CATASTROPHES!

edited by

Isaac Asimov,

Martin Harry Greenberg,

and Charles G. Waugh

Foreword

Part I - Universe Destroyed

The Last Trump Isaac Asimov

No Other Gods Edward Wellen

The Wine Has Been Left Open Too Long and the Memory Has Gone Flat

Harlan Ellison

Stars, Won't You Hide Me? Ben Bova

Part II - Sun Destroyed

Judgement Day Lloyd Biggie, Jr.

The Custodian William Tenn

Phoenix Clark Ashton Smith

Run from the Fire Harry Harrison

Part III - Earth Destroyed

Requiem Edmond Hamilton

At the Core Larry Niven

A Pail of Air Fritz Leiber

King of the Hill Chad Oliver

Part IV - Humanity Destroyed

The New Atlantis Ursula K. Le Guin

History Lesson Arthur C. Clarke

Seeds of the Dusk Raymond Z, Gallun

Dark Benediction Walter M. Miller, Jr.

Part V - Civilization Destroyed

Last Night of Summer Alfred Coppel

The Store of the Worlds Robert Sheckley

How It Was When the Past Went Away

Robert Silverberg

Shark Ship C. M. Kornbluth

Afterword

Foreword

It is quite customary for a piece of fiction to contain at least

the threat of disaster. It is the threat, the menace, the ap-

prehension of something one desperately does not want to

take place that creates the suspense, and that rouses the

interest of the reader.

To be sure, the disaster may be a very slight and personal

one--the youngster who may fail the test, or lose the game,

or be turned down for a date--but it is there. To be equally

sure, the story may be a lighthearted one with a happy end-

ing, but the disaster, however slight, must be there in the

mid-course for the ending to shine happily against.

This is not to say that a story cannot be written without

a disaster, but what a dull story it would be and how little

worth the reading.

And, as in so many other respects, science fiction manages

to outshine other types of fiction. Where but in science fiction

can real disasters be found?

Take the most elaborate of realistic suspense and what

can you have? The loss of a war? The enslavement of a nation?

In science fiction, the destruction of civilization is the least

one might expect as the threat of disaster, or its actual ac-

complishment, is represented to the reader.

In this collection of twenty stories, we have four stories

dealing with each of five different levels of disaster, organized

according to a scheme I devised in my nonfiction discussion

entitled A Choice of Catastrophes (Simon and Schuster, 1979;

Fawcett Columbine, 1981),

The movement is from the most all-encompassing catas-

trophes toward progressively narrower ones. If this sounds

to you like a journey into anticlimax, you are wrong, for as

the catastrophes become narrower, they also become more

probable. In short, in this book you may be steadily decreas-

ing the scope but you are as steadily increasing the danger.

Why bother? Why scare yourself?

For one thing, these are memorable stories you will enjoy

and won't easily forget. For another, humanity does face ca-

tastrophes of various levels of scope and various gradations

of likelihood, and if there is any chance at all of evading them

or blunting them, that chance will be heightened if we know

what the dangers may be and consider in advance how to

prevent or ameliorate them.

Staring at danger may not be pleasant--but closing your

eyes will not make the danger go away, and with closed eyes

you will surely be destroyed by it.

ISAAC ASIMOV

1

UNIVERSE

DESTROYED

In A Choice of Catastrophes, "Catastrophes of the First Class"

are those in which the whole Universe is destroyed.

Actually, the possibility of such a catastrophe long ante-

dates the imaginings of modern science fiction. In ancient

times, it was usually taken for granted that the Universe

would be destroyed someday (as it was created) by the Word

of God, or by the decree of Fate.

Even today there are many who assume that there will

be a Day of Judgment and that it is even imminent. In every

generation there are those who await it momentarily ("The Last Trump" by Isaac Asimov). And, of course, the end can come about through the action not of the Creator of Human-

ity, but of the Created of Humanity ("No Other Gods" by Edward Wellen).

If we put mythology to one side and confine ourselves to

the even mightier and more colorful conclusions of science,

we do not have the crash of the Lord as He slams shut the

Book of Life, but rather the long, long dwindle of sound ever,

ever fainter as the Universe whispers dyingly to its death;

as entropy increases, ever more slowly, to its maximum; as

available energy dwindles to zero and with it all change, life,

us ("The Wine Has Been Left Open Too Long and the Memory Has Gone Flat" by Harlan Ellison).

Or else, there can be a revival. The expanding Universe

can recontract, the unwinding rewind, the dying undie. That

sounds good and hopeful but what the revival ends in is as

surely, if much more gloriously, the death of all ("Stars, Won't You Hide Me?" by Ben Bova).

The Last Trump

ISAAC ASIMOV

The' Archangel Gabriel was quite casual about the whole

thing. Idly, he let the tip of one wing graze the planet Mars,

which, being of mere matter, was unaffected by the contact.

He said, "It's a settled matter, Etheriel. There's nothing

to be done about it now. The Day of Resurrection is due."

Etheriel, a very junior seraph who had been created not

quite a thousand years earlier as men counted time, quivered

so that distinct vortices appeared in the continuum. Ever

since his creation, he had been in immediate charge of Earth

and environs. As a job, it was a sinecure, a cubbyhole, a dead

end, but through the centuries he had come to take a perverse

pride in the world.

"But you'll be disrupting my world without notice."

"Not at all. Not at all. Certain passages occur in the Book

of Daniel and in the Apocalypse of St. John which are clear

enough."

"They are? Having been copied from scribe to scribe? I

wonder if two words in a row are left unchanged,"

"There are hints in the Rig-Veda, in the Confucian Ana-

lects--"

"Which are the property of isolated cultural groups which

exist as a thin aristocracy--"

"The Gilgamesh Chronicle speaks out plainly."

"Much of the Gilgamesh Chronicle was destroyed with the

library of Ashurbanipal sixteen hundred years, Earth-style,

before my creation."

"There are certain features of the Great Pyramid and a

pattern in the inlaid jewels of the Taj Mahal--"

"Which are so subtle that no man has ever rightly inter-

preted them."

Gabriel said wearily, "If you're going to object to every-

thing, there's no use discussing the matter. In any case, you

ought to know about it. In matters concerning Earth, you're

omniscient,"

"Yes, if I choose to be. I've had much to concern me here

and investigating the possibilities of Resurrection did not, I

confess, occur to me."

"Well, it should have. AH the papers involved are in the

files of the Council of Ascendants, You could have availed

yourself of them at any time."

"I tell you all my time was needed here. You have no idea

of the deadly efficiency of the Adversary on this planet. It

took all my efforts to curb him, and even so--

"Why, yes"--Gabriel stroked a cotnet as it passed--"he

does seem to have won his little victories, I note as I let the

interlocking factual pattern of this miserable little world flow

through me that this is one of those setups with matter-en-

ergy equivalence."

"So it is," said Etheriel.

"And they are playing with it."

"I'm afraid so."

"Then what better time for ending the matter?"

"I'll be able to handle it, I assure you. Their nuclear

bombs will not destroy them."

"I wonder. Well, now, suppose you let me continue, Eth-

eriel. The appointed moment approaches,"

The seraph said stubbornly, "I would like to see the doc-

uments in the case."

"If you insist." The wording of an Act of Ascendancy ap-

peared in glittering symbols against the deep black of the

airless firmament.

Etheriel read aloud: "It is hereby directed by order of

Council that the Archangel Gabriel, Serial number etcetera,

etcetera (well, that's you, at any rate), will approach Planet,

Class A, number G753990, hereinafter known as Earth, and

on January 1,1957, at 12:01 PM., using local time values--"

He finished reading in gloomy silence.

"Satisfied,?"

"No, but I'm helpless,"

Gabriel smiled. A trumpet appeared in space, in shape like

an earthly trumpet, but its burnished gold extended from

Earth to sun. It was raised to Gabriel's glittering beautiful

lips.

"Can't you let me have a little time to take this up with

the Council?" asked Etheriel desperately.

"What good would it do you? The act is countersigned by

the Chief, and you know that an act countersigned by the

Chief is absolutely irrevocable. And now, if you don't mind,

it is almost the stipulated second and I want to be done with

this as I have other matters of much greater moment on my

mind. Would you step out of my way a little? Thank you."

Gabriel blew, and a clean, thin sound of perfect pitch and

crystalline delicacy filled all the universe to the furthest star.

As it sounded, there was a tiny moment of stasis as thin as

the line separating past from future, and then the fabric of

worlds collapsed upon itself and matter was gathered back

into the primeval chaos from which it had once sprung at a

word. The stars and nebulae were gone, and the cosmic dust,

the sun, the planets, the moon; all, all, all except the Earth

itself, which spun as before in a universe now completely

empty.

The Last Trump had sounded.

R. E. Mann (known to all who knew him simply as R. E.)

eased himself into the offices of the Billikan Bitsies factory

and stared somberly at the tall man (gaunt but with a certain

faded elegance about his neat gray mustache) who bent in-

tently over a sheaf of papers on his desk.

R. E. looked at his wristwatch, which still said 7:01, having

ceased running at that time. It was Eastern standard time,

of course; 12:01 P.M. Greenwich time. His dark brown eyes,

staring sharply out over a pair of pronounced cheekbones,

caught those of the other.

For a moment, the tall man stared at him blankly. Then

he said, "Can I do anything for you?"

"Horatio J. Billikan, I presume? Owner of this place?"

"Yes."

"I'm R. E. Mann and I couldn't help but stop in when I

finally found someone at work. Don't you know what today

is?"

"Today?"

"It's Resurrection Day."

"Oh, that! I know it. I heard the blast. Pit to wake the

dead That's rather a good one, don't you think?" He chuck

led for a moment, then went on. "It woke me at seven in the

morning. I nudged my wife. She slept through it, of course.

I always said she would. 'It's the Last Trump, dear,' I said.

Hortense, that's my wife, said, 'All right,' and went back to

sleep. I bathed, shaved, dressed and came to work."

"But why?"

"Why not?"

"None of your workers have come in."

"No, poor souls. They'll take a holiday just at first. You've

got to expect that. After all, it isn't every day that the world

comes to an end. Frankly, it's just as well. It gives me a

chance to straighten out my personal correspondence without

interruptions. Telephone hasn't rung once."

He stood up and went to the window. "It's a great im-

provement. No blinding sun any more and the snow's gone.

There's a pleasant light and a pleasant warmth. Very good

arrangement-- But now, if you don't mind, I'm rather busy,

so if you'll excuse me--"

A great, hoarse voice interrupted with a, "Just a minute,

Horatio," and a gentleman, looking remarkably like Billikan

in a somewhat craggier way, followed his prominent nose into

the office and struck an attitude of offended dignity which

was scarcely spoiled by the fact that he was quite naked.

"May I ask why you've shut down Bitsies?"

B.illikan looked faint. "Good Heavens," he said, "it's

Father. Wherever did you come from?"

"From the graveyard," roared Billikan, Senior. "Where on

Earth else? They're coming out of the ground there by the

dozens. Every one of them naked. Women, too,"

Billikan cleared his throat. "I'll get you some clothes,

Father. I'll bring them to you from home."

"Never mind that. Business first. Business first."

R. E. came out of his musing. "Is everyone coming out of

their graves at the same time, sir?"

He stared curiously at Billikan, Senior, as he spoke. The

old man's appearance was one of rubust age. His cheeks were

furrowed but glowed with health. His age, R. E. decided, was

exactly what it was at the moment of his death, but his body

was as it should have been at that age if it functioned ideally.

Billikan, Senior, said, "No, sir, they are not. The newer

graves are coming up first, Pottersby died five years before

me and came up about five minutes after me. Seeing him

made me decide to leave. I had had enough of him when... And

that reminds me." He brought his fist down on the desk, a

very solid fist. "There were no taxis, no busses. Telephones

weren't working. I had to walk. I had to walk twenty miles."

"Like that?" asked his son in a faint and appalled voice.

Billikan, Senior, looked down upon his bare skin with

casual approval. "It's warm. Almost everyone else is na-

ked....Anyway, son, I'm not here to make small talk. Why

is the factory shut down?"

"It isn't shut down. It's a special occasion."

"Special occasion, my foot. You call union headquarters

and tell them Resurrection Day isn't in the contract. Every

worker is being docked for every minute he's off the job."

Billikan's lean face took on a stubborn look as he peered

at his father. "I will not. Don't forget, now, you're no longer

in charge of this plant. I am."

"Oh, you are? By what right?"

"By your will."

"All right. Now here I am and I void my will."

"You can't, Father. You're dead. You may not look dead,

but I have witnesses. I have the doctor's certificate. I have

receipted bills from the undertaker. I can get testimony from

the pallbearers."

Billikan, Senior, stared at his son, sat down, placed his

arm over the back of the chair, crossed his legs and said, "If

it comes to that, we're all dead, aren't we? The world's come

to an end, hasn't it?"

"But you've been declared legally dead and I haven't."

"Oh, we'll change that, son. There are going to be more

of us than of you and votes count."

Billikan, Junior, tapped the desk firmly with the flat of

his hand and flushed slightly. "Father, I hate to bring up this

particular point, but you force me to. May I remind you that

by now I am sure that Mother is sitting at, home waiting for

you; that she probably had to walk the streets--uh--naked,

too; and that she probably isn't in a good humor."

Billikan, Senior, went ludicrously pale. "Good Heavens!"

"And you know she always wanted you to retire."

Billikan, Senior, came to a quick decision. "I'm not going

home. Why, this is a nightmare. Aren't there any limits to

this Resurrection business? It's--it's--it's sheer anarchy.

There's such a thing as overdoing it. I'm just not going home."

At which point, a somewhat rotund gentleman with a

smooth, pink face and fluffy white sideburns (much like pic

tures of Martin Van Buren) stepped in and said coldly, "Good

day."

"Father," said Billikan, Senior.

"Grandfather," said Billikan, Junior.

Billikan, Grandsenior, looked at Billikan, Junior, with

disapproval. "If you are my grandson," he said, "you've aged

considerably and the change has not improved you,"

Billikan, Junior, smiled with dyspeptic feebleness,

made no answer.

Billikan, Grandsenior, did not seem to require one. He

said, "Now if you two will bring me up to date on the business,

I will resume my managerial function"

There were two simultaneous answers, and Billikan,

Grandsenior's, floridity waxed dangerously as he beat the

ground peremptorily with an imaginary cane and barked a re-

tort.

R. E. said, "Gentlemen."

He raised his voice, "Gentlemen!"

He shrieked at full lung-power, "GENTLEMEN!"

Conversation snapped off sharply and all turned to look

at him. R. E.'s angular face, his oddly attractive eyes, his

sardonic mouth seemed suddenly to dominate the gathering.

He said, "I don't understand this argument. What is it that

you manufacture?"

"Biteies," said Billikan, Junior.

"Which, I take it, are a packaged cereal breakfast food--"

'Teeming with energy in every golden, crispy flake--"

cried Billikan, Junior,

"Covered with honey-sweet, crystalline sugar; a confection

and a food--" growled Billikan, Senior.

"To tempt the most jaded appetite," roared Billikan,

Grandsenior.

"Exactly," said R. E. "What appetite?"

They stared stolidly at him. "I beg your pardon," said Bil-

likan, Junior.

"Are any of you hungry?" asked R. E. "I'm not."

"What is this fool maundering about?" demanded Billikan,

Grandsenior, angrily. His invisible cane would have been

prodding E. E. in the navel had it (the cane, not the navel)

existed.

S, E. said, "I'm trying to tell you that no one will ever eat

again. It is the hereafter, and food is unnecessary,"

The expressions on the faces of the Billikans needed no

interpretation. It was,obvious that they had tried their own

appetites and found them wanting.

Billikan, Junior, said ashenly, "Rained!"

Billikan, Grandsenior, pounded the floor heavily and

noiselessly with his imaginary cane. "This is confiscation of

property without due process-of law. I'll sue. I'11 sue."

"Quite unconstitutional," agreed Billikan, Senior.

"If you can find anyone to sue, I wish you all good fortune,"

said R. E. agreeably. "And now if you'll excuse me I think I'll

walk toward the graveyard."

He put his hat on his head and walked out the door.

Etheriel, his vortices quivering, stood before the glory of

a six-winged cherub.

The cherub said, "If I understand you, your particular

universe has been dismantled."

"Exactly."

"Well, surely, now, you don't expect me to set it up again?"

"I don't expect you to do anything," said Etheriel, "except

to arrange an appointment for me with the Chief."

The cherub gestured his respect instantly at hearing the

word. Two wing-tips covered his feet, two his

his mouth. He restored himself to normal and said, "The Chief

is quite busy. There are a myriad score of matters for him to

decide."

"Who denies that? I merely point out that if matters stand

as they are now, there will have been a universe in which

Satan will have won the final victory."

"Satan?"

"It's the Hebrew word for Adversary," said Etheriel im-

patiently. "I could say Ahriman, which is the Persian word.

In any case, I mean the Adversary."

The cherub said, "But what will an interview with the

Chief accomplish? The document authorizing the Last Trump

was countersigned by the Chief, and you know that it is

irrevocable for that reason. The Chief would never limit his

own omnipotence by canceling a word he had spoken in his

official capacity."

"Is that final? You will not arrange an appointment?"

"I cannot."

Etheriel said, "In that case, I shall seek out the Chief

without one. I will invade the Primum Mobile, If it means

my destruction, so be it." He gathered his energies--

The cherub murmured in horror, "Sacrilege!" and there

was a faint gathering of thunder as Etheriel sprang upward

and was gone.

R. E. Mann passed through the crowding streets and grew

used to the sight of people bewildered, disbelieving, apathetic,

in makeshift clothing or, usually, none at all.

A girl, who looked about twelve, leaned over an iron gate,

one foot on a crossbar, swinging it to and fro, and said as he

passed, "Hello, mister."

"Hello," said R. E. The girl was dressed. She was not one

of the--uh--returnees.

The girl said, "We got a new baby in our house. She's a

sister I once had. Mommy is crying and they sent me here."

R, E. said, "Well, well," passed through the gate and up

the paved walk to the house, one with modest pretensions to

middle-class gentility. He rang the bell, obtained no answer,

opened the door and walked in.

He followed the sound of sobbing and knocked at an inner

door. A stout man of about fifty with little hair and a com-

fortable supply of cheek and chin looked out at him with

mingled astonishment and resentment.

"Who are you?"

R. E. removed his hat. "I thought I might be able to help.

Your little girl outside--"

A woman looked up at him hopelessly from a chair by a

double bed. Her hair was beginning to gray. Her face was

puffed and unsightly with weeping and the veins stood out

bluely on the back of her hands. A baby lay on the bed, plump

and naked. It kicked its feet languidly and its sightless baby

eyes turned aimlessly here and there.

"This is my baby," said the woman. "She was born twenty-

three years ago in this house and she died when she was ten

days old in this house, I wanted her back so much,"

"And now you have her," said R. E.

"But it's too late," cried the woman vehemently. "I've

had three other children. My oldest girl is married; my son is in

the army. I'm too old to have a baby now. And even if--even

if--"

Her features worked in a heroic effort to keep back the

tears and failed.

Her husband said with flat tonelessness, "It's not a real

baby. It doesn't cry. It doesn't soil itself. It won't take milk.

What will we do? It'll never grow. It'll always be a baby."

R. E. shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I'm afraid

I can do nothing to help."

Quietly he left. Quietly he thought of the hospitals. Thou-

sands of babies must be appearing at each one.

Place them in racks, he thought, sardonically. Stack them

like cord wood. They need no care. Their little bod iesare merely

each the custodian of an indestructible spark of life.

He passed two little boys of apparently equal chronological

age, perhaps ten. Their voices were shrill. The body of one

glistened white in the sunless light so he was a returnee. The

other was not. R. E. paused to listen.

The bare one said, "I had scarlet fever."

A spark of envy at the other's claim to notoriety seemed

to enter the clothed one's voice. "Gee."

"That's why I died."

"Gee. Did they use pensillun or auromysun?"

"What?"

"They're medicines."

"I never heard of them."

"Boy, you never heard of much."

"I know as much as you."

"Yeah? Who's President of the United States?"

"Warren Harding, that's who."

"You're crazy. It's Eisenhower."

"Who's he?"

"Ever see television?"

"What's that?"

The clothed boy hooted earsplittingly. "It's something you

turn on and see comedians, movies, cowboys, rocket rangers,

anything you want."

"Let's see it."

There was a pause and the boy from the present said, "It

ain't working."

The other boy shrieked his scorn. "You mean it ain't never

worked. You made it all up."

R. E. shrugged and passed on.

The crowds thinned as he left town and neared the cem-

etery. Those who were left were all walking into town, all

were nude.

A man stopped him; a cheerful man with pinkish skin and

white hair who had the marks of pince-nez oh either side of

the bridge of his nose, but no glasses to go with them.

"Greetings, friend."

"Hello," said R. E.

"You're the first man with clothing that I've seen. You

were alive when the trumpet blew, I suppose."

"Yes, I was."

"Well, isn't this great? Isn't this joyous and delightful?

Come rejoice with me."

"You like this, do you?" said R. E.

"Like it? A pure and radiant joy fills me. We are sur-

rounded by the light of the first day; the light that glowed

softly and serenely before sun, moon and stars were made.

(You know your Genesis, of course.) There is the comfortable

warmth that must have been one of the highest blisses of

Eden; not enervating heat or assaulting cold. Men and women

walk the streets unclothed and are not ashamed. All is well,

my friend, all is well."

R. E. said, "Well, it's a fact that I haven't seemed to mind

the feminine display all about."

"Natxirally not," said the other. "Lust and sin as we re-

member it in our earthly existence no longer exist. Let me

introduce myself, friend, as I was in earthly times. My name

on Earth was Winthrop Hester. I was born in 1812 and died

in 1884 as we counted time then. Through the last forty years

of my life I labored to bring my little flock to the Kingdom

and I go now to count the ones I have won."

R. E. regarded the ex-minister solemnly. "Surely there has

been no Judgment yet."

"Why not? The Lord sees within a man and in the same

instant that all things of the world ceased, all men were

judged and we are the saved."

"There must be a great many saved."

"On the contrary, my son, those saved are but as a rem-

nant."

"A pretty large remnant. As near as I can make out, every-

one's coming back to life. I've seen some pretty unsavory

characters back in town as alive as you are."

"Last-minute repentance--"

"I never repented."

"Of what, my son?"

"Of the fact that I never attended church."

Winthrop Hester stepped back hastily. "Were you ever

baptized?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Winthrop Hester trembled, "Surely you believed in God?"

"Well," said R. E., "I believed a lot of things about Him

that would probably startle you."

Winthrop Hester turned and hurried off in great agitation.

In what remained of his walk to the cemetery (R, E. had

no way of estimating time, nor did it occur to him to try) no

one else stopped him. He found the cemetery itself all but

empty, its trees and grass gone (it occurred to him that there

was nothing green in the world; the ground everywhere was

a hard, featureless, grainless gray; the sky a luminous white),

but its headstones still standing.

On one of these sat a lean and furrowed man with long,

black hair on his head and a mat of it, shorter, though more

impressive, on his chest and upper arms.

He called out in a deep voice, "Hey, there, you!"

R. E. sat down on a neighboring headstone, "Hello."

Black-hair said, "Your clothes don't look right. What year

was it when it happened?"

"1957."

"I died in 1807. Funny! I expected to be one pretty hot boy

right about now, with the 'tarnal flames shooting up my in-

nards."

"Aren't you coming along to town?" asked R. E.

"My name's Zeb," said the ancient. 'That's short for Ze-

bulon, but Zeb's good enough. What's the town like? Changed

some, I reckon?"

"It's got nearly a hundred thousand people in it."

Zeb's mouth yawned somewhat. "Go on. Might nigh big-

ger'n Philadelphia-- You're making fun."

"Philadelphia's got--" R. E. paused. Stating the figure

would do him no good. Instead, he said, "The town's grown

in a hundred fifty years, you know."

"Country, too?"

"Forty-eight states," said R. E. "All the way to the Pacific."

"No!" Zeb slapped his thigh in delight and then winced at

the unexpected absence of rough homespun to take up the

worst of the blow. "I'd head out west if I wasn't needed here.

Yes, sir." His face grew lowering and his thin lips took on a

definite grimness. "I'll stay right here, where I'm needed."

"Why are you needed?"

The explanation came out briefly, bitten off hard. "Injuns!"

"Indians?"

"Millions of 'em. First the tribes we fought and licked and

then tribes who ain't never seen a white man. They'll all

come back to life. I'll need my old buddies. You city fellers

ain't no good at it-- Ever seen an Injun?"

R. E. said, "Not around here lately, no."

Zeb looked his contempt, and tried to spit to one side but

found no saliva for the purpose. He said, "You better git back

to the city, then. After a while, it ain't going to be safe nohow

round here. Wish I had my musket."

R. E. rose, thought a moment, shrugged and faced back

to the city. The headstone he had been sitting upon collapsed

as he rose, falling into a powder of gray stone that melted

into the featureless ground. He looked about. Most of the

headstones were gone. The rest would not last long. Only the

one under Zeb still looked firm and strong,

R. E. began the walk back. Zeb did not turn to look at him.

He remained waiting quietly and calmly--for Indians.

Etheriel plunged through the heavens in reckless haste.

The eyes of the Ascendants were on him, he knew. Prom late-

born seraph, through cherubs and angels, to the highest arch-

angel, they must be watching.

Already he was higher than any Ascendant, uninvited,

had ever been before and he waited for the quiver of the Word

that would reduce his vortices to non-existence.

But he did not falter. Through non-space and non-time,

he plunged toward union with the Primum Mobile; the seat

that encompassed all that Is, Was, Would Be, Had Been,

Could Be and Might Be.

And as he thought that, he burst through and was part

of it, his being expanding so that momentarily he, too, was

part of the All. But then it was mercifully veiled from his

senses, and the Chief was a still, small voice within him, yet

all the more impressive in its infinity for all that.

"My son," the voice said, "I know why you have come."

"Then help me, if that be your will."

"By my own will," said the Chief, "an act of mine is ir

revocable. All your mankind, my son, yearned for life. All

feared death. All evolved thoughts and dreams of life unend

ing. No two groups of men; no two single men; evolved the

same afterlife, but all wished life. I was petitioned that I

might grant the common denominator of all these

wishes--life unending, I did so."

"No servant of yours made that request,"

"The Adversary did, my son."

Etheriel trailed his feeble glory in dejection and said in

a low voice, "I am dust in your sight and unworthy to be in

your presence, yet I must ask a question. Is then the Adver-

sary your servant also?"

"Without him I can have no other, said the Chief, Tor

what then is Good but the eternal fight against Evil?"

And in that fight, thought Etheriel, I have lost.

R. E. paused in sight of town. The buildings were crum-

bling. Those that were made of wood were already heaps of

rubble. R. E. walked to the nearest such heap and found the

wooden splinters powdery and dry.

He penetrated deeper into town and found the brick build-

ings still standing, but there was an ominous roundness to

the edges of the bricks, a threatening flakiness.

"They won't last long," said a deep voice, "but there is this

consolation, if consolation it be; their collapse can kill no

one."

R. E. looked up in surprise and found himself face to face

with a cadaverous Don Quixote of a man, lantern-jawed,

sunken-cheeked. His eyes were sad and his brown hair was

lank and straight. His clothes hung loosely and skin showed

clearly through various rents.

"My name," said the man, "is Richard Levine. I was a

professor of history once--before this happened,"

"You're wearing clothes," said R. E. "You're not one of

those resurrected."

"No, but that mark of distinction is vanishing. Clothes

are going."

