TABLE of CONTENTS

SKY IMP—CHESTER S. GEIER
They called Bob Lennox a coward when Von Thelm, ace of the Nazi Luftwaffe, ran him out of the skies. Then Bob found the way to make a friend out of his real foe!

THE CHALICE OF CIRCE—WILLARD HAWKINS
The Chalice was a symbol of beauty – but like its namesake, evil would plague the owner . . .

THE LUNAR POINT OF VIEW—S. M. TENNESHAW

SPAWN OF DARKNESS—CRAIG BROWNING
One moment he was in the center of a terrible battle, the next he had vanished from sight. Had the darkness claimed him?

BOB LENNOX paused at the turn in the road leading to the little group of stone farm buildings in the distance. He looked back over the way he had come, and it was as though he looked back upon some unpleasant memory of the past. He knew, now, just what he had to do. That lonely walk had done him good.

He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the dust of the road and ground it into lifelessness with a purposeful heel. Then, squaring his shoulders, he went on.

Lights gleamed from the windows of the farm buildings when Bob Lennox reached them. Evening was deepening swiftly into night, and heavy shadows lay draped over the outwardly peaceful English countryside. Only those who knew would look for the signs of clever camouflaging which hid the fact that the farm buildings and its fields were in reality a British airdrome.

It was several months before the catastrophe of Pearl Harbor. The Nazi Luftwaffe still swept in vicious waves over English cities and towns. American air fighters were making history in the R.A.F. Bob Lennox was one of the many who had volunteered. But in a sense he was almost isolated here, for he was the only American with the tiny 15th R.A.F. pursuit squadron hidden “somewhere” in the north of England. It was this more than anything else which made things so difficult for him.

Lennox took the flagstone path which led to the Commander’s office in the main building. He strode stiffly now, eyes fixed straight before him, his broad shoulders set defensively.

Benches were placed along the ivy-covered walls of the main building, and on these sat the pilots of the 15th, their pipes and cigarettes glowing in the shadows. Their drawling British voices were raised in the laughing banter typical of the fighter at ease. But as Lennox passed by a frigid silence fell over them. They sat very still, watching him with hostile, condemnatory eyes. The American’s lips twisted bitterly.

Lennox had his hand on the door that led into the main building when suddenly one of them spoke.

“Blimey, did yer see it?” asked a mocking nasal voice, “‘is yeller streak even shines at night!”

“And that’s only the light from ‘is backbone,” added another. “Take off ‘is British uniform and ‘e’d look like ‘e’d been dipped in yellow luminol.”

LENNOX winced as though struck a physical blow. He entered quickly, shutting the door against the taunting laughter which followed. His eyes blazing, he walked down a short hall and entered what had once been the farmhouse living room.

Little of its former quaint, sturdy furnishings were in evidence. The pictures had been taken down from the walls and in their places hung maps, charts, and bulletin boards. The rug had been rolled up and placed in a corner, and the bare boards of the floor were tracked and scuffed. A log burned crackingly in the stone fireplace. At a desk, once a kitchen table, but covered now with telephones and papers, sat Major James Carewe, squadron commander of the 15th R.A.F. air base.

Carewe looked up as Lennox approached the desk. He was a personification of everything British, from his trimly-tailored uniform to his military mustache and the stubby briar pipe gripped between his teeth.

“Eh? Oh—Lennox.” Carewe’s manner became abruptly perfunctory and slightly patronizing. He took his pipe from his mouth and leaned back in the chair. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to make a special request, sir,” Lennox began. “You see, the attitude of the men toward me hasn’t changed ever since that—that Channel incident. And—well, I just can’t stand it anymore. I want your permission to go over the Channel and fight von Thelm.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Lennox. There’s a rule, you’ll remember, forbidding solo flights near enemy territory. Makes it too easy to fall into a Jerry trap.”

I know that, sir, but this is a different case. You know that once a week, on a Wednesday, von Thelm flies a little way over the Channel as a challenge to Allied pilots. He’s too self-confident and conceited to make a trap of it, however.”

“That makes little difference,” Carewe said, smiling wryly. “One of the reasons for the rule was to prevent foolhardy pilots from engaging von Thelm and getting shot down. In some ways it was an official admission of the fact that von Thelm is a better fighter than anyone we have.”

“But you’ve just got to give me this chance, sir!” Lennox pleaded. “I won’t be able to stay with the squadron if you don’t—or in England, either, for that matter. No one will have anything to do with a man branded a coward.”

Carewe frowned impatiently. “Oh, come now, Lennox. What you’re asking is a bit too much, you knew. You may be a volunteer American and entitled to special privileges and all that sort of thing, but we have certain rules and regulations which we can’t allow even you chappies to ignore. Besides, General Headquarters would break me if I permitted you to do what you’re asking.”

LENNOX dropped his gaze to his hands, his square, brown face twisted despairingly.

Suddenly he looked up again, his eyes agleam.

“See here, sir,” he said eagerly. “If official permission of my request is impossible, what about unofficial permission?”

“Eh? I’m rather afraid that I don’t understand you, Lennox.”

“I mean this, sir. Let me have a ship to go over the Channel and fight von Thelm. It can then be made to look as though I had taken it without your permission.”

Carewe shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that. Von Thelm hasn’t yet been beaten in a dogfight. You’d be shot down just as surely as you’re standing here now. We might be able to spare the loss of a man, but hardly that of a ship, I’m afraid.” Lennox leaned across the desk, his youthful features aged by a savage earnestness. “Major Carewe, put yourself in my place. I’ve become an outcast, a pariah. None of the others will have anything to do with me. They think I’m a coward— that I deliberately ran from von Thelm and his crew of vultures that day over the Channel. I’ve got to prove that I’m not.

“Look, sir. You’re a fighting man and you know that, second only to his country, a fighting man places his honor and integrity above all else. I know, if such a circumstance should ever occur, that you’d never hesitate to avenge a slight upon your courage. Then suppose you were called a coward because of an incident over which you had no means of control. Wouldn’t you make every effort to reinstate yourself in the eyes of others? Would anything in life ever be the same again if you were denied the opportunity? Surely, the loss of a ship isn’t too great a price to pay for redemption.”

Carewe was chewing the tip of his mustache, his eyes thoughtful. He rose from the chair and began pacing the floor. Abruptly, he faced the American.

“I shouldn’t do this, Lennox,” he said. “But you’ve made it a personal question of one fighting man to another. In that way I can’t obstruct your desire for vindication without reflection upon my own honor as a fighting man. I’ll give you your chance—but remember the responsibility for the outcome will be yours and yours alone.”

“That’s all I ask, sir.”

“All right, then. Here’s what I’ll do. Tomorrow is Wednesday and von Thelm will, no doubt, be at the usual place. In the morning I’ll order a plane checked and warmed up for a special flight. While I’m ostensibly giving its pilot instructions, you can climb in and take over. Good luck.” Carewe extended his hand and Lennox gripped it briefly.

IN BED later that night, Lennox found his thoughts peaceful for the first time in weeks. He knew that this night was very likely to be his last, but more than a year of fighting in China and England had given him a warrior’s fatalism. He put his hands behind his head and smiled slightly in the darkness. Well, tomorrow he’d show them something.

If he had been British, this really wouldn’t be necessary. His explanation would have been accepted readily and without bitterness, for mysterious, inexplicable things were always happening to pilots in the air. But the fact that he was an American and the thing that had happened to him had cost the lives of four British pilots had cast an entirely different light upon the matter.

The squadron had been returning to base after having, in conjunction with two other pursuit squadrons, successfully chased away a formation of Nazi bombers from a factory district to the south. The 15th had two to their credit, and not having lost a single ship, they were feeling pretty cocky. Then, sweeping in from the Channel, a squadron of Messerschmitts had burst upon them. The vulture insignia on their fuselages announced them to be under the leadership of Eric von Thelm, the cunning, seemingly invincible Nazi ace.

Air war tactics of the present time are vastly different from what they were during World War I. Where once the fighting was an affair of individual, aerial combats, it is now one of formation, precision teamwork and coordination. At speeds of almost 400 miles per hour, everything happens with lightning-like rapidity, and the slightest mistake in timing can cause the doom of several comrade planes in a matter of seconds. That was what happened to Lennox.

The favorite maneuver of the 15th was to cruise along in an open V formation, flight commander in the lead, with a top guard flying some 500 feet above and another at an equal distance below. Upon engaging an enemy squadron, top and bottom guards would converge upon the leading enemy planes, their machine guns and wing cannon flaming a leaden hail of death. Usually, these leading enemy ships would go down in flames, and then the rest of the squadron, an actual flying wedge, would sweep into the break, raking with their guns on both sides as they roared by. This usually accounted for several more of the enemy, then the formation would break up into groups of two and go after the survivors—if any cared to remain for further combat, which they seldom did.

The 15th had swung around to face the onward hurtling Nazi ships. Lennox was top guard, O’Gilvey bottom guard. Flight commander Dick Halsey was leading the squadron.

AT A RADIOED command from Halsey, Lennox and O’Gilvey began their converging movement. Lennox knew a moment of exultation as his Spitfire screamed down toward the approaching Nazi Messerschmitts. Then he pressed the button in the control stick which electrically activated his guns—and his eager confidence exploded in sudden, utter horror. They remained silent, inactive.

Frantically, Lennox pressed that control button—again, again, and again, until his thumb was numb with the pain. But nothing happened. Desperately, he joggled the stick, even stamped with one foot on the bottom of the plane in the hopes that the shocks would untangle any snarl in the electrical connections that might have occurred. Again no results—and all the while the oncoming Messerschmitts roared closer. Streaks of flaming tracer began to lick toward the Spitfires.

Helpless because of the inactivity of his guns, there was only one thing left for Lennox to do, and he did it. He banked, climbed for altitude, and roared away from the battle.

Frustration, appall, rage, and grief raked him in a vicious crossfire. At a safe distance, he circled to watch impotently the ensuing catastrophe to the 15th.

O’Gilvey roared up, his guns flaming. But the wily von Thelm, seizing the opportunity offered by Lennox’s withdrawal from the fight, led his Messerschmitts up and over the 15th’s V formation. Then, with altitude and a rear position to their favor, the Nazis swooped down in what became simply a massacre. Flight commander Dick Halsey was among the first to go down in twisted, flaming wreckage, and, deprived not only of his cool, sure leadership but of a battle tactic which had been effective so long as to have become a habit, the Spitfires were demoralized into utter, senseless confusion. Only a little more than half managed to reach their hidden base again.

Lennox had explained to the wrathful pilots of the 15th, and for a moment they had believed him. Then one tried the apparently faulty guns in Lennox’s Spitfire—and the resulting blast had all but knocked in one wall of the barn. There was nothing wrong with the guns, then, and a checkup of the electrical firing connections brought to light nothing which might have caused their silence during the battle over the Channel.

Called up before an official board of inquiry, Lennox repeated his story. He told it simply and without prejudice. Impressed by his earnestness and sorrow and his record of action in China and England, the board had released him without sentence or stigma. But Lennox had become an outcast among the pilots of the 15th. While not actually convinced that he was a coward, they taunted him as such, resenting the fact that he, an American, had been responsible for the deaths of four British fliers, innocent or not. The only one at the airdrome who sympathized with him was Benjie Callahan, the wiry, little mechanic who presided over the repair shop in the barn. This was because Benjie was a Free State Irishman and also a firm believer in Gremlins.

ACCORDING to Benjie, it was the Gremlins who were responsible for Lennox’s downfall.

And Lennox, grateful for the little Irishman’s friendship, pretended to agree. Lennox had heard of the Gremlins before, of course, for they were a modern legend. No one knew just how or when it had originated, but tales of this mischievous little people of the air were already known to pilots the length and breadth of England. The pilots of the 15th were no exception and had even made their own individual contributions to the form and content of the myth.

The nomenclature is slightly on the wacky side, but the Gremlins do not seem to mind. Male Gremlins are just that. Female Gremlins are called Fifinellas, little male Gremlins, Widgets, and little female Gremlins, Flipperty-Gibbets. These are the ordinary kind of Gremlins, but as might be expected, there are other varieties. Among these are Strato-Gremlins, Night-flying Gremlins, and Nautic-minded Gremlins.

To those who believe—like Benjie—it is the Gremlins who jam controls, clog oil lines, fog windows, cause gasoline leaks, strange engine disturbances, and other inexplicable technical mishaps. They are not intentionally mean, however, but just inquisitive and mischievous. In the latter mood, their favorite form of prey is the overconfident pilot, and in one way or another they always succeed in bringing about a swift return of his inferiority complex.

LENNOX ate his usual solitary breakfast in the mess room. Later he wandered outside, and because no one seemed to be near the barn, he went in to see Benjie Callahan. Benjie was replacing a bullet-riddled aileron, and at sight of Lennox his wizened face split into a red-cheeked grin.

“Well, now, and how be ye this foine mornin’?” he greeted.

Lennox attempted a smile. “Foine,” he answered. For a moment his loneliness impelled him to tell Benjie of his plan for redemption, but he thought better of it and instead asked. “See any Gremlins during the night, Benjie?”

“Me?” asked the little Irishman in surprise. “Faith, they wouldn’t be a’showin’ o’ themselves to a groundling like me, Mister Lennox. ‘Tis only to pilots that they be seen.”

“My mistake, Benjie. But, see here, haven’t Hangar-Gremlins made their appearance yet?”

“And sure, now, who knows but one day they may?” Benjie’s blue eyes were serious. “Evolution does strange things sometimes. Now I’ve an idea that—” And Benjie went on to tell Lennox of his special theory of evolution as applied to Gremlins.

Lennox listened with only half his attention. The other half was fixed upon the main building. He didn’t have long to wait. Benjie was making the concluding statements of his discourse when the door opened and Carewe’s orderly came briskly toward the barn.

The orderly made it a point to ignore Lennox, addressing Benjie as though he were the only person present. “Major’s compliments. He says to wheel out a plane and check it. Special flight.” With that, he turned and made off for the mess room.

Lennox waited, his body becoming taut with tension. Benjie went to round up his two Cockney assistants, and the trio trotted toward the field, where they pulled aside a camouflaging haystack to reveal the gleaming shape of a Spitfire. They swarmed over it, busy with tools. The orderly came out of the mess room followed by a pilot who was shrugging into a flying jacket, the chin strap of his helmet gripped between his teeth. They went into the main building together.

Lennox wore his own flying jacket, with his helmet stuffed into one of the pockets. Trying to appear casual, he strolled over to the Spitfire which was now in the final stage of its check-over, motors idling.

“Surprise!” Lennox told Benjie. “I’m the one who’s taking her up. You were talking so much that I didn’t get a chance to tell you before.” “Well, now!” Benjie said, wonderingly.

And Lennox, as though he were on a mission of the utmost urgency, climbed into the cockpit and pulled on his helmet. He signaled for the chocks to be pulled away from the wheels.

Benjie hesitated a moment. Events did not seem quite right to him somehow. But he shrugged and relayed Lennox’s order to his two assistants. The chocks came away and the mechanics moved into the clear. Lennox gunned the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, and the Spitfire taxied down the field, to take off seconds later into the clear, blue morning sky.

CLIMBING steadily for altitude, Lennox did not once look back. He knew that the roar of his motors had warned Carewe and that by now the squadron commander was signaling frantically for him to land. Carewe, of course, would have to put on a good act so that no suspicion would fall upon him later. He was. The earphones hanging from the instrument panel began to buzz urgently. Carewe was now trying to signal him by radio, but Lennox had not donned the earphones in anticipation of this and now he ignored them completely.

Lennox leveled off and pointed the nose of his Spitfire toward the Channel. The direction he was taking would lead him straight toward the sector patrolled by von Thelm. His lips tightened as he thought of the Nazi ace. He knew that his chances of coming out of the duel alive were so slim as to amount almost to nothing at all. Von Thelm already had more than a score of British ships to his credit, and these included not only the ones he had shot down while accompanied by his own squadron but also those he had bested in single combat. In the latter case he had triumphed over many veteran British aces. Lennox had no delusions as to his own fighting abilities, for he knew that most of the men who had gone down under von Thelm’s guns had been as good, if not better, than himself.

Lennox squinted ahead. In the distance he could now make out a thin, blue strip, swiftly widening, which marked the water of the Channel. It wouldn’t be long, now. He tried to relax against the strain which was building up within him.

As a matter of habit, he glanced at his instruments. There was a sudden, strange flickering before his eyes. He thought it must be from the strain to which he was subjecting them and blinked rapidly several times. When he looked at the instruments again, he gasped in abrupt amazement, almost losing control of the ship.

Standing on the rim of the speed indicator was a bizarre, fantastic little figure. No more than six inches high, it wore a little, red jacket and brown corduroy pants, the bottoms of which were stuffed into tiny, black patent-leather boots with rubber suction soles. Tiny horns jutted from either side of its head, and between these, pushed back rakishly, was a green derby hat. It had a large, red nose and a wrinkled, brown face, which, at another time, might have worn an expression of grinning impishness, but which right now looked very sheepish and contrite.

ABRUPT memory of the stories he had heard from Benjie and others came back to Lennox.

He knew on the instant just what it was he saw.

“A Gremlin!” he husked. “Heaven help me—a Gremlin!”

“Uh, huh,” the little figure standing on the speed indicator affirmed timidly, in an astonishingly loud, bass voice.

“But—but you just can’t be!” Lennox croaked. “Gremlins are just a lot of fairy-tale stuff.”

A moment’s trace of sardonic amusement came into the tiny, brown features. “You see me, don’t you? And I could give you a sample of applied Gremlinology on your aircraft which wouldn’t leave another doubt in your head, but there’s no time for that. By way of introduction, I’m Gremlin Bob. We Gremlins have no names, you see, and sort of adopt the first name of the first person to see one of us.”

“Yeah,” said Lennox dazedly. “Yeah, I see.” He licked his lips. “Well, what do you want? What’re you doing here anyway?”

Gremlin Bob’s pixie features became once more hang-dog. “I came to apologize. I—I’m the one who did it.”

Lennox frowned in bewilderment. “Did what?”

“Jammed your guns.” “What!”

“Uh, huh.”

“Then you’re the one responsible for all the trouble I’ve had to go through!” Lennox snapped wrathfully. He made an abrupt grab for the tiny shape.

Gremlin Bob skipped nimbly to the altimeter dial and spread his hands imploringly. “Now wait a moment,” he pleaded. “I know just how you feel, but let me explain.”

