closer, extended his long arms. The Relict kicked. His feet went out from under him, and he slid out on the plain. Alpha ambled complacently behind him. Finn began to crawl away. Alpha moved off to the right--one direction was as good as another. He collided with Beta, and began to eat Beta instead of the Relict. The Relict hesitated; then approached and, joining Alpha, pushed chunks of pink flesh into his mouth.     Alpha said to Relict, "I was about to communicate an intuition to him whom we dine upon. I will speak to you."     Finn could not understand Alpha's personal language. He ate as rapidly as possible.     Alpha spoke on. 'ølhere will be lights in the sky. The great lights."     Finn rose to his feet and, warily watching Alpha, seized Beta's legs, began to pull him toward the hill. Alpha watched with quizzical unconcern.     It was hard work for the spindly Relict. Sometimes Beta floated; sometimes he wafted off on the air; sometimes he adhered to the terrain. At last he sank into a knob of gran-itc which froze around him. Finn tried to jerk Beta loose, and then to pry him up with a stick, without success.     He ran back and forth in an agony of indecision. Beta began to collapse, wither, like a jelly-fish on hot sand. The Relict abandoned the hulk. Too late, too late! Food going to waste! The world was a hideous place of frustration!     Temporarily his belly was full. He started back up         274         the crag, and presenfiy, found the camp, wher the four other Relicts waited--two ancient males, two females. The females, Gisa and Reak, like Finn, had been out forag/ng. G/sa had brought in a slab of lichen; Reak a bit of nameless carrion.     The old men, Boad and Tagart, sat quietly waiting either for food or for death.     The women greeted Finn sullenly. "Where is the food you went forth to find?"     "I had a whole carcass," said Finn. "I could not carry it."     Boad had slyly stolen the slab of lichen and was cramming it into his mouth. It came alive, quivered and exuded a red ichor which was poison, and the old man died.     "Now there is food," said Finn. "Let us eaL*'     But 'the-poison created a putrescence; the body seetled w/th blue foam, flowed away of its own energy.     The women turned to look at the other old man, who said in a quavering voice, "Eat me if you mustmbut why not choose, Reak, who is younger than I?"     Reak, the younger of the women, gnawing on the bit of carrion, made no reply.     Finn said hollowly, "Why do we worry ourselves? Food is ever more difficult, and we are the last of all men."     "No, no," spoke Reak. "Not the last. We saw others on the green mound."     "That was long ago," said Gisa. "Now they are surely dead."     "Perhaps they have found a source of food," suggested Reak.     Finn rose to his feet, looked across the plain. "Who knows? Perhaps there is a more pleasant land beyond the horizon."     'aere is nothing anywhere but waste and evil crea-tm'es," snapped Gisa.     "What could be worse than here?" Finn argued calmly. No one could fred grounds for disagreement.     "Here is what I propose," said Finn. "Notice this tall peak. Notice the layers of hard air. They bump into the peak, they bounce off, they float in and out and disappear past the edge of sight. Let us all climb this peak,         275         and when a sufficiently large bank of air passes, we will throw ourselves on top, and allow it to carry us to the beautiful regions which may exist inst out of sight."     There was argument. The old man Tagart protested his feebleness; the women derided the possibility of the bountiful regions Finn envisioned, but presently, grumbling and arguing, they began to clamber up the pinnacle.     It took a long time; the obsidian was soft as jelly, and Tagart several times professed himself at the limit of his endurance. But still they climbed, and at last reached the pinnacle. There was barely room to stand. They could see in all directions, far out over the landscape, till visioo was lost in the watery gray.     The women bickered and pointed in various directions, but there was small sign of happier territory. In one direction blue-green hills shivered like bladders full of oil. In another direction lay a streak of black--a gorge or a lake of clay. In another direction were blue-green hills--the same they had seen in the first direction; somehow there had been a shift. Below was the plain gleaming like an iridescent beetle, here and there pocked with black velvet spots, overgrown with questionable vegetation.     They saw Organisms, a dozen shapes loitering by ponds, munching vegetable pods or small rocks or insects. There came Alpha. He moved slowly, still awed by his vision, ignoring the other Organisms. Their play went on, but presently they stood quiet, sharing the oppression.     On the obsidian peak, Finn caught hold of a passing filament of air, drew it in. "Now--all on, and we sail away to the Land of Plenty."     "No," protested Gisa, "there is no room, and who knows if it will fly in the right direction?"     "Where is the right direction?" asked Finn. "Does anyone knOW?"     lqO One knew, but the women still refused to climb aboard the filament. Finn turned to Tagart. "Here, old one, show these women how it is; climb onl"     "lqo, no," he cried. "I fear the air; this is not for me." "Climb on, old man, then we follow." Wheezing and fearful, clenching his hands deep into the sponger mass, Tagart pulled himself out onto the air,     276         spindly shanks hanging .over into nothing. 'ow," spoke Finn, "who-next?"     The women still refused. "You go then, yourself," cried Gisa.     "And leave you, my last guarantee against hunger? Aboard nowl"     "No. The air is too small; let the old one go and we will follow on a larger."     "Very well." Finn released his grip. The air floated off over the plain, Tagart straddling and clutching for dear         They watched him curiously. "Observe,said Finn, "how fast and easily moves the air. Above the Organisms, over all the slime and uncertainty."     But the air itself was uncertain, and the old man's raft dissolved. Clutching at the departing wisps, Tagart sought to hold his cushion together. It fled from under him, and he fell.     On the peak the three watched te spindly shape flap and twist on its way to earth far below.     "Now," Reak exclaimed vexatiously, "we OVen have no more meat."     "None," said Gisa, "except the visionary Finn himself."     They surveyed Ninn. Together they would more than out-match him "Careful," cried Finn. "I am the last of the Men. You are my women, subiect to my orders."     They ignored him, muttering to each other, looking at him from the side of their faces. "Careful!" cried Finn. "I will throw you both from this peak."     'hat is what we plan for you," said Oisa. They advanced with sinister caution"Stop! I am the last Manl"     "We are better off without you."     "One moment! Look at the Organismsl"     The women looked. The Organisms stood in a knot, staring at the sky.     "Look at the sky!"     The women looked; the frosted glass was cracking, breaking, curling aside.         "The bluel The blue sky of old time.si"         277         :l         A terribly bright light burnt down, seared their eyes. The rays warmed their naked backs.     "The sun," they said in awed voices. "The sun has come back to Earth."     The shrouded sky was gone; the sun rode proud and bright in a sea of blue. The ground below churned, cracked, heaved, solidified. They felt the obsidian harden under their feet; its color shifted to glossy black. The Earth, the sun, the galaxy, had departed the region of freedom; the other time with its restrictions and logic was once more with them.     "This is Old Earth," cried Finn. "We are Men of Old     Earth!The land is once again oursl"     "And what of the Organisms?"     "If this is the Earth of old, then let the Organisms beware!"     The Organisms stood on a low rise of ground beside a runnel of water that was rapidly becoming a river flowing out onto the plain.     Alpha cried, "Here is my intuition! It is exactly as I knew. The freedom is gone; the tightness, the constriction are back?'     "How will we defeat it?' asked another Organism. "Easily," said a third. "Each must fight a part of the battle. I plan to hurl myself at the sun, and blot it from existence." And he crouched, threw himself into the air. He fell on his back and broke his neck.     '"l'he fault," said Alpha, "is in the air; because the air surrounds all things."     Six Organisms ran off in search of air and, stumbling into the river, drowned.     "In any event," said Alpha, "I am hungry." He looked around for suitable food. He seized an insect which stung him. He dropped it. "My hunger remains."     He spied Finn and the two women descending from the crag. "I will eat one of the Relicts," he said. "Come, let us all eat."     Three of them started off--as usual in random directions. By c. hance Alpha came face to face with Finn. He prepared to eat, but Finn picked up a rock The rock remained a rock, hard, sharp, heavy. Finn swung it down taking joy in the inertia. Alpha died with a crushed skull.         278         One of the other Organisms atempted to step across a crevasse twefity feet wide and disappeared into it; h› other sat down, swallowed rocks to assuage his htmger and presently went into convulsions.     Firm pointed here and there around the fresh new land. "In that quarter, the new city, like that of the legends. Over here the farms, the cattle."     "We have none of these," protested Gisa.         "No,,' said Finn. "Not now. But once more the sun rises and sets, once more rock has weight and air has ù none. Once more water falls as rain and flows to the sea." He stepped forward over the fallen Organism. "Let us make plans."         279         In the event of a Catastrophe, kindly adiust your Think-lng!         HERESIES OF THE HUGE GOD     by Brian W. Aldiss         THE SECRET BOOK OF HARAD IV         I, Harad IV, Chief Scribe, declare that this my writing may be shown only to priests of rank within the Orthodox Universal Sacrificial Church and to the Elders Elect of tho Council of the Orthodox Universal Sacrificial Church, because here are contained matters concerning the four Vile Heresies that may not be seen or spoken among the people.     For a Proper Consideration of the newest and vilest heresy, we must look in perspective over the events of history. Accordingly, let us go back to the First Year of our epoch when the World Darkness was banished by the Huge God, our truest, biggest Lord, whom all honour and greatly fear.     From this present year, 910 HG, it is impossible to recall what the world was like then. But from the few records still surviving we can gather something of those times and even perform the Mental Contortions necessary to see how the events must have looked to the sirmers then involved in them.     The world on which the Huge God found himself was full of people and their machines, all of them unprepared for his visit. There may have been a hundred thousand times more people than there are now.     The Huge God landed in what is now the Sacred Sea, upon which in these days sail some of 6ur most beautiful churches dedicated to his name. At the time, tho region 280         was much less pleasing,, being broken up into many states possessed by different nations. This was a system of land tenure practiced before our present policies of constant migration and evacuation were formed.     