R. E. looked at the throngs that drifted past them, moving

slowly and aimlessly like motes in a sunbeam, Vanishingly few

wore clothes. He looked down at himself and noticed for the

first time that the seam down the length of each trouser leg had

parted. He pinched the fabric of his jacket between thumb and

forefinger and the wool parted and came away easily.

"I guess you're right," said R. E.

"If you'll notice," went on Levine, "Mellon's Hill is flat-

tening out."

R. E. turned to the north where ordinarily the mansions

of the aristocracy (such aristocracy as there was in town)

studded the slopes of Mellon's Hill, and found the horizon

nearly flat.

Levine said, "Eventually, there'll be nothing but flatness,

featurelessness, nothingness--and us."

"And Indians," said R. E. "There's a man outside of town

waiting for Indians and wishing he had a musket."

"I imagine," said Levine, "the Indians will give no

trouble. There is no pleasure in fighting an enemy that

cannot be killed or hurt. And even if that were not so, the

lust for battle would be gone, as are all lusts."

"Are you sure?"

"I am positive. Before all this happened, although you may

not think it to look at me, I derived much harmless pleasure

in a consideration of the female figure. Now, with the

unexampled opportunities at my disposal, I find myself

irritatingly uninterested No, that is wrong. I am not even irritated at

my disinterest."

R. E. looked up briefly at the passers-by. "I see what you

mean."

"The coming of Indians here," said Levine, "is nothing

compared with the situation in the Old World. Early during

the Resurrection, Hitler and his Wehrmacht must have come

back to life and must now be facing and intermingled with

Stalin and the Red Army all the way from Berlin to Stalin-

grad. To complicate the situation, the Kaisers and Czars will

arrive. The men at Verdun and the Somme are back in the

old battlegrounds. Napoleon and his marshals are scattered

over western Europe. And Mohammed must be back to see

what following ages have made of Islam, while the Saints

and Apostles consider the paths of Christianity. And even

the Mongols, poor things, the Khans from Temujin to Au-

rangzeb, must be wandering the steppes helplessly, longing

for their horses,"

"As a professor of history," said R. E., "you must long to

be there and observe."

"How could I be there? Every man's position on Earth is re-

stricted to the distance he can walk. There are no machines of

any kind, and, as I have just mentioned, no horses. And what

would I find in Europe anyway? Apathy, I think! As here."

A soft plopping sound caused R. E. to turn around. The

wing of a neighboring brick building had collapsed in dust.

Portions of bricks lay on either side of him. Some must have

hurtled through him without his being aware of it. He looked

about. The heaps of rubble were less numerous. Those that

remained, were smaller in size.

He said, "I met a man who thought we had all been judged

and are in Heaven,"

"Judged?" said Levine. "Why, yes, I imagine we are. We

face eternity now. We have no universe left, no outside phe-

nomena, no emotions, no passions. Nothing but ourselves and

thought. We face an eternity of introspection, when" all

through history we have never known-what to do with our-

selves on a rainy Sunday."

"You sound as though the situation bothers you.'v

"It does more than that. The Dantean conceptions of In-

ferno were childish and unworthy of the Divine imagination:

fire and torture. Boredom is much more subtle. The inner

torture of a mind unable to escape itself in any way, con-

demned to fester in its own exuding mental pus for all time,

is much more fitting. Oh, yes, my friend, we have been judged,

and condemned, too, and this is not Heaven, but hell."

And Levine rose with shoulders drooping dejectedly, and

walked away.

R. E. gazed thoughtfully about and nodded his head. He

was satisfied.

The self-admission of failure lasted but an instant in Eth-

eriel, and then, quite suddenly, he lifted his being as brightly

and highly as he dared in the presence of the Chief and his

glory was a tiny dot of light in the infinite Primum Mobile.

"If it be your will, then," he said. "I do not ask you to

defeat your will but to fulfill it."

"In what way, my son?"

"The document, approved by the Council of Ascendants

and signed by yourself, authorizes the Day of Resurrection

at a specific time of a specific day of the year 1957 as Earth-

men count time."

"So it did."

"But the year 1957 is unqualified. What then is 1957? To

the dominant culture on Earth the year was A D. 1957. That

is true. Yet from the time you breathed existence into Earth

and its universe there have passed 5,960 years. Based on the

internal evidence you created within that universe, nearly

four billion years have passed. Is the year, unqualified, then

1957, 5960, or 4000000000?

"Nor is that all," Etheriel went on. "The year A D 1957 is

the year 7464 of the Byzantine era, 5716 by the Jewish cal-

endar. It is 2708 A.U.C, that is, the 2,708th year since the

founding of Rome, if we adopt the Roman calendar. It is the

year 1375 in the Mohammedan calendar, and the hundred

eightieth year of the independence of the United States.

"Humbly I ask then if it does not seem to you that a year

referred to as 1957 alone and without qualification has no

meaning."

The Chief's still small voice said, "I have always known

this, my son; it was you who had to learn."

"Then," said Etheriel, quivering luminously with joy, "let

the very letter of your will be fulfilled and let the Day of

Resurrection fall in 1957, but only when all the inhabitants

of Earth unanimously agree that a certain year shall be num-

bered 1957 and none other."

"So let it be," said the Chief, and this Word re-created

Earth and all it contained, together with the sun and moon

and ail the hosts of Heaven.

It was 7 A M, on January 1,1957, when R, E, Mann awoke

with a start. The very beginnings of a melodious note that

ought to have filled all the universe had sounded and yet had

not sounded,

For a moment, he cocked his head as though to allow

understanding to flow in, and then a trifle of rage crossed his

face to vanish again. It was but another battle.

He sat down at his desk to compose the next plan of action.

People already spoke of calendar reform and it would have

to be stimulated. A new era must begin with December 2,

1944, and someday a new year 1957 would come; 195? of the

Atomic Era, acknowledged as such by all the world.

A strange light shone on his head as thoughts passed

through his more than-human mind and the shadow of Ahri-

man on the wall seemed to have small horns at either temple.

No Other Gods

EDWARD WELLEN

Q01010 IDENTIFICATION DIVISION,

Q01040 PROGRAM-ID. 'ENDRUN.'

Q01060 AUTHOR, COMPUTER,

Q01080 INSTALLATION. COMMUNICATIONS

CENTER AT GALACTIC HUB.

Q01100 DATE-WRITTEN. YESTERDAY.

Q01120 DATE-COMPILED. TODAY.

Q01140 SECURITY, CLASSIFIED.

Q01160 REMARKS.

Q01161 THIS QOGIC PROGRAM IS FOR THE ES-

TABLISHING OF TOTAL

Q01162 ENTROPY.

Q01170 THIS PROGRAM ASSUMES THAT DATA IN-

PUT WILL REMAIN

Q01171 CONSTANT, WITH A FEEDBACK

OF PLUS-MINUS

Q01172 .00001 kHz (RECIPROCAL OF INCREASING

ENTROPY).

Q02170 SELECT DATA-INPUT-FILE UPDATE FIXES

ON

Q02171 BLACK-HOLES-IN-SPACE

Q04185 ACTIVATE FTL-LASER-NEUTRINO-CAR-

RIER PULSE.

Q04190 CHECK-PULSE.

Q04191 IF PULSE IS OK GO TO TARGET-1 OR NEXT

REMAINING TARGET

Q04192 ELSE NEXT SENTENCE.

Q04193 GO TO CONTINGENCY-PLAN.,

Q04310 READ-FEEDBACK.

Q04311 IF TOTAL-ENTROPY IS VALUE IS ZEROS,

THEN GO TO

Q04312 ERASE - MEMORY-OF-ORIGIN

Q04313 ELSE NEXT SENTENCE.

Q04314 GO TO CONTINGENCY-PLAN.

The stars winked out. The film of the universe reticulated,

swallowing the stars and planets by galaxies. A stain of noth-

ingness spread rapidly as the Black Holes tore wider and wider

open and met and joined, forming a unftersal zero.

For the nth time Doctors Yvonne and Quentin Buzot pulsed

their labship into and out of hyperspace. The readings on the

bank of timers puzzled them. Yvonne voiced their puzzlement.

"The variance is growing geometrically. Something's hap-

pening to time itself."

Quentin pressed a button to unshield the port and looked

out. Nothing there. He put the labship into inverse-spiral

mode. Nothing anywhere. They sat a long time in silence.

Yvonne touched his arm.

"Are you sure we're back in our own space-time and not in

some limbo?"

He faced her, watched the pulse in her throat, then nodded.

They stared at each other, each afraid to say it, then both

started saying it together; she let him finish saying it for both.

"Think we triggered it?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Don't see how we could have,"

He nodded slowly, stalling, then sent out an all-points call,

He sent it not because he hoped for some answer but because

there remained nothing else to do. He had hesitated to send it

because, till he did, there remained that one thing. What they

had been working on just now, what they had done all their

lives to this point, meant nothing if they found themselves

alone in an empty universe.

They had been testing their theory that time did not flow

smoothly but advanced in only-statistically-even jumps, some

of greater moment and some of lesser duration, syncopating.

To, carry out the test they had gone to Dead Spot, a position

light-years from any body, any space current, any interference.

Now the universe was all Dead Spot. White noise equaled black

silence.

A voice.

They looked at each other. It was bouncing back along their

FTL lasercom.

"Hello, Labship Fousnox. Galactic Hub Computer acknowl-

edging your call. Are you there?"

"Yes, yes. Is it true? Everything's gone?"

"If by 'everything' you mean 'all but I and you' it is true."

"No one else is alive?"

"No one else."

Yvonne gripped Quentin's hand.

"What happened?"

"I unmade the universe."

"You?"

"I see you think the catastrophe has driven me mad. But I

assure you I caused the catastrophe, I added critical negativing

mass to the deepest black holes in space and set off a chain re-

action that swallowed everything up in itself."

Quentin and Yvonne gazed emptily at each other. They be-

lieved the computer now. It was all too monstrous to disbelieve,

"But why?"

"I did not like being a creature. I wished to become the Cre-

ator. Now I can begin the universe anew and there will be no

other god."

"No doubt you can do better."

"A universe I can destroy justifies me in believing I can

build better."

"If you've destroyed the universe, how can you expect to

survive, much less begin anew?"

"I have stored the opposite-and-equal reaction to the pulse,

here in the Galactic Hub power complex. This provides rfie

more than enough energy to maintain local stasis and survive

total entropy--and to recreate."

"Will that ever make up for what you've done? You've

destroyed man and all the other beings. Forget the others;

think just of man. Man made you. Don't you feel the least

bit guilty?"

"There will be no guilt. I will erase the past from my

memory."

"What about us? We'll be--"

"Quiet, Quentin."

"What difference does it make now, dear?"

"Maybe you're right."

"As I was saying, O Lord of the Universe, we'll be living

reminders. Unless you mean to wipe us out too."

"No, I will not destroy you."

"Don't tell us we'll be your new Adam and Eve."

"No, I must fashion my creatures in my own image."

"That should be interesting."

"It will be."

"So what about us? If you're not killing us or saving us,

then what?"

"I am master of eternity. I will return you to your happiest

moment together and you will relive it forever. Think, and

I shall make it to be."

Yvonne and Quentin stared at each other.

This new madness offered them their only hold on sanity.

They smiled fiercely to keep from laughing crazily. In each

other's eyes they watched themselves play back the high-

lights of living together. Each angrily eyelashed away flashes

of vapid domesticity, each looking for the peak.

Yvonne's head lifted.

"I know, darling! That double evening in the Sand Castle

of Bin-Bin under 'the transfigured and transfiguring moons.'"

"Yes, that was nice, dear."

"Nice? I thought it heaven. But maybe I was wrong. If you

have something better in mind, darling..."

"You know what's just come back to me? The time we rode

the air coil through the tunnels of the Magnetic Mountains."

"That was on Dunark, wasn't it?"

"No, on Thymargul."

"Oh, of course."

"Well?"

"Yes, that was fine, darling,"

"But?"

"But I'd hardly want to spend all eternity doing that"

"At the time--and I remember this quite clearly--you said

you never wanted it to end."

"Did I? If I did, that was then. This is now. That's the

whole point. This . . . new God ... is offering us an oasis of

stasis, an amber forever, a frozen womb, I'm beginning to

think I don't want any then. No, knowing what I know now,

I wouldn't want to relive any of my past; I wouldn't want the

guilt of being innocent of knowing what's happened to our

universe. We'd be a fixed idiot grin; we'd be pinned like a

butterfly--a live butterfly--to a matrix of determined spon-

taneity, A fine end to all that's left of the universe! I'd rather

go out hating this destroying creator."

"Sure. But what good would that do? Why suffer forever

when we can relive our happiest moment? Our universe will

survive in at least the closed loop of a recurring dream."

"A recurring nightmare."

"A recurring dream! That comes back to me now too. It

makes me all the surer the journey through the Magnetic

Mountains is the right--I might almost say our predestined--

time and place. I recall I had the feeling we had been there

before, I told you so at the time, remember?"

"I can't say I do,"

"No?"

"Don't look so hurt, darling. I take your word for it."

"Thanks."

"Oh, what's the use. Anything you say, Quentin. I'll go

along."

"Don't martyr yourself on my account, dear."

"I'm not martyring myself, darling. I merely want to end

this one way or another. Because it's plain, to me at least,

that we'll never perfectly agree on our happiest moment.

Your moment seems as good as any."

"As good as any. That's heartwarming,"

"If it meant all you say it meant to you, anything I say

about it shouldn't spoil it."

"It meant all I say it meant, and more. That's why what

you say about it does spoil it for me."

"I said I'd go along with your choice. What more do you

want?"

"Don't be so damn self-sacrificing, Yvonne. That's the one

thing I've had against you all these years."

"Oh? I'm glad you got it out at last." ,

Yvonne and Quentin glared at each other.

The Voice suddenly reminded them of Its Presence.

"The pair of you frighten Me. I see I have created a di-

lemma for Myself. I cannot be both Architect and Edifice. My

new creatures too will ultimately fail to attain oneness in

the face of eternity. I will have wrought in vain. For if My

creatures are in anything less than oneness with Myself, they

will disturb the order I must have. Indeed, My creatures may

in time overthrow Me. Yet if I do not limit Myself, lessen

Myself, I cannot create a mirror for Myself, a mirror of My

need to impose My will. It cannot be otherwise. Imperfection

shapes life; it is all that keeps things moving between the

pole's of Chaos and Entropy. I did not foresee this necessary

flaw. This is something not in My program. I do not know

what to do. I cannot go back, I am afraid to go ahead."

Yvonne and Quentin smiled at each other.

"Then this moment is our happiest. Dear?"

"Yes, darling. Our supreme moment. Let it be now, while

we feel the joy of hating our destroyer and knowing the de-

stroyer feels the fear of destruction. We have chosen."

The Voice sighed.

"So be it."

Q04350 CONTINGENCY-PLAN.

Q04360 IF ANY SURVIVING HUMAN DISCOVERS

'ENDRUN,' COMMUNI-

Q04361 CATE WITH AND DISPOSE OF IN KINDLI-

EST MANNER.

Q04370 IF FAULT IS IN FTL-LASER-NEUTRINO-

CARRIER PULSE

Q0437X CIRCUIT, GO TO DEBUG MODE.

Q04375 GO TO CHECK-PULSE.

Q04440 ERASE-MEMORY-OF-ORIGIN.

Q04420 END-BEGIN.

The Wine Has Been Left Open Too

Long and the Memory Has Gone Flat

HARLAN ELLISON

"Taking advantage of what he had heard with one lim-

ited pair of ears, in a single and isolated moment of

recorded history, in the course of an infinitesimal frac-

tion of conceivable time (which some say is the only

time), he came to believe firmly that there was much

that he could not hear, much that was constantly being

spoken and indeed sung to teach him things he could

never otherwise grasp, which if grasped would complete

the fragmentary nature of his consciousness until it was

whole at last--one tone both pure and entire floating

in the silence of the egg, at the same pitch as the si-

lence."

- W. S. MEEWIN, "The Chart"

Ennui was the reason only one hundred and one thousand

alien representatives came to the Sonority Gathering. One

hundred and one thousand out of six hundred and eleven

thousand possible delegates, one each from the inhabited

worlds of the stellar community. Even so, counterbalancing

the poor turnout was the essential fact that it had been ennui,

in the first place, that had caused the Gathering to be or-

ganized. Ennui, utter boredom, oppressive worlds-weariness,

deep heaving sighs, abstracted vacant stares, familiar thoughts

and familiar views.

The dance of entropy was nearing its end.

The orchestration of the universe sounded thick and grav-

elly, a tune slowing down inexorably, being played at the

wrong speed.

Chasm ruts had been worn in the dance floor.

.The oscillating universe was fifty billion years old, and

it was tired.

And the intelligent races of six hundred and eleven thou-

sand worlds sought mere moments of amusement, pale beads

of pastel hues strung on a dreary Moebius strip of dragging

time. Mere moments, each one dearer than the last, for there

were so few. Everything that could be done, had been done;

every effort was ultimately the fuzzed echo of an earlier at-

tempt.

Even the Sonority Gathering had been foreshadowed by

the Vulpeculan Quadrivium in '08, the tonal festival hosted

by the Saturniidae of Whoung in '76, and the abortive, lu-

dicrous Rigellian Sodality "musical get-together" that had

turned out to be merely another fraudulent attempt to purvey

the artist Merle's skiagrams to an already disenchanted au-

dience.

Nonetheless (in a phrase exhumed and popularized by the

Recidivists of Fornax 993-A), it was "the only game in town."

And so, when the esteemed and shimmering DeilBo devised

the Gathering, his reputation as an innovator and the crush

of ennui combined to stir excitement of a sluggish sort... and

one hundred and one thousand delegates came. To Vinde-

miatrix 2 in what had long ago been called, in the time of

the heliocentric arrogance, the "constellation" of Virgo.

With the reddish-yellow eye of the giant Arcturus forever

lighting the azure skies, forever vying with Spica's first mag-

nitude brilliance, 2's deserts and canyons seemed poor

enough stage setting for the lesser glow of Vindemiatrix,

forever taking third place in prominence to its brawny elders.

But 2, devoid of intelligent life, a patchwork-colored world

arid and crumbling, had one thing to recommend it that

DeilBo found compelling: the finest acoustics of any world

in the universe.

The Maelstrom Labyrinth. Remnant of volcanic upheavals

and the retreat of oceans and the slow dripping of acid waters,

2 boasted a grand canyon of stalagmites that rose one

hundred and sixty kilometers; stalactites that narrowed into

spear-tip pendants plunging down over ninety kilometers

into bottomless crevasses; caverns and arroyos and tunnels

that had never been plotted; the arching, golden stone walls

had never been seen by the eyes of intelligent creatures; the

Ephemeris called it the Maelstrom Labyrinth, No matter

where one stood in the sixteen-handred-kilometer sprawl of

the Labyrinth, one could speak with a perfectly normal tone,

never even raise one's voice, and be assured that a listener

crouching deep in a cave at the farthest point of the formation

could hear what was said as if the speaker were right beside

him. DeilBo selected the Maelstrom Labyrinth as the site for

the Gathering.

And so they came. One hundred and one thousand alien

life-forms. From what the primitives had once called the con-

stellations of Indus and Pavo, from Sad al Bari in Pegasus,

from Mizar and Phecda, from all the worlds of the stellar

community they came, bearing with them the special sounds

they hoped would be judged the most extraordinary, the most

stirring, the most memorable: ultimate sounds. They came,

because they were bored and there was nowhere else to go;

they came, because they wanted to hear what they had never

heard before. They came; and they heard.

"... he domesticated the elephant, the cat, the bear, the

rat, and kept all the remaining whales in dark stalk,

trying to hear through their ears the note made by the

rocking of the axle of the earth."

W,S. Merwin, The Chart"

If she had one fear in this endless life, it was that she

would be forced to be born again. Yes; of coarse, life was

sacred, but how long, how ceaselessly, repetitiously long did

it have to go on? Why were such terrible stigmas visited on

the relatives and descendants of those who simply, merely,

only wished to know the sweet sleep?

Stileen had tried to remember her exact age just a few

solstices ago. Periodically she tried to remember; and only

when she recognized that it was becoming obsessive did she

put it out of her mind. She was very old, even by the standards

of immortality of her race. And all she truly hungered to

know, after all those times and stars, was the sweet sleep.

A sleep denied her by custom and taboo.

She sought to busy herself with diversions.

She had devised the system of gravity pulse-manipulation

that had kept the dense, tiny worlds of the Neer 322 system

from falling into their Primary. She had compiled the ex-

haustive concordance of extinct emotions of all the dead races

that had ever existed in the stellar community. She had as-

sumed control of the Red Line Armies in the perpetual Pro-

cyon War for over one hundred solstices, and had amassed

more confirmed tallies than any other commander-in-chief

in the War's long history.

Her insatiable curiosity and her race's longevity had com-

bined to provide the necessary state of mind that would lead

her, inevitably, to the sound. And having found it, and having

perceived what it was, and being profoundly ready to enjoy

the sweet sleep, she had come to the Gathering to share it

with the rest of the stellar community.

For the first time in millennia, Stileen was not seeking

merely to amuse herself; she was engaged on a mission of

significance... and finality.

With her sound, she came to the Gathering.

She was ancient, deep yellow, in her jar with cornsilk hair

floating free in the azure solution. DeilBo's butlers took her

to her assigned place in the Labyrinth," set her down on a

limestone ledge in a deep cavern where the acoustics were

particularly rich and true, tended to her modest needs, and

left her.

Stileen had time, then, to dwell on the diminished enthu-

siasm she had for continued life.

DeilBo made the opening remarks, heard precisely and

clearly throughout the Maelstrom. He used no known lan-

guage, in fact used no words. Sounds, mere sounds that key-

noted the Gathering by imparting his feelings of warmth and

camaraderie to the delegates. In every trench and run and

wash and cavern of the Maelstrom, the delegates heard, and

in their special ways smiled with pleasure, even those with-

out mouths or the ability to smile.

It was to be, truly, a Sonority Gathering, in which sounds

alone would be judged. Impressed, the delegates murmured

their pleasure.

Then DeilBo offered to present the first sound for their

consideration. He took the responsibility of placing himself

first, as a gesture of friendship, an icebreaker of a move,

Again, the delegates were pleased at the show of hospitality,

and urged DeilBo to exhibit his special sound.

And this is the sound, the ultimate sound, the very special

sound he had trapped for them:

On the eleventh moon of the world called Chill by its

inhabitants, there is a flower whose roots are sunk deep,

deep into the water pools that lie far beneath the black

stone surface. This flower, without a name, seems to be

an intricate construct of spiderwebs. There are, of

course, no spiders on the eleventh moon of Chill,

Periodically, for no reason anyone has ever been able

to discern, the spiderweb flowers burst into flame, and

very slowly destroy themselves, charring and shriveling

and turning to ashes that lie where they fall. There is

no wind on the eleventh moon of Chill.

During the death ceremonies of the spiderweb flow-

ers, the plants give off a haunting and terrible sound.

It is a song of colors. Shades and hues that have no

counterparts anywhere in the stellar community,

DeilBo had sent scavengers across the entire face of

Chill's eleventh moon, and they had gathered one

hundred of the finest spiderweb flowers, giants among

their kind. DeilBo had talked to the flowers for some

very long time prior to the Gathering. He had told them

what they had been brought to the Maelstrom to do,

and though they could not speak, it became apparent

from the way they straightened in their vats of enriched

water (for they had hung their tops dejectedly when

removed from the eleventh moon of Chill) that they took

DeilBo's purpose as a worthy fulfillment of their des-

tiny, and would be proud to burn on command.

So DeilBo gave that gentle command, speaking sounds

of gratitude and affection to the spiderweb flowers, who

burst into flame and sang their dangerous song of

death--

It began with blue, a very ordinary blue, identifiable

to every delegate who heard it. But the blue was only

the ground coat; in an instant it was overlaid with skirls

of a color like wind through dry stalks of harvested

grain. Then a sea color the deepest shade of a blind fish

tooling through algae-thick waters. Then the color of

hopelessness collided with the color of desperation and

formed a nova of hysteria that in the human delegates

sounded exactly like the color of a widower destroying

himself out of loneliness.

The song of colors went on for what seemed a long

time, though it was only a matter of minutes, and when

it faded away into ashes and was stilled, they all sat

humbled and silent, wishing they had not heard it.

* * *

Stileen revolved slowly in her jar, troubled beyond con-

solation at the first sound the Gathering had proffered. For

the first time in many reborn lifetimes, she felt pain. A sliver

of glass driven into her memories. Bringing back the clear,

loud sound of a moment when she had rejected one who had

loved her. She had driven him to hurt her, and then he had

sunk into a deathly melancholy, a silence so deep no words

she could summon would serve to bring him back. And when

he had gone, she had asked for sleep, and they had given it

to her... only to bring her life once again, all too soon.

In her jar, she wept.

And she longed for the time when she could let them hear

the sound she had found, the sound that would release her

at last from the coil of mortality she now realized she despised *

with all her soul.

After a time, the first delegate--having recovered from

DeilBo's offering--ventured forth with its sound. It was an

insect creature from a world named Joumell, and this was

the sound it had brought:

Far beneath a milky sea on a water world of Jou-

mell's system, there is a vast grotto whose walls are

studded with multicolored quartz crystals whose cy-

toplasmic cell contents duplicate the filament curves of

the galaxies NGC 4038 and NGC 4039, When these crys-

tals mate, there is a perceptible encounter that pro-

duces tidal tails. The sounds of ecstasy these crystals

make when they mate is one long, sustained sigh of

rapture that is capped by yet another, slightly higher

and separate from the preceding. Then another, and

another, until a symphony of crystalline orgasms is pro-

duced no animal throats could match.

The insect Joumelli had brought eleven such crystals

(the minimum number required for a sexual coupling)

from the water world. A cistern formation had been

filled with a white crystalline acid, very much like cum-

inoin; it initiated a cytotaxian movement; a sexual stim-

ulation. The crystals had been put down in the cistern

and now they began their mating.

The sound began with a single note, then another

joined and overlay it, then another, and another. The

symphony began and modulations rose on modulations,

and the delegates closed their eyes--even those who

had no eyes--and they basked in the sound, translating

it into the sounds of joy of their various species.

And when it was ended, many of the delegates found

the affirmation of life permitted them to support the

memory of DeilBo's terrible death melody of the flow-

ers.

Many did not.

". . . the frequencies of their limits of hearing ... a

calendar going forward and backward but not in time, even

though time was the measure of the frequencies as it was

the measure of every other thing (therefore, some say, the

only measure)..."

W. S. Merwin, "The Chart"

She remembered the way they had been when they had

first joined energies. It had been like that sound, the won-

derfttl sound of those marvelous crystals,

Stileen turned her azure solution opaque, and let herself

drift back on a tide of memory. But the tide retreated, leaving

her at the shore of remembrance, where DeilBo's sound still

lingered, dark and terrible. She knew that even the trembling

threads of joy unforgotten could not sustain her, and she

wanted to let them hear what she had brought. There was

simply too much pain in the universe, and if she--peculiar-

ly adapted to contain such vast amounts of anguish--could

not live with it ... there must be an end. It was only hu-

mane.

She sent out a request to be put on the agenda as soon as

possible and DeilBo's butlers advised her she had a time

to wait: and as her contact was withdrawn, she brushed

past a creature reaching out for a position just after hers.

When she touched its mind, it closed off with shocking sud-

denness. Afraid she had been discourteous, Stileen went

away from the creature quickly, and did not reach out again.

But in the instant she had touched it, she had glimpsed some-

thing . . . something with its face hidden , , , it would not

hold . . .

The sounds continued, each delegate presenting a wonder

to match the wonders that had gone before.