“Explain!” Lennox snorted. “As if that would fix things up now.”

“It was this way,” began Gremlin Bob. “You and the others were all feeling so cocky that day after chasing away the bombers that I just couldn’t resist the temptation to throw a little scare into you. When those Messerschmitts appeared, I jammed the electrical firing connections of your guns.” He gestured placatingly as Lennox made another reach for him.

“Wait until you hear the rest of it, won’t you? The jamming was only meant to be temporary, please believe me. I’d intended to fix things up again, just as soon as you’d been frightened sufficiently. But just then a Fifinella happened along.” Gremlin Bob looked as though his last statement finished the explanation.

But Lennox frowned. “Well?” he demanded. Gremlin Bob grinned ruefully. “Fifinellas are female Gremlins, you’ll remember, and—well, you know how we Gremlins are about Fifinellas. You pilots made us that way. This one was a peach, and as usual I forgot everything and went after her. By the time I remembered about you and the guns, the battle was over. I just managed to get them fixed up again before that pilot tried them at the drome.” “And now you’re too late as usual,” Lennox growled. “You know where I’m going now don’t you?”

“Uh, huh. To fight von Thelm.”

“Yes—and it’s all your fault! Do you realize that my chances of coming out of the fight alive are almost none at all?”

GREMLIN BOB hung his head. “Uh, huh. But if there’s anything I can do—”

“Do! Now?” Lennox grimaced in disgust. And then his eyes lighted. “Say—there is something you can do! Look here. Could you get into von Thelm’s ship?”

Gremlin Bob brightened. “Easiest thing there is!”

“All right, then, here’s what you can do. Get into von Thelm’s ship and sort of complicate things for him. Don’t jam his guns or anything like that, however, because I merely want the fight to be placed upon a more equal basis. Understand?”

“Uh huh,” Gremlin Bob answered. “What you want me to do is to handicap him, like in games or sports, where a skillful player handicaps himself so as to give an equal chance to another not as good.”

Lennox nodded. “That’s it. Only this handicap will be forced on von Thelm whether he wants the fight on an equal basis or not. And, if I know the Nazis in general and von Thelm in particular, he wouldn’t.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Gremlin Bob promised. Suddenly he darted up to the viewplate. “Oh, oh, here comes von Thelm now! So long.”

There was a bright, blue flash, and when Lennox blinked the lights out of his eyes, Gremlin Bob was gone. Lennox compressed his lips into a thin, tense line, falling by force of long habit into his fighter’s crouch. Down below glistened the waters of the Channel. And, diving out of the clouds with his guns flaming, came von Thelm.

Lennox side-slipped hastily and came around in a half-circle. Von Thelm’s Messerschmitt, with the vulture insignia on the fuselage, roared by, its guns spitting into empty space. But the Nazi had only been eluded for a moment. The nose of his Messerschmitt tilted abruptly skyward in an aerial somersault, and when he leveled out of it, he was diving down directly behind Lennox.

Lennox looped frantically, and none too soon, for the Nazi’s bullets had already chewed several holes through the Spitfire’s tail assembly. From then on, Lennox drew the fight into a chase, weaving, dodging, spinning, using every trick at his command to keep out of the line of the Nazi’s guns. He wondered desperately how long it would take Gremlin Bob to handicap von Thelm, for minutes had passed already and as far as he could see, there was no lessening in the Nazi’s skillful attacks.

And then there was the now familiar flickering before Lennox’s eyes. When it had gone, there was Gremlin Bob, clinging to his perch on the rim of the speed indicator.

LENNOX stared in growing horror. Something was wrong—terribly, radically wrong.

Gremlin Bob looked as if a tornado had struck him. His little immaculate clothes were disarranged and torn. His green derby was gone, and his left eye was black and swollen shut.

“Run for it!” Gremlin Bob gasped. “All hell’s broken loose!”

“But what’s the matter?” Lennox demanded. “Why didn’t you handicap von Thelm as you were supposed to?”

Gremlin Bob took what seemed to be a deep breath. “We both overlooked something. The Nazis have Gremlins, too, you see. The one in von Thelm’s aircraft is the nastiest customer I’ve ever run across. We English Gremlins feed on used postage stamps, but Nazi Gremlins drink stale beer—and well, it does something to their dispositions, not to mention their physique. The one in von Thelm’s aircraft was a good nine inches tall, and he gave me to understand in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t have me practicing in his territory.”

“Damn!” Lennox whispered in consternation. Without Gremlin Bob to help him, all his newfound hopes went crashing to destruction. He couldn’t just run from von Thelm, for there was no place for him to go. To land now on English soil after what had happened would mean court martial and disgrace. To attempt to fight von Thelm with the Nazi in full possession of his power meant certain doom.

Lennox kicked rudder sharply as a line of flaming tracer cut suddenly across his windshield. In his disappointed dismay, he’d forgotten that the Nazi ace was clinging tenaciously to his tail, and now von Thelm had almost managed to creep up beside him. Lennox rolled aside desperately, and there was a pattering, hail-like sound on his left wing. With a brief glance from the corner of his eye, he saw a neat line of black holes stretching along it. He dived, and then, with power full on, took up a course parallel to the Channel coastline. Scenting the unmistakable sign of a sure kill, von Thelm pursued relentlessly.

“We’ve got to do something!” Lennox gritted. “Uh huh,” answered Gremlin Bob. “But what?” Lennox had a sudden idea. “Look,” he said.

“Why don’t you round up a gang of your Gremlin friends and then go after that Nazi Gremlin in von Thelm’s plane? It ought to be a snap for a bunch of you to run him out. Then you could do whatever you wanted.”

GREMLIN BOB shook his bare head. “Wouldn’t work, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” Lennox demanded impatiently. “You’re forgetting that one Nazi Gremlin implies more. If I rounded up a gang, the Nazi Gremlin would round one up, too, and we wouldn’t stand a chance with their size.”

Lennox groaned, then bit his lip in desperate, aching thought. Of a sudden, he released a yell of triumph.

“I’ve got it!”

Gremlin Bob removed his hands from his battered eardrums and blinked his one good eye at Lennox. “Got what?” he wanted to know.

“The solution!” Lennox cried. “There’s only one thing that could draw that Nazi Gremlin from von Thelm’s ship, and that’s a Fifinella! Do you see?”

“I certainly do!” replied Gremlin Bob. He leered delightedly. “A Fifinella will turn the trick, if nothing else will.” And with that, he vanished amid his usual bright, blue flash.

Lennox roared along for a time, at full speed. Frequent glances to his rear showed that von Thelm was still holding doggedly to the Spitfire’s tail.

Obviously, the Nazi hadn’t had a solitary duel for such a long time that he was willing to pursue this latest victim to Kingdom Come just to break the monotony.

Lennox grinned. Well, this time von Thelm was going to get more than he had bargained for.

When Lennox judged that Gremlin Bob had had ample time to accomplish his task, he pulled back the stick, sending the Spitfire into a wide, inside loop. Von Thelm’s Messerschmitt flashed by, and then, realizing what had happened, the Nazi banked sharply and came around.

Lennox leveled just as von Thelm straightened out. For an instant the rear of the Messerschmitt was in his sights, and Lennox instinctively pressed the firing button in the stick. His guns thundered flaming tracer, and his mouth split in a wide grin as he saw a line of black dots crawl along the tail of the Messerschmitt and chew pieces out of the rudder.

The tight ball of tension in Lennox’s stomach vanished, and his eyes lighted with confidence and hope. Things were evened up, now. Von Thelm was matched in a sky duel at last.

For long months later, the people along the Channel coast talked about that battle in the sky. It was a never-to-be-forgotten exhibition of cunning and skill. Again and again the Messerschmitt would pull out of some intricate maneuver designed to catch the Spitfire in a trap, but always the Spitfire would dodge free, its guns striking into some new part of its opponent. The Spitfire was like a dog goading a vicious bull, grown clumsy in its rage. It harried, worried at the Messerschmitt until the Nazi ship was literally filled with holes. And then, as if unable to bear longer the clever, nimble series of dodges and nips to which it was being subjected, the Messerschmitt suddenly broke from the battle and roared out into the Channel.

But the Spitfire wouldn’t allow the battle to end that way. It pursued the Messerschmitt until it whirled in blind, desperate fury. And the duel was suddenly over. For, as the Messerschmitt made an abrupt turn, the Spitfire swung up to meet it, its guns raking from engine housing to tail assembly.

For an instant, the Messerschmitt poised there in the sky as if unable to believe the doom which had come to it. Then, with black smoke curling from its damaged engine, it nosed down and fell, twisting and turning, into the Channel.

Von Thelm, the terror of northern English skies, was gone forever.

IT WASN’T until more than a month later that Lennox saw Gremlin Bob again. Lennox— Lieutenant Robert Lennox, now, and flight commander of the 15th—was returning from a special, secret conference at General Headquarters. It was evening, and the setting sun had stretched long streamers of red and gold across the horizon.

Lennox blinked at a sudden flicker before his eyes. And there was Gremlin Bob, seated on the rim of the speed indicator.

“Hello, there!” Gremlin Bob greeted.

“You!” exclaimed Lennox. “Where have you been all this time?”

Gremlin Bob grinned slyly. He had on a new green derby, and his outfit of little red jacket and corduroy pants was once more immaculate.

“I’ve been busy raising a family,” he answered. “Got the nicest crop of little Widgets and Flipperty- Gibbets you ever saw. I’ll bring them around sometime.”

“Do that,” Lennox seconded, with a smile. “I’ll be glad to meet them. But, say, I want to thank you for that favor you did me. Everything worked out beautifully. I got von Thelm, and the only inquiries that the inquiry board made later, were those as to how I had done it. Just look at the medals!”

Gremlin Bob looked. Then his little face screwed up into a grimace of puzzlement. “Favor? Thank me? What’re you talking about?”

“Why, surely, you remember how you went after a Fifinella to draw that Nazi Gremlin out of von Thelm’s plane?”

“Fifinella?” Gremlin Bob leered reminiscently.

“What a cute little trick she was! She’s my wife, now, you know. But about von Thelm—” Gremlin Bob’s features dropped in dismay, and then he lifted his green derby and scratched his bald head sheepishly.

“Well, what do you know!” he said. “I clean forgot about it!”

“Forgot about what?” asked Lennox.

“About von Thelm,” Gremlin Bob replied, with a rueful expression on his brown, pixie face.

“What!” choked Lennox.

“Uh huh. You know how we Gremlins are about Fifinellas. Well, the one I went after to use on that Nazi Gremlin was such a swell little number that I just forgot about everything and went chasing after her myself!”

The End

CHAPTER ONE

GERDLU of Callisto bared his fangs in what was intended to be an ingratiating smile. A less experienced receptionist and secretary than Mary Dugan would have fainted at mere sight of the spider-man, with his chitinous body suspended from six, many-jointed legs; but Mary had been connected with Interplanetary Expositions, Inc., long enough to take them as they came.

“Both Mr. Lane and Mr. Pendergast are out of the city,” she responded to his inquiry. “Mr. Lane has gone to Venus and Mr. Pender—”

The Callistan’s solitary faceted eye seemed to expand—to occupy all space with its dizzying red-orange light. A moment later, Mary Dugan was staring straight ahead and saying in a mechanical voice:

“Mr. Lane is out on the fair office, third door right. Vibration ninety-five point six.”

The spider-man glided swiftly to the door indicated. With a deft claw, he set his vibration dial at the prescribed wave length and the door CIRCE By Willard Hawkins noiselessly opened.

A short bald-headed man who had been industriously figuring at his desk leaped to his feet in panic.

“Wh-what do you want?” he gasped. “Who let you—?”

The ingratiating grimace was repeated. In his rasping voice, Gerdlu explained, “The Callistan delegation wishes assurance that the forthcoming contest will be conducted with fairness. They will consider it an insult if their candidate is slighted by the judges. They wish to make clear—”

He was jostled by Mary Dugan, who burst into the room, eyes ablaze, every inch of her trim figure, clad in its abbreviated costume of the day, expressing fury.

“Mr. Pendergast, this phony pulled a hypnotic on me! I told him you and Mr. Lane were out—and then he glittered that nasty red eye of his and the first I knew I’d spilled everything. If that’s the way they’re trying to win the beauty contest—”

Pendergast struggled to master his nervousness.

“That’s right—that’s right,” he blustered, “Won’t do to use hypnotic influence on the judges, Mr. Grr—Grr—”

“Gerdlu,” supplied the spider-man.

“Er—yes, certainly. At any rate, tell your delegation that the judging will be strictly impartial.”

“That is gratifying. In that case, hypnotic suggestion will not be required. The Callistans have confidence in their candidate. They wish to know, however, what standards of beauty will be employed. It would be unfortunate if terrestrial standards—”

Pendergast drew himself pompously to his full height. “The rules definitely state that abstract standards are to prevail.”

The Callistan bobbed in what probably was his version of a courtly bow. Nevertheless, his tone was quietly menacing.

“That assurance will be taken back to my delegation. They would be much disappointed if standards unfair to their candidate should force them to return without the winner’s cup.”

HE WITHDREW, while Pendergast sank into his chair, wiping a moist brow. Godfrey Lane found him thus, with Mary Dugan vigor- ously expounding her opinion of alien planet creatures, and spider-men in particular, when he breezed in a few minutes later.

“Godfrey,” blurted Pendergast, at the appearance of his partner, “why can’t we drop the whole thing?”

“Drop what thing?”

“Don’t play innocent. Your bright ideas have gotten us into a lot of messes; but this interplanetary beauty contest beats all the rest for pure, unadulterated grief.”

Lane tossed his cap and watched with satisfaction as it settled at a rakish angle on a bust on his partner’s desk.

“One of those Callistan freaks was here,” Mary explained, “It seems Callistans take their beauty contests seriously. It will be a great disap- pointment if they have to go back without the cup. So great that they might feel tempted to do something unpleasant about it.”

“They all take it seriously,” moaned Pendergast. “Who do you think the latest entry is from? The turtle-people of Ganymede. They ac- tually think some chunk of gristle from their race is a sure winner.”

“Fine!” enthused Lane. “The more the better.”

“You’re missing the point. Don’t you see, Godfrey, whoever wins the contest, all the rest are going to be sure it was a frame-up against their queen? We’ll have sixty-seven kinds of interplanetary trouble right here on the fair grounds.”

“No fooling,” cut in Mary. “This beauty contest idea of yours is just a little too hot.”

“You too, Mary!” he said, in mock dejection. “Just when I’m ready to spring my latest and best idea.”

“Is this one colossal or merely stupendous?” “Well may you ask! It’s super-colossal. Ever hear of the Bluebird?”

“There’s some kind of an ancient legend—” “Right you are. Popular around the twentieth century. It tells how a couple of kids went all over the known and unknown world searching for something, only to discover it in their own back yard.”

“Which has nothing to do with the subject.”

“No? How about this angle? Right now, Interplanetary Expositions, Inc., is searching throughout the world and its colonies to locate Miss Terrestrial—the most beautiful female of the human species. We carry this search right up to the final contest. Excitement rises to fever heat. And who do you suppose wins?”

“Who?” demanded Pendergast, hypnotized by his partner’s eloquence.

“None other than a home-town gal hailing from Luna City—our own offices, mind you! Yes, our own little Mary. All the time we’ve been searching the universe for its outstanding beauty, she’s been working right under our noses—blind creatures that we are! If that isn’t bringing the Bluebird up to date, I don’t know a publicity gag when I see one.”

In spite of himself, Pendergast was impressed. “Godfrey,” he exclaimed, “it’s immense.”

“With only one flaw,” added the girl laconically. “Little Mary won’t play.”

“When you have a chance to become the outstanding—”

“I know! I know! Well, in the first place, I couldn’t hold a candle to some of those glamour girls you’ll be importing.”

“You don’t know the miracles our makeup department can perform,” protested Lane. “I’ve seem them take even homelier wenches than you and make ‘em positively gorgeous.”

“Mary’s a damned pretty girl,” defended Pendergast loyally.

“In the second place,” continued the girl, “I’ve no desire to be torn to pieces when the big event comes off and those assorted spider gals and elephant venuses and scorpion dames make up their minds they’ve been double-crossed out of the decision.”

Lane raised his eyebrows mockingly. “So you’re going to win the finals too! Modest little Mary!”

“Whoever wins, I don’t hanker to be around at the pay-off.”

“I’ve already entered your name.”

“Then you can withdraw it. And if you aren’t too stiff-necked to take a tip—better call the whole thing off.”

CHAPTER II

BUT THIS was a late day to think of calling the contest off. Far-flung publicity had started the ball rolling, and the results had aston- ished Lane, despite his unblushing admission that the idea was one of the most marvelous ever hatched from his prolific brain. Already it was pulling the Interplanetary Exposition, now in its third year under the great dome of Luna City, out of the red.

The team of Pendergast and Lane, promoters of the exposition, ought to have been full of rejoicing. Instead, Al Pendergast, senior member, was being rapidly reduced to a nervous wreck, while even Godfrey Lane’s youthful assurance at times rang hollow.

Gerdlu’s visit, with its implied threat, was merely one of several incidents carrying ominous portent.

The Plutonian delegation served notice that the five precepts of beauty formulated by their revered prophet, Dooveroo, must be adopted in toto as a basis of judgment—or else! The precepts to the average terrestrial seemed to have nothing to do with beauty. In any event, none but a Plutonian could be considered eligible according to these precepts.

A bright particular problem was introduced when the government of Ceres sent an envoy to inquire into the meaning of the provision that “any feminine member of the race” could be entered in the contest. They reminded the promoters that sex was unknown on Ceres, where the dominant life- forms multiplied by the vastly superior method of fission. Was this intended as a slap at the Ceresians?

The envoy was mollified with an amendment which provided that races not divided into sexes might select a representative according to standards of their own devising.

Whereas the inhabitants of Titan presented a petition for further change in the rules. “It is well known that the females of Titan make no claims to beauty, while the neuters of this race out-shine the most beautiful creatures of all planets. By the rules, they are barred from participating. Such unfriendly discrimination cannot be tolerated. We respectfully suggest that the Terrestrial government amend the rules to avoid such unfairness.”

It was this communication that brought Lieutenant Compton of the Interplanetary Police to the offices of Pendergast and Lane.

