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Gift of the Manti by JF Bone and Roy Myers

CHAPTER 1

Mantu was ancient. It was old when Earth was formed, and life had appeared on its surface when Earth was still a molten mass. And, as on Earth, life evolved through single cells to complex creatures with organs and systems that could extract sustenance from the waters and land. There were plants and animals, at first scarcely recognizable from one another, and later—as their world grew older—so different that there was no apparent relationship.

And from the swarming life on Mantu, one animal evolved in a different direction from the others. It was unspecialized to a high degree. It had a large and functioning brain and an excellent peripheral nervous system. It developed a system of locomotion that permitted its limbs and digits a certain amount of freedom. It learned to use tools. It domesticated other animals. It grew plants and trees that were useful to it, and in the course of time it developed a civilization, a technology and a world government.

All this was not attained without struggle. There were at first other animals on the threshold of intelligent life. These had to be destroyed. Then the local groups and tribes had to be united. This resulted in wars, but these were fortunately brief since the Manti were more philosophical than military and often allowed aggressive individuals to gain power with only token resistance. As a result, Mantu was spared the wars that marked the growth of civilizations on other worlds, and in a surprisingly short time there was a planetary government and a ruling class that absorbed the most aggressive individuals. The most aggressive of the ruling class was named First Citizen, or Mantiser, and ruled until another more dominant individual replaced him. At first, replacement was by combat, but later the informal Van-Ian or challenge fight was replaced by the Van-bar or formal battle. Still later, as the race matured, the Van-bar was replaced by a computer that scanned all adult Manti and selected the one most fit to rule. The Mantiser selected advisers and ruled for a mandatory period of five years, after which the ruler’s qualifications were reviewed against those of new aspirants. After 15 years the Mantiser was retired from office and stripped of power. Originally the ruler was ritually slain, but later this procedure was abandoned.

This stable rule brought slow but inexorable development, since the aggressive rulers could not stand stasis. Great public works were accomplished. Climate control was established. Space flight commenced. Population control was established. Agriculture was automated. Life span increased. Genetic engineering became a reality, and Mantu became a virtual garden of delight for its inhabitants until the Zerkan Invasion taught the gentle and philosophical Manti that good things had to be defended or else they would be lost to barbarians.

The Zerkans ruled Mantu for nearly 5000 years until the Great Mantiser—sometimes called the Liberator—led a revolt that overthrew them and cast them out. And thereafter, the shrunken number of Manti never neglected the defense of their world, and they were never again invaded. The incredible circumstances that permitted a few hundred thousand Zerkans to dominate several billions of Manti were never repeated.

But something had happened to the Manti. The Zerkans had ruthlessly slaughtered every Manti who showed aggressive tendencies, and the gene pool for drive and aggressive outlook so necessary in a successful ruler or ruling class was almost exterminated. Had it not been for Underground’s gene banks, the trait would have vanished from the planet, and the Great Mantiser would never have appeared to free his people from slavery. The long centuries of oppression had also built a latent telepathic trait among some Manti into a fully aware sensitivity that allowed one Manti to look inward to the motivations and intents of another. It made for excellent communication when ideas needed to be presented as a gestalt, or when intangible concepts required definition—but it had great disadvantages for political opportunists and made relations other than casual friendship or brief liaisons virtually impossible. Telepathy destroyed intimacy. The Zerkans’ slave society was never reorganized along earlier familial lines. The Manti lived by themselves. Children were raised in creches, and the essentially cooperative Old Society changed into the essentially individualistic New Society with its distressing tendencies toward excesses and anarchy.

The Great Mantiser recognized this and managed to organize Manti technology into one last gigantic effort that established the Second Computer Civilization. At the Liberator’s death the switch was thrown that irrevocably set the course for the future of the world. Computers—incredibly complex, self-repairing, self-replacing machinery—that operated on levels above and beyond Manti capabilities took over the government and industry of the world. Their basic program was service to Manti, and they served their fleshly masters so well that within a dozen generations nine-tenths of the Manti were either dead of boredom or sunk in such ignorant and slothful existence that they were hardly more than lumps of sentient putty. The machines did everything— better, faster, more efficiently, more effectively. And nine out of ten Manti could not compete. And being unable to compete, they died—killed by kindness, thoughtfulness and tender loving care.

For a while, the tenth part of the Manti survived. They learned painfully and slowly that there were things the computers could not do, and operating beyond and beside the fields the computers had preempted, they learned how to use the machines and how to ignore them. They learned to appreciate beauty and to apply genetics to create beauty as well as utility in living things. They turned themselves into healthy, intelligent and beautiful folk in whom no blemish could be seen. Yet they managed to avoid the sameness that destroys beauty, for they understood that no matter how perfect a thing may be, if all of its units are alike it is not beautiful. Therefore each thing they created—including themselves—had the subtle variations that are the mark of beauty rather than mechanical perfection. They became—in a word—gods.

And yet even gods get bored. As the generations passed, the population climbed, then stabilized, then declined as older Manti, bored with a surfeit of knowledge and experience, killed themselves. Suicide, the Manti once again discovered, was a permanent cure for boredom. It did what neither time, nor invaders, nor benevolent computers could do. It began to eliminate the race.

Finally, simply to maintain the race, the adults turned banks of sperm and ova over to the computers and dealt with sex only on terms of mutual pleasure. The reproductive phase had been given to those mechanical entities who could handle it better than the Manti.

And the computer began matching compatible genes and bringing paired Manti into the world who could live with each other. Not being cursed with either morality or a moral sense, the pairings that issued from the creches were as often male-male and female-female as mixed sex. It made for an interesting social life, but even this could pall.

It would not be too many more millennia before Mantu would be an ice world lifelessly circling a ball of darkness.

The Manti knew this, but they did not worry about it. The computers knew this and they did not care until the signs were so apparent that they triggered the computer’s First Commandment: THOU SHALT NOT, BY ACTION OR INACTION, ALLOW THE MANTI, THY MAKERS, TO COME TO HARM. And so circuits were built and energized; data were scanned; predictions were made; specifications were developed; and new orders were sent to the gene pools and the mother surrogates. Near the death time of the Mantu system, a new race came into being.

Jadnasharian was among the first of the new breed, and his wry paradoxes stimulated generations of Manti thought and set the mental course of the Manti along lines not previously explored. Zen and Zog were two who came a few generations later. Shortly thereafter, the computers produced no new Manti. The final generation would last well past the time the homeworld became uninhabitable.

To all appearances the new breed looked like others of that highly evolved race, but there were subtle differences. First, and foremost, they were produced in dichotomous pairs. Second, and almost as important, they were compatible and in love with each other, although they were not aware of love in either word or meaning. Zen was female and Zog was male, although the words male and female were not strictly applicable to their reproductive functions. Zog was more aggressive; Zen was more harmonious. Third, they had minds that appreciated irony and Jadnasharian paradoxes. Their real names were far more complex than the short forms would indicate. Zen’s, for instance, was Zenandravartha, which was in itself a contraction of gametic variants derived from more than 2000 recorded ancestors. Zog’s was Zogenarthrovaldi and, although his recorded variations were from a somewhat lesser npmber of ancestors, it was a combination that meshed with Zen’s and would, if they wished, produce compatible and stable offspring. For unlike the earlier Manti, they were not only fertile, but physically capable of having offspring. Although they were young and in the prime of life, they had each spent nearly four centuries acquiring the knowledge of their race. There was no need to hurry. It would be more than ten thousand years before the catastrophic fading of Mantu’s sun would begin.

Part of a group of some 500 couples who could colonize a primitive world discovered in Zalathesar Quadrant, they were ultimately destined for Colony Gamma. The world contained no intelligent life and by Manti standards this made it fit for colonization. The fact that except for size, gravity and sun, the world was the utter antithesis of Mantu made no difference. Its orbit would be rearranged, its ecology adapted, its earthquakes tamed, its seasons regulated and in ten thousand years or so it would be a useful and livable world.

Zen and Zog wandered through Mantu, living where they pleased, studying as they wished, enjoying to the full the hedonic pleasures of a perfected world.

CHAPTER 2

Zog watched the setting sun with Zen beside him. The landscape was bathed in ruby light and the air was chill. He took one of her hands in his and they stood in silent communion until the light vanished and the heat fields formed around their bodies. They had no desire to taste the ultimate experience of death. They were not bored. Each day was a new excitement. They took great care in selecting their day’s activities; almost as much care as they spent in the selection of their food. An ordinary mortal could afford to spend his brief existence as he wished and behave as fancy dictated, for whatever the problems, they would shortly be dissolved by death. A virtually immortal Manti, however, must carefully arrange activities so as to achieve a natural and graceful balance between work and play and rest. The problem of avoiding boredom was paramount.

We have less and less left, thought Zog somberly. Their normal method of communication when discussing subjects with emotional content was mental; otherwise they spoke or telepathed as the mood moved them. It made little difference, since thoughts always accompanied and enriched the words. The only time they needed to vocalize was to the computers and their examiners, for the computer projections, like the computers themselves, could not read thoughts.

Zen radiated sadness. “This is our home and if we leave it, we shall never return. We shall be lost between the stars in the dichotomy of subjective and objective time. If we should ever return it would be to a dead world. It took 1000 objective years for the original explorers to go and return. And who knows for sure what 1000 years will do to Mantu in her old age. I don’t think I would ever want to come back.

“Day bright for night dark,” Zen added, nodding at the window, “and who, merely by looking, can tell the real from the illusion?”

“It is time to eat,” said Zog.

Zen walked into the next room followed by Zog, who dismissed philosophy with increasing hunger pains. They stopped before a strip of beautifully veined marble, which projected from one wall and served as a table. Zen followed the traditional practice that decreed that the female was the cook, and although Zog was no tyro at the flavor keyboard, he was more than willing to let her be responsible for the meals since she was a mistress of gastronomic pleasures.

“What do you fancy?” she asked.

Zog reviewed the basic menu programmed into the culinary computer. He gazed at it idly, thinking of the delightful variations Zen would include in the recipe to add inspiration to their meal. Zen smiled at him and projected a sensation that left him quivering with delight. “Switch your mind off, darling, while I concoct the sauces, or you will spoil your dinner by anticipating reality,” she said. “And let me create in peace.”

As he paced about nearby, Zen wondered at his increasing uneasiness, for mealtime was a pleasure of the day and not to be treated lightly.

Time passed and Mantu’s tired sun hovered on the edge of death. They had passed their last grueling formal examination and learned with mild surprise that formal study was not the end of knowledge. They had remained on Mantu and for uncounted centuries enjoyed their essentially useless lives. They were masters of matter. Their knowledge was vast and encyclopedic, covering virtually everything except the purpose of the universe and the meaning of life. These questions, their philosophers insisted, would never be answered. But they were not joyful and triumphant at their successful mastery of formal knowledge. Nor were they proud that their minds did not forget. They eyed the sun and held hands like fearful children. What would they do now? Their world was ending. They would have to leave or die with it when their sun burned out. And that would be soon. It would not nova. That had been corrected long ago. Yet it would die, and in dying it would kill all life that remained in its system. They looked at each other, and Zog spoke slowly. “Our choice is simple. Shall we go or stay?”

Zen squeezed his hand and looked at the night sky through the transparency above them. It blazed with constellations.

“What will happen to us out there if we go?” she asked.

“Adventure, new planets to explore, new life forms to experience.”

“And if we remain?”

“We shall be forced to retire to the interior of the planet, where our boredom will eventually overtake us.”

“Boredom,” murmured Zen. “It has already robbed us of many friends.”

“Reluctance to leave is an emotional reaction,” Zog intoned, “an atavistic survival of the birth fear. The same emotional complex in leaving the womb is involved in leaving forever the planet of our birth. If we recognize this on a visceral level, it loses its terror.”

“I know the psychological explanation, Zog, but that does not alter my feelings. I like it here.”

“Do not worry, Zen,” he said, “you will like it out there once the shock has passed.” He waved a hand at the constellations overhead.

“I have already compensated for shock,” she replied.

He looked at her sharply. “Are you then ready to leave Mantu?”

She nodded.

Those who had preceded them into space had left the construct mech behind, as well as the tapes and orders that had driven the fabrication machines. These cast the shapes and formed the engines and living machines that made a Mantu spacecraft a completely self-contained environment. Such a craft could support Manti for eons, perhaps forever, with a minimal amount of maintenance and repair. A Mantu ship was the planet in miniature. It contained every germane device the world possessed and could support and maintain Manti in the state of elegance to which they were accustomed. The ship therefore was huge, a gigantic sphere several kilometers in diameter, filled with engines, computers and servomechs, operating in timeless fields of pure energy. Despite the Manti knowledge of matter and incredible engineering skills, the mechanisms of the ship still took up space. The library alone needed more than a cubic kilometer of microminiaturized circuitry, and the other appurtenances of life were huge in bulk; in complexity they boggled even the gigantic intellects of Zog and Zen. But a structure that must support almost immortal life must necessarily be huge even though there were only two lives to support.

The two Manti commenced their labor with conceptualizations, which were turned into hardware by the planet’s servomechs and computers. The task was eased somewhat by the general system requirements that had already been laid down by earlier space travelers. Yet it still was a mighty task. The amount of specialized machinery to be fitted into the hull frames was staggering. The ship, like the world that created it, could utilize solar and cosmic radiation and the power of the atom. Unlike the world, it could move freely through normal space and the Cth continuum and could travel at speeds beside which the speed of light was a crawl. It could fabri-cate virtually anytning from raw matter, from the hydrogen atoms of interstellar space, from the debris left over from the formation of the Universe, from the stripped helium atoms of the solar winds. Anything—literally anything—was grist for the spaceship’s mill. As long as matter could exist, the ship would operate.

The construction proceeded slowly since Zen and Zog were not in any hurry, and time was of no immediate consequence. Everything must be done perfectly.

Finally the ship was finished, and the details of its construction recorded for any future travelers. Zog and Zen spent a few more years visiting their remaining friends and saying farewell. More than one Manti eyed them with envy and despair, for the pair had a completeness most of them lacked.

But finally the last farewell was made and the last corner of their homeworld visited. They stood alone beside the cylindrical shuttlecraft that would carry them to their vessel, possibly their home for eternity.

CHAPTER 3

‘Do you have Mantu’s coordinates?” Zen asked.

Zog looked at her and viewed her thoughts, wondering a little at their nostalgia.

“I am eager to go,” Zen insisted, “but we shall soon be lost among the stars. Mantu’s coordinates are of no value to us, but it is comforting to think that they can always be retrieved. I would not want to cut our ties completely.”

“I understand,” Zog said. “Mantu is logged in the computer and in our minds. It will never be entirely gone. I, too, recognize the meaning of our choice, and I had the computer store all the data necessary for us to find our world if we wished.” He touched her with the ritual gesture of eternal union, went into the space that served as the control room and seated himself before the deceptively simple controls.

A voice in the submissive mode intoned, “All systems operative.”

“Search pattern A,” Zog said in the command mode. “Linear at Lume 500 along fourth galactic referent outward. Search to limit of detectors. Check all F-, G-, and H-type suns of mass equivalent to Mantu solar standard plus or minus ten percent. Stop and inform when search-pattern data match criteria.”

“Acknowledged. I am to compute all ancillary data—query?”

“Affirmative. Execute.”

“One moment,”, Zen said in the command inflection. With an expression of surprise, Zog turned and looked at her.

“Holding,” the computer said.

“How long will Mantu be viable if we travel at Lume 500?”

“Do you wish exact computation?”

“Negative. Nearest year will do.”

“In 47 standard years at Lume 500, Mantu’s sun will be dead. Ultimate survival of planetary mass does not compute on my capabilities.”

“Such a short time,” Zen whispered. “Thank you, computer.”

“Shall I execute?” the computer asked.

“Do so,” said Zog.

The ship aligned itself along the referent and fled through the void at 500 lumes and slowly entered a region far from Mantu. Sensors probed circumambient space and reported to the computer. Finally a report came that agreed with the basic data, and the computer brought the vessel to an instantaneous stop, rotated the ship out of the hyperspace continuum and informed the Manti that a system had been found.

There was a way for the Manti to visually observe what the sensors recorded. Since there was no inertia in hyperspace, the ship could be brought to a dead stop instantaneously, and scanners could be focused upon the object that had triggered the alarm. By a cyborg linkage, through a special garment much like a space suit, the star travelers could link their sensory apparatus to the scanner and literally ride the beam as it scanned. The chilling illusion was so real that the speed of the beam’s transit could cause vertigo and shock. To an untrained mind it could be fatal, but that particular danger aroused no fear in either of the Manti. Both were trained in the use of scanner equipment, which was a common method of communication on Mantu. .

Zog brought the ship out of Cth as close to the planet as he dared and put it into a polar orbit some twenty-five thousand kilometers above the surface. As the entire surface of the sphere unrolled beneath the ship, he donned the scanner controls and rode the beam to the surface of the planet. His perception stayed at about the 100-meter level above the polar surface and hurtled along at dizzying speeds through the ice fields and hummocks that composed the polar landscape. The projection plowed sickeningly through upthrust fangs of ice, and he flinched involuntarily as the beam sliced through the frozen water, for it seemed as if his body was crashing into the ice peaks at three kilometers a second!

The polar landscape gave way to low mountains and forested plains that gradually became savannas across which a number of oddly shaped animals skimmed. Zog rose over another range of mountains to come to a narrow coastal plain and a great wave-topped wilderness of steel-gray water. Presently Zen joined him.

A sea! How wonderful! Zen’s thought bloomed in his mind. A real water planet! How strange!

Zog released the sensor controls to his mate and returned his perceptions back to the spaceship. He felt cold. The trip through the icy polar regions had chilled him to the bone, even though his body was safely and warmly enclosed by the ship. It never ceased to amaze him that mere sensory impressions could produce such physical responses in his body. Perhaps there was more to learn about sensory physiology than his studies had discovered.

They spent several weeks in polar orbit, scanning and mapping until they had covered every centimeter of the planet’s face. They descended to the surface and brought back specimens of life, which they examined in minute detail under scanners and probes before returning the bewildered creatures to the areas they had been taken from.

“I love this world,” Zen said. “It’s so strange. It should take us a millenium to classify this mass of data. Even now I find it hard to conceive of a world whose surface is 80 percent water. The actions of the winds and atmospheres are so different than those on Mantu.”

“There is a difference between F-and H-type stars,” Zog said.

“Don’t pontificate, dear. I know that as well as you do. What I’m trying to say is that the application of theory is far more fascinating than the theory itself. We have truly found the solution of our problem. If other worlds are like this I cannot see how we will ever be bored.

“The best estimates calculate at least twenty million suns in this galaxy capable of having planetary systems that will support life. Using our early exploration trips as a parameter we can assume that ten percent of these solar systems will contain life and that two percent of the life-bearing systems will be unusual enough to be studied. Our earlier explorations indicate that at least 20 standard years will be required to complete preliminary studies of a single planet. Therefore—considering transit time— it would take at least sixty million years to do a preliminary study of the life forms, geology and solar mechanics of this galaxy alone,” Zen said. Her face mirrored a deep contentment.

The computer broke in—softly so as not to rudely disturb even so trivial a conversation. Computers were programmed to be polite when there was no emergency.

“Pardon me,” it said, “but my scan has located what appears to be intelligent life.”

“Coordinates,” Zen said.

“Longitude 15°-2’-25.42” west of baseline A, Latitude 2°-15’-10.35” north of equatorial plane. I can furnish more accurate location data in 12 seconds if necessary.”

“It’s good enough,” Zen said. “I’m going down.” She hurried away to the control room to don her sensyr-suit. Zog watched her go with a hint of amusement in his mind.

From the ship, she manipulated the controls, and her perception sank into a strange green world of swaying plants and gentle currents and swimming forms that moved through and around her like figures in a dream. Brilliantly colored growths waved their fronds to and fro, as if to welcome her. Life abounded. Shining forms of myriad colors, shapes and sizes swam and darted in all directions. The ocean floor was covered with the debris of vanished life. Shells lay everywhere. Corals glowed; nacreous glints gleamed from open shells. It was as though a giant jewel box had been opened and its contents spread haphazardly among the sands and rocky crevices of the ocean floor. The profusion of life astonished her. It was totally unexpected; the relatively scant air-breathing life forms had conditioned her for nothing like this. She moved the controls in her sensyr suit and began to move forward through the water. A school of small fish flashed in silver terror on her left as a dark green torpedo shape swept through them, its jaws opening and closing as it fed. The survivors, hardly diminished in number, flicked away out of sight. She felt a tap on her head and resisted the impulse to look up through the water. Nothing could touch her here. She was invisible. The touch was on her real body in the ship some thousands of kilometers overhead, and it was Zog touching her. She returned to reality with a reluctant sigh.

“Did you see anything interesting?” Zog asked.

“Everything was interesting,” she said.

“Did you find the intelligent life?”

“Not yet. You didn’t give me time enough to search.”

“I think we should do it together. I’ve put the ship into a stationary orbit that will not decay, and we can stay here indefinitely.”

CHAPTER 4

The life forms were unusual, finned and fluked like dolphins, with two long handling tentacles where pectoral fins should be. Thefr heads were round and set on short, flexible necks. Their faces were delicate and oddly beautiful, except for their pointed teeth. Their necks were creased with gill slits and they breathed through half-open mouths. Their skins were smooth and hairless, greenish along the back, shading to pale yellow along the belly line. They wore a curious pouched apron tied around their necks and bodies and moved gracefully with barely visible motions of their flukes.

Had Zog been human, he would have thought of mermaids, but since he was not he thought of fish with intellect. They had the necessary criteria: the eyes to see, the brain to think, the hands to build. Zog had the impression that they were about two meters long, although he had no way of verifying that idea

He estimated that there were about 500 in the colony. The sandy floor was covered with their dwellings—stone domes pierced at regular intervals with small holes. The domes varied in size, but not in shape, and were arranged in a circle, ten to 20 deep, around a central area of flat, smooth sand. In the center was a long stone table. Rods projected from it at regular intervals. The Manti moved into one of the domes. The lower part was lined with a thick wall, which formed a continuous wide shelf around the inner margin and appeared to serve as both table and bed. Along one section rods projected from the ledge and between two of them a female was cutting up a large fish. She had a pair of large, well-formed mammary glands; a smaller edition of herself was nursing at one, a ludicrous expression of peace and contentment on its round baby face.

“Aren’t they charming?” said Zen.

“Would you like to live their lives?” Zog asked.

“We could enter two young ones and grow with them,” Zen said. “It should be an interesting experience.”

“What about communication?” asked Zog.

“We can telepath each other and pick up the spoken language as we live with them.”

“We must choose a very young pair to do that,” said Zog. “Otherwise the actions of our hosts could be very strange to their friends.”

“We shall watch for a newborn pair,” suggested Zen. “Twins are not uncommon among these beings. And in the meantime I’ll lock our beams in on the community table. It’s a good marker and we can come back to it without trouble.” Zen made the necessary adjustments of the scanner and for a while the Manti watched and waited.

They christened the creatures “ferbies,” after a birdlike animal on Mantu that made similar sounds, and they searched the domes regularly until they found a female with fraternal twins: one of each sex. The babies were precocious and could already swim.

Indeed, except for feeding they seemed to be perfectly capable of caring for themselves.

As time passed the Manti filled their memories with sensory impressions that were at times indescribable, since there were no referents in their experience to which the sensations could be tied. New concepts had to be created to accommodate them. Only seldom did they return to their bodies aboard the ship. They were engrossed in their new lives and resented the time they had to spend away from them. Finally they modified the computer to hold them on a complete life-support system and remained constantly within their ferbie hosts. Everything was so new and strange that they had to savor and resavor it.

Swiftly they grew from infants to juveniles and acquired the language and the customs of the group. Until puberty there were no sexual taboos, and because of their fishlike conformation, intercourse took place with a pair lying on their sides facing each other. It was not until Zog began making sex plajS with her that Zen understood the games children were playing. It shocked her a bit, mainly because of the genetic aspects, but since prepubertal ferbies were infertile she consoled herself that it made no difference. But she was wrong. Sex among the ferbies was/w/i!

Every so often the ferbies would go hunting for the giant swordfish whose elongated bill, suitably split and cut, formed the rods that took the place of chairs and the weapons with which the fish was hunted. Zog and Zen, as young adults, joined in their first hunt. They swam through the water armed with sharp spears. All knew what they had to do. When the big fish was sighted they englobed it and waited until it gaped its jaws and charged. Then the circle in front would expand while that behind closed in and speared the fish in the belly. As the fish turned in anger and pain the globe would widen, and at the charge the ferbies in the rear would again close and stab. Time after time the play was repeated, until the fish was weakened from many wounds. Then the hunters closed in for the kill and the huge bplk was towed home.