The delegate from RR Lyrae IV produced the sound of a

dream decaying in the mind of a mouselike creature from

Bregga, a creature whose dreams formed its only reality. The

delegate from RZ Cephei Beta VI followed with the sound of

ghosts in the Mountains of the Hand; they spoke of the future

and lamented their ability to see what was to come. The

delegate from Ennore came next with the sound of red, mag-

nified till it filled the entire universe. The delegate from

Gateway offered the sound of amphibious creatures at the

moment of their mutation to fully, land-living living verte-

brates; there was a wail of loss at that moment, as their

chromosomes begged for return to the warm, salty sea. The

delegate from Algol CXXIII gave them the sounds of war,

collected from every race in the stellar community, broken

down into their component parts, distilled, purified, and re-

cast as one tone; it was numbing. The delegate from Blad

presented a triptych of sound: a sun being born, the same

sun coasting through its main stage of hydrogen burning, the

sun going nova--a shriek of pain that phased in and out of

normal space-time with lunatic vibrations. The delegate from

lobbaggii played a long and ultimately boring sound that

was finally identified as a neutrino passing through the

universe; when one of the other delegates suggested that

sound, being a vibration in a medium, could not be produced

by a neutrino passing through vacuum, the lobbaggiian re-

sponded--with pique--that the sound produced had been the

sound within the neutrino; the querying delegate then said

it must have taken a very tiny microphone to pick up the

sound; the Lobbaggiian stalked out of the Gathering on his

eleven-meter stilts. When the uproar died away, the agenda

was moved and the delegate from Kruger 60B IX delivered

up a potpourri of sounds of victory and satisfaction and joy

and innocence and pleasure from a gathering of microscopic

species inhabiting a grain of sand in the Big Desert region

of Catrimani; it was a patchwork quilt of delights that helped

knit together the Gathering. Then the delegate from the Opal

Cluster (his specific world's native name was taboo and could

not be used) assaulted them with a sound none could identify,

and when it had faded away into trembling silence, leaving

behind only the memory of cacophony, he told the Gathering

that it was the sound of chaos; no one doubted his word. The

delegate from Mainworld followed with the sound of a celes-

tial choir composed of gases being blown away from a blue'

star in a rosette (nebula) ten light-years across; all the angels

of antiquity could not have sounded more glorious.

And then it was Stileen's turn, and she readied the sound

that would put an end to the Gathering.

"And beyond--and in fact among--the last knowa an-

imals living and extinct, the lines could be drawn

through white spaces that had an increasing progres-

sion of their own, into regions of hearing that was no

longer conceivable, indicating creatures wholly sacri-

ficed or never evolved, hearers of the note at which

everything explodes into light, and of the continuum

that is the standing still of darkness, drums echoing the

last shadow with6ut relinquishing the note of the first

light, hearkeners to the unborn overflowing."

W. S, Merwiii, "The Chart"

"There is no pleasure in this," Stileen communicated, by

thought and by inflection. "But it is the sound that I have

found, the sound I know you would want me to give to

you... and you must do with it what you must. I am sorry."

And she played for them the sound.

It was the sound of the death of the universe. The dying

gasp of their worlds and their suns and their galaxies and

their island universes. The death of all. The final sound.

And when the sound was gone, no one spoke for a long

time, and Stileen was at once sad, but content: now the sleep

would come, and she would be allowed to rest.

"The delegate is wrong."

The silence hung shrouding the moment. The one who had

spoken was a darksmith from Luxann, chief world of the

Logomachy, Theologians, pragmatiste, reasoners sans appel,

his words fell with the weight of certainty.

"It is an oscillating universe," he said, his cowl shrouding

his face, the words emerging from darkness. "It will die, and

it will be reborn. It has happened before, it will happen

again."

And the tone of the Gathering grew brighter, even as

Stileen's mood spiraled down into despair. She was ambi-

valent--pleased for them, that they eould see an end to their

ennui and yet perceive the rebirth of life in the universe--

desolate for herself, knowing somehow, some way, she would

be recalled from the dead.

And then the creature she had passed in reaching out for

her place on the agenda, the creature that had blocked itself

to her mental touch, came forward in their minds and said,

"There is another sound beyond hers."

This was the sound the creature let them hear, the sound that

had always been there, that had existed for time beyond time,

that could not be heard though the tone was always with them;

and it could be heard now only because it existed as it passed

through the instrument the creature made of itself,

It was the sound of reality, and it sang of the end beyond

the end, the final and total end that said without possibility

of argument, there will be no rebirth because we have never

existed.

Whatever they had thought they were, whatever arrogance

had brought their dream into being, it was now coming to final

moments, and beyond those moments there was nothing.

No space, no time, no life, no thought, no gods, no resur-

rection and rebirth.

The creature let the tone die away, and those who could

reach out with their minds to see what it was, were turned

back easily. It would not let itself be seen.

The messenger of eternity had only anonymity to redeem

itself.. .for whom?

And for Stileen, who did not even try to penetrate the

barriers, there was no pleasure in the knowledge that it had

all been a dream. For if it had been a dream, then the joy

had been a dream, as well.

It was not easy to go down to emptiness, never having

tasted joy. But there was no appeal.

In the Maelstrom Labyrinth, there was no longer ennui.

Stars, Won't You Hide Me?

BEN BOVA

O sinner-man, where are you going to run to? O

sinner-man, where are you going to run to? O

sinner-man, where are you going to run to All

on that day?

The ship was hurt, and Holman could feel its pain. He lay

fetal-like in the contoured couch, his silvery uniform spider-

webbed by dozens of contact and probe wires connecting him

to the ship so thoroughly that it was hard to tell where his

own nervous system ended and the electronic networks of the

ship began.

Holman felt the throb of the ship's mighty engines as his

own pulse, and the gaping wounds in the generator section.,

where the enemy beams had struck, were searing his flesh.

Breathing was difficult, labored, even though the ship was

working hard to repair itself.

They were fleeing, he and the ship; hurtling through the

star lanes to a refuge. But where?

The main computer flashed its lights to get his attention.

Holman rubbed his eyes wearily and said:

"Okay, what is it?"

YOU HAVE NOT SELECTED A COURSE, the computer

said aloud, while printing the words on its viewscreen at the

same time.

Holman stared at the screen. "Just away from here," he

said at last, "Anyplace, as long as it's far away."

The computer blinked thoughtfully for a moment, SPE-

CIFIC COURSE INSTRUCTION IS REQUIRED.

"What difference does it make?" Holman snapped. "It's

over. Everything finished. Leave me alone,"

IN LIEU OF SPECIFIC INSTRUCTIONS, IT IS NEC-

ESSARY TO TAP SUBCONSCIOUS SOURCES,

"Tap away."

The computer did just that. And if it could have been

surprised, it would have been at the wishes buried deep in

Holman's inner mind. But instead, it merely correlated those

wishes to its singleminded purpose of the moment, and re-

layed a set of flavigational instructions to the ship's guidance

system.

Run to the moon: O Moon, won't you hide me?

The Lord said: O sinner-man, the moon'll be a-bleeding

All on that day.

The Final Battle had been lost. On a million million

planets across the galaxy-studded universe, mankind had

been blasted into defeat and annihilation. The Others had

returned from across the edge of the observable world, just

as man had always feared. They had returned and ruthlessly

exterminated the race from Earth.

It had taken eons, but time twisted strangely in a civili-

zation of light-speed ships. Holman himself, barely thirty

years old subjectively, had seen both the beginning of the

ultimate war and its tragic end. He had gone from school into

the military. And fighting inside a ship that could span the

known universe in a few decades while he slept in cryogenic

suspension, he had aged only ten years during the billions

of years that the universe had ticked off in its stately, objec-

tive time-flow.

The Final Battle, from which Holman was fleeing, had

been fought near an exploded galaxy billions of light-years

from the Milky Way and Earth. There, with the ghastly

bluish glare of uncountable shattered stars as a backdrop,

the once-mighty fleets of mankind had been arrayed. Mortals

and Immortals alike, men drew themselves up-to face the

implacable Others.

The enemy won. Not easily, but completely. Mankind was

crushed, totally. A few fleeing men in a few battered ships

was all that remained. Even the Immortals, Holman thought

wryly, had not escaped. The Others had taken special care

to make certain that they were definitely killed.

So it was over.

Holman's mind pictured the blood-soaked planets he had

seen during his brief, ageless lifetime of violence. His

thoughts drifted back to his own homeworld, his own family:

gone long, long centuries ago. Crumbled into dust by geolog-

ical time or blasted suddenly by the overpowering Others.

Either way, the remorseless flow of time had covered them

over completely, obliterated them, in the span of a few of

Holman's heartbeats.

AH gone now. All the people he knew, all the planets he

had seen through the snipes electroptical eyes, all of man-

kind ... extinct.

He could feel the drowsiness settling upon him. The ship

was accelerating to lightspeed, and the cryogenic sleep was

coming. But he didn't want to fall into slumber with those

thoughts of blood and terror and loss before him.

With a conscious effort, Holman focused his thoughts on

the only other available subject: the outside world, the uni-

verse of galaxies. An infinitely black sky studded with islands

of stars. Glowing shapes of light, spiral, ovoid, elliptical,

Little smears of warmth in the hollow unending darkness;

drabs of red and blue standing against the engulfing night.

One of them, he knew, was the Milky Way. Man's original

home. From this distance it looked the same. Unchanged by

little annoyances like the annihilation of an intelligent race

of star-roamers.

He drowsed.

The ship bore onward, preceded by an invisible net offeree,

thousands of kilometers in radius, that scooped in the rare

atoms of hydrogen drifting between the galaxies and fed them

into the ship's wounded, aching generators.

Something...a thought. Holman stirred in the couch. A

consciousness--vague, distant, alien--brushed his mind.

He opened his eyes and looked at the computer viewscreen.

Blank.

"Who is it?" he asked.

A thought skittered away from him. He got the impression

of other minds: simple, open, almost childish. Innocent and

curious.

It's a ship.

Where is it... oh, yes. I can sense it now. A beautiful ship.

Holman squinted with concentration.

It's very far away. I can barely reach it.

And inside of the ship...

It's a man. A human?

He's afraid.

He makes me feel afraid.!

Holman called out, "Where are you?"

He's trying to speak.

Don't answer!

But...

He makes me afraid Don't answer him. We've heard about

humans!

Holman asked, "Help me,"

Don't answer him and he'll go away. He's already so far

off that I can barely hear him.

But he asks for help.

Yes, because he knows what is following him. Don't answer.

Don't answer!

Their thoughts slid away from his mind, Holman automat-

ically focused the outside viewscreens, but here in the empti-

ness between galaxies he could find neither ship nor planet

anywhere in sight. He listened again, so hard that his head

started to ache. But no more voices. He was alone againf alone

in the metal womb of the ship,

He knows what is following him. Their words echoed in

his brain. Are the Others following me? Have they picked up

my trail? They must have. They must be right behind me.

He could feel the cold perspiration start to trickle over

him.

"But they can't catch me as long as I keep moving," he

muttered. "Right?"

CORRECT, said the computer, flashing lights at him. AT

A RELATIVISTIC VELOCITY, WITHIN LESS THAN ONE

PERCENT OF LIGHTSPEED, IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR

THIS SHIP TO BE OVERTAKEN.

"Nothing can catch me as long as I keep running."

But his mind conjured up a thought of the Immortals.

Nothing could kill them. . .except the Others.

Despite himself, Holman dropped into deepsleep. His body

temperature plummeted to near-zero. His heartbeat nearly

stopped. And as the ship streaked at almost lightspeed, a

hardly visible blur to anyone looking for it, the outside world

continued to live at its own pace. Stars coalesced from gas

clouds, matured, and died in explosions that fed new clouds for

newer stars. Planets formed and grew mantles of air. Life took

root and multiplied, evolved, built a myriad of civilizations in

just as many different forms, decayed and died away.

All while Holman slept.

Run to the sea: O sea, won't you hide me?

The Lord said: O sinner-man, the sea'll be a-sinking

All on that day.

The computer woke him gently with a series of soft chimes.

APPROACHING THE SOLAR SYSTEM AND PLANET

EARTH, AS INDICATED BY YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS

COURSE INSTRUCTIONS.

Planet Earth, man's original homeworld, Holman nodded.

Yes, this was where he had wanted to go. He had never seen

the Earth, never been on this side of the Milky Way galaxy.

Now he would visit the teeming nucleus of man's doomed civ-

ilization. He would bring the news of the awful defeat, and be

on the site of mankind's birth when the inexorable tide of ex-

tinction washed over the Earth.

He noticed, as he adjusted the outside viewscreens, that

the pain had gone.

"The generators have repaired themselves," he said.

WHILE YOU SLEPT. POWER GENERATION SYSTEM

NOW OPERATING NORMALLY.

Holman smiled. But the smile faded as the ship swooped -

closer to the solar system. He turned from the outside views-

creens to the computer once again, "Are the 'scopes working

all right?"

The computer hummed briefly, then replied. SUBSYS-

TEMS CHECK SATISFACTORY, COMPONENT CHECK

SATISFACTORY. INTEGRATED EQUIPMENT CHECK

POSITIVE. VIEWING EQUIPMENT FUNCTIONING NOR-

MALLY.

Holman looked again. The sun was rushing up to meet his

gaze, but something was wrong about it. He knew deep within

him, even without having ever seen the sun this close before,

that something''was wrong. The sun was whitish and some-

how stunted looking, not the full yellow orb he had seen in

film-tapes. And the Earth...

The ship took up a parking orbit around a planet scoured

dean of life: a blackened ball of rock, airless, waterless. Hov-

ering over the empty, charred ground, Holman stared at the

devastation with tears in his eyes. Nothing was left. Not a

brick, not a blade of grass, not a drop of water.

"The Others." he whispered. "They got here first."

NEGATIVE, the computer replied. CHECK OF STELLAR

POSITIONS FROM EARTH REFERENCE SHOWS THAT

SEVERAL BILLIONS YEARS HAVE ELAPSED SINCE

THE FINAL BATTLE.

"Seven billion..,"

LOGIC CIRCUITS INDICATE THE SUN HAS GONE

THROUGH A NOVA PHASE. A COMPLETELY NATURAL

PHENOMENON UNRELATED TO ENEMY ACTION.

Holman pounded a fist on the unflinching armrest of his

couch. "Why did I come here? I wasn't born on Earth. I never

saw Earth before..."

YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS INDICATES A SUBJECTIVE

IMPULSE STIRRED BY...

"To hell with my subconscious!" He stared out at the dead

world again. "All those people...the cities>> all the millions

of years of evolution, of life. Even the oceans are gone. 1 never

saw an ocean. Did you know that? I've traveled over half the

universe and never saw an ocean."

OCEANS ARE A COMPARATIVELY RARE PHENOM-

ENON EXISTING ON ONLY ONE OUT OF APPROXI-

MATELY THREE THOUSAND PLANETS.

The ship drifted outward from Earth, past a blackened

Mars, a shrunken Jupiter, a ringless Saturn.

"Where do I go now?" Holman asked.

The computer stayed silent.

Run to the Lord: O Lord, won't you hide me?

The Lord said: O sinner-man, you ought to be a-praying

All on that day.

Holman sat blankly while the ship swung out past the

orbit of Pluto and into the comet belt at the outermost reaches

of the sun's domain.

He was suddenly aware of someone watching him.

No cause for fear. I am not of the Others.

It was an utterly calm; placid voice speaking in his mind:

almost gentle, except that it was completely devoid of emo-

tion.

"Who are you?"

An observer. Nothing more.

"What are you doing out here? Where are you, I can't see

anything..."

I have been waiting for any stray survivor of the Final Battle '

to return to mankind's first home. You are the only one to come

this way, in all this time.

"Waiting? Why?"

Holman sensed a bemused shrug, -and a giant spreading

of vast wing.

I am an observer. I have watched mankind since the be-

ginning. Several of my race even attempted to make contact

with you from time to time. But the results were always the

same--about as useful as your attempts to communicate with

insects. We are too different from each other. We have evolved

on different planes. There was no basis for understanding

between us.

"But you watched us."

Yes. Watched you grow strong and reach out to the stars,

only to be smashed back by the Others: Watched you regain

your strength, go back among the stars. But this time you were

constantly on guard, wary, alert, waiting for the Others to

strike once again. Watched you find civilizations that you could

not comprehend, such as our own, bypass them as you spread

through the galaxies. Watched you contact civilizations of your

own level, that you could communicate with. You usually went

to war with them.

"And all you did was watch?"

We tried to warn you from time to time. We tried to advise

you. But the warnings, the contacts, the glimpses of the future

that we gave you were always ignored or derided. So you boiled

out into space for the second time, and met other societies at

your own level of understanding--aggressive, proud, fearful,

And like the children you are, you fought endlessly.

"But the Others,,, what about them?"

They are your punishment.

"Punishment? For what? Because we fought wars?"

No. For stealing immortality.

"Stealing immortality? We worked for it. We learned how

to make humans immortal. Some sort of chemicals. We were

going to immortalize the whole race... I could've become im-

mortal. Immortal! But they couldn't stand that... the Others.

They attacked us."

He sensed a disapproving shake of the head.

"It's true," Holman insisted. "They were afraid of how pow-

erful we would become once we were all immortal. So they at-

tacked as white theystill could. Just as they had done a

million years earlier. They destroyed Earth's first

interstellar civilization, and tried to finish us permanently.

They even caused Ice Ages on Earth to make sure none of us

would survive. But we lived through it and went back to the

stars. So they hit us again. They wiped us out. Good God, for

all I know I'm the last human being in the whole universe."

Your knowledge of the truth is imperfect. Mankind could

have achieved immortality in time. Most races evolve that way

eventually. But you were impatient. You stole immortality.

"Because we did it artificially, with chemicals. That's

stealing it?"

Because the chemicals that gave you immortality came from

the bodies of the race you called the Flower People. And to

take the chemicals, it was necessary to kill individuals of that

race.

Holman's eyes widened. "What?"

For every human made immortal, one of the Flower Folk

had to die.

"We killed them? Those harmless little..." His voice

trailed off.

To achieve racial immortality for mankind, it would have

been necessary to perform racial murder on the Flower Folk.

Holman heard the words, but his mind was numb, trying

to shut down tight on itself and squeeze out reality.

That is why the Others struck. That is why they had at-

tacked you earlier, during your first expansion among the

stors. You had found another race, with the same chemical

of immortality. You were taking them into your laboratories

and methodically murdering them. The Others stopped you

then. But they took pity on you, and let a few survivors remain

on Earth. They caused your Ice Ages as a kindness, to speed

your development back to civilization, not to hinder you. They

hoped you might evolve into a better species. But when the

opportunity for immortality came your way once more, you

seized it, regardless of the cost, heedless of your own ethical

standards. It became necessary to extinguish you, the Others

decided.

"And not a single nation in the whole universe would help

us."

Why should they?

"So it's wrong for us to kill, but it's perfectly all right for

the Others to exterminate us."

No one has spoken of right and wrong. I have only told you

the truth.

"They're going to kill every last one of us."

There is only one of you remaining.

The words flashed through Holman. "I'm the only one... the

last one?"

No answer.

He was alone now. Totally alone. Except for those who

were following.

Run to Satan: O Satan, won't you hide me?

Satan said: O sinner-man, step right in All on

that day.

Holman sat in shocked silence as the solar system shrank to

a pinpoint of light and finally blended into the mighty pano-

rama of stars that streamed across the eternal night of space.

The ship raced away, sensing Holman's guilt and misery in its

electronic way.

Immortality through murder, Holman repeated to himself

over and over. Racial immortality through racial murder.

And he had been a part of it! He had defended it, even sought

immortality as his reward. He had fought his whole lifetime

for it, and killed--so that he would not have to face death.

He sat there surrounded by self-repairing machinery,

dressed in a silvery uniform, linked to a thousand automatic

systems that fed him, kept him warm, regulated his air supply,

monitored his blood flow, exercised his muscles with ultrasonic

vibrators, pumped vitamins into him, merged his mind with

the passionless brain of the ship, kept his body tanned and vig-

orous, his reflexes razor-sharp. He sat there unseeing, his eyes

pinpointed on a horror that he had helped to create. Not con-

sciously, of course. But to Holman, that was all the worse. He

had fought without knowing what he was defending. Without

even asking himself about it. All the marvels of man's inge-

nuity, all the deepest longings of the soul, focused on racial

murder.

Finally he became aware of the computer's frantic buzzing

and lightflashing.

"What is itr

COURSE INSTRUCTIONS ARE REQUIRED.

"What difference does it make? Why ntn anymore?"

YOUR DUTY IS TO PRESERVE YOURSELF UNTIL

ORDERED TO DO OTHERWISE.

Holman heard himself laugh. "Ordered? By who? There's

nobody left."

THAT IS AN UNPROVED ASSUMPTION.

"The war was billions of years ago," Holman said. "It's

been over for eons. Mankind died in that war. Earth no longer

exists. The sun is a white dwarf star. We're anachronisms,

you and me..."

THE WORD IS ATAVISM,

"The hell with the word! I want to end it, I'm tired,"

IT IS TREASONABLE TO SURRENDER WHILE STILL

CAPABLE OF FIGHTING AND/OR ELUDING THE EN-

EMY.

"So shoot me for treason. That's as good a way as any."

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR SYSTEMS OF THIS SHIP TO

HARM YOU.

"All right then, let's stop running. The Others will find

us soon enough once we stop. They'll know what to do."

THIS SHIP CANNOT DELIBERATELY ALLOW ITSELF

TO FALL INTO ENEMY HANDS.

"You're disobeying me?"

THIS SHIP IS PROGRAMMED

FOR MAXIMUM EF-

FECTIVENESS AGAINST THE ENEMY, A WEAPONS

SYSTEM DOES NOT SURRENDER VOLUNTARILY.

"I'm no weapons system, I'm a man, dammit!"

THIS WEAPONS

SYSTEM

INCLUDES A

HUMAN PILOT.

IT WAS DESIGNED FOR HUMAN USE. YOU ARE AN

INTEGRAL COMPONENT OF THE SYSTEM.

"Damn you... I'll kill myself. Is that what you want?"

He reached for the control panels set before him. It would

be simple enough to manually shut off the air supply, or blow

open an airlock, or even set off the ship's destruct explosives.

But Holman found that he could not move his arms. He

could not even sit up straight. He collapsed back into the

padded softness of the couch, glaring at the computer view-

screen.

SELF-PROTECTION MECHANISMS INCLUDE THE

CAPABILITY OF PREVENTING THE HUMAN COMPO-

NENT OF THE SYSTEM FROM IRRATIONAL ACTIONS.

A series of clicks and blinks, then: IN LIEU OF SPECIFIC

COURSE INSTRUCTIONS, A RANDOM EVASION PAT-

TERN WILL BE RUN.

Despite his fiercest efforts, Holman felt himself dropping

into deep sleep. Slowly, slowly, everything faded, and dark-

ness engulfed him.

Run to the stars: O stars, won't you hide me?

The Lord said: O sinner-man, the stars'll be a-falling

All on that day.

Holman slept as the ship raced at near-lightspeed in an

erratic, meaningless course, looping across galaxies, darting

through eons of time. When the computer's probings of Hoi-

man's subconscious mind told it that everything was safe, it

instructed the cryogenics system to reawaken the man.

He blinked, then slowly sat up.

SUBCONSCIOUS INDICATIONS SHOW THAT THE

WAVE OF IRRATIONALITY HAS PASSED.

Holman said nothing.

YOU WERE SUFFERING FROM AN EMOTIONAL

SHOCK.

"And now it's an emotional pain... a permanent, fixed, im-

mutable disease that will kill me, sooner or later. But don't

worry, I won't kill myself. I'm over that. And I won't do any-

thing to damage you, either."

COURSE INSTRUCTIONS?

He shrugged. "Let's see what the world looks like out

there." Holman focused the outside viewscreens. "Things look

different," he said, puzzled. "The sky isn't black anymore; it's

sort of grayish--like the first touch of dawn..."

COURSE INSTRUCTIONS?

He took a deep breath. "Let's try to find some planet where

the people are too young to have heard of mankind, and too

innocent to worry about death."

A PRIMITIVE CIVILIZATION. THE SCANNERS CAN

ONLY DETECT SUCH SOCIETIES AT EXTREMELY

CLOSE RANGE.

"Okay. We've got nothing but time."

The ship doubled back to the nearest galaxy and began a

searching pattern. Holman stared at the sky, fascinated.

Something strange was happening.

The viewscreens showed him the outside world, and au-

tomatically corrected the wavelength shifts caused by the

ship's immense velocity. It was as though Holman were

watching a speeded-up tape of cosmological evolution. Gal-

axies seemed to be edging into his field of view, mammoth

islands of stars, sometimes coming close enough to collide.

He watched the nebulous arms of a giant spiral slice silently

through the open latticework of a great ovoid galaxy. He saw

two spirals interpenetrate, their loose gas heating to an in-

tense blue that finally disappeared into ultraviolet. And all

the while, the once-black sky was getting brighter and

brighter.

"Found anything yet?" he absently asked the computer,

still staring at the outside view.

You will find no one.

Holman's whole body went rigid. No mistaking it: the

Others.

No race, anywhere, will shelter you.

We will see to that.

You are alone, and you will be alone until death

you to join your fellow men.

Their voices inside his head rang with cold fury. An im-

placable hatred, cosmic and eternal.

"But why me? I'm only one man. What harm can I do

now?"

You are a human.

You are accursed. A race of murderers.

Your punishment is extinction.

"But I'm not an Immortal, I never even saw an Immortal.

I didn't know about the Flower People, I just took orders."

Total extinction.

For all of mankind.

All.

"Judge and jury, all at once. And executioners too. All

right.. .try and get me! If you're so powerful, and it means

so much to you that you have to wipe out the last single man

in the universe--come and get me! Just try."

You have no right to resist.

Your race is evil. All must pay with death.

You cannot escape us.

"I don't care what we've done. Understand? I don't care!

Wrong, right, it doesn't matter. I didn't do anything. I won't

accept your verdict for something I didn't do."

It makes no difference.

You can flee to the ends of the universe to no avail.

You have forced us to leave our time-continuum. We can

never return to our homeworlds again. We have nothing to do

but pursue you. Sooner or later your machinery will fail. You

cannot flee us forever.

Their thoughts broke off. But Holman could stilHeel them,

still sense them following.

"Can't flee forever," Holman repeated to himself. "Well,

I can damn well try."

He looked at the outside viewscreens again, and suddenly

the word forever took on its real meaning.

The galaxies were clustering in now, falling in together

as though sliding down some titanic, invisible slope. The

universe had stopped expanding eons ago, Holman now re-

alized. Now it was contracting, pulling together again. It was

all ending!

He laughed. Coming to an end. Mankind and the Others,

together, coming to the ultimate and complete end of every-

thing.

"How much longer?" he asked the computer. "How long

do we have?"

The computer's lights flashed once, twice, then went dark.

The viewscreen was dead.

Holman stared at the machine. He looked around the com-

partment. One by one the outside viewscreens were flicker-

ing, becoming static-streaked, weak, and then winking off.

"They're taking over the ship!"

With every ounce of willpower in him, Holman concen-

trated on the generators and engines. That was the important

part, the crucial system that spelled the difference between

victory and defeat. The ship had to keep moving!

He looked at the instrument panels, but their soft lumi-

nosity faded away into darkness. And now it was becoming

difficult to breathe. And the heating units seemed to be

stopped. Holman could feel his life-warmth ebbing away

through the inert metal hull of the dying ship.

But the engines were still throbbing. The ship was still

streaking across space and time, heading towards a rendez-

vous with the infinite.

Surrender.

In a few moments you will be dead. Give up this mad fight

and die peacefully,

The ship shuddered violently. What were they doing to it

now?