“What’s the idea?” demanded the junior partner. “I thought Al and I were running this contest.”

“Private enterprise isn’t understood by these totalitarian planets,” responded Compton grimly. “To them, anything undertaken by earthmen is sponsored by Earth. At that, it looks to me as if the I.P. must have been asleep when it let you spring this.”

“Tell the I.P. to keep its shirt on,” retorted Lane, disrespectfully. “This is just a little publicity stunt—one of the oldest in the archives of promotion. As for Titan’s trifling complaint, we’ll interpret the rules to satisfy them.”

“Couldn’t the I.P. issue an order canceling the contest?” piped Al Pendergast quaveringly. “That way they couldn’t blame us—”

“No, but they’d blame the I.P.,” retorted Compton. “Most of the delegations are either here now or on their way. They’d jump at the con- clusion that the contest was called off to keep their particular glamour queen from winning.”

“Sure,” agreed Lane. “That’s what I’ve been telling Al. Nothing for it now but to face the music.”

Compton shook his head glumly. “It’s crazy—the very thing that ought to be avoided— bringing all these jealous races together. Anything may happen. How are you going to judge such a contest, anyway?”

“We’ll employ abstract standards,” was Lane’s airy reply.

“Who’s going to employ them? Do you mean to say you can look at an aquatic Venusian and put out of mind the fact that to you she resembles a particularly loathsome variety of squid? If you were a Callistan, could you regard a terrestrial cutie as anything more attractive than a grub? Abstract standards, my eye!”

“I’m working on a plan,” Lane assured him. Compton was unimpressed. “I’ve sent for reinforcements. We’ll try to prepare for emergencies—that’s all there is left to do.”

CHAPTER III

TWO DAYS—earth time—before the preliminary contest for the selection of Miss Terrestrial, Lane again broached the subject of entering to Mary Dugan. So definite was her refusal that the word “flat” fails to describe it. “You’re missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“To be made into hash,” she amended. “You exaggerate.”

“How about the Venusian squid and that sting-ray thing from Deimos?”

To this parting shot, he had no answer. She alluded to a “regrettable incident”, as Lane described it for the benefit of the news services. The two beauty contestants from Venus and one of its moons had been accorded quarters opening into the same transparent tank in the exposition’s huge “Temple of Beauty”. It was an error of judgment. When the battle was over, what was left of the contestants could not have been termed beautiful, even by members of their own races.

The affair was annoying from many standpoints. Previous publicity had centered on the glamour and gayety of the contest. News of this tragic incident gave a hint of its underlying menace.

The partners spent hours ironing matters out with the offended governments. Each faction left clear implication that the one way of avoiding enormous damage suits, and possible interplanetary trouble, was to insure that the beauty award would go to its representative in the contest—for of course both sent fresh entrants to replace the martyred queens who had done each other in.

“What gets me,” Mary complained to Lane, “is that not one delegation thinks the affair is on the level. They’re all scheming to pull a fast one—like hypnotizing the judges, or scaring the daylights out of them. Which reminds me. You still haven’t disclosed how you’re going to decide the main contest.”

“I’ve got a lulu of a scheme figured out,” he assured her, “Passes the buck in truly magnificent style, Mary—” he looked at her hopefully—”as a very special favor, won’t you please—?”

“The answer again is no!”

He shook his head reproachfully. “I was merely going to ask you, as a special favor, when you come over to help below stage tomorrow, if you’ll wear that tricky little costume of yours with the red trunks and silver-trimmed upper dingus.”

“Why?”

“Because it helps me to concentrate.”

She stared after him blankly as he walked away. Despite the fact that she had worked for him some three years, Lane still had the faculty of disconcerting her with his whimsies.

An amphitheater accommodating a million people—this had been one of Godfrey Lane’s dreams, and in the great Luna Coliseum he had come within striking distance of achieving it. The problems involved were tremendous, but modern architectural science had been equal to them. Over a thousand tube entrances, some located a mile distant from the dazzling, many-faceted structure which towered like an iridescent monument over the exposition grounds, served to convey visitors to their sections without congestion at any point.

The audience looked down upon a central stage which, by a triumph of refractive engineering, seemed directly in front of each section. Ingenious sound amplification made every spoken word audible.

Sections were equipped to provide for the idiosyncrasies of the various planetary races. Tubes conveying aquatic creatures deposited them through air locks into tank-like sections filled with the fluid of their natural habitat. Similar compartments were filled with the various native atmospheres.

WHILE THE great edifice filled for the terrestrial beauty contest, in which the earth entry—Miss Terrestrial—would be chosen for the finals, Lane and his technicians were hard at work backstage. “Backstage”, in this instance, meant below, since the stage effects were handled from a honeycomb of rooms and passages underneath.

When necessary, any section of the stage could be screened from view of the audience by refractive screens. Thus, while one spectacle was in progress, another might be in preparation on the seemingly unoccupied portion of the same stage.

Of all the staff, Lane was on the least tension, as far as surface appearances indicated. In a veritable bedlam, with press agents, delegation representatives, and newscasters bombarding him every minute with demands and questions; with scantily clad girl contestants and their maids running here and there on frenzied missions, he appeared calmly unconcerned.

To Al Pendergast had been delegated the comparatively peaceful task of sitting with the judges, who were even now self-consciously surveying the audience from a box at the stage rim.

When Mary Dugan responded to a hurry call from Lane, she found him engaged in testing some flood-lighting equipment. He motioned her to a dapper little man in white whom she recognized as Fleury from the makeup department.

“Sit down please.” Fleury regarded her closely as she obeyed. “First we apply the base cream.” He demonstrated with deft fingers. “Then the cheeks—a delicate tint. Shaded just right— so!”

“Wait a minute!” Mary protested. “What is this?”

“I want to test the lighting with actual makeup,” Lane explained. He turned to the electrician. “Intensify the gamma ray. See what it docs?”

“Makes her look faded.”

“Exactly. Now some more of the delta.” Eventually, he seemed to get the light to suit him. Fleury stepped back and admired his handiwork.

“Beautiful!” he exclaimed. “A remarkable treatment, if I do say it. What fortunate region does the young lady represent?”

“You’ve got your wires crossed,” Mary informed him acidly.

Lane chuckled. “She’s not a contender—just our handy girl.”

Mary flushed under his frankly admiring gaze. “I wore my silver-and-red, as you asked, so you could concentrate,” she observed sharply. “I didn’t know you meant concentrating on my costume.”

As she spoke, the electrician pushed aside the light-blending projector, so that they could look into the wall screen. At his touch on the switch, the screen became a front-row seat looking out on the stage.

“It’s already going on!” exclaimed Mary. Against a velvety-black background, a striking-looking blonde was walking with stately tread, to the accompaniment of soft music, toward the judges’ box. When almost there, she paused and pirouetted slowly, exhibiting her figure from all angles, then, after a moment’s self-conscious pause beneath the eyes of the half-million or more spectators, she walked down a short ramp, handed a slip of paper containing her identification number to the judges’ clerk, and disappeared from view through a velvet curtain.

The clerk read the number aloud, “Fifty- four.” At the same moment, a huge crystal ball, high above the stage, flashed the number in letters of light, following with the designation of the entrant, “Miss Southern Hemisphere.”

For an instant, the stage was black. There was a hush of expectancy. Then a spot of light focused on a point near the center, where the glamour girl next in line had suddenly appeared. In the moment of darkness, she had been transported from below stage to a slowly revolving platform. As the platform came to rest after a single revolution, she descended, to parade across the stage as her predecessor had done.

“Nice figure,” commented Mary, “but—” she hesitated.

“Coloring too pasty,” volunteered the electrician. “This next number isn’t so hot, either. If these are the best Earth can produce—”

They watched three or four others cross the stage, then Lane scribbled something on a slip of paper.

“I’ve got to get hold of Al,” he said hastily. He glanced toward the judges’ box, where his partner sat perspiring between two of the judging staff. “No way to reach him by visiphone, we purposely didn’t install them in the judges’ box to avoid possibility of outside influence. Take him this note for me, will you?”

“What’s the idea?” Mary asked, vaguely distrustful.

“I’ve had another inspiration. While the judges are making their decision, we’re going to levitate the cup that will be awarded at the in- terplanetary contest two weeks from now—let the crowd feast their eyes on it. I want Al to make a little announcement. We’ll call it the Chalice of Circe.”

“The what?”

“Circe was a beautiful siren of mythology. The chalice was the cup she used to drink out of— or to serve ambrosia to her lovers—something like that.”

“You’ve got your mythology mixed,” objected Mary. “As I remember—”

“Doesn’t matter. No time to argue. Take this note to Al.” He folded it hastily and thrust it into Mary’s hand, then hustled her down the corridor to one of the stage traps.

Mary stepped into the round enclosed booth, clutching at the slender hand support. She experienced a brief moment of giddiness as the floor began to rise—then was enveloped in total darkness.

CHAPTER IV

BY THE slight click and sensation of stopping, Mary knew that the segment of platform on which she stood had become part of the vast stage. The darkness was complete, except for one spot of light far ahead of her, in which a sinuous figure— limbs and scanty jeweled costume flashing—was walking in time with the slow music toward the judges’ box.

With a gasp of dismay, Mary realized that she had come up near the middle of the stage. The next instant, she was bathed in a dazzling floodlight.

She checked an impulse to run, for fear of attracting more attention. The floor began to revolve.

In spite of its appalling aspects, the situation was absurd. Whoever was directing the lighting effects no doubt assumed that another glamour girl had presented herself for that tiresome across- stage parade.

The least conspicuous thing she could do was to walk nonchalantly to the judges’ box, deliver her message, and disappear. The audience would think she was another contestant, while the note would explain her presence to the judges.

The slow music insensibly delayed her footsteps as she descended from the platform and, with head held high, walked toward the pencil of light that indicated her destination. She could sense—even if she could barely see—the huge audience, the vast open space beneath the central dome in which she, a tiny figure, walked under the critical view of more than a half-million eyes.

“All the thrill of being in the contest, without the glory!” she reflected. A moment later, she was passing the note crumpled in her palm to the clerk at the front of the judges’ stand.

“For Mr. Pendergast,” she murmured, then hurriedly sought the comforting concealment of the black curtain.

Through an excited concourse of contestants and their retinues, Mary shouldered her way to the testing room where she found Lane and the electrician still at the viewing screen.

“You inconsiderate louse!” she choked. “I believe you did it on purpose. If that’s your idea of a joke—!”

“Hold everything!” Lane admonished. “The judges are going to announce their decision.”

“Didn’t take ‘em long,” breathed the electrician.

Restraining herself for the moment, Mary watched the screen. Tyrone Hopwood, the world’s premier producer of television spectacles, was rising to his feet in the judges’ box.

“Friends, lovers of beauty, you of the vast audience in this building, to say nothing of the millions who have enjoyed this spectacle by television,” he began pompously. Mary’s attention wandered, to be recalled as he concluded impressively:

“And now to end your suspense. The judges’ task was rendered easy when, among all the lovely contestants who crossed in review, there appeared one who so far outshone the rest that there could be no dissenting opinion. It seems superfluous to inform the audience that this outstanding contestant was—” he paused to consult the slip of paper in his hands—”number seventy-eight, the duly entered candidate from Luna City—Miss Mary Dugan.”

Then the applause broke loose.

CHAPTER V

GODFREY LANE turned to Mary with a sheepish grin. She was staring open-mouthed at the television screen. There was a confusion of voices and running feet in the corridor. The door burst open and some one shouted, “Here she is!” Then the room was swarming with news correspondents.

They shouted questions, pushed the bewildered girl into impromptu poses, held recording instruments to her lips, flashed her features on millions of news screens as she uttered gasping protests.

Off at one side, Lane was pouring his version of the occurrence into willing ears.

“I’m flabbergasted,” he declared. “Never occurred to us that she’d have the ghost of a chance against those glorious contestants from Earth and elsewhere. You know—that reminds me—”

“Yes! Go on, Mr. Lane,” prompted one of the newscasters.

“Well, it reminds me somehow of an old legend. Something about a bluebird. Look it up, boys—that’s a tip—if you want something for your headlines.”

Mary at length managed to slip unobserved into a tube car which transferred her to the deserted offices in the administration building. She wanted to be alone—to think—to recover some measure of her poise—to be very sure of her determination. Her apartment would no doubt be surrounded by newscasters. They hadn’t thought of waiting for her here.

She paused before a restroom mirror and gazed at herself unbelievingly. Her chic silver- and-red costume was fetching; her features and coloring were good; her figure, with arms and legs bare in the accepted fashion of the day, was trim and neat.

“I’m good,” she acknowledged impartially, “Yeah—but not that good. There’s something fishy about it all. And what I’ll tell Godfrey Lane—”

On second thought, she decided to tell him by letter. When the stinging resignation was framed to her satisfaction, she strode into his office. It was disconcerting to find him at his desk.

“Oh, it’s you!” he said in evident relief, putting down the visiphone into which he had been talking.

Her fury flamed into expression.

“I carne to leave this on your desk; but I’ve a lot to tell you in person. Of all the scurvy tricks! And I fell for it. ‘Wear that silver-red costume—it helps me to concentrate.’ ‘I want to test the lighting effect on makeup.’ ‘Take this note to Al—you only have to walk up to the judges’ stand.’ Yes, I fell for it. But you outsmarted yourself, boss. Little Mary still isn’t going to play. I don’t know how you did it—aside from the trick you played on me—but there’s something cheesy about the whole affair.”

Lane had the grace to wilt under the barrage. “Gosh, Mary. Any other girl would give twenty years of her life to be in your sandals today.”

“I don’t like being played for a sap. By the way, how did you put it over? Bribe the judges?” “Perhaps I can answer that question.”

Mary whirled sharply at the suave voice that came from the open doorway behind her. A swarthy-skinned earthman in the para-fiber garb of the Martian settlements was smiling sardonically.

“This is a private conference,” Lane informed him.

“I agree. It is private—between the two of us,” the stranger observed with self-assurance. “However, the young lady may stay if she likes. Let me introduce myself. I am Vittorio Renoud, of the Martian Metropolitan. Also of the delegation which accompanied the unsuccessful candidate from the Martian earth settlement.”

“I’m sorry your candidate didn’t win, Mr. Renoud; but—”

“You mistake my purpose. The reason I came to Luna City—I shall be entirely frank with you— was to ferret out, if possible, certain secrets of light diffusion developed by your technicians.”

“Others have tried to steal our secrets,” Lane informed him tersely. “You’ll discover little, for all your spying.”

“It will not be necessary to spy, Mr. Lane, since I expect you to turn those secrets over to me of your own accord. Or—” he paused deliberate- ly—”would you rather have me make public a peculiar fact concerning today’s lighting arrangements?”

Mary watched Lane’s face go pale. He turned abruptly to request, “Mary, see if you can locate Al. Tell him I want him here. Then go get some rest. I’m sorry about everything.”

She started for the door panel, then hesitated. “You had me deliver another message to Al today,” she said. “That was a trick. What is it this time?”

“Please, Mary.”

She studied him shrewdly. “Couldn’t be that you’re trying to get rid of me?”

“As your employer, I insist—”

“My resignation is on your desk, so I’m no longer an employee. What was the peculiar fact you discovered, Mr. Renoud?”

The Mars dweller had been watching the byplay with appreciation.

“It was this,” he said slowly. “Although your technicians employed what appeared to be the same light in the dressing rooms as on the stage, the quality of makeup was altered materially under the stage lights.”

“Bunk!” retorted Lane tersely. “Unfortunately,” smiled Renoud, “our tests clearly reveal the difference. How it was accomplished we do not know; but of the result there is no doubt. Makeup applied under the dressing-room lights appeared faded under the stage lights. The young ladies did not look their best—most decidedly far from it. By a peculiar circumstance, only one contestant was so fortunate as to have her makeup applied under the lighting which was actually used on the stage.”

He bowed sardonically toward Mary. “As the eloquent spokesman for the judges remarked in my hearing, it was like gazing upon the sun’s brilliance after comparing the radiance of a succession of pale moons.”

White and rigid Mary stood, her hands clenched into fists. Then, covering her face, she stumbled from the room.

CHAPTER VI

TO ALL the importunities of press and television news services, the answer given by the harassed staff of Interplanetary Expositions was the same: “Miss Dugan is unable to see any one.”

Forced into a corner, Al Pendergast finally blurted out the truth. “We don’t know where she is. She’s disappeared.”

After that, Godfrey Lane, looking hollow- eyed and worried, yielded to the inevitable and gave the newscasters an audience.

“Boys,” he said, “I’d have told you before, but I knew you wouldn’t believe me. We’re completely at sea. I’ve had an army of detectives on the job. No results.”

“Pretty thin, Godfrey,” observed the correspondent for Terrestrial Broadcasters. “It’s a publicity stunt, of course; but in a place like Luna City, with every space-port and lock guarded—”

“I know,” responded Lane shortly. “Nevertheless, it’s true. I’m posting a reward for information leading to her discovery.”

“And won’t you be surprised,” some one jeered, “when she unexpectedly turns up on the day of the big contest!”

IN HER narrow quarters within the Callistan space vessel, Mary Dugan tuned in on the latest broadcast involving her disappearance.

“...has increased the reward for information leading to discovery of her whereabouts to this fabulous amount,” the commentator was saying. “He also advanced a fantastic motive for the young woman’s disappearance. Lane’s story is that she objected to entering the contest and appeared against her will. This, ladies and gentlemen of the television audience, is obvious press-agent stuff. It is hardly reasonable that any girl would resent winning so high an honor as that of Earth’s reigning beauty, or that she could be tricked into entering a contest against her will. Also, it must be remembered that no one could leave Luna City without passing through a series of closely guarded space locks—and Mary Dugan most certainly passed through none of them.”

The girl switched off the voice. She wanted to think.

There was no hint that Lane, or any one else, suspected the manner of her abduction. Lane had every reason to think she was doing an ex- ceptionally clever job of hiding out. Her note of resignation was conclusive evidence on that point.

“No use trying to find me—because I’ll be hiding where you’d never think to look.”

It had been an empty boast. At the moment of writing, she had no thought of how to carry it out. But Gerdlu of Callisto had made the boast a reality by appearing suddenly and focusing that big red eye upon her. She dimly remembered following him.