Zog and Zen had set up house together and built a dome in one of the less crowded parts of the perimeter. Zog had fitted the dome with a pivoted door that could be opened and closed and gave them some privacy. Other ferbies imitated them and while the oldsters thought it was a silly fad, the idea of a door spread until virtually all the new domes had them.

On Mantu where one could have virtually anything for the asking, it was impossible to be jealous over material possessions, and the Manti had long ago extended generosity to personal relationships. It was therefore completely in character for Zog to tell Zen about his affair with Acria, a young and nubile maiden whom he had discovered at an appropriate time on the outskirts of the village. He had been looking for adventure and she was eager to cooperate. He had taught her much of the highly developed Manti art of love—as much, perhaps, as could be performed in these aquatic bodies, and in time Zog became enamored.

“I knew you had found something wonderful,” said Zen as they met in the village square after one of the youth revels they both enjoyed so much. “I am very pleased for you. What is she like and how does she behave?”

Zog promptly began a detailed delineation of Acria’s charms, her delightful idiosyncrasies and developing abilities as a partner. He told with possessive pride the deft touches and movements she had innovated to add to their mutual pleasure.

Yet Zog’s liking for Acria was not a mere search for physical pleasure, nor was Zen’s interest in it mere voyeurism. Their reactions were more like those connoisseurs have for lovely works of art. It was contemplation of beauty for the sake of beauty and the esthetic delight in something truly rare and lovely.

Zen, who had been experimenting with physical sexuality on a grand scale, eventully became pregnant. She told Zog instantly and communicated the excitement with which she was anticipating birth and motherhood. Zog was pleased for her, but it occurred to him that she had better select a potential mate, for unpaired mothers were not looked upon with too great favor by the ferbies. Since the female had the right to select her consort, the problem wasn’t too bothersome, and Zen decided to postpone it until after the next swordfish hunt. One was planned for the near future since the village was again short of rods, and without them no new domes could be built.

As usual the young ferbies flocked to the excitement; a large troup of them set out for the coral canyons where the great fish lurked. Soon they flushed out a young giant fish with a long sharp bill, an ideal source of food and building material. They used the conventional englobement technique and for a while everything went well. The great fish attacked in one direction and then in the other, but suddenly they lost control of him. Possibly a spear injured a nerve trunk. Or perhaps this fish was a different type than the others. Whatever the cause, the beast went berserk. Instead of turning when attacked it charged those in front of it. The ferbies fled in panic. Zen and a group of others swam desperately to avoid the toothy jaws, but the ferbies* maximum speed was no match for the fish.

Zen had grown up as a ferbie from infant to maturity and her identification was complete. In her fear she was unable to detach her mind from her host. She forgot everything, and for all the chance she had of escaping, she might just as well have stayed still. The jaws opened and closed and Zen was bitten rfeatly in two. She felt a moment of ghastly pain and only then was she able to move. Instantly she returned to the ship. Zog was only a moment behind. He turned off the computer fields and carried her to the living room and applied restoratives. It was only a matter of moments before she was relatively normal, although somewhat weakened by shock and reaction.

“You waited too long,” Zog said. “I thought you had better control.”

“So did I,” she said shajcily.

“Why did you wait? Did you get some masochistic pleasure out of being chopped in two?”

“Not at all. I was simply too closely identified with my host. The ferbie’s body had become my own.”

He coded a drink slightly on the heavier side than usual and reclined opposite her. “I don’t want to do that again,” he said. “I aged a millennium when that fish bit you. I didn’t know what to do.” He shivered and gulped his drink and shivered again at the bite of the ethanol.

“Horrible,” she said. “It was painful, and I knew I was dead.”

“Do you want to return?”

“No, I’ve had enough. But what about you? There is still your Acria.”

“Not really. It is different now that I am back in my own body. I shall be quite happy to continue our journey.”

CHAPTER 5

Sir Leonard Cass was a fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society and a professor of astronomy at the University of London. He thought of himself as firm and constant. His colleagues considered him to be stubborn and opinionated, and if he were not so secure in his position by virtue of tenure and excellent work, he would long ago have been removed to some noncritical post in the College of Astronomy.

But Sir Leonard, whatever his faults, was a hard and meticulous worker and had made many worthwhile contributions to the field he truly loved. He had spent most of the night at the telescope and now sat slumped behind his desk trying to recover a little of the strength he expended so generously in the pursuit of science.

John Wielant, his assistant, appeared holding a rack of photographs. He was a dark, athletic young man with thick wrestler’s shoulders, an engaging smile and a shock of well-groomed brown hair. Right now his pleasant features were pinched into a frown and his smile was absent. “There is something strange about these plates, sir,” he said.

“In what way?” asked Sir Leonard.

Wielant laid one of the photographs on his desk.

It was still curled from the dryer and stood up at the edges. Sir Leonard pressed it flat. “Some of the stars are missing, sir.”

Wielant produced another plate and laid it beside the first.

“We took that a year ago.” Then, pointing to the recent exposure, added, “This is the same area. There are some stars missing in the new film present on this first plate.”

Sir Leonard examined the two photos. The discrepancy was obvious. A whole segment of stars was gone. “Hmm… odd… I expect it is an occlusion.”

“By what, sir?”

“I’m not prepared to say.” The old man looked at his assistant. “However, I suppose you are filled with ideas. You might favor me with a few.”

“I think there is a hole in space, a black hole.”

“Rubbish!” said Sir Leonard.

“But the stars aren’t there, and there’s a black circle where they were. If it isn’t a hole, then what is it?”

“An occlusion. A dark star, a speck of dust on the camera lens, an atmospheric disturbance, but not a black hole. Aren’t you aware of the mechanics of such a thing? They simply aren’t found in dense star populations. Good heavens! It would have a better chance of being an alien spaceship than a black hole. Leave the plates. I wish to examine them. We’ll make another set tonight and see if the discrepancy is still there.” Sir Leonard turned his attention back to the photographs and ignored Wielant, who stood for a moment and then left the office.

John Wielant decided he’d ride his motorcycle down to Brighton after he’d had a few hours sleep. There was always lots more going on than here in Hurstmonceux, which, despite its romantic name, was damnably unromantic. Maybe he’d run into Jill— now there was a girl with a romantic name. Quite probably she had a romantic nature, too, but he’d had no luck uncovering it. He shrugged. She was worth chasing. If it weren’t for the interest she had in her job, he might get further than he had.

Jill Belove was a reporter on the Brighton Gazette, a slim, large-eyed girl who liked her job. She also liked John Wielant, although she had the distinct impression that he was a womanizer and none too faithful or moral. Yet he was exciting and she looked forward to his company. She handled him quite well, she thought.

It was late in the afternoon and they were lying on the springy turf of the downs after a quick ride and a slow walk in the country. He eased next to her and slipped an arm around her waist. She looked at him with neutral eyes as he kissed her. She returned the kiss with minimal passion that repelled him even as it excited him.

“Damn your eyes!” he murmured.

“It’s not the time nor the place,” she said. “How about telling me about the news at the observatory, if there is any news.”

“You should be burned for a witch,” he said drawing away sulkily. “Damned succubus!”

She smiled at him in all innocence. “Well?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, something funny did happen last night,” he said.

She was immediately interested and snuggled her ear closer to his lips. He bit it not too hard, and she squealed, not too loudly.

“Tell me,” she urged.

“Nothing much.” She would have to coax it out of him, he thought, if she wanted to know. But she suddenly turned cold. Damn! The woman was fey. She had second sight or maybe she knew him well enough to know what he was planning.

“Some stars have disappeared,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “But that’s impossible.”

“There’s a hole in space, and it’s gobbling up a whole star cluster.” Her reporter’s dramatic instinct was aroused. It was “A Hole in Space” that did it. It was a wonderful title for an article.

John Wielant worked hard that night and a duplicate series of photographs was taken. The missing stars had returned. So much for black holes, John thought, but he hadn’t heard the last of them. That morning the editor of Jill’s paper telephoned Sir Leonard about the missing stars. Sir Leonard admitted that a plate was defective or there was technical fault in the previous night’s photographs and that was enough authorization for the eager editor. Jill’s article was published…

The Russians had successfully launched another satellite. It was orbiting and transmitting data that might or might not be valuable. Everything was going fine until the bird suddenly stopped singing, and no amount of effort from ground control could activate it. Its orbit was known and its projected path was tracked with micrometnc exactitude. Search radar converged upon where it should be. It wasn’t there. Somehow it had utterly vanished from space. Russian ambassadors hinted darkly at reprisals, and all of a sudden the bird was back in orbit singing as sweetly as it had before it disappeared. A subliminal sense of uneasiness permeated the Ministry of Space. For the bird had flown for a while and no one knew where it had gone.

The press, of course, had a field day…

Henry Gossick was a serious, moral, sober young man with a few other redeeming qualities. He had served a hitch in the Royal Marines and presently earned a living as a drug salesman—not the addictive kind, but the curative kind. His firm supplied him with a car, and he enjoyed driving around the countryside. He wished to settle down and was looking for a girl, as undistinguished as himself, who would make a good wife and raise undistinguished children. Modern females who flaunted their freedom of dress and behavior and spoke of women’s liberation terrified him. He wanted a shy and modest type, someone like Sarah Minchin, the typist from a small village in Sussex. He had known her for some time.

She was a proper girl; so proper, in fact, that he had not yet managed to kiss her. Tonight he hoped to discover if she was capable of love. He had arranged things well and the weather was cooperative. It was a warm summer evening, and they walked through the sunset and the gathering dusk. He had previously reconnoitered the route they had followed; it passed a field where a hayrick stood with heaps of sweet-smelling hay at its base. The problem was getting Sarah to the hay and into it. When they came to the gate he stopped and leaned on the gatepost. Sarah stood beside him and fidgeted.

“If we stay out too late it will be dark,” she said.

“It’s a pleasant evening, and it won’t be too dark to see for a long time yet.” He paused. “Can you smell it?” he asked.

She sniffed. “Smell what?”

He opened the gate. “Growing things, mown grass, life. Let’s go in.”

“We’d be trespassing on private property and the farmer won’t like it.”

“Come and rest for a minute,” he suggested, dropping down onto a pile of newly cut hay.

“All right. A moment then; I do feel tired,” she said. She sat down carefully and tucked her longish skirt around her knees. She was no more tired than he was, but she was obsessed with curiosity as to what he would do next. Probably he would try to kiss her. The question was, would she let him. She supposed she would, since she had already decided that he was good enough to keep, and a boyfriend was en-titled to some privileges. There was an awkward silence as they sat side by side. Abruptly he flung his arm around her waist. The sudden movement startled her even though she had been expecting it. She half-closed her eyes and leaned back, letting her muscles relax—and suddenly they felt as if they were falling! Yet they weren’t going down, but upward into the sky! They rose rapidly, dwindled to a speck and then abruptly vanished…

Sir Leonard was furious at Jill’s article. He had no doubt who had given her the information. It made the observatory look foolish, and enough of his colleagues would read the article to spread the word around astronomical circles. Fellow savants would shake their heads and mutter that Sir Leonard was going dotty.

“Are you acquainted with a person named—” Sir Leonard shuddered delicately “—Miss Jill Belove?”

“Yes sir,” Wielant said. His voice was stolid and impersonal.

“Have you read her article?”

“No sir.”

Sir Leonard threw the newspaper at him. “Then read it,” he said icily. “Read it well, Mr. Wielant. You will note that it is headed ‘A Hole in Space.’ Your very words, I believe.”

John Wielant flushed. “They are indeed, sir, but I did not authorize this article.”

“No, I did, after her editor phoned me. I had no idea that your mouth was so large and your brain so small. You have brought ridicule on the observatory with your lack of knowledge, and worse, you have made me a laughing stock among my colleagues. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“No sir,” Wielant said.

“Then get out of my sight,” Sir Leonard snapped.

“Thank you sir,” Wielant said. He left the room hurriedly and, once in the corridor, let out a gusty sigh. It could have been worse, he thought.

He told Jill about it the next time they met. She was sympathetic. Indeed, she felt a bit guilty about landing him in trouble, and she was contrite and tender. It marked the beginning of a new phase in their relationship, and in due time, tenderness ripened into a genuine affection and they became engaged. To celebrate, John took her to dinner at Llewe’s and afterward to Kitty Little’s new film Passion at the Empire, where the star was appearing in person. Kitty was England’s answer to Bardot and Monroe and Welch and a horde of other foreign sex symbols. Her elegant figure was capped with a head of straw-colored hair, which owed nothing to the hairdressing art.

“What do you think of her?” asked Jill.

“Not bad,” Wielant said, “but not as good as you.”

Jill smiled. He was lying and she knew it. She couldn’t hold a candle to Kitty. “She’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “And the dumbest,” she added under her breath.

The appearance was drawing to a close and Kitty Little looked around the audience. An odd expression of surprise was on her face. At that moment Wielant stood up, made his way to the middle aisle and walked toward the stage.’ A detached part of his mind wondered what on earth he was doing. Another detached part felt an extraordinary anticipatory pleasure, and the two parts remained separate as he approached Kitty. She was a lovely creature and exactly how lovely he would soon find out. He had no doubt about that. The interview ended as Wielant reached the edge of the stage. He looked at Kitty and raised his hand. She beckoned to him and indicated the side steps of the stage. He walked on stage and joined her. She smiled into the microphone.

“An old friend,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for years, and I think I’d like to see more of him.” She gave an arch inflection to the words and the audience laughed and clapped, as the pair left the stage hand in hand.

Jill was breathless with shock and astonishment. She was positive that John was not acquainted with Kitty. She knew her man. Wild horses couldn’t have stopped him from telling her if he’d even casually known that sexpot. She sat in her seat^while the theater emptied and eventually realized she had been deserted. Angrily she collected her things and returned to Brighton alone.

Kitty knew that the show had gone well. She could judge audience reaction to a fraction of a decibel and knew without a doubt that they had enjoyed her film and liked her. She looked at the audience. There was someone out there she needed to meet. She didn’t know why she needed to meet… him… her; her mind vacillated for a moment and then returned to its normal healthy heterosexuality. It was him, definitely him. As she scanned the audience a tall, wide-shouldered young man stood up, moved out into the aisle and came toward the stage. She had never seen him before in her life, but she knew that she was going to see a great deal of him from now on. Indeed she knew that within the hour they would be in her oversized bed in the Royal Albert hotel—and she would be learning things that all her previous experience had failed to teach her. She quivered with anticipation as she beckoned him to come on stage and told the crowd that he was an old friend. She caught sight of her agent’s horrified face in the wings and grinned impishly. Possibly the young man wasn’t an old friend now, but he would be pretty soon. Then he was holding her hand, and it was as if they had known each other intimately for more years than her dazzled mind could count.

She looked up at him. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

Kitty and the young man went to the Royal Albert, entered her room, ordered a magnum of champagne from room service and, after it was delivered, locked the door on a “do not disturb” sign.

Late next morning when John awoke he looked around and wondered for a moment what had happened. It was obviously not a dream, for beside him lay Kitty, curled into a little pink and gold and white ball, sound asleep. So, it was true then. He sighed and wondered how angry Jill must be. He decided that he didn’t want to find out. Softly and gently he left the big bed and its occupant and made his way to the bathroom, collecting his clothes as he went. He made minimum noise cleaning up and dressing and, despite an inviting electric razor, decided to forgo shaving. The best thing he could do, he decided, was to get out of here before his bedmate woke up and started screaming for the police.

He walked softly out of the bathroom and straight into Kitty. She was standing in front of the door, her hands on her hips. She looked at him questioningly. “Just where do you think you are going?” she asked.

“Out,” he said.

“I’ll wait for you,” she said.

“You will?”

“Of course. Do you think I’m going to lose you now that I’ve found you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re not going to leave me, not now,” she added. It was a statement, not a question.

He considered briefly and then shook his head. “I guess not,” he said and discovered he didn’t want to leave. He had a hazy memory of the things they had done last night, and it occurred to him that there was a lot of unexplored territory yet to be covered; if she was willing, he’d cooperate.

“Good,” she said. She went back to the bed, lay down and looked at him. “Want to join me?” she asked.

“Not now,” he said. “I have to get some money.”

“Why? I have plenty.”

“I don’t take money from women.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not for hire.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then let me get some money. I’m practically broke.” He wondered even as he said it just how he was going to get anything. His pay was not due for another week; yet he had the calm certainty that he would have all the cash he’d need in a few minutes.

“Oh, all right, but hurry back. I’m looking forward to…” Kitty grinned and pulled the bedclothes over her body. “Perhaps I’ll bathe and try some of that new French scent. The salesgirl said it would put life into a mummy.’*

“You need that like you need a hole in your head,” John said sincerely, “and don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

He took the elevator to the street, turned right and headed for Piccadilly Circus. As he stood at the curb a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman, slightly florid of face and round of paunch, turned to look at him.

“I say,” the man said, “aren’t you John Wielant?”

“I am,” John said, “but who are you? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”

“You never knew,” the florid man said. “My name’s Drobot, Stephen Drobot. I’ve been investigating you since last night.”

“You have?”

“Yes indeed, and it is a most remarkable coincidence that I have encountered you. Would you come with me for a moment?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to talk to you. I’m a publisher, you see, and I saw you leave the Empire with Kitty. I think that we might do business.”

They went to a coffeeshop, and as John consumed bacon and eggs and toast, Drobot outlined his propo-sition. It was wonderfully simple. For his story after Kitty tired of him, Drobot was willing to pay in advance for exclusive rights.

“She’s money in the bank, lad,” Drobot said. “And I’m willing to risk a small sum that she’ll be popular when your affair is over.”

‘*How much is a small sum?” John asked.

“A thousand.”

Wielant shook his head.

“All right, how much then?”

“Ten thousand,” Wielant said. .

Drobot hesitated only a moment. “Done,” he said. “Come with me.” They paid their reckoning and went to Barclay’s Bank, where Drobot cashed a check and handed John a thick sheaf of 100-pound notes.

“Don’t you want a receipt?” John asked.

Drobot smiled. “If you wish to make one, I’ll take it, but it isn’t really necessary. These people all know me and the serial numbers of the notes are recorded. But if it makes you happy, you can give me a receipt.”

“You are the damndest businessman I’ve ever seen,” John said. He went over to a writing table where he procured a pen and paper and wrote a receipt, including the purpose for which the money’ was exchanged, and gave it to Drobot.

“Thank you,” Drobot said. He put the receipt in his notecase.

“Don’t mention it,” Wielant replied.

Wielant, richer than he had ever been in his life, returned to the Royal Albert Hotel and his delightful Kitty, and after a few days the pair left for the Costa Brava where Kitty owned a house. The sensational newspapers said that they fought a lot, principally over the subject of marriage, for Kitty believed that the marriage vows were a way to hold a man for as long as she desired him. John, oddly enough, was opposed.

CHAPTER 6

Zog and Zen’s lives again reverted to a pattern as they drove deeper into the cosmos. They were happy enough. Certainly their existence was no worse than it had been on Mantu, and they always had the stimulating thought that there were hundreds of thousands of F-and G-type stars in this galaxy and that a high percentage of those stars had planets, some with life, some even with intelligent life.

They roamed the galaxy for an interminable time, moving slowly toward the rim from world to world, stopping for days or decades as the mood moved them. Gradually they developed a method of operation that allowed them to infiltrate, yet satisfy their sense of justice. On each world they visited they would find one or two things where their vast knowledge would be helpful to make life richer or more pleasant. These things they would leave behind as a gift when they took their departure, and the worlds were richer for their visit. Naturally, there were always some for whom their gifts were unpleasant and even fatal, but the world was bettered and this was the important thing. And so they moved across the galaxy leaving a trail of good works in their wake and slowly came to that arm that supported the system of Sol and the planet Earth.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about intelligent life,” he said. “It’s there, with a vengeance. I’d guess it was Class III or maybe IV. They have communications devices that operate in the electromagnetic spectrum, and they seem to be at a fair level of sophistication even though there’s little or no control of the output.”

“A nonplanetary civilization at the Class IV level?” Zen asked. “How odd.”

“Perhaps I am overstating the noise; but it was a cacophony and I could not sort it out on a manual scan.”

“Well, we can make our approach while the computer works out the details,” Zen said.

“There is a moon. We could orbit it or even land on it. It’s mass can hardly be half that of the planet, and is probably much less. If we set down on the surface the ship’s weight should quickly bury it from sight.”

“We’ll consider that possibility when we get closer. Personally I’d prefer a free orbit.”

“Not with a Class IV civilization that has electronic communications. They could have devices that would locate us, and our envelope would stand out on a scanner screen.”

“We could shield the ship.”

“Of course we could, but we would have to identify the spectrum, and that takes time.”

“So what are a few microseconds?”

“Probably nothing,” Zog admitted. “Yet after that experience on Phokis IV, I hate taking chances.”

“You worry too much. We’ll come in, orbit once, pick up a few specimens at perigee and run out again before their instruments can tell them who or what we are. Then we can examine the specimens at leisure and determine our next actions.”

The computer broke in. “Artificial satellites have been detected in orbit. Request instructions.”

“If they are optical search satellites, go invisible. If they are electronic, energize the antireflection screens. Take usual defensive measures for Class IV-and V-level technology.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Now where did the computer learn that weird form of address, Zog wondered.

The spherical spaceship went invisible to optical resolution, but not before the Royal Greenwich Observatory at Hurstmonceux had its photograph. Safe from direct observation, the ship went into orbit around Earth. It matched velocity with one of the orbiting-artifacts that was alive and radiating, seized it with a tractor beam and brought it into the ship. Zen and Zog examined the artifact with curiosity as soon as it warmed. Whoever made it was clever and ingenious. By the time they had taken it apart and studied it, Zen and Zog knew a great deal about its makers and had an effective knowledge of their technological level.

They looked at the pieces that littered the table. “Class IV technology undoubtedly.” Zen said. “That means a civilized life form with reasonable comforts and amenities. How nice!”

“It would be wise to learn as much as we can about them,” Zog said. “We can remain in orbit indefinitely as long as we keep our screens up.”

‘I’ll collect a specimen,” she said.

“Two, dear, if they are bisexual,” said Zog.

“Naturally,” Zen said. “I’ll take one of the shuttles. I don’t think we should risk damaging a Class IV organism by hauling it up here with a tractor beam.”

“Keep your screens up and don’t take chances. Class IV’s can be mean.”

“Don’t worry,” she called.

Zen climbed up and entered one of the shafts. She closed the air lock and the tunnel automatically lighted. As she pressed a stud, a section of floor began to move forward, carrying her with it. She went through a second air lock and into the small exploratory ship. There were canisters on the outer sides big enough to transport specimens as large as she was, and she plugged in an atmosphere supply tube to two of them. She’d fill the supply tanks with planetary air on the way down. That should be enough to keep the specimens alive. Back on the ship an environment could be constructed and air synthesized if it was necessary. She checked the hatch, seated herself at the controls and left the ship. The defensive shields were immediately activated and the cylindrical shuttle fell toward the planet below. She was fascinated at the cultivated countryside that flowed across the screen. Strange animals grazed in lush green pastures. Little wheeled vehicles rushed along smooth but winding roads. The landscape was often divided into irregular patches by walls of vegetation. Great and small buildings, aggregated at times into clusters, sped beneath the shuttlecraft. Her impression was one of ordered tidiness. She descended lower and began to search for likely specimens. She ignored the four-footed beasts. These were obviously not the dominant species, which the computer said were bipedal; nor were the bipedal feathered forms. Their brains were too small, and they had no hands or tentacles. The wheeled vehicles undoubtedly contained some of the dominant inhabitants, but they were too big to accommodate in the canisters. She was moving slowly a couple of hundred meters above a narrow road when she saw Henry Gossick and Sarah Minchin lying in the hay. Ah! she thought. The dominant species. And they were bisexual! How nice. She watched them for a moment, interested in what were obviously courtship rites, and when one of them put an arm around the other, she gently seized them both with a tractor beam, tucked them into one of the canisters and returned to the mother ship.

When Sarah felt something solid under her, she stopped screaming and tried to disengage herself. It didn’t work. They were enclosed in a soft but resilient substance that held them together.

“Where are we?” she asked. Her voice was oddly composed, although her body was shivering.

“I have no idea. Something grabbed us and stuffed us into this container. Whatever it was hasn’t hurt us so far; so let’s hope it won’t do so in the future.”

“Could it be flying saucers? I thought we went up into the air.”

Before he could answer there was a faint hissing above their heads. Sarah clutched him.

‘What’s that?”

‘It sounds like gas.”

“I can’t move. I’m paralyzed.”

“So am I.”

Zen opened the canister and, using a tractor beam, transferred them to the inside of the ship. Unable to move, they were limited to the sight of the tunnel roof as it slowly passed overhead. As they entered the interior of the sphere their attention was caught by the artificial sky above and the odd, birdlike creatures that flew through the air. They were floated through a doorway into a building and came to rest in a small rectangular room with white walls and padded floor. Sensation returned to their bodies and they stood and looked about.