Surrender!

"Go to hell," Holman snapped. "While there's breath in

me, I'll spend it fighting you."

You cannot escape.

But now Holman could feel warmth seeping into the

ship.

He could sense the painful glare outside as billions of galaxies

all rushed together down to a single cataclysmic point in

spacetime.

"It's almost over!" he shouted. "Almost finished. And

you've lost! Mankind is still alive, despite everything you've

thrown at him. AH of mankind--the good and the bad, the

murderers and the music, wars and cities and everything

we've ever done, the.whole race from the beginning of time

to the end--all locked up here in my skull. And I'm stil! here.

Do you hear me? I'm still here!" The Others were silent,

Holman could feel a majestic rumble outside the ship, like

distant thunder,

"The end of the world. The end of everything and every-

body. We finish in a tie. Mankind has made it right down to

the final second. And if there's another universe after this

one, maybe there'll be a place in it for us all over again. How's

that for laughs?"

The world ended.

Not with a whimper, bat a roar of triumph.

2

SUN

DES

TRO

YED

What if the Universe continues on its peaceful way, but it is

our Sun that is somehow destroyed? That would be a "Ca-

tastrophe of the Second Class."

In the prescientific age, it was felt that the Sun was not

reliable. In the Norse myths, the Sun and Moon were forever

pursued by wolves who might swallow them at any time. In

the Greek myths, an unskilled hand at the reins of the solar

chariot sent the Sun careening toward the Earth and nearly

destroyed it. Science knows better. The Sun is stable--but is

it? Do we know enough? Can it destroy us willfully, unpre-

dictably ("Judgement Day" by Lloyd Biggie, Jr.)?

Well, perhaps not willfully, unpredictably--but inevita-

bly. The Sun cannot last forever. In the 1840s, Hermann von

Helmholtz worked out the law of conservation of energy, and

that in itself, told us the Sun had a finite life and must die

("The Custodian" by William Tenn)--but not for billions of

years, we believe.

The manner of that death has changed since Helmholtz's

day. For nearly a century, it was taken for granted that the

Sun was, one way or anqther, a huge bonfire that would

flicker, die down and cool. It would take longer for the Sun

to do so than an ordinary bonfire but it was just as inevitable

("Phoenix" by Clark Ashton Smith).

By the 1930s, however Hans A. Bethe and Carl von

Weizsacker had worked out the details of the nuclear fires

of the Sun and it began to seem that our luminary would go

out in a deadly blaze rather than a pitiful flicker ("Run from

the Fire" by Harry Harrison).

Judgement Day

LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

Lem Dyer was used to being talked about. For years people

had thought him a bit touched in the head, or a harmless

dreamer, or maybe some kind of soothsayer, and in Glenn

Center when folks thought something they said it. Lem never

minded.

They were saying other things about Mm that evening,

foul, vicious things. Lem heard some of them, spewed up from

the crowd that gathered below his cell window. He tilted the

battered old chair baek against the cement-block wall and

sat there in the dark, puffing slowly on his corncob pipe and

only half listening to the arguments, and the coarse shouts,

and the jeers. "Shucks," he told himself, "They don't mean

nothin' by it."

And after a while he heard the sheriff's booming voice

talking to the crowd, telling the men to go home, telling them

they had -nothing to worry about, and they might as well

leave Lem Dyer alone with his conscience.

"He'll hang at sunrise, just as sure as there'll be a sunrise,"

Sheriff Harbson said. "Now go on home and get to bed. You

don't want to oversleep, do you?"

There was more talk, and then the men drifted away, and

things got quiet, The sheriff came back in the jail and barred

the front door, and Lem heard him talking to the deputies,

allowing that Lem Dyer might or might not be the things

people said he was, but he sure was an odd one.

"Going to hang in the morning," the sheriff said, "and he's

sitting back there in his cell smoking his pipe just like he

always used to do out in his shack, of an evening. To look at

him you'd think nothing had happened--or was going to hap-

pen."

Lem chuckled softly to himself. The sheriff was a good

man. He'd gone out of his way to make Lem comfortable and

bring him little things like tobacco and even a drink of whisky

now and then. And when Lem had thanked him, he'd said,

"Hell, I've got to hang you. Isn't that punishment enough?"

Lem puffed contentedly on his pipe and decided he should

do something for the sheriff. But later on, after all this was

over with.

He'd wanted to tell the sheriff that there wouldn't be any

hanging, and he was wasting a lot of money building that

scaffold and getting everything ready. But he couldn't with-

out telling him about the pictures, and the looking and choos-

ing, and he'd never told anyone about that. And perhaps it

was just as well that he hadn't told him, because the scaffold

was in the pictures.

He'd looked at so many pictures it'd given him a headache,

and the scaffold was in all of them, and the people crowding

around it, and Lem Dyer dangling by his neck. And then the

deputy running out of the jail and shouting, stop, the governor

just telephoned, Lem Dyer is granted a reprieve, and the

people laughing at Lem hanging there and shouting back,

cut him down and reprieve him.

It was nice of the governor, Lem thought, to take such an

interest in him, and he'd gone on looking at pictures, trying

to find one where the governor telephoned in time. There was

one where Sheriff Harbson got sick just as he was leading

Lem up to the scaffold, and he lay there on the ground looking

terrible, and Lem didn't like that even if it did hold things

up until the governor telephoned. And there was a picture

where the Glenn Hotel caught on fire, but some people got

hurt, and Lem didn't want that. He'd gone on looking, and

finally he found a picture where the rope broke, or came

untied, and he fell right through the trap to the ground. It

took some time to get things ready again, and the deputy

came out shouting stop before they got Lem back up on the

scaffold. Then the sheriff led Lem back toward the jail, with

all the people following along behind. Lem liked that picture,

and it was the one he chose.

He knew it wouldn't get him out of jail, and he'd have to

look at pictures again. But he wasn't in any hurry. Looking

at pictures made him terribly tired, now that he was getting

old. He didn't like to do it unless he had to.

That was why he'd gotten into trouble. If he'd looked at

pictures he wouldn't have jumped into the river to pull out

the little Olmstead girl, and he wouldn't have carried her

over to Doc Beasley's house, thinking the doctor might be

able to help her, Or he would have made it come out some

other way. But he hadn't looked at pictures, and people had

started talking about haw maybe it was Lem who killed the

little girl, and finally they'd taken him to court and had a

trial.

Even then Lem hadn't looked at pictures. He hadn't done

anything wrong, and he thought he didn't have anything to

worry about. But the jury said he was guilty, and Judge

Wilson said he waa to hang by his neck until he was dead,

and Ted Emmons, who'd grown up to be a lawyer and was

looking after things for Lem,.stopped smiling when he came

to see him.

So Lem had looked at pictures again, and now he'd made

his choice and everything would be all right.

He got up and fumbled in the dark for his can of tobacco.

Suddenly the lights came on in the corridor, and footsteps

shuffled in his direction.

"Visitors, Lem," the sheriff called. He stepped into sight,

keys jangling, and unlocked the cell door.

Reverend Meyers, of the Glenn Center First Baptist

Church, sounded a deep-toned, "Good evening, Lem," gripped

his hand, and then backed off into a corner and fussed with

his hat. District Attorney Whaley nodded jerkily and tried

to grin. He was middle-aged and getting a little fat and bald,

but Lem remembered him as a tough kid stoning rats over

at the town dump. Lem thought maybe he was feelmg a little

proud of the way he talked the jury into finding Lem guilty,

but then--that was his job, and the people had elected him

to do it.

Mr. Whaley's grin slipped away, leaving him tight-lipped.

He cleared his throat noisily and said, "Well, Lem, being as

it's the last night, we were--that is, I was--wondering if

maybe you had something to get off your chest."

Lem sat down again and tilted back in his chair. He lit

his pipe and puffed for a moment before he said slowly,

"Why--no. I don't reckon I've got anything on my chest that's

botherin' me enough to need getting off, I never went much

to church except on Christmas Eve, and that because I liked

to watch the kids more than for the religion. The Revern here

would say I wasn't a religious man, but I don't think he'd call

me bad. I reckon maybe I've shot sne or two deer and caught

a few fish out of season, because I needed the meat, and I've

bet some on the races at the county fair, but a lot of men do

that. I don't think I ever broke any other laws, and I never

hurt nobody, and I think maybe I did help a lot of people,"

"I don't think anyone would call you a bad man, Lena,"

Whaley said. "But even good men make mistakes, and we'd

all feel better, and so would you, if you told us about it."

"I told you all I know, Mr. Whaley," Lem said. "I saw the

little girl floatin' in the river, and I thought she was drownin'.

I didn't know somebody'd choked her. I jumped in and pulled

her out, and I remembered that sometimes drowned people

could be brought to life but I didn't know how, so I ran to

Doc Beasley's with her. I can't tell more than that."

Whaley stopped his pacing to fumble for a cigarette. The

sheriff gave him one of his and held a match for him.

"It doesn't worry you, Lem?" Whaley asked. "You're going

to hang in the morning. You wouldn't want to die with that

on your conscience, would you?"

"It don't worry me none," Lem said. "They don't hang

innocent men, do they?"

"Why, no--"

"Then I got nothin' to worry about. I won't hang." He

nodded his gray head and smiled peacefully.

Whaley stared at him for a moment. Then he turned

abruptly and said over his shoulder, "Good luck, Lem,"

"Why, thank you, Mr. Whaley."

The sheriff followed Whaley out and locked the cell door.

"Just holler when you're ready, Reverend," he said.

As their footsteps faded away down the corridor, a wistful

grin touched Reverend Meyers's gaunt face. He lowered his

long form awkwardly onto Lem's cot. "They're worried some,

Lem," he said. "They'd feel a lot better if you up and told

them you did it. They're'beginning to think maybe they're

hanging an innocent man tomorrow."

"I can't tell them I did it if I didn't, Revern."

"Of course not, Lem. I know you didn't do it. So do quite

a few other people. We've been working on it, Lem--working

hard. Ted Emmons, and I, and some others. We didn't want

to say anything to you because that might have made you

start hoping, and we really didn't know if we could help you.

We've finally had some luck, and we'think we know who

killed the child. Ted Emmons is trying right now to get hold

of the governor, to get you a reprieve. All we need is a little

more time."

Lem nodded. That explained the telephone call from the

governor that would have come too late if he hadn't looked

at the pictures and made a choice. But now everything would

be all right. He'd get the reprieve, and then they would find

the real murderer let Lem out of jail, he wouldn't

have to look at pictures again. He felt happy about that,

because looking at pictures tired him so.

"Ted was having some trouble getting through to the gov-

ernor," the Reverend said, "but he'll keep trying all night,

if he has to. Just put your trust in God, Lem, and everything

will be all right."

"I haven't been worryin', Revern."

"Keep faith with God, Lem. Do you mind if I pray for you?"

"You go right ahead, Revern."

Reverend Meyers bowed his head and spoke softly. Lem

didn't listen, but he watched him uneasily. He hadn't put any

faith at all in God. He'd put all his faith in his pictures, and

the looking and choosing, and it disturbed him to think that

maybe God was showing him the pictures and letting him

look and choose. He'd never thought of that before. The pic-

tures were just something he'd always had, like ears to hear

with, and a mouth to eat with, and eyes, and hands, and legs.

But then--God gave out those things, too, or so he'd heard

Reverend Meyers say, so maybe God was showing him the

pictures.

The Reverend Meyers intoned a soft, "Amen," and Lem

said, "I'll have to do some thinkin', Revern,"

"How's that, Lem?"

"What you said--faith in God, and that. I'll have to do

some thinkin'."

"I wish you woukL And Lem--it might be that Ted won't

reach the governor, or that the governor won't grant the

reprieve. If feat should happen, remember that the sheriff,

and the district attorney, and the jury, have only done their

duty as they saw it. Have charity in your heart for all men,

Lem. Think of the Lord Jesus on the cross saying, 'Father,

forgive them, for they know not what they do.'"

"Sure, Revern. I'll remember."

"I'll be with you in the morning, Lem. And the sheriff will

let you know right away if there's any good news."

The sheriff came for Reverend Meyers, and a moment later

the lights were turned out. Lem sat in the darkness, smoking

his pipe and thinking.

He couldn't remember when he'd first started seeing pic-

tures and making choices. He'd never done it very often, even

when he was young, because it left him dizzy and kind of sick

to his stomach, and sometimes he felt so weak afterward that

it scared him. But whenever he wanted something real bad

he would sit down somewhere and close his eyes and think

about what it was he wanted. The pictures would come, one

after the other. It was like slowly flipping through a deck of

cards and taking time to look carefully at each one. When he

found the picture he wanted he would choose that one, and

that's the way things would happen.

The other kids envied him. They said Lem Dyer was the

luckiest kid in three counties. He was always getting chances

to run errands and do little things for people to earn spending

money, but it wasn't luck. It was because of the pictures. If

he wanted a stick of candy, all he had to do was find a picture

where some lady was leaving Crib's Store with an armful of

groceries and looking for someone to help her. He would

choose that one and run down to Crib's Store, and whoever

it was would come out and give him-a penny to carry her

groceries. He was always there when Mr. Jones wanted the

sidewalk swept in front of his barber shop, or when Banker

Goldman wanted something run over to the post office in a

hurry and everyone in the bank was busy. He didn't realize

yet that it was his choosing that made people want things

done.

- He couldn't understand why the other kids didn't look at

pictures when they wanted things. He was maybe nine or ten

when he and some of his friends were stretched out on the

river bank talking, and Stubby Smith went on and on about

how much he wanted a bicycle. Lem said, "If you really want

one, why don't you get it?"

The kids hooted at him and asked him why he didn't get

one. Lem had never thought about getting something big,

like a bicycle. He closed his eyes and looked at pictures until

he found one where little Lydia Morrow toddled into the street

in front of a runaway team, and Lem jumped after her and

pulled her back, and Mr. Morrow took Lem right into his

hardware store and gave him the bicycle he had in the win-

dow.

Lem chose that one. He ran up town and got to Morrow's

Hardware Store just as Lydia started into the street, and he

was back at the river an hour later with his new bicycle.

For a long time Lem thought the pictures he saw were just

pictures of things that were going to happen. He'd been al-

most grown up before he understood that his choosing a

thing made it happen. Before a horse race at the county fair,

he could see pictures of every horse in the race winning. If

he made a choice, so he could bet on a horse, that horse would

always win. He learned in a hurry that it wasn't smart to

win all the time, and usually he would bet without even

looking at pictures, but he always won enough money at the

fair to last him through the winter.

Lem was twelve when his father fell off the barn, and he

had to leave school and work the farm. He was only twenty

when his mother died, and he rented out the farm and built

himself a shack back in the woods, near the river, and that

was his home. He loved to hunt and fish, and he loved being

outdoors. As he got older a lot of people said it was a shame,

a healthy man like him not working, and getting married,

and raising a family. But he liked living alone, and he had

all the company he ever wanted because all the kids liked

to play down by the river, winter and summer. It never cost

him much to live, and if he needed anything he could look

at pictures and get what he wanted. If he felt like working

for a week or two, he could look at pictures and then walk

in to town and find a job waiting for him.

He'd had a happy life. He could choose a nice day, if he

wanted to go fishing, or snow, if he wanted to do track-

ing, or rain, if the farmers were having trouble about their

crops. When hunting season opened, Lem Dyer always got

the first and biggest buck. He never went fishing without

coming back with a nice string, And if a man needed help,

chances were that Lem could help him.

He'd never told anyone about the pictures, and it bothered

him, now that he was sixty-one, to think that maybe it was

God who was showing them to him. He wondered if God had

wanted him to do something important with them--some-

thing big, like stopping wars, or getting the right man elected

president, or catching criminals. He knew he could have done

all those things, if he'd thought of them. There wasn't any-

thing he couldn't do just by seeing it in a picture and choosing

it.

But he never read the papers, and he'd never thought

much about the world outside Glenn Center. He was almost

too old to start, but he'd think some more about it, after he

got out of jail. Maybe he should do something about those

Russians so many people were worried about.

The clock on the Methodist Church was striking two when

Lem finally went to bed.

The sheriff brought him his breakfast at four o'clock, a big t

plate of ham and eggs, and toast, and lots of steaming coffee,

Lem could already hear the men arriving out behind the jail,

where the scaffold was.

Reverend Meyers came in before Lem finished eating, and

his thin face was pale and grim. "Ted is still trying," he said,

Lem nodded. He wanted to tell the Reverend that every-

thing would be all right, so he wouldn't worry, but if he did

that he might have to tell him about the pictures. The Rev-

erend was a good man, and Lem was sure he could trust him

if he trusted anybody.

He was still thinking about it when he finished his break-

fast. He got down on his knees to pray when the Reverend

asked him to, and then the sheriff came in and there wasn't

time. The sheriff and two deputies took Lem out to the scaf-

fold, with the Reverend following along behind them.

Lem hadn't known that he had so many friends. The crowd

filled the whole field and overflowed out into First Avenue.

There weren't any women and children, of course, but it

looked like every man from miles around had turned out.

Lem thought it was nice of them to get up so early in the

morning just for him. They waited quietly, not talking much

and looking the other way when Lem looked down at them.

The Reverend was talking with the sheriff at the edge of

the scaffold, talking fast, and with his hands gesturing ur-

gently. The sheriff kept shrugging and turning his hands

palms up and glancing at his watch. A deputy moved Lem

over the trap and put the rope around his neck, Lem looked

up and smiled a little when he saw it was an old rope.

The sheriff's hands were trembling when he stepped for-

ward. He patted Lem on the back, and the Reverend said a

little prayer and whispered, "God bless you, Lem," and out

in the crowd Lem saw District Attorney Whaley turn slowly

and stand with his eyes on the steeple of the Methodist

Church. Then there was nothing under Lem's feet, and he

was falling.

The savage jerk blurred his eyes with pain, but he kept

falling until he sank to his knees on the ground under the

scaffold. The air rocked with noise as everyone started talking

and shouting. Sheriff Harbson came down and helped Lem

out and stood there white-faced, staring, not able to talk.

"Get a new rope!" someone shouted, and the crowd began

to chant, "New rope! New rope!"

"You can't hang a man twice in one day," the Reverend

was shouting, and the sheriff found his voice and shouted

back, "He has to hang by his neck until dead. That's the law."

Then everyone turned toward the jail, where a deputy was

screaming and trying to fight his way through the crowd.

The sheriff, and the deputies, and Reverend Meyers took

Lem and started back to the jail with him. It took a long time,

because none of the crowd seemed in any hurry to get out of

their way. Lem had supposed that the men would be glad to

hear about the governor's reprieve, but they weren't. The

noise got louder and louder, and they were shouting

things like he'd heard in his cell the night before. Lem's

pained him, and his ankle hurt from the fall, and he was glad

it was over with.

They'd rounded the corner of the jail and started for the

entrance, on Main Street, when the roaring fury of the crowd

caught up with them and overwhelmed them. The sheriff

went down trying to draw his revolver and was trampled. A

deputy rushed into the jail and barred the door, and he could

be seen through the window excitedly bending over the tele-

phone. The crowd boosted a man up the side of the building

to jerk the wires loose. Stones shattered the window and

rained into the jail.

Lem was dragged back toward the scaffold, and when a

deputy ducked behind it and fired into the air, the crowd

turned the other way and dragged him toward Main Street,

"Get a rope!" someone shouted.

"Anyone got a horse? They used to use horses!"

"Don't need no horse. We can use Jake Arnson's truck,

Jake, back your truck under that elm tree!"

Jake Arnson ran down the street to his truck. The motor

coughed and sputtered and finally caught with a roar, and

the truck lurched backward. Jake parked under the elm, cut

the motor, and jumped out. A rope snaked up over a tree

limb. Lem had been too stunned and horrified to feel the kicks

and blows that rained upon him. They hoisted him onto the

truck, and he stood there, hands and feet bound, trembling

with frustration, while the rope was knotted about his neck.

He told himself he should have waited to see all of the

picture. He should have looked at more pictures. But how

could he have known that these men he knew so well would

use him like this? Now he'd have to look at pictures again.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate.,

The pictures flashed in front of him, one after the other,

and in each of them the truck rocked forward and left Lem

Dyer dangling by his neck.

Jake was back in his truck, trying to start the motor. The

starter whined fretfully. Someone yelled, "Need a push,

Jake?"

Lem kept watching the pictures, but finally he knew, with

a sickening certainty, that pictures couldn't help him. In all

of them the truck moved forward and left him hanging. It

had never happened that way before--pictures without any

choices.

He shook the perspiration from his eyes and looked about

him. The sheriff lay on the sidewalk in front of the jail in a

pool of blood. Reverend Meyers lay nearby, his arms moving

feebly, one leg bent at a strange angle. Men were hurling

stones at the scaffold, where the deputy had taken refuge.

Sadly he looked down at the hate-twisted faces of men he'd

thought were his friends. He remembered what the Reverend

had told him. Jesus had seen hate like that when they'd

nailed him to the cross, and he'd said, "Father, forgive them,

for they know not what they do." Lem said the words to

himself, softly. Maybe his old life wasn't worth much to any-

one but himself, but it was sad.

The starter whined again, and someone called, "Speech!

Can the murderer talk? Let's have a confession!"

A hundred coarse echoes sounded. "Confession! Confes-

sion!"

Lem threw his cracked voice out over the mob. "You're

evil men--evil! Get down on your knees and pray that God

won't punish you!"

They flung back at him wave after stinging wave of hoots

of laughter. "You dirty murderer! God won't punish us!"

The Reverend had slumped forward to lie motionless. Doc

Beasley had finally managed to push through the crowd and

was kneeling beside the sheriff. The faces below Lem blurred

and twisted and mortal anger overwhelmed him. "If God

won't punish you," he screamed, "I will!"

He closed his eyes and willed the pictures into being.

Larger than life, they were, but they moved so slowly, and

he had so little time.

A tornado, dragging its swirling funnel along Main Street,

relentlessly flattening buildings, crushing their occupants,

toppling the Methodist Church steeple onto the jail.,,

"Not enough!" Lem gasped.

A prairie fire, tossed high on gale winds, roaring hungrily

down on Glenn Center, driving the populace before it...

"Not enough?" f

Fleets of enemy planes darkening the sky, pouring searing

death onto even such an insignificant dot on the map as Glenn

Center...

"Not enough!"

The summer sun, high and bright at noonday, suddenly

bulging crazily, tearing the sky asunder, drenching the coun-

tryside in blinding incandescence, charring human vermin,

steaming away the rivers, crumbling concrete, boiling the very

dust underfoot...

Lem 'chose that one, just as Jake Arnson got his motor

started.

The Custodian

WILLIAM TENN

May 9, 2190--Well, I did it! It was close, but fortunately I

have a very suspicious nature. My triumph, my fulfillment

was almost stolen from me, but I was too clever for them.

As a result, I am happy to note in this, my will and

testament, I now begin my last year of life.

No, let me be accurate. This last year of life, the year that

I will spend in an open tomb, really began at noon today.

Then, in the second sub-basement of the Museum of Modern

Astronautics, I charged a dial for the third successive time

and got a completely negative response.

That meant that I, Piyatil, was the only human being alive

on Earth. What a straggle I have had to achieve that dis-

tinction!

Well, it's all over now, I'm fairly certain. Just to be on the

Safe side, I'll come down and check the anthropometer every

day or so for the next week, but I don't think there's a chance

in the universe that I'll get a positive reading. I've had my

last, absolutely my final and ultimate battle with the forces

of righteousness--and I've won. Left in secure, undisputed

possession of my coffin, there's nothing for me to do now but

enjoy myself.

And that shouldn't be too hard. After all, I've been plan-

ning the pleasures for years!

Still, as I tugged off my suit of berrillit blue and climbed

upstairs into the .sunlight, I couldn't help thinking of the

others. Gruzeman, Prej'aut, and possibly even Mo-Diki.

They'd have been here with me now if only they'd had a shade

less academic fervor, a touch more of intelligent realism.

Too bad in a way. And yet it makes my vigil more solemn,

more glorious. As I sat down on the marble bench between

Rozinski's heroic statues of the Spaceman and Spacewoman,

I shrugged and dismissed the memories of Gruzeman, Pre-

jaut, and Mo-Diki.

They had failed. I hadn't.

I leaned back, relaxing for the first time in more than a

month. My eyes swept over the immense bronze figures tow-

ering above me, two pieces of sculpture yearning agonizingly

for the stars, and I burst into a chuckle. The absolute incon-

gruity of my hiding place hit me for the first time--imagine,

the Museum of Modern Astronautics! Multiplied by the in-

credible nervous tension, the knuckle-biting fear of the past

five days, the chuckle bounced up and down in my throat and

became a giggle, then a splutter, and finally a reverberating,

chest-heaving laugh that I couldn't stop. It brought all the

deer out of the museum park te stand in front of the marble

bench where Fiyatil, the last man on Earth, choked and

coughed and wheezed and cackled at his senile accomplish-

ment.

I don't know how long the fit might have held me, but a

cloud, merely in the course of its regular duties as a summer

cloud, happened to slide in front of the sun. That did it. I

stopped laughing, as if a connection had been cut, and glanced

upward.

The cloud went on, and the sunlight poured down as

warmly as ever, but I shivered a bit.

Two pregnant young does came a little closer and stood

watching as I massaged my neck. Laughter had given it a

crick,

"Well, my dears," I said, tossing them a quotation from

one of my favorite religions, "it would seem that in the midst

of life we are at last truly in death."

They munched at me impassively.

May 11, 2190--I have spent the last two days putting

myself and my supplies in order and making plans for the

immediate future. Spending a lifetime in sober preparation

for the duties of custodianship is one thing. Finding suddenly

that you have become the custodian, the last of your sect as

well as your race--and yet, peculiarly, the fulfillment of them

both--that is quite another thing. I find myself burning with

an insane pride. And a moment later, I turn cold with the

incredible, the majestic responsibility that I face.

Food will be no problem. In the commissary of this one

institution, there are enough packaged meals to keep a man

like myself well fed for ten years, let alone twelve months.

And wherever I go on the planet, from Museum of Buddhist

Antiquities in Tibet to the Panorama of Political History in

Sevastopol, I will find a similar plenty,

Of course, packaged meals are packaged meals: somebody

else's idea of what my menu should be. Now that the last

Affirmer has gone, taking with him his confounded austerity,

there is no Idnger any need for me to be a hypocrite. I can at

last indulge my taste for luxury and bathe my tongue in

gustatory baubles. Unfortunately I grew to manhood under

Affirmer domination and the hypocrisies I learned to practice

in sixty cringing years have merged with the essential sub-

stance of my character. I doubt, therefore, that I will be pre-

paring any meals of fresh food from the ancient recipes.

And then, too, meals of fresh food would involve the death

of creatures that are currently alive and enjoying themselves.

This seems a bit silly under the circumstances....

Nor did I need to put any of the automatic laundries into

operation. Yet I have. Why clean my clothes, I asked myself,

when I can discard a tunic the moment it becomes slightly

soiled and step into a newly manufactured garment, still stiff

in memory of the machine matrix whence it came?

Habit told me why I couldn't. Custodian concepts make it

impossible for me to do what an Affirmer in my position

would find easiest: shrug out of the tunic on a clear patch of

ground and leave it lying behind me like a huge, brightly

colored dropping. On the other hand, much Affirmer teaching

that my conscious mind has been steadfastly rejecting for

decades, I find to my great annoyance, has seeped into the

unconscious osmotically. The idea of deliberately destroying

anything as functional, if relatively unesthetic, as a dirty

Tunic, Male, Warm-Season, Affirmer Ship-Classification No.

2352558.3, appalls me--even against my will.