Three successive guards whom they passed no doubt had assured Lane and detectives that no Mary Dugan escaped through the locks. Their sincerity must have been convincing. They did not see her when she passed because Gerdlu hypnotic- ally commanded them not to see her. Once outside, they had entered his space tender and come directly to the Callistan vessel.

The possibility that hypnosis might have been employed in abducting Mary had, it is true, passed fleetingly through Lane’s mind. But it was merely one of various fantastic theories which battled for recognition—all of which became meaningless in view of her expressed intention to vanish of her own accord.

With the day of the great inter-planetary contest almost at hand, he had enough to occupy his attention without stewing over Mary’s fate. But this did not deter him from doing a man-sized job of worrying.

The zest seemed to have gone out of the whole undertaking, as far as he was concerned. He left important details to Al Pendergast, who was muddling them beyond imagining.

“How are we going to get out of this mess?” he wailed, appealing to Lane. “I had to promise that we’d disqualify any candidate who couldn’t show Grade D intelligence, and now the Turlocks of Pluto are raising Cain. Claim the rule was in- voked against them. And blast me if I don’t suspect that it was. Those Turlock females are gorgeous in coloring—graceful, too. But they’re without any intelligence at all. The males have all the brains. Another thing—”

“Go on,” Lane told him wearily.

“A lot of them are kicking about your big idea—having one member of each contesting race on the jury.”

“What’s the matter with that?”

“It means, each number will get one vote— from her home-planet judge. It’s the same as having each contestant vote for herself.”

“Ah, but you overlook the big thing!” For a moment, Lane was almost his enthusiastic self. “Each judge is compelled to cast a second-choice vote for a different candidate. The second-choice votes decide the contest.”

“News commentators say it means that the ugliest will win. To give their candidate a better chance, each of these judges is going to cast his second vote for the creature he rates lowest.”

“That’s their lookout,” commented Lane. “If any one has a better idea, I’m receptive.”

CHAPTER VII

THE ANNOUNCEMENT had no doubt been a shock to many of the delegations who had counted upon having a small group of judges to terrorize, bribe, or otherwise influence. Several objected to including a Callistan on the jury, on the ground that so many races were subject to hypnotic control. Lane met this objection by building a separate turret for the Callistan judge, locating it well back of the main crescent of judges’ booths.

Gerdlu took no offense at this evidence of distrust. He seemed, in fact, more amiable as the contest day drew near.

Encountering Lane on the fair grounds, he chided, “You are thinking of the one you call Mary. No word as yet?”

“None. Gerdlu, with the science your race is said to possess, you ought to be able to help me.”

The Callistan chuckled appreciatively. “You overrate our abilities. Still, we do have, in our space vessel, an instrument which in your lan- guage might be translated as a ‘locator’. Its scope is somewhat limited.”

At Lane’s sudden show of interest, the Callistan explained further. The instrument could be so attuned as to indicate the direction in which a specific metal was located. It was used to locate rare mineral deposits.

“Something like an ancient doodlebug,” commented Lane. “I don’t see—” he paused, recalling that Mary possessed a wrist-band of flexible Ionian murrinite, on which her watch and vibration dials were mounted. The Ionian ambassador, who presented it to her, had declared that it was probably the only bit of that metal worn on the moon.

“It is worth a trial,” Gerdlu agreed, when Lane offered the suggestion. “We can readily attune the instrument to that substance. If you wish to accompany me to our vessel—”

Lane accepted eagerly. However, before accompanying the Callistan, he took the precaution of informing Lieutenant Compton of his purpose, “Never trust a Callistan” was a fa- miliar byword.

It was morning on Luna’s earth-side hemisphere, and the great surrounding plain was jammed with spacecraft of all types. Gerdlu’s ship, however, was swinging in an orbit overhead and it was necessary to reach it by a small tender.

Inside of the Callistan vessel, Lane glanced curiously around the unfamiliar control room.

Gerdlu carelessly pointed to a cased-in device. “The instrument I spoke of,” he observed. “However, we shall waste no time employing its aid. Step into the observation room and I will show you something much better, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

With a definite sense of alarm, Lane entered the narrow cubicle indicated. The click of the door panel brought him around sharply. Gerdlu had not entered with him.

“What’s all this?” Lane demanded harshly. The Callistan’s visage flashed on one of the several view-plates. “Now, Mr. Lane,” said his rasping voice, “we will come to terms.”

“Then this was a trick? I’m your prisoner?” “Only temporarily, Mr. Lane. I am certain you will be reasonable.”

THERE CAME to Lane the spine-pricking realization that he was wholly in the power of this spider-man. In his eagerness to follow every lead, no matter how forlorn, that might lead to Mary, he had walked into a trap.

Still, the Callistan knew he had left word where be was going, and why. Gerdlu would hardly dare to injure him or to detain him indef- initely in the face of that.

“What do you want?” Lane demanded shortly.

“Need I state, Mr. Lane? We Callistans are proud. We do not wish to be outclassed. It is a coveted honor of my people to be acknowledged the most beautiful in the solar system.”

“I’m not judging the contest.”

“But you arranged—shall we say by a trick of lighting—to favor your entrant in the terrestrial contest.”

“Light effects won’t help in the interplanetary contest.”

“Perhaps not. There is a method, however, which will insure the beauty from Callisto winning the cup to which she is entitled.”

“Whatever you have in mind, the answer is no. It’s no secret that I’m here in your company. If I’m not back in reasonable time, the I.P. will take a hand. I’m sure you wouldn’t care to have Callisto suspended from the International Planetary Federation because of your blundering, Gerdlu.”

The Callistan seemed undisturbed. “A peculiar fact we have learned about human psychology is that you people are handicapped by the phenomena you call emotions. This seems to be especially the case when the emotion you call love is involved.”

As he spoke, a second viewplate flashed into illumination. As if looking through a window, Lane saw Mary Dugan listlessly resting on a couch in a small, cell-like chamber.

“She’s here! You’ve had her all the time!” Gerdlu chuckled sardonically. “Now let us have some fun. We Callistans are a very humorous race.”

As Lane stared apprehensively, a tiny thread of light flashed across the room, flicking Mary’s bare arm. She sprang up as if something had stung her, looking around in bewilderment.

Another sliver of light darted forth, touching her cheek. She dodged away, only to meet another crossing thread.

“Ionised light beams,” explained Gerdlu, “carrying an electric current. Watch as we increase the intensity.”

Suddenly the room was crossed in every direction with the slivers of light, looking like strands of flashing cobweb. The girl sprang this way and that, bewilderedly trying to evade the sting of contact. Abruptly the auditory accompaniment of the viewscreen flashed on, and scream after scream of pain and terror reached the horrified ears of the watcher.

“Stop it! Stop it!” roared Lane, beating impotently on the Callistan’s viewplate with doubled fists.

At once, the darting cobwebs of light vanished. The girl stumbled to her cot and threw herself down, sobbing convulsively.

“A strange phenomenon,” commented Gerdlu’s voice. “You would have been capable of standing much greater torture, yourself, yet you are unnerved merely by another’s suffering.”

“Curse you, Gerdlu! Curse you and all your heartless race!”

The Callistan chuckled. “Do you wish a further demonstration, or shall we reach an agreement now?”

“What agreement?” demanded Lane belligerently.

The viewplate revealing Mary’s room was suddenly criss-crossed again with flashing lights. Again the girl was darting around the cramped space, her features contorted with agony.

“Stop!” cried Lane. “I agree!”

Gerdlu emitted his unpleasant chuckle as the viewplate cleared and Mary sank quivering to the floor.

“She will sustain no harm,” he observed. “Not a mark will show. It requires more than two hours for the treatment to cause death. I hope such extreme action will not be required.”

Lane fumed at his helplessness. “Tell me what you expect.”

“The young lady will be kept here as a hostage until the contest. You and I will return to Luna City. If you should become unfriendly—if you refuse to carry out my suggestions—members of my delegation still quartered in the vessel will take great pleasure in administering the needle death to the one about whom you are so concerned.”

Lane answered with cold fury, “Gerdlu, you and your tribe ought to be wiped out of the solar system! If ever ruthless extermination was justi- fied—”

“Perhaps,” the Callistan interjected softly, “you wish another demonstration.”

“No. I’ll play along. Only, once you’ve attained your purpose, how do I know you’ll let her go?”

“You have my promise.” “The word of a Callistan!”

“To employ one of your racial idioms, take it or leave it. After all, Mr. Lane, if we failed to keep our agreement, what reason would you have for keeping quiet about this afterward?”

“What makes you think I’ll keep quiet anyway?”

“I hardly think, Mr. Lane, that you would be eager to proclaim that your contest was not conducted—as you say—on the level.”

The Callistan seemed to have figured out all the angles.

“Very well,” Lane conceded. “But I warn you, if Mary Dugan isn’t safely back within an hour after the contest is decided, I’ll expose the whole business, regardless of personal consequences. You can guess,” he added grimly, “what that would mean.”

“We should be torn to pieces,” agreed Gerdlu. “So it is plain that my promise will be kept. Shall we return?”

CHAPTER VIII

ALTHOUGH Luna Coliseum accommodated more than half a million, seating capacity for the Interplanetary Beauty Contest was woefully inadequate. All tickets of admission had been sold weeks before the event. As the time drew close, fantastic prices were offered to the fortunate holders of seats.

True, the scene was being televised to every part of the solar system; but merely witnessing it from an easy chair on some distant planet lacked the thrill of being part of the spectacle.

The matter of precedence and delicate apportionment of space among the twenty-odd planetary delegations was a problem in itself. Al Pendergast was on the verge of collapse as a result of toiling to satisfy everyone. More than ever, he missed the efficient assistance of Mary Dugan.

While the semi-circle of booths at the edge of the stage was slowly filling with the judges entrusted with representing their planetary groups, the audience was being treated to various forms of aesthetic entertainment. Enormous ingenuity had been exercised to insure each race its preferred brand. The earth section listened to the strains of a symphony orchestra. The aquatic Venusian creatures witnessed a vivid color-graph display. The Callistans thrilled to an atrocious cacophony that would have driven an earth audience crazy. Although, to each section of the audience, the entertainment seemed to come from the stage, in actuality most of it was projected through screens and amplifying devices.

From the subterranean control room, Lane and Pendergast could view any selected part of the coliseum by visiscreen.

Although his practiced eye took note of anything, and he mechanically dispatched instructions to various members of the staff, the undercurrent of Lane’s thoughts was anxiety for Mary. Would the Callistan make good his promise? If not, what then? Merely the empty satisfaction of striking back.

The schedule was proceeding inexorably. Already, below stage, “the beauty queens were ascending their pedestals or entering their floats. Some—as in case of the Ganymedan turtle woman—were being hoisted into theirs by derricks. Others were being transferred through locks into transparent globes. A tiny creature from some asteroid, scarcely six inches high, was encased in a magnifying sphere, which gave her eel-like figure equal prominence with larger entrants.

THROUGH HIS televisor, Lane scanned the long corridor in which these preparations were taking place. He noted with a pang the pedestal around which there was no excited gathering. It bore a shield emblazoned with the legend, “Miss Terrestrial.”

“Glad she’s out of this mess,” he reflected grimly. “But where the devil is she now?” Gerdlu would soon have to make good.

The Callistan’s plan for winning the beauty contest was simplicity in itself. He entrusted to Lane a box of medallion-like objects, each ap- parently nothing more than a Callistan garnet in a platinum-like setting. They could readily, as Gerdlu pointed out, be worked into the decorative scheme of the canopy shading the judges’ booths—one to each booth.

“Do you mean that you can extend your hypnotic influence through these—use them as substitute eyes—and compel the other judge’s to vote for your candidate?”

“Not all the judges,” rasped the spider-man. “Less than half the races are subject to hypnotic influence. However, that should be enough.”

Lane’s view of the preparations was interrupted by the approach of Lieutenant Compton. The I.P. man looked grim. Without comment, he handed Lane a piece of what looked like a crumbling wafer, with queer characters impressed upon it. The fragment felt peculiarly unsubstantial.

“It’s written,” Compton explained, answering Lane’s inquiring glance, “on eluso-fabric, which evaporates rapidly except in a vacuum. It will vanish in a few minutes.”

“The writing seems to be Martian,” observed Pendergast, peering at it. “What do they want?” “It’s addressed to the Martian delegation,” responded Compton; “but it comes from the Triturians of Mercury. Each delegation received a similar threat, I have no doubt, although Vignu of Mars was the only one with the courage to disclose it to me.”

“The Triturians are tough babies,” acknowledged Lane.

“Maybe so,” defended Pendergast; “but I will say that they’ve acted pretty decent so far.” “Because,” said Compton, “they’re smart.

They waited until the last minute to shoot their barb. The note merely states that if any except the Triturian candidate is voted the most beautiful, the winner and every delegate from her planet will suffer the energy death.”

“Blasting rockets!” gasped the senior partner. The energy death—colloquially known as the firecracker death—was one of the most agonizing known to the solar system. The Mercurians— inheritors of a strange science—possessed a weapon which fired a charge of seemingly pure energy. When it reached its mark, there occurred a strange reaction. Beginning at the outer extremities and darting about through the body of the victim, there occurred a series of explosions. The effect was not unlike the crackling of a bunch of ancient firecrackers. It continued until the body had been torn to shreds.

Though his first impulse was one of horror, Lane’s second response was a grim laugh.

“If ever there was retributive justice, this is it,” he said harshly. “For once, Gerdlu has outsmarted himself,” he observed.

“I doubt if he’ll go through with his plan,” Compton conjectured. Lane had taken the I.P. man fully into his confidence relative to the deal with the Callistan and Mary’s predicament. The officer added. “Better find out how you stand under this new setup.”

Lane’s scanning of the crowd located Gerdlu in the isolated box reserved for the judge representing his planet. Evidently the spider-man intended to trust no subordinate with the delicate task of carrying out his scheme.

When the message stating that Lane wished to have a word with him was delivered, Gerdlu read, then tore it up. Assuming that he was under visiscreen observation, he spoke distinctly.

“The answer is yes. We of Callisto can take care of ourselves. Our promise has been kept.”

Lane turned to Compton in exasperation. “How does he know what I intend to ask him?”

“Well, what do you intend to ask?”

“Whether he received one of those threatening messages—and whether it affects Mary.”

“So he must have assumed. Well, I admire his nerve.”

Compton took his departure.

CHAPTER IX

FLASHING his view-screen to the section devoted to the scorpion-like creatures from Mercury, Lane surveyed the red monsters with distaste. Strategically surrounding the section, he discerned several grim faces which he knew belonged to members of the Interplanetary Police.

Compton was at least prepared for trouble.

At a stir of excitement in the audience, he switched to the stage. The widely acclaimed interplanetary pageant of beauty was in progress.

At first the stage was dark. After a moment, a soft glow appeared in the center. As it throbbed into intensity, a huge, exquisitely graven cup was revealed, the famed Chalice of Circe, which would be awarded to the winner of the contest.

Wraith-like lights began to appear on the stage circumference. These likewise waxed insensibly into greater intensity, until the audience found itself gazing at a succession of tableaux. The individual displays, ranging from simple pedestals to elaborate floats, glided around the huge circle, passing slowly in front of the crescent comprising the judges’ boxes.

Many of the strange planetary creatures were beautiful even to terrestrial eyes—some for their coloring, some for harmony of form. Lane, his worry overshadowing all else, regarded the display without enthusiasm.

“If I were picking the ugliest of the lot,” commented Pendergast, “I’d figure it was a toss- up between the Callistan spider woman and that red demon from Mercury. Yet one of them is sure to win—Hello! Good gosh! Look!”

Following the direction of his partner’s gaze, Lane stared in blank unbelief.

“Mary! She’s in the contest!” Pendergast produced his handkerchief and agitatedly mopped his perspiring brow.

Speechless, Lane could only stare. Standing on the simple pedestal bearing the legend “Miss Terrestrial,” with a bewildered expression on her face as if she had just awakened from a deep sleep, was unquestionably Mary Dugan.

Relief swept over Lane like a refreshing wave. So this was the method Gerdlu had chosen for keeping his bargain.

Well, he had made good his promise. Probably the girl had been smuggled in with the equipment for the elaborate Callistan float— placed on her pedestal while under hypnotic control.

His mind suddenly at rest concerning Mary’s safety, the publicity man in Lane rose buoyantly to the surface.

“What a wow of a story this will make!” he exclaimed jubilantly to Pendergast. “Kidnapped by—by mysterious beings of whom she has no memory, Miss Terrestrial electrified the vast audience and found herself unexpectedly restored to safety as the floodlights bathed her glorious figure in the great interplanetary beauty contest. Al, it’s a knockout! And if she wins!”

He stopped abruptly.

His partner shook his head. “That wouldn’t be so hot. Not with that Mercurian threat—”

“No—I forgot. Anyway, she’s safe!” Lane’s eyes dwelt upon her as if they could never get their fill. Her makeup hadn’t been applied with the skill he would have demanded, but for all that, Mary was a glorious show-piece. The fact that you knew her in her wholesome every-day aspect didn’t make her any less glamorous.

SHE HAD the presence of mind to hold her pose. It would have been disastrous, in view of the stage mechanisms involved, if she had tried to leave her pedestal.

The parade of beauty candidates circled the stage twice. Then, guided by technicians deep down in the bowels of the stage, they wove through a graceful pattern which brought them eventually to a stop in a semicircular formation facing the judges.

As if nine-tenths of the terrorized occupants of the judges’ circle had not already made up their minds, there was a gesture toward deliberation. At the request of one judge or another, a contestant would be asked to come forward for closer view. The pedestal or flat containing this representative of pulchritude from some far-off world would then glide forward under invisible guidance, while its occupant coyly displayed her charms.

At length came the announcement that voting would commence.

As each judge cast his vote from within his booth, by depressing numbered buttons indicating his first and second choices, verbal announcement was made simultaneously in some seventy different languages, and the numbers flashed into illumination within the crystal ball overhead.

Pendergast and Lane, in the view-room below stage, watched curiously. The initial choice of the first member of the jury was for Number 17, Miss Aquatic Venus. The second choice was for Number 36, Miss Mercury.

“It’s a very simple deduction,” commented Lane, “that the judge from Aquatic Venus cast that one—the first vote to save his face with the home folks, the second to placate those vengeful Triturians.”

The next voter, while according Miss Pluto first place, also gave second place to Number 36.

The third vote was a surprise. It gave Miss Mars first place, but the second choice went to Miss Terrestrial.