The rear legs of the Huge God stretched far down into Africa--which was then not the island it now is--almost touching the Congo River, at the sacred spot marked now by the Sacrificial Church of Basoko-Aketi-Ele, and at the sacred spot marked now by the Temple Church of Aden, obliterating the old port of Aden,     Some of the Huge God's legs stretched above the Sudan and across what was then the Libyan Kingdom, now part of the Sea of Elder Sorrow, while a foot rested in a city called Tunis on what was then the Tunisian shore. These were some of the legs of the Huge God on his left side.     On his right side, his legs blessed and pressed the sands of Saudi Arabia, now called Life Valley, and the foothills of the Caucasus, obliterating the Mount called Ararat in Asia 'Minor, while the Foremost Leg stretched forward to Russian lands, stamping out immediately the great capital city of Moscow.     The body of the Huge God, resting in repose between his mighty legs, settled mainly over three ancient seas, if the Old Records are to be trusted, call the Sea of Mediterranean, the Red Sea, and the Nile Sea, all of which now form part of the Sacred Sea. He eradicated also with his Great Bulk part of the Black Sea, now called the White Sea, Egypt, Athens, Cyprus and the Bnlkn Peninsula as far north as Belgrade, now Holy Belgrade, for above this town towered the neck of the Huge God on his First Visit to us mortals, just clearing the roofs of the houses.     As for his head, it lifted above the region of mountains that we call Ittaland, which was then named Europe, a populous part of the globe, raised so high that it might easily be seen on a clear day from London, then as now the chief town of the land of the Anglo-French.     It was estimated in those first days that the length of the Huge God was some four and a half thousand miles, from rear to nose, with the eight legs each about nine hundred miles long. Now we profess in our Creed that our Huge God changes shape and length and number of         281         legs according to whether he is Pleased or Angry with mall.     'In those days, the nature of God was unknown. No preparation had been made for his corning, though some whispers of the millenium were circulating. Accordingly, the speculation on his nature was far from the truth, and often extremely blasphemous.     Here is an extract from the notorious Gersheimer Paper, which contributed much to the events leading up to the First Crusade in 271 HG. We do not know who the Black Gersheimer was, apart from the meaningless fact that he was a Scientific Prophet at somewhere called Cor-nell or CarnelL evidently a Church on the American Continent (then a differently shaped territory).     "Aerial surveys suggest that this creature---if one can call it that--which straddles a line along the Red Sea and across southeast Europe, is non-living, at least as we understand life. It may be merely coincidence that it somewhat resembles an eight-footed lizard, so that we do not necessarily have to worry about the thing being malignant, as some tabloids have suggested."     Not all the vile jargon of that distant day is now understandable, but we believe "aerial surveys" to refer to the mechanical flying machines which this last generation of the Godless possessed. Black Gersheimer continues:     "If this thing is not life, it may be a piece of galactic debris clinging momentarily to the globe, perhaps like a leaf clinging to a football in the fall. To believe this is not necessarily to alter our scientific concepts of the universe. Whether the thing represents life or not, we don't have to go all superstitious. We must merely remind ourselves that there are many phenomena in the universe as we conceive it in the light of twentieth-century science which remain unknown to us. However painful this unwanted visitation may be, it is some consolation to think that it will bring us new knowledge---of ourselves, as well as of the world outside our solar system."     Although terms like "galactic debris" have lost their meaning, if they ever had one, the general trend of this passage is offensively obvious. An embargo is being set up against the worship of the Huge God, with a heretical God of Science set up in his stead. Only one other   pas     282         sage from this offensive mishmash need be considered, but it is a vital one for showing the attitude of mind of Gersbeimer and presumably most of his contemporaries.     "Naturally enough, the peoples of the world, part/cu-lariy those who are still fingering on the threshold of civilization, are full of fear these days. They see something supernatural in the arrival of this thing, and I believe that every man, if he is honest, will admit to carrying an echo of that fear in his heart. We can only banish it, and can only meet the chaos into which the world is now plunged, if we retain a galactic picture of our situation in our minds. The very hugeness of this thing that now lies plastered loathsomely across our world is cause for terror. But imagine it in proportion. A centipede is sitting on an orange. Or, to pick an analogy that 'sounds less repulsive, a little gecko, six inches long, is resting momentarily on a plastic globe of the Earth which is two 'feet in diafiaeter. It is up to us, the, human race, with all the technological forces at our disposal, to unite as never before, and blow this thing, this large and stupid obieet, into the depths of spac from whence it came. Good night."     My reasons for repeating this init/al blasphemy are these: that we can see here in this message from a mem-her of the World Darkness traces of that original sin which--with all our sacrifices, all our hardships, all our crusades--we have not yet stamped out. That is why we are now at the greatest Crisis in the history of the Orthodox Universal Sacrificial Church, and why the time has come for a Fourth Crusade.     The Huge God remained where he was, in what we now refer to as the Sacred Sea Position, for a number of years, absolutely unmoving.     For mankind, this was the great formative period of Belief, marking the establishment of the Universal Church, and characterized by many upheavals. The early priests and prophets suffered much that the Word might go round the World, and the blasphemous sects be     stroyed, though the Underground Book of Church Lore suggests that many of them were in fact members of earlier churches who, seeing the light, transferred their allegiances.         283         The mighty figure of the Huge God was subjected to any puny insults. The Greatest Weapons of that distant i a,e forces of technical charlatanry, were called Nuclears. These were dropped on the Huge God--without having iany effect, as might be expected. Walls of fire burnt him in vain. Our Huge God, whom all honour     fear, is immune from earthly weakness. His body was us it were with Metalhere lay the seed of the , Crusade---but it had not the weakness of metal.     His coming to earth met with immediate response from The old winds that prevailed were turned aside ,out his mighty flanks and blew elsewhere. The effect to cool the center of Africa, so that the tropical rain died and all the creatures in them. In the lands 5ordering Caspana (then called Persia and Kharkov, say ome old accounts), hurricanes of snow fell in a dozen :re winters, blowing far east into India. Elsewhere, all r the world, the coming of the Huge God was felt in skies, and in freak rainfalls and errant winds, and nth-long storms. The oceans also were disturbed, while great volume of waters displaced by his body poured r the nearby land, killing many thousands of beings I washing away ten thousand dead whales.     rhe land too joined in the upheaval. While the territory under the Huge God's bulk sank, preparing to re-what would later be the Sacred Sea, the land undabout rose up, forming small hills, such as the and savage Dolomines that now guard the southlands of Ittaland. There were earthquakes and new     and geysers where water uever spurted before plagues of snakes and blazing forests and many won-signs that helped the Early Fathers of our faith to the ignorant. Everywhere they went, preaching in surrender to him lay salvation.     Many Whole Peoples perished at this time of upheaval, isuch as the Bulgarians, the Egyptians, the Israelites, [Moraviaus, Kurds, Turks, Syrians, Mountain Turks, as well as most of the South Slavs, Georgians, Croats, the i! rurdy Vlaks, and the Greeks ,and Cypriotic and Cretan     tces, together with others whose sins were great and ames unrecorded in the annals of the church.     The Huge God departed from the world in the year     284         89, or some say 90. (This was the First Departure, and celebrated as such in our Church calendar--though Catholic Universal Church calls it First Day.)     He returned in 91, great and awelng be his name.     Little is known of the period when he was absent from our Earth. We get a glimpse into the mind of the people then when we learn that in the main the nations of Earth greatly reioiced. The natural upheavals continued, since the oceans poured into the great hollow he had made, forming our beloved and holy Sacred Sea. Great Wars broke out across the face of the globe.     His return in 91 halted the wars--a sign of the great peace his presence has brought to his chosen people.     But the inhabitants of the world at That Time were not all of our religion, though prophets moved among them, ahd many were their blasphemies. In the Black Museum attached to the great basilica of Omar and Yemen is     'documentary evidence that they tried at this period to communicate with the Huge God by means of their machines. Of course they got no reply--but many men reasoned at this time, in the darkness of their minds, that this was because the God was a Thing, as Black Gersheimer had prophesied.     The Huge God, on this his Second Coming, blessed our Earth by settling mainly within the Arctic Circle, or what was then the Arctic Circle, with his body straddling from northern Canada, as it was, over a large peninsula called Alaska, across the Bering Sea and into the northern regions of the Russian lands as far as the River Lena, now the Bay of Lenn. Some of his rear feet broke far into the Arctic Ice, while others of his forefeet entered the North Pacific Ocean--but truly to him we are but sand under his feet, and he is indifferent to our mountains or our Climatic Variations.     As for his terrible head, it could be seen reaching far into the stratosphere, gleaming with metal sheen, by all the cities along the northern part of America's seaboard, from such vanished towns as Vancouver, Seattle, Edmonton, Portland, Blanco, Reno, and even San Francisco. It was the energetic and sinful nation that possessed these cities that was now most active against the Huge God.         285         weight of their ungodly scientific civilization was against him, but all they managed to do was blow art their own coastline.     Meanwhile, other natural changes were taking place. te mass of the Huge God deflected the earth in its daily i1, so that seasons changed, and in the prophetic books read how the great trees brought forth their leaves to ver them in the winter, and lost them in the summer. ts flew in the daytime and women bore forth hairy chil-eh. The melting of the ice caps caused great floods, lal waves and poisonous dews, while in one night we ar that the waters of the Deep were moved, so that the [e went out so far from the Malayan Uplands (as they .w are) that the continental peninsula of Blestland was rmed in a few hours of what had previously been sep-ate Continents or Islands called Singapore, Sumatra, Iu-nesia, Java, Sydney, and Australia, or Austria.     With these powerful signs, our priests could Convert e People, and millions of survivors were speedily en-lled into the Church. This was the First Great Age of e Church, when the word spread across all the ravaged :d transformed globe. Our institutions were formed in e next few generations, notably at the various Councils the New Church (some of which have since proved to . heretical).     We were not established without some difficulty. Many ,,ople had to be burned before the rest could feel the ith Burning in Them. But as generations passed, the me Name of the God emerged over a wider and wider ea.     Only the Americans still clung largely to their base surstition. Fortified by their science, they refused Grace. > in the Year 271 the First Crusade was launched, fiefly against them but also against the Irish, whose ù .retical views had no benefit of science. The Irish were fickly Eradicated, almost to a man. The Americans ere more formidable, but this difficulty served only to raw the people closer and unite the Church further.     This First Crusade was fought over the First Great ieresy of the Church, the heresy claiming that the Huge iod was a Thing not a God, as formulated by Black [ersheimer. It was successfully concluded when tho         286         leader of the Am.ericans, .ionel Undermeyer, met the Venerable World Emperor-Bishol, Jori H, and agreed that the messengers of the Church should be free to preach unmolested in America. Possibly a harsher decision could have been forced, as some commentators claim, but by this time both sides were suffering severely from plague and famine, the harvests of the world having failed. It was a happy chance that the population of the world was already cut by more than half, or complete starvation would have followed the reorganization of the seasons.     In the churches of the world, the Huge God was asked to give a sign that he had witnessed the great victory over the American unbelievers. All who opposed this enlightened act were destroyed. He answered the prayers in 297 by moving swiftly forward only a comparatively Small Amount and lying Mainly in the Pacific Ocean, stretching almbst as far south as what.is' now the Antarter, what Was then the Tropic of Capricorn, and what had previously been the Equator. Some of his left legs covered the towns along the west American seaboard as far south as Guadalajara (where the impression of his foot is still marked by the Temple of the Sacred Toe), including some of the towns such as San Francisco already mentioned. We speak of this as the First Shift; it was rightly taken as a striking proof of the Huge God's contempt for America.     This feeling became fife in America also. Purified by famine, plague, gigantic earth tremors and other natural disorders, the population could now better accept the words of the priests, all becoming converted to a man. Mass pilgrimages were made to see that great body of the Huge God, stretching from one end of their nation to the other. Bolder pilgrims climbed aboard flying airplanes and flew over his shoulder, across which savage rainstorms played for a hundred years Without Cease.     Those that were converted became More Extreme than their brethren older in the faith across the other side of the world. No sooner had the American congregations united with ours than they broke away on a point of doctrine at the Council of Dead Tench (322). This date marks the beginning of the Catholic Universal Sacrificial         287         Church. We of the Orthodox persuasion did not enjoy, ia those distant days, the harmony with our American brothers that we do now.     The doctrinal point on which the churches split apart was, as is well known, the question of whether humanity should wear clothes that imitated the metallic sheen of the Huge God. It was claimed that this was setting up man in God's Image; but it was a calculated slur on the Orthodox Universal priests, who wore plastio or metal garments in honour of their maker.     This developed into the Second Great Heresy. As this long and confused period has been aptly dealt with elsewhere, we may pass over it lightly here, mentioning merely that the quarrel reached its climax in the Second crusade, which the American Catholio Universals launched against us in 450. Because they still had a large preponderance of machines they were able to force their point, to sack various monasteries along the edge of the Saored Sea, to defile our women and to retire home in glory.     Since that time, everyone in the world has worn only garments of wool or fur. All who opposed this enlightened act were destroyed.     It would be wrong to emphasize too much the struggles of the past. All this while, the majority of people went peacefully about their worship, being sacrificed regularly, and praying every sunset and sunrise (whenever they aight occur) that the Huge God would leave our world, .ince we were not worthy of him.     The Second Crusade left a trail of troubles in its wake. he next fifty years were, on the whole, not happy ones. e American armies returned home to find that the eavy pressure upon their western seaboard had opened p a number of volcanoes along their biggest mountain :ange, the Rockies. Their country was covered in fire and ,ava, and their air filled with stinking ash.     Rightly, they accepted this as a sign that their conduct [eft much to be desired in the eyes of the Huge God (for though it has never been proved that he has eyes, he surely Sees Us). Since the rest of the world had not been Visited with punishment on quite this scale, they correctly Divined that their sin was that they still clung to   tech     288         nology and to the weapons of technology which was against the wishes of God.     With their faith strong within them, every last instrument of science, from the Nuclears to the Canopeners, was destroyed, and a hundred thousand virgins of tho persuasion were dropped into suitable volcanoes as propitiation. All who opposed these enlightened acts were destroyed, and some were even ceremonially eaten.     We of the Orthodox Universal faith applauded our brothers' whole-hearted action. Yet we could not be sure they had purged themselves enough. Now that they owned no weapons and we still had some, it was clear we could help them in their purgation. Accordingly, a mighty armada of one hundred and sixty-six wooden ships sailed across to America, to help them suffer for the faithand incidentally to get back some of our loot. This was the Third Crusade of 482, under Jori the Chubby.     While the two opposed armies were engaged in battle outside New York, the Second Shift took place. It lasted only a matter of five minutes.     In that time, the Huge God turned to his left flank, crawled across the Atlantic as if it were a puddle, moved over Africa, and came to rest in the south Indian Ocean, demolishing Madagascar with one rear foot. Night fell Everywhere on earth.     When dawn came, there could hardly have been a single man who did not believe in the power and wisdom of the Huge God, to whose name belongs all Terror and Might. Unhappily, among those who were unable to believe were the contesting armies who were one and all swept under a Wave of Earth and Rock as the God passed.     In the ensuing chaos, only one note of sanity prevailed --the sanity of the Church. The Church established as the Third Great Heresy the idea that any machines were permissible to man against the wishes of God. There was some doctrinal squabble as to whether books counted as machines. It was decided they did, just to be on the safe side. From then on, all men were free to do nothing but labour in the fields and worship, and pray to the Huge God to remove himself to a world more worthy of his might. At the same time, the rate of sacrifices was stepped         289         up, and the 51ow-Burning Method was introduced (499)     Now followed the great Peace, which lasted till 900. In all this time, the Huge God never moved; it has been truly said that the centuries are but seconds in his sight. Perhaps mankind has never known such a long peace, four hundred year of itma peace that existed in his heart if not outside it, because the world was naturally in Some Disorder. The great force of the Huge God's progress, halfway across the world had altered the progression of day and night to a considerable extent. Some legends claim that before the Second Shift, the sun used to rise in the east and set in the west--the opposite of today's natural order.     Cvradually, this peaceful period saw some establishment of order to the seasons, and some cessation of the floods, showers of blood, hailstorms, earthquakes, deluges of icicles, apparitions of comets, volcanic eruptions, miasmic fogs, destructive winds, blights, plagues of wolves and dragons, tidal waves, year-long thunder storms, lashing raln. and sundry other scourges of which the scriptures of this period speak so eloquently. The Fathers of the Church, retiring to the comparative safety of the inland seas and sunny meadows of Goblland in Mongolia, established a new orthodoxy well calculated in its rigour or prayer and human burnt-offering to invite the Huge God to leave our poor wretched world for a better and more substantial one.     So the story comes to the present--to the year 900, only a decade past as your scribe writes. In that year, the Huge God left our earth!     Recall, if you will, that the First Departure in 89 lasted only twenty months. Yet the Huge God has been gone from us already half that number of years[ We need him Back. We cannot live without him, as we should have realized Long Ago had we not blasphemed in our hearts!     On hi going, he propelled our humble globe on such a course that we are doomed to deepest winter all the year; the sun is far away and shrunken; the seas Freeze aalf the year; icebergs march across our fields; at mid-iay, it is too dark to read without a rush light; nothing ill grow. Woe is     Yet we deserve everything we get. That is just   punish     29O         ment, for throughout all the centuries of our epoch, when our kind was so relatively, happy and undisturbed, we prayed like fois that the Huge God would leave us. And now he has.     I ask all the Elders Elect of the Council to brand those' prayers as the Fourth and Greatest Heresy, and to declare that henceforth all men's efforts be completely devoted to calling on the Huge God to return to us at once.     I ask also that the sacrifice rate be stepped up again. It     is useless to skimp things just because we are running out of women.     I ask also that a Fourth Crusade be launched--fast, before the air starts to freeze in our nostrilsl         291         And a/ter .4rmageddon? When a way o/li/e has gone/or ever and a whole world has ended, something substantial still remai---a dream...         "IF I FORGET THEE, OH EARTH by Arthur C. Clarke         When Marvin was ten years old, his father took him through the long, echoing corridors that led up through Administration and Power, until at last they came to the uppermost levels of all and were among the swiftly growing vegetation of the Farmlands. Marvin liked it here: it was fun watching the great, slender plants creeping with almost visible eagerness towards the sunlight as it filtered down through the plastic domes to meet them. The smell of life was everywhere, awakening inexpressible longings in his heart: no longer was he breathing the dry, cool air of the residential levels, purged of all smells but the faint tang of ozone. He wished he could stay here for a little while, but Father would not let him. They went onwards until they had reached the entrance to the Observatory, which he had never visited: but they did not stop, and Marvin knew with a sense of rising excitement that there could be only one goal left. For the first time in his life, le was going Outside.     There were a dozen of the surface vehicles, with their wide balloon tyres and pressurized cabins, in the great servicing chamber. His father must have been expected, for they were led at once to the little scout car waiting by the huge circular door of the airlock. Tense with expectancy, Marvin settled himself down in the cramped cabin while his father started the motor and checked the controls. The inner door of the lock slid open and then closed behind them: he heard the roar of the great air-pumps fade slowly away as the pressure dropped to zero. Then the         292         "Vacuum" sign flashed or, the outer door parted, and before Marvin lay the land which he had never yet entered.     He had seen it in photographs, of course: he had watched it imaged on television screens a hundred times. But now it was lying all around him, burning beneath the fierce sun that crawled so slowly across the jet-black sky. He stared into the west, away from the blinding splendour of the sun--and there were the stars, as he had been told but had never quite believed. He gazed at them for a long time, marvelling that anything could' be so bright and yet so. tiny. They were intense unscintillating points, and suddenly he remembered a rhyme he had once read in one of his father's books:         Twinkle, twinkle, little star,     ù How I wonder what you are.         Well, he knew what the stars were.'Whoever asked that question must have been very stupid. And what did they mean by "twinkle"? You could see at a glance that all the stars shone with the same steady, unwavering light. He abandoned the puzzle and turned his attention to the landscape around him They were racing across a level plain at almost a hundred miles an hour, the great balloon tyres sending up lit-fie spurts of dust behind them. There was no sign of the Colony: in the few minutes while he had been gazing at the stars, its domes and radio towers had fallen below the horizon. Yet there were other indications of man's presence, for about a mile ahead Marvin could see the curiously shaped structures clustering round the head of a mine. Now and then a puff of vapour would emerge from a squat smoke-stack and would instantly disperse.     They were past the mine in a moment: Father was driving with a reckless, and exhilarating skill as if--it was a strange thought to come into a child's mind--he was trying to escape from something. In a few minutes they had reached the edge of the plateau on which the Colony had been built. The ground fell sharply away beneath them in a dizzying slope whose lower stretches were lost in shadow. Ahead, as far as the eye could reach, was a   jura     293         bled wasteland of craters, mountain ranges, and ravines. The crests of the mountains, catching the low sun, burned like islands of fire in a sea of darkness: and above them the stars still shone as steadfastly as ever.     There could be no way forward--yet there was. Marvin clenched his fists as the car edged over the slope and started the long descent. Then he saw the barely visible track leading down the mountainside, and relaxed a littleø Other men, it seemed, had gone this way before.     Night fell with a shocking abruptness as they crosse the shadow line and the sun dropped below the crest of the plateau. The twin searchlights sprang into life, castinl blue-white bands on the rocks ahead, so that there wa scarcely need to check their speed. For hours they drov through valleys and past the feet of mountains whose peaks seemed to comb the stars, and sometimes they emerged for a moment into the sunlight as they climbed over higher ground.     And now on the right was a wrinkled, dusty plain, and on the left, its ramparts and terraces rising mile after mile into the sky, was a wall of mountains that marched into the distance until its peaks sank from sight below the rim of the world. There was no sign that men had ever explored this land, but once they passed the skeleton of a crashed rocket, and beside it a stone cairn surmounted by a metal cross.     It seemed to Marvin that the mountains stretched on forever: but at last, many hours later, the range ended in a towering, precipitous headland that rose steeply from a duster of little hills. They drove down into a shallow valley that curved in a great arc towards the far side of the mountains: and as they did so, Marvin slowly realized that something very strange was happening in the land ahead.     The sun was now low behind the hills on the right: the valley before them should be in total darkness. Yet it was awash with a cold white radiance that came spilling over the crags beneath which they were driving. Then, suddenly, they were out in the open plain, and the source of the light lay before them in all its glory.     It was very quiet in the little cabin now that the motors had stopped. The sound was the faint whisper of the   oxy     294         gen feed and an occasional metallic crepitation as the outer walls of the vehicle radiated away their heat. For no warmth at all came from the great silver crescent that floated low above the far horizon and flooded all this land with pearly light. It was so brilliant that minutes passed before Marvin could accept its challenge and look steadfasfiy into its glare, but at last he could discern the outlines of continents, the hazy border of the atmosphere, and the white islands of cloud. And even at this distance, he could see the glitter of sunlight on the polar ice.     It was beautiful, and it called to his heart across the abyss of space. There in that shining crescent were all the wonders that he had never lmown--the hues of sunset skies, the moaning of the sea on pebbled shores, the patter of falling rain, the unhurried benison of snow. These and a thousand others should hve been his rightful heritage, but 'he Imew them only from the books and ancient records, and'the thought filled him with the anguish of exile.     Why could they not return? It seemed so peaceful beneath those lines of marching cloud. Then Marvin, his eyes no longer blinded by the glare, saw that the portion of the disk that should have been in darkness was gleaming faintly with an evil phosphorescence: and he remembered. He was looking upon the funeral pyre of a worldmupon the radioactive aftermath of Armageddon. Across a quarter of a million miles of space, the glow of dying atoms was still visible, a perennial reminder of the ruinous past. It would be centuries yet before that deadly glow died from the rocks and life could return again to fill that silent, empty world.     And now Father began to speak, telling Marvin the story which until this moment had meant no more to him than the fairy-tales he had heard in childhood. There were many things he could not understand: it was impossible for him to picture the glowing, multi-coloured pattern of life on the planet he had never seen. Nor could he comprehend the forces that had destroyed it in the end, leaving the Colony, preserved by its isolation, as the sole survivor. Yet he could share the agony of those final days, when the Colony had learned at last that never again would the supply ships come flaming down through the stars with gifts from home. One by one the radio stations         295         had ceased to call: on the shadowed globe the fights of the cities had dimmed and died, and they were alone at lash as no men had ever been alone before, carrying in their hands the future of the race.     Then had followed the years of despair, and the long-drawn battle for survival in this fierce and hostile world. That battle had been won, though barely: this little oasis of life was safe against the worst that Nature could do. But unless there was a goal, a future towards which it could work, the Colony would lose the will to live and neither machines nor skill nor science could save it then.     So, at last, Marvin understood the purpose of this pilgrimage. He would never walk beside the rivers of that lost and legendary world, or listen to the thunder raging above its softly rounded hills. Yet one daymhow far ahead?--his children's children would return to claim their heritage. The winds and the rains would scour the poisons from the burning lands and carry them to the sea, and in the depths of the sea they would waste their venom until they could harm no living things. Then the great ships that were still waiting here on the silent, dusty plains could lift once more into space, along the road that led to home.     That was the dream: and one day, Marvin knew with a sudden flash of insight, he would pass it on to his own son, here at this same spot with the mountain behind him and the silver light from the sky streaming into his face.     He did not look back as they began the homeward journey. He could not bear to see the cold glory of the crescent Earth fade from the rocks around him, as he went to rejoin his people in their long exile.         296         The grat perfect citles still stood, the faultless machines still went about their endless work. But Man had [ailed.     The end o[ time had brought with it something greater the end o! purpose.         NIGHT     by John W. Campbell         Condon was staring through the glasses with a face tense and drawn, all his attention utterly .concentrated on that one almost invisible speck infiuitely far up in the blue sky, and saying over and over again in the most horribly absent-minded way, "My Lord, my Lord"     Suddenly he shivered and looked down at me, sheer agony in his face. "He's never coming down. Don, he's never coming down '     I knew it tooknew it solidly as I knew the knowl' edge was impossible. But ! smiled and said: "Oh, I wouldn't say that. If anything, I'd fear his coming down. What goes up comes down."     Major Condon trembled all over. His month worked horribly for a moment before he could speak. "Talbot I'm seared--I'm horribly scared. You know--you're his assistant--you know he's trying to defeat gravity. Men aren't meant to-it's wrong--wrong- "     His eyes were glued on those binoculars again, with the same terrible tensity, and now he was saying over and over in that absent-minded way, "Wrong--wrong WrOllg"     Simultaneously he stiffened, and stopped. The dozen or so other men standing on that lonely little emergency field stiffened; then the maior crumpled to the ground. I've never before seen a man faint, let alone an army officer with a D.S. medal. ! didn't stop to help him, because I knew something had happened. I grabbed the glasses.         297         Far, far up in the sky was that little orange speck--far, where there is almost no air, and he had been forced to wear a stratosphere suit with a little alcohol heater. The broad, orange wings were overlaid now with a faint-glowing, pearl-grey light. And it was falling. Slowly, at first, circling aimlessly downwards. Then it dipped, rose, and somehow went into a tail spin.     It was horrible. I know I must have breathed, but it didn't seem so. It took minutes for it to fall those miles, despite the speed. Eventually it whipped out of that tail spin--through sheer speed, whipped out and into a power dive. It was a ghastly, flying coffin, hurtling at more than half a thousand miles an hour when it reached the Earth, some fifteen miles away.     The ground trembled, and the air shook with the crash of it. We were in the cars and roaring across the ground long before it hit. I was in Bob's car, with Jeff, his laboratory technician--Bob's little roadster he'd never need again. The engine picked up quickly, and we were going seventy before we left the field, jumped a shallow ditch and left the road--the deserted concrete road that led off towards where he must be. The engine roared as Jeff clamped down on the accelerator. Dimly, I heard the major's big car coming along behind us.     left drove like a maniac, but I didn't notice. I knew the thing had done ninety-five, but I think we must have done more. The wind whipped team in my eyes so I couldn't be sure whether I saw mounting smoke and flame or not. With Diesel fuel there shouldn't be but that plane had been doing things it shouldn't. It had been trying out Carter's antigravity coil.     We shot up the flat, straight road across wide, level country, the wind moaning a requiem about the car. Far ahead I saw the side road that must lead off towards where Bob should be, and lurched to the braking of the car, the whine and sing of violently shrieking tyres, then to the skidding comer. It was a sand road; we slithered down it and for all the lightness and power, we slowed to sixty-five, clinging to th seat as the soft sand gripped and clung.     Violently Jeff twisted into a branching cow path and         298         somehow the springs took it. We braked to a stop a quarter of a rfiile from the plane.     It was in a fenced field of pasture and wood lot. We leaped the fence, and raced towards it; Jeff got there first, just as the major's car shrieked to stop behind ours.     The major was cold and pale when he reached us. "Dead," he stated.     And I was very much colder and probably several times as pale. "I don't knowI" I moaned. "He isn't there!"     "Not there," The major almost screamed it. "He must be--he has to be. He had no parachute--wouldn't take one. They say he didn't jump "     I pointed to the plane, and wiped a little cold sweat from my forehead. I felt clammy all over, and my spine priekled. The solid steel of the huge Diesel engine was driven through the stump of a tree, down into the ground pertiaps' eight or nine feet, and the dirt and rock had splashed mder that blow like wet mud.     The wings were on the other side of the field, flattened, twisted straws of dural ahoy. The fuselage of the ship was a perfect silhouette--a longitudinal projection that had flattened in on itself, each separate section stopping only as it hit the ground.     The great torus coil with its strangely twined wrappings of hair-fine bismuth wire was intactl And bent over it, twisted, utterly wrecked by the impact, was the mainwing stringer--the great dural-alloy beam that supported most of the ship's weight in the air. It was battered, crushed on those hair-fine, fragile bismuth wires--and not one of them was twisted or displaced or so much as skinned. The back frame of the ponderous Diesel engine--the heavy supercharger was the anvil of that combination--was cracked and splintered. And not one wire of the hellish bismuth coil was strained or skinned or displaced.     And the red pulp that should have been there--the red pulp that had been a man--wasn't. It simply wasn't there at all. He hadn't left the plane. In the clear, cloudless air, we could see that. He was gone.     We examined it, of course. A farmer came, and another, and looked, and talked. Then several farmers came in old dilapidated cars with their wives and families, and watched.         299         We set the owner of the property on watch and went away--went back to the city for workmen and a truck with a derrick. Dusk was falling. It would be morning before we could do anything, so we went away.     Five of us--the major of the army air force, Jeff Rod-ney, the two Douglass Co. men whose names I never remembered and I--sat in my-our--room. Bob's and Jeff's and mine. We'd been sitting there for hours trying to talk, trying to think, trying to remember every litfie detail, and trying to forget every ghasty detail. We couldn't remember the detail that explained it, nor forget the details that rode and harried us.     And the telephone rang. I started. Then slowly got up and answered. A strange voice, fiat and rather unpleasant,     said: "Mr. Talbot?"     "Yes."     It was Sam Gentry, the farmer we'd left on watch. "There's a man here."     "Yes? What does he want?"     "I dunno. I dunno where he came from. He's either dead or out cold. Gotta funny kind of aviator suit on, with a glass face on it. He looks all blue, so I guess he's dead."     "Lordl Bobl Did you take that helmet off?" I roared. "No, sir, no--no, sir. We just left him the way he was." "His tanks have run out. Listen. Take a hammer, a wrench, anything, and break that glass faceplatel Quickl We'll be there."     Jeff was moving. The major was, too, and the others. I made a grab for the half-empty bottle of Scotch, started out, and ducked back into the closet. With the oxygen bottle under my arm I jumped into the crowded little roadster just as Jeff started it moving. He turned on the horn, and left it that way.     We dodged, twisted, jumped, and stopped with jerks in traffic, then leaped into smooth, roaring speed out towards the farmer's field. The turns were familiar now; we scarcely slowed for them slewing around them. This time Jeff charged through the wire fence. A headlight popped; there was a shrill scream of wire, the wicked zing of wire scratching across the hood and mud guards, and we were bouncing across the field.         30O         gr There were two ',anterns on the ground; three men   car tied others; more men squatted down beside a still figure garbed in a fantastic, bulging, airproof stratosphere suit.         ù They looked at us, open-mouthed, as we skidded to a halt, moving aside as the major leaped out and dashed over with the Scotch. I followed close behind with the oxygen bottle.     Bob's faceplate was shattered, his face blue, his lips blue, and flecked with froth. A long gash across his cheek from the shattered glass bled slowly. The major lifted Bob's head without a word, and glass tinkled inside the helmet as he tried to force whisky down the unconscious ù man's throat.     "Wait!" I called. "Major, give him artificial respiration, and this will bring him around quicker--better." The major nodded, and rose, rubbing his arm with a peculiar expression.     "That's cold!" he said, as he flipped Bib over, and straddled his back. ! held the oxygen bottle under Bob's nose as the major swung back in his arc, and let the raw, cold oxygen gas flow into his nostrils.     In ten seconds Bob coughed, gurgled, coughed violently, and took a deep shuddering breath. His face turned pink almost instantly under that lungful of oxygen, and I noticed with some surprise that he seemed to exhale almost nothing, his body absorbing the oxygen rapidly.     He coughed again; then: "I could breathe a hell of a sight better if you'd get off my back," he said. The major jumped up, and Bob turned over and sat up. He waved me aide, and spat. 'Tm--all right," he said softly.     "Lord, man, what happened?" demanded the major.     a minute. His eyes had the strangest     Bob     sat     silent     for     look--a hungry look--as he gazed about him. He looked at the trees beyond, and at the silent watching men in the light of the lanterns; then up, up to where a myriad stars gleamed and danced and flickered in the clear night sky.     "I'm back," he said softly. Then suddenly he shivered and looked horribly afraid. "But--I'll have to be--then-tOO."     He looked at the major for a minute, and smiled faintly. And at the two Dougiass Co. men. "Your plane was all right. I started up on the wings, as arranged, went     301         way up, till I thought surely I was at a safe height, where the air wasn't too dense and the field surely wouldn't reach to Earth. Lordl--reach to Earthl I didn't guess how far that field extended. It touched Earth--twice.     "I was at forty-five thousand when I decided it was safe, and cut the engine. It died, and the stillness shocked me. It was so quiet. So quiet.     "I turned on the coil circuit, and the dynamotor began to hum as the tubes warmed up. And then--the field hit me. It paralysed me in an instant. I never had a chance to break the circuit, though I knew instantly something was wrong--terribly wrong. But the very first thing it did was to paralyse me, and I had to sit there and watch the instruments climb to positions and meanings they were never meant for.     "I realized I alone was being affected by that coil--I alone, sitting directly over it. I stared at the meters and they began to fade, began to seem transparent, unreal. And as they faded into blankness I saw clear sky beyond them; then for a hundredth of second, like some effect of persistence of vision, I thought I saw the plane falling, twisting down at incredible speed; and the light faded as the Sun seemed to rocket suddenly across the sky and vanish.     "I don't know how long ! was in that paralysed condition, where there was only blankness--neither dark nor light, nor time, nor any form--but I breathed many times. Finally, form crawled and writhed into the blankness, and seemed to solidify beneath me as, abruptly, the blanlcness gave way to a dull red light. I was failing.     "I thought instantly of the forty-five thousand feet that lay between me and the solid Earth, and stiffened automatically in terror. And in the same instant I landed in a deep blanket of white snow, stained by the red light that lighted the world.     "Cold. Cold--it tore into me like the fang of a savage animal. What coldl The cold of ultimate death. It ripped through that thick, insulated suit and slashed at me viciously, as though there were no insulation there. I shivered so violently, I could scarcely turn up the alcohol valves. You know I carried alcohol tanks and catalyst grids for heating, because the only electrical fields I         302         wanted were those of the apparatus. Even used a Diesel instead of gas engine.     "I thanked the Lord for that then. I realized that whatever had happened, I was in a spot indescribably cold and desolate. And in the same instant, realized that the sky was black. Blacker than the blackest night, and yet before me the snow field stretched to infinity, tainted by the blood-red fight, and my shadow crawled in darker red at my feet.     "I turned around. As far as the eye could see in three directions the land swept off in very low, very slightly rolling hills, almost plains--red plains of snow dyed with the dripping light of sunset. I thought.     "In the fourth direction, a wall--a wall that put the Great Wall of China to shame---loomed up half a mile -,a blood-red wall that had the lustre of metal. It stretched acrbss t'he horizon, and looked a scant hundred yards away, for th air was utterly clear. I turned up my alcohol burners a bit more and felt a little better.     "Something jerked my head around like a giant hand --a sudden thought. I stared at the Sun and gulped. It was four times---six times--the size of the Sun I knew. And it wasn't setting. It was forty-five degrees from the horizon. It was red. Blood-red. And there wasn't the slightest bit of radiant heat reaching my face from it. That Sun was cold.     "I'd just automatically assumed I was still on Earth, whatever else might have happened, but now I knew I couldn't be. It must be another planet of another sun--a frozen planet--for that snow was frozen air. I knew it absolutely. A frozen planet of a dead sun.     "And then I changed even that. I looked up at the black sky above me, and in all the vast black bowl of the heavens, not three-score stars were visible. Dim, red stars, with one single sun that stood out for its brilliance --a yellowish-red sun perhaps a tenth as bright as our Sun, but a monster here. It was another--a dead--space. For if that snow was frozen air, the only atmosphere must have been neon and helium. There wasn't any hazy air to stop the light of the stars, and that dim, red sun didn't obscure them with its light. The stars were gone.         303         "In that glimpse, my mind began working by itself; I was scared.     "Scared? I was so scared I was afraid I was going to be sick. Because right then I knew I was never coming back. When I felt that cold, I'd wondered when my oxygen bottles would give out, if I'd get back, before they gave out. Now it was not a worry. It was simply the limiting factor on an already-determined thing, the setting of the time bomb. I had just so much more time before I died right there.     "My mind was working out things, working them out all by itself, and giving answers I didn't want, didn't want to know about. For some reason it persisted in considering this was Earth, and the conviction became more and more fixed. It was right. That was Earth. And it was old SoL Oldld Sol. It was the time axis that coil dis-totted--not gravity at all. My mind worked that out with a logic as cold as that planet.     "If it was time it had distorted, and this was Earth, then it had distorted time beyond imagining, to an extent as meaningless to our minds as the distance of a hundred million light years is. It was simply vast--in-calculable. The Sun was dead. The Earth was dead. And Earth was already, in our time, two billions of years old, and in all that geological time, the Sun had not changed measurably. Then how long was it since my time? The Sun was dead. The very stars were dead. It must have been, I thought even then, billions on billions of years. And I grossly underestimated it.     'e world was old---old--old. The very rocks and ground radiated a crushing aura of incredible age. It was old, older than--but what is there? Older than the hills? Hills? Hell, they'd been born and died and been born and worn away again, a million, a score of million times! Old as the stars? No, that wouldn't do. The stars were dead then.     "I looked again at the metal wall, and set out for it, and the aura of age washed up at me, and dragged at me, and tried to stop this motion when ail motion should have ceased. And the thln unutterably cold wind whined in dead protest at me, and pulled at me with the ghost hands of the million million million that had been born         and lived and died in the counfiess ages before I was         "I wondered as I went. I didn't think clearly; for the dead aura of the dead planet pulled at me. Age. The stars were dying, dead. They were huddled there in space, like decrepit old men, huddling for warmth. The galaxy was shrunk. So tiny, it wasn't a thousand light years across; the stars were separated by miles where there had been light years. The magnificent, proudly sprawling universe I had known, that flung itself across a million million light years, that flung radiant energy through space by the millions of millions of tons was--gone.     "It was dyingma dying miser that hoarded its last broken dregs 9f energy in a tiny cramped space. It was broken and shattered. A thousand billion years before, the cosmical' constant had been dropped from that broken universe. The cosmical constant' that flung giant galaxies whirling apart with ever greater speed had no place here. It had hurled the universe in broken fragments, fill each shattered bit felt the chill of loneliness, and wrapped space about itself, to become a universe in itseff while the flaming galaxies vanished.     'nat had happened so long ago that the writing it had left in the fabric of space itseff had worn away. Only the gravity constant remained, the hoarding constant, that drew things together, and slowly the galaxy collapsed, shrunken and old, a withered mummy.     "The very atoms were dead. The light was cold; even the red light made things look older, colder. There was no youth in the universe. I didn't belong, and the faint protesting rustle of the infinitely cold wind about me moved the snow in muted, futile protest, resenting my intrusion from a time when things were young. It whinnied at me feebly, and chilled the youth of me.     "I plodded on and on, and always the metal wall retreated, like one of those desert mirages. I was too stupefied by the age of the thing to wonder; I just walked on.     "I was getting nearer, though. The wall was real; it was fixed. As I drew slowly nearer, the polished sheen of the wall died, and the last dregs of hope died. I'd thought there might be someone still living behind that         305         wall. Beings who could build such a thing might be able to live, even here. But I couldn't stop then; I just went on. The wall was broken and cracked. It wasn't a wall I'd seen; it was a series of broken walls, knitted by distance to a smooth front.     "There was no weather to age them, only the faintest stirring of faint, dead winds--winds of neon and helium, inert and uncorroding--as deal and inert as the universe. The city had been dead a score of billions of years. That city was dead for a time ten times longer than the age of our planet today. But nothing destroyed it. Earth was dead--too dead to suffer the racking pains of life. The air was dead, too dead to scrape away metal.     "But the universe itself was dead. There was no cosmic radiation then to level the walls by atomic disintegration. There had been a wall--a single metal wall. Something--perhaps a last wandering meteor--had chanced on it in a time incalculably remote, and broken it. I entered through the great gap. Snow covered the city --soft, white snow. The great red sun stood still just where it was. Earth's restless rotation had long since been stilled long, long since.     "There were dead gardens above, and I wandered up to them. That was really what convinced me it was a human city, on Earth. There were frozen, huddled heaps that might once have been men. Little fellows with fear for ever frozen on their faces huddled helplessly over something that must once have been a heating device. Dead perhaps, since the last storm old Earth had known, tens of billions of years before.     "I went down. There were vastnesses in that city. It was huge. It stretched for ever, it seemed, on and on, in its deadness. Machines, machines everywhere. And the machines were dead, too. I went down, down where I thought a bit of light and heat might linger. I didn't know then how long death had been there; those corpses looked so fresh, preserved by the eternal cold.     "It grew dark down below, and only through rents and breaks did that bloody light seep in. Down and down, till I was below the level of the dead surface. The white snow persisted, and then I came to the cause of that final, sudden death. I could understand then. More and         306         more I had puzzled, .for those machines I'd seen i knew were far' and beyond anything we ever conceived--ma-chines of perfection, self-repairing, and self-energizing, self-perpetuating. They could make duplicates of themselves, and duplicate other needed machines; they were intended to be eternal, everlasting.     "But the designers couldn't cope with some things that were beyond even their majestic imaginations---the imaginations that conceived these cities that had lived beyond --a million times beyond--what they had dreamed. They must have conceived some vague future. But not a future when the Earth died, and the Sun died, and even the universe itself died.     "Cold had killed them. They had heating arrangements, devices intended to maintain for ever the normal temperature d.espite the wildest variations of the weather. But in every electrical machine, resistances balance resistances, and induction coils balance condensers, and other inductances. And cold, stark, spatial cold, through ages, threw them off. Despite the heaters, cold crept in colder--cold that made their resistance balances and their induction coils super-conductors! That destroyed the city. Super-conduction--like the elimination of friction, on which all things must rest. It is a drag and a thing engineers fight for ever. Resistance and friction must finally be the rest and the base of all things, the force that holds the great bed-bolts firm and the brakes that stop the machines when needed.     "Electrical resistance died in the cold and the wonderful machines stopped for the replacement of defective parts. And when thoy were replaced, they, too, were defective. For what months must that constant   stot>-- replacement---start---stop--replacement have gone on before, at last defeated for ever, those vast machines must bow in surrender to the inevitable? Cold had defeated and removing the greatest obstacle of the engineers that had built them--resistance.     'hey must have struggled for ever--as we would say --through a hundred billion years against encroaching harshness of nature, for ever replacing worn, defective parts. At last, defeated for ever, the great power plants, fed         3O7         by dying atoms, had been forced into eternal idleness and cold. Cold conquered them at last.     "They didn't blow up. Nowhere did I see a wrecked machine; always they had stopped automatically when the defective resistances made it impossible to continue. The stored energy that was meant to re-start those machines after repairs had been made long since leaked out. lqever again could they move, I knew.     "I wondered how long they had been, how long they had gone on and on, long after the human need of them had vanished. For that vast city contained only a very few humans at the end. What untold ages of lonely func-tloning perfection had stretched behind those at-last-defeated mechanisms?     "I wandered out, to see perhaps more, before the neo-essary end came to me, too. Through the city of death. Everywhere little self-contained machines, cleaning machines that had kept that perfect city orderly and neat stood helpless and crushed by eternity and cold. They must have continued functioning for years after the great central power stations failed, for each contained its own store of energy, needing only occasional recharge from the central stations.     "I could see where breaks had occurred in the city, and, clustered about those breaks were motionless repair machines, their mechanisms in positions of work, the debris cleared away and carefully stacked on motionless trucks. The new beams and plates were partly attached, partly fixed and left, as the last dregs of their energy was fruitlesssly expended in the last, dying attempts of that great body to repair itself. The death wounds lay mended.     "I started back up. Up to the top of the city. It was a long climb, an infinite, weary climb up half a mile of winding ramps, past deserted, dead homes; past, here and there, shops and restaurants; past motionless little automotive passenger cars.     "Up and up, to the crowning gardens that lay stiff and brittle and frozen. The breaking of the roof must have caused a sudden chill, for their leaves lay green in sheaths of white, frozen air. Brittle glass, green and perfect to the         308         touch. Flowers, blooming in wonderful perfection showed still: they didn't seem dead, but it didn't seem they could be otherwise under the blanket of cold.     "Did you ever sit up with a corpse?" Bob looked up at us--through us. "I had to once, in my little home town where they always did that. I sat with a few neighbours while the man died before my eyes. I knew he must die when I came there. He died--and I sat there all night while the neighbours filed out, one by one, and the quiet settled. The quiet of the dead.     "I had to again. I was sitting with a corpse then. The corpse of a dead world in a dead universe, and the quiet didn't have to settle there; it had serried a billion years ago, and only my coming had stirred those feeble, protesting ghosts of eon-dead hopes of that planet to softly wklnlng protest--protest the wind tried to sob to me, the dead wind of/.he dead gases. I'll never be able to call them inert gases again. I know. I know they are'dead gases, the gases of dead worlds.     'And above, through the cracked crystal of the roof, the dying suns looked down on the dead city. I couldn't stay there. I went down. Down under layer after layer of buildings, buildings of gleaming metal that reflected the dim, blood light of the Sun outside in carmine stains. I went down and down, down to the machines again. But even there hopelessness seemed more intense. Again I saw that agonizing struggle of the eternally faithful machines trying to repair themselves once more to serve the masters who were dead for countless eons. I could see it again in the frozen, exhausted postures of thc repair machines, stilled for ever in their hopeless endeavours, the last poor dregs of energy spilled in fruitless conflict with time.     "It mattered little. Time himself was dying now, dying with the city and the planet and the universe he had killed.     "But those machines had tried so hard to serve again --and failed. Now they could never try again. Even they --the deathless machines---were dead.     "I went out again, away from those machines, out into the illimitable corridors, on the edge of the city. I could not penetrate far before the darkness became as absolute         as the cold. I passed the shops where goods untouched by time in this cold, still beckoned those strange humans, but humans for all that; beckoned the masters of the machines that were no more. I vaguely entered one to see what manner of things they used in that time.     "I nearly screamed at the motion of the thing in there, heard dimly through my suit the strangely softened sounds it made in the thin air. I watched it stagger twice--and topple. I cannot guess what manner of storage cells they had--save that they were marvellous beyond imagination. That stored energy that somehow I had released by entering was some last dreg that had remained through a time as old as our planet now. It voic. e was stilled for ever. But it drove me out---on.     "It had died while I watched. But somehow it made me more curious. I wondered again, less oppressed by utter death. Still, some untapped energy remained in this place, stored unimaginably. I looked more keenly, watched more closely. And when I saw a screen in one office, I wondered. It was a screen. I could see readily it was television of some type. Exploratively, I touched a stud. Sound! A humming, soft soundl     "To my mind leaped a picture of a system of these. There must be---interconnected--a vast central office somewhere with vaster accumulator cells, so huge, so tremendous in their power once, that even the little micro-fraction that remained was great. A storage system untouchable to the repair machinesthe helpless, hopeless power machines.     "In an instant I was alive again with hope. There was a strange series of studs and dials, unknown devices. I pulled back on the stud I had pressed, and stood trembling, wondering. Was there hope?     "Then the thought died. What hope? The city was dead. Not merely that. It had been dead, dead, for untold time. Then the whole planet was dead. With whom might I connect? There were none on the whole planet, so what mattered it that there was a communications system.     "I looked at the thing more blankly. Had there been--how could I interpret its multitudinous devices? There was a thing on one side that made me think of a telephone dial for some reason. A pointer over a metal sheet         310         engraved with nine %ymbols in a' circle under the arrow of the pointer. Now the pointer was over what was either the first or the last of these.     "Clumsily, in these gloves, I fingered one of the little Symbol buttons inlaid in the metal. There was an unexpected click, a light glowed on the screen, a lighted image! It was a simple projection--but what a projection! A three-dimensional sphere floated, turning slowly before my eyes, turning majestically. And ! nearly fell as unclear-standing flooded me abruptly. The pointer was a selectorl The studs beneath the pointer I understood Nine of them. One after the other I pressed, and nine spheres--each different--swam before me.     "And right there I stopped and did some hard thinking. Nine spheres. Nine planets. Earth was shown first---a strange planet to me, but one I knew from the relative size and the position of the pointer must be Earth--then, in order, the other eight.     "Now--might there be life? Yes. In those nine worlds there might be, somewhere.     "Where? Mercury--nearest the Sun? No, the Sun was too dead, too cold, even for warmth there. And Mercury was too small. I knew, even as I thought, that I'd have one good chance, because whatever means they had for communication wouldn't work without tremendous power. If those incredible storage cells had the power for even one shot, they had no more. Somehow ! guessed that this apparatus might incorporate no resistance whatever. Here would be only very high frequency alternating current, and only condensers and inductances would be used in it. Super-cooling didn't bother them any. It improved them. lot like the immense direct-current power machinery.     "But where to try? Jupiter? That was big. And then I saw what the solution must be. Cold had ruined these machines, thrown them off by making them perfect conductors. Because they weren't designed to defend themselves aghinst spatial cold. But the machinesif there were any --on Pluto, for instance, must originally have been designed for just such conditions! There it had always been cold. There it always would be cold.     "I looked at that thing with an intensity that should have driven my bare eyesight to Pluto. It was a hope. My         311         only hope. But how to signal Pluto? They could not un-derstandl If there were any 'they'.     "So I had to guess---and hope. Somehow, I knew, there must be some means of calling the intelligent attendant, that the user might get aid. There was a bank of little studs--twelve of them with twelve symbols, each different, in the centre of the panel, grouped in four rows of three. I guessed. Duodecimal system.     'øFalk of the problems of interplanetary communication Was there ever such a one? The problem of an anachronism in the city of the dead on a dead planet, seeking life somewhere, somehow.     'aere were two studs, off by themselves, separate from the twelveone green, one red. Again I guessed. Each of these had a complex series of symbols on it, so I turned the pointer on the right to Pluto, wavered, and turned it to Neptune. Pluto was farther. Neptune had been cold enough; the machines would still be working there, and it would be, perhaps, less of a strain on the dregs of energy that might remain.     "I depressed the green symbol hoping I had guessed truly, that red still meant danger, trouble and wrongness to men when that was built--that it meant release and cancellation for a wrongly depressed key. That left green to be an operative call signal.     'Nothing happened. The green key alone was not enough. I looked again, pressed the green key and that stud I had first pressed.     "The thing hummed again. But it was a deeper note now, an entirely different sound, and there was a frenzied clicking inside. Then. the green stud kicked back at me. The Neptune 'key under the pointer glowed softly; the screen began to shimmer with a greyish light. And, abruptly, the humming groaned as though at a terrific overload; the screen turned dull; the little signal light under Nepttme's key grew dim. The signal was being sent--hurled out.     "Minute after minute I stood there, staring. The screen grew very slowly, very gently duller, duller. The energy was fading. The last stored dribble was being hurled away--away into space. 'Oh,' I groaned, 'it's hopeless--hopeless to "         312         "I'd realized the thing would take hours to get to that distant planet, tra'elling at the speed of light, even if it had been correctly aligned. But the machinery that should have done that through the years probably had long since failed for lack of power.     "But I stood there till the groaning motors ceased altogether, and the screen was as dark as I'd found it, the signal light black. I released the stud then, and backed away, dazed by the utter collapse of an insane hope. Experimentally I pressed the Neptue symbol again. So little power was left now, that only the faintest wash of murky light projected the Neptune image, little energy as that would have consumed.     "I went out. Bitter. Hopeless. Earth's last picture was long, long s'mce painted---and mine had been the hand that spent Earth's last poor resource. To its utter ex-hanstion, the eternal city had striven to serve the race that created it, and I, from the dawn of ffme had, at the end of time, drained its last poor atom of life. The thing was a thing done.     "Slowly I went back to the roof and the dying sun. Up the miles of winding ramp that climbed a half mile straight up. I went slowly--only life knows hasteand I was of the dead.     "I found a bench up thero.--a carved bench of metal in the midst of a riot of colourful, frozen flowers. I sat down, and looked out across the frozen city to the frozen world beyond, and the freezing red Sun.     "I do not know how long I sat there..And then something whispered in my mind.     "'We sought you at the television machine.'     "I leaped from the bench and stared wildly about me. "It was floating in the air---a shining dirigible of metal, ruby-red in that light, twenty feet long, perhaps ten in diameter, bright, warm orange light gleaming from its     ports. I stared at it in amazement.     "'It--it worked!' I gasped.     "øThe beam carried barely enough energy to energize the amplifiers when it reached Neptune, however,' replied the creature in the machine.     "I couldn't see him--I knew I wasn't hearing him, but somehow that didn't surprise me.         313         "'Your oxygen has almost entirely given out, and I believe your mind is suffering from lack of oxygen. I would suggest you enter the lock; there is air in here.'     "I don't know how he knew, but the gauges confirmed his statement. The oxygen was pretty nearly gone. I had perhaps another hour's supply if I opened the valves wide---but it was a most uncomfortably near thing, even $O.     "I got in. I was beaming, joyous. There was life. This universe was not so dead as I had supposed. Not on Earth, perhaps, but only because they did not choosel They had space shipsl Eagerly I climbed in, a strange thrill running through my body as I crossed the threshold of the lock. The door closed behind me with a soft shush on its soft gaskets, locked, and a pump whined somewhere for a moment; then the inner door opened. I stepped in--and instantly turned off my alcohol burners. There was heat heat and light and air!     "In a moment I had the outer lacings loose, and the in-ncr zipper down. Thirty seconds later I stepped out of the suit, and took a deep breath. The air was clean and sweet and warm, invigorating, fresh-smelling, as though it had blown over miles of green sun-warmed fields. It smelled alive and young.     "Then I looked for the man who had come for me. There was none. In the nose of the ship, by the eon-trols, floated a four-foot globe of metal, softly glowing with a warm, golden light. The light pulsed slowly or swiftly with the rhythm of his thoughts, and I knew that this was the one who had spoken to me.     "'You had expected a human?' he thought to me. 'There are no more. There have been none for a time I cannot express in your mind. Ah, yes, you have a mathematical means of expression, but no understanding of that time, so it is useless. But the last of humanity was allowed to end before the Sun changed from the original G-O stage a very, very long time agol'     "I looked at him and wondered. Where was he from? Who---whatwmanner of thing? Was it an armour-encased creature or another of the perfect machines?     "I felt him watching my mind operate, pulsing softly in his golden light. And suddenly I thought to look out     314         of the ports. The dim red suns were wheeling across those ports at an unbelievable rate. Earth was long since gone. As I looked, a dim, incredibly dim, red disc appeared, expanded--and I looked in awe at Neptune.     "The planet was scarcely visible when we were already within a dozen millions of miles. It was a jewelled world. Cities--the great, perfect cities--still glowed. They glowed in soft, golden light above, and below the harsher brighter blue of mercury vapour lighted them.     "He was speaking again. 'We are machines--the ultimate development of man's machines. Man was almost gone when we came.     "'With what we have learned in the uncounted dusty mega-years since, we might have been able to save him. We could not then. It was better, wiser that man end than that he sink down as low as he must, eventually. Evolution is the rise under pressure. Devolution is the gradual 'sinking that comes whela 'there is no pressure--and there is no end to it. Life vanished from this system --a dusty infinity. I cannot sort in my memory--my type memory, truly, for I have complete all the memories of those that went before me that I replace. But my memory ›aunot stretch back to that time you think of--a time when the constellations     "'It is useless to try. Those memories are buried under others, as those still buried under the weight of a billion centuries.     "'We enter' he named a city; I canot reproduce that name--'now. You must return to Earth though in some seven and a quarter of your days, for the magnetic axis stretches back in collapsing field strains. I will be able to inject you into it, I believe.'     "So I entered that city, the living city of machines, that had been when time and the universe were young.     "I did not know then, that, when all this universe had dissolved away, when the last sun was black and cold, scattered dust in a fragment of a scattered universe, this planet with its machine cities would go on--a last speck of warm light in a long-dead universe. I did not know then.     "'You still wonder that we let man die out?' asked the machine. 'It was best. In another brief million' years he would have lost his high estate. It was best.         315         "'Now we go on. We cannot end, as he did. It is automatic with us.'     "I felt it then, somehow. The blind, purposeless continuance of the machine cities I could understand. They had no intelligence, only functions. These machine these living, thinking, reasoning investigators--had only one function, too. Their function was slightly different: they were designed to be eternally curious, eternally investigating. And their striving was the more purposeless of the two, for theirs could reach no end. The cities fought eternally only the blind destructiveness of nature, wear, decay, erosion.     "But their struggle had an opponent for ever so long as they existed. The intelligent--no, not quite intelligent, but something else---curious machines were without opponents. They had to be curious. They had to go on investigating. And they had been going on in just this way for such incomprehensible ages that there was no longer anything to be curious about. Whoever, whatever designed them gave them function and forgot purpose. Their only curiosity was wonder if there might, somewhere, be something tO lear     "That--and the problem they did not want to solve, but must try to solve, because of the blind functioning of their very structure.     "Those eternal cities were limited. The machines saw     now that limit, and so the hope of final surcease in it. They worked on the energy of the atom. But the masses of the suns were yet tremendous. They were dead for want of energy. The masses of the planets were still enormous. But they, too, were dead for want of energy.     "The machines there on Neptune gave me food and drinkmstrange synthetic foods and drinks. There had been none on all the planet. They, perforce, started a machine, unused in a billion years and more, that I might eat. Perhaps they were glad to do so. It brought the end appreciably nearer, that vast consumption of mine.     "They used so very, very little, for they were so perfectly efficient. The only possible fuel in all the universe is one---hydrogen. From hydrogen, the lightest of the elements, the heaviest can be built up, and energy   re     316         leased. They knew how to destroy matter utterly to energy, and coffld do it.     "But while the energy release of hydrogen compounding     to the heavy elements is controllable, the destruction of matter to energy is a self-regenerative process. Started once, it spreads while matter lies within its direct, contiguous reach. It is wild, uncontrollable. It is impossible to utilize the full energy of matter.     "The suns had found that. They had burned that hydrogen until it was a remnant so small the action could not go on.     "On all Earth, there was not an atom of hydrogen--nor was there on any planet, save Neptune. And there the store was not great. I used an appreciable fraction while I was there. That is their last hope. They can see the end,- now.     "I stab, ed 't.hose few days, and the machines came and went. Always investigating, always carious. But there is in all that universe nothing to investigate save the one problem they do not want to solve--the problem they are sure they cannot solve.     'rhe machines took me back to Earth, set up something near me that glowed with a peculiar, steady, grey light. It would fix the magnetic axis on me, on my location, within a few hours. He could not stay near when the axis touched again. He went back to Neptune, but a few millions of miles distant, in this shrunken mummy of the solar system.     "I stood alone on the roof of the city, in the frozen garden with its deceptive look of life.     "And I thought of that night I had spent, sitting up with the dead man. I had come and watched him die. And I sat up with him in the quiet. I had wanted someone, anyone to talk to.     "I did then. Overpoweringly it came to me I was sitting up in the night of the universe, in the night and quiet of the universe, with a dead planet's body, with the dead, ashen hopes of countless nameless generations of men and women. The tmiverse was dead, and I sat up alone--alone in the dead hush.     "Out beyond, a last flicker of life was dying on the         317         planet Neptune--a last flicker of aimless llfe, but not life. Life was dead. The world was dead.     "I knew there would never be another sound here. For all the little remainder of time. For this was the dark and the night of time and the universe. It was inevitable, the inevitable end that had been simply more distant in my day--in the long, long-gone time when the stars were mighty light-houses of a mighty space, not the dying, flickering candles at the head of a dead planet.     "It had been inevitable then; the candles must burn out for all their brave show. But now I could see them guttering low, the last fruitless dregs of energy expiring as the machines below had spent their last dregs of energy in that hopeiess, utterly faithful gesture---to attempt the repair of the city already dead.     'fhe universe had been dead a billion years. It had been. This, I saw, was the last radiation of the heat of life from an already-dead body--the feel of life and warmth, imitation of life by a corpse. Those suns had long and long since ceased to generate energy. They were dead, and their corpses were giving off the last, lingering life heat before they cooled.     "I ran. I think I ran---down away from the flickering, red suns in the sky. Down to the shrouding blackness of the dead city below, where neither light, nor heat, nor life, nor imitation of life bothered me.     'e utter blackness quieted me somewhat. So I turned off my oxygen valves, because I wanted to die sane, even here, and I knew I'd never come back.     "The impossible happened! I came to with that raw oxygen in my face. I don't know how I cameonly that here is warmth and life.     "Somewhere, on the far side of that bismuth coil, evitable still, is the dead planet and the flickering, guttering candles that light the death watch I must keep at the end of time."         "ALL THE INGREDIENTS     OF A MAINSTREAM EPIC."     Galileo Magazine         THE         MASTERS         OF         SOLITUDE         A grand epic of the lone wanderer, the ultimate outcast, the savior of dreams, kings, and the far future by         Marvin Kaye & Parke Godwin         "Borrowing a little from Tolkien and a touch from BRAVE NEW WORLD, the authors have created a first-rate fantasy."     Publlehere Weekly "Brilliant... every page of it holds the reader enthralled. Kaye and Godwin have created a living world."     San Diego Union         )Avon/45112/$2.50         SCIENCE. 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