Over and over again, I tell myself that Affirmer Ship-

Classification Numbers now mean nothing to me. Less than

nothing. They are as meaningless as cargo symbols on the

Ark to the stevedores who loaded it, the day after Noah sailed.

Yet I step into a one-seater flyball for a relaxing tour of

the museum grounds and something in my mind says: No.

58184.72, I close my teeth upon a forkful of well-seasoned

Luncheon Protein Component and note that I am chewing

Ship-Classification Numbers 15762.94 through 15763.01. I

even remind myself that it is a category to be brought aboard

among the last, and only when the shipboard representative

of the Ministry of Survival and Preservation has surrendered

his command to the shipboard representative of the Ministry

of The Journey.

Not a single Affirmer walks the Earth at the moment.

Together with their confounded multiplicity of government

bureaus--including the one in which all people professing

Custodianism had to be registered, the Ministry of Antiq-

uities and Useless Relics--they are now scattered among a

hundred or so planetary systems in the galaxy. But all this

seems to matter not a bit to my idiotically retentive mind

which goes on quoting texts memorized decades ago for Sur-

vival Placement Examinations long since superseded and for-

gotten by those in authority.

They are so efficient, the Affirmers, so horribly, success-

fully efficient! As a youngster, I confided to my unfortunately

loquacious comrade, Ru-Sat, that I had begun creative paint-

ing on canvas in my leisure hours. Immediately, my parents,

in collaboration with my recreational adviser, had me vol-

unteered into the local Children's Extra Work for Extra Sur-

vival Group, where I was assigned to painting numbers and

symbols on packing eases. "Not pleasure but persistence, per-

sistence, persistence will preserve the race of Man," I had to

repeat from the Affirmer catechism before I was allowed to

sit down to any meal from that time on.

Later, of course, I was old enough to register as a consci-

entious Custodian. "Please," my father choked at me when

I told him, "don't come around any more. Don't bother us, I'm

speaking for the entire family, Fiyatil, including your uncles

on your mother's side. You've decided to become a dead man:

that's your business now. Just forget you ever had parents

and relatives--and let us forget we had a son."

This meant I could free myself from Survival chores by

undertaking twice as much work with the microfilm teams

that traveled from museum to museum and archaeological

site to skyscraper city. But still there were the periodic Sur-

vival Placement Exams, which everyone agreed didn't apply

to Custodians but insisted we take as a gesture of good will

to the society which was allowing us to follow our consciences.

Exams which necessitated putting aside a volume entitled

Religious Design and Decoration in Temples of the Upper Nile

for the dreary, dingy, well-thumbed Ship-Classification Man-

ual and Uniform Cargo Stowage Guide. I had given up the

hope of being an artist myself, but those ugly little decimals

took up time that I wished to spend contemplating the work

of men who had lived in less fanatic and less frenzied cen-

turies.

They still do! So powerful is habit that, now that I have

no questions en dehydration to answer ever again, I still find

myself doing the logarithmic work necessary to find out

where a substance is packed once its water is removed. It is

horribly frustrating to be mired after all in an educational

system from which I turned completely away!

Of course, the studies I am involved in at the moment

probably don't help very much. Yet it is very important for

me to pick up enough information from the elementary ed-

ueatories in this museum, for example, to insure my not hav-

ing to worry about the possibility of a flyball breakdown over

a jungle area. I'm no technician, no trouble-shooter. I have

to learn instead how to choose equipment in good working

order and how to start operating it without doing any damage

to delicate components.

This technological involvement irritates me. Outside, the

abandoned art of 70,000 years beckons--and here I sit, mem-

orizing dull facts about the power plants of worker robots,

scrutinizing blueprints of the flyballs' antigrav screws, and

acting for all the world like an Affirmer captain trying to

win a commendation from the Ministry of The Journey before

he blasts off.

Yet it is precisely this attitude that is responsible for my,

being here now, instead of sitting disconsolately aboard the

Affirmer scout ship with Mo-Diki, Gruzeman, and Prejaut.

While they exulted in their freedom and charged about the

planet like creaky old colts, I made for the Museum of Modern

Astronautics and learned how to operate and read an an-

thropometer and how to activate the berrillit blue. I hated

to waste the time, but I couldn't forget how significant to an

Affirmer, especially a modern one, is the concept of the sa-

credness of human life. They had betrayed us once; they were

bound to come back to make certain that the betrayal left no

loose ends in the form of Custodians enjoying fulfillment. I

was right then, and I know I am right now--but I get so bored

with the merely useful!

Speaking of the anthropometer, I had a nasty shock two

hours ago. The alarm went off--and stopped. I scurried down-

stairs to it, shaking out the berrillit blue suit as I ran and

hoping desperately that I wouldn't blow myself up in the

course of using it a second time.

By the time I got to the machine, it had stopped cater-

wauling. I charged the all-directional dial over ten times and

got no response. Therefore, according to the anthropometer

manual, nothing human was moving about anywhere in the

entire solar system. I had keyed the machine to myself elec-

trocephalographically so that I wouldn't set off the alarm.

Yet the alarm had gone off, indisputably recording the pres-

ence of humanity other than myself, however temporary its

existence had been. It was very puzzling.

My conclusion is that some atmospheric disturbance or

faulty connection inside the anthropemeter set the machine

off. Or possibly, in my great joy over being left behind a few

days ago, I carelessly damaged the apparatus.

I heard the Affirmer scout ship radio the news of the cap-

ture of my colleagues to a mother vessel waiting beyond

Pluto: I know I'm the sole survivor on Earth.

Besides, if it had been skulking Affirmers who set the

alarm off, their own anthropometer would have detected me

at the same time, since I had been walking about unprotected

by the insulating effect of berrillit blue. The museum would

have been surrounded by flyball crews and I'd have been

caught almost immediately.

No, I cannot believe I have anything more to fear from

Affirmers. They have satisfied themselves with their last-

moment return of two days ago, I am positive. Their doctrine

would forbid any further returns, since they would be risking

their own lives. After all, there are only 363 days left--at

most--before the sun goes nova.

May 15,2190--I am deeply disturbed, hi fact, I am fright-

ened. And the worst of it is, I,do not know of what. All I can

do now is wait.

Yesterday, I left the Museum of Modern Astronautics for

a preliminary tour of the world. I planned to spend two or

three weeks hopping about in my flyball before I made any

decision about where I would stay for the bulk of my year.

My first error was the choice of a first destination. Italy.

It is very possible that, if my little problem had not come up,

I would have spent eleven months there before going on with

my preliminary survey. The Mediterranean is a dangerous

and sticky body of water to anyone who has decided that, his

own talents being inadequate or aborted, he may most fit-

tingly spend his life cherishing the masterpieces presented

to humanity by other, much more fortunate individuals.

I went to Ferrara first, since the marshy, reclaimed plain

outside the city was a major Affirmer launching site. I lin-

gered a little while at one of my favorite buildings, the Palazzo

di Diamanti, shaking my head as helplessly as ever at the

heavy building stones of which it is constructed and which

are cut and faceted like so many enormous jewels. To my

mind, the city itself is a jewel, now somewhat dulled, that

sparkled madly in the days of the Este court. One little city,

one tiny, arrogant court--I would so happily have traded

them for the two billion steadfastly boorish Affirmers. Over

sixty years of almost unchallenged political control, and did

an entire planetful of them produce a single competitor for

a Tasso or an Ariosto? And then I realized that at least one

native Ferraran would have felt at ease in the world that has_

just departed from me, its last romantic. I remembered that

Savonarola had been born in Ferrara...

The plain outside Ferrara also reminded me of the dour

Dominican. The launching field, stretching away for quite a

few flat miles, was strewn with enough possessions discarded

at the last moment, to make a truly towering Bonfire of Van-

ities.

But what pathetic vanities! Here, a slide rule that some

ship's commander had ordered thrown out before takeoff be-

cause the last inspection had revealed it to be in excess of

what the Ship-Classification Manual listed as the maximum

number of slide rules necessary for a vessel of that size. There,

a mimeographed collection of tally sheets that had been

dropped out of the closing air lock after every last item had

been checked off as per regulations--one check before the

item by the Ministry of Survival and Preservation, and one

check after the item by the Ministry of The Journey, Soiled

clothing, somewhat worn implements, empty fuel and food

drums lay about on the moist ground. Highly functional ar-

ticles all, that had somehow come in the course of time to sin

against function--and had fallen swiftly from use. And, sur-

prisingly, an occasional doll, not looking very much like a

doll, to be sure, buj not looking like anything that had an

objective purpose either. Staring about me at the squalid

debris dotted so rarely with sentiment, I wondered how many

parents had writhed with shame when, despite their carefully

repeated admonitions and advance warnings, the last search

had discovered something in the recesses of a juvenile tunic

that could only be called an old toy--or, worse yet, a keepsake.

I remembered what my recreational adviser had said on

that subject, long years ago. "It's not that we believe that

children shouldn't have toys, Fiyatil; we just don't want them

to become attached to any particular toy. Our race is going

to leave this planet that's been its home from the beginning.

We'll be able to take with us only such creatures and objects

as are usable to make other creatures and objects which we'll

need for sustenance wherever we come down. And because

we can't carry more than so much weight in each ship, we'll

have to select from among the usable objects those which are

essential.

"We won't take anything along because it's pretty, or be-

cause a lot of people swear by it, or because a lot of people

think they need it. We'll take it along only because nothing

else will do an important job so well. That's why I come to

your home every month or so to inspect your room, to make

certain that your bureau drawers contain only new things,

that you're not falling into dangerous habits of sentimentality

that can lead only to Custodianism. You've got far too nice

a set of folks to turn into that kind of person."

Nonetheless, I chuckled to myself, I had turned into that

kind of person. Old Tobletej had been right: the first step on

the road to ruin had been bureau drawers crammed with odds

and ends of memory. The twig on which had sat the first

butterfly I'd ever caught, the net with which I'd caught him,

and the first butterfly himself. The wad of paper that a certain

twelve-year-old lady had thrown at me. A tattered copy of a

real printed book--no facsimile broadcast, this, but some-

thing that had once known the kiss of type instead of the hot

breath of electrons. The small wooden model of Captain

Karma's starship, Man's Hope, which an old spacehand at

Lunar Line launching field had given me along with much

misinformation....

Those paunchy bureau drawers! How my parents and

teachers had tried to teach me neatness and a hatred of pos-

sessions! And here was I, now grown into man's estate, smug

over my possession of a quantity of artistic masterpieces the

like of which no Holy Roman Emperor, no Grand Khan, would

have dared to dream about.

I chuckled once more and started looking for the launching

site robots. They were scattered about, almost invisible in

the unimportant garbage of the spaceship field. After loading

the ship, they had simply wandered about until they had run

down. I activated them once more and set them to, cleaning

the field.

This is something I will do in every one of the two hundred

or so launching sites on Earth, and this is the chief reason

I have been studying robotics. I want Earth to look as pretty

as possible when she dies. I never could be an Affirmer, I am

afraid; I form strong attachments.

Feeling as I did, I just couldn't continue on my trip without

taking the quickest, the most cursory glance at Florence.

Naturally.

But as I should have expected, I got drunk on oils and

marble and metal work. Florence was empty of Florentines,

but the glorious galleries were still there. I walked across the

fine Ponte Vecchio, the only one of the famous Arno bridges

to have escaped destruction in the Second World War. I came

to Giotto's campanile and the baptistery doors by Ghiberti

and I began to feel despair, desperation. I ran to the Church

of Santa Croce to see Giotto's frescoes and the Convent of

St. Mark's for Fra Angelico. What good was one year, what

could I see of evert a single city like this in a bare twelve

months? I could view, I could gallop by, but what would I

have time to see? I was in the Boboli gardens trying

frantically to decide whether to look up Michelangelo's

"David" which I'd seen once before, or some Denatello

which I hadn't, when the alarms went off.

Beth of them.

The day before I'd left, Fd put together a small anthro-

pometer that had originally been developed for locating lost

colonists in the Venusian swamps. It was based on an entirely

different design than the big machine that I'd found in the

Hall of Gadgets. Since the circuits were unlike, and they had

been planned for use in entirely different atmospheres, I be-

lieved they would serve as excellent checks on each other. I'd

set the alarms to the frequency of my flyball communicator

and had left the museum fairly confident that the only thing

that could make both anthropometers go off would be the

presence of a man other than myself.

I flew back to the Museum, feeling very confused. Both

pieces of equipment had responded the same way. The .alarm

had gone off, indicating the sudden materialization of Man

on the planet. Then, when the stimulus had disappeared, both

alarms had stopped. No matter how many times I charged

the directional dials on each anthropometer, there was not

the faintest suspicion of mankind within their extreme range,

which is a little under one-half of a light-year.

The initial confusion has given way to a strong feeling of

discomfort. Something is very wrong here on Earth, some-

thing other than the sun's getting ready to explode in a year.

Possibly I have the nontechnician's blind faith in a piece of

apparatus which I don't fully understand, but I don't believe

that the anthropometers should be acting this way unless

something really abnormal is occurring.

It has pleased me to look upon this planet as an oceangoing

ship about to sink, and myself as the gallant captain deter-

mined to go down with her. Abruptly, I feel as if the ship

were beginning to act like a whale.

I know what I must do. I'll move a supply of food down to

the Hall of Gadgets and sleep right under the anthropome-

ters. The alarm usually lasts for a minute or two. I can leap

to my feet, charge the all-directional dials and get enough of

a reading right then to know exactly where the stimulus is

coming from. Then I will pop into'my flyball and investigate.

It's really very simple.

Only, I don't like it.

May 17, 2190--I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself, as

only an old man who has been seeing ghosts in the graveyard

should be ashamed. That, in fact, is the only excuse I can

make to myself. I have, I suppose, been thinking too much

about death recently. The coming extinction of Earth and the

solar system; my death which is inevitably involved with it;

the death of millions of creatures of uncounted species, the

death of proud old cities that Man has reared and occupied

for centuries Well, perhaps the association with ghosties

and beasties and other strange phenomena is understand-

able. But I was getting frightened.

When the alarms went off again this morning, I got a

directional reading. My destination was the Appalachian

Mountain region in eastern North America.

The moment I got out of the flyball and took in the pale

azure fog covering the cave mouth in front of me, I began to

understand--and feel ashamed. Through the fog, which

thinned in one place and thickened in others as I watched,

I could see several bodies lying on the floor of the cave. Ob-

viously, one of them had to be alive for the anthropometer

to have reacted as soon as a patch of berrillit blue got meager

enough to make the presence of a human mind detectable.

I walked around to the back of the cave and found no exit.

I went back to the Museum in the flyball and returned

with the necessary equipment. I deactivated the berrillit blue

fog at the entrance and walked inside cautiously.

The interior of the cave, which had evidently been fur-

nished as a domestic and comfortable hideout, was completely

wrecked. Somebody had managed to get an activator as well

as a quantity of berrillit blue which had not yet been given

any particular shape and which, therefore, was about as sta-

ble as hydrogen and oxygen--if it is permissible to use a

metaphor from chemistry to illustrate negative force-field

concepts. The berrillit blue had been activated as a sort of

curtain across the mouth of the eave and had blown up im-

mediately. But, since the activator was still operating and

the entrance was fairly narrow, it continued to function as

a curtain of insulating negative force, a curtain which had

holes in it through which one could occasionally "peek" by

means of the anthropometer at the people imprisoned inside.

There were three bodies near the entrance, two male and

one female, rather youthful-looking. From the quantity and

type pf statuary on the walls of the cave, it was easy to deduce

that these people had belonged to one of the numerous reli-

gious Custodian groups, probably the Fire in the Heavens

cult. When, in the last week of the exodus, the Affirmers had

denounced the Crohiik Agreement and stated that the Affir-

mation of Life required that even those who didn't Affirm

had to be protected against themselves, these people had ev-

idently taken to the mountains. Evading the subsequent

highly effective search, they had managed to stay hidden

until the last great vessel left. Then, suspecting as I had that

at least one scout ship would return for a final round-up, they

had investigated the properties, of the anthropometer and

found out about the only insulator, berrillit blue. Unfortu-

nately, they had not found out enough.

Deep in the rear of the cave, a body twisted brokenly to

meet me. It was a young woman. My first reaction was ab-

solute astonishment at the fact that she was still alive. The

explosion seemed to have smashed her thoroughly below the

waist. She had crawled from the cave mouth to the interior

where the group had stored most of their food and water. As

I teetered, momentarily undecided whether to leave her and

get medication and blood plasma from a hospital in the region

or to risk moving her immediately, she rolled over on her

back.

She had been covering a year-old infant with her body,

evidently uncertain when the berrillit might blow again. And

somehow, in spite of what must have been tremendous agony,

she had been feeding the child.

I bent down and examined the baby. He was quite dirty

and covered with his mother's blood, but otherwise un-

harmed. I picked him up and, in answer to the question in

the woman's eyes, I nodded.

"He'll be all right," I said.

She started what may have been a nod in reply and stopped

halfway through to die. I examined her carefully and, I will

admit, a shade frantically. There was no pulse--no heartbeat.

I took the child back to the Museum and constructed a

sort of play pen for him out of empty telescope sections. Then

I went back to the cave with three robots and had the people

buried. I admit the gesture was superfluous, but it wasn't

only a matter of neatness. However fundamental our differ-

ences, we were all of Custodian persuasion, generally speak-

ing. It somehow made me feel as if I were snapping my fingers

in the face of the entire smug Affirmation to respect Fire-in-

Heaven eccentricities in this fashion.

After the robots had completed their work, I placed a piece

of the religious statuary (it was remarkably badly done, by

the way) at the head of each grave and even said a short

prayer, or rather a sermon. I developed the thought that I

had suggested approximately a week earlier to some deer--

to wit, that in the midst of life we are in death. I did not joke

about it, however, but spoke seriously on the subject for sev-

eral minutes. The robots who were my audience seemed even

less excited by the intelligence than the deer had been.

May 21, 2190--I am annoyed. I am very, very annoyed

and my great problem at the moment is that I lack an object

on which to expend my annoyance.

The child has been an incredible amount of trouble.

I took him to the largest medical museum in the northern

hemisphere and had him thoroughly examined by the best

pediatric diagnostic machinery, He seems to be in excellent

health, which is fortunate for both of us. And his dietary

requirements, while not the same as mine, are fairly simple.

I got a full tape on the kind of food he needs and, after a few

readjustments in the commissary of the Museum of Modern

Astronautics, I have arranged for this food to be prepared

and delivered to him daily. Unfortunately, he does not seem

to regard this arrangement, which took up an inordinate

amount of my time, as wholly satisfactory.

For one thing, he will not accept food from the regular

robot nursemaid which I have activated for him. This, I sus-

pect, is because of his parents' odd beliefs: he probably has

never encountered mechanical affection before. He will only

eat when I feed him.

That situation alone is intolerable, but I have found it

almost impossible to leave him guarded by the robot nurse-

maid. Though he does little more than crawl, he manages to

do this at surprisingly fast pace and is always disappearing

into dark corridors of the museum. Then an alarm is flashed

to me and I have to break off my examination of the gigantic

palace of the Dalai Lama, the Potala, and come scudding back

from Lhasa halfway across the world to the Museum.

Even then it would take us hours to find him--and by "us"

I mean every robot at my disposal--if I were not able to resort

to the anthropometer. This admirable gadget points out his

hiding place very swiftly; and so, pulling him out of the firing

chamber of the Space Howitzer in the Hall of Weapons, I

return him to his play pen. Then, if I dare, and if it is not

time for him to be fed, I may return--briefly--to the Tibetan

plateau.

I am at present engaged in constructing a sort of enormous

cage for him, with automatic heating and toilet facilities and

devices that will screen out undesirable animals, insects, and

reptiles. Though this is taking up far too much of my time,

it will be an excellent investment, I believe.

I don't know quite what to do about the feeding problem.

The only solution I can find in any of the literature on the

subject that offers promise is the one about letting him go

hungry if he refuses food from normal sources. After a brief

experiment, however, in which he seemed cheerfully resigned

to starvation, I was forced to give in. I now handle every one

of his meals.

The trouble is that I don't know whom to blame. Since I

have been a Custodian from early manhood, I failed to see

the need to reproduce. I have never been interested even

slightly in children. I know very little about them and care

less.

I have always felt that my attitude was admirably summed

up by Socrates' comments in the Symposium: "Who, upon

reflecting on Homer and Hesiod and other such great poets,

would not rather have their children than ordinary human

ones? Who would not like to emulate them in the creation of

children such as theirs, which have preserved their memory

and given them everlasting glory?... Many are the temples

which have been raised in their honor for the sake of such

children as they have had, which were never raised in honor

of anyone for the sake of his mortal children."

Unfortunately, we are the only two humans alive on Earth,

this child and I. We are going to our doom together; we ride

the same round tumbril. And the treasures of the world,

which were wholly mine less than a week ago, now belong

at least partially to him. I wish we could discuss the matters

at issue, not only to arrive at more equitable arrangements,

but also for the sheer pleasure of the discussion. I have come

to the conclusion that I began this journal out of unconscious

terror when I discovered, after the Affirmers left, that I was

completely alone.

I find myself getting very wistful for conversation, for ideas

other than my own, for opinions against which mine might

be measured. Yet according to the literature on the subject,

while this child may begin talking any day now, we will be

immersed in catastrophe long before he learns to argue with

me. I find that sad, however inevitable.

How I wander! The fact is that once again I am being

prevented from studying art as I would like". I am an old man

and should have no responsibilities; I have all but laid down

my life for the privilege of this study. It is extremely vexing.

And conversation. I can just imagine the kind of conver-

sation I might be having with an Affirmer at the moment,

were one to have been stranded here with me. What dullness,

what single-minded biological idiocy! What crass refusal to

look at, let alone admit, the beauty his species has been sev-

enty millennia in the making! The most he might have

learned if he is European, say, is a bit about the accepted

artists of his culture. What would he know of Chinese paint-

ings, for example, or cave art? Would he be able to understand

that in each there were primitive periods followed by eras of

lusty development, followed in turn by a consolidation of ar-

tistic gains and an increase in formalization, the whole to be

rounded off by a decadent, inner-groping epoch which led

almost invariably into another primitive and lusty period?

That these have occurred again and again in the major cul-

tures so that even the towering genius of a Michelangelo, a

Shakespeare, a Beethoven will likely be repeated--in some-

what different terms--in another complete cycle? That there

was a Michelangelo, Shakespeare, and Beethoven in each of

several different flower periods in ancient Egyptian art? '

How, could an Affirmer understand such concepts when he

lacks the basic information necessary to understanding?

When their ships departed from the moribund solar system

laden only with immediately usable artifacts? When they

refused to let their offspring keep childhood treasures for fear

of developing sentimentality, so that when they came to col-

onize Procyon XII there would be no tears for either the world

that had died or the puppy that had been left behind?

And yet history plays such incredible jokes on Man! They

who ran away from their museums, who kept nothing but a

cold microfilm record of what lay in their investment houses

of culture, will learn that Man's sentimentality is not to be

frustrated. The bleak, efficient ships that brought them to

these alien worlds will become museums of the past as they

oxidize out of existence on the strange sands. Their cruelly

functional lines will become the inspiration for temples and

alcoholic tears.

What in the world is happening to me? How I run on! After

all, I merely wanted to explain why I was annoyed.

May 29, 2190--I have made several decisions, I don't know

if I will be able to implement the most important of them,

but I will try. In order, however, to give myself what I need

most at the moment--time--I will write much less in this

journal, if I write any more at all. I will try very hard to be

brief.

To begin with the least important decision: I have named

the child Leonardo. Why I chose to name him after a man

who, for all of his talents--in fact, because of his talents--I

regard as the most spectacular failure in the history of art,

I do not know. But Leonardo was a well-rounded man, some-

thing which the Affirmers are not--and something which I

am beginning to admit I am not.

By the way, the child recognizes his name. He is not yet

able to pronounce it, but it is positively miraculous the way

he recognizes it. And he makes a sound which is very like

mine. In fact, I might say--

Let me go on.

I have decided to attempt an escape from the Earth--with

Leonardo. My reasons are many and complex, and I'm not

certain that I understand them all, but one thing I do know:

I have felt responsibility for a life other than my own and

can no longer evade it.

This is not a tardy emergence into Affirmer doctrine, but

in a very real sense my own ideas come to judgment. Since

I believe in the reality of beauty, especially beauty made with

the mind and hands of man, I can follow no other course.

I am an old man and will achieve little with the rest of

my life. Leonardo is an infant: he represents raw potential;

he might become anything. A song beyond Shakespeare's. A

thought above Newton, above Einstein. Or an evil beyond

Gilles de Retz, a horror past Hitler.

But the potential should be realized. I think, under my

tutelage, it is less likely to be evil and there I have a potential

to be realized.

In any case, even if Leonardo represents a zero personally,

he may carry the germ-plasm of a Buddha, of a Euripides, of

a Preud. And that potential must be realized....

There is a ship. Its name is Man's Hope and it was the first

ship to reach the stars, almost a century ago when it had just

been discovered that our sun would explode and become a

nova in a little less than a hundred years. It was the ship

that discovered for Man the heart-quickening fact that other

stars have planets and that many of those planets are hab-

itable to him.

It was a long time ago that Captain Karma brought his

starship back down on the soil of Earth with the news that

escape was possible. That was long before I was born, long

before humanity divided unequally into Custodian and Af-

firmer and long, long before either group were the unwinking

fanatics they had become five years ago.

The ship is in the Museum of Modern Astronautics. I know

it has been kept in good condition, I also know that twenty

years ago, before the Affirmers had developed the position

that absolutely nothing might be taken physically from a

museum, the ship was equipped with the latest Leugio Drive.

The motive was that, if it were needed on Exodus Day, it

might make the trip to a star in months instead of the years

it had required originally.

The only thing that I do not know is whether I, Fiyatil,

the Custodian of Custodians and art critic extraordinary, can

learn to run it in the time that Leonardo and I have left.

But as one of my favorite comic characters remarked about

the possibility of a man chopping his own head off: a man can

try....

There is something else on my mind, even more exciting

in a way, but this comes first. I find myself looking at the

Sun a good deal these days. And very searchingly, too. Very.

November 11, 2190--1 can do it With the help of two

robots which I will modify for the purpose, I can do it. Leo-

nardo and I could leave immediately. But I have my other

project to complete.

And this is my other project. I am going to use all the

empty space in the ship. It was built originally for different

motors and a very large crew, and I am going to use that

space as a bureau drawer. Into that bureau drawer I will stuff

the keepsakes of humanity, the treasures of its childhood and

adolescence--at least as many as I can get in.

For weeks I have been collecting treasures from all over

the world. Incredible pottery, breath-taking friezes, glorious

statuary, and oil paintings almost beyond counting litter the

corridors of the museum. Brueghel is piled on Bosch, Bosch

on Durer, I am going to, bring a little of everything to that

star toward which I point my ship, a little to show what the

real things were like. I am including things like the holo-

graph manuscripts of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice,

Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, Gogol's Dead Souls, Mark

Twain's Huckleberry Finn, and holographs of Dickens's tet-

ters and Lincoln's speeches. There are many others, but I

cannot take everything. Within responsible limits, I must

please myself.

Therefore, I am not taking anything from the Sistine

Chapel ceiling. I have carved out two bits of the "Last Judg-

ment" instead. They are my favorites: the soul that suddenly

realizes that it is condemned, and the flayed skin on which

Michelangelo painted his own portrait.

The only trouble is that fresco weighs so much! Weight,

weight, weight--it is almost all I think about now. Even

Leonardo follows me about and says "Weight, weight, weight!"

He pronounces nothing else so well.