The room was brightly Kghted from no apparent source. There was no evidence of a door and Henry ran his hand along a wall that felt smooth and resilient to the touch. Zog and Zen watched them through the one-way transparency of the force-field walls and presently went to the sensyrs. Zen entered Sarah and wasn’t particularly surprised at some of the sensations of fear that filled her. The others made her want to laugh, then cry. This poor creature was so full of inhibitions and taboos that she was positively ill. Zen didn’t feel comfortable around insanity, and so she presently withdrew after recording the specimen’s sensations. Zog had much the same experience in the male, and while he experienced fear, he also felt protective emotion toward the female. The sen-syr transferred all the impressions of the creature it was focused upon, and the computer stored them. This system would work whether or not a Manti was present, and Zog-—equally disturbed—rejoined Zen at the observation station.

“We may not like this world,” Zen said. “There is much wrong with its people.”

“I think we can solve that problem,” Zog said.

“But Zog, their mentality is greater than their culture.”

“I know, and it is greater than their civilization. But I think, despite their odd appearance, that they are mentally like ourselves. The feedback from the sensyr was too great for any other explanation. We will know when I finish this experiment. I-must learn the anatomy, physiology, psychology, endocrinology and biochemistry of these people. I must examine them in detail.”

“Not by dissection! These are intelligent beings!”

“Of course not. We can do life studies without harming them in the least.”

“Physically,” Zen said, “but how about mentally?”

“That can be taken care of. A simple block will divorce their brains from their bodies. We can channel their data directly into the computer. It won’t take too long.”

“I see,” Zen said. “I think it will work rather well. Let’s get on with it.”

Working as a team the two Manti quickly made the necessary alterations in the control panel and then, with various forces and techniques, began the examination of the two humans. Henry and Sarah quietly took off their clothing. They made no fuss about it, although Sarah would have died before disrobing in front of a man, and even now her brain screamed futile negatives within her skull. Then both she and Henry became transparent. It was horrible.

Henry’s brain was exposed and his body moved and twitched. So did hers as the same thing was happening to her. There was no pain, merely a knowledge that they were being manipulated.

After an inteminable time other parts of their bodies turned transparent and things happened to them. They wept. They drooled. They sweated, sneezed and shivered. Their stomachs contracted and Sarah vomited. A quick flash of light bathed her body and the vomit was gone. Their muscles tensed and relaxed. Glands poured hormones into their blood stream. She felt things stir in her that she had never felt before.

“A four-chambered heart and a bellows-type lung system,” muttered Zog. “Typically Manti.”

“They have dual excretory openings. One seems to be both reproductive and excretory. Messy arrangement.” Zen said. “We still have to check the skeleton. That’s certainly an odd assemblage of bones.”

Finally Zog sighed. “Well, I think that’s it: nerves, endocrines, sensory organs, vascular system, urinary organs, genital system, skeleton, respiratory organs, digestive system and some miscellaneous structures like the heart, skin and hair. I think we have it all.”

“How about emotional responses?” Zen asked.

“Hmm, of course. Now that we know the mechanism we should see how it operates.”

And so, quite without volition or control Henry and Sarah went through the gamut of human emotions. They became angry and fearful, sad and elated, depressed and excited, frigid and passionate; all the while Zen and Zog watched with interest and amazement at the range and flexibility of the responses. These were the emotions that would soon be theirs to experience and study. And finally they displayed hate and love. And it was with love Zen left them. Completely out of control, caught in an emotion they had never really known before in their lives, they kissed and fondled each other, and while Zog and Zen played voyeur to their Daphnis and Chloe, Henry and Sarah completed the act of love.

“Strange,” Zog said softly. “I think we Manti may have confused compatibility with love. Surely I know of no emotion quite like the one those two are demonstrating.”

“They breed something like we do.”

“No, not really. See they are face to face. They look upon each other with love. They do not understand real pleasure. They do not know the delights of sex. Yet they know this thing called love. It is something other than what we know, Zen. We must somehow experience it. For I think it may be the key to our existence.”

“The woman is terrified at what is happening,” Zen said.

“Yet she does not try to escape. And they fuse into a unit.”

“We do that.”

“Only with the body. You can note the subliminal signs that indicate that the mind as well as the nervous system is involved.”

“Yes. I see. I think they may feel badly about this if they realize that it has actually happened. I think we should put them to sleep and return them to the spot I found them.”

“I shall want tissue specimens and samples of their body fluids and secretions,” Zog said.

“Help yourself,” Zen said, “but do it quickly.”

Sarah and Henry awoke fully clothed, lying in each other’s arms in the hay. It was a balmy night and the moon was high in the sky. Henry kissed her gently and she returned the kiss naturally and with tender passion.

“Will you marry me, Sarah?” he asked.

“Yes darling,” she said, snuggling closer into his arms.

They remained there in silence, each wondering about the strange dream that showed they were in love. It wasn’t until months later, when their love had become firm and Sarah was pregnant that the subject of their understanding was talked out between them, and they discovered that they had shared the same dream.

Armed with more knowledge about the human structure and function than any alien had a right to know, Zog and Zen moved into the second stage of their knowledge acquisition. Now they must learn the languages and customs of mankind. It was already evident that there were a fairly large number of these, which could keep them busy for some time.

Zog and Zen were amazed that the world was not united; that it was divided into separate groups called nations, most of which had different languages, monetary systems and laws, and even different varieties of people.

“How complicated they make things,” said Zen.

“They have not advanced evenly, which is a bad sign for survival,” added Zog. “We have learned of this in theory. It is an advanced enclave system. It carries within it the seeds of its own destruction, but according to theory it should have disappeared with the appearance of the first or second world conqueror.”

“Perhaps they have never had a world conqueror. The great mass of water and the island continents could have prevented such an event. Certainly by now they should be a world state, with one law and one language.”

“It is a possibility,” Zog agreed. “I think I should like to study this world’s history. There must be many nexi where the turn could have been taken toward union. Yet in every instance, from the appearances, the turn was never taken and the imbalances of development became greater instead of less. I wonder if it could be caused by their inherent emotionalism. If the two we examined are any indication of the rest, they are a rather unstable lot.”

“Does it make that much difference?” asked Zen. “We, too, had dialects and local culture and literary heritage.”

“You are missing the point, Zen. We had dialects. They have languages. We had local customs. They have history. We knew we were one people. They believe they are separate races. And their unequal cultural and technological development fosters that belief. So long as they think of themselves as Englishmen, or Chinese, or Frenchmen or whatever, they cannot think of themselves as Earthmen. And if they do not achieve that kind of thinking, their world will crumble into dust from the military applications of their technology. For they now have sufficient technology to destroy themselves and the world on which they live.”

“How horrible,” Zen gasped. “And is this the inevitable outcome of tribalism and the enclave philosophy?”

“No. If the tribes can be kept permanently small and weak, with none advancing appreciably beyond the others, in time a union might develop, although on this world with its separated landmasses, I doubt if such an alternative would ever be possible. There simply isn’t enough chance for interchange. The mountain and water barriers are too great.”

“And so their differences are their destruction?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. We should think upon it again after we have enjoyed the pleasures of this world. For while these people will probably destroy each other, they have not done so yet; nor will they for a while. Therefore let us enjoy this world and its differences while we can. Time enough, if things grow worse, to think of a cure for their disease.”

Zen shivered.

“You are as familiar as I am with the psycho-dynamics of what must be done to change such a system,” Zog reminded her.

“Understanding the theory is one thing but to apply it is another. I was born to appreciate intelligent life. Intelligence should be educated, not destroyed. I have learned the theory of suicide societies, but I always thought such things were figments of some theoretician’s imagination. To discover they are real is shocking.”

“It’s a big universe with an infinity of possibilities,” Zog philosophized, “and anything a Manti can imagine is probably happening somewhere in the cosmos. This world should be psychologically interesting.”

“You’re cold,** Zen said. “I have never known you to be so clinical.”

“What should I do? Weep? Should I agonize over what this race has done to themselves? Or should I apply the knowledge I have to the statistical possibility that there is a solution to the problems of this benighted world?”

Zen sighed. “You are right, of course. Let us study the major tribal groups, or the major language groups, to see if we can learn enough to help these poor creatures.”

“We will be meddling,” Zog said. “Be warned.”

“We must meddle. No world should become extinct, no matter how stupid or foolish it may be.”

They mastered English and history at Oxford. They moved to Paris, Moscow, New York, Peking, Cairo, Delhi and Mexico City. They were absent from their station near London for two weeks, and when they returned, their prodigious intellects and their computer knew more about Earth than did any of the planet’s inhabitants. But both the computer and its masters needed time to sort and organize their knowledge; so when Zen suggested that a holiday was necessary, Zog quickly agreed.

“A period of relaxation among the natives would do us a great deal of good,” he smiled.

CHAPTER 7

They now felt equipped to enjoy a pseudo-physical life on the planet. They had been shocked and disappointed when they shared the emotions and feelings of the two humans they had examined, but now that they knew more, they realized these were not universal.

Zen searched for a female whose ideas of enjoyment coincided with her own, while Zog, for reasons best known to himself, moved his sensyr into the Royal Academy. Zen flitted from one female to another and was astonished to find how many pleasures were spoiled by feelings of sin, fear and guilt. She had given up hope of finding a perfect physical and mental type female, and she was willing to accept an ego she could tolerate if not completely enjoy.

This was an easier task; hardly an hour later she found Kitty Little and took up residence. Kitty was not aware of any change in her attitudes, since there was none. Zen was merely an extension of her own hedonistic outlook on life, and Zen was careful to keep her intellect from showing. That would have startled Kitty’s friends and would have appalled Kitty. As it was, Zen was resident in a woman who believed in enjoying everything to the full. Zen told the computer to inform Zog that she had found a counterpart, and while Kitty was making her personal appearance at the theater, Zog examined the males in the audience for a suitable subject. After a little study he chose John Wielant. The young man was intelligent, reasonably amoral and hedonistic, and he had only minimal emotional ties to the young woman beside him. He would do very nicely. The newly modified sensyr gave Zog much more control over his host’s actions than he had thought possible. He speculated that this might be due to the more psychological motivations of the human, which permitted suggestion, and slight glandular manipulation to be accepted as inherent emotional activity, which in a sense they were. Certainly, at no time did John feel that he was being manipulated; although at times he was surprised at his own behavior.

They had spent their first night enthralled with each other, exploring a new world of sensory experiences. It was to both Zen’s and Zog’s credit that they allowed the humans to work out their explorations and stimulations, for every life form has its own subtle sensations, each different in translation in the total nervous system. While the humans were being experienced by Zog and Zen, everything seemed natural, although perhaps a bit unusual. It was only after the aliens withdrew to their ship that John Wielant wondered what on earth he had done, while Kitty Little never wondered at all. She knew she’d done very well, very well indeed.

John’s ten thousand pounds, judiciously invested in schemes that Zog reconnoitered beforehand, quickly became several hundred thousand. One night at Monte Carlo, for a lark, Zog helped him break the bank at the roulette wheel, which made John something of a sensation among the gambling fraternity.

He became notorious for his nude photo studies of Kitty, many of which he sold, but the best of which Kitty and he enjoyed in privacy. Zen and Zog did a few other favors for their charges: slight alterations in metabolism that kept them from becoming fat, the removal of an undetected tumor in Kitty’s left breast, the healing of two potential ulcers in John’s stomach, the creation of a general sense of well-being by subtle alterations in endocrine balance. These favors were paid for, as for several months Kitty and John gave the aliens all the favors they could use.

Jill Belove went back to her job as a reporter for the Brighton Gazette, her burning desire to commit mayhem upon John Wielant still unfulfilled. She was angry at his desertion of her, and his subsequent activities didn’t help her feel any better, although she thought with some malice that Kitty Little got no more than she deserved.

John hadn’t forgotten Jill. At odd times he felt that he should contact her, if only to apologize, but his courage wasn’t equal to his conscience. He had subliminal feelings about Jill that he never had for Kitty. He enjoyed Kitty and used her, but he didn’t love her. He thought of Jill in a different way. She would have been a companion rather than a cooper-ator, a mate rather than a plaything. The differences were subtle but Jill was a woman and Kitty was a “broad.” Possibly he was as prosaic, stodgy and middle class as Kitty was beginning to hint. He grimaced. Hint? Hell! She came right out and said it. And maybe she was right. Maybe he needed something more than sex. Maybe he needed love.

In any event he was glad he had not married her. That particular mistake, at least, had been avoided. Kitty’s track record on marriages had been so poor that he felt no desire to become another statistic in the failure column. This way they could break clean and go their separate ways. He wondered if his way would lead back to Jill. Anyway, it would take him as far as London. He owed a man named Stephen Drobot ten thousand pounds.

One afternoon, Kitty and a party of friends flew off to Paris. John wasn’t among them; nor was he missed. A week later, Kitty returned to the Costa Brava. She entered the beach house breathing a mixture of fear, shame and defiance. John would be furious, and there would be a loud, nasty, knockdown and drag-out fight, after which she would either throw him out, or go to bed with him. Her scenario wasn’t clear on this point, but whatever happened she would be ready.

She needn’t have bothered. John was gone. So were his clothes. He’d left a note. It read: “Thank you very much.” And that was all. Her feelings were oddly ambivalent. What right did he have to switch the script? It could have been such a beautiful scene, but now it was just a dusty nothing. She shrugged. He had been right about not marrying her. This way the break was clean.

CHAPTER 8

“Do you really like these people?” Zog asked as Zen came out of the control room shivering with fatigue.

“I think so. Despite their faults—and they are many—they have a certain charm. They’re an odd mixture of idiocy and genius, of selfishness and generosity, of cruelty and tenderness. I don’t really know what to make of them.”

“Unintegrated?”

“Disorganized.”

Zen dialed a vermouth and sipped it slowly. “They don’t need to be disorganized. They could have order, but they reject it.”

“They’re not much like us.”

“They’re more like we were before the Zerkan Invasion.”

Zog leaned back and floated in a personal energy field. There was a warm silence while he contemplated possibilities. Zen refrained from touching his mind. There were times when one needed privacy.

“I think there is a way out,” Zog said suddenly.

“Out of what?”

“Catastrophe. I ran a computer prediction on human survival in the present matrix. It comes out zero.”

Civilization has come too quickly,” said Zen.

“The result has been lopsided development and confusion. Unimportant things have kept pace with things of importance and have produced a culture of contradictions. But surely it could be corrected.”

“Revolution,” Zog said. “Complete overturn of present values.”

“By force?”

“No, by treachery. They must think it the result of an inner enlightenment. Our hand in it should not be apparent”

“Oh. You mean a revolution in their social order.”

“Not in their political order,” Zog said. “What would be the use of that? One ruling clique would replace another. Nothing would be gained. And in the end, bureaucracy would still rule and the race would still be headed toward suicide. We must have the sort of revolution that will change their way of life.”

Zen wasn’t stupid. She realized that the changes Zog proposed were drastic and that an enormous number of humans would die because of them. She was appalled. Yet she realized that her liking and concern for these people couldn’t counteract the things they were doing to themselves. Somehow there had to be another way, a means by which humanity could have a breathing space in its mad rush to death. “Then all we have to do is change their present standard of values without the use of force and at the same time make this the outcome of their own choice.” .

“You are deliberately making the problem a provocation and a challenge.”

“Could you do it?” asked Zen.

“There is a way to do everything,” he replied.

“Do you want to do it?” she asked.

“That is a more sensible question. Not particularly, although it would be interesting to see how these humans reacted to basic socio-political stimuli. We could use Melitor’s choice matrix as a base, keyed to the obvious political demands of the major nations. It would, I think, be interesting and instructive.”

“Would it keep them alive?”

“The probability is better than even that a large number would survive.”

“I am in favor of it.- I think this race is worth saving.”

“Then let us decide how we shall proceed,” Zog said…

The alien spaceship flicked into visibility in its orbit. The reaction was exactly as if someone had put a foot into a beehive. Earth buzzed and stormed. Search missiles were sent aloft. Radar units worked overtime, and as human computers ground out their data, it was soon evident that this was something far out of the ordinary. In the first place, its mass was fantastic. In the second, although utterly featureless, it was obviously artificial. It was in a regular orbit some thirty-two thousand kilometers above the Earth’s surface, moving parallel to the direction of the Earth’s rotation, which kept it hanging over one spot. When it hung over Moscow the nervous Russians fired a nuclear missile at it. The missile detonated some 20 kilometers from its target, doing no damage.

The United States sent a manned vehicle up to observe, but the spacecraft could approach no closer than 20 kilometers. There was a zone of repulsion around the sphere that could not be penetrated.

And that was that It was obvious that whatever was inside that three-kilometer ball of featureless blackness wanted no company. It was equally obvious that whatever was in that alien ship was inspecting Earth. But whatever power the aliens might have, it failed to hold the attention of the human race. Humanity is not easily impressed, and despite the fact that the aliens might conceivably be dangerous, it wasn’t long before they were generally ignored—although the inky sphere poised over an Earth city was always good for a local alarm, quickly raised and quickly ended.

Yet all was not as easy as it seemed. A truly general summit conference was held that winter in the Soviet Union, at which the powers of Earth except the Chinese, whom the Russians refused to invite, were present. The real powers*—the Russians, the French^ the British and the Americans—consulted among themselves while the others, led by the Middle Eastern bloc, passed resolutions condemning the alien spacecraft. The Germans and the Canadians snorted and went home. The Chinese denounced everyone.

The Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, Vladimir Ilyitch Gavinsky, was a short, stout man with a round bald head fitted with blunt Slavic features. His face was expressionless. He made the others feel uncomfortable.

James Madison Chandler, President of the United

States, was tall, gray-haired and beautifully dressed. His manner held the suggestion that people were essentially reasonable and friendly. His eyes belied his manner. They were cold, calculating and shrewd.

Etienne Marcel Valcoeur, President of France, was a plump, worried, middle-aged aristocrat. His manners were impeccable; his mind was a smoothly working machine; his tastes were civilized; and his eyes were those of a man trapped in a situation not of his own making.

Geoffrey Lewis Mason, Prime Minister of Great Britain, was blunt-featured, ruddy-faced, and somewhat younger than the others. He was of middle class origin and a surprise winner in the last election where he was swept into office by a Tory landslide.

This ill-assorted tetrad met secretly with only their interpreters and secretaries to discuss the alien spaceship and its implications. These leaders, in whom seven-tenths of the military power of the world was concentrated, paid lip service to a united front toward the aliens, while each considered how to wring some advantage out of the others.

“I should imagine,” President Chandler said, “that these aliens are going to have some shocks for us when they emerge from their ship.”

“Not necessarily,” President Valcoeur said. “They may only want to observe.”

“And go away appalled at what they have seen,” Mason said.

“We should be thinking about defense,” Gavinsky said. “We are being invaded and spied upon.”

Chandler made a gesture of annoyance. “You are overreacting,” he said. “They have done us no harm.”

Gavinsky laughed unpleasantly. “If you capitalists do not have the power to act, I do. The Soviet Union will destroy the enemy and save the world. We have enough power to shatter that ball to fragments and we shall use it. I came here to get your agreement to help or, at least, your moral support, but with it or without it, I shall destroy those aliens.”

There was an immediate explosion of words, expletives and denunciations from the other three, with everyone speaking at once. The interpreters were helpless…

Zog and Zen were fascinated and amused as they watched through the eyes of two of the interpreters. The Russian was paranoid, the American defensive, the Frenchman terrified and the Englishman weak. They were a dreadful melange. In the meantime they would deal with the Russian weapons if an attack was launched.

Within the hour two hydrogen missiles commenced their journey from Siberia to the sphere. Computers and inertial guidance systems made sure they would hit their target. Exactly 100 kilometers from the sphere both missiles detonated. Within minutes another four were on the way. These detonated 200 kilometers from the sphere. No more missiles were launched. The first explosions could have been an accident. The second ones assuredly were not. And the implication was plain that the sphere could detonate the warheads as soon as they were launched.

“What will they do now?” Zog asked.

“Have another meeting,” Zen said.

And that was exactly what happened. At least three out of the four summit leaders were glad that the decision was no longer their’s to make. Even Gavinsky seemed relieved, although frustration was his most apparent emotion. There had been a power shift in the Kremlin after the second premature explosion, and there was an obvious effort to displace him that might be successful. He was going to be busy with internal affairs and domestic problems for a while. There was no chance for the Soviet Union to become an international nuisance until the threat to the leadership was eliminated.

Gavinsky would be forced to make adjustments and compromises with his political enemies. His position would be less powerful. The Red Army would have a larger say in domestic affairs.

And it would be then that the Manti would make their first overt contact with Earth.

CHAPTER 9

Gavinsky was in his office when he received the offer. The office was buried deep in the Kremlin in a place only a chosen few could enter. Throughout the length and breadth of the massive building it was protected by secret police. Many guard posts had to be passed before the door was reached. The door itself was steel, its lock controlled from the desk when Gavinsky was in the room. Television scanners monitored the outside hallway and the walls of the office were lined with lead and periodically examined by electronic spy devices. There was an internal communication system as well as an external one, and Gavinsky could speak to any man in the building from his desk. He sat now, hard and square, reading one of a stack of papers. A voice, speaking faultless Russian, came from a spot about three meters in front of his desk.

“Comrade,” it said. “Comrade Gavinsky.’*

The Russian leader grunted. His big hand dove into the desk drawer and emerged holding a pistol.

“There is no need for that, Comrade Secretary. I am unarmed.”

“Where are you?” Gavinsky asked. “I do not see you.”

“I am not here. I am in* the spaceship above your city of Moscow.”

“You are a liar. Your voice is here. Therefore you are here. There is no way it could be otherwise. And there is no spaceship over Moscow.”

“Dear man,” the voice said in pitying tones. “Your defenses are primitive. I had no trouble penetrating them. And you are badly misinformed.”

Gavinsky put six bullets through the area from which the voice came.

“I told you there was no need for that weapon,” the voice said. “Now will you listen? I have a proposal to make to you.”

“I make no deals with voices.”

“I will sign a contract if you wish.” A pen detached itself from the holder on the desk and poised in midair. Gavinsky grabbed the pen. It came easily into his hand.

“Tricks,” he growled. “I hate tricks and loathe tricksters.”

“This is no trick, Comrade Gavinsky. It is merely a science you do not have. I want to give you some of this science.”

Gavinsky felt the beginning of panic and fought it down. “Very well,” he said. “I will listen to you.” He reached for his communicator.

“If you open the switch, Comrade Secretary, our talk will not be private.” Gavinsky withdrew his hand. It was obvious that the bodiless voice could see him.

“Do you feel like listening now, or would you rather I returned later?”

“I would rather hear you now,” the Russian growled. “Perhaps then you will go away and leave me in peace.”

The voice sighed. “I am prepared to offer you a single choice of anything our science can bestow. And let me remind you, our science is infinitely more advanced than yours.’*

“I do not believe you,” he mumbled. “There is no reason for this.”

“On the contrary. It is a custom of our race, and indeed you have similar customs among yourselves. Whenever we visit inhabited planets we offer our hosts a gift upon our arrival. Since your tribe—er, nation—is closest to us, we offer you the first choice. You may, Comrade Secretary, have anything you wish that we can grant—any one thing,” the voice amended.

“What sort of gift?”

“Anything you wish. Any one thing.”

“You can’t mean it.”

There was no answer, merely an expectant silence. Gavinsky could feel the expectation as he gripped the arms of his chair. If this was not a joke he might be able to retrieve some of the power he had lost.

“I would like the plans and specifications for a practical spaceship drive that will also work in atmosphere. One our technology can build.” He felt foolish even as he spoke.

“You shall have the plans for such a drive,” the voice said. “I will deliver them to you and will be prepared to answer any questions your engineers may ask.”

The voice stopped, and Gavinsky had the peculiar knowledge that the alien had gone. Somehow the room felt empty. Well, if that smart fellow came in person he would be caught. And he would have to come in person to deliver anything material to this office. Gavinsky doubled the guards and waited expectantly. Time passed slowly. Each morning he was at his desk, while a team of technical experts waited in an adjacent room, and the guards checked their weapons for the dozenth time.

Although he had been expecting it he almost jumped out of his seat when at last the alien voice spoke again from midair.

“The plans are ready,” the voice said.

“Where are they?”

“In your desk drawer. The big drawer on the right.”

Gavinsky pulled the drawer open. A neat, gray, metallic-looking box lay on top of the contents of the drawer.

“How did this get in here?”

“I put it there. I did not think you wished others to find it first.” *

Gavinsky felt uncomfortable. If the alien could get into that desk drawer, then nothing was safe. And the creature didn’t even set off the alarm.

“Aren’t these pretty small plans?”

“They’re photomicrographed. You call the technique microfiche, I believe.”

Gavinsky nodded. “Now how do you get into the box?”

“Open it, what else?”

“You don’t mind if I call my technical experts?”

“Not at all. I said I’d answer questions.”