“That Martian has guts!” was Lane’s comment to his partner. “He not only defied the Mercurians by turning the threat-note over to Compton, but now he’s deliberately snubbing their candidate.”

Followed another vote for Miss Mercury as second choice. Then three votes in succession for Miss Terrestrial. Lane felt his spine prickling in vague alarm. Something was wrong.

On a sudden he realized what it was. There had been no votes for Miss Callisto!

“Gerdlu must have thrown up the sponge,” he muttered. “Still, I don’t understand—”

He sprang to his feet with a gasp. All at once he did understand—fully—horribly.

TENSELY, he followed the next tabulations. By the time seventeen judges had been heard from, Miss Mercury was only two ahead of Miss Terrestrial on second-choice votes. Abruptly, then, the character of the voting changed. Miss Terrestrial began to appear as first choice. Immediately followed a succession of first-choice votes for Miss Mercury. The tabulation of fifty- three votes gave Miss Terrestrial twenty first choice votes, Miss Mercury fourteen.

Lane’s muscles grew taut.

“Somebody’s got it in for Mary,” whimpered Pendergast at his elbow. “If she gets the cup, sure as fate those Mercurians will—”

Ignoring him, Lane leaped into action. Brushing his partner aside, he sped down the long corridor to the tube entrances leading to the judges’ boxes. As he sprang into the cage of the tube-car leading to the Callistan box, an attendant ran up breathlessly.

“That tube is out of order, Mr. Lane,” he explained. “Must have been jammed purposely. I’ve got a crew working in there.”

Lane paused, his mind reviewing the possibilities. He darted into a “prop” room and seized the first object that looked like a weapon— a long-shafted Venusian trident. With this in hand, he stepped into a stage trap-door projector and touched the stud which released its mechanism.

In his rash haste, Lane narrowly missed death. As the platform catapulted him upon the stage, his left shoulder received a smashing blow from the side of a massive float. A few inches closer and he would have been horribly crushed.

Regaining his balance, Lane stumbled toward the judges’ boxes.

Members of the audience, both of the Coliseum and those additional millions viewing the spectacle by television, were startled at seeing a disheveled member of the terrestrial race sprinting frantically across the broad stage expanse, waving a six-foot trident.

As he ran, Lane caught the announcement, “First-choice votes now stand, Miss Terrestrial, twenty-seven, Miss Mercury, twenty-one.”

The figures spurred him to greater effort. His whole energies were concentrated upon reaching the Callistan box from which unquestionably emanated the hypnotic control that was piling up this calamitous vote for Mary.

The box was separated from the stage by nearly a twenty-foot span, and artificial gravity within the dome of Luna City was nearly at earth intensity.

Summoning all his strength, Lane gathered himself for the leap. The astonished audience saw him leave the stage in a perfect takeoff, apparently bent on self-destruction.

He landed with crashing impact against the turret-like structure. The trident pierced the unsubstantial wall, and his grasp upon it prevented him from falling. One hand grasped at the ledge.

Though taken by surprise, the spider-man occupying the stand moved with lightning speed.

Two arms lashed out to grip the earth-man by the neck, while another pair disengaged his fingers from the ledge.

Gasping, Lane released the trident shaft and caught at the strangling arms which were clutched around his throat.

The strength seemed to drain from his dangling body; the world went black. Then, with the fury of desperation, he gave a convulsive jerk.

The cruel grip on his throat relaxed; the arms went limp. His despairing wrench must have broken the tough but slender bones.

Clinging with one hand to the Callistan’s limply dangling members, Lane groped with the other for his trident and wrenched it free. With savage probes, he sought to bury it in the loathsome body within the box.

At this, Gerdlu stretched forth two more arms and dragged the earth-man over the ledge into the booth. The trident caught on the ledge and was wrenched from Lane’s grasp.

At close quarters, the two grappled fiercely. With only two of his six prehensile limbs out of commission, the advantage was still with the tough-fibered Callistan. Claws tightened cruelly on Lane’s flesh; the fetid breath of the creature was in his face.

As the sharp fangs pierced his neck, the earthman was vaguely conscious of the impacts as some heavy body, followed by another, plummet- ed over the ledge.

“Easy boy! We’ll take over.”

He recognized Compton’s voice and the uniforms of the Interplanetary Police.

CHAPTER X

WITH a dim awareness that verged upon unconsciousness, Lane felt himself lifted to his feet and half carried, half supported across the swaying planks which had been hastily thrust across, like a bridge, from the stage to the Callistan box.

They laid him down, and when he struggled to regain his feet it was again Lieutenant Compton’s voice that urged.

“Take it easy. He’ll be taken care of.” His eyes flicked meaningly toward the Callistan’s box, within which three I.P. men were trying to force Gerdlu out onto the improvised ramp.

“The voting!” Lane demanded in alarm, suddenly recollecting his purpose. “They didn’t—” “Your stage director called a recess,” explained Compton. He added, “The audience can’t see us. We’re masked by one of your refractive screens.”

Lane’s practiced ear caught the crowd murmur and detected a restive note. He rose, slowly and painfully, but with decision.

“The contest is off. I’ll make the announcement.”

“You’re in no condition.”

“See if I’m not!” Lane grinned reassuringly as he stepped from the concealment of the refractive screen.

The flood-lights revealed him, a bloody, disheveled figure. He spoke slowly.

“With deep regret, the management of Interplanetary Expositions announces that the contest is declared off. The reason—as it should be scarcely necessary to state—intimidation of judges and illegal influence.”

Pausing, Lane turned and pointed to the Chalice of Circe enthroned in the middle of the stage above the army of floats and displays, before continuing.

“The cup we had hoped to present was apparently too well named. Like its ancient prototype, it seems to possess the power of bringing out the beast in so-called civilized beings.”

He waited a minute, listening to the excited murmur of the crowd and to the echoing confusion caused by the translation of his announcement into tongues understood by variegated sections of his audience.

His eyes, roving the judges’ booths, were drawn by a gleam of red. The villainous body of a Mercurian was squirming from the cubical reserved for that race.

INSTANTLY, Lane interpreted the move as a threat to Mary—a threat of that horrible death he had been seeking to avert.

He dashed across the stage to intercept the scorpion-like creature, unmindful of Compton’s warning, “Back, you fool! Get back!”

From a refraction screen at the edge of the stage, a dozen more I.P. men burst into view, joining in pursuit of the Mercurian. Ignoring them, he scuttled toward the bridge leading to the Callistan box.

In one of his tentacles was a gleam of metal. He paused at the rim of the stage and pointed toward the many-legged Gerdlu. A crackling sound rent the air.

Half in and half out of the box, where he had been struggling against his captors, the Callistan began to disrupt with staccato concatenations. The explosions began at his extremities. Claws on two of the writhing limbs crackled and burst. The dis- charges ran up one jointed limb, then darted to others, in a crescendo of rapid detonations.

Before the horrified eyes of the multitude, the spider-like body was literally torn to shreds.

Lane caught a glimpse of the orange-red eye as it exploded out of the repulsive head. A moment later, still jerking spasmodically with the blasts of the energy charge, the mass of shattered bones, shell, and fiber that was left of the Callistan dropped to the depths below.

Amid a bedlam of weird noises made by frightened creatures of every type, the red dweller of Mercury turned and scuttled across the stage. Apparently bent now only on escape, he leaped into a tube leading to below-stage regions and disappeared with the I.P. men in hot pursuit.

Strangely, none of the occupants of the section devoted to Triturian spectators made a move to join in the affray.

“Anesthetic gas,” Compton explained in a low tone, indicating the strangely quiescent group. “We had it already, just in case.”

A stage executive had taken over from Lane and was exhorting each member of the audience to keep his place. “The danger is over,” he as- sured. “Our Mercurian friends are safely asleep— thanks to the prompt action of the Interplanetary Police. And,” he added significantly, “when they wake up, they’ll be in their space-ship headed for the hot place where they belong.”

The feeble joke helped to avert a threatening panic. Even inhabitants of far-off Pluto chuckled at the allusion to Mercury’s devastating heat.

WITH THE conviction that everything was at least temporarily under control, Lane turned to seek Mary. He had not far to look. She was standing at his elbow, and now they were again hidden from the audience by a refractive screen.

“Still hate me?” he demanded humbly.

“I ought to,” she retorted. “It’s the publicity hound in you I suppose. If you’re counting on me to forgive—”

She did not finish. Bursting through a trap- door almost at their feet, Al Pendergast stood struggling to regain his balance, while dabbing at his bald head with his handkerchief. Half a dozen young men erupted from nearby traps at almost the same instant.

“Mary!” he blurted. “They didn’t—they didn’t—”

“No, they didn’t,” she assured him. “But if you think I’m going to weep tears of gratitude, you’re mistaken. All Mary can think of is the goof who got her into this mess.”

“Don’t blame me,” pleaded Pendergast, “I warned Godfrey. I said to him, ‘If you pull any tricks, we’ll lose the best secretary we ever had.’”

“I know a dozen just as good,” assured Lane. Mary turned on him, her eyes blazing. “Why you unspeakable—!”

“There you are!” the junior partner observed in a tone of resignation. “If we fight like that now, what’s it going to be after we’re married?”

Mary gasped. “After we’re—!” She turned, conscious of the interested group of newscasters taking it all in.

“The low-down publicity hound,” she observed caustically, “even has to do his proposing in public.” Her gleaming white shoulders shrugged resignedly.

“All right boys, if he wants it that way, come and get it. You may as well broadcast this kiss— sound effects and all. It’s going to be a honey.”

They did. And it was!

THE END

EARTHLIGHT made the lunar plain a vast pool of brilliance. Beneath the high bright rims of the craters canyons twisted wildly, and lava flows threw highlights of eerie brilliance from their fire polished edges.

Jon Dyke, in his cumbrous space suit, threw the petcock open that let the last tank of oxygen into his suit. Here, in the base of the crater, he must make contact with the Mocs—and soon—his oxygen was getting low.

He paused for an instant, looking down from the rim of the crater at weird shapes below him, rising out of the plain like fantastic dragons out of the sea. It stirred something inside him, yet he was unable to put a word to the emotion. He was able to put few feelings into words. He wondered again, briefly, with the oxygen petcock in his fingers, what had possessed him to undertake a mission for which he was so unsuited.

Standing so, in the eerie earth-light, ghosts seemed to stand beside him, whispering in his ears. There was his superior, president of Galactic Spaceways, saying, “You’re a fool, Jon! Look at your personality figures: mental index nine, personality index two. No wonder you are our best research physicist. Leave adventure to the extrovertive indices. Forget this wild idea.” There was too a woman’s voice, Dawn Shane’s voice, saying scornfully, “You’re just a machine, with your atoms and ergs. You don’t know what the world really is, or what people are like. You never will, as long as you stay in the shell of your mind.” For an instant her face lived before him, deep turquoise eyes blazing into his, red lips below them in a tiny heart shaped face. He wondered again, briefly, what would have happened if he had followed his impulse, and kissed her then.

Of course he hadn’t, he was too shy. But her words corroded his mind till he had insisted on undertaking this mission.

For a moment his ears heard the hiss of the oxygen as it filtered into his suit, for a moment he wondered, panicky, if it was enough, if it would last till he made contact with the Mocs.

Then the thought vanished in his fear of meeting the Mocs. Not that he had a physical fear, but the thought of meeting a strange race, of trying to express himself before them, or conversing with them. He groaned—Mental index nine, Personality index two. Almost as much intelligence, far above the norm, and a personality index way up there.

This was the man Jon had to beat. If Galactic Spaceways was to establish the first base on Luna he would have to convince the mutant Mocs, who dominated the satellite, that such outer world communication was desirable. Not only that, but that Galactic Spaceways were the only logical builders of Lunar Spaceport One.

Null Nevins would be doing the same thing for Terran Rocket Lines. Null, with his big, likeable face, and personality index nine.

Jon had to outsell Null Nevins. He thought bitterly, “What a salesman I’ll make—Personality index two.”

And then he saw the Moc.

It stood in the bottom of the crater, below him, a little hunched forward, on many jointed legs. It was smaller than he was, about the size of a collie dog. It stood looking up at him, waiting for him to descend.

Jon set his lips in a grim, thin line, and hurried down the slope.

THE MOCS were reasonably hospitable, Jon found. They fed him, gave him cavern room with a bed of Lixar skins, and left him to await his summons before the governing council of Mocs. He no longer wore the cumbrous space suit, for there was artificial atmosphere in the cavern passages.

Jon’s mind dwelt on the Mocs as he waited. What sort of appeal would be most likely to move the Mocs? Certainly it must be based on logic. Since their discovery a hundred years ago by the explorer Norman Kane, the Mocs had developed traces of emotion. They maintained now a sort of amused tolerance toward earth visitors, where once they attempted destruction through a form of telepathic hypnotism.

Contact with Terrans had set the stage for return of emotions to the Mocs, emotions that had been lost in mutations caused by the first violent radioactive rays when the craters of the moon were blown.

The Mocs would be at least partially susceptible to the emotional blandishments of Null Nevins.

Undoubtedly the first thing they would ask would be what they stood to gain by the opening of a spaceport, and the establishing of regular service of large ships to Venus, Mars, and the outer planets. There were many advantages—it would create larger markets for the uranium mines of the Mocs. Jon began ticking other advantages off on his fingers when a Moc came into the chamber.

His thought flowed into Jon’s mind. “The council awaits you.”

Jon followed the Moc along a circular passage, smooth as a polished floor. Against the polished smoothness traces of rich mineral ore were to be seen, testimony to the rich mineral crust of Luna.

They came out into a large cavern room, luxuriantly furnished. A wondrously soft, thick plastic textile covered the floor, and at the end of the room a dais stood, smoothly functional in design of modern polished metal. Seven Mocs sat about the dais.

An Earth man, too, sat in the group, with an amused smile playing over his big sun-browned face.

Jon felt the chill of space in his veins. He felt as though he were shriveling, and wanted to slip quietly away, back to his laboratory. The man was Null Nevins.

The old inferiority sense was upon Jon, and he bowed before the chief Moc on the dais. As in a dream he heard his voice stating Galactic’s desire to establish a spaceport on Luna. He was amazed that he had been able to state it so clearly. In a moment he knew his knees would be trembling, and his voice would begin to stutter.

His confidence was evaporating under the amusement of Nevin’s expression. He tensed himself trying to remember the various advantages to the Mocs that he had memorized. He could not even remember how he was to begin. He felt his knees turning to jelly, and Nevin’s face swam in his blurred vision.

The thought of the Moc ruler, Go-Vani, murmured surprisingly in his mind, “Why, Terran, do you not build these ports on Terra? Why do you desire to build them here instead?”

THIS WAS a matter of physics, of mathematics. Jon was conscious of a sense of reprieve, and as his voice answered automatically his subconscious mind wrestled with the forgotten arguments.

“It is a matter of escape velocities. In order to escape from the gravitational pull of Terra it is necessary to build a velocity of seven miles per second, or in your terms, twenty glurs per ulra. This requires a vast quantity of fuel, to be consumed before the ship is even free of Terra. This becomes increasingly important as we increase the size of our ships, due to the exponential nature of the reactions involved.

“If we could start the run to the outer planets from Luna, this escape velocity reduces to one and four tenths miles per second. The saving in cargo space, and in fuel will be tremendous. It is unnecessary to ferry fuel from Terra to equip such Lunar ships, for fuel can by synthesized here from your uranic stock piles.

“This plan then, would be to ship passengers and cargo to Luna in small rockets, and transship into the huge Lunar space liners. The engineering advantages of such a plan are obvious.”

Jon saw the Mocs looking at him, without expression as they pondered this information. They seemed alien unfriendly beings. Jon looked from one to another for some reassurance of good will. They might as well have been bronze, for all he could discern.

“Have you other reasons for urging this project?” Go-Vani’s thought murmured.

Now was the time, but Jon’s carefully studied arguments were gone, lost somehow in the alien atmosphere of this room. He wanted to get away, before the rubbery quivering of his legs became entirely apparent. He stood, unable to speak, throat muscles knotted and dry.

Go-Vani’s thought murmured, “Very well. The other Terran, Mr. Nevins, mentioned other arguments. He told us how our race would prosper and advance through this development. He also stated a number of reasons why only one Terran firm should be given license to operate such a port.

We will consider both your arguments.”

Nodding numbly, Jon permitted himself to be led from the room. The last thing he saw as he departed was the contemptuous face of Null Nevins. All the way to the cavern quarters the bitter taste of failure was in his mouth. Atoms were his field, and ergs, and quanta, but living beings were too much for him.

He lay on the bed in his quarters for a long time, gazing unseeingly at the wall.

THERE WAS a time of sleep and rest and food, and then a visit from the Moc he had met. The Moc’s message flowed into Jon’s mind. “I am Do- Lasto. I bring an invitation to visit the uranium mines, and discuss further the matter of the spaceports.”

Do-Lasto led him outside the chamber to one of the smooth circular communication tunnels. On the tunnel was a car. Do-Lasto opened a port in the vehicle and motioned Jon to enter.

There were already two other persons in the car: Go-Vani, leader of the Mocs, and Null Nevins.

Go-Vani’s thought murmured an emotionless greeting, and Null Nevins thrust out a huge brown paw, saying cheerfully, “Morning, Dyke. How goes it?”

Jon took the proffered hand, feeling the vibrant force of the big man’s personality. The heartiness, the very timbre of his voice made one like and trust him instantly, and Jon had to force himself to remember things he had heard of Null’s lack of scruples. He sensed, too, that Go-Vani was under something of the spell of Null’s personality, though certainly his emotional responses were much fainter than that of Terran men.

Null rumbled heartily. “Guess I might as well bring you up to date, Jon, I think Go-Vani is pretty well persuaded to build the spaceport, though he will only want to do business with one firm. We will want to locate the port near the uranium mines, to make the synthesis and supply of rocket fuel most convenient. Then, too, any ore shipments for the Mocs, can be more conveniently loaded. They’re gonna take us through the mines.”

Jon nodded, understandingly. Null must have progressed greatly to be so friendly, so sure of himself.

The car was flowing with smooth rapidity through the polished tunnel. Here and there vents showed in the tunnel walls, vents through which were introduced the atmosphere they breathed.

The car stopped in a vast cavern. As they dismounted Jon could see the glowing atomic lights above the high cavern room that made it seem as daylight. In the distant reaches of the cavern, twin towers loomed, their frail slenderness reaching high to the arched roof of the huge, under, lunar area.