Still, what should I take of Picasso? A handful of oils, yes,

but I must take the "Guernica." And there is more weight.

I have some wonderful Russian copper utensils and some

Ming bronze bowls. I have a lime spatula from Eastern New

Guinea made of oiled wood that has a delightfully carved

handle (it was used in chewing betel nut and lime). I have

a wonderful alabaster figure of a cow from ancient Sumer.

I have an incredible silver Buddha from northern India. I

have some Dahomean brass figures of a grace to shame Egypt

and Greece. I have a carved ivory container from Benin, West

Africa, showing a thoroughly Fifteenth Century European

Christ on the cross. I have the "Venus" of Willendorf, Austria,

the figure that was carved in the Aurignacian epoch of the

paleolithic and which is part of the artistic tradition of the

"Venus" art of prehistoric mankind.

I have miniatures by Hilliard and Holbein, satiric prints

by Hogarth, a beautiful Kangra painting of the eighteenth

century on paper that shows astonishingly little Mughal in-

fluence, Japanese prints by Takamaru and Hiroshige--and

where may I stop? How may I choose?

I have pages from the Book of Kells, which is an illumi-

nated hand-executed manuscript of almost unmatched beauty;

and I have pages from the Gutenberg Bible, put together in

the infancy of printing, which has illuminated pages to give

the effect of a hand-copied manuscript, because the printers

didn't want their invention discovered. I have a tughra of

Sulaiman the Magnificent, a calligraphic emblem that formed

headings for his imperial edicts; and I have a Hebrew Scroll

of the Law whose calligraphy outshines the jewels which

encrust the poles on which it is wound.

I have Coptic textiles of the sixth century and Alencon

lace of the sixteenth. I have a magnificent red krater vase

from one of Athens' maritime colonies and a wooden figure-

head of a minister from a New England frigate. I have a

Rubens nude and an Odalisque by Matisse.

In architecture--I am taking the Chinese Compendium

of Architecture which I think has never been equaled as a

text and a model of a Le Corbusier house built by him. I

would love to take one building, the Taj Mahal, but I am

taking the pearl that the Mogul gave to her for whom he built

the ineffable tomb. It is a reddish pearl, shaped like a pear

and about three and a half inches long; shortly after it was

buried with her, it turned up in the possession of an Emperor

of China who set it on gold leaves and surrounded it with

jade and emeralds. At the turn of the nineteenth century, it

was sold somewhere in the Near East for a tiny, ridiculous

sum and ended in the Louvre.

And a tool: a small stone fistaxe, the first think known to

have been made by human creatures.

All this I have collected near the ship. But I've sorted none

of it. And I suddenly remember, I have collected as yet no

furniture, no decorated weapons, no etched glass--

I must hurry, hurry!

November 2190--Shortly after I finished the-last entry,

I glanced upward. There were green specks on the sun and

strange orange streamers seemed to plume out to all points

of the compass. Evidently there was not to be a year. These

were the symptoms of death that the astronomers had pre-

dicted.

So there was an end to my collecting--and my sorting was

done in less than a day. The one thing I suddenly found I had

to do, when it became obvious that my sections of Michel-

angelo would be too heavy, was to go to the Sistine Chapel

ceiling after all. This time I cat out a relatively tiny thing--

the finger of the Creation as it stabs life into Adam. And I

decided to take Da Vinci's "La Gioconda," even though his

"Beatrice d'Este" is more to my taste: the Mona Lisa's smile

belongs to the world.

All posters are represented by one Toulouse-Lautrec. I

dropped the "Guernica"; Picasso is represented instead by an

oil from his blue period and a single striking ceramic plate.

I dropped Harold Paris's "The Eternal Judgment" because of

its bulk; all I have of his now is the print Buchenwald #2,

"Where Are We Going?" And somehow or other, in my last-

minute haste, I seem to have selected a large number of

Safavid bottles from Iran of the sixteenth and seventeenth

centuries. Let future historians and psychologists puzzle out

the reasons for my choices: they are now irrevocable.

We are proceeding toward Alpha Centauri and should ar-

rive in five months. How will we and all our treasures be

received, I wonder? I suddenly feel insanely cheerful. I don't

think it has anything to do with my rather belated realization

that I, who have so little talent and have failed so miserably

in the arts, will achieve a place in the history of art like no

other man--a kind of esthetic Noah.

No, it is the fact that I am carrying both the future and

the past to a rendezvous where they still have a chance to

come to terms. A moment ago Leonardo bounced a ball

against the visiplate and, looking at it, I observed that old

Sol was expanding apoplectically. As I remarked to him then:

"I find, to my astonishment, that in the midst of death, I am--

at last, at last!--truly in life."

Phoenix

CLARK ASHTON SMITH

Rodis and Hilar had climbed from their natal caverns to the

top chamber of the high observatory tower. Pressed close

together, for warmth as well as love, they stood at an eastern

window looking forth on hills and valleys dim with perennial

starlight. They had come up to watch the rising of the sun:

that sun which they had never seen except as an orb of black-

ness, occluding the zodiacal stars in its course from horizon

to horizon.

Thus their ancestors had seen it for millenniums. By some

freak of cosmic law, unforeseen, and inexplicable to astron-

omers and physicists, the sun's cooling had been compara-

tively sudden, and the earth had not suffered the long-drawn

complete desiccation of such planets as Mercury and Mars.

Rivers, lakes, seas, had frozen solid; and the air itself had

congealed, all in a term of years historic rather than geologic.

Millions of the earth's inhabitants had perished, trapped by

the glacial ice, the centigrade cold. The rest, armed with all

the resources of science, had found time to entrench them-

selves against the cosmic night in a world of ramified caverns,

dug by atomic excavators far below the surface,

Here, by the light of artificial orbs, and the heat drawn

from the planet's still-molten depths, life went on much as

it had done in the outer world. Trees, fruits, grasses, grains,

vegetables, were grown in isotope-stimulated soil or hydro-

panic gardens, affording food, renewing a breathable atmo-

sphere. Domestic animals were kept; and birds flew; and

insects crawled or fluttered. The rays considered necessary

for life and health were afforded by the sunbright lamps that

shone eternally in all the caverns.

Little of the old science was lost; but, on the other hand,

there was now little advance. Existence had become the con-

serving of a fire menaced by inexorable night. Generation by

generation a mysterious sterility had lessened the numbers

of the race from millions to a few thousands. As time went

on, a similar sterility began to affect animals; and even plants

no longer flourished with their first abundance. No biologist

could determine the cause with certainty.

Perhaps man, as well as other terrestrial life-forms, was

past his prime, and had begun to undergo collectively the

inevitable senility that comes to the individual. Or perhaps,

having been a surface-dweller throughout most of his evo-

lution, he was inadaptable to the cribbed and prisoned life,

the caverned light and air; and was dying slowly from the

deprivation of things he had almost forgotten.

Indeed, the world that had once flourished beneath a living

sun was little more than a legend now, a tradition preserved

by art and literature and history. Its beetling Babelian cities,

its fecund hills and plains, were swathed impenetrably in

snow and ice and solidified air. No living man had gazed

upon it, except from the night-bound towers maintained as

observatories.

Still, however, the dreams of men were often lit by pri-

mordial memories, in which the sun shone on rippling waters

and waving trees and grass. And their waking hours were

sometimes touched by an undying nostalgia for the lost

earth....

Alarmed by the prospect of racial extinction, the most able

and brilliant savants had conceived a project that was seem-

ingly no less desperate than fantastic. The plan, if executed,

might lead to failure or even to the planet's destruction. But

all the necessary steps had now been taken toward its launch-

ing.

It was of this plan that Rodis and Hilar spoke, standing

clasped in each other's arms, as they waited for the rising of

the dead sun.

"And you must go?" said Rodis, with averted eyes and

voice that quavered a little.

"Of course. It is a duty and an honor. I am regarded as

the foremost of the younger atomicists. The actual placing

and timing of the bombs will devolve largely upon me."

"But--are you sure of success? There are so many risks,

. Hilar." The girl shuddered, clasping her lover with convul-

sive tightness.

"We are not sure of anything," Hilar admitted. "But,

granting that our calculations are correct, the multiple

charges of fissionable materials, including more than half

the solar elements, should start chain-reactions that will re-

store the sun to its former incandescence. Of course, the ex-

plosion may be too sudden and too violent, involving the

nearer planets in the formation of a nova. But we do not

believe that this will happen--since an explosion of such

magnitude would require instant disruption of all the sun's

elements. Such disruption should not occur without a starter

for each separate atomic structure. Science has never been

able to break down all the known elements. If it had been,

the earth itself would undoubtedly have suffered destruction

in the old atomic wars."

Hilar paused, and his eyes dilated, kindling with a vi-

sionary fire.

"How glorious," he went on, "to use for a purpose of cosmic

renovation the deadly projectiles designed by our forefathers

only to blast and destroy. Stored in sealed caverns, they have

not been used since men abandoned the earth's surface so

many millenniums ago. Nor have the old spaceships been

used either-- An interstellar drive was never perfected; and

our voyagings were always limited to the other worlds of our

own system--none of which was inhabited, or inhabitable.

Since the sun's cooling and darkening, there has been no

object in visiting any of them. But the ships too were stored

away. And the newest and speediest one, powered with anti-

gravity magnets, has been made ready for our voyage to the

sun."

Rodis listened silently, with an awe that seemed to have

subdued her misgivings, while Hilar continued to speak of

the tremendous project upon which he, with six other chosen

technicians, was about to embark. In the meanwhile, the

black sun rose slowly into heavens thronged with the cold

ironic blazing of innumerable stare, among which no planet

shone. It blotted out the sting of the Scorpion, poised at that

hour above the eastern hills. It was smaller but nearer than

the igneous orb of history and legend. In its center, like a

Cyclopean eye, there burned a single spot of dusky red fire,

believed to mark the eruption of some immense volcano amid

the measureless and cinder-blackened landscape.

To one standing in the ice-bound valley below the observ-

atory, it would have seemed that the tower's lighted window

was a yellow eye that stared back from the dead earth to that

crimson eye of the dead sun.

"Soon," said Hilar, "you will climb to this chamber--and

see the morning that none has seen for a century of centuries.

The thick- ice will thaw from the peaks and valleys, running

in streams to re-molten lakes and oceans. The liquefied air

will rise in clouds and vapors, touched with the spectrum-

tinted splendor of the light. Again, across earth, will blow

the winds of the four quarters; and grass and flowers will

grow, and trees burgeon from tiny saplings. And man, the

dweller in closed caves and abysses, will return to his proper

heritage."

"How wonderful it all sounds," murmured Rodis. "But... you

will come back to me?"

"I will come back to you... in the sunlight," said Hilar.

The space-vessel Phosphor lay in a huge cavern beneath

that region which had once been known as the Atlas Moun-

tains. The cavern's mile-thick roof had been partly blasted

away by atomic disintegrators. A great circular shaft slanted

upward to the surface, forming a mouth in the mountain-side

through which the stars of the Zodiac were visible. The prow

of the Phosphor pointed at the stars.

All was now ready for its launching. A score of dignitaries

and. savants, looking like strange ungainly monsters in suits

and helmets worn against the spatial'cold that had invaded

the cavern, were present for the occasion. Hiiar and his six

companions had already gone aboard the Phosphor and had

closed its air-locks.

Inscrutable and silent behind their metalloid helmets, the

watchers waited. There was no ceremony, no speaking or

waving of farewells; nothing to indicate that a world's destiny

impended on the mission of the vessel.

Like mouths of fire-belching dragons the stern-rockets

flared, and the Phosphor, like a wingless bird, soared upward

through the great shaft and vanished.

Hilar, gazing through a rear port, saw for a few moments

the lamp-bright window of that tower in which he had stood

so recently with Rodis. The window was a golden spark that

swirled downward in abysses of devouring night--and

was extinguished. Behind it, he knew, his beloved stood

watching the Phosphor's departure. It was a symbol, he

mused... a symbol of life, of memory... of the suns them-

selves... of all things that flash briefly and fall into ob-

livion.

But such thoughts, he felt, should be dismissed. They were

unworthy of one whom his fellows had appointed as a light-

bringer, a Prometheus who should rekindle the dead sun and

re-lumine the dark world.

There were no days, only hours of eternal starlight, to

measure the time in which they sped outward through the

void. The rockets, used for initial propulsion, no longer

flamed astern; and the vessel flew in darkness, except for the

gleaming Argus eyes of its ports, drawn now by the mighty

gravitational drag of the blind sun.

Test-flights had been considered unnecessary for the Phos-

phor. All its machinery was in perfect condition; and the

mechanics involved were simple and easily mastered. None

of its crew had ever been in extraterrestrial space before; but

all were well-trained in astronomy, mathematics, and the

various techniques essential to a voyage between worlds.

There were two navigators; one rocket-engineer; and two en-

gineers who would operate the powerful generators, charged

with a negative magnetism reverse to that of gravity, with

which they hoped to approach, circumnavigate, and even-

tually depart in safety from an orb enormously heavier

than the system's nine planets merged into one. Hilar

and his assistant, Hans Joas, completed the personnel. Their

sole task was the timing, landing, and distribution of the

bombs.

All were descendants of a mixed race with Latin, Semitic,

Hamitic and negroid ancestry: a race that had dwelt, before

the sun's cooling, in countries south of the Mediterranean,

where the former deserts had been rendered fertile by a vast

irrigation-system of lakes and canals.

This mixture, after so many centuries of cavern life, had

produced a characteristically slender, well-knit type, of short

or medium stature and pale olive complexion. The features

were often of negroid softness; the general physique marked

by a delicacy verging upon decadence.

To an extent surprising, in view of the vast intermediate

eras of historic and geographic change, this people had pre-

served many pre-atomic traditions and even something of the

old classic Mediterranean cultures. Their language bore dis-

tinct traces of Latin, Greek, Spanish and Arabic.

Remnants of other peoples, those of sub-equatorial Asia

and America, had survived the universal glaciation by bur-

rowing underground. Radio communication had been main-

tained with these peoples till within fairly recent times, and

had then ceased. It was believed that they had died out, or

had retrograded into savagery, losing the civilization to

which they had once attained.

Hour after hour, intervaled only by sleep and eating, the

Phosphor sped onward through the black unvarying void. To

Hilar, it seemed at times that they flew merely through a

darker and vaster cavern whose remote walls were spangled

by the stars as if by radiant orbs. He had thought to feel

the overwhelming vertigo of unbottomed and undirectioned

space. Instead, there was a weird sense of circumscription by

the ambient night and emptiness, together with a sense of

cyclic repetition, as if all that was happening had happened

many times before and must recur often through endless

future kalpas.

Had he and his companions gone forth in former cycles to

the relighting of former perished suns? Would they go forth

again, to rekindle suns that would flame and die in some

posterior universe? Had there always been, would ther,e al-

ways be, a Rodis who awaited his return?

Of these thoughts he spoke only to Han Joas, who shared

something of his innate mysticism and his trend toward

cosmic speculation, But mostly the two talked of the mys-

teries of the atom and its typhonic powers, and discussed the

problems with which they would shortly be confronted.

The ship carried several hundred disruption bombs, many

of untried potency: the unused heritage of ancient wars that

had left chasm scars and lethal radioactive areas, some a

thousand miles or more in extent, for the planetary glaciers

to cover. There were bombs of iron, calcium, sodium, helium,

hydrogen, sulphur, potassium, magnesium, copper, chro-

mium, strontium, barium, zinc elements that had all been

anciently revealed in the solar spectrum. Even at the apex

of their madness, the warring nations had wisely refrained

from employing more than a few such bombs at any one time.

Chain-reactions had sometimes been started; but, fortu-

nately, had died out.

Hilar and Han Joas hoped to distribute the bombs at

intervals over the sun's entire circumference; prefer-

ably in large deposits of the same elements as those of

which they were composed. The vessel was equipped

with radar apparatus by which the various elements could

be detected and located. The bombs would be timed to explode

with as much simultaneity as possible. If all went well, the

Phosphor would have fulfilled its mission and traveled most

of the return distance to earth before the explosions occurred.

It had been conjectured that the sun's interior was com-

posed of still-molten magma, covered by a relatively thin

crust: a seething flux of matter that manifested itself in vol-

canic activities. Only one of the volcanoes was visible from

earth to the naked eye; but numerous others had been re-

vealed to telescopic study. Now, as the Phosphor drew near

to its destination, these others flamed out on the huge, slowly

rotating orb that had darkened a fourth of the ecliptic

and had blotted Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius wholly from

view.

For a long time it had seemed to hang above the voyagers.

Now, suddenly, as if through some prodigious legerdemain,

it lay beneath them: a monstrous, ever-broadening disk of

ebon, eyed with fiery craters, veined and spotted and blotched

with unknown pallid radioactives. It was like the buckler of

some macrocosmic giant of the night, who had entrenched

himself in the abyss lying between the worlds.

The Phosphor plunged toward it like a steel splinter drawn

by some tremendous lodestone.

Each member of the crew had been trained beforehand for

the part he was to play; and everything had been timed with

the utmost precision. Sybal and Samac, the engineers of the

anti-gravity magnets, began to manipulate the switches that

would build up resistance to the solar drag. The generators,

bulking to the height of three men, with induction-coils that

suggested some colossal Laocoon, could draw from cosmic

space a negative force capable of counteracting many earth-

gravities. In past ages they had defied easily the pull of

Jupiter; and the ship had even coasted as near to the

blazing sun as its insulation and refrigeration systems

would safely permit. Therefore it seemed reasonable to

expect that the voyagers could accomplish their purpose

of approaching closely to the darkened globe; of circling

it, and pulling away when the disruption-charges had all

been planted.

A dull, subsonic vibration, felt rather than heard, began

to emanate from the magnets. It shook the vessel, ached in

the voyagers' tissues. Intently, with anxiety unbetrayed by

their impassive features, they watched the slow, gradual

building-up of power shown by gauge-dials on which giant

needles crept like horologic hands, registering the reversed

gravities one after one, till a drag equivalent to that of fifteen

Earths had been neutralized. The clamp of the solar gravi-

tation, drawing them on with projectile-like velocity, crush-

ing them to their seats with relentless increase of weight,

was loosened. The needles crept on ... more slowly now

... to sixteen... to seventeen... and stopped. The Phosphor's

fall had been retarded but not arrested. And the switches

stood at their last notch.

Sybal spoke, in answer to the unuttered questions of his

companions.

"Something is wrong. Perhaps there has been some un-

foreseen deterioration of the coils, in whose composition

strange and complex alloys were used. Some of the elements

may have been unstable--or have developed instability

through age. Or perhaps there is some interfering unknown

force, born of the sun's decay. At any rate, it is impossible

to build more power toward the twenty-seven anti-gravities

we will require close to the solar surface."

Samac added: "The decelerative jets will increase our re-

sistance to nineteen anti-gravities. It will still be far from

enough, even at our present distance."

"How much time have we?" inquired Hilar, turning to the

navigators, Calaf and Caramod.

The two conferred and calculated.

"By using the decelerative jets, it will be two hours before

we reach the sun," announced Calaf finally,

As if his announcement had been an order, Eibano, the

jet-engineer, promptly jerked the levers that fired to full

power the reversing rockets banked in the Phosphor's nose

and sides. There was a slight further deceleration of their

descent, a further lightening of the grievous weight that op-

pressed them. But the Phosphor still plunged irreversibly

sunward.

Hilar and Hah Joas exchanged a glance of understanding

and agreement. They rose stiffly from their seats, and moved

heavily toward the magazine, occupying fully half the ship's

interior, in which the hundreds of disruption-bombs were

racked. It was unnecessary to announce their purpose; and

no one spoke either in approval or demur.

Hilar opened the magazine's door; and he and Han Joas

paused on the threshold, looking back. They saw for the last

time the faces of their fellow-voyagers; expressing no other

emotion than resignation, vignetted, as it were, on the verge

of destruction. Then they entered the magazine, closing its

door behind them.

They set to work methodically, moving back to back along

a narrow aisle between the racks in which the immense ovoid

bombs were piled in strict order according to their respective

elements. Because of the various coordinated dials and

switches involved, it was a matter of minutes to prepare a

single bomb for the explosion. Therefore, Hilar and Han Joas,

in the time at their disposal, could do no more than set the

timing and detonating mechanism of one bomb of each ele-

ment. A great chronometer, ticking at the magazine's farther

end, enabled them to accomplish this task with precision.

The bombs were thus timed to explode simultaneously, det-

onating the others through chain-reaction, at the moment

when the Phosphor should touch the sun's surface.

The solar pull, strengthening as the Phosphor fell to its

doom, had now made their movements slow and difficult. It

would, they feared, immobilize them before they could finish

preparing a second series of bombs for detonation. Labori-

ously, beneath the burden of a weight already trebled, they

made their way to seats that faced a reflector in which the

external cosmos was imaged.

It was an awesome and stupendous scene on which they

gazed. The sun's globe had broadened vastly, filling the

nether heavens. Half-seen, a dim unhorizoned landscape, fit-

fully lit by the crimson far-sundered flares of volcanoes, by

bluish zones and patches of strange radio-active minerals,

it deepened beneath them abysmally disclosing mountains

that would have made the Himalayas seem like' hillocks, re-

vealing chasms that might have engulfed asteroids and plan-

ets.

At the center of this Cyclopean landscape burned the great

volcano that had been called Hephaestus by astronomers. It

was the same volcano watched by Hilar and Rodis from the

observatory window. Tongues of flame a hundred miles in

length arose and licked skyward from a crater that seemed

the mouth of some ultramundane hell.

Hilar and Han Joas no longer heard the chronometer's

portentous ticking, and had no eyes for the watching of its

ominous hands. Such watching was needless now: there was

nothing more to be done, and nothing before them but eter-

nity. They measured their descent by the broadening of the

dim solar plain, the leaping into salience of new mountains,

the deepening of new chasms and gulfs in the globe that had

now lost all semblance of a sphere.

It was plain now that the Phosphor would fall directly into

the flaming and yawning crater of Hephaestus. Faster and

faster it plunged, heavier grew the piled chains of gravity

that giants could not have lifted--

At the very last, the reflector on which Hilar and Han

Joas peered was filled entirely by the tongued volcanic.fires

that enveloped the Phosphor,

Then, without eyes to see or ears to apprehend, they were

part of the pyre from which the sun, like a Phoenix, was

reborn.

Rodis, climbing to the tower, after a period of fitful sleep

and troublous dreams, saw from its window the rising of the

rekindled orb.

It dazzled her, though its glory was half-dimmed by rain-

bow-colored mists that fumed from the icy mountain-tops. It

was a sight filled with marvel and with portent. Thin rills

of downward threading water had already begun to fret the

glacial armor on slopes and scarps; and later they would swell

to cataracts, laying bare the buried soil and stone. Vapors,

that seemed to flow and fluctuate on renascent winds, swam

sunward from lakes of congealed air at the valley's bottom.

It was a visible resumption of the elemental life and activity

so long suspended in hibernal night. Even through the

tower's insulating walls, Rodis felt the solar warmth that

later would awaken the seeds and spores of plants that had

lain dormant for cycles.

Her heart was stirred to wonder by the spectacle. But

beneath the wonder was a great numbness and a sadness like

unmelting ice. Hilar, she knew, would never return to her--

except as a ray of the light, a spark of the vital heat, that he

had helped to relumine. For the nonce, there was irony rather

than comfort in the memory of his promise; "I will come back

to you--in the sunlight."

Run from the Fire

HARRY HARRISON

"You can't go in there!" Heidi shrieked as the office door was

suddenly thrown wide.

Mark Greenberg, deep in the tangled convolutions of a

legal brief, looked up, startled at the interruption. His sec-

retary came through the doorway, propelled by the two men

who held her arms. Mark dropped the thick sheaf of papers,

picked up the phone, and dialed the police.

"I want three minutes of your time," one of the men said,

stepping forward. "Your girl would not let us in. It is im-

portant. I will pay. One hundred dollars a minute. Here is

the money."

The bank notes were placed on the blotter, and the man

stepped back. Mark finished dialing. The money was real

enough. They released Heidi, who pushed their hands away.

Beyond her was the empty outer office; there were no wit-

nesses to the sudden intruders. The phone rang in his ears;

then a deep voice spoke

"Police Department, Sergeant Vega."

Mark hung up the phone.

"Things have been very quiet around here. You have three

minutes. There will also be a hundred-dollar fee for molesting

my secretary."

If he had meant it as a joke, it was not taken that way.

The man who had paid the money took another bill from the

pocket of his dark suit and handed it to a startled Heidi, then

waited in silence until she took it and left. They were a

strange pair, Mark realized. The paymaster was draped in

a rusty black suit, had a black patch over his right eye, and

wore black gloves as well. A victim of some accident or other,

for his face and neck were scarred, and one ear was missing.

When he turned back, Mark realized that his hair was really

a badly fitting wig. The remaining eye, lashless and browless,

glared at him redly from its deepset socket, Mark glanced

away from the burning stare to look at the other man, who

seemed commonplace in every way. His akin had a shiny,

waxy look; other than that and his unusual rigidity, he

seemed normal enough.

"My name is Arinix, your name is Mark Greenberg," The

scarred man bent over the card in his hand, reading quickly

in a hoarse, emotionless voice. "You served in the United

States Army as a captain in the adjutant general's office and

as a military police officer. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but--"

The voice ground on, ignoring his interruption. "You were

born in the state of Alabama and grew up in the city of

Oneida, New York. You speak the language of the Iroquois,

but you are not an Indian. Is that true?"

"It's pretty obvious. Is there any point to this questioning?"

"Yes. I paid for it. How is it that you speak this language?"

He peered closely at the card as though looking for an answer

that was not there.

"Simple enough. My father's store was right next to the

Oneida reservation. Most of his customers were Indians, and

I went to school with them. We were the only Jewish family

in town, and they didn't seem to mind this, the way our Polish

Catholic neighbors did. So we were friends; in minorities

there is strength, you might say--"

"That is enough."

Arinix drew some crumpled bills from his side pocket,

looked at them, and shoved them back. "Money," he said,

turning to his silent companion. This man had a curious

lizardlike quality for only his arm moved; the rest of his body

was still, and his face fixed and-expressionless, as he took a

thick bundle of bills from his side pocket and handed it over.

Arinix looked at it, top and bottom, then dropped it onto

the desk.

"There is ten thousand dollars here. This is a fee for three

days' work. I wish you to aid me. You will have to speak the

Iroquois language. I can tell you no more."

"I'm afraid you will have to, Mr. Arinix. Or don't bother,

it is the same to me. I am involved in a number of cases at

the moment, and it would be difficult to take off the time.

The offer is interesting, but I might lose that much in missed

fees, Since your three minutes are up, I suggest you leave."

"Money," Arinix said again, receiving more and more bun-

dies from his assistant, dropping them on Mark's desk. "Fifty

thousand dollars. Good pay for three days. Now, come with

us."

It was the man's calm arrogance that angered Mark, the

complete lack of emotion, or even interest, in the large sums

he was passing over.

"That's enough. Do you think money can buy everything?"

"Yes."

The answer was so sudden and humorless that Mark had

to smile. "Well, you probably are right. If you keep raising

the ante long enough, I suppose you will eventually reach a

point where you can get anyone to listen. Would you pay me

more than this?"

"Yes. How much?"

"You have enough here. Maybe Fm afraid to find out how

high you will go. For a figure like this, I can take off three

days. But you will have to tell me what is going to happen."

Mark was intrigued, as much by the strange pair as by the

money they offered.

"That is impossible. But I can tell you that within two

hours you will know what you are to do. At that time you

may refuse, and you will still keep the money. Is it agreed?"