As soon as the Soviet technologists realized there was no trickery, they went mad with excitement. A microfiche reader was wheeled in, and for the re-mainder of the day, Gavinsky’s office was turned into an engineering laboratory as the alien plans and specifications were dissected.

“Is this genuine?” Gavinsky asked at last.

“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

President James Madison Chandler was alone in his White House office when he was conscious that someone was in the room with him.

“You are aware of my presence,” a voice said.

“I am,” said Chandler. “I presume you are one of those in that ship over Washington.” He turned to a table beside his desk, poured himself a small glass of bourbon and took a cigar from the humidor standing beside the whiskey decanter.

“You are not nearly as perturbed as Comrade Gavinsky.”

“I read science fiction,” Chandler saidr “and besides our assassins operate differently than they do in Russia.” For a moment his hand held the burning match above the ashtray and then 9hook it out “If you had planned to kill me, you would have done so already.”

“Interesting,” the voice said. “Is it a convenient time to talk with you?”

“I don’t think I have much choice.” The president belatedly dropped the match into the ashtray, leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. “But this time is as good as any. What do you want with me?”

“I would like to give you a gift,” Zog said. i

“Where are you?”

“In my ship, Mr. President, exactly as you said. My voice and my vision are merely projections.”

“When are we going to meet you?*’ Chandler asked.

“Never, Mr. President. Although we are carbon-and oxygen-based life, we would never expose ourselves to an alien atmosphere; the risks of contamination are too great, but that does not prevent us from looking around.”

“So I see,” said the president. “But looking around could get you into trouble.”

“Not from your technology,” the voice said. “But we do feel that our reception here was a bit warmer than we had anticipated. Yet, to show we bear you no ill will, we would like to give you a present to remember us by when we leave. Since we were first over Russian territory we gave them their first choice, but since you represent the most industrially powerful nation in the world, we shall give you second choice.”

“What sort of present?” he asked, dreading the answer and wanting it at the same time.

“We will grant you any single wish that is within our power to give, with the exception of the one we have already given to the Russians.”

“Such a momentous decision, however, is not for me to make alone,” Chandler said. “I shall have to consult with my cabinet and my science advisers.”

“The decision is entirely yours, Mr. President,” said Zog dryly. “You must choose now or not at all. We do not have enough time to wait for a committee to make up its mind.

“If I might suggest a course of thought,” the alien voice continued. “I would consider that the present state of world affairs has placed your nation in an untenable position vis-a-vis energy sources. Your power is unquestioned, but you are hampered in exercising it because you are dependent on tribes— er-—nations who would ordinarily be clients. It is not well for a major nation to have a major weakness. I can give you great military power, but ask yourself if the return would be in proportion to the gift when you can have any one thing. Consider what you lack before you choose.”

“You make it hard for me,” Chandler said, wondering why the alien went to so much trouble to caution him. There really was no need. He had already made up his mind. The thing that would solidify his party for the next 20 years was in his hands. All he had to do was ask for it. •

“I would like to have the knowledge of a cheap, portable and safe way to solve the energy crisis and make the United States forever independent of others for energy sources.”

“You want a lot, Mr. President. In my technology, there is only one source that would serve for your level of civilization.”

Chandler licked his dry lips. “What is that?”

“A full working knowledge of atomic energy.**

“But that isn’t safe. We have atomic power plants and they cause nothing but dissension.”

“A full understanding of atomics, sir, would not merely be a knowledge of plutonium and other fissionable material. It would allow you to extract the binding energy of any material and control it. You would, in effect, have a virtually unlimited source of energy. Indeed, your garbage and your waste could be the substrate for power. Ther6 would be no radioactivity unless you wanted it.”

“Sold,” Chandler said. “I’ll buy that.”

“A wise choice, sir,” the voice said, and Chandler, although he listened closely, could hear no overtones that were insincere. “You shall have full information on this in the near future.”

The President of France had a similar experience. He also thought of the spaceship, but he did not ask for it He belonged to an earlier generation that deprecated the space race, and while he liked to think of France as the guiding light of civilization, he wasn’t like some of his predecessors who thought that France had the might to run the world. Besides, France had neither the money nor the goods with which to buy the world. In his opinion all men’s troubles lay within themselves. If men knew themselves better they could more adequately deal with others. Therefore he requested a comprehensive and accurate psychology for mankind. Zog was shocked at the wisdom of such a choice in so materialistic an age, and he doubted if his knowledge of mankind would enable him to make the gift. Yet he could not in good conscience turn de Valcoeur down.

“The process of giving such understanding will be painful, unpleasant and dangerous. To many minds it will be intolerable.”

“I realize that,” said Valcoeur, “but I am not merciful like my God. I am merely trying to be helpful.”

“The information will be conveyed to you on tape, but it will be of little value until it is in the minds of men. How do you propose to proceed?”

“I have not considered the problem.”

“Have the information printed in book form first; then choose groups of professionals, such as psychologists, psychiatrists and diplomats, to listen to the tape. Some will repudiate it outright. Others will accept it. Give the books to those who accept. Keep working until you build up a body of men who truly understand their own kind. Only men with open minds who are curious but not proud will be able to utilize this knowledge to advantage. It is detrimental to organized society as it represents a power that large numbers of men have not possessed before. A few of your great ones must have had a flair for it, but even they lacked knowledge; still they became historical figures. You have chosen a gift that will alter the course of history.”

The French leader bowed his head. “For the better, I hope,” he said.

“For better or worse,” the voice said, “the decision will be mankind’s.”

The fourth person to be visited was Geoffrey Mason, Prime Minister of Great Britain. His answer was immediate. “I choose knowledge of spaceflight,” he said.

“It has been given to the Soviet Union.” The prime minister clenched his fists. God only knew what that would do to the stability of the world. The whole political balance would shift.

“Do you realize what havoc that will cause?” he asked.

“You have just asked for the same gift.”

“In the democratic hands of Great Britain it would be safe.”

“Possibly, Mr. Prime Minister, but your track record isn’t too good. Will you choose again, please.”

“I choose the ability to prevent war.”

“Large war or small war?”

“Any war.”

There was silence for a moment, and the prime minister sweated.

“You realize, of course, that the prevention of the ability to wage war would have to apply to all men, and it would not prevent either individual or group killing. It would only prevent organized war as you know it. Is this enough?”

“It is all I can expect,” Mason said.

“You could expect more than I can give,” the voice said, “but I will give you the power to prevent organized war on this world. It should last for a generation and I will give you means to repeat the process twice more in case one time is not enough, and I will grant you sufficient longevity to see that the cure is enough to overcome the disease. Barring accidents, you will live more than 150 of your years. All this will be yours.”

“Thank you very much.” Mason’s voice was that of a porter accepting a tip.

“Do not be discouraged, Mr. Prime Minister. You have chosen wisely indeed. Because of your choice, your race may live, and neither psychology, nor spaceflight, nor limitless energy had this possible outcome. You should be proud.”

“How will your gift prevent war?” Mason asked.

“You will only know if you use it.”

“Is it harmful to life?”

“No. At least not directly. If you mean will it kill anyone by its own inherent effects, the answer is no. However, its indirect effects may be quite deadly to certain individuals. But the total casualties will be small compared to the deaths from war.”

CHAPTER 10

Zog and Zen prepared the gifts for the human race. Plans for a space vehicle were programmed into the computer. The specifications were those used by the Manti many centuries ago for travel between their own planets. It was an ion-driven gravity nulli-fier that embodied no atomic principles. It was fast, comfortable and as reliable as only machinery that has been in use for a long time can be.

The computer had already codified the entire field of the use of atomic power for a civilization one step above Earth’s present technology level. The gap would be bridged with the hints in the text and equations. However, once the ideas were presented to them, humans would be clever enough to understand. They were new ideas, but under the pressure of the energy crisis they would be implemented quickly. The method of manufacture involved techniques that had to be described in detail.

A tape on the psychology of man had to be prepared for France, and the fine green dust that went into the capsule for Great Britain had to be synthesized. Both Zog and Zen were confined to the bench with little time to enjoy themselves. It was one of the penalties of altruism, and since neither Zog nor Zen were by nature altruistic, the work was even more frustrating than it would have been if they had been working for themselves. Yet, in a way, they were working for themselves. The potential for good and harm these assorted gifts had for Earth furnished many hours of contemplation and extrapolation, and by the time the gifts were finished and ready for delivery, the Manti had worked out six alternative futures for mankind, ranging from total destruction to Utopia. They waited with interest to see which would develop.

“It is indeed a fascinating prospect,” Zog said as he prepared to deliver the first of the gifts to Gavinsky. “I wonder how this one will be used.”

“Not well, I think,” was Zen’s reply.

Meanwhile, Kitty, having been deserted by John Wielant for what were to him good and sufficient reasons, managed to make it appear that it was she who had thrown John out And although the alacrity with which she had taken a new lover gave something of a lie to her claim, the fact that she had married him improved her reputation even as it diminished John’s.

But John Wielant did not care. He had enjoyed his life with Kitty, but he never had any delusions about it. This, as much as anything, was the reason he never agreed to legalizing their relationship.

He returned to England, took a flat in London, furnished it and spent several weeks doing nothing. He found that nonactivity without Kitty was boring. He enjoyed restaurants, art, music, the cinema, sex and good conversation. He never got the last from Kitty, and perhaps a bit too much of the next-to-the-last, and although that sort of thing was readily available in London, he had had a surfeit of sex, at least for the time being.

It was inevitable that his thoughts should turn to Jill Belove. He wondered what had become of her and why he had left her sitting in a theater. That had been unkind and inconsiderate of him, and it had bothered him the entire six months he had spent with Kitty. Of any definition he could place upon his relationship with Jill, love was the only one that fitted. He was, or had been, in love, or was in the process of falling in love, with Jill. His lips quirked wryly at the qualifications. But why shouldn’t he qualify his thoughts? After all, he had run off with Kitty and satisfied every animal instinct that had ever crossed his mind; so what right had he to say that he was in love with Jill? Yet it was Jill he thought about. Three weeks away from Kitty and he couldn’t even remember what she looked like except in the most superficial way.

But Jill. He could remember the aliveness of her, the air of eager interest, the tenseness of her slim body, the way the pupils of her violet eyes expanded and contracted with her feelings. He could remember the firm tenderness of her, the little hollows between her ribs, the firm hard rise of her small young breasts, the shining glory of her hair, and the tenderness of her lips on his. He remembered her as a person, and it dawned on him with increasing conviction that he’d been a damned fool, and all the money he had accumulated in his brief span of gambling and speculating wasn’t worth what he had abandoned.

Drobot—was that the fellow’s name—had virtually forced that bundle of pound notes on him.

He’d have to locate the man and pay him back. He couldn’t keep the money, and he had no intention of sharing the intimacies of his life with Kitty with seven million avid readers of Drobot’s magazine.

But he wanted Jill.

He telephoned her, and as soon as she learned who was calling, she hung up.

He tried to see her, and she avoided him.

He sent her flowers, which were returned.

She liked a particular brand of toffee. He sent her five pounds of it by messenger. It came back. He sent it again and again, and it was always returned.

He wrote letters, which were returned. The sending and return developed into a three-day cycle as the post office began to realize what was happening and cooperated in the name of love. It was all very romantic and frustrating.

And finally, a letter didn’t come back.

John was elated. The dripping water had worn away the stone, and it had taken only a month!

For some reason she could not explain, Jill opened the tenth letter. They had been arriving regularly every three days, and with equal regularity she had been scribbling “return to sender” on their faces and sending them back. There had been telephone calls, flowers, candy—and she had rejected them all. It was all very disturbing. She couldn’t get over the mixture of emotions that had accompanied John’s first phone call: excitement, anger, eagerness and disgust at herself for allowing such emotions to take hold of her merely because he had telephoned. The thought that she still might be in love with him bothered her.

And then the flowers stopped coming. The messenger boy with the package failed to knock on her door at five in the afternoon. The telephone calls stopped. And for the first time three days passed without a letter.

She had a sudden feeling of total loss: a feeling she had never experienced before, even during the height of John’s affair with Kitty. For somehow she had felt that Kitty was never his, no more than he was hers. There was always an oddness to that relationship that had overshadowed its reality. But this! This was true loss, and the hollowness in her chest and stomach told her more than all her anger or bitterness did. She loved him.

And then the letter came!

She read it and remembered every word. “I am writing for the tenth time. I will keep on writing until you reply. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. I want to explain, if I can, what happened to me. I love you. I have never stopped loving you. I miss you more than you can realize.” (Ha! what did he know about missing!) “Please call me or write. I shall be waiting. I love you. John.”

So he loved her! So what!? But she couldn’t help the catch of breath and the quickening beat of her heart, or the odd chilly squiggle that ran down her spine as she read his letter. Somehow she wanted to cry.

Her emotions were not easily aroused, transferred or changed, she decided wryly. She was still in love with him. She wanted to see him, touch him, talk to him, and the want was pain. She was a fool to

have read that letter. It had struck just the right note. Damn him! He had no right to do this to her.

She picked up the phone, dialed the number he had written and listened to the buzz on the other end as John’s phone rang. If he was not there… but he was! His voice came over the wire. She caught her breath.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Jill!”

“John!”

And that was that. In the next few minutes she had agreed to a dinner, a show and had said that she would like to see him. Her defenses, such as they were, were in ruins, and she was conscious of a feeling of excitement that she hadn’t felt in months.

John surprised her a little. He wasn’t the flamboyant modern she remembered. His clothing, although high style, was much more suited to his appearance and gave him the air of a prosperous, young businessman. His demeanor had also changed. He was quieter, more self-possessed and assured. Kitty had done a good job on him, she thought with sudden jealousy. He wasn’t like the old John, and she wasn’t sure that she liked the changes. He smiled down at her, gave her a firm handshake and gazed at her steadily. She was conscious of a slight shortness of breath and suppressed a subliminal desire to blush. God! she thought, am I so old-fashioned and obvious?

“You look exactly the same,” he said.

She laughed uncertainly. “You make it sound as

if we had not seen each other for years. It is only a few months.”

“It seems like an eternity to me.”

She didn’t reply, but she thought that he spoke for her, too.

They went to a quiet restaurant for lunch.

“It is good of you to see me again,” he said.

*I’m only doing it out of curiosity.”

“I owe you an apology for my appalling behavior. I tried to write to you once, shortly after I went to Spain, but I couldn’t do it.”

She looked at him curiously. “Guilty conscience?” she asked.

“I suppose so. At any rate I couldn’t write.”

“Did you know Kitty Little before that evening?”

He shook his head. “How could I? I don’t— didn’t—run in those circles.”

“I was sure you didn’t. What happened then?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His voice held a puzzled note. He thought of his experiences during the past few months with renewed astonishment. “It seems like a damn silly thing to say, but I just don’t know why I went up to the stage that night.”

Jill looked at him thoughtfully. She felt he was speaking the truth. There was a certain puzzled honesty in his voice and in his expression. “Try to tell me how you felt,” she said.

He frowned. “I remember being surprised at what I was doing, but the overriding feeling was anticipation.”

“I can imagine,” Jill said with a mild note of acid in her voice. “Go on.”

“When I raised my hand to her I had the feeling that she was an old acquaintance. I knew her. I was certain how she would react, and I looked forward to what she would do.” He looked at Jill. “She treated me as if I was an old friend-I think it puzzled her, too. Somehow we both had the feeling that we were being moved by something we couldn’t control. It wasn’t love; nor was it simply sex. There was this odd sense of anticipation of something we already had experienced together. I wasn’t exactly eager to experience it again, but I wasn’t reluctant either.”

“I saw that,” said Jill. “That’s what made me wonder if you knew her, but I felt certain you didn’t. You acted as though you were in the grip of a compulsion. There was nothing spontaneous in your actions.”

“I had never met her before in my life,” he said.

“Are you in love with her, John?”

“No.”

“Were you in love with her?”

“That’s a good question. I can give you an answer that many people would say meant yes, but I don’t think I was ever in love with her. Love is something more than sharing pleasures of the senses, but if you limit it to sensuality, then I was in love. Kitty is a very sensual woman.”

“What does that mean?”

“Precisely what it says. I lived with Kitty, played with her, slept with her, went places with her. I know much more about her body than I know about yours. Yet I don’t think I ever loved her. I satisfied her for a time, but I don’t think any man could satisfy

Kitty for long. She’s already looking for something new, and our relationship, at least to her, is as though it never existed!”

“And how is that relationship to you? Are you angry? Are you hurt? Are you heartbroken?”

He grinned boyishly. “I’m afraid not. I’d have to say no to all three. Relieved is a better word.”

“Why?” said Jill.

“Once she asked me who I really was and what I was doing in her life. She accepted things that came her way and usually never questioned why they happened, but I was as out of context in her life as she was in mine.”

“Are you glad it’s over?”

He nodded. “I rather wish it hadn’t begun, even though I’m financially a lot better off than I was when I left you in the theater.”

“Is it her money?”

“No. I never touched her money.”

Jill smiled in disbelief. “Then how did you become wealthy and incidentally, how wealthy?”

“A quarter of a million, more or less,” John said, “but ten thousand of it isn’t mine.” And in response to Jill’s urging he told her about Drobot and the ten thousand pounds.

“You should return his money,” Jill said.

“I intend to. I had already decided to look him up, but trying to get in contact with you interfered. I’m glad you decided to talk to me. Now, perhaps I can do a few other things that should be done.”

“I’m glad I decided to see you,” Jill said. “I never realized how much I missed you until your letters stopped coming.”

“What do you mean?” John asked. “I’ve written regularly.”

“Perhaps it was the post office’s fault,” Jill said as she began the tale of the delayed letter. They talked for a long time and arranged to meet again.

CHAPTER 11

Zog and Zen finally completed their work and distributed their gifts. Zen had qualms about them since she empathized better than Zog and could more easily see the damage these things could do. The atomic knowledge alone would work a revolution in the world. Oil empires would crumble. Shipping lines and drilling operations would come to a virtual standstill and more than 60 percent of the oil sales would come to a screeching stop as energy demands were satisfied from other sources. Some bloated economies would collapse and others would improve, and while on the whole mankind would be better off, the damage would be severe and people would suffer.

Zen’s mind shrank from the suffering, but a logical part of her intellect realized that there would be far less suffering if there were half as many humans. Five billion were too many for their technological level. They had achieved technology too fast. And now with a quantum jump in technological expertise, a lot more were going to suffer until some sort of balance was achieved. The French could help there, with new philosophy based upon the new psychology, and perhaps the beneficial aspects would counter the detrimental ones embodied in the spaceship and the war destroyer. There was something about this series of gifts that held what the Chinese called yang and yin; the yang of destruction, the yin of preservation. She wondered which would win, or would they come to a balance as they did in the symbolic circle divided into halves by an “S”-shaped line?

The Manti watched the nations of Earth with keen interest. The world was in ferment. Rumors of great new discoveries spread like wildfire. Rumors of alien invasion followed on their heels. The French produced a new psychology and new spin-offs in psychiatry. The German, Austrians, Americans and Russians joined in concert to denigrate the French discoveries and adopt them as their own.

Zen was appalled at the results of their gifts. Zog was amused.

“If I were a betting Manti, I’d have wagered a year’s study on it,” he said. “It was inevitable that they should change the philosophy. Yet the French idea will ultimately prevail, since it is the truth, and these other modifications are only partial truths.”

The American and foreign oil companies joined in an effort to bury the new atomic technology. The attempt didn’t succeed.

The Soviet Union announced a new spaceship— one that made the American efforts look almost childish by comparison. The Russians did it on television with worldwide coverage in color.

The ship, an ungainly block of a construct, lay on the ground on a runway of an unnamed airport, and as the announcer spoke, the ship lifted off the ground ind pale blue flame spurted from its absurdly tiny jets. The great mass came alive and literally leaped toward space in one great mind-boggling sweep that carried it out of sight in seconds. There was none of the smoke and flame and thunder of a Cape Kennedy launching, just a graceful curving dive into space.

The Russians gloated, and the world looked glumly upon the fruits of Soviet genius. Gavinsky was almost lyrical as he described the power and speed of the ship to the tv reporters. It was, he asserted, the most powerful weapon the world had ever seen. It defeated space. It could go to Mars and return in a week. It could circle Earth in half an hour. It could go to the moon and back in a day. And it did all these things in a blaze of publicity that convinced the world the Russians were telling the truth.

The newspapers of every country splashed the Russian achievements in headlines and pictures. Uncommitted countries veered toward the Communist camp and Soviet prestige soared. The military implications were appreciated by everyone. Every country had copies of the official tv films and showed them on their own network. Some nations would have preferred not to, but the events were too big to ignore. The United States was alarmed and the British were worried. West Germany was frantic and France was uneasy. A spaceship of that caliber was tantamount to military domination of the world.

Military experts who had watched the film tried to estimate its speed. They were unable to do so accurately because of the lack of any comparison, but they knew how far Mars and the moon were from Earth, and the speed of a half-an-hour orbit. The ship was immune to interception and probably could bomb any part of Earth’s surface with impunity.

Gavinsky delighted in taking political advantage of his suddenly powerful position. His speeches frightened and angered Americans, and tension between the two countries grew.. The States faced a superior power for the first time since World War I.

However, the spaceship was no guarantee of safety against salvos of missiles. The United States could retaliate heavily and could still lay the Soviet Union to Waste. The president remained unruffled and avoided personal clash with Gavinsky. The United Nations, for once, was quiet. Those who demanded immediate nuclear attack on the Soviet Union, on the principle that whoever started the war would be most likely to win it, were silenced. With consummate skill, the president kept the nation on an even keel, but world tension increased until the man in the street expected the outbreak of war at any moment. The British Cabinet was caught in this tide of fear. And for one black instant the stiff upper lip of England trembled. The United States had bases in England and the Russians might well decide to liquidate those bases in a first attack of the potential war. England would not count as an antagonist in this conflict. She could only be destroyed. So perhaps it would be well to remove a defense that had now become a danger.

While these events were simmering, the Americans

announced a breakthrough in atomic engineering. They had discovered how to make small atomic units that weighed only a few pounds, but delivered hundreds of horsepower. Overnight the automobile industry, heating and industrial power were revolutionized. The United States had at last discovered the answer to the energy shortage.

The Soviet Union now dazzled the world with a manned flight to Mars. The planet was filmed for worldwide distribution and in the course of time the Russians visited, explored and filmed one planet after the other until they became the foremost specialty filmmakers of the worJd. Her exploration films of the solar system made money, entertained the world and proved to science that life did exist on Jupiter’s moons.

The British Cabinet lost the stiffness of their upper lip and decided, after much argument, to ask the United States to withdraw from the bases on British soil. There was a renunciation of treaties and the Americans disbanded her bases. The British government’s breath of relief was short-lived, for Gavinsky announced that he wanted to take over the abandoned bases and protect Great Britain from American aggression.

A frantic diplomatic exchange began. The arrangement suggested by the ussr differed little from an occupation. Britain again turned to North America for help and reassurance, but found neither. The United States was no longer interested. Her displeasure at being asked to withdraw from England was

no more than a diplomatic gesture, and she was quite pleased to sever her expensive military commitments. The British government was deep in a well of its own digging. Gavinsky was well briefed on the American attitude and enjoyed his role as imposer of an agreement. The prime minister regretted the policy that had cost the backing of the United States. It had been cowardly diplomacy and had crisis not been so imminent, the government would have fallen. It was not politic to change governments at such critical moments and a compromise was reached that resulted in a coalition government even less capable than its predecessor. Mason remained as prime minister and continued negotiations with Gavinsky. Gavinsky publicly informed the British government that the Soviet Union would take over the American bases whether the British government agreed or not.

“If Russia keeps her threat, I shall consider it an act of war,” Mason announced. “I do not consider it proper to send men to useless slaughter; nor do.I consider it a noble action/to save our national pride. There is, however, a third course, and I shall use it. It is a gift from the aliens^ I am told that this will prevent organized war, and I shall use the gift with that intention.” He wiped his forehead and sat down to silence.

“Do you have any idea what it will do?” asked one.

Mason shook his head. “I have no more information than you have, but I was assured it was harmless to life.”

“How could it possibly work?” asked the minister of war.

“Are you prepared to sit here and see England invaded?” asked an angry voice.

“It is better to act than to do nothing,” said another.

A decision was finally reached. If the Russians landed on English soil the alien gift would be used. A rocket was ready at an raf airfield in the Midlands. The tube was in place with an altimeter-operated detonator. It required only a telephone call and the cylinder would be on its way.

Zog and Zen were present at the cabinet meeting. Since it was a play of their own devising, they enjoyed it. They had supplied the concepts, and the dialogue was forced to follow the line of the plot. The only freedom the players had was a limited choice of words.