The towers mark the entrance to the mines,” Do-Lasto told them.

AS THEY approached they could see that the towers performed a useful function, for at their tops were power plants, and thin cables stretched down from these. The cables were moving, and a cylindrical bucket, incredibly large, appeared at the base of the towers, drawn out of the ground by the cables. It was carried up a considerable distance, and dumped into a vast hopper, and then the bucket descended slowly after more ore.

How primitive, Jon thought.

He heard Null’s voice saying to Go-Vani, “The ore lifts are slow and cumbrous. We have not used such lifts on Terra for years.”

“We have been considering modernization,” Go-Vani assured him. “Perhaps you can assist us with this task.”

Why, Jon wondered, must I always be so slow. Why did I hesitate, while someone else came forth with an idea and got credit for it. He set his lips grimly. If it was engineering advice they wanted, he should be able to outclass Null.

They descended the shaft.

“It should be simple to mount a rocket motor on the bottom of that cylinder. That would give you faster results, and eliminate the need for the towers,” Null said.

“It is not so simple, or it should have been done long ago. The blast of the rocket reacts on the ore in these walls. The resulting radioactivity causes severe burns on the workers. From the base of the cylinders I can better explain this,” Go-Vani stated.

They took a small elevator shaft, dropping perhaps a mile before they were on a level with the bottom of the ore lift shaft.

“This elevator is little used,” Go-Vani continued his explanation. “It leads to an abandoned shaft. All along this shaft the ore has been too thin to be profitable.”

They dismounted from the elevator into a smoothly polished, horizontal tunnel. Along this abandoned tunnel they walked a few hundred yards, and came to a landing. Resting on the landing was the huge cylindrical ore carrier. Beneath the landing another cylindrical tunnel led away, and through this tunnel were coming cars of ore, to be elevated and dumped into the great ore carrier.

“That is our present work tunnel,” Go-Vani explained. “As I told you the radioactivity developed here by the reaction of the rocket blast, and the heat, make the loading dangerous and impractical. Of course we could redesign the shafts, but this would require much major work, and we have hesitated to undertake it.”

“It should be possible to line the vertical shaft with some alloy,” Null said.

“Yes, but that too is a major task, since the alloy would have to be of a nature to resist the rocket blast over a period of years.”

Jon’s mind was racing. If only he could express this idea of his. He opened his mouth, and felt his throat tightening, knotting. There was, he decided, one way to keep from making a fool of himself. He took a notebook from his pocket, and began to draw diagrams, and set up equations.

They walked through the mine. He was lost in his calculations, grunting when he was spoken to, ignoring the fact that Null was asking questions, intelligent questions that showed his interest.

As they came to the surface he finished, and saw Go-Vani looking at him oddly. He wondered then, in a moment of panic, if he had lost this encounter with Null Nevins, in spite of the drawings and equations he held in his hand. He extended the notes to Go-Vani.

“I think this will solve your problem,” he said. Go-Vani glanced at the drawings casually, then with mounting interest. He pondered the equations, and the faint edge of surprise showed in his voice.

“Would you consider supervising such an installation?” Go-Vani asked.

“Of course.”

“The council will meet and consider these. We will send for you soon. If you can build a working lift along these lines you will not go unrewarded.”

The glow of successful accomplishment was warming Jon’s mind. He knew his plan was good. This should be the move that put him ahead of Nevins. He looked up, expecting to see rueful admiration on Null’s face.

He saw instead, that Null was laughing at him.

“He doesn’t mean what you think, Dyke,” Null rumbled amusedly. “The trouble with you is you don’t understand these Mocs.”

JON DID not know why Null’s remark should trouble him so. He had been treated with great respect and honor since the drawings and equations had gone before the council, yet the laughter of Null Nevins lived in his mind, making him unsure of himself. The reactions of living beings were something that never could be expressed by a formula, and the feeling persisted that Null had begun to realize something that Jon had missed.

Do-Lasto came now to Jon’s chambers, his thoughts saying, “The council has considered your plan, and would speak to you.”

It was easier standing before the council now, for Jon had the feeling that he was respected. Yet he knew the frightened voicelessness would seize him again, if much explanation was necessary.

“The idea seems entirely clear and physically sound,” Go-Vani said. “It requires no explanation. I have only to ask you to supervise its installation.”

“Certainly,” Jon agreed.

“A most ingenuous idea. What suggested it to you?”

“On Terra plants grow that have small, round seeds. We call them peas. For as long as history is recorded children have been putting these in hollow tubes, and blowing them at some target. When I saw the cylindrical ore car in the polished shaft I thought of a child’s pea shooter,” Jon explained.

“I see. And the shaft, the unused shaft, that was convenient to generate the gas pressure away from our workers, the gas to shoot the car up the shaft, like a pea from a child’s tube.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “It is a simple problem in hydraulics.”

“Simple enough, yet we had not thought of it.” Go-Vani agreed.

“If this lift is successful will you contract with Galactic Spaceways for the building of the first Lunar spaceport?”

Go-Vani shook his head. “I did not mean that at all.”

“You said I would not go unrewarded,” Jon stated.

“Of course not. We will pay you the very top technician’s wages for your supervision. As to the spaceport, we will do what we think best.”

Now Jon knew why Null had laughed. Gratitude, as Terrans conceived it, was an unknown emotion here. If Jon succeeded in the task of the new compression lift his only reward would be wages. But if he failed—. With a sick horror he wondered if the Mocs could be unemotional toward failure. Perhaps, yet he had the feeling that if he failed his mission was lost entirely. He had everything to lose, and nothing to gain. To this bleak discouragement there was an additional irritation; the laughing face of Null Nevins would not leave Jon’s memory.

THERE followed a solid week of work, of laboring in the tunnel with hordes of Mocs under his supervision. There was work that consumed his mind, and his energy, so that he fell on the Lixar skins of his bed without thought of other things, and fell into the black sleep of sheer exhaustion.

The delicate construction of locks had to be accomplished, to seal the working shaft away from the lift tube, when the gas propelled the cylinder. This lock had to be simple, and absolutely fool proof. Yet at length they had locks in the two tunnels.

The reaction that developed the gas, to create vast quantities of heated atmosphere to pop the great loaded ore car up a mile high vertical shaft, such a reaction had to be a chain atomic reaction, to develop enough power. But then that meant sure controls had to be established, for it would not do to throw the ore load out the top of the tube and high into the sky, like the cork from a champagne bottle. So that, too had to be controlled.

Even from this comparatively innocent atomic reaction Jon had chosen, there were traces of radioactivity. True, the reaction was far down the abandoned shaft, far from any work area, but still, in safety’s sake, it was best to try to trap the radioactive particles, to trap them with huge screen grids, stretched across the generating tunnel.

Reports of Null Nevins reached him occasionally. Null was lunching with Go-Vani. Null had gone on a tour of the Capital City. Null and Go-Vani were seen at a place of entertainment, and that in itself was significant, for to Mocs the desire for entertainment was small.

Yet, Jon had set himself a task, and there was no time to worry about these other things till his task was finished.

At last he was satisfied.

When Go-Vani and his council came to make the preliminary inspection of the work they were accompanied by Null Nevins. At the generating chamber Null looked at Jon and said witheringly, “That is a poor reaction—Too unstable.”

In answer to the question growing in Go- Vani’s eyes, Jon said fiercely, “There are two isotopes suitable for this reaction. One is violently unstable. The other is very safe and lends itself to control. I am using the safer isotope.”

Null shook his shaggy head. He said to Go- Vani, “Well, don’t be surprised if your car comes bursting out the top, like a cork out of a bottle. When that happens, you might as well sign with Terran Rocket lines, and settle everything.”

Go-Vani did not respond, but Jon saw a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“It appears in order. We will test it tomorrow,” Go-Vani said.

IN SPITE of his weariness, Jon did not sleep well that night. Here, in this Lunar room where it was never night or day, the hands of his watch told him it was an hour past Terran midnight. He had the feeling that something was wrong at the ore lift.

The feeling grew so strong that he dressed. He would go to the tunnel and see that everything was all right. He left word that he would meet the Council at the tunnel on the morrow, instead of at the chamber as planned.

Everything appeared to be in order at the lift. The reactants were all in the tunnel. The remote controls, so that the reaction could be controlled from outside, were in order. Yet small things bothered him. He had the feeling that things were somehow not quite the same, that something had been touched, or moved.

He sat, watching, unsleeping, till the Council arrived many hours later. Then he checked his preparations. Everything appeared in order.

“You may load the first load,” Jon ordered. The steady stream of little cars flowed, dumping ton after clattering ton of ore into the huge cylindrical carrier. When it was done, Jon said softly, “This is it,” and threw the switch, planning to expel the lift very slowly this first time.

Yet something was wrong, the indicators indicated that the cylindrical bullet was riding too fast, much too fast. He threw the lever to stop the reaction and saw Null Nevins looking at him, triumph in his eyes.

The pressure on his gauges continued to rise. It should fall now that the reaction had been switched off, and the cylinder moved up the tube. Pressure was building instead and the cylinder was sliding incredibly fast.

It was out of control. From where they stood, they saw the ore carrier fly high out of the tube, with a pop that almost deafened them. It turned once on the way up, spilling ore in a vast cascading rumble, then swung horizontally, falling athwart one of the towers in its downward path.

The tower buckled and inclined, breaking the fall of the cylinder, so that it fell empty, with little damage, and lay with the ruined tower hovering over it, like a mother bending over a fallen child.

It was impossible. Yet the memory of Null’s leering face leaped into his mind and with a mounting rage Jon knew what had happened.

He whirled on Null. “I know why things looked different in the generating chamber. You had been there substituting the dangerous isotope for the safe one. I can prove that by analyzing the blast gases.”

Nevins’ grin destroyed the last vestige of Jon’s control.

“I won’t wait for the analysis,” he flared. He lashed at Nevins in a burst of atavistic savagery, felling him with the blow and swarmed on die fallen body, drawing Nevins’ arm into a bone cracking hold.

Nevins rumbled, “Don’t break that arm. I’ll admit it. Of course I made the substitution. Your lift would have worked otherwise.”

JON RELEASED him and Null rose to his feet, smiling, unabashed. He said softly, “I still say you don’t understand these people.”

Jon whirled to Go-Vani. “You heard his confession!”

Go-Vani’s thought murmured, “A most surprising fellow.”

Jon realized he was gaping. “A most surprising fellow.” That meant Go-Vani did not blame Null. That he thought it a legitimate part of the competition. As the anger rose again, red and uncontrollable, he knew that he was not being entirely fair to Go-Vani. It was simply the lack of emotion the Mocs had. Their response was to logic, to fact. The fact was indisputable. The lift had failed. All his forgotten arguments flared into his mind. By PLUTO! He’d give them logic.

His voice was a cold driving wind, the voice of a stranger, marshalling facts and argument. When he had finished he said, “There, sign with whom you choose, I have been too long among you.”

Go-Vani’s thought murmured, “An eloquent argument!”

Yet Jon was barely conscious of his words. He was lost in the discovery he had made about himself. He had forgotten to be shy. In moments of great importance, this was the solution, to feel strongly, and forget to be shy.

He knew, too, with a certain knowledge, that back on Terra, Dawn Shane had wanted to be kissed, and he knew how to let emotion conquer shyness when they were together again.

The thought of Go-Vani burst blackly into the dream, “It is perhaps unfortunate that such an effective argument should be wasted. The truth is we decided between you the first day you arrived. We delayed announcing it, because we wished to study you, to learn more of your odd reactions. We will deal with many Terran men when the port opens.”

Slowly, sickly, Jon lifted his eyes to Null’s. There was a half smile of triumph on Nevins’ lips. The thought of Go-Vani continued.

“You may go now, Null Nevins, We sign with Jon Dyke.”

Jon knew his own face must mirror Null’s amazement. Null whirled, and left them then.

Go-Vani was watching Jon. “Why are you so surprised, Terran? We had to judge your firms by the representatives they sent. Our opinion was unanimous after that first meeting. Nevins spoke of advancement, glory, greatness. You spoke of escape velocities, and calories, and fuel weights.”

For an instant it was as though Go-Vani had sighed, as though some faint trace of regret tinged his thought.

“Mr. Nevins was charming. He was such an infinitely pleasing fellow. What a pity that he was not a practical man.”

OH GOD!” Joe gasped. The pencil- thick, mile long beam from the enemy mobile synchrotron was cutting through the advancing line. It moved up and down so that it couldn’t be escaped even by leaping or by dropping prone. There were no depressions or foxholes for possible sanctuary, either.

No escape.

Joe looked at the men running on either side of him. Their sweat and dirt streaked faces showed no expression other than fatigue. They weren’t men, but automatons, one eye on that inexorable pencil of terrible energy moving toward them, the other on the ground ahead of them where they would pass.

But a fierce, glad light appeared in the eyes of one of them. Joe followed his gaze. One man, by some miracle, had dodged the beam. He had leaped right and ducked right—and avoided it.

Envy suddenly settled into Joe’s mind.

He wouldn’t be that lucky. In another few seconds now—

He risked a glance ahead at the low lying hills where the enemy tanks with their synchrotrons were coming forward. They were absolutely impregnable, except to another of their kind. Those terrible pencils of energy, of electrons travelling at two-thirds of the speed of light, up to almost the full speed of light. The mass of an electron was supposed to increase with its speed, so that the ones going at almost the speed of light had masses up in the ounces, instead of ten or more points to the right of the decimal point.

Nothing could stop them and survive. They disintegrated the very atmosphere. Where one hit into the soil it left a thin, slate-like slab of fused stuff. Where one passed across the face of foot thick armor plate, it left a crumbling mortar of stuff that had been mostly iron molecules, but was no longer.

Where one cut through a living body it divided it into two halves that were crusted over with a dry, crisp shell. They said you didn’t feel it when it happened to you. You just heard your upper half settling onto your lower half like two leaves rattling together. Then you tumbled forward. You didn’t even die, at first. You just lay there, knowing that from the waist on down was nothing. Sometimes it took hours to die.

And this senseless charging against those moving fortresses—some armchair brass-hat back home who didn’t know what it was about was responsible for that.

What good would it do to reach those tanks, those moving behemoths? No sense to it.

Suddenly the landscape jumped crazily.

“This is it,” Joe said with his lips. He was falling forward. He saw the dirt and grass rushing toward his face. He dropped his gun and tried to ward off the blow with his hands.

All sorts of strange and painful sensations were coming from his legs—not his legs, but the severed and baked nerve endings of his spinal cord.

“It’s a peculiar experience,” he was thinking now. “Too bad I can’t live long enough to write it all out.”

It was getting dark. It was hard to breathe. Instinctively Joe clawed at the dirt to roll over. He succeeded, and in doing so he made a startling, hair-raising discovery.

He still had his legs. They had helped him turn over.

He lay there, his thoughts a storm of conflicting thoughts, feelings, and emotions, looking upward at the small jagged circle of sky.

And finally he knew what had happened. He had fallen through the flimsy roof of some dugout.

At that moment he was quite unbalanced.

And at that moment one of the mobile synchrotrons of his own side swung into action, its pencil thick beam a bright sword.

Joe watched it as it appeared over the hole he had made in the earth with his fall. It moved into view and paused. Then another moved into view.

He didn’t know it, but what was about to happen had only one chance in countless billions of taking place. The two beams of electrons met. At the instant they met they destroyed each others’ generating units. That was to be expected.

But also, just above the jagged hole in the ground, two electrons met in head-on flight, at a relative speed almost twice that of light.

IN THE PARLANCE of modern nuclear physics, each of the two electrons was an imaginary positron to the other, striking it at twice light speed. Perhaps no scientist could possibly iron out the contradictions actually involved in that meeting. The simple fact remains that at one instant there were two electrons, and the next instant there was—something else.

Perhaps Nature herself was not equipped to cope with the contradictions of that meeting. In the frame of reference which had Joe for its rest point, the two electrons had had infinite mass. Or as near to that as could be attained. And they were mutually imaginary in their own frames. It may be that this mutual imaginariness reached a compromise in the common frame; the something else that resulted was neither real nor imaginary, but in an extra-cosmic way, both.

To Joe, one minute the two pencil beams of energy were coming together over the hole, against the background of the sky. The next minute they were gone, and a transparently black something hovered motionless, one smoky tendril drifting downward into his tomb-like pit.

It meant nothing to him. His raw dry mouth did. He needed a drink. He wanted a drink. The wish is father of the act. He reached to his belt for the small canteen of water.

The transparently black tendril beat his hand to it, wrapping itself around the cloth covered canteen. Unbelievingly he saw a finger tendril split from the rest and unfasten it from his belt.

The canteen rose with the arm of black smoke and tipped to his lips. He drank a little and spit the rest out, rinsing the dust from his mouth.

“Being crazy is fun,” he decided gravely. Pasting a silly grin on his dirt-streaked face, he looked at the transparently black wisp that had picked up the canteen and said, “If you’re going to be an arm and hand with fingers, why not look like one?”

A sentient black intelligence seemed to course through the ghostly black transparency, swirling it. It became a muscular arm ending in a perfectly formed hand with four fingers and a thumb. It lost its transparent quality and became opaque, covered by a glistening black skin. The fingers flexed gracefully. The upper arm merged into the black transparency hovering outside.

Joe looked at the arm critically. Its black was the most peculiar black he had ever seen. Its sheen seemed to come, not from reflection, but from inner luminescence. There seemed to be lack of reflection from it in a cosmically absolute sense of the word.

It was like—was like—Joe tried to form a mental image of what it was like. It was like ordinarily the eyes leaned against the light, and with this black arm there was nothing for the eye to lean against. That was it, even though its skin glistened.

“Sooo...” Joe said softly, an intense satisfaction in his voice. He wiped, his face with his sleeve and stood up. Glancing around, he saw that he was in a rather large makeshift cave. It might even be called a pitfall. Its roof was merely thin logs covered with dirt.

Joe glanced back at the arm. It was still obediently poised, hanging from the jagged hole in the roof. That irritated him.

“If you’re going to have an arm,” he said, “why don’t you come down and finish the body.”

He watched as the arm dropped lazily, followed by a swirling, ever more solid stream of transparent black. He watched as it took form. And he realized finally that its form-making was slow and questioning, that its shape was conforming to his criticism, unvoiced.