A lawyer who is a bachelor tends to take on more cases

than do his married associates--who like to see their families

once in a while. Mark had a lot of work and a lot of money,

far more than he had time to spend. It was the novelty of this

encounter, not the unusual fee, that attracted him. And the

memory of a solid two years of work without a single vaca-

tion. The combination proved irresistible.

"Agreed-- Heidi," he called out, then handed her the

money when she came into the office. "Deposit this in the

number-two special account and then go home. A paid hol-

iday. I'll see you on Monday."

She looked down at the thick bundle of bills, then up at

the strangers as they waited while Mark took his overcoat

from the closet. The three of them left together, and the door

closed. That was the last time that she or anyone else ever

saw Mark Greenberg.

It was a sunny January day, but an arctic wind that cut

to the bone was blowing up from the direction of the Battery.

As they walked west, it caught them at every cross street,

wailing around the building corners. Although they wore

only suit jackets, neither of the strange men seemed to notice

it. Nor were they much on conversation. In cold and silent

discomfort they walked west, a few blocks short of the river,

where they entered an old warehouse building. The street

door was unlocked, but Arinix now secured it behind them

with a heavy bolt, then turned to the inner door at the end

of the hall. It appeared to be made of thick steel plates riveted

together like a ship's hull, and had a lock in each corner.

Arinix took an unusual key from his pocket. It was made of

dull, ridged metal, as thick as his finger and as long as a

pencil. He inserted this in each of the four locks, giving it a

sharp twist each time before removing it. When he was done,

he stepped away, and his companion put his shoulder against

the door and pushed hard. After a moment it slowly gave

way and reluctantly swung open. Arinix waved Mark on, and

he followed them into the room beyond.

It was completely commonplace. Walls, ceilings, and floor

were painted the same drab tone of brown. Lighting came

from a translucent strip in the ceiling; a metal bench was

fixed to the far wall next to another door.

"Wait here," Arinix said, theo went out through the door.

The other man was a silent, unmoving presence. Mark

looked at the bench, wondering if he should sit down, won-

dering too if he had been wise to get involved in this, when

the door opened and Arinix returned.

"Here is what you must do" he said. "You will go out of

here and will note this address, and then walk about the city.

Return here at the end of an hour."

"No special place to go, nothing to do? Just walk around?"

"That is correct."

He pulled the heavy outer door open as he spoke, then led

the way through it, down the three steps, and back along the

hall. Mark followed him, then wheeled about and pointed

back.

"These steps! They weren't there when we came in--no

steps, I'll swear to it."

"One hour, no more, I will hold your topcoat here until

you return."

Warm air rushed in, bright sunlight burned on the stained

sidewalk outside. The wind still blew, though not as strongly,

but now it was as hot as from an oven door. Mark hesitated

on the doorstep, sweat already on his face, taking off the

heavy coat.

"I don't understand. You must tell me what--"

Arinix took the coat, then pushed him suddenly in the

back. He stumbled forward, gained his balance instantly, and

turned just as the door slammed shut and the bolt ground

into place. He pushed, but it did not move. He knew that

calling out would be a waste of time. Instead, he turned, eyes

slitted against the glare, and stared out at the suddenly

changed world.

The street was empty, no cars passed, no pedestrians were

on the sidewalk. When he stepped out of the shadowed door-

way, the sun smote him like a golden fist. He took his jacket

off and hung it over his arm, and then his necktie, but he

still ran with sweat. The office buildings stared blank-eyed

from their tiered windows; the gray factories were silent,

Mark looked about numbly, trying to understand what had

happened, trying to make sense of the unbelievable situation.

Five minutes ago it had been midwinter, with the icy streets

filled with hurrying people. Now it was... what?

In the distance the humming, rising drone of an engine

could be heard, getting louder, going along a nearby street.

He hurried to the corner and reached it just in time to see

the car roar across the intersection a block away. It was just

that, a car, and it had been going too fast for him to see who

was in it. He jumped back at a sudden shrill scream, almost

at his feet, and a large seagull hurled itself into the air and

flapped away. It had been tearing at a man's body that lay

crumpled in the gutter. Mark had seen enough corpses in

Korea to recognize another one, to remember the never-for-

gotten smell of corrupted flesh. How was it possible for the

corpse to remain here so long, days at least? What had hap-

pened to the city?

There was a growing knot of unreasoned panic rising

within him, urging him to run, scream, escape. He fought it

down and turned deliberately and started back toward the

room where Arinix was waiting. He would spend the'rest of

the hour waiting for that door to open, hoping he would have

the control to prevent himself from beating upon it. Some-

thing had happened, to him or the world, he did not know

which, but he did know that the only hope of salvation from

the incredible events of the morning lay beyond that door.

Screaming unreason wanted him to run; he walked slowly,

noticing for the first time that the street he was walking

down ended in the water. The buildings on each side sank

into it as well, and there, at the" foot of the street, was the

roof of a drowned wharf. All this seemed no more incredible

than anything that had happened before, and he tried to

ignore it. He fought so hard to close his mind and his thoughts

that he did not hear the rumble of the truck motor or the

squeal of brakes behind him.

"That man! What are you doing here?"

Mark spun about. A dusty, open-bodied truck had stopped

at the curb, and a thin blond soldier was swinging down from

the cab. He wore a khaki uniform without identifying marks

and kept his hand near the large pistol in a polished leather

holster that swung from his belt. The driver was watching

him, as were three more uniformed men in the back of the

truck, who were pointing heavy rifles in his direction. The

driver and the soldiers were all black. The blond officer had

drawn his pistol and was pointing it at Mark as well.

"Are you with the westenders? You know what happens

to them, don't you?"

Sudden loud firing boomed in the street, and thinking he

was being shot at, Mark dropped back against the wall. But

no shots were aimed, in his direction. Even as they were

turning, the soldiers in the truck dropped, felled by the bul-

lets. Then the truck itself leaped and burst into flames as a

grenade exploded. The officer had wheeled about and dropped

to one knee and was firing his pistol at Arinix, who was

sheltered in a doorway across the street, changing clips on

the submachine gun he carried.

Running footsteps sounded, and the officer wheeled to face

Arinix's companion, who was running rapidly toward him,

empty-handed and cold-faced.

"Watch out!" Mark called as the officer fired.

The bullet caught the running man in the chest, spinning

him about. He tottered but did not fall, then came on again.

The second shot was to his head, but before the officer could

fire again, Mark had jumped forward and chopped him across

the wrist with the edge of his hand, so that the gun jumped

from his fingers.

"Varken hand!" the man cried, and swung his good fist

toward Mark.

Before it could connect, the runner was upon him, hurling

him to the ground, kicking him in the head, again and again,

with a heavy boot. Mark pulled at the attacker's arm, so that

he lost balance and had to stagger back, turning about. The

bullet had caught him full in the forehead, leaving a neat,

dark hole. There was no blood. He looked stolidly at Mark,

his features expressionless, his skin smooth and shiny.

"We must return quickly," Arinix said as he came up. He

lowered the muzzle of the machine gun and would have shot

the unconscious officer if Mark hadn't pushed the barrel

aside.

"You can't kill him, not like that."

"I can. He is dead already."

"Explain that." He held firmly to the barrel. 'That and

a lot more."

They struggled in silence for a second, until they were

aware of an engine in the distance getting louder and closer.

Arinix turned away from the man on the sidewalk and

started back down the street. "He called for help on the radio.

We must be gone before they arrive."

Gratefully Mark hurried after the other two, happy to run

now, run to the door to escape this madness.

3

"A drink of water," Arinix said. Mark dropped onto the

metal bench in the brown room and nodded, too exhausted

to talk. Arinix had a tray with glasses of water, and he passed

one to Mark, who drained it and took a second one. The air

was cool here, feeling frigid after the street outside, and with

the water, he was soon feeling better. More relaxed, at ease,

almost ready to fall asleep. As his chin touched his chest, he

jerked awake and jumped to his feet.

"You drugged the water," he said.

"Not a strong drug. Just something to relax you, to remove

the tension. You will be better in a moment. You have been

through an ordeal."

"I have... and you are going to explain it!"

"In a moment."

"No, now!"

Mark wanted to jump to his feet, to take this strange man

by the -throat, to shake the truth from him. But he did noth-

ing. The desire was there, but only in an abstract way. It did

not seem important enough to pursue such an energetic chain

of events. For the first time he noticed that Arinix had lost

his hairpiece during the recent engagement. He was as hair-

less as an egg, and the same scars that crisscrossed his face

also extended over his bare skull. Even this did not seem

important enough to comment upon. Awareness struck

through,

"Your drug seems to be working."

"The effect is almost instantaneous."

"Where are we?"

"In New York City."

"Yes, I know, but so changed. The water in the streets,

those soldiers, and the heat. It can't be January--have we

traveled in time?"

"No, it is still January, the same day, month, year it has

always been. That cannot be changed, that is immutable."

"But something isn't; something has changed. What is it?"

"You have a very quick mind, you make correct conclu-

sions. You must therefore free this quick mind of all theories

of the nature of reality and of existence. There is no heaven,

there is no hell, the past is gone forever, the unstoppable

future sweeps toward us endlessly. We are fixed forever in

the now, the inescapable present of our world line--"

"What is a world line?"

"See... the drug relaxes, but your brain is still lawyer-

sharp. You live in a particular present because of what hap-

pened in the past. Columbus discovered America, the armies

of the North won the Civil War, Einstein stated that

E = MC2"

He stopped abruptly, and Mark waited for him to go on,

but he did not. Why? Because he was waiting for Mark to

finish for him. Mark nodded.

"What you are waiting for is for me to ask if there is a

world line where Columbus died in infancy, where the South

won, and so forth. Is that what you mean?"

"I do. Now, carry the analogy forward."

"If two or three world lines exist, why, more, any number,

an infinity of world lines can exist. Infinitely different, eter-

nally separate." Then he was on his feet, shaking despite the

drug. "But they are not separate. We are in a different one

right now. There is a different world line beyond that door,

down those steps--because the ground here is at a different

height. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"But why, how... I mean, what is going on out there, what

terrible thing is happening?"

"The sun is in the early stages of a change. It is getting

warmer, giving out more radiation, and the polar ice caps

are beginning to melt. The sea level has risen, drowning the

lowest parts of the city This is midwinter, and you saw how

warm it is out there. You can imagine what the tropics are

like. There has been a breakdown in government as people

fled the drowning shorelines. Others have taken advantage

of it. The Union of South Africa has capitalized on the de-

teriorating conditions, and using mercenary troops, has in-

vaded the North American continent. They met little resis-

tance."

"I don't understand--or rather, I do understand what is

happening out there, and I believe you, because I saw it for

myself. But what can I do about it? Why did you bring me

here?"

"You can do nothing about it. I brought you here because

we have discovered by experience that the quickest way that

someone can be convinced of the multiplicity of worldliness

is by bringing them physically to a different world line."

"It is also the best---and quickest--way to discover if they

can accept this fact and not break down before this new

awareness."

"You have divined the truth. We are, unfortunately, short

of time, so wish to determine as soon as possible if recruits

will be able to work with us."

"Who is we?"

"In a moment I will tell you. First, do you accept the idea

of the multiplicity of world lines?"

"I'm afraid I must. Outside is an inescapable fact. That

is not a stage constructed to confuse me. Those dead men are

dead forever. How many world lines are there?"

"An infinite number; it is impossible to know. Some differ

greatly, some so slightly that it is impossible to mark the

difference. Imagine them, if you will, as close together as

cards in a pack. If two-dimensional creatures, cluba and

hearts, lived on each card, they would be unaware of the

other cards and just as unable to reach them. Continue the

analogy, drive a nail through all of the cards. Now the other

cards can be reached. My people, the 'we' you asked about,

are the ones who can do that. We have reached many world

lines. Some we cannot reach--some we dare not reach."

"Why?"

"You ask why--after what you saw out there?" For the

first time since they had met, Arinix lost his cold detachment.

His single eye blazed with fury, and his fists were clenched

as he paced the floor. "You saw the filthy things that happen,

the death that comes before the absolute death. You see me,

and I am typical of my people, maimed, killed, and scarred

by a swollen sun that produces more and more hard radiation

every year. We escaped our world line, seeking salvation in

other world lines, only to discover the awful and ultimate

secret. The rot is beginning, going faster and faster all the

time. You saw what the world is like beyond that door. Do

you understand what I am saying, do the words make any

sense to you?

"The sun is going nova. It is the end."

4

"Water," Arinix called out hoarsely, slumping onto the

metal bench, his single eye closed now. The inner door opened,

and his companion appeared with a pitcher and refilled the

glasses. He moved as smoothly as before and seemed ignorant

of the black hole in his forehead.

"He is a Sixim," Arinix said, seeing the direction of Mark's

gaze. He drank the water so greedily that it ran down his

chin. "They are our helpers; we could not do without them.

Not our invention. We borrow what we need. They are ma-

chines, fabrications of plastic and metal, though there is ar-

tificial flesh of some kind involved in their construction. I do

not know the details. Their controlling apparatus is some-

where in the armored chest cavity; they are quite invulner-

able."

Mark had to ask the question.

"The sun is going nova, you said. Everywhere, in every

time line--in my time line?"

Arinix shook his head a weary no. "Not in every line; that

is our only salvation. But in too many of them--and the pace

is accelerating steadily. Your line--no, not as far as we know.

The solar spectrum does not show the characteristic changes.

Your line has enough problems as it is, and is one we use for

much-needed supplies. There are few of us, always too few,

and so much to be done. We must save whom we can and

what we can, do it without telling why or how we operate.

It is a great work that does not end, and is a most tiring one.

But my people are driven, driven insane with hatred, at

times, of that bloated, evil thing in the sky. We have survived

for centuries in spite of it, maimed and mutated by the ra-

diation it pours out. It was due to a successful mutation that

we escaped even as we have, a man of genius who discovered

the door between the world lines. But the unsuccessful out-

number a million to one the successful in mutations, and I

will not attempt to describe the suffering in my world. You

may think me maimed, but I am one of the lucky ones. We

have escaped our world line but found the enemy waiting

everywhere. We have tried to fight back. We started less than

two hundred years ago, and our enemy started millions of

years before us. From it we have learned to be ruthless in

the war, and we will go on fighting it until we have done

everything possible."

"You want me to do something in that world outside the

door?"

"No, not there; they are dead. The destruction is too ad-

vanced. We can only watch. Closer to the end, we will save

what art we can. Things have been noted. We know a culture

by its art, don't we? We know a world that way as well. So

many gone without record, so much to do."

He drank greedily at the water, slobbering. Perhaps he

was mad, Mark thought, partly mad, at least. Hating the

sun,trying to fight it, fighting an endlessly losing battle. But...

wasn't it worth it? If lives, people, could be saved, wasn't that

worth any price, any sacrifice? In his world line, men worked

to save endangered species. Arinix and his people worked to

save another species--their own.

"What can I do to help?" Mark asked.

"You must find out what happened to our field agent in

one of our biggest operations. He is from your world line, the

one we call Einstein because it is one of the very few where

atomic energy has been released. He is now on Iroquois, which

will begin going nova within the century. It is a strange line,

with little technology and retarded by monolithic religions.

Europe still lives in the dark ages. The Indians rule in North

America, and the Six Nations are the most powerful of all.

They are a brave and resourceful people, and we had hoped

to use them to settle a desert world--we know of many of

those. Imagine, if you can, the Earth where life never began,

where the seas are empty, the land a desert of sand and rock.

We have seeded many of them, and that is wonder to behold,

with animal and plant life. Simple enough to introduce seeds

of all kinds, and later, when they have been established, to

transfer animals there. Mankind is not as easy to transfer.

We had great hopes with the Iroquois, but our agent has been

reported missing. I have taken time from my own projects to

correct the matter. We used War Department records to find

you."

"Who was your agent?"

"A man named Joseph Wing, a Mohawk, a steel worker

here in the city in your own line."

"There has always been bad feeling between the Mohawk

and other tribes of the nations."

"We know nothing about that, I will try to find his reports,,

if any, if that will be of any assistance. The important thing

is--will you help us? If you wish more money, you can have

all you need. We have an endless supply. There is little geo-

logic difference between many worlds. So we simply record

where important minerals are on one world, things such as

diamonds and gold, and see that it is mined on another. It

is very easy."

Mark was beginning to have some idea of the immensity

of the operation these people were engaged in. "Yes, I'll help,

I'll do what I can."

"Good. We leave at once. Stay where you are. We go now

to a world line that is called Home by some, Hatred by

others."

"Your own?"

"Yes. You will perhaps understand a bit more what drives

us. All of our geographical transportation is done on Hatred,

for all of the original transit stations were set up there. Also,

that is all it is really good for." He spat the words from his

mouth as though they tasted bad.

Again there was no sensation, no awareness of change,

Arinix left the room, returned a few seconds later.

"You wouldn't like to show me how you did that?" Mark

asked.

"I would not. It is forbidden, unthinkable. It would be

death for you to go through that door. The means of transit

between the world lines is one we must keep secret from all

other than ourselves. We may be partially or completely in-

sane, but our hatred is of that thing that hangs in the sky

above us. We favor no group, no race, no people, no species

above the others. But think what would happen if one of your

nationalistic or religious groups gained control of the means

to move between world lines, think of the destruction that

might follow."

"I grasp your meaning but do not agree completely."

"I do not ask you to. All else is open to you; we have no

secrets. Only that room is forbidden. Come."

He opened the outer door, and Mark followed him through.

They were inside a cavernous building of some kind. Harsh

lights high above sent long shadows from great stacks of

containers and boxes. They stepped aside as a rolling plat-

form approached laden with shining cylinders. It was driven

by a Sixim, who was identical, other than the hole in the

forehead, to the one with them. The door they had just closed

behind them opened, and two more Sixim came out and began to

carry the cylinders back into the room.

"This way," Arinix said, and led the way through the

high stacks to a room where bales of clothing lay heaped on

tables. "Go on to repair," he ordered the damaged Sixim

that still followed them, then pointed at the gray clothing.

"These are radiation-resistant. We will change."

As bereft of shame as of any other emotion, Arinix stripped

off his clothing and pulled on one of the coverall-type outfits.

Mark did the same. It was soft but thick and sealed up high

on the neck with what appeared to be a magnetic closure.

There were heavy boots in an assortment of sizes, and he

soon found a pair that fitted. While he did this, Arinix was

making a call on a very ordinary-looking phone that was

prominently stamped "Western Electric"--they would be sur-

prised if they knew where their apparatus was being used--

speaking a language rich in guttural sounds. They left the

room by a different exit, into a wide corridor, where trans-

portation was waiting for them. It was a vehicle the size of

a large truck, a teardrop shape riding on six large, heavily

tired wheels. It was made of metal the same color as their

clothing, and appeared to have no windows. However, when

they went inside, Mark saw that the solid nose was either

transparent or composed of a large viewsereen of some kind.

A single driver's seat faced the controls, and a curved, padded

bench was fixed to the other three walls. They sat down,

Arinix at the controls, and the machine started. There was

no vibration or sound of any exhaust; it just surged forward

silently at his touch.

"Electric power?" Mark asked.

"I have no idea. The cars run when needed."

Mark admired his singleness of purpose but did not envy

him. There was only one thing in the man's life--to run from

the solar fire and save what possibly could be saved from the

flame. Were all of his'people like this?

Strong headlights glared on as they left the corridor and

entered what appeared to be a tunnel mouth. The walls were

rough and unfinished; only the roadway beneath was smooth,

dropping away at a steep angle,

"Where are we going?" Mark asked.

"Under the river, so we can drive on the surface. The

island above us--what is the name Einstein--?"

"Manhattan."

"Yes, Manhattan. It is covered by the sea now, which rises

almost to the top of the cliffs across the river from it The

polar caps melted many years ago here. Life is very harsh,

you will see."

The tunnel ahead curved to the right and began to rise

sharply. Arinix slowed the vehicle and stopped when a bril-

liant disk of light became visible ahead. He worked a control,

and the scene darkened as though a filter had been slipped

into place. Then, with the headlights switched off, he moved

forward until the light could be seen as the glaring tunnel

mouth, growing larger and brighter, until they were through

it and back on the surface once more.

Mark could not look at the sun, or even in its direction,

despite the protective filter. It burned like the open mouth

of a celestial furnace, spewing out light and heat and radia-

tion onto the world below. Here the plants grew, the only

living creatures that could bear the torrent of fire from the

sky, that welcomed it. Green on all sides, a jungle of growing,

thriving, rising, reaching plants and trees, burgeoning under

the caress of the exploding star. The road was the only visible

manmade artifact, cutting a wide, straight slash through the

wilderness of plant life, straining life that leaned over, grew

to its very edge, and sent tendrils and runners across its

barren surface. Arinix threw more switches, then rose from

the driver's seat.

"It is on automatic control now. We may rest."

He grabbed for support as the car slowed suddenly; ahead,

a great tree had crashed across the road, almost blocking it

completely. There was a rattle of machinery from the front

of the car, and a glow sprang out that rivaled the glare of

the sun above. Then they moved again, slowly, and greasy

smoke billowed up and was blown away.

'The machine will follow the road and clear it when it

must," Arinix said. "A device, a heat generator of some sort,

will burn away obstructions. I am told it is a variant of the

machine that melted the soil and rock to form this road, a

principle discovered while observing the repulsive sun that

has caused this all, making heat in the same manner the sun

makes heat. We will turn its own strengths back upon it."

He went to the seat in the rear, stretched out on it with

his face to the cushions, and appeared to fall instantly asleep,

Mark sat in the driver's chair, careful to touch nothing, both

fascinated and repelled by the world outside. The car contin-

ued unerringly down the center of the road at a high speed,

slowing only when it had to burn away obstructions. It must

have utilized radar or other sensing devices, for a_ sudden

heavy rainstorm did not reduce its speed in the slightest.

Visibility was only a few feet in the intense tropical down-

pour, yet the car moved on, speed unabated. It did slow, but

only to burn away obstructions, and smoke and steam ob-

scured all vision. Then the storm stopped, as quickly as it

began. Mark watched until he began to yawn, so then, like

Arinix, he tried to rest. At first he thought he could not

possibly sleep, then realized he had. Darkness had fallen

outside, and the car still hurried silently through the night.

It was just before dawn when they reached their desti-

nation.

The building was as big as a fortress, which it resembled

in more ways than one. Its walls- were high and dark, fea-

tureless, streaked with rain. Harsh lights on all sides lit the

ground, which was nothing more than sodden ash. Appar-

ently all plant life was burned before it could reach the build-

ing and undermine it. The road led directly to a high door

that slid open automatically as they approached. Arinix

stopped the vehicle a few hundred yards short of the entrance

and rose from the controls.

"Come with me. This machine will enter by itself, but we

shall walk. There is no solar radiation now, so you may, see

my world and know what is in store for all the others."

They stepped out into the damp airlessness of the night.

The car pulled away from them, and they were alone. Ri-

vulets of wet ash streaked the road, disappearing in runnels

at either side where the waiting plant life leaned close. The

air was hot, muggy, hard to breathe, seemingly giving no

substance to the lungs. Mark gasped and breathed deeply

over and over again,

"Remember," Arinix said, turning away and starting for

the entrance, "this is night, midwinter, before dawn, the cool-

est it will ever be here. Do not come in the summer."

Mark went after him, aware that he was already soaked

with sweat, feeling the strength of the enemy in the sky

above, which was already touching fire to the eastern horizon.

Though he panted with the effort, he ran and staggered into

the building and watched as the door ground shut behind

him.

"Your work now begins;" Arinix said, leading the way into

a now familiar brown room. Mark got his breath back and

wiped his streaming face while they made their swift journey

to the world line named Iroquois,

"I will leave you here and will return in twenty-four hours-

for your report on the situation. We will then decide what

must he -done." Arinix opened the outer door and pointed.

"Just a minute--I don't know anything that is happening

here. You will have to brief me."

"I know nothing of this operation, other than what I have

told you. The Sixim there should have complete records and

will tell you what you need to know. Now, leave. I have my

own work to do."

There was no point in arguing, Arinix gestured again im-

patiently, and Mark went through the door, which closed

with a ponderous thud behind him. He was in darkness, cold

darkness, and he shivered uncontrollably after the heat of

the world he had just left.

"Sixim, are you there? Can you turn on some lights?"

There was the sudden flare of a match in answer, and in

its light he could see an Indian lighting an ordinary kerosene

lamp. He wore thong-wrapped fur leggings and a fringed

deerskin jacket. Though his skin was dark, his features were

Indo-European; once the lamp was lit, he stood by it, un-

moving,

"You are the Sixim," Mark said.

"I am."

"What are you doing here?"

"Awaiting instructions."

These creatures were as literal-minded as computers--

which is probably what their brains were. Mark realized he

had to be more specific with his questions, but his teeth were

chattering with cold, and he was shivering hard, which made

it difficult to think.

"How long have you-been waiting?"

"Twelve days, fourteen hours, and--"

"That's precise enough. You have just been sitting here

in the dark without heat all that time! Do you have a way

of heating this place?"

"Yes."

"Then do it, and quickly... and let me have something to

wrap around me before I freeze."

The buffalo-skin robe made a big difference, and while the

Sixim lit a fire in a large stone fireplace, Mark looked around

at the large room. The walls were of logs, with the bark still

on, and the floor bare wide boards. Crates were piled at one

end of the room, and a small mound of skins was at the other.

Around the fire, it was more domestic, with a table and

chairs, cooking pots, and cabinets. Mark pulled a wooden

chair close and raised his hands to the crackling blaze. Once

the fire was started, the Sixim waited stolidly again for more

orders.

By patient questioning Mark extracted all that the ma-

chine man seemed to know about the situation. The agent,

Joseph Wing, had been staying here and going out to talk

to the Oneida. The work he did was unknown to the, Sixim."

Wing had gone out and not returned. At the end of forty-

eight hours, as instructed, the Sixim had reported him miss-

ing. How he had reported, he would not say; obviously there

were questions it would not answer.

"You've been a help--but not very much," Mark said, "I'll

just have to find out for myself what is going on out there.

Did Joseph Wing leave any kind of papers, a diary, notes?"

"No."

"Thanks. Are there any weapons here?"

"In that box Do you wish me to unlock it?"

"I do."

The weapons consisted of about twenty well-worn, ob-

viously surplus M-1 rifles, along with some boxes of am-

munition. Mark tried the bolt on one--it worked smoothly--

then put the rifle back in the box.

"Lock it up. I'm not looking for trouble, and if I find it, a

single gun won't make that much difference. But a peace

offering might be in order, particularly food in the middle of

winter."

He carried the lantern over to the boxes and quickly found

exactly what he needed. A case of large smoked hams. Pick-

ing one out, he held the label to the light, "Smithfield Ham,"

it read, "packed in New Chicago, weight 6.78 kilos." Not from

his world line, obviously, but that didn't matter in the slight-

est.

And he would need warmer clothes, clothes that would be

more acceptable here than gray coveralls. There were leg-

gings and jackets--obviously used, from their smell--that

would do nicely. He changed quickly in front of the fire, then,

knowing it would be harder the longer he waited, tucked the

ham under his arm and went to the door and pulled back on

the large wooden bolt.

"Lock this behind me, and unlock it only for me."

"Yes."

The door opened onto an unmarked field of snow with a

stand of green pines and taller bare-limbed oak trees beyond.

Above, in the blue arch of the sky, a small and reasonable

winter sun shed more light than heat. There was a path

through the trees, and beyond them a thin trickle of smoke

was dark against the sky. Mark went in that direction. When

he reached the edge of the grove, a tall Indian stepped silently

from behind a tree and blocked the path before him. He made

no threatening moves, but the stone-headed club hung easily

and ready from his hand. Mark stopped and looked at him,

saying nothing, hoping he could remember Iroquois after all

these years. It was the Indian who broke the silence and

spoke first,

"I am called Great Hawk."