The Manti watched Gavinsky marshal his forces and saw the embarkation of army troops. They plunged through the atmosphere to Russian airports and observed the paratroopers entering their transports. They watched the planes fly and the ships set sail. They hovered high over England when the sky was filled with parachutists and watched the unopposed Soviet landings at silent seaports. They witnessed the swift ascent of the rocket and the explosion that liberated a fine green dust that atmospheric winds would carry around the world.

England made the best of a bad situation. The country was informed about the Russians. The idea was advanced that collaboration was desirable to bring the two countries together, and that the Russians were quite decent fellows really, no different from anyone else, and fraternization would promote international friendship and eventual abolition of war. Many people accepted the stories and welcomed the advance of international understanding that made it possible for Russians to be based in England. Most did not…

John and Jill met frequently and discussed the events of the day. The conversations never became personal although they occurred frequently. They were both shocked that the ussr was allowed to take over the American bases. Kitty Little’s divorce from Renato Mazzini took place in spite of the complex international situation. The film industry and Kitty’s fans rejoiced, and Kitty promptly went to work on a new film and a new leading man. The man was a surprise. He was Stephen Drobot, and John wondered why Kitty was so conservative/as to want a millionaire. John and Jill managed to spend a great deal of time together. Jill still worked for the Brighton paper, but John had no occupation. He didn’t really need one since the Russians, with rare discrimination, left the British monetary system alone, feeling, no doubt, that any interference at all would be too much for the pound to bear.

“Do you think I should try again to find Drobot?” John asked. “I’ve tried several times, but he’s been out of the country. On a honeymoon to Italy, his secretary says. Personally, I don’t think he likes Russians. I’ll try advertising.”

“Something may come of it,” she said.” Something did. -

Stephen Drobot had just returned from Italy; he telephoned and made an appointment. John received him in his apartment. The man was short and stocky with hair just turning gray. John looked at him carefully. He was the one.

“Well, young man, I never expected to see you again,” Drobot said.

“I thought I should cancel our agreement and return your money,” said John, “with interest.”

Drobot looked at him in astonishment “Do you still have it?”

John nodded, “I have.”

“All of it?”

“Of course. I found that I couldn’t talk about our private life.”

“Well I’m damned,” Drobot said. He looked at John strangely. “Let me get this straight. You take me for ten thousand pounds and now you want to give it back?”

“I can’t live up to the agreement.”

“What agreement?” asked Drobot curiously.

“The one we had,” said John. “I was to give you the story of my life with Kitty.”

“Why? I couldn’t use it”

“You said you wanted to publish it.”

“I publish textbooks, not pornography.”

“You didn’t want it?” John was dismayed.

“Certainly not.”

“Then why did you give me ten thousand?”

“Damned if I know,” Drobot shook his head in puzzlement.

John went to the liquor cabinet He needed a drink.

“What will you have?” he asked.

“Whiskey,” said Drobot.

John poured two drinks and, handing one to Drobot, sat down and looked at his guest.

“Was this your own idea?” Drobot asked. “To return the money, I mean.”

“I thought it was the right thing to do. So did Jill.”

“Jill?”

“My girlfriend.”

Drobot was intrigued and with charm and skill extracted most of John’s story.

“It’s an amazing yarn. Too bad I can’t use it. But I’m married to Kitty now, and I really don’t have any proper outlet for it.”

John shrugged.

“But your experience aS/H photographer could be useful to me. I own a camera company with a dozen or so retail outlets, and I am looking for someone to take charge of the technical side. Would you be interested?”

John was. He would be in complete charge of the laboratory and would be a member of the technical group that handled special assignments. His salary would be nearly twice what the observatory had paid him, and even more useful, he would have something to do. Before he left, Drobot had settled the matter. He prided himself in hi§ assessment of men and was sure he had found a good employee. John realized that this was a big step in Jill’s esteem. Both parties were happy and John was glad to go to work again.

Drobot took the check, shook hands with John Wielant and left. It was ten thousand well returned, John thought. It did him no pain and should do a great deal of good. Drobot looked as if he would be a good boss.

CHAPTER 12

Zog and Zen withdrew the sensyrs through which they had observed all these events and unfastened their equipment. They were enjoying the situation they had helped create.

“I can see how our gifts alter the economic and political patterns of this society, but I have yet to see how that mutated virus is going to accomplish any positive good. Actually it is an evil thing you have done, and had I extrapolated your plan, I would have stopped you. You have no right to do this to intelligent life.”

Zog shrugged—or rather gave the Manti equivalent of a shrug—and when the rippling of his skin subsided he spoke aloud in the serious [mode. “This is the pivotal mechanism. The virus is the thing that will change the humans’ future.**

“How?” she asked. “By throwing them into the past?”

Zog looked at her with affectionate amusement. “Not exactly. You have the data and the computational ability. You also have the necessary intuition. Work it out for yourself.”

“I don’t want to. I’ve taken it through three permutations and I really don’t like anything I can visualize.”

“Remember, Zen, the knowledge is not lost. The

damage is not permanent. Immune types will appear in the Fl generation. All that will happen is a hiatus. And remember, too, this is an evolving life form. Its morphology is not yet fixed; and its mental development is scarcely out of infancy. Hardly one-fifth of its total capacity is used. The humans need some evolutional pressures to develop. They have had it too easy. This will do what their peculiar customs forbid. It will winnow the nonsurvival types by cutting parameters wherein one must cope or perish. There is no future for nonsurvival types.*’

She looked at him steadily. “I have never seen you mentate in such a manner,” she radiated.

“What I have planned is the least destructive and has the greatest chance for success.”

“I realize that,” Zen sighed. “Nevertheless it is cruel.”

“Life is cruel,” Zog said. “And humans operate at their best under adversity. Man reaches his greatest heights when his back is against the wall. Look at their history. It is in times of death and persecution that human genius flowers. They rise to the demands placed upon them. Under stress there is willing and unselfish cooperation, generosity and devotion. In times of affluence and peace, the meaner parts of their characters are uppermost and you see this thing they call the ‘rat race’ with its attendant snobbery, envy and greed. But to bring the stronger elements of their character to the fore, the events must be stressful, grim, and merciless toward weakness.”

There was silence while Zen thought “I can see your reasoning, and it is logical. The virus will put

them against the wall, and the prognosis is bloodshed on a large scale.”

“That will depend on their characters, not ours. Without our gift, the Russians would not be in England, but their behavior, once there, is their own.”

“Can a race hemorrhage to death?”

“Not of its own free will. It has to be helped to that end.”

“It will produce a social catastrophe.”

“Exactly,” agreed Zog. “Now take it from there.”

“I’d rather program it into the computer. I never liked doing routine extrapolations. As I visualize it, the end will be no better than the beginning.”

“This race is survival-oriented, despite appearances,” Zog said. “They have an excellent chance— and a breathing space they badly need.”

“One of us will need a new surrogate,” Zen/said as she dropped the larger subject with characteristic abruptness once she had determined its course and probable conclusion. “Since John and Kitty have separated we cannot use them as a compatible pair any more. Are you satisfied with John?”

“He is a pleasant person to be with.”

“I don’t like Kitty that well. She’s shallow. I think Jill should be much better, although she does not seem to be as sensuous,” Zen said.

“Appearances are deceiving. That may well change when they marry. But why worry if she’s not a sexpot? That’s strictly secondary.”

“She has love for him. There is no reason why it cannot be consummated.”

“They could be our alter egos while the change

goes on,” Zog suggested. “If you are willing, I am.”

“I think we should observe the lives of these two without interfering in any way,” Zen said. “It will give us a truer picture of human thought and relationships.”

“Very well,” Zog said. “I’ll go along with that.

Besides I detest manipulating people.” Zen didn’t laugh, though she felt like it.

From then on they watched events on Earth through the eyes of John and Jill…

Once the Russians were established they treated the areas as occupied territory and spread havoc through the x neighboring countryside. They commandeered food and goods from shops and in the ensuing protests several people were killed. The situation deteriorated from one day to the next and the Russians sent reinforcements, which only aggravated the problems.

Meanwhile John Wielant became the director of Drobot’s photographic firm. The 12 shops were located in main south-coast resorts such as Brighton, Eastbourne and Hastings. They were all large and well equipped, sold photographic equipment of all kinds and developed and printed films. The business was seasonal, reaching its peak activity in the summer months. Each shop had its own darkroom where the films were developed on the spot, and John traveled from shop to shop supervising this part of the work and dealing with technical difficulties that arose. He soon recognized the waste of time and labor involved in each shop acting as a separate unit. The duplications were unnecessary. All the developing and printing could be done centrally at much less cost. He worked out the scheme in detail, forwarded it to Drobot and received approval.

John had bought a more than adequate house— Hempstead Farm—outside a pleasant Sussex village; he had a job he liked, a good income and a fat bank account in Switzerland. It was time, he thought, to propose to Jill.

The aliens were fascinated with the complex emotional patterns of the two humans. They were incredibly different from the direct, almost mechanical approach that John and Kitty had displayed toward each other. Love among humans, they realized, was far more complex than they had believed. Anticipation, fear, hope and joy flooded across the minds of Zog and Zen. Their identification was complete, arid they experienced the human emotions in exactly /the same degree as their alter egos.

John took Jill out to dinner, and Zog felt John’s anxiety, his concern about the dinner and the pull of his jacket across his shoulders as he bent forward. It was exactly the same with Zen. She felt Jill’s tenseness and the loose shoulder strap of her brassiere that had annoyingly slipped just as John arrived.

When the dinner was over, John showed Jill around his house. She had seen it before, but there were some alterations and improvements.

“I think it’s lovely,” murmured Jill.

He smiled. The housekeeper had set out a coffee service in front of the large, old-fashioned fireplace that burned logs under a copper canopy. The fire was lighted, and the room was warm and comfortable. The actual heating was done by one of the new

American atomic units, which heated the house quietly and economically. The unit was presently being fueled with builder’s scraps from the restoration and reconstruction of the house, and the energy was utilized to convert water into steam, which circulated through baseboard radiators.

“Drobot is a most satisfactory employer,” John said. “He’s responsible for most of this.”

“He certainly is good to you.”

“He is,” John said. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of a place like this if he hadn’t suggested it. I’d probably have taken a flat somewhere in the area and commuted to work on a motorbike. A house, though, makes me more sedate. I’ve bought a Vauxhall, and I drive in comfort.”

“You have changed!” Jill said.

“Not really. I still love you.”

“Do you, darling?” she asked.

He kissed her.

She leaned back against the sofa as his body pressed close. Her arms went slowly about his neck. He paused, stroked her hair and looked at the beauty that was love. She would never be more lovely than she was at the moment.

“Will you marry me, Jill?”

She smiled. “Of course, John. That was my intention from the moment you came back to me. I’ll not let you go again.”

There were no Russians nearby, and although the country was restless and filled with a growing distaste and anger, the local feelings were relatively cairn. Although personally uninvolved, Jill and John continually read the newspapers, which told of fresh troubles and irritations. British tempers flared and prompted letters to the editor and public indignation meetings in those areas where the Russians weren’t stationed. A campaign was started to evict the Russians. Their behavior had enraged the nation and the press saw to it that people stayed enraged. Around their bases was a state of undeclared war. People had been evacuated from those areas, and only the British army remained to safeguard private property that the Russians persisted in trying to make public. The papers blamed the government and demanded Soviet withdrawal as though they were unaware of the true situation. /

It was a beautiful day and there was no indication that it would be any different from any other. John finished a letter and gave it to Jill for typing. She transcribed it with her customary efficiency, pulled it out of the typewriter and handed it to him. He sat down to read and sign it, but it made no sense.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“What’s what?”

“I can’t read it,” he said.

“So early in the morning, dear,** she said. “You should be more careful about alcohol. Too much can make you go blind.” She took the typewritten sheet out of his hands and looked at it. Her forehead wrinkled into puzzled lines. The letters had no meaning to her.

She could not read, either.

“That’s strange. There must be something wrong with the typewriter. I’ll do it again.”

She typed it again with the smooth, effortless speed of the trained touch-typist. She pulled the letter out of the machine and looked at it. It was still gibberish. And then she noticed that the keyboard letters made no sense.

“It’s impossible,” she muttered.

Inserting another sheet, she began to type the alphabet. Although she struck what she thought were correct letters it was impossible to make sense of them afterward. There was no connection between the letters and her speech center.

“What’s happening?” she asked in a frightened voice.

John looked puzzled. He picked up the daily newspaper. “This is the same! It’s garble.”

“What do you mean?”

Neither of them could make sense of the print Slowly but certainly it dawned on them that they could not read. The printed words had no meaning. They looked at each other in alarm, and then by mutual unspoken consent went through the house looking at books and papers they could no longer understand. What did it mean? John picked up the telephone and dialed a remembered number but it was busy.

“Who are you ringing?”

“The doctor,” he answered.

He dialed again without success.

“There must be a reason for this. We must be suffering from some disease.”

At the third attempt the line was clear. The receptionist answered. “Hie doctor is out. Can I help you?” she asked.

“I must speak to him. It’s urgent.**

There was a pause at the other end. “Could you tell me what the trouble is?’*

John hesitated.

“Has it anything to do with reading?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You are not alone,” the woman said. “We are being swamped with calls for the same reason, but it is physically impossible for the doctor to see everyone. Perhaps you should try to get into a hospital.’*

“I’m not ill. I just can’t read,” John said and hung up.

“We are not the only ones,” ^he said, feeling slightly reassured. “There are many others.”

“That’s nice.” But she didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

Zog broke contact and disengaged Zen. “Well, it’s started. Now leVs see what happens.”

CHAPTER 13

The disease—and it was quickly recognized as a disease—moved inexorably across the surface of the world. Carried by the jet stream, the virus particles spread with enormous rapidity from one land to the next, and wherever a person became infected, he became a focus of further infection. In less than two months the virus had spread everywhere. Not all people were affected, of course. Like every other disease, the virus, for some strange reasons, of its own, spared certain individuals. Reading did not become a vanished art; the population merely changed from 99% literate to 99% illiterate, and sometimes those who could still read were the sort who moved their lips painfully as their eyes traversed a page.

The result was chaos.

The manager of Barclay’s Bank in London went to bed with a slight headache and woke up illiterate. He did not know he was illiterate until he reached the bank, since he had arisen late that morning and had forgone his usual coffee, orange juice and morning paper. It was only when he reached the bank and looked at his morning mail that his misfortune became apparent.

He rang for his secretary.

“Miss Soames,” he demanded, “what is this gibberish?*’

“Why your mail, sir. It’s addressed to you quite plainly.” She held up a letter. “See, it’s your name and the address of the bank.”

“Good God!” the manager exclaimed. “I’ve become a moron!”

“Oh no, sir. I wouldn’t say that,” Miss Soames replied. Privately, however, she agreed with him except that she would have replaced “I’ve become” with “I am.” Mr. Honeycutt had been a moron for years or perhaps an idiot savant was a better term. All he knew was banking and finance.

“I must see a doctor at once,” Honeycutt said. “Call one for me.”

“Yes sir.” Miss Soames dialed a half dozen numbers before one answered. She made^an appointment and turned to Mr. Honeycutt, who was pacing frantically up and down the room behind his desk. “A doctor Warrington on Regent Street is available at once, sir. The others are busy.”

“Good, and Soames.”

“Yes sir.”

“You had better come with me. I shall not be able to read the address, and I will need your help rather badly, I’m afraid.”

The smile on Miss Soames’s face was like a glowing sunrise. They reached Dr. Warrington’s office where Honeycutt was ushered into the surgery by an efficient receptionist, after she had filled out a file card bearing his name, address, occupation, previous physician and National Health number.

“And what is your complaint, sir?” the doctor asked.

“I can’t read.”

“That hardly. requires a physician. I would suggest a school teacher.”

“Don’t be funny,” Honeycutt said. “I could read very well yesterday.”

“Hmm. That makes it different. Fortunately I am a neurologist. Well, let us see what is wrong with you.” The examination was surprisingly brief and simple, and Dr. Warrington looked at Honeycutt and shrugged.

“I’m afraid I can do nothing for you, sir,” he said. “You have viral alexia. The history and lesions are definitive.”

“Viral alexia? What in blazes is that?”

“It hasn’t been around very long, and the information about it is scant.”

“Why hasn’t it been in the papers?”

It appeared in this morning’s paper. We’ve known about it for less than a week, and it hasn’t generated much publicity outside the Ministry of Health.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a neurotropic virus that attacks the angular gyrus region of the brain. In a way it’s like rabies virus, except that it’s not fatal and is much more contagious. The virus particles, however, seem to have an affinity for the cells in the angular gyrus region rather than the hippocampus.”

“Could you tell me what that means in English?” Honeycutt said.

“Of course. It means that your reading comprehensive center is damaged and that you are unable to understand the written word.”

“No!” Honeycutt paled. “That’s the end of my career.”

“You’re not alone,” Dr. Warrington said. “There’s millions like you and more to come. I won’t see any patients except alexia cases.”

“Why not?”

“I have it, too, and I’m afraid the virus might spread from me to uninfected people. My receptionist has been immune so far, and she won’t leave me, although I’ve tried to send her away. She’s very loyal. I imagine she is in love with me.”

“Soames,” Honeycutt said. “Hmm. I wonder.”

“Loyalty is a peculiar trait. Accept and be grateful. But as far as your disease is concerned, I can do you little good. I shall, of course, prescribe medication, but the blood-brain barrier will undoubtedly limit its effectiveness.”

“Eh?”

“I have no time to explain,” Dr. Warrington said, “but I assure you I shall do everything I can for you. Make arrangements to see me once a week. Laura will record the appointments. In the meantime take the prescription she gives you; drink plenty of nonalcoholic fluids—coffee and tea are fine. Stay on a light, low-fat, low-protein diet and get plenty of sleep. Perhaps you will recover completely.”

“Perhaps?”

“The disease hasn’t been with us long enough for anyone to make a prognosis. So far the effects seem to be permanent, but cases only began appearing in any great number a few days ago. We can’t say what time will do. Right now it looks like some people are resistant, but we don’t know if this is true. Go home, Mr. Honeycutt, or go to work. It would be preferable if you went home, but I do not imagine that your presence or absence will prevent the spread of this disease. Check with Laura for your next appointment. I’m sorry to be abrupt,- but I have four other treatment rooms and four other patients with alexia. Good luck, Mr. Honeycutt and I shall see you in a week.” Dr. Warrington nodded, smiled and vanished.

“Well, at least I know what I have,” Honeycutt said to Miss Soames as they walked back to the bank, “and I think we had better close our doors and have an emergency meeting as soon as I return. We had better find out how many of our people cannot read.”

“Yes, Mr. Honeycutt,” Soames said.

Honeycutt called the head office and was shifted to Mr. Welles, one of the executive vice-presidents. Honeycutt knew Welles slightly and felt a little more at ease as he broached his problem.

“An excellent idea, Honeycutt,” Welles boomed. “This reading disease is all over the country. Branches from everywhere are phoning in and asking what to do.”

“What about the customers? What shall I tell them?”

“If you are inside a locked bank, you won’t have to tell them anything.”

“Shall I post a notice with some sort of explanation?”

“You are welcome to, if you can find anyone to write it or who is able to read it afterward. The disability is nationwide—hah! It’s international! If people cannot read, banks cannot operate; so shut your doors and wait for further instructions.”

Later that day, the prime minister received Sir Andrew Sinclair, a specialist in neuropathology, who had been referred to him by the president of the Royal College of Surgeons. Sir Andrew looked like the perfect layman’s conception of a physician: tall, gray, elegant and wise. He had, the prime minister thought, the air of a successful tv personality, and then Mason recalled he had seen the man before, on a bbc broadcast about mental health.

“Tell me about this reading disease, Sir Andrew.”

“It is called alexia or word blindness,” Sir Andrew said, choosing his words carefully since Mason wasn’t a professional. “It comes from brain damage—usually bleeding—in the area called the angular gyrus— about here…“He tapped his templexl have seen cases prior to this outbreak, but they were all the result of trauma such as blows, gunshot wounds or cerebral hemorrhage.

“This is something new. The virus specifically attacks this area. Postmortem examinations of alectic victims—the deaths were due to other causes—pinpointed hemorrhages in the angular gyrus. We have isolated a virus from the lesions. It is a most unusual thing. It is neurotropic—affects nerve tissue—but it has the conformation of a poxvirus; poxviruses attack epithelium—skin—rather than nervous tissues. I get the impression that this is a tailored virus; one that is made by man for a specific task. Has the military been working with mutated viruses, sir?”

“Not that I know of,” the prime minister said.

“I suppose you wouldn’t admit it even if you did know,” Sir Andrew said. “It was a stupid question.”

“There are no military works connected with this, to my knowledge.”

“Was the United States working on such a thing?”

“They never told me.”

Sir Andrew shrugged. “I hoped they might or that we might. It would save a great deal of time if we knew precisely what we were dealing with.”

Mason had the chilling thought that this was the alien gift. It stopped organized war, all right. It stopped it cold. It also stopped everything else. It was going to be hell on wheels to find some effective substitute for writing.

“It seems incredible that the whole nation is suffering from an epidemic,” Mason said.

“It isn’t, but it appears that virtually everyone exposed to the virus can contract the disease. There are unaffected enclaves and individuals who are resistant or only partially affected, but not many.”

“Can we contact these people?”

“You might check with the National Health Service. I wouldn’t know.”

“You are, I expect, trying to do something about this disease?”

“Certainly,” Sir Andrew said. “We have already identified the virus and are now working on isolation technique. We have developed a symbology that substitutes for written laboratory notes. We are attempting to grow the virus on artificial media. As soon as we can grow it in pure culture we shall try to make vaccine. If we can make vaccine we shall inoculate all newborn children and may, I hope, free the next generation from this plague.”

“What about our generation?”

Sir Andrew shrugged. “They’ll simply have to take their chances. If the inflammation and hemorrhage subside without causing too much cell damage or scarring, the ability to read may return. If it goes the other way, there will be permanent impairment.

“Actually, chances are rather poor. At the moment, we are doing postmortem examinations on every cadaver that comes into our hands. We have doctors all over the country reporting to us and sending in specimens. The results are not encouraging. There are a few cases of early infection, which uniformly have severe cell damage and scarring. Most cases are acute, and the extenrof cell invasion shown by the inclusion bodies and the amount of hemorrhage would preclude recovery. I’m afraid the percentage of recovery will be very small—possibly less than one percent.”

“That still would be about five hundred thousand people,” Mason said. “That’s a worthwhile number.”

“It might be only a tenth that large,” Sir Andrew said.

“That would still give us 1000 readers in London and every major city and 100 for every shire,” Mason said. “We could get along with that number. The problem will be to find them.”

“I’m glad that problem is not mine,” Sir Andrew said. “I shall have enough of a task with the vaccine. But if you find any readers with mental ability above a moron, I will be grateful for those you can spare.”

Mason smiled, “I will keep you in mind, Sir Andrew.”

“Meantime, sir, we will keep on working. Thus far we have had no success with growth media, but we are now cloning angular gyrus tissue, and these should work.”

“How long will it be before you are sure?”

“I don’t know. A month if we are lucky; several years if we are not.”

“What will happen if you are not successful?”

Sir Andrew shrugged. “Only God can answer that. The probability is, if the race survives, that reading ability will return as we become adapted to and resistant to the virus. But that could take generations.”

“You’re not very optimistic.’*

“I’m a member of a pessimistic profession. However, I can leave you this bit of comfort. The ancient Incas, without knowledge of writing, effectively administered and governed a state twice as large as this with some ten million inhabitants, and they did it quite well.”

“How?” Mason asked.

“With knotted bits of colored string,” Sir Andrew shrugged…

In the schools, the disease struck the teachers first, since they were the ones who were most likely to notice it. Indeed, some students never noticed the loss at all until it was called to their attention. The administrators called staff meetings, but nobody knew what to do.

Banks slowly went out of business as they liquidated their assets as best they could and paid their customers as high a percentage of their deposits as they could manage.

Paperwork slowed to a trickle. Millions of civil service employees were summarily dismissed. Commerce shrank to a handful of tons of goods compared with the millions of tons a few weeks before. Production ceased. Barter became the method of exchange. Food supplies ran short, and telephone, television, sound tapes and radio became the communication methods. Newspapers and magazines expired like flies in a cloud of ddt.

As the disease spread, frantic searches were made, for people who were immune to the disease and could read. These valued few were first passed through the hands of doctors who used them as sources of serum for experimental work, and then they were moved into well-paid positions in government and industry.

It was quickly discovered that pictorial symbols still had meaning, and a kind of hieroglyphic script was developed that could be understood after a fashion and served to compensate somewhat for lack of reading comprehension.

Alexia didn’t kill human civilization, but it crippled it badly. Yet the Manti had spoken no more than the truth, Mason reflected, as he looked upon the shambles that had been England. The tight little isle had loosened at the seams and was coming apart. Confusion was compounded with disruption and chaos. Yet all this was of human making, for the disease itself killed no one, and alexia did prevent organized war by destroying organized society. The Soviet Union had no chance to aid her occupation forces. She had too many internal problems of her own, and England, although disrupted and disorganized, still had a military force that traditionally gave loyalty to the Crown, and a countryside that was united in loathing for invaders. These things were positive assets, Mason reflected, and from less than this a nation could be rebuilt. If the land could be united, the disruption could be halted; organization could be restored; public safety groups could be established and armed; and the criminal element could be contained and eliminated. And England could once more be a nation in a world of tribes.

He would probably be known as “Bloody Mason’1 when this was all over, the prime minister reflected wryly as he reached for the telephone, but in building a state, a man must take one step at a time, and some of these steps were painful.

“Get me the commanding officer of the Home Defense Forces,” Mason said. “Yes, that’s right, Field Marshal Sir William Godwin.” He waited and a coldly speculative light gleamed in his cool blue eyes.

“Marshal Godwin,” he said, “this is the prime minister. I have an assignment for you.”

CHAPTER 14

John Wielant was smart, and he was an alarmist. He realized almost immediately! how dangerous a widespread inability to read could be and he took precautions. He telephoned his bank in Switzerland and arranged to have half of his account converted into pounds sterling, with as much of it in coin as could be conveniently managed, and promptly left for Switzerland to collect. The bank in Berne recognized him and his thumbprint signature and presented him with a sizable bundle of banknotes and a number of bags of coin. Wielant arranged to rent a car, loaded it with his wealth and drove to Amsterdam. A Dutch fisherman agreed to land John and his baggage at an English Channel port that wasn’t held by Russians, and with very little trouble, he got his money ashore and into a Land Rover he purchased for cash. Two clays later he was home, and a day after that, the money was securely hidden.

Hempstead Farm had once been a genuine farmhouse with five acres of land. John used the paper money first to buy seed, farm implements and a second atomic engine, which he installed in the Land Rover. He also bought a hunting rifle, two shotguns and a considerable quantity of ammunition, an archery set and several sheaves of arrows, a large bundle of camping gear and an electric generator that could run off an atomic engine. He spent the rest of the money on tinned food and paid the exorbitant prices without demur.

Their evenings were spent listening to the news and watching television, and both Jill and John regretted their inability to read. The disease hit Jill harder than John, since she had been an avid reader. Television, however, helped make the time pass. There were many films, variety acts and panel games. Reception was occasionally bad and the presentations were not of very good quality. Otherwise, for a time, everything was much the same, except that the news grew progressively grimmer. Transmissions gradually decreased in number and deteriorated in content until they were hardly worth viewing. Radio transmissions however, continued to be worthwhile. There were enough atomic power plants to keep the stations on the air, and the amateur operators expanded to fill gaps in the standard frequencies. The communications were just adequate to keep the country from falling apart, but they weren’t particularly exciting, and after a while Jill became bored. It was all well and good to be a farmer’s wife, but the life lacked variety. It was mainly work and bed, and usually they were too tired for the bed to be much fun.

“Let’s go out for the day,” she suggested one morning.

John glanced at her across the breakfast table. The sunlight filtering through the kitchen window promised a fine day. He swallowed a mouthful of egg-

“We can go for a ride, but I don’t think we should leave the place for too long. Perhaps we could arrange to get a young couple from the village to’live with us. Maybe the Gossicks. Henry Gossick is an ex-Royal Marine. He and his wife, Sarah, would be a great deal of help to us, and he’s having a pretty rough time. There’s not much call for drug salesmen nowadays.”

“Are you thinking of him because he’s a friend or because he’s been a soldier?”

“Both. When the food shortage in the cities becomes acute, gangs will wander the countryside, looking for food.”

“But we are hidden here. We’re three kilometers from the nearest village and no one would ever find us,” she said.

“Perhaps not, but I can walk three kilometers in half an hour. And if I was really hungry, I could do it in 20 minutes.”

She looked at him speculatively. “Why are you so pessimistic?”

He finished his tea and lit his pipe. “I’m a realist, dear. If the ability to read does not return, chaos is inevitable.”

“But people can still do business together.”

“True, but only by word of mouth.”

“Business will continue.”

“Some will, of course, but it will be cash or trade in hand. The economy will die. There will be no business as we know it. Actually, if things go as I expect, we are going to be a first-class disaster area. Fifty million people live on an island that is not self-supporting. We rely on imports for much of our food. How are you going to send a shipload of, say,

New Zealand lamb to England when no one can keep any records?”

Jill frowned. “It could be arranged by phone,” she said, “or maybe by sound tapes.”

John puffed a cloud of smoke. “Possibly, but what about the distribution and payment? How can accounts be kept? What will we use to pay the New Zealand rancher? There’s going to be tremendous confusion before things are worked out. People are going to starve, and people will be murdered for food.”

“Are you suggesting cannibalism? Or just murder for the food they possess?”

“Perhaps both.”

Jill shuddered. “I don’t believe it. A thing like that could never happen in England.”

John shrugged.

“Anyway, I’m not going to stay cooped up here just because of some imaginary murderers and cannibals,” Jill said.

“Of course not. Well go out, but I don’t like the idea of leaving the house empty for too long a time.”

They took the Land Rover and drove to the village. They pulled up at the police station, which was a private house with a board sign, indicating the Sussex Constabulary. There were several notices that had no meaning, and a torn picture of a wanted man.

As they knocked, the door was opened by Sergeant Crew, the local chief constable, who invited them into the front parlor. He was a large man with a red face and short bristly hair. He knew them both. It was part of his job.

“I’ve just been listening to the news,” said John.

“So have I,” said the sergeant. There was a silence in the room and a bluebottle droned against the windowpane.

“I am collecting some of the lads to form a militia company, but we’ve no uniforms yet.” He looked at John. “Will you join, Mr. Wielant?”

“That’s why we’re here, Sergeant. Both Jill and I will join.”

The sergeant scratched his head. “I don’t know about ladies, sir. They said nothing about that.”

“They’ll be useful when dealing with women and children,” suggested John.

“You’re right, sir.” The sergeant nodded. “I’ll note your offer and tell you when we’re ready to start. Depend upon it, Mr. Wielant, we shall be starting soon. There is much sentiment for a local militia. We need people willing to help and you will be called.”

CHAPTER 15

Stephen Drobot’s commercial empire was battered but not utterly destroyed by the alexian disease. Only the food-distribution business was still under his control, and he had been forced to move with power and brutality to retain that much. The reading plague had been an invitation to looters and much of his goods and money had been stolen. He paid his foremen and tallymen well, demanding and receiving honesty for his money. He also kept an enforcement squad, experts with guns and nightsticks, to insure minimum theft of company property. The squad was ruthlessly efficient.

Alexia had seriously damaged the usually effective police force, and while patrolmen on beats and flying squads still kept a semblance of control over the city’s affairs, businesses were forced to hire and arm their own security guards to prevent pilferage and looting.

The growing food crisis had brought Drobot some added dividends, among which were works of art that had been sold for food and an entirely different work of art named Kitty Little.

Drobot had always been fascinated by the actress. In fact, he was in the audience when John Wielant had walked up to her that day last spring. He had envied Wielant then, but he didn’t envy him now.

Kitty had quickly tired of both Wielant and her subsequent Italian lover. Her marriage to Mazzini was annulled, which startled Renato and gave him a reputation the poor man didn’t deserve, for Kitty’s lawyers had obtained the annulment on the grounds of nonconsummation.

Drobot, a little amused, was in the group of admirers who congratulated Kitty, and later he took her to dinner. They ate at Drobot’s house in Eaton Square, a quietly elegant meal cooked by Ethel Jorgenson, the young Swedish housekeeper whose bland, high-boned Scandinavian face concealed the ability of an Escoffier. Not since she had dined with John Wielant had Kitty eaten so well. It was a lovely meal from the aperitif to the Charlotte Russe and Martel Cordon Bleu, and she enjoyed the deft service by Charles, the butler.

It was all very romantic. The wedding was held in the St. Bonaventure vicarage since both the bride and the groom had been wed before. The affair was colorful and gay, and Kitty enchanted the reporters. They went to Italy for their honeymoon and rented a yacht for a tour of the Aegean Sea. Drobot was an expert sailor and they cruised from place to place for more than a month, stopping at Istanbul, Beirut, Rhodes and other ports before returning to Venice.

Tanned and fit, they returned to London. As she greeted the usual group of welcoming admirers, Kitty looked as radiant as ever, although somewhat better groomed. Her leonine mop of tawny blonde hair was now smooth and neatly arranged and her makeup was more subdued. Drobot apparently had some influence over her, for she was now more of a lady— a change some of her admirers did not think was for the better. And when her personal claque invited her to a welcome-home party, she glanced briefly at her husband and then declined. They were tired, she said, and it had been a long trip.

She vanished into the Eaton Square house and only infrequently emerged, always in the company of her husband. They were inseparable and obviously in love. She was not at home to her agent, her lawyers or her admirers. She retired from filmmaking, and although she occasionally appeared in public, she was the beautiful, well-groomed, well-gowned, quietly elegant wife of one of the more powerful businessmen of the city.

It would have been different, Drobot ruminated, if the world were not sliding toward catastrophe. He smiled wryly as he climbed the curving Georgian staircase to the suite of rooms on the second floor of his house he and Kitty shared.

“Stephen, you’re early,” Kitty said. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour. I was just going to draw a bath.”

“I’ll scrub your back,” Drobot offered.

She laughed. “I know where an offer like that will lead.”

“Are you complaining?”

She shook her head. Very lovely, Drobot tnought. She rose from the chair and stood, holding out her hands with a half-smile on her face. He looked at her, took her in his arms and kissed her. She returned the caress and they stood together for a long moment.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said. “It’s been a bad day. The television was off and on half a dozen times, and I have no appetite for listening to readers. I worked on another design, but it isn’t going too well. I cleaned the rooms, but mostly I was bored. When are you going to let me out of here?”

“Never. I thought I had made that clear months ago.”

“You did, but I keep hoping.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I can go to the police.”

“Who would believe you? I am a sober and respectable citizen. You’d be acting quite mad. And of course, when you died of an overdose of sleeping pills, or in an automobile accident, or by drowning, or by any one of 100 ways our collapsing society has opened to me, I shall be very sad because I loved and shall miss you. Nevertheless, you will be dead.”

“You’re a beast. You treat me like a slave. You keep me only because I excite you.”

“The excitement is mutual,” he said, “or else you are a better liar than I think.”

“If you had told me what you were like—” she frowned at him, walked over to the bed, sat on it and looked at him invitingly “—I wouldn’t have married you.”

“But I did, and you married me anyway. I warned you that I was jealous, possessive and domineering. I even told you that I was vengeful and suspicious and that I would be a dreadful husband, especially the latter.”

“But you made it sound so exciting.”

“Which goes to prove that American psychiatrist was right when he said you women mouth a lot about women’s liberation, but the majority of you react with physical enthusiasm to situations where you are forced into subordinate or submissive roles.”

“You’re cruel, nasty and tyrannical,” she said. “You should have been a slave driver.”

“I am,” he said equably.

“I loathe you,” she said as she pulled him down beside her and kissed him passionately. “I hate you for the things you make me do. You’re the perfect example of a sex chauvinist. You’re so damnably superior, so egotistically male.”

Drobot laughed as he caressed her and watched her reactions. “I think you fantasize,” he said. “You’re probably imagining yourself as a harem slave and me the sultan; or perhaps a temple virgin with me the high priest.”

“Or maybe as a whore and you as my pimp.”

“Hardly. You wouldn’t think that little of yourself. Your self-esteem would demand more. And I think that you enjoy your life more than you’ll admit. Certainly it is boring, but it’s very comfortable. You’re clean and warm and well fed and well served.”

“Especially the latter.”

“And what discomforts you have are usually minimal.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Stop talking and come to bed. You have things to do.”

“Animal.”

“Beast,” she replied.

It was only a couple of days ago that Drobot had smiled, patted her bottom and said, “Basically, my dear, you’re a hedonist and throughly amoral. You’d still prowl if you weren’t afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Stephen. I simply don’t want you to be angry with me.”

Drobot chuckled. “To me, that adds up to the same thing.”

“There’s a difference,” Kitty said thoughtfully. “I’ll admit it’s hard to explain, but there’s a difference. I do as you wish because you want me to and because I want you to be happy. It’s really a positive feeling. I’m not acquiescing because you’ll beat me if I don’t; I’m cooperating because it makes you happy.”

“Are you talking of love?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never loved anyone except in the physical sense. But maybe it’s different with you. At any rate you have a peculiar effect on me. I keep wondering if it’s because you’re so rough with me. I was never treated like that before.”

“I don’t enjoy disciplining you.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Kitty said, smiling secretly to herself. His statement was a lie. He enjoyed it and she knew it. Indeed, it added a certain zest to their lovemaking.

She shrugged. A mixture of spice and vinegar was necessary to keep a man interested, no matter how beautiful or available a woman was.

It had been some time now since she had even thought of anyone else. Drobot filled her world, and she was content with it. She even contemplated pregnancy. It might be interesting to have his baby. It might even change some aspects of their relationship…

Zen and Zog, who experienced some of this sporadically through their sensyrs, were thoroughly surprised.

“I don’t understand,” Zen said. “He treats her badly, yet sfhe thinks of love. He beats her and she enjoys it.”

“She wants to be dominated,” Zog said. “Drobot, I think, recognized that almost from the beginning. Drobot gives her what she wants. He’s quite intuitive; a most interesting person.”

“I think he’s a brute, but Kitty is quite excited about him. She thinks she’s in love with him.”

Zog shrugged.

“You try Drobot’s tactics on me and you’ll have a different response entirely,” Zen said.

“I’d never consider it,” Zog laughed. “Besides, you’re not Kitty and I’m not Stephen, and although Drobot’s subjective sensations are interesting, they aren’t more than temporary amusement. It’s all right to be an animal sometimes, but it can be carried too far.”

“You’re so right!”

“Still, not many men can live their fantasies, and to a certain extent Drobot does.”

“So does Kitty. She’s always fantasized about being a favorite love slave. Now that she is one she’s not unhappy. I think she’ll probably become pregnant soon, which is something I’d never have believed a few months ago. I think I’ll visit her more often. I’d like to know what pregnancy is like.”

“You could examine Sarah Gossick.” I can’t stand her. I have no rapport with her. She was so dreadfully inhibited that she disoriented me.”

“She’s better now, and so is Henry.”

“Have you turned bisexual?”

“Mantu no! I enter John occasionally and I get his impressions.” Zog’s projection was indignant. “Two thousand generations would rise in horror if I started entering females. You are unkind to even suggest such a thing.”

CHAPTER 16

Smithy, or more precisely, Horace Egglestone Smith, was not a mirror of his name. He was undersized, rat-toothed and hatchet-faced. He wore a cap, a herringbone jacket, tweed trousers and square-toed shoes. He wasn’t much and he had never been much.

But he could read.

That made him different. That made him a leader, one who could read signs and street names and the combinations of safes and books and magazines. He could make notes and memoranda. He could read accounts.

He was one of Stephen Drobot’s readers, but he decided to go into business for himself. He managed to bring two others into his orbit: George and Herbert.

“I have an idea,” Smithy said. “The police aren’t what they used to be and there’s all kinds of opportunities.”

“Smash and grab?” Herbert asked.

“Cosh?” George added.

“No, nothing like that. There’s these big houses up in the toffs’ section. The bobbies used to look after them, but they’re not doing that now. All we have to do is walk in and take over. We cut the phone lines and move into the house, take what we want and bring a truck around back and drive off with the loot. It’s an easy way to make a quid an’ what with nobody being able to read we can get away with murder.”

“Real murder?’* George asked. He licked his lips and savored the thought of strangling someone.

“No, stupid. We don’t want to kill people. We just want food and money.”

“And women,” Herbert said.

“And women,” Smithy agreed.

“Are you with me?” Smithy asked.

The two nodded in unison.

Their first victims were the residents of a house in the northeast suburb. They cased it along with a dozen others, chose it because of its isolation and broke in at night. They knocked out the man in his bed, tied him hand and foot with torn strips of sheet and locked him in a closet. They gagged his wife and ravished her. They caught the two teenaged girls still asleep and treated them as they had their mother, and finally they took the maid.

“Where’s the money?” Smithy asked.

“Upstairs,” she said. “In the master’s chamber.” Her voice came thickly through puffed lips.

After five gruesome days, George left the house to pick up the truck. Meanwhile the women, under Smithy’s tyrannical eye, had methodically stripped the house of valuables, wrapped them carefully in newspapers and piled them in the kitchen. When the truck came, George backed it against the enclosed back porch and the women loaded the truck with the loot.

A murder and a quadruple rape would have had newspaper headlines screaming a few months ago but now there were no newspapers. The police were baffled because they could not read, and there was not a single really intelligent person among their five readers. Not one of them could analyze fingerprints, and none of the police could read id cards. There was no evidence that anyone had been in the house, and the modus operandi was new.

“Looks like we’ve got something on our hands this time,” Chief Inspector Lowndes told the Superintendent of Police. “It’s a good thing we haven’t the papers, or we’d really have a rash of this sort of thing. As it is, we may be able to control it.”

“They’re vicious,” the superintendent warned.

“We will hang these fellows when we catch them. Find them quickly, Lowndes. Things like this must not go unpunished.”

“I’ll try, sir. I’ll bend every effort.”.

“Break the effort if bending won’t do, but catch them.”

“Yes sir,” said Inspector Lowndes. Privately he doubted if he would be able to move as quickly as his superior wished. Often a frustrating business, police work had become more so now with this alexian disease that crippled all agencies.

CHAPTER 17

The local population had evacuated the areas around the Soviet bases shortly after the Red Army troops had arrived, for the Russians and the Americans were two different breeds of cat. The locals had tolerated and mildly disliked the Americans, who had too much of everything, but hated the Russians, who didn’t have enough of anything and made up for their deficiencies by raiding the countryside. When it became evident that the government was not about to defend the people from these foreigners, the locals moved away. The fields, farms and towns quickly fell into ruin and each base was surrounded by an empty wildnerness.

The British army inherited the unpleasant task of supplying the Russians with food and regularly delivered subsistence supplies to the bases, which complained continuously about the lack of quantity and quality.

Brigadier Henry Francis Gerrard, d.s.c, k.c.b., o.b.e. looked at the blank, yellow wall beyond his desk and thought thoughts that should not be harbored by a loyal commander of her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Gerrard was fed up with Russians. It was bad enough when they could read, but now it was worse. Russians were always nasty, suspicious types, but when they lost their ability to decipher their strange Cyrillic script, their fears increased, and they tended to overreact. And since they had lost radio and telephone contact with their homeland, thanks to Russia’s internal troubles, their suspicions and fears were pathological.

Gerrard was part of a cabal of senior officers who had come to the considered conclusion that something drastic must be done about the Russians. The Red Army troops had behaved so badly that it was almost a public duty to teach them that England, no matter how weak or impotent she might seem, was still a power to be reckoned with when her home soil was invaded.

Privately, Gerrard sympathized with Mason. The prime minister had been placed in an impossible situation, but now that everything was in flux, it was an excellent time to restore British prestige and independence. Gerrard knew his troops. Many of the officers and noncommissioned officers had been with him for years; they were bound by ties of personal loyalty that held them when even the mystique of the Crown grew weak. He had lost a few men to desertion or unauthorized absence, but the vast majority remained, their morale still intact. His grapevine intelligence service informed him that the principal morale factor was a blind faith that “Old Iron Pants” wouldn’t let them down. Gerrard knew his nickname and was amused by it, although how an American epithet came to be applied to a British general officer and a Sandhurst graduate was one of the mysteries of the military service.

Gerrard was certain that the civil government was defunct and that the nation was on the edge of anarchy. Therefore, he was both surprised and elated to receive a call from Field Marshal Godwin.

“Henry,” the familiar voice said, “this is Sir William. What I have to say to you is under the rose.”

“Yes sir,” Gerrard said, depressing the scrambler key on his direct phone to the ministry.

“I am calling all field commanders,” Sir William said after a brief pause. “The prime minister informed me that we are to move against the Russians.”

“Three cheers for the prime minister,” Gerrard said.

“It is to be a coordinated operation, conducted simultaneously against all bases. Orders will be sent by courier. You do have a reader, don’t you?”

“Yes sir, we have four in the brigade.”

“Excellent. Dispatch one to Willoughby in Manchester. He has only one.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And Gerrard,” Sir William added, “should our Russian friends inquire why their food is not forthcoming, you are having great difficulty securing rations. Supply problems and all that—but in any event, don’t feed them. They need to be very hungry for what we have in mind.”

“Yes sirl” Gerrard’s voice was almost cheerful.

British supplies ceased coming into the Russian bases, and frantic telephone calls over the Russian military lines brought only the news that everywhere, except in the London area, food shipments had abruptly stopped.

Three weeks passed, and the British informed the Russians that food convoys had arrived in from

London and Liverpool, and limited food deliveries would be resumed. The Russians were grateful.

Gerrard personally oversaw the makeup of the food convoy. Three big trucks were loaded with food carried in a thin layer of cases mounted on wooden frames. Inside the framework, each truck carried 15 heavily armed men with commando training. A helicopter squadron of American Piaseckis, left behind by the Americans, were filled with nearly 600 more men, recoilless guns and heavy weapons. A motorized force, consisting of the rest of the brigade, was on standby.

Escorted by the gate guards, the three trucks entered the Russian compound. They drove unmolested to the central mess hall where the Russian commander and his staff waited. The assault troops poured out of the trucks, opened fire with automatic weapons and seized the mess hall and base headquarters. As the leaderless Russians organized to wipe out the crazy English, the helicopter forces landed in their rear. The attack was completed in minutes. The last Russian was hunted down and bayonetted, and Gerrard reported happily to Sir William that 300.. Russians had been exterminated with a British loss of ten killed and 27 wounded. Similar scenes were enacted simultaneously from the Orkneys to Land’s End, and by nightfall no Russian troops remained alive in Great Britain.

Mason decided that England had a chance of coming through. The British Isles were not called the “tight little isle” for nothing. And indeed, much of the old landowning organization was still in existence. The estates, the farms, the manors and the concept of limited local autonomy was still there to be built upon, and Mason moved military power into the administrative centers of the counties and began the process of decentralizing government and turning its real powers back to the countryside. London remained as the administrative center, but it did little more than coordinate. In general the 80-odd independent segments of the home island were allowed to go their way, held in unity only by the islands of military power in their centers. And the military was strictly enjoined from interfering in local affairs except to assist the local authorities on request.

Disease was a thing Zog had not foreseen. Coming as he did from a world where pathogens were unknown, he did not realize what a hotbed of infection Earth was. His specious reason for not showing himself to the American president, and its prompt acceptance, should have aroused his suspicions, but he had not reacted. And for that matter, neither had Zen. Plague, pestilence and parasitism were unknown to them, but they learned rather quickly that they were not unknown to humans.

CHAPTER 18

Smithy didn’t realize it was Drobofs house when he cased Eaton Square. Yet it was precisely the sort of house he liked: a housekeeper, a butler, a husband and wife—a small family. They seldom entertained, seldom had guests, seldom went out. They were almost hermits, and a few days of inactivity in the house would not be noticed or even be considered alarming. It was a perfect pippin of a place…

Drobot was perhaps as content as he had ever been in his life. Kitty was pregnant. His import business was going well, and while he was nowhere nearly as wealthy as he had been a year ago, he was well off.

He awakened late, as was his custom, and patted Kitty’s bare rump. She liked black satin sheets and ‘he liked her on them. She wasn’t showing yet and her lissome body was even more beautiful than it had been when he was first attracted to her.

Kitty murmured something soft and feminine and rolled over on her back. He looked at her and was tempted, but shook his head. Morning was a poor time for love with a full day ahead.

He showered, shaved and dressed and left the master suite, closing the door behind him. He heard the click of the lock in the steel door that backed the wood panels.

Charles met him at the entrance to the dining room. “Your breakfast is ready, sir,” the old man said.

“Thank you, Charles,” Drobot replied.

The doorbell rang.

“Shall I see who it is, sir?” Charles asked.

“Please do. Perhaps it is some news that will brighten an already bright day,” Drobot said.

The butler smiled and left the room. Drobot heard him unlatch the door, and then heard the door crash open.

“I say there!” Charles’s voice was loud and upset. “You can’t do this! This is a private residence! Leave at once!”

Drobot pushed back his chair and hurried to the doorway. Three men dressed in the fashion common to Limehouse dwellers were standing in the hallway. The largest of the three had Charles by the coatfront.

” ‘Erbert,” the smallest man said, “shut ‘is bloody fyce.”

The third man pulled a blackjack from his pocket and struck Charles a vicious blow above the right ear. Charles slumped and the man released his grip to let the butler drop to the floor.

” ‘Ow now, mytes—‘ere’s another un,” the small man said as his quick eyes caught sight of Drobot. He pulled a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at Drobot. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

Drobot, shocked more by the violence than the threat, was momentarily paralyzed. He looked from the three men to Charles lying crumpled on the floor bleeding slowly from a split scalp. The old man could be dead. His hands clenched with anger and for a second he wished he had a pistol. Then reason came to his aid. He probably wouldn’t be able to shoot one if he had it. He hadn’t used a handgun in years. Charles, he noted, was not visibly breathing.

“What do you want?” Drobot asked. He recognized the man as one of his readers. ““Money and food,” the little man said, “all you’ve got.”

“Help yourself,” Drobot said. He pulled out his wallet, ignoring the jerk of the pistol and tossed it to the man. It fell on the floor between them. “There’s the money,” he said. “The kitchen is through the dining room. There’s food there. Take it and get out and be damned to you.”

The little man glared. “Proper bastard, ain’t you now?” He spat on the Persian carpet beneath his feet.

“Pick the leather up and hand it to me like a nice gentleman.”

“Go to hell,” Drobot said.

“Whyncher shoot Mm, Smithy?” the big man whined. ” ‘E orter know wot’s wot, but ‘e don’t seem to. Let ‘im know ‘oo’s boss.”

“Pick it up,” Smithy said.

Drobot didn’t move.

Smithy tipped the muzzle of the pistol down and fired. The shot echoed through the house and Drobot looked down at his left foot. The leather of his shoe was torn and the side of his foot was warm and wet. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. Anger filled him, but he had no chance against the gun and he knew it. There were shotguns in the library and a game rifle. They were loaded and ready to fire. In times like these a man would be foolish to keep an unloaded gun in the house, but the library was a long way off.

There was no point in being killed, Drobot thought as he moved forward. The blood squished in his shoe and stained the rug. Probably the rug would never come clean, he thought absently as he bent over and reached for his wallet. The little man grinned and kicked him in the face. Drobot jerked and fell backward as his lips mashed against his teeth under the driving foot. Pain lanced through him. A rush of blood spilled from his nose and split lips as the blinding pain made him retch. He vomited on the floor, gasping weakly, his strength drained by the agonizing pain.

“Pick the bastard up and put him in the library,” the little man ordered. “That place where all the books are,” -he added.

“I know wot a library is,” Herbert said, aggrieved.

Drobot moaned as one of the two navvys dragged him into the library and dropped him into a chair. The shotgun, stretched across the rack of antlers above the fireplace to the right of the chair, was loaded. It was less than three meters away, but it might as well have been three kilometers. His head was pounding and flashes of light crossed his eyes. A few moments more and his swelling face would be unrecognizable, but he could feel his strength returning.

There was a scream from the hallway, the smack of flesh on flesh, and the other navvy appeared, carrying Ethel under one arm as if she were a sack of grain. He dropped her on the sofa, looked down at her and licked his lips. Ethel was a good-looking woman and it wasn’t hard to guess what this character was thinking. Drobot was glad Kitty was safely locked away. Maybe this would be over before they thought of looking in the suite.

“There’s a wife around here somewhere,” Smithy said from the doorway. “Find her.”

“You’re too late. She’s gone shopping,” Drobot said.

“You’re a liar. I’ve watched this place for a week. She never goes out without you.” He paused. “Say, who is she, anyway? I’ve seen her somewheres before.”

“None of your business,” Drobot said.

“You want a bullet through your other foot?” Smithy asked.

“She was Kitty Little,” Drobot said, “before she married me.”

“Migawd! Kitty Little! Fancy that! There was a note of awe in the little man’s voice. “This’ll be something to remember. Me and Kitty Little! I never—” his voice dragged to a halt “—but…”

“That’s right. I’m Stephen Drobot.”

The little man grinned. “Damned if I don’t have the luck.”

“You won’t think so when I finish with you.”

“Hell, Drobot. You aren’t going to get the chance. You’re dead, man, stone dead.” The little man turned to the other two. “Search the room lads. There ought to be a safe in here. A toff like Drobot’s bound to have a safe in his library. They all do, and there’ll be money in it. There always is.”

“You’re writing the scenario,” Drobot said, “so find the safe.”

“Look behind the pictures,” Smithy suggested.

The big men worked systematically and thoroughly. They looked behind every picture.

“Careful with those,” Drobot said, “They’re valuable.”

“Not to me,” Smithy said. “I want money and food. I can sell that stuff, but I can’t sell pictures.”

“Paintings,” Drobot said.

“Nothing behind the pictures,” the man called Herbert said.

“Try the books.”

“You’re getting warmer,” Drobot said provocatively. He felt a little disgusted with himself and his head hurt like hell. This was sheer bravado. Smithy was going to kill him. The little man didn’t dare leave him alive, but there was no sense in provoking the weasel.

“Ah, here it is behind the bookshelf,” the third man said.

“Good show, George,” Smithy said. “Watch his nibs here and let me at it. We orter have it open in half a moment.” He walked across the room and out of Drobot’s sight. “Oh damn!” he said in a moment. “It’s a Blackwell and Dodge key lock. I can’t open it without soup. Unless—” he turned toward the sofa “—Drobot, where’s the key?”

x“Kitty has it,” Drobot said.

“Don’t hand me that crap. I know you better than that. Frisk him, Herbert.”

The big man went through Drobot’s pockets and came up with a coin purse, a card case, a checkbook, a pen and a bunch of keys. “This what you’re looking for, Smithy?”

“Maybe.” Smithy’s voice died and then rose again. “Yeah, that’s it, and look at what we got!”

“Hey! Grab her!” Smithy’s voice was sharp.

Ethel had leaped to her feet and was running for the library door. She was through it before George could move. Herbert plunged after her and Drobot half-turned in his chair to see Smithy pointing the pistol at him.

“Don’t try it, Drobot,” he said. “You might live a while longer.”

There were sounds of scuffling and a scream, and Ethel was frogmarched into the library with a man on each arm. George twisted her arms behind her and held her wrists together with one big hand.

Smithy took back the pistol. “Now check this house over,” he snapped, “and find that other woman.” He turned to Drobot. “I’m gonna ask you a few questions and you’re gonna answer them for me.”

“Ask away,” Drobot sighed. “You have a compelling argument for truth.”

“You have a warning system in this place?”

“Standard burglar alarms.”

“Have we tripped any?”

“Not yet. You came through the door. But don’t try to leave through the windows.”

“Hey boss. There’s a door up here that we can’t get into.” Herbert’s voice could be heard faintly from the doorway.

“That’s my bedroom,” Drobot said. “It’s locked, and it has an alarm.”

“Do the keys open it?”

“Yes, but the alarm may not be disconnected. If my wife is in there the circuit’s alive. It’s keyed only to us.”

“You telling me the truth?”

“Try opening it and see what happens.”

“Maybe there’s something there that needs locking in. Like money maybe?”

“The money’s here.”

“Jewelry then.” Smithy turned to Ethel. “Is Kitty up there?”

“Yes,” Ethel said.

“Can you get in?”

“No. Like Master says, it’s a keyed lock. It works on time. I can go in only after it’s opened. I clean then.”

“Hmm. Well, in the meantime, ducky, you can help me while away the hours. Hey! Tie Drobot up. I’m gonna be busy for a while.”

Ethel whimpered.

“Stop sniveling and come along.” He dragged her to the doorway.

While Smithy led Ethel up the stairs Herbert tied Drobot into a chair sitting next to the sofa. From upstairs there came a quick scream that was quickly silenced.

He returned with the half-naked Ethel in tow. Her hair was disheveled, her face swollen and puffy.

“You, girl, put yer butt on the sofa,” Smithy ordered, and Ethel” obeyed sitting near Drobot as though looking for comfort in her misery.

She was crying. There were no sobs. Tears simply streamed from her eyes and down her cheeks. Looking at her, Drobot was certain that he would kill

Smithy and Herbert and George if he lived through this experience.

Leaving Herbert on guard, Smithy and George went off to examine the house. From the hall Charles could now be heard breathing noisily. So he was alive, Drobot thought.

The noise attracted Herbert, who went to the door and glanced into the hall. Ethel opened her mouth and spat out a penknife. She pried the blade open and began to saw at Drobot’s ropes. “I found it when he finished with me,” she whispered.

Ethel quickly settled back on the sofa as Herbert turned, about to reenter the room. Something else caught his eye and he swung back again. “Migawd!” he said. His voice was almost reverent. “Migawd!” He plunged out of the room. From upstairs came a scream and a rush of feet.

“Kitty!” Drobot yelled. “Go back!”

Drobot twisted his hands and Ethel used the knife, sawing frantically. The ropes parted and he leaped for the shotgun. He had it off the rack of antlers as Herbert came through the door. Herbert fired and missed. Drobot pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. The charge caught Herbert squarely in the head. Herbert fell, kicking spasmodically as his life drained away.

Smithy came through the door and dove behind the sofa, a switchblade shining in his hand.

“Don’t move,” Drobot said. “I have another barrel.”

“Mexican standoff,” Smithy said. “George is upstairs. He has your wife. He’ll killvher if anything happens to me.”

“Ethel,” Drobot said. “Bring me that pistol.”

“You move, ducky, and I’ll split your neck wide open,” Smithy warned. His hand came up from behind the sofa to fasten in Ethel’s hair.

“I can’t do it, sir. He’s got me,” Ethel gasped.

“All right Smithy, I’ll compromise. You can keep the money and go. I won’t call the police right away.”

“I got the two women. It’s a poor trade.”

“It’s your life,” Drobot said. “I can kill you and I’ll get George, too. He’s a long way from that pistol, and I’ll reach it before he does.”

“George!” Smithy shouted.

“If he comes in here, you die!” Drobot said with such fierce urgency that Smithy shuddered.

“Okay, okay. George will hold Kitty and I’ll keep ducky here until we’re out of range of that shotgun.”

“You going to parade her half-naked down the square?”

“I’d parade her half-naked to hell before I’d give you a clean shot at me.” Smithy raised his voice. “George! Go get Drobot’s car. It’s in the basement garage. There’s a Bentley key on his ring. I guess that’s it.”

“Okay boss, but I ain’t got the dame. She got back to her rooms.”

“Dummy!” Smithy snarled.

“I’ll still let you have the car,” Drobot said. “I’d like to kill you, but I don’t want Ethel hurt any more than she already is.”

“I’ll keep her then,” Smithy said, “until we’re clear.”

“Hurt her and I’ll kill you,” Drobot snarled.

Smithy moved Ethel toward the front door past the prone body of Charles and handed the key ring to George. With knife at her throat, Ethel moved carefully with stiff, automaton steps. George disappeared into the kitchen and Smithy moved slowly toward the front door. Drobot followed, pausing to pick up the pistol. It was a Walther P38 he noticed, and the safety was off. He wondered why it hadn’t fired when Herbert fell.

They moved as though drawn by strings. Faintly, from below, Drobot heard the Bentley’s engine. He was at the front door, while Smithy, still holding Ethel in front of him, was at the curb. The Bentley drew up. The door opened. Smithy slid inside. His knife flashed, the door slammed and the Bentley was off with a roar and a screech of tires. Ethel screamed and fell to the pavement, blood spurting from between her fingers.

“Kitty! Come down!” Drobot yelled. “Ethel’s hurt! Call the police! Call an ambulance! Hurry!”

“I’m already here,” she said. Drobot got a flash of her as she ran by,’ a blonde Venus in a green robe that streamed behind her. No wonder that cry had been torn from Herbert. A sight like Kitty would stagger any man!

Then he was beside Ethel, tearing off his shirt, making a pad to stanch the blood. She smiled feebly.

“It doesn’t hurt too much now,” she said. “Am I going to die?”

“No,” he said, “you’re lucky.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said and fainted.

“Charles is still alive,” Kitty’s voice came from above. “I’d better get back upstairs now. I don’t want to blacken your reputation any more than it will be after this day is over.”

Drobot grinned. In the distance he heard the scream of a police car or an ambulance. A crowd was beginning to gather. He ignored them and concentrated on Ethel’s slashed belly. She’d better live, he thought grimly, and as for Smithy, he’d hunt that rodent to the ends of the earth…

“Why didn’t you interfere?” Zen asked. “You could have neutralized that Smithy any time. You should have made him cut his throat with that knife.”

“We said we wouldn’t interfere with them, that we’d only observe,” Zog said. His voice was defensive.

“But these are our humans, not just any humans!”

“Females!” Zog sighed as he rolled over in his suspensory field and tried to sleep.

Zen looked at him and hissed with frustration. There was always a certain amount of emotional feedback in a sensyr.

CHAPTER 19

The virus came from somewhere in Yunnan Province, where it mutated and fixed itself in the weakened cells of the starving inhabitants of Kunming. And as the scrawny, malnourished, pot-bellied victims of famine began to die by the thousands, terrified and infected people fled the pesthouse of the city despite the orders of the government. * The plague swept down the Hungshui River to Wuchow, and by the time it reached that unhappy city, it had attained maximum virulence. It had already killed 5000 people in Wuchow and the death toll was rising daily when fleeing boatmen with their loads of refugees brought the virus down the Sin-kiang River to Canton.

It jumped from Canton to Macao and from Macao to Kowloon and Hong Kong. It went in one huge leap to Singapore and within two weeks was in London, leaving foci to ravage India, the Middle East and Europe. It moved into Russia, crossed the Atlantic and the Pacific to attack the Western Hemisphere and within a week after its appearance in London it was killing people throughout the world at a rate that far eclipsed the pandemic of 1918. It was a new and highly deadly strain of Asiatic Influenza.

Because of the loss of ability to read and the preoccupation of physicians and medical teams with local problems, virtually no one recognized the danger. And when recognition came it was too late to do anything more than salvage lives. No investigation of the plague had been made in its early stages: no serotyping had been done; no vaccines had been prepared; no warnings had been given. As a result, Asiatic K—for Kunming—struck the world like the Hammer of Thor.

England was utterly unprepared, and the disease fanned out from London with horrid speed, carried by people who didn’t realize they were Death’s messengers. They only wanted to escape the charnel house of the city.

The rest of the world fared no better, since the virus cared nothing for national boundaries. Even the medically oriented United States with its enormous radio and television networks was caught napping. Britain was not alone in her agony, but that was no salve for those who choked and died. And the virus kept searching for defenseless cells in the lungs of living human hosts—cells that could be parasitized and perverted into factories for the production of more virus particles.

But as starvation and disease continued their slaughter, a change occurred in the survivors. The even-tempered, bumbling, ineffective do-gooder facade of the English people was stripped away to reveal the cold ruthless core of English character.

Where the King’s Men, the sheriffs and the yeomen once kept society operating despite outlaws and traitors and masterless men, the army, the militia and the armed citizens did so now. Even before the influenza struck, raiders, outlaws, and criminal gangs— mostly from the cities—looted the countryside, and hasty plans had been made to exterminate them. The army sought out the larger groups, while a hastily armed and trained militia officered by ex-soldiers and police handled the smaller. But the initial defense was the responsibility of each householder. A man’s house became, literally, his castle—a place capable of being defended against attack. Neighbors watched each other to protect and to warn so that the militia could be assembled if needed. Cooperation was a lesson quickly and bloodily learned, but England was well on the way to restoring order when the virus swept across the land.

At the Wielant farm, Jill was the first to mention it. “Mrs. Ames is sick,” she said.

“She’s pretty old. It’s not surprising,” John said. “She’s had a hard time.”

“She’s dying, I’m sure. She hasn’t been well since her niece visited her from London. It’s terrible up there, so she said. She was on her way to Cornwall to join her husband who has a job as a lighthouse keeper.”

“So?” Henry Gossick asked.

“I think her niece brought that disease that’s ravaging London.”

“The influenza? I doubt it. There’s a quarantine.”

“Aren’t there such things as Typhokf Marys for influenza?”

“I don’t think so,” Henry said. “Immune carriers would raise hell with any kind of control measures. I called my company the other day. They’re shifting to vaccine production. Said they’d let me have half a dozen doses out of the first batch.”

“What’s their price?”

“Six eggs per dose. I told them we had chickens.”

“That’s robbery!”

“They need the eggs. It’s egg-adapted vaccine. They need fertile eggs—incubating eggs.”

“Well, the rooster’s a busy one.”

“That vaccine could mean life for us if the disease has broken out. Both Jill and Sarah visited Mrs. Ames, and if she has the flu, they’ve been exposed.”

“Okay, tell them I’m willing,” John said.

“I already did,” Henry replied. “The vaccines will be here tomorrow. It’ll take care of the five of us. Now who’s the sixth?”

“Mrs. Ames,” Jill said.

“Negative,” John replied and then more softly, “Sorry, Jill, the answer has to be no. Mrs. Ames is a nice old lady, but she’s not important. If she dies or lives she will do nothing to help the community.”

“She’s sick,” Jill said tonelessly. “All she has to eat are a few parsnips and potatoes. We could let her have some milk and a bit of meat.”

“Sorry,” John said.

“You’re as bad as those raiders,” Jill said. “You’re selfish.”

“You damn well know I am,” John replied. “I’m selfish enough to want to stay alive to love my wife, and I’m selfish enough to want to keep her alive to love me.”

“But—”

“Do you think I enjoy this?” His voice was bitter. “We’ve gone over the supply situation time and time again. We have enough to feed us and supply our quota to the district for militia supplies and emergencies—no more.”

“Henry sent three dozen eggs to Lewes.”

“Those three dozen eggs will make 300 doses of vaccine,” Henry said. “They’ll save 300 lives that are valuable.”

“And Mrs. Ames’s life isn’t? You could give her the extra dose of vaccine, you know. That could be my share of the eggs.”

“Jill, be reasonable. You are getting emotional over an old woman who’ll never see 75 again.”

“She has as much right to live as anyone else.”

“Not really. She can’t defend herself. She contributes nothing to the community’s welfare. She needs help. She consumes supplies. She’s probably dying.” i

“Then why don’t you go help her along? There’s a cricket bat in the closet. Take it and go bash her head in!”

“It might be the proper thing to do. Eskimos do it—with the greatest respect, of course—but I’m not an Eskimo.”

“You’d rather let her die slowly?”

John shrugged. “I’m the product of my times.”

“Give her my share of dinner,” Jill suggested. “It’ll keep her for several days.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re pregnant. You need the food. You have responsibilities to the baby and the household. You need your strength, and you’re thin enough already.”

“Only in spots,” Jill said with the ghost of a smile. “I realize what the problem is,” she went on after a moment, “but I don’t like it. I feel like a beast when I sit down at a full table knowing there are people who are starving.”

“Particularly when they are people you know,” John agreed. “It’s not the most pleasant thing in the world. Survival never is. It’s always done at the expense of others. In another year, when we get this place on a production basis we can afford to be generous. Right now we cannot.”

Henry pushed his plate away. “You’ve ruined my appetite,” he said. “Give the old girl my share. I can go for a day on my retained fat.”

“What fat?” John asked.

“John’s right, you know,” Sarah said. “He’s cruel, but he’s right. Old Mrs. Ames will die in any event, and if we weaken ourselves caring for her, we can die, too. It takes more energy to keep watch all night and if we don’t some outlaws may come when we’re not as ready as we were for the last ones. Oh, I know, I don’t like those three graves down the lane any better than you do, but if those men weren’t underground, we would be.”

“But that’s different,” Jill said. “They attacked us.”

“It’s only a difference in kind,” Sarah said. “Mrs. Ames attacks us, too, but through our conscience instead of our sense of property. We can kill to defend that which is ours, but we shudder at keeping that same property when an acquaintance or a friend is in need. We need the property just as much as we did when the outlaws came, but we feel guilty about defending it.”

“I expect the old girl knows it,” Henry said. “I was in to see her a few days ago and she told me she was too old to be any use and was nothing but a burden. I cheered her up before I left, but I’m sure she knows the score as well as we do.”

“I still think we should feed her and give her the vaccine,” Jill persisted.

“If she has the influenza the vaccine will do her no good,” Henry said. “But if John agrees, I’ll vote for feeding her. In any event, it shouldn’t be too long before she dies. Pneumonia in old people is almost always fatal.”

“You should have been a doctor,” John said.

“I would have been if I’d have had the money to go to school. When I did get the money, I was too old.” Henry paused. “Well, leader,” he said at last, “what are you going to do?”

“Put it to a vote,” John said. “It’s the democratic way.”

“And a perfect way of slipping away from responsibility,” Jill said. “You thought of this farm. You stocked it. You brought us here. You’re the owner. You’re the boss. It’s your decision—now decide.”

“One week,” John said. “We’ll feed her for a week. If she recovers then she’ll have to get along on district supplies.”

‘They’re very scant…” Jill began.

“And if she dies, she’ll at least be off our conscience. I don’t like the idea of wanting her to die, yet in justice to the rest of us, she can hardly do anything else.”

CHAPTER 20

Mrs. Ames died, but her passing was peaceful. Jill and Sarah and Mary Crew took turns nursing her through her terminal illness, which was mercifully brief. A formal burial was held in the churchyard.

Hempstead Farm and its inhabitants acquired a certain amount of status for their act of charity, toward Mrs. Ames. Gossick was already accepted in the district because of his marriage to Sarah, a local girl, but John Wielant earned his status from his organizational skills. Ex-Sergeant George Crew of the Sussex Constabulary was now Captain Crew of the district militia, the commander of 150 irregular troops, of whom 50 were always on duty; and John Wielant was his executive, the man who had the troops ready for Crew to lead into battle. His rank brought a second telephone to Hempstead Farm. This phone was connected to the military lines that radiated from Lewes and gave both Wielant and Gossick access to the county’s power base. Gossick used the phone more often than Wielant as he continued efforts to obtain medical supplies for the local militia. He was the unit surgeon for the local forces; his experience as a drug salesman and his year of premedical study were considered to be qualifications enough in a district that supported no physicians, veterinarians or pharmacists. He took his duties seriously, subscribed to reader tapes on medicine, visited the sick, dispensed drugs, gave vaccinations and did things that would have landed him in jail a year ago. Now his services were welcome.

“It’s a real epidemic,” Henry informed John as they put up the shutters and closed the house for the night. John turned on the alarm system and the women checked the upstairs for security, put the bars on the kitchen and cellar doors and checked the rifles to make sure they were loaded and in their proper places. “I was talking to the medical officer today and he told me the northern counties are being decimated. That’s why we’re not getting vaccine. It’s not killing so many of us down here. I suppose we should be thankful that we haven’t suffered too much and that our quarantines are enforced.”

“I suppose,” John said. He slid the bar that secured the front door into place. “It’s not the nicest way to live,” he sighed. “What with quarantines, home security, outlaws and local defense, we’re always on edge. I wish things would calm down.”

The military phone rang and Wielant answered it. “Gossick? Yes, he’s here,” he said as he handed the phone over.

“Gossick here,” Henry said. “Yes sir. No sir, I wasn’t aware of that… Yes, yes. Goodbye sir.” .

“That was an illuminating conversation,” Wielant commented as Henry hung up.

“I’m off to Lewes tomorrow,” Henry said. “Army medical business.”

“Anything to do with that alert the militia’s on?”

Gossick shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I patch people up; I don’t shoot them. There’s something going on in Liverpool that sounds like pneumonic plague. That’s why the medical and paramedical staff are being called in. There are some films we should see.”

“Why the fuss? What’s so wonderful about pneumonia? People die of it all the time.”

“This is pneumonic plague, not pneumonia; it’s caused by Francisella pestis, not Diplococcus pneu-moniae. It’s bubonic plague that goes to the lungs and doesn’t need rats and fleas to transfer from one person to another. It’s one of those biological warfare type of diseases, which makes it important. Mason’s ordered two divisions of regulars to Liverpool and has clapped a total quarantine on the town with orders to shoot anyone who attempts to leave. Anyway, I have to go. Will you drive me to the village?”

“Of course. I could see Crew. That way I wouldn’t be violating standby. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 21

The following morning the’two men kissed their wives goodbye with the casual perfunctory kiss businessmen once gave their better halves before leaving for their offices. It had already come to this, Wielant thought with mild astonishment as he cautioned Jill to be careful and not overwork. The feeling persisted as he slid behind the wheel of the Land Rover and started the atomotor. A third of tHe country was dead from flu or starvation; a plague was threatening; less than a tenth of one percent of the people could read; the government structure was precarious; desperate men roamed the countryside to steal or kill, or both. The militia was on the alert and troops were drawing a cordon sanitaire around Liverpool ready to shoot anyone who crossed the quarantine line, and yet the situation was normal enough to warrant a peck on the cheek and a casual wave of farewell.

“It’s amazing,” Gossick said as he took the seat beside John.

“Our ability to accept disaster as normal?”

“Not exactly. It’s amazing how we rise to emergencies. We don’t panic. We simply go about our business.”

Wielant nodded. “We think nothing of buckling on a pistol and slinging a rifle across our shoulders to go to town. We live in a fort and our women are perfectly capable of defending it. We don’t even shudder at the death around us, and if we catch some poor devil raiding a farmhouse, we hang him as an example to the others.”