Finally it was complete. There was something strangely familiar about it What was it? A memory rose in his mind of an illustration in an oriental book of a genii standing before a man. The genii had been about ten feet tall, slightly fat, especially in the face, jet black of skin, with a colorful costume and huge white turban.

That memory was what the stuff had conformed to. It had reached into his mind and shaped itself from the pattern of his own thoughts! What manner of stuff was it? There seemed no answer.

“Do you know what you are?” Joe asked.

“I am the genii, master,” the giant turbaned figure intoned—and again Joe knew it had plucked its very words from his mind. Even so, its lips moved normally, and Joe had a feeling that each thing the genii sensed, it hung onto. Next time it said that, it would do so from its own memory. The next, it would take the shape it had at this moment.

NOW, SUDDENLY, the ground under Joe’s feet was trembling. He knew what it meant.

The mobile fortresses with their synchrotrons were advancing. He looked around his prison with a new comprehension. This was a pit designed to trap one of those huge tanks. At any minute one might plunge in on him.

“Get me outta here!” he said urgently.

“Where do you wish to go, master?” the genii asked.

‘Take me home,” Joe said. “Yes, that’s it. Take me home to good ol’ Moab, Washington, America!”

The genii picked Joe up and cradled him in his arms. For an instant Joe had a strange impression of being lost in a choking sea of black.

He gasped for breath. Then, as suddenly, he was inhaling deep lungs full of fresh mountain air. Black arms were setting him gently on the ground. Familiar Pines were scattered here and there. In the distance was the snow-capped Mount Spokane, unmistakable.

The genii straightened up and folded its arms, its huge white turban looming twelve feet above the ground, its fat black face serenely expressionless.

“Well, well, well, we did it,” Joe said, his voice hysterically thin.

Fifty feet away was the road. It was familiar. Joe had played in this very field many times, and every square foot of it was familiar.

“I can visit the folks!” he said. “And my girl friend!” He looked at the giant genii thoughtfully. “But I gotta hide you some way.”

His eyes dropped to the water canteen hanging at his belt. Geniis were supposed to be kept in jugs. Maybe it would do.

He emptied out the water and set the empty stainless steel covered with canvas canteen on the ground and stepped back. There was doubt in his voice as he ordered the genii to alter it.

The genii’s giant bulk slowly lost its shape. A thin tendril of black transparency drifted down to the neck of the canteen, and entered it. Slowly the rest followed, until there was no sign of the genii or the blackly transparent haze.

“Are you all in?” Joe asked thinly.

“Yes, master,” a deep voice intoned from the canteen.

Joe snapped the cap on it and fastened it to his belt again. It seemed no heavier than it would have, filled with water. That was surprising, considering that it now contained what had been a ten or twelve-foot solid giant. But by now Joe was completely immune to surprises.

He patted the canteen, and realized he had been a little afraid of the genii. Now it couldn’t come out until he took off the cap and let it. Everything was under control.

Whistling happily, he went to the road and started toward home. His trench helmet was caked with dust. His face was streaked with dirt. His rifle was strung over his shoulder. His uniform was dirty and ripped from his fall into the tank trap. And the canteen containing the genii swung against his hip at every step.

The house came into view. He pushed open the gate and walked up the path, circling the house to the back door. Odors of home cooking wafted— literally wafted—through an open kitchen window to his nostrils.

He bounded up the back steps and flung open the door. His mother was kneading dough on a breadboard on the table. She looked up.

“Mom!” Joe shouted. Then they were in each other’s arms.

TWO WEEKS passed. They were wonderful weeks for Joe, but also weeks during which he found time to worry occasionally. It would have been quite all right for him to have been killed back there on the battle-front. Being home was something else. He could be court-martialed and shot for it.

However, he didn’t worry too much. As his mother had often said, “My Joe isn’t one to worry about things.”

The canteen containing the genii lay in one corner on a shelf in his clothes closet, almost forgotten. The rationalizing processes of Joe’s mind were already making him doubt that there was a genii in it.

He was even beginning to half believe the lies he had distributed on every hand of getting a leave to come home. Margie, his girl friend, had welcomed him with open arms. They had been two wonderful weeks for her, the only girl in town to have her sweetheart home.

No one questioned his being home. And if his mother sometimes wore a troubled took as she recalled his appearance when he had first stood in the kitchen doorway, an appearance more in keeping with a man fresh off the battlefield than one fresh off the train, she kept her thoughts to herself. It was enough for her that he was home.

Then came the night that she woke up with the feeling that some presence was in the house. Not able to go back to sleep, she finally arose and stole softly into the hall. There was a light under Joe’s door. She placed her ear against the panel, not to snoop, but to see if he was all right.

Through the flimsy thickness of the door panel came the sounds of two voices, one Joe’s, the other belonging to a stranger....

The genii sneezed.

“I didn’t know you could catch cold,” Joe said.

“Two weeks in that damp jug would give the cork the sniffles,” the genii replied.

“It’s all in your mind,” Joe replied. “You’re just aping me. I’d catch cold and sneeze, so you do. You don’t have to, you know.”

“I don’t?” the genii interrupted a sneeze to say. And it was his last sneeze. But it had planted an idea in its complex that was to become the foundation of something.

“The reason I called you out,” Joe said, getting down to cases, “was because I want to pull a little magic stuff at a shindig I’m going to tomorrow night.”

“I am yours to command, master,” the genii intoned.

....Joe’s mother stole softly back to bed, but not to sleep. When the sun came up a few hours later she was staring dry-eyed at the ceiling.

The alarm clock clicked, preparing to sound off. She shut it off and rose.

She felt very much alone this morning. It was one of the times she wished Joe’s father was still alive. If he had been there she could have told him her troubles.

“Aw now, ma,” he would have said. “Tain’t nothing to bother about. It’ll all come out.” And she would have felt better.

Mechanically she went about the morning tasks. Getting the cookstove fire going, milking the cow, feeding the chickens and the pig she was raising on account of meat rationing, and gathering the precious eggs.

When she returned to the kitchen the teakettle was singing its morning welcome. The heat of the stove had spread a cozy warmth throughout the room.

Almost cheerful, she started to break the usual four eggs in the frying pan, two for her and two for Joe. Then she put two of them back in the bowl. She would let Joe sleep.

It was a lonely breakfast for her. There had been two years of lonely breakfasts for her while Joe was overseas, but none of them had been quite so lonely as this one, with him asleep upstairs.

She forced herself to eat her normal breakfast. She listened to the radio, her face occasionally almost cracking a smile at some joke of the irrepressible disc jockey.

It was nine o’clock before she finished and started to do up the dishes. She ran the hot water over the soap powder in the dishpan, swishing it around with her hands, letting the clean suds pop against her arms.

The front doorbell rang. She hastily wiped her hands and arms on a towel, shut off the hot water, and went to answer its call.

A small old man in a Western Union uniform stood on the front porch. He handed her a telegram, holding out his book and pencil. She signed with shaking fingers.

She closed the door and went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table, the unopened telegram in her fingers. She looked at it. The envelope had a dark border around its edge. She had never received a telegram before in her life. But somewhere in her memory was tucked away a fragment of conversation about telegrams announcing a death having such a black border.

Before she opened it she knew what it would say. It informed her of the fact that her son, Joe Ryan, was missing in action and presumed to be dead.

For a long time she sat there motionless, her eyes blank. Then she carefully folded the telegram and put it in her purse laying on the window ledge. After that she began washing the dishes.

THE CARDBOARD sign tacked on the door said Madama Ona, and was followed by an enigmatic “Readings”. The room on the other side of the door had succeeded in attaining an inexpensive atmosphere of authentic Mystery.

That Madame Ona’s name by birth was Ludwiga Krakovitsch, that she had been born in Brooklyn, and that she had five minutes before finished hanging out her weekly wash, were by no means to be construed as subtracting from the very real value of her advice, nor as evidence that the spirits that came at her bidding were not genuine.

The gypsy robe hastily flung over her soapsuds dampened housedress and the shawl flung over her uncombed hair were more than enough to make Mrs. Ryan nod her head imperceptibly with relief and satisfaction, when viewed above the crystal ball resting on a black plush pillow, and the well worn tarot cards strewn over the surface of the table.

“Yes?” Madame Ona said, with just the lift to make it neither a question nor a statement.

“It’s about my son Joe,” Mrs. Ryan said, plunging herself into the chair opposite Madame Ona and opening her purse.

Her trembling fingers drew out the folded telegram. Madame Ona’s experienced eyes took in the black border of the envelope.

“Ah, yes, your son Joe,” she intoned. When Mrs. Ryan opened her mouth to speak, she held up her hand to silence her, then raised her head and held her other hand over her eyes, as though communing with the spirits. “I see him,” she intoned. “He’s on the battlefield. There are many dead around him. And he has fallen too. Yes, he had been killed in battle.” She opened her eyes and looked closely at Mrs. Ryan, deciding rightly that there was little money here, and nobly that there was a real need of moral assistance beyond the call of money. She continued in a more practical tone. “You came here to see if I could contact the spirit of your son so you can find out if he’s all right where he is?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Ryan said. “You see, he’s home, and he’s very happy,”

“Then he isn’t dead!” Madame Ona said, a flash of anger at having been tricked in her dark eyes.

“Yes, he’s dead,” Mrs. Ryan said. “That’s why I came to see you.”

“Oh, I see,” Madame Ona said, only feebly trying to make her voice all knowing. She looked at Mrs. Ryan queerly.

“You see,” Mrs. Ryan went on eagerly, taking the telegram out of its envelope and spreading it on the table. “It says he was killed in action overseas on March fourteenth, and that was when he came home, his uniform torn, a freshly bleeding scratch on his leg, his face dirty and tired, but happy and smiling in spite of it.”

“But the telegram is undoubtedly a mistake,” Madame Ona said, more to herself than to her client. “No doubt there is more than one Joseph Ryan, and they got them mixed up.”

“No,” Mrs. Ryan said flatly. “There’s something else I haven’t dared to tell anybody.”

She reached into her purse once more and drew out a letter of the type telephotoed from army bases overseas. Madame Ona took it and looked at the datemark. It was dated March thirteenth.

“Your son is an officer?” she asked sharply. “No, just a private first class,” Mrs. Ryan said.

“I see,” Madame Ona said, licking dry lips. Behind her calm front she was beginning to regret her choice of vocation. At long last it had come, the genuine supernatural case; for it was obvious that no Private first class would be given leave to come all the way home in the first place, with the war going so badly, and in the second place he could not have arrived home the day after he wrote a letter overseas, even though he had. In the third place, if he had, he wouldn’t have arrived in a torn uniform and with dirt on his face, and a fresh cut on his leg.

A word rose in her mind, but she didn’t utter it aloud. That word was poltergeist, and it denoted a spirit of the dead who materialized and went around as if still alive, and didn’t even know it was dead.

TELL ME everything, Mrs. Ryan,” Madame Ona said crisply. “Don’t leave out anything.”

Mrs. Ryan took her at her word, even to the extent of going back into Joe’s childhood to bring out various points.

“So you had a feeling even when you first saw him standing in the doorway to the kitchen with his field uniform on that it wasn’t really him, but his ghost?” Madame Ona asked at one point.

“Yes,” Mrs. Ryan said. “And when the letter came a week ago I looked at the date the very first thing, and then I knew.”

“Why didn’t you come to me then?” Madame Ona asked.

“Because he was so happy,” Mrs. Ryan said. “Isn’t he still happy?” Madame Ona persisted. “Yes,” Mrs. Ryan said. “But after what happened last night I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Madame Ona said. “Now we come to it. What happened last night?”

“It was that other voice in his room,” Mrs. Ryan said. “The one that called him ‘Master’.”

“Oh?” Madame Ona said, pricking up her ears. “What did this other voice say? And did you see—what it belonged to?”

“It was in his room with him,” Mrs. Ryan said. “I didn’t dare open the door to see. But Joe said, as nearly as I can remember, ‘I called you out because I want to pull a little magic stuff tonight.’ And this—whatever it was, said, ‘I am yours to command, Master.’“ “Oh, it did, did it,” Madame Ona said quietly. “And what happened?”

“Nothing yet,” Mrs. Ryan said. “Joe meant tonight, when he’s having his girlfriend and some others over for a little party.”

“Then the thing to do is to be there tonight and see what happens,” Madame Ona said reluctantly.

“Oh, could you?” Mrs. Ryan said eagerly. “How much—that is, it wouldn’t cost too much?”

“You can pay me five dollars now,” Madame Ona said, her professional greed getting the best of her for the moment. “We’ll talk about the rest later.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Mrs. Ryan said gratefully. “If you can bring Joe’s spirit to rest money couldn’t possibly compensate for it.” She took a worn five dollar bill out of her purse and gave it to Madame Ona. “Now, the way you get out to our place....”

She was still thanking Madame Ona when the door closed on her. When she was gone Madame Ona shed her cloak and shawl and became herself, Ludwiga Krakovitsch. Locking the door, she went to the phone. Shortly she was connected with the phone of a very scholarly looking gentleman of her acquaintance.

“Listen, Dr. Wright,” she said, her voice low- pitched and eager. “Is that ten thousand dollars for a genuine supernatural manifestation still unclaimed? Well listen. I have what I’m convinced is a poltergeist. If you’re free this evening, and can bring some witnesses along with you, I think I can lay claim to that money. You are? Good! You can pick me up at eight o’clock. G’bye.”

NOW REMEMBER,” Joe said firmly. “You are to remain invisible unless I order you to appear. You are to do everything I tell you to do while you’re invisible. Also you might think of a few harmless tricks to do yourself.”

“Your wishes are my commands, Master,” the genii intoned, its giant fat face glistening blackly under its enormous white turban, its large hands folded together at the sash across the waist of its gaudy oriental costume.

Joe clapped his hands once, sharply. His genii vanished in a puff of smoke in the best traditional manner. Joe nodded his satisfaction with the performance, opened the door, and went downstairs.

“Hi, Margie,” he greeted the smiling blonde that watched him from the foot of the stairs as he came down. He took her in his arms casually. They kissed, then separated until only the fingers of one hand joined them affectionately. And on one finger of Margie’s hand was a modest diamond.

“Guess everybody’s here,” Joe said, surveying the crowd sprawled around the living room.

“Not everybody yet,” Mrs. Ryan said from the kitchen. “A friend of mine you haven’t met yet is coming over with a couple of friends. You don’t mind, do you, Joe?”

“Of course not,” Joe said. “The more the merrier.” He grinned at his inner secret. Then he fixed his eyes sternly on Freddy Blish, Margie’s fourteen year old brother. “Freddy, where is your cap supposed to be put when you come into the house?”

“In the hall,” Freddy said, “where it is right now.”

“Is it?” Joe asked sinisterly. “What’s that on your head?”

Every eye turned to Freddy, as he raised his hand to his head. One instant there was nothing there but his shock of unruly hair. Just before his hand reached it, a cap suddenly materialized on his head.

The look on his face was quite ludicrous as he slowly took the hat off. Everyone was laughing a trifle hysterically, trying to deny in their minds that they had actually seen the hat materialize out of nothing.

“Hey! This isn’t my cap!” Freddy said triumphantly. “It’s Jimmy Green’s.” “Yeah, that’s mine!” Jimmy said.

“Guess I slipped up there,” Joe said with a superior smile. “Just a little trick I picked up overseas before I came home.”

“You’re wonderful,” Margie took the opportunity to say. “How’d you do it?”

“Very simple,” Joe said. “I just—” The doorbell interrupted him.

“That must be Ona,” Mrs. Ryan said, emerging from the kitchen and hurrying across the living room to the front hall. Everyone in the room was in a state of suspended animation, waiting for the newcomers to enter.

They were a rather beautiful woman in her late forties with dark brown skin and a slightly foreign look about her, a rather professorish man with neatly combed gray hair, and a wide-faced dreamy looking man of forty with thin black hair.

“This is my son, Joe,” Mrs. Ryan said. “Joe, this is Ludwiga Krakovitsch. (Madame Ona had whispered the name at the front door.) And this is Dr. Wright and Mr. Chad, her friends.”

“Glad to meet you,” Joe said, smiling. “May I take your wraps?”

“Why, yes,” Dr. Wright said. He had his topcoat half off when it vanished from his grasp and from about his form. In the same instant it was draped across Joe’s arm.

There were nervous titters from Joe’s friends at the surprised look on Dr. Wright’s face.

“Just a little trick I picked up overseas,” Joe explained. He stepped around Dr. Wright and hung the coat in the hall.

DR. WRIGHT exchanged meaningful glances with Madame Ona, Mr. Chad, and Mrs. Ryan. Madame Ona nodded wisely. For an instant Mrs. Ryan’s face was haggard, then it resumed its too bright smile once more.

Joe appeared from the hall and took the other wraps in the normal way. Then he made introductions.

“This is my fiancé, Margie Blish,” he said. “Her brother Freddy, Janie Ingram, Mary Blake, Beth Johnson, Jimmy Green, and Janie’s brother, George Ingram.”

There were awkwardly polite handshakes. Madame Ona turned to Joe after completing the amenities and looked him up and down, a dry good humor showing on her face.

“My,” she said. “You’re more solid looking than I had thought you would be from your mother’s description of you.”

“That’s ‘cause he’s a solid citizen,” Jimmy Green wisecracked. He added a weak, “Ha ha,” then pretended to be sick over his own joke.

Dr. Wright now turned his attention to Joe also. Fixing his bifocals more firmly on his nose, and lifting his head to peer through the bottom lenses, he felt of Joe’s arm experimentally, squeezing it firmly several times.

“Remarkable,” he murmured, turning his head to Madame Ona. “I would never have believed it possible.” Still holding Joe’s bicep he turned to Mr. Chad. “Here,” he commanded: “Feel of him.”

Mr. Chad approached Joe with fear in his eyes. He squeezed Joe’s shoulder as though he were ready to jump back at the slightest move. Then he shook his head and said, “Chk chk chk chk. Unbelievable.”

“Say,” Joe said laughingly, “what is this? A gag?”

“No, my boy,” Dr. Wright said, a tragic look on his face. “We’re here to help you. Please believe me. Just to help you. Nothing more.”

“He—he wants to help me!” Joe said to his friends. He laughed hollowly, then swallowed loudly. While his friends laughed uneasily, he ran a finger around inside his collar nervously.

“We all want to help you,” Madame Ona said seriously.