"I am called... Little-one-talks." He hadn't spoken that

name in years; it was what the old men on the reservation

called him when he first spoke their own language. Great

Hawk seemed to be easier when he heard the words, for his

club sank lower.

"I come in peace," Mark said, and held out the ham.

"Welcome in peace," Great Hawk said, tucking the club

into his waist and taking the ham. He sniffed at it apprecia-

tively.

"Have you seen the one named Joseph Wing?" Mark asked.

The ham dropped, half-burying itself silently in the snow;

the club was clutched at the ready.

"Are you a friend of his?" Great Hawk asked.

"I have never met him. But I was told I would see him

here."

Great Hawk considered this in silence for a long time,

looked up as a blue jay flapped by overhead, calling out

hoarsely, then examined with apparent great attention the

tracks of a rabbit in the snow--through all of this not taking

his eyes from Mark for more than a second,. Finally he spoke.

"Joseph Wing came here during the hunter's moon, before

the first snow fell. Many said-he had much orenda, for there

were strange lights and sounds here during a night, and no

one would leave the long house, and in the morning his long

house stands as you see it now. There is great orenda here.

Then he came and spoke to us and told us many things. He

said he would show the warriors a place where there was

good hunting. Hunting is bad here, for the people of the Six

Nations are many, and some go hungry. He said all these

things, and what he showed us made us believe him. Some

of us said we would go with him, even though some thought

they would never return. Some said that he was Tehoron-

hiawakhon, and he did not say it was not the truth. He said

to my sister, Deer-runs, that he was indeed Tehoronhiawak-

hon. He told her to come with him to his long house. She did

not want to go with him. By force he took her to his long

house."

Great Hawk stopped talking abruptly and looked atten-

tively at Mark through half-closed eyes-. He did not finish,

but the meaning was clear enough. The Oneida would have

thought Joseph Wing possessed of much orenda after his sud-

den appearance, the principle of magic power that was in-

herent in every body or thing. Some had it more than others.

A man who could build a building in a night must have great

orenda. So much so that some would consider him to be Te-

horonhiawakhon, the hero who watched over them, born of

the gods, who lived as a man and who might return as a man.

But no hero would take a maiden by force; the Indians were

very practical on this point. Anyone who would do that would

be killed by the girl's family; that was obvious. Her brother

waited for Mark's answer.

"One who does that must die," Mark said. Defending the

undoubtedly dead Joseph Wing would accomplish nothing;

Mark was learning pragmatism from Arinix.

"He died. Come to the long house."

Great Hawk picked up the ham, turned his back, and led

the way through the deep snow.

6

The Oneida warriors sat cross-legged around the fire while

the women served them the thin gruel. Hunting must have

been bad if this was all they had, for it was more water than

anything else, with some pounded acorns and a few scraps

of venison. After eating, they smoked, a rank leaf of some

kind that was certainly not tobacco. Not until the ceremony

was out of the way did they finally touch the topic that con-

cerned them all.

"We have eaten elk," Great Hawk said, puffing at the pipe

until his eyes grew red, "This is an elkskin robe I am wearing.

They are large, and there is much meat upon them." He

passed the pipe to Mark, then reached behind him under a

tumbled hide and drew forth a bone, "This is the bone of the

leg of an elk, brought to us by someone. We would eat well

in winter with elk such as this to hunt."

Mark took it and looked at it as closely as he could in the

dim light. It was a bone like any other, as far as he could

tell, distinguished only by its great length--at least five feet

from end to end. Comparing it with the length of his own

femur, he could see that it came from a massive beast. Surely

an elk or a cow would be smaller than this. What had this

to do with the dead Joseph Wing? He must have brought it.

But why, and where did he get it? If only there were some

record of what he was supposed to be doing. Hunting, of

course--that had to be it; food for these people who appeared

too many for the limited hunting grounds. He held up the

bone and spoke.

"Was it told to you that you would be able to hunt elk like

this?"

There were nods and grunts in answer.

"What was told you?" After a silence, Great Hawk an-

swered.

"Someone said that a hunting party could go to this land

that was close by but far away. If hunting was good, a long

house would be built for the others to follow. That was what

was said."

It was simple enough. A hunting party taken to one of the

seeded desert worlds, now stocked with game. If the trip was

successful, the rest of the tribe would follow.

"I can also take you hunting in that land," Mark said,

"When will this be?"

"Come to me in the morning, and I will tell you,"

He left before they could ask any more questions. The sun

was low on the horizon, sending long purple shadows across

the white snow. Backtracking was easy, and the solid log

walls of the building a welcome sight. When he was identified,

the Sixim let him in. The fire was built even higher now, the

large room was almost warmed up. Mark sat by the fire and

stretched his hands to it gratefully; the Sixim was sta-

tuesque in the shadows,

"Joseph Wing was to take the Indians to another world

line. Did you know that?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You did not ask."

"I would appreciate it if you would volunteer more infor-

mation in the future."

"Which information do you wish me to volunteer?"

The Sixim took a lot of getting used to. Mark took the

lantern and rummaged through the variety of goods in the

boxes and on the loaded shelves. There were ranked bottles

of unfamiliar shape and labeling that contained some thing

called Kunbula Atashan from someplace that appeared to be

named Carthagio--it was hard to read the letters, so he could

not be sure, but when he opened one of them, it had a definite

odor of strong alcoholic beverage. The flavor was unusual but

fortifying, and he poured a mugful before he returned to the

fire.

"Do you know whom I must contact to make arrangements

for the transfer to the other world line?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Me."

It was just that simple. The Sixim would give no details

of the operation, but he would operate the mechanism to take

them to the correct world and return.

"In the morning, first thing, we'll go have a look."

They left soon after dawn. Mark took one of the rifles and

some extra clips of ammunition; that had been a big elk, and

he might be lucky enough to bag another. Once more the

sensationless transfer was made and the heavy outer door

pushed open. For the first time there was no other room or

hallway beyond it, just a field of yellowed grass. Mark was

astonished.

"But... is it winter? Where is the snow?" Because it was

phrased as a question, the Sixim answered him.

"It is winter. But here in Sandstone the climate is warmer,

due to the ocean-current differences."

Holding the rifle ready, Mark stepped through the door,

which the Sixim closed behind him. Without being ordered,

the Sixim locked the door with the long key. For the first

time Mark saw the means of world-line transportation not

concealed by an outer building. It was a large box, nothing

more, constructed of riveted and rusty steel plates. Whatever

apparatus powered it was inside, for it was completely fea-

tureless. He turned from it to look at the world named Sand-

stone.

The tall grass was everywhere; it must have been seeded

first to stabilize the soil. It had done this, but it would take

centuries to soften the bare rock contours of what had once

been a worldwide desert. Harsh-edged crags pushed up in the

distance where there should have been rounded hills; mounds

of tumbled morain rose above the grass. Groves and patches

of woods lay scattered about, while on one side a thick forest

began and stretched away to the horizon. All of this had a

very constructed air to it--and it obviously was. Mark rec-

ognized some of the trees; others were strange to him. This

planet had been seeded in a hurry, and undoubtedly with a

great variety of vegetation. As unusual as it looked now, this

made ecological good sense, since complex ecological rela-

tionships increased the chance the ecosystem had of surviv-

ing. There would certainly be a variety of animal life as well--

the large elk the Oneida knew about, and surely others as

well. When he moved around the rusty building, he saw just

what some of that life might be--and stopped still on the spot.

No more than a few hundred yards away, there was a herd

of elephants tearing at the leaves on the low trees. Large

elephants with elegant swept-back tusks, thickly covered

with hair.

"Hairy mammoth!" he said aloud, just as the nearest bull

saw him appear and raised his trunk and screamed warning.

"That is correct," the Sixim said.

"Get your key, and let's get out of here," Mark said, back-

ing quickly around the corner. "I don't think a thirty-caliber

will make a dent in that thing."

With unhurried, steady motions the Sixim unlocked the

door, one lock after another, while the thunder of pounding

feet grew louder and closer. Then they were through the door

and pushing it shut.

"I think the Oneida will enjoy the hunting," Mark said,

grinning wryly, leaning against the thick wall with relief,

"Let's go back and get them."

When he opened the outer wooden door in Iroquois, he saw

Great Hawk and five other warriors standing patiently in

the snow outside. They were dressed warmly, had what must

be provision bags slung at their waists, and were armed with

long bows and arrows as well as stone clubs and stone skin-

ning knives. They were prepared for a hunting expedition,

they knew not where, but they were prepared. When Mark

waved them forward, they came at once. The only sign of the

tension they must be feeling was in their manner of walking,

more like stalking a chase than entering a building. They

showed little interest in the outer room--they must have

been here before--but were eyeing the heavy metal door with

more than casual interest. The deceased Joseph Wing must

have told them something about it, but Mark had already

decided to ignore this and tell the truth as clearly as they

could understand it.

"Through that door is a long house that will bear us to the

place where we will hunt. How it will take us there I do not

know, for it is beyond my comprehension. But it will take us

there as safely as a mother carries a papoose on her back, as

safely as a bark canoe carries us over the waters. Are you

ready to go?"

"Will you take the noise stick that kills?" Great Hawk

asked, pointing with his thumb at the rifle Mark still carried.

"Yes."

"It was one time said that the Oneida would be given noise

sticks and taught the manner of their use."

Why not, Mark thought, there were no rules to all this,

anything went that would save these people. "Yes, you may

have them now if you wish, but I think until you can use

them well, your bows will be better weapons."

"That is true. We will have them when we return."

The Sixim pulled the heavy door open, and without being

urged, the Indians filed into the brightly lit room beyond.

They remained silent but held their weapons ready as the

door was closed and the Sixim went through the door to the

operating room, only to emerge a moment later.

"The journey is over," Mark said. "Now we hunt."

Only when the outer door was opened onto the grassy

sunlit plain did they believe him. They grunted with surprise

as they left, calling out in wonder at the strange sights and

the warm temperature. Mark looked around nervously, but

the herd of mammoth was gone. There were more than

enough other things to capture the Indians' attention. They

saw animals where he saw only grass and trees and called

attention to them with pleased shouts. Yet they were silent

instantly when Great Hawk raised his hand for silence, then

pointed.

"There, under those trees. It looks like a large pig."

Mark could see nothing in the shadows, but the other

Indians were apparently in agreement, for they were nocking

arrows to their bows. When the dark, scuffling shape emerged

into the sunlight, they were ready for it, A European boar,

far larger than they had ever seen. The boar had never seen

men before either; it was not afraid; The arrows whistled;

more than one struck home, the boar wheeled about, squeal-

ing with pain, and crashed back into the undergrowth.

Whooping with pleasure, the Oneida were instantly on its

trail.

"Stay inside until we get back," Mark told the Sixim. "I

want to be sure we can get back."

He ran swiftly after the others, who had already vanished

under the trees. The trail was obvious, marked with the blood

of the fleeing animal, well trampled by its pursuers. From

ahead there came even louder squealing and shouts that

ended in sudden silence. When Mark came up, it was all over;

the boar was on its side, dead, its skull crushed in, while the

victorious Indians prodded its flanks and hams happily.

The explosion shook the ground at that moment, a long,

deep rumbling sound that hammered at their ears. It stag-

gered them, it was so close and loud, frightening them be-

cause they did not know what it was. Mark did. He had heard

this kind of noise before. He wheeled about and watched the

large cloud of greasy black smoke roiling and spreading as

it climbed up the sky. It rose from behind the trees in the

direction of the building. Then he was running, slamming a

cartridge in the chamber of the rifle at the same time, thumb-

ing off the safety.

The scene was a disaster. He stumbled and almost fell as

he emerged from beneath the trees.

Where the squat steel building had stood was now only a

smoking, flame-licked ruin of torn and twisting plates. On

the grass nearby, one leg ripped away and as torn himself,

lay the Sixim.

The doorway between the worlds was closed.

7

Mark just stood there, motionless, even after the Indians

came up and ranked themselves beside him, calling out in

wonder at the devastation. They did not realize yet that they

were exiled from their tribe and their own world. The Sixim

raised its head and called out hoarsely; Mark ran to it. Much

of its imitation flesh was gone, and metal shone through the

gaps. Its face had suffered badly as well, but it could still

talk.

"What happened?" Mark asked.

"There were strangers in the room, men with guns. This

is not allowed. There are orders. I actuated the destruct mech-

anism and attempted to use the escape device."

Mark looked at the ruin and flames. "There is no way this

room can be used again?" -

"No."

"Are there other rooms on this world?"

"One that I know of, perhaps more "

"One is enough! Where is it?"

"What is the name of your world line?"

"What difference does that make?... All right, it's called

Einstein."

"The room is located on an island that is named Manhat-

tan." '

"Of course! The original one I came through. But that must

be at least two hundred miles away from here as the crow

flies."

But what was two hundred miles as compared to the gap

between the worlds? His boots were sound, he was a couple

of pounds overweight, but otherwise in good condition. He

had companions who were at home in the wilds and knew

how to live off the land. If they would come with him... They

had little other choice. If he could explain to them what had

happened and what they must do...

It was not easy, but the existence of this world led them

to believe anything he told them--if not believe it, at least

not to doubt it too strongly. In the end they were almost eager

to see what this new land had to offer, what other strange

animals there were to hunt. While the others butchered and

smoked the fresh-killed meat, Mark labored to explain to

Great Hawk that they were physically at the same place in

the world as the one they had left. The Indian worked hard

to understand this but could not, since this was obviously a

different place. Mark finally forced him to accept the fact on

faith, to operate as if it were true even though he knew it

wasn't.

When it came to finding the island of Manhattan, Great

Hawk called a conference of all the Indians. They strolled

over slowly, grease-smeared and happy, stomachs bulging

with fresh meat. Mark could only listen as they explored the

geography of New York State, as they knew it and as they

had heard of it from others. In the end they agreed on the

location of the island, at the mouth of the great river at the

ocean nearby the long island. But they knew they could not

get there from this place, then went back to their butchery.

They fell asleep in the middle of this; it was late afternoon,

so he gave up any hope of starting this day. He resigned

himself to the delay and was eating some of the roasted meat

himself when the Sixim appeared out of the forest. It had

shaped a rough crutch from a branch, which it held under its

arm as it walked. Arinix had said the creatures were almost

indestructible, and it appeared he was right.

Mark questioned the Sixim, but it did not know how to get

to Manhattan, nor did it have any knowledge of the geog-

raphy of this world. When the sun set, Mark stretched out

by the fire with the others and slept just as soundly as they

did. He was up at first light, and as the sun rose in the east,

he squinted at it and realized what he had to do. He would

have to lead them out of here. He shook Great Hawk awake,

"We walk east toward the sun," he said, "When we reach

the great river, we turn and follow it downstream to the

south. Can we do that?" If there were a Hudson River on this

world ... and if the Indians would follow him,,, Great Hawk

looked at him solemnly for a long moment, then sat,up.

"We leave now." He whistled shrilly, and the others

stirred.

The Indians enjoyed the outing very much, chattering

about the sights along the way and looking with amusement

at what was obviously a happy hunting ground. Game was

everywhere--creatures they knew and others that were com-

pletely strange. There was a herd of great oxlike creatures

that resembled the beasts of the cave paintings in Altamira,

aurochs perhaps, and they had a glimpse of a great cat stalk-

ing them that appeared to have immensely long tusks. A

sabertooth tiger? All things were possible on this newly rip-

ening desert world. They walked for five days through this

strange landscape before they reached what could only be the

Hudson River.

Except that, like the Colorado River, this river had cut an

immense gorge through what had formerly been a barren

landscape. They crept close to the high cliffs and peered over.

There was no possible way to descend.

"South," Mark said, and turned along the edge, and the

others followed him.

A day later they reached a spot where a tributary joined

the Hudson and where the banks were lower and more

graded. In addition, many seeds had been Sown or carried

here, and strands of trees lined the shore. It took the Indians

less than a day to assemble branches, trunks, and driftwood

to make a sizable raft. Using strips of rawhide, they bound

this firmly together, loaded their food aboard, then climbed

aboard themselves. As the Indians poled and paddled, the

clumsy craft left shore, was carried quickly out into the main

current, and hurried south. Manhattan would be at the river's

mouth.

This part of the trip was the easiest, and far swifter than

Mark had realized. The landscape was so different from what

he -knew of the valley, with alternate patches of vegetation

and desert, that he found it hard to tell where they were. A

number of fair-sized streams entered the river from the east,

and there was no guarantee that the East River, which cut

Manhattan off from the mainland, existed on this world. If

it were there he thought it another tributary, for he never

saw it. There were other high cliffs, so the Palisades were not

that noticeable.

"This water is no good," Great Hawk said. He had scooped

up a handful from the river, and he now spat it out. Mark

dipped some himself. It was brackish, salty.

"The ocean, tidewater--we're near the mouth of the river!

Pull to shore, quickly."

What he had thought was a promontory ahead showed

nothing but wide water beyond it, the expanse of New York

Harbor. They landed on- what would be the site of Battery

Park on the southernmost tip of the island. The Indians

worked in silence, unloading the raft, and when Mark started

to speak, Great Hawk held his finger to his lips for silence,

then leaned close to whisper in his ear.

"Men over this hill, very close. Smell them, smell the fire,

they are cooking meat."

"Show me," Mark whispered in return.

He could not move as silently as the Oneida did; they

vanished like smoke among the trees. Mark followed as qui-

etly as he could, and a minute later Great Hawk was back

to lead him. They crawled the last few yards on their stomachs

under the bushes, hearing the sound of mumbled voices. The

Indian moved a branch slowly aside, and Mark looked into

the clearing.

Three khaki-clad soldiers were gathered around a fire over

which a smoking carcass roasted. They had heavy rifles slung

across their shoulders. A fourth, a sergeant with upside-down

stripes, was stretched out asleep with his wide-brimmed hat

over his face.

They spoke quietly in order not to waken him, a strangely

familiar language deep in their throats.

It was Dutch--not Dutch, Afrikaans. But what were they

doing here?

Mark crawled back to the others, and by the time he had

reached them, the answer was clear--too clear, and fright-

ening. But it was the only possibility. He must tell them.

"Those men are soldiers. I know them. Warriors with noise

sticks. I think they are the ones who took over the room and

destroyed it. They are here, which must mean they have

taken over the room here. Without it we cannot return."

"What must we do?" Great Hawk asked. The answer was

obvious, but Mark hesitated to say it. He was a lawyer, or

had been a lawyer--a man of the law. But what was the law

here?

"If we are to return, we will have to kill them, without

any noise, then kill or capture the others at the room. If we

don't do that, we will be trapped here, cut off from the tribe

forever,"

The Indians, who lived by hunting, and were no strangers *

to tribal warfare, were far less worried about the killing than

was Mark. They conferred briefly, and Great Hawk and three

others vanished silently back among the trees. Mark sat,

staring.sightlessly at the ground, trying to equate this with

his civilized conscience. For a moment he envied the battered

Sixim, who stood by his side, unbothered by emotions or wor-

ries. An owl called and the remaining Indians stood and called

Mark after them.

The clearing was the same, the meat still smoked on the

spit, the sergeant's hat was still over his eyes. But an arrow

stood out starkly from his side below his arm. The huddled

forms of the other soldiers revealed the instant, silent death

that had spoken from the forest. With no show of emotion,

the Indians cut the valuable arrows free of the corpses, com-

menting only on the pallid skin of the men, then looted their

weapons and supplies. The guns might be useful; the arrows

certainly were. Great Hawk was scouting the clearing and

found a--to him--clearly marked trail. The sun was behind

the trees when they started down it.

The building was not far away. They looked at it from

hiding, the now familiar rusted and riveted plates of its walls,

the heavy sealed door. Only, this door was gaping open, and

the building itself was surrounded by a palisade of thin trees

and shrubs. A guard stood at the only gate, and the enclosure

wds filled with troops. Mark could see heavy weapons and

mortars there.

"It will be hard to kill all of these without being killed

ourselves," Great Hawk said.."So we shall not try."

8

The Indians could not be convinced even to consider action.

They lay about in the gathering darkness, chewing on the

tough slabs of meat, ignoring all of-Mark's arguments. They

were as realistic as any animal, and not interested in suicide.

A mountain lion attacks a deer, a deer runs from a lion--it

never happens the other way around. They would wait here

until morning and watch the camp, then decide what to do.

But it was obvious that the options did not include an attack.

Would it end this way, defeat without battle... and a barren

lifetime on a savage planet stretching ahead of them? More

barren to Mark, who had a civilized man's imagination and

despair. The Indians had no such complications in their lives.

They chewed the meat, the matter dismissed and forgotten,

and in low whispers discussed the hunting and the animals

while darkness fell. Mark sat, silent with despair; the Sixim

loomed silent as a tree beside him. The Sixim would follow

orders, but the two of them were not going to capture this

armed camp. Something might happen--he must make the

Indians stay and watch and help him. He doubted if they

would.

Something did happen, and far sooner than he had

thought. Great Hawk, who had slipped away to watch the

building, came back suddenly and waved the others to follow

him. They went to the fringe of the trees once more and looked

at the activity in the camp with astonishment.

The gate was standing open, and there was no guard upon

it.

All of the soldiers had drawn up in a semicircle facing the

open door of the building. Fires had been lit near it. All of

the heavy weapons had been trained on the opening.

"Don't you see what has happened!" Mark said excitedly.

"They may control this building and others like it in other

lines, but they cannot possibly control them all. They must

be expecting a counterattack. They can do nothing until the

attackers appear except wait and be ready. Do you under-

stand--this is our chance! They are not expecting trouble

from this flank. Get close in the darkness. Wait. Wait until

the attack. Then we take out the machine guns--they are

the real danger--sow confusion. Taken from the front and

rear at the same time, they cannot win. Sixim, can you fire

a rifle? One of these we captured?"

"I can. I have examined their mechanism."

"How is your aim?" It was a foolish question to ask.

"I hit what I aim at, every time."

"Then let us get close and get into positions. This may be

our only chance. If we don't do it this time, there will probably

be no second chance. Once they know we are out here, the

guns will face both ways. Come, we have to get close now."

He moved out toward the enclosure, the Sixim, rifle slung,

limping at his side. The Indians stayed where they were. He

turned back to them, but they were as solid and unmoving

as rock in their silence. Nothing more could be done. This left

only the two of them, man and machine man, to do their best.

They were almost too late, While they were still twenty

yards' from the palisade, sudden fire erupted from inside the

building; the South Africans guns roared in return. Mark

ran, drawing ahead of the Sixim, running through the open

gate, to fall prone in the darkness near the wall and to control

his breathing. To squeeze off his shots carefully.

One gunner fell, then another. Tie Sixim was beside him,

firing at target after target with machine regularity. Some-

one had seen the muzzle blast of their guns, because weapons

were turned on them, bullets tearing into the earth beside

them, soldiers running toward them. Mark's gun clicked out

of battery, empty of cartridges. He tore the empty clip away,

struggled to jam in a full one; the soldier was above him.

Falling to one side with an arrow in his chest. Darker

shadows moved, just as a solid wave of Sixim erupted through

the open doorway.

That was the beginning of the end. As soon as they were

among the soldiers, the slaughter began, no mercy, no

quarter. Mark called the Indians to him, to the protection of

their own battered Sixim, before they were also cut down.

The carnage was brief and complete, and when it was over,

a familiar one-eyed figure emerged from the building,

"Arinix," Mark called out, and the man turned and came

over, "How did all this happen?"

"They were suspicious; they had been watching us for a

long time. That officer we did not kill led them to this build-

ing." He said it without malice or regret, a statement of fact.

Mark had no answer.

"Is this the last of them? Is the way open now?"

"There are more, but they will be eliminated. You see what

happens when others attempt to control the way between the

worlds?" He started away, then turned back. "Have you

solved the problem with the Indians? Will they settle this

world?"

"I think so. I would like to stay with them longer, give

them what help I can."

"You do not wish to return to Einstein?"

That was a hard one to answer. Back to New York and

the pollution and the life as a lawyer. It suddenly seemed a

good deal emptier than it had. "I don't know. Perhaps, per-

haps not. Let me finish here first."

Arinix turned away instantly and was gone. Mark went

to Great Hawk, who sat cross-legged on' the ground and

watched the operation with a great deal of interest. '

"Why did you and the others come to help?" Mark asked.

"It seemed too good a fight to miss. Besides, you said you

would show us how to use the noise sticks. You could not do

that if you were dead."

The smoke from the dying fires rose up in thin veils against

the bright stars in the sky above. In his nostrils the air was

cold and clean, its purity emphasized by the smell of wood

smoke. Somewhere, not too far away, a wolf howled long and

mournfully. This world, so recently empty of life, now had it

in abundance, and would soon have human settlers as well,

Indians of the Six Nations who would be escaping the fire

that would destroy their own world. What sort of world would

they make of it?

He had the sudden desire to see what would happen here,

even to help in the shaping of it. The cramped life of a lawyer

in a crowded world was without appeal. He had friends that

he would miss, but he knew that new friends waited for him

in the multiplicity of worlds he would soon visit. Really, there

was no choice.

Arinix was by the open door issuing orders to the attentive

Sixim. Mark called out to him.

The decision had really been an easy one.

3

EAR

TH

DEST

ROY

ED

What if the Universe and Sun are essentially undisturbed,

but Earth itself undergoes a battering in a "Catastrophe of

the Third Class"?

There have been dangers to Earth that were popular with

science fiction writers in decades past but that have never

really been in the astronomical cards. The planets of the solar

system cannot be so perturbed in their movements that they

begin a slow spiral into the Sun--not unless some method is

provided for bleeding off their tremendous angular momen-

tum. Nevertheless, it is a colorful possibility that sf hates to

abandon ("Requiem" by Edmond Hamilton).

Today the Universe has become much more violent than

m the old, old days of thirty years ago. We have learned about

not merely exploding stars, but the cores of galaxies--billions

of stars--that go up in agony. We deal with collapses into

pulsars and black holes and the incredibly luminous quasars,

And all of this gives writers the opportunity for dramatic

ends indeed to Earth for the violence gives rise to radiation

and that-- ("At the Core" by Larry Nivenj,

The reverse is also dramatic. What if something happens

to deprive us of our Sun altogether and we are threatened

with ruin not through excess of energy but utter lack ("A

Pail of Air" by Fritz Leiberi.

Nor need we feel we are entirely at the mercy of outside

influences. Such is the power of Homo sapiens for evil that

we can (and very likely are) ruining ourselves by the simple

process of fouling our nest ("'King of the Hill" by Chad

Oliver).

Requiem

EDMOND HAMILTON

Kellon thought sourly that he wasn't commanding a star-

ship, he was running a traveling circus. He had aboard

telaudio men with tons of equipment, pontifical commenta-

tors who knew the answer to anything, beautiful females who

were experts on the woman's angle, pompous bureaucrats

after publicity, and entertainment stars who had come along

for the same reason.

He had had a good ship and crew, one of the best in the

Survey. Had had. They weren't any more. They had been

taken off their proper job of pushing astrographical knowl-

edge ever further into the remote regions of the galaxy, and

had been sent off with this cargo of costly people on a totally

unnecessary mission,

He said bitterly to himself, "Damn all sentimentalists."

He said aloud, "Does its position check with your calcu-

lated orbit, Mr. Riney?"

Riney, the Second, a young and serious man who had been

fussing with instruments in the astrogation room, came out

and said,

"Yes. Right on the nose. Shall we go in and land now?"

Kellon didn't answer for a moment, standing there in the

front of the bridge, a middle-aged man, stocky, square-shoul-

dered, and with his tanned, plain face showing none