“We’re just as bad on our own. The other day Crew shot Jim Norland for insubordination. So far no one’s said a word of protest.”

“Well, Jim was insubordinate. You don’t tell your co to shove it when he gives you a direct order, particularly when he repeats it three times. Nor do you threaten him with a gun. Crew did the right thing.”

“The man they were going after was Norland’s brother,” Gossick protested.

“Does that make any difference?”

“It does if the patrol is on an arrest or shoot mission. The guy they’re after usually comes back dead. It saves hanging, and Tom Norland deserved to hang. But after all Jim was his brother, and Crew should have let him off the detail.”

“Frankly, I think Crew wanted to get rid of the man, and that was the easiest way to do it,” Wielant muttered. I know Norland’s been a thorn in Crew’s side ever since the militia was formed. He suspected Jim had been telling Tom’s gang things about the militia they shouldn’t know. Maybe that’s what kept them from being captured long ago. Anyway, Jim’s dead and Tom and that bunch are still alive.”

“They’ll be hot for revenge if Tom can move them. And they’re bound to try to hit Crew.”

“It needn’t just be Crew. Among others, Norland hated my insides,” Wielant said mildly. “After all, I

was never too easy on him, and I took his stripes.”

Gossick grunted.

“So Tom and company might come for you and me. If we’re not home, so much the better. Jim was one of the party that buried that military phone line. So Tom might know enough about it to cut it.”

“You’re in a grim mood this morning,” Gossick said. “But even so, the women can hold them off. The house is a fort. But you’d better phone as soon as we get to the village and see if they’re all right.”

The two men rode the rest of the way in silence and Wielant stopped before the local garage, which also served as the district car pool. There was a big atomotor sedan there, with London plates.

“Wonder who’s the owner of that job?” Gossick said. “Looks like one of the new Rolls Atomics. Beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“Never cared much for rolling palaces.”

“Oh, to hell with you, John—you like them well enough. I’d just like to ride in one. Well, I’m off to Lewes.” Gossick went into the garage and presently rattled off on a battered motorcycle that had seen better days.

Wielant waved goodbye, left the Land Rover at the garage and walked the few dozen meters to Crew’s house.

“Ah, Wielant! Just the man I want,” Crew said as he entered. “Called your place a minute ago. One of your women, Sarah, I think it was, said you were on your way to town.” Crew stepped back from the doorway. “Come in John. There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”

Wielant entered the parlor and eyed the man in Crew’s best chair. “Drobot!” he said, “Stephen Dro-bot! I thought you were dead!”

“I haven’t been very communicative,” Drobot admitted. “It’s been a bit hectic in London. Worse than the Black Plague, I think. Bodies everywhere. Mason’s bunch dragooned me into the government. Made me minister of justice and then went quietly mad when I armed the police, requisitioned troops and started shooting looters. Probably would have lost the job if I hadn’t cleaned up theft losses and stopped the street crimes.” He smiled. “I had a bit of ad^ntage over my colleagues. I knew who to shoot. At any rate it brought order to the docks. Then the flu messed everything up again, but we’re coming along now. London’s not much. Probably fewer than two million people left, but we’re putting things together.”

“But why are you here, sir?”

“Personal matter. You remember that Smith fellow who broke into my house, terrorized my wife and my staff and nearly killed Charles and Ethel?”

“Yes. You told me. It was just before the flu got going. Incidentally, how is Kitty?”

“Fine. She’s decided to become a mother. We’re expecting a child this spring.”

“That’s wonderful, sir. Congratulations.”

“Irrelevant,” Drobot said. “Let’s get to Smith. The fellow and his navvy George are in this area. I told them I would hunt them down for what they did to my household, and now that I have time I shall keep my promise. I understand they have been staying with a fellow who lives here: a man named Thomas

Norland. The navvy George’s surname is the same. This Thomas is probably a relative.”

“There’s a branch of the family in London, sir,” Crew said.

“Indeed. Well, I want George Norland and Horace Egglestone Smith. I want them brought to London and hanged. Scotland Yard has enough evidence against them to hang them several times. Those two have done more harm and destroyed more innocent people than I care to count. I made London too hot to hold them, but I didn’t get them. They went to earth in the country and it was only recently I learned they were here. That multiple murder near Uckfield reeked of Smith’s handiwork. I have army permission to hunt for the men who did that, and now I am asking for your cooperation. I want those men.”

“We are already after them, sir,” Crew said. “The militia is ready to move out as soon as the flying squads locate them.”

“Then I’ll offer my help to catch them. I have two bodyguards.”

“Are your men militia, sir?”

“No.”

“Will they serve under my command?”

“No. They’re my men.”

“Then you can offer no help, sir. However, you can come along with us and observe.”

Drobot nodded. “I understand, Captain Crew. My men and I shall be delighted to accompany you as observers.”

“Captain,” Wielant interrupted, “with your permission, I’d like to call my house on the military line.”

“Of course. Mary’s on the switchboard. Tell her what you want and tell her to have Troop B assemble here as fast as they can.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wielant said. He left the room and entered what was once the constabulary office and the local phone exchange. The first function was gone, but the second one had been enlarged. Telephones or warning bells had been run to every house in the district and the lines all came into the office. Mary Crew, who used to be the telephone operator, ran the switchboard and the shortwave transcriber that connected Crew’s office with the Flying Squad. She was the officer of the message center, a transition more of title than job.

“Mary,” Wielant said, “would you please phone my house on the military line. And after that, the captain wants Troop B assembled here on the double.”

“Okay, here’s your house,” Mary said, pointing at one of the desk phones.

John picked it up and listened. The phone rang six times before Sarah answered. “This is John,” Wielant said. “I’d like to talk to Jill.”

“You can’t, vicar,” Sarah replied. “She isn’t feeling well. She’s been in bed since yesterday. The baby’s giving her problems. She told me to tell you that she won’t be able to attend the welfare meeting. She said she hoped you’d understand. I have to go now, sir. She’s calling for me. Goodbye, vicar.”

“Goodbye,” John said automatically. The line went dead. Something was wrong.

“There’s trouble at my farm,” he said to Mary. “Tell the Flying Squad to converge on my place.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Tell your husband and Mr. Drobot that I’ve gone home. I think we’ve been attacked by raiders.”

“Come with me,” Drobot said from the doorway. “I have a Rolls and two men. It’s the fastest car in this area.”

“Thanks,” replied Wielant. “Let’s go!”

CHAPTER 22

The Rolls was a marvel of speed and comfort, John thought, and it would have been a pleasure to ride in it at any other time. Drobot opened a panel in the back of the front seat and checked the small arsenal displayed there.

“Is there anything you want?” he asked.

John looked and shook his head. “I think not. The machine pistol might be handy, but I’ve never fired one.”

“They’re very effective,” said Drobot. “Their beauty is that the powder formulation is new, and unless the ammo contains the propellant, the gun won’t operate. Lessens the danger if it should fall into enemy hands, since the powder has only a six-month life. It was designed for militia and private use, but the upper echelons have taken all the initial production. It should be in general distribution in another three months. It’s the ideal individual weapon, and when things simmer down we’ll be able to render them all useless simply by withholding the ammunition. That will stop their use by guerrillas. I doubt that anyone’s going to come up with the formulation of the propellant since it decomposes rapidly on exposure to air, and once outside the cartridge it’s quite unstable—tends to go off at the slightest jar. It’s stable enough in the cartridges, since they’re airtight.”

“It sounds like a true political weapon.” John said.

“It is,” Drobot replied. “I carry a ten-shot model.” He opened the lapel of his coat and John could see the flat blue metal in a shoulder holster.

“I thought you were unarmed,” John marveled, “and it surprised me. I didn’t think of looking for a shoulder holster.”

“No one goes unarmed nowadays. The upper classes hide their weaponry for diplomatic and political reasons, but you’ll find a small arsenal on every cabinet minister. London’s a snake pit, but that’s where all the machinery of government is, so we stay there. Nevertheless, a man has a duty to protect himself.”

The big car whirled down the country lane as John clipped an oversized magazine into the machine pistol.

“Slow down,” he said. “Stop behind that copse ahead.”

“Copse?” the driver asked.

“Bushes, man,” John snapped. “You’ll be visible from the house on the other side of them. I want to come up to the place unobserved.”

“Why?” asked the bodyguard as he brought the car to a stop.

“You don’t know our local baddies,” John explained. “They play rough. Once they spot a rescue they kill their victims and leave. They don’t wait for the hangman But if they’re not disturbed, they amuse themselves And since our house is pretty isolated and well stocked with money and supplies, I think they’ll torture and loot before they start raping and killing.”

“Not much different from Lun’on,” the bodyguard observed.

“I’ll get out here,” John said. “You two wait until you hear the shooting and then come as fast as you can. You might consider ramming the front door.”

“We have grenades,” one of the men said.

“Good enough,” John said, “and don’t hesitate to kill.”

“We aren’t amateurs, sir,” the driver said. “We could come with you.”

“No, four would be too many. However, I could use another man.”

“I’m with you,” Drobot said to John.

“Thanks.” John led the way into the copse and pushed a pile of dead leaves aside from the sloping ground on which the brush clung. “We dug a bolt hole just in case we were faced with too much force. The house is about 100 meters away, on the rise in back of this knoll.” He reached down and pulled on what looked like a rock. A door, artfully covered with earth and grass, swung outward.

“Careful now. It’s dark in here,” John warned as he went inside.

“Will this help?” Drobot said as he shone the beam of a flashlight down the tunnel.

“Fine,” Wielant said, taking the little flashlight from Drobot. “You’re prepared for anything, it seems.”

The mark of a good politician,” Drobot said.

They moved quietly but rapidly down the tunnel. It was a well-made structure about a meter wide and a meter and a half high, lined with wooden planks and strongly braced. Drobot realized it must have taken weeks of work to dig this thing. Still, it didn’t speak too highly for the safety of country life compared with the city. In his Eaton Square house, which was now a fortress, he had a similar bolt hole that opened into an abandoned utility tunnel and surfaced through a manhole several blocks away. It was odd, he thought, how the defensive mind worked out the same solutions today as it had done centuries ago.

“I have an alarm rigged on the cellar entrance,” John said, “but I realized I might have to come in this way sometime; so if I use the key, it won’t go off. Just be careful where you step. There’s a lot of stuff in the cellar and we don’t want to make any noise.”

“I’m right behind you,” Drobot muttered.

John turned the key in the lock and a heavy door swung open to reveal a stone-walled cellar stacked with boxes of supplies.

“You seem to be set for a long stay in the country,” Drobot murmured, “and a gourmet stay at that—asparagus tips, artichoke hearts, antipasto, beluga caviar—you have really been living high.”

“I enjoy good food,” John said, “and this stuff was cheap. I think Jill feels guilty about eating well, but I have no intention of dying of starvation or boredom.”

“You won’t,” Drobot said, “and I admire your initiative.”

“Now up the stairs, no, back under the stairwell, quick!”

Footsteps sounded above them and the cellar door opened letting a flood of light down into the darkness.

“Wonder what’s down here,” a voice said.

“Probably nothing but food and old junk,” another voice answered. “Let’s check it off and move on. Smithy’s going to work the blonde over and I want to watch. The bloke’s a real artist in making women talk. He had that one in Uckfield babbling everything she knew in less than ten minutes.”

“Looks like tinned food,” the first voice continued. “I’m going to look. Maybe there’s something I like.”

“Always thinking of your bloody stomach. Okay, go look. I’m going to help with the fun. Smithy says he’ll need two of us.”

“Have it your way. I’ve been over that road before. They’re all alike. I’d rather eat.” The man came down the stairs. He was big with heavy shoulders and a thick waist. Drobot tensed as he saw the man’s face. He lifted his gun.

John tapped Drobot on the shoulder and shook his head. He lifted his hand and displayed the handle of a cricket bat. He pointed toward the man and handed Drobot the bat. Drobot nodded, took the bat, stepped from behind the stairs and swung the wood in a flat whistling arc. With a brittle sound the flat side struck the fellow alongside the head. The man dropped, kicked once or twice and lay still. Blood ran from his ears and there was no signs of breathing.

“That was George,” Drobot whispered. “I broke his head. Killed him, I think.”

“That’s what you were trying to do,” John whispered. “If he’s alive he won’t be worth much for a long time. Let’s get upstairs before the women are hurt.”

They moved softly up the stairs, through the open door and into the kitchen. The room was empty. From the hallway to the living room came the sound of voices.

“All right Tom. You and Bertie grab hold of that one.”

s “No! You can’t do that!” Jill’s voice came high and shrill over the male noises.

“And why not?” Smithy’s voice replied.

“It’s beastly, that’s why not!”

“Lady, if you weren’t pregnant, it’d be you,” Smithy said. “And maybe it’ll be you anyway.”

“You wouldn’t!” Jill said. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Why don’t you stupid twits think of something new to say?” Smithy muttered. “I’ve heard it all before. Now before I carve my initials on blondie’s arse, would you like to tell us where the money’s hid? And don’t lie to me, because I know there’s money here. I saw the stuff you’ve got, an’ I’ve heard the stories.”

“If I tell you will you let Sarah go?”

“I’ll kill her if you don’t tell me.”

“You’ll kill nobody,” Drobot said as he stepped into the doorway and fired. Smitty toppled over backward, while the other two men, Tom Norland and Bert Scroggins, dropped Sarah’s naked body and reached for their guns. John fired a burst from the machine pistol and Bert dropped like a stone. Drobot put two shots into Tom’s head; then suddenly, he himself suddenly jerked from the impact of a bullet. A second shot caught Drobot as he fell.

“Just hold it, mister. Hold it right there,” Smithy’s voice came from behind Jill where she sat tied to a chair in the corner of the room. “One move out of you and I’ll kill the woman.”

“And if you do, you won’t live long enough to know you’ve done it.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Your life.”

“Ha! I don’t kill her and you’ll hang me. I do kill her and you’ll hang me. Some choice. I want to get out of here alive.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“No, John. Kill him,” Jill said. “You can’t let a monster like this go free.”

“You have two seconds to make up your mind,” Smithy said. Either drop that gun or I’ll kill her.”

John dropped the gun.

Smithy stepped out from behind Jill’s chair, turning Sarah over with his foot as he did so. He was a dreadful sight. Blood ran down his face where Dro-bot’s shot had grazed his skull.

Wild-eyed, Sarah glared at him from behind her gag-Smithy grinned. “Damned if I don’t win after all. You’re in love with that twit, eh? Now tell where that money is or I’ll shoot blondie here and then work your Jill over with a hot iron.” He pointed the gun at Sarah. Her eyes widened with fear. “Now just to show you I mean business.” His finger tightened on the trigger…

I can’t let it happen, Zen projected to her mate. You were the one who decided we should leave them alone, Zog flashed back. And after all, anyone

so foolish as to surrender to a thing like this Smith organism has poor survival value.

What else could he do? He loves Jill.

He could avenge her death. Oh do as you wish with him. I’m busy with Drobot!

“If you won’t stop the beast, then I will!” Zen said aloud as she moved a tractor force and took Smithy’s hand in hers. Using the manipulator she locked his finger on the trigger and slowly twisted his wrist until the muzzle of the gun pointed at his own body. Smithy screamed with fear as he writhed and twisted in a frantic effort to get away from his arm and the gun it was holding. The arm bent and the gun muzzle snuggled under his chin. Smithy jerked back and was suspended in midair by the arm and the gun. His finger twitched and a bullet drove upward through his brain.

Jill stared frozen with horror and shock. Sarah’s eyes rolled upward in her head, and Drobot’s two guards burst through the front door.

“You’re slow,” John said woodenly. “Everyone’s dead.”

“I think you’re exaggerating, Wielant,” Drobot said from the floor. “The blighter only winged me. What happened?”

“Smithy shot himself, I think,” John explained, “but it’s the strangest suicide I ever saw. He really didn’t want to shoot himself, but he couldn’t avoid it.”

“Sorry, governor,” one of the bodyguards interrupted. “We stayed under cover until the shooting started, but it was farther than we thought. You didn’t tell us about that chain-link fence. We had to go clear down to the entrance. Took us nearly two minutes, it did.”

“I’m sorry,” John shrugged. “I forgot. Excited, I guess. See to Mr. Drobot, will you?” He untied Sarah, who promptly fled upstairs to her bedroom and then loosened Jill. She stood up, looked at him and kissed him…

“How we ever got out of that alive, I’ll never know,” John said. “Smithy had me cold. I couldn’t do a thing for fear of his hurting you.”

“It was a beautiful gesture,” Jill said, “and I love you for it, even though you were a fool.”

“I could have sworn I was hit twice,” muttered Drobot as he looked at the neat bandage on his left shoulder that the guard had placed over the bullet wound. “Did you kill Smithy?”

“I told you he shot himself.”

Drobot shrugged. “Perhaps I was in shock.”

“We’ll haul these bodies out, Mr. Wielant,” one of the bodyguards said.

“There’s another in the cellar,” John said.

“Where’s Sarah?” Jill asked.

“Upstairs. She ran off when I untied her. What’s wrong with you people? Are you all losing your memories?”

“I guess so,” Jill said. “I don’t even remember your shooting Smithy.”

“I didn’t.” John shook his head. “Or did I?” I have the strangest idea that he shot himself, but I guess that’s crazy. We were all full of adrenalin, and odd things happen in a battle. Maybe I did shoot him.”

“I certainly didn’t, at least not permanently,” Drobot said. “I hit the blighter, but I remember him standing there after the shooting was over…”

“That’s enough meddling for now,” Zog said. “We’ve confused them so they’re not sure what happened.”

“Anyway, they’ll have another distraction in a few minutes. Jill’s going to have her baby. The excitement’s sending her into labor!” Zen sighed. “I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve never had the experience of birth. It should be a distinctly unique sensation…”

CHAPTER 23

“John,” Drobot called, as the two men watched the water boiling on the stove and Sarah moving back and forth from the maid’s room to the kitchen. “Would you like a position on my staff?”

“Why me?”

“Primarily because you’re honest. There are few enough people I can trust, and I need all I can get. It’s going to be a hard job rebuilding the nation. But we can thank providence for looking after us. We’re not destroyed. The world is crippled, but it can still operate after a fashion, and it won’t be too long before things return to a kind of normality. We’ll adjust to our inability to read. We’ll make our peace with plagues and famine. We’ll make our peace with each other after a while, and perhaps a century or two from now we’ll be where we were before this disaster struck.”

“I hope not.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t you remember? The overpopulation, the famines, the political riots, the crime, the threats of war and mutual annihilation with the two big powers making faces at each other across a nuclear fence. I wouldn’t want things as they were before—far from it.”

Drobot grinned mirthlessly. “There’s no overpopulation now. In the luckiest countries there’ll be about 20 percent survival. There will be no political riots for a while. Governments have become absolute and ruthless in suppressing civil disorder, and besides there is too much to do to worry about politics.” Drobot sighed. “It’s a big job I’m asking you to take on, John.”

“What do you need with a photographer?”

“Have you ever heard of identification, evidence, duplication of documents, surveillance, records and publicity?”

“Of course.”

“They all need photographs. And I need a chief of photography. You were another reason I came down here. The hunt for Smithy was only part of it. I wanted to see you.”

There was a scream from the maid’s room and suddenly the squall of an infant voice.

“Ah, the baby,” Drobot said, “and quickly done, too. Your wife is a very efficient woman. We could use someone like her.”

“How? Producing babies?”

Drobot grinned. “Hardly,” he said. “I’ve checked with her former employer. She was a good reporter; wrote readable stories. We can use storytellers in our propaganda section. Justice is going to have to be sold to the people. Law enforcement will have to be everyone’s business if we are to recover quickly.”

Sarah came in with a blanket-wrapped bundle. “Here you are, John, here’s your daughter. She’s a bit small, but she’s well formed and has a fine set of lungs. Hold her and keep her warm. I must take care of Jill.”

“I don’t know a damn thing about babies,” John said.

“You should,” Sarah said over her shoulder. “You’re her father.”

Wielant looked down at the red, wrinkle-faced mite. She looked incredibly tiny. Her mouth opened and a disproportionately loud wail came from it. “What do I do?” John asked.

“Hold her and keep her warm,” Drobot said. “You might also try walking with her. I’ve heard it helps.”

There were more sounds from the maid’s room and another wail.

“Two?” Wielant asked stupidly. “Well, she was big enough.” He lapsed into silence, and as Drobot watched commiseratingly, he walked slowly back and forth across the old-fashioned kitchen.

“Your son, Mr. Wielant,” Sarah said, handing him a second blanket-wrapped bundle. “Hold him for me. I have things to do for Jill.”

“Not still another?” Drobot asked.

Sarah smiled. “No, that’s all. We knew it would be twins, but we didn’t want to worry John. He’d have been off arranging hospitals and surgeons and all sorts of things if he’d even thought Jill was carrying twins.” She disappeared and all was quiet. Presently she returned with an armful of stained bed linen and opened the washing-machine door. “Come with me,” she said to Drobot. “And as for you, John, hold your children.”

After what seemed an interminable time, Sarah returned, took the babies from John and told him he could see his wife.

She was beautiful, John thought. And he loved her more now than he did when he married her. “Are you all right, darling?” he asked.

“Well, I can’t get up and clean the house, but I don’t feel too badly, considering.” She smiled. “Really, I’m fine. More tired than anything else. I think the terrors of motherhood are overrated.”

“I’m more than proud of you,” John said.

“I love you,” Jill replied.

“And I love you.” John knelt and took her in his arms and they clung together. It wasn’t the time or place to tell her about Drobot’s offer. Later, he would ask Drobot if he could delay his decision. He had no doubt that Drobot would agree to a reasonable period of time. He hadn’t really thought that England would survive. He was sure that Sussex would—but he thought of the nation as a series of more or less independent militarily controlled counties, and to raise his eyes from the shire to the state was oddly difficult.

He would, he thought, go with Drobot—unless Jill objected too strenuously. Henry could get another family to help him. Hempstead Farm was big enough to hold two families more numerous than the present tenants. And Henry would manage. After the harvest was in, he’d try to find Henry a position dealing with drugs and medical supplies in the government if Henry was interested. As his thoughts drifted on, Jill’s eyes closed and she slept.

So now he was a father with new and bigger responsibilities, John thought, as he gently disengaged his arm and went back to the kitchen where Drobot and one of the bodyguards were holding his children. Sarah had disappeared, probably upstairs nursing her own. That was the quietest baby, never made a sound. John wondered if Sarah trained it as the North American Indians were supposed to have done. At any rate, it was a quiet, plump, pink and white baby with nearly colorless yellow hair. A good, sturdy type…

For some reason he felt let down, as though an inner excitement that had sustained him was spent. The worst was over and the new was already beginning to come to pass. People like Gerrard and Mason and Drobot held the big things together. People like Crew and Gossick and himself held the little things, and between them, there would always be an England. He smiled as he thought of what he would say to Drobot…

“There’s nothing we can do here,” Zen said as she disengaged her sensyrs, “unless you want to stay here for a century or two and watch them try again.”

“I think they’ll be smarter next time. The next generation will be able to read, and they’ll have history to learn from. They won’t make the same mistakes again. And there will be enough technology surviving that the ones who live through this year will have a better life.”

“Is it worth the price?” Zen asked.

“The alternative was extinction. Either the Russians or the Americans would have started the war that would have destroyed this world completely. Even so, I had no idea that so many would die. I didn’t realize that they hadn’t eliminated their pathogens.” He shuddered. “Dysentery, cholera, pneumonia, typhoid fever, plague, tuberculosis, syphilis, kwashiorkor, dengue fever, yellow fever, anthrax, smallpox. Great Mantu! How did these people ever survive? The list is endless, and despite their technology not a single one of their diseases had been eradicated. They were all waiting to come back and we gave them their chance.”

“I do feel guilty about that. I had thought perhaps half of them would perish. I never expected that nearly 90 percent would die, yet that is what the computer’s extrapolations show.”

“There will still be some four hundred million humans,” Zen said. “In a century there could be as many as there were when we came.”

“I hope not,” Zog sighed. “For if there are, they will assuredly kill themselves. Really, my dear, these people have received the best gift we could have given them. Their crushing, deadly, overwhelming numbers have been reduced to workable dimensions. They can develop as a civilized race should.”

“Do you think they will?”

“I hope so. I hope their technology can cope with their fecundity.”

“Jill had twins,” Zen said in an odd vocal mode.

EPILOGUE

The sphere moved out of its orbit. The eyes of the world that had watched its arrival with wonder did not see it leave. No radar traced its movements, nor was its course calculated.

Zog and Zen watched the surface of Earth on their visiscreen as it slipped behind them. They saw it dwindle into a small blue white ball before Zog turned off the screen. He activated the computer and set a new course.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

EPILOGUE