“What it this?” Joe said. “Mom, what have you been saying to these people?”

“Nothing, Joe,” Mrs. Ryan said, blushing. “Well—” Joe looked vaguely around. “I’ll start my show. Freddy!” He fixed a stern eye on Margie’s brother. “You’re to be my assistant.” “Sure,” Freddy said, winking at Jimmy and George to let them know he would try his best to gum things up. “What do you want me to do?”

“Lay down flat on your back on the floor,” Joe said. To the others, “This will be an experiment in levitation. I’ll try to raise Freddy off the floor without any human hands touching him at any time.”

Freddy had plopped to the floor. Now he suddenly rose to a height of five feet, his body rigidly extended.

“Not yet, Freddy,” Joe said with mock disgust. “I’ve got to hypnotize you first.”

“Ow!” Freddy had dropped back to the floor with a thump. He started to get up. An unseen force pushed him back down. “Lemme up!” he shouted.

“What’s the matter, scared?” George Ingram said in a mixture of fear and derision.

“Yah, you take my place if you’re so brave,” Freddy said. And instantly it was George on the floor, and Freddy was sitting where George had been.

Joe blinked his eyes in partly feigned surprise. “You kids can sure move fast,” he said.

Freddy and George were too dazed by their sudden change to answer.

“Hmmm,” Dr. Wright said, leaning forward, “Most remarkable.”

“Most remarkable,” Mr. Chad agreed.

“Quite remarkable,” twelve year old Jimmy Green said, looking at Dr, Wright owlishly. Dr. Wright frowned, suspecting the youngster was making fun of him.

Mrs. Ryan had been standing in the kitchen doorway during this performance. Now Madame Ona rose impulsively and went to her, putting her arms around her.

“Oh, my dear,” Madame Ona said. “I’m so sorry for you.” Mrs. Ryan broke into sobs, burying her head in Madame Ona’s hair.

“What the heck’s the matter with you, mom?” Joe asked, bewildered.

“Nothing, son,” Mrs. Ryan said, straightening bravely. “Nothing.”

“Ahem!” It was Dr. Wright clearing his throat importantly. “My boy—Joe, would you care to tell us how it happened?”

“How what happened?” Joe asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”

At that moment the doorbell rang again, startlingly shrill.

JOE ANSWERED the door. There were two uniformed policemen standing on the porch. Down in the street was a radio prowl car with another policeman at the wheel. And standing on the steps was a bareheaded man whom Joe recognized as a man living a couple of blocks away.

“That’s him!” the man on the steps said angrily.

“What was the idea of throwing rocks at this man and chasing him home, and breaking windows in his house?” one of the policemen demanded.

“What!” Joe exclaimed. “Is somebody crazy?

I didn’t do any such thing!”

“Yes you did!” the man said. “Don’t try to lie out of it.”

“You’re the liar,” Joe said. Then, to the policemen, “Just when was this supposed to happen?”

“Just ten minutes ago,” one of them growled. “Hah!” Joe said triumphantly. “I was here all the time and I have a dozen witnesses to prove it!” He stepped aside so the policemen could look into the living room and see.

“Is that right?” the policeman asked. There were several slow nods from the tight-lipped people in the living room. He turned to the bareheaded man on the step. “Better run along home and forget it,” he growled.

“Like heck I will,” the man said hotly. “I guess I know Joe when I see him, and it was Joe.” “Gowan,” the other policeman said gently pushing the man down the steps.

Joe stared at their departing figures for a moment, then closed the door.

“Let’s see now,” be said cheerfully. “Where were we? Oh yes, George.” He leaned over and made passes over George’s head. “You are growing sleepy,” he said. “Sleeeeepy....”

George closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply.

“Now,” Joe said softly. He placed his hands above George’s middle, fingers dangling, and raised his arms in a pulling effect. George rose slowly, with nothing touching him. He rose until he was three feet off the floor.

The doorbell rang again, breaking into the quiet concentration in the room like a charge of exploding dynamite. It was followed abruptly by the thump of George’s stiff form hitting the floor.

“Damn!” Joe said angrily, striding to the door and throwing it open.

The two policemen were there again, this time with ugly looks on their faces.

“Wise guy, huh?” one of them said. They pushed him ahead of them as they entered the room.

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“Don’t say you didn’t throw a rock through our windshield,” he said. “We saw you as plain as day.”

“I haven’t been out of the house,” Joe said. “It must be somebody who looks like me.”

“Yeah?” the policeman growled.

“Will all of you people swear he was here all the time and couldn’t have thrown a rock through our windshield?” the other policeman said, looking around. He caught sight of George, lying stiffly on the floor. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s hypnotized,” Joe said. “Wake up, George!” He snapped his fingers and George opened his eyes.

“Now then,” the policeman said, glancing doubtfully at George. “Was this guy in here all the time?”

“Yes,” a chorus of voices answered.

“Then it couldn’t have been him,” the policeman muttered, turning toward the front hall.

“Ahhh,” Dr. Wright said arrestingly. “I would say, officer, that he could have done it.”

“Huh?” the policeman said, he and his partner turning back into the room. “Then he wasn’t here all the time?”

“Oh yes,” Dr. Wright said smugly. “May I talk to you two men alone?” He glanced at Joe pityingly, “I don’t think he should become upset—just yet.”

“Sure,” the policeman said. “We’ll step out on the porch.”

Mrs. Ryan was sobbing again against Madame Ona’s dandruff-flecked black hair. Mr. Chad was gazing at the rug intently. Joe’s friends ware watching the policemen and Dr. Wright with mystified expressions.

Joe looked about at all of them with a mixture of feelings, not knowing what to think at being, on the one hand, accused of things he couldn’t possibly do, and, on the other hand, treated like something was radically wrong with him.

Now, as the front door closed quietly and sinisterly on the backs of Dr. Wright and the two policemen, he thought of something terrible. If the cops took his name and did any checking, they’d find he was a.w.o.l. from the battlefront!

NOW THEN,” one of the policemen growled when they and Dr. Wright were in the darkness of the porch. “What’s this about he could have done it?”

“You see, officer—heh heh—I know it will be hard to believe—” Dr. Wright paused dramatically. “The truth is, that Joseph Ryan is dead.”

“That’s too bad,” the policeman murmured sympathetically. “But what’s that got to do with this? And who’s Joseph Ryan? That guy’s father?” “I don’t know,” Dr. Wright said. “His father may be dead. No no. You don’t understand. The man you accuse of having broken your windshield, and whom the bareheaded man accused of chasing him and breaking the windows of his house—a typical phenomenon with poltergeists, by the way—is dead. It isn’t him. It’s his materialized spirit in there.”

“No,” the two policemen breathed with exaggerated pretense at belief.

“I know it’s impossible,” Dr. Wright said, feeling more confident of himself. “But it’s the truth. He died March fourteenth, on the warfront in Europe. The same day this—apparition that seems to be him—appeared here at home.”

“Who did you say you were?” one of the policemen asked innocently.

“Dr. Wright,” Dr. Wright said, annoyed at this sudden shift of thought. “You may have heard of me. I’m a noted authority on supernatural phenomena.”

“And you say this lad, Joe Ryan, is a soldier, and was overseas on the fourteenth, and is here now—in there?”

“That’s what I said,” Dr. Wright said, mistaking the trend of the questions.

“Well,” the policeman said, feeling he had something he could sink his teeth into now, “That means he’s either a.w.o.1. or he had his papers giving him a leave. We’ll check on it. Let’s go back in.”

“But—” Dr. Wright protested. He followed them back into the house with a feeling that he had made no impression on them at all.

“You, Joseph Ryan,” the policeman said, trying to sound very formal as a representative of the law. “Let’s see your draft card, service card, leave card, and whatever papers you have to prove you’re home within the law.”

Not only the policeman, but Joe’s friends, read the expression that came to his face.

“Joe!” Margie, his fiancé, gasped incredulously. “Don’t tell me your papers aren’t in order!”

“Now just a minute,” Joe said, backing up from the slowly advancing policemen. “Take it easy for a minute and I’ll explain everything. I know I don’t have my leave papers, but there’s a very good reason why I don’t—if you’ll let me explain.”

“Yes,” Madame Ona spoke up, glancing reassuringly at Joe’s mother. “I’m sure there is a very good reason why you can’t arrest Joe. Please, officers, be seated and give us a chance to help Joe straighten it out in his own way.”

THE TWO officers looked at her, then at Dr. Wright who nodded with voiceless firmness.

“Well....” one of them said. They sat down, defeated for the moment.

“First I’ll explain the tricks I’ve been doing here,” Joe began.

“No, Joe,” Dr. Wright said firmly. “Go back to the beginning. You were on the battlefield. You ware advancing against the enemy. Then?”

“Say!” Joe said in surprise. “You sound just like you know all about me.”

“Perhaps I know more than you think,” Dr. Wright said gently. “Was it a machine gun nest?”

“No,” Joe said, his eyes going dreamy. “It was the new synchrotron mobile units. They had caught us by surprise in the middle of a charge. It was a trap, I guess. Our planes reported the retreat of the enemy from their forward emplacements, apparently abandoning them because we were so close. We were ordered to advance and occupy them. We were about two-thirds of the way over the open field when the tanks, lying in wait, simply moved out from under their camouflage and went into operation. Their electron beams were mowing everyone down along the entire line—except one guy that they missed. He was going forward all alone in his sector, I saw it coming. That pale pencil beam. It was jumping around so it couldn’t miss. It was just a few feet away. It was cutting through the guy next to me.”

“What happened then, Joe,” Dr. Wright said softly, his words sounding overloud in the hush of the room. “Please try to remember very carefully. Every detail.”

“Ha! Will I ever forget any of it!” Joe said lightly. “Maybe I closed my eyes. I don’t know. I knew it was coming. I couldn’t avoid it. I felt myself falling. I knew there wouldn’t be any pain to it. I landed with my face in the dirt. I knew that a lot of them, when they got it from those beams, lived for as long as an hour or so afterward, fully conscious—depending on where the beam cut them in two.

“As I said, I was falling. I landed with my face in the dirt. Then I turned over. I was in a dark place.”

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Wright said. “A dark place.”

“A tank trap,” Joe added. “About fifteen feet over my head I could see the hole where I had fallen through.”

“You were still alive—then?” Madame Ona asked eerily.

“Yes,” Joe said. Then he did a double take. “What do you mean, then? I’m still alive!”

“Are you?” Madame Ona asked very softly. Joe’s mother began to sob again, sitting very erect beside Madame Ona, and very alone.

ARE YOU?” Madame Ona repeated. This time it was a direct question rather than an implication of the opposite. It was a demanding question.

“Let me ask you a question, Joe,” Dr. Wright said. “Did you come straight from that tank trap, as you thought it to be, to your home here—in the twinkling of an eye?”

“Why, ah,” Joe hesitated.

“I presumed as much,” Dr. Wright said smugly. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Let me tell you about the genii,” Joe said. His voice sounded high and thin to his ears. “It was the genii that brought me here.”

“The genii?” Dr. Wright said, frowning.

“Yes,” Joe said. “It wasn’t a genii at first. It was just a haze—a sort of transparent black haze formed by two electron beams coming together. I made it into a genii myself—” He stopped, realizing he was balling it all up so it sounded crazy.

“Ah, I see,” Dr. Wright said. “The powers of the mind to rationalize are remarkable—even in death!”

“So you don’t believe the genii exists?” Joe said. “But it does!”

“What does it look like?” Mr. Chad asked from where he had been sitting quietly.

“It’s ten or twelve feet high, and coal black, with a big white turban and an oriental costume on,” Joe said. “But that’s only when he’s visible.

He’s been helping me with my tricks I’ve been playing this evening. You know, raising Freddy and George into the air and stuff.” He turned to the two policemen. “The genii is probably what broke the windshield of your car.”

The two policemen didn’t answer. They were caught in the spell of the situation, drawn toward belief and drawing back from it.

“Let me suggest something to you, Joe,” Dr. Wright said in a way that indicated he was picking his words carefully.

“Go ahead,” Joe said.

“Don’t consider what I’m going to say as being true, or even something I think to be true,” Dr. Wright said slowly. “Just consider it in the light of—facts. I gather that you believe the genii brought you home?”

“Yes,” Joe said. “Just like that.” He snapped his finger.

“Let’s suppose,” Dr. Wright said, “that you didn’t fall into a tank trap. Let’s suppose that the pencil of energy from the synchrotron gun did cut you in two—kill you, and what you fell into what was a symbolic representation of death. That the genii is a similar invention of your mind to rationalize the powers that you yourself took in death, created so that your conscious thoughts could accept your coming home instantly without having to accept the concomitant of your death.”

“But it isn’t so,” Joe said. “It can’t be so. Can it, Margie?” he asked, turning to her. He saw the doubt in her mind and turned away from her.

“If it isn’t so,” one of the policemen said, “you’re going to have to go down to the station with us and face the charge of desertion. If it is so, you’d better dematerialize pretty quick—or I’ll take you down anyway.” He chuckled uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Joe said, his shoulders sagging. “None of you believe me, and if I stay here I’m in plenty of trouble. I guess the only thing is to go back, the same way I came.”

“Or go on,” Madame Ona said hypnotically. “Ha ha,” Joe said dryly. “You pick the funniest friends, Mom.” He looked at the inexorable purpose on the faces of the two policemen and realized this was it.

HE WENT hesitantly at Margie, then impulsively pried her out of her chair to her feet and kissed her.

“Take it easy while I’m gone, Baby,” he murmured in her ear. He mussed her hair lovingly, then released her and went to his mother.

“Bye for now, Mom,” he said, bending over and kissing her tear-dampened cheek. “Next time I come home it will be with the consent of the powers that be.”

He straightened and grinned nervously at the three teenaged boys and the other two girls.

“I’m going back where I belong,” he said. Then, directing his remark to Dr. Wright and Madame Ona, “and it isn’t where you think I’m going either, because I’m not dead. And just to give you something to chew on, I’ll show you my genii.”

He turned dramatically to the open center of the room and held out his hand.

“Materialize, genii,” he said forcefully.

There was a puff of smoke. The genii, crouching low so as to get his huge bulk into the room, appeared, complete with turban and oriental dress.

“I am here, Master,” his intensely black lips said, while the enormous, smoky eyes smiled at Joe.

“Take me back where I started from,” Joe said.

The black presence enfolded Joe. He had a fleeting glimpse of the ring of blanched faces. Then, abruptly, he was standing on the roughly torn terrain of the battlefield, trucks loaded with supplies roaring past him on a newly constructed road.

The genii straightened, and stood with loose- sleeved arms folded, looking down at Joe.

“Now go back in that canteen and stay there until you are called out again,” Joe ordered.

There was a swirl of dissolving form that vanished into nothing.

“Hey, wait!” Joe exclaimed, remembering suddenly that his stainless steel canteen was half way around the world in the closet at home. Then he shrugged his shoulders. He could probably call up the genii from that distance as easily as from where he was.

THREE DAYS had passed, each taking an eternity—or so it seemed to Mrs. Ryan. There had been quite a time. Madame Ona had fainted after the big black man had materialized so briefly and taken Joe with him. One of the policemen had become sick.

But finally everything had been taken care of, and she had been alone. Not quite alone. Margie had stayed with her overnight, herself heartbroken at the realization that Joe was dead. They had comforted each other through the sleepless night, avoiding the subject of where Joe might have been taken to by the dark giant.

The house was more empty than it had ever been, even when Mr. Ryan had died. Mrs. Ryan had opened the door to Joe’s room once and looked at the things strewn around the room—and closed the door quickly, breaking into uncontrollable sobs.

That had been yesterday. Now she was washing the dishes from her solitary breakfast, the suds swishing around her wrists in a clean sort of way.

Suddenly the front doorbell started ringing. “Oh dear,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Why does it always have to ring when my hands are wet?”

She hurried across the living room and opened the door. It was a Western Union man. He handed out a telegram and his book for her to sign.

Her eyes went unconsciously to the telegram as she signed. There was no black border around it this time. Who could it be from?

She closed the door, went back to the kitchen, and sat down in a chair near the window before starting to open it. Its contents were brief.

“This is to inform you,” it read, “that your son, Joseph Ryan, has been found, and that he is alive and unharmed.”

It was from the war department.

“Oh!” she said, her emotions all mixed up. Crying happily she went to the phone and called Margie Blish and told her the good news. It wasn’t understandable, but Joe was alive. He was in Europe where he couldn’t be yet if he had been home—but he couldn’t have come home if he was in Europe. Margie was crying happily when Mrs. Ryan hung up.

Now she started singing as she finished the dishes. Everything was all right again. In some unaccountable way she had been given the privilege of having her Joe home for two weeks right in the middle of the war.

An hour later she was opening the door to Joe’s room. The disorder no longer struck into her heart painfully. Now it was a good pain, to see the disorder he had created.

She straightened things up, caressing each thing lovingly, putting it away carefully. It would have to stay where she put it until Joe came home for good.

There was a dirty pair of sox. She would wash them, so she tossed them into the hall outside. There were the magazines he had bought and read. Maybe he would want to keep them. She piled them neatly on one corner of the table in front of the window. There was a pair of shoes. She put them in the clothes closet. His bedroom slippers by the side of the bed went into the closet by the shoes. She took his pajamas off the hook on the inside of the closet door and tossed them into the hall with the dirty sox.

Her eyes fixed on the water canteen setting on the dresser with its cap laying on the glass top beside it.

“I’ll put that on the shelf in the closet,” she decided, snapping its lid on tightly.

It was heavy as she picked it up. She paused. “Maybe I should empty it and wash it out,” she thought. Then, “No, I’ll leave it just the way it is.”

She got a chair and stood on it, and pushed the stainless steel, canvas covered canteen back against the wall where it couldn’t be seen while standing on the floor.

Half an hour later she had forgotten about it completely.

It was two weeks later that the enemy began their systematic dusting with radioactives that was to make land uninhabitable for centuries. They began in the Puget Sound area, and slowly advanced their operations toward Spokane and its surrounding towns including Moab.

Mrs. Ryan, along with her neighbors, was evacuated to east of the Rockies, and was given barely an hour to pack a few things to take with her.

A week later the dusting operation reached and passed her house.

The genii in its stainless steel bottle rested on the shelf in the closet, imprisoned beneath the cap that sealed it. It would be centuries before any living thing could come within miles of it.

It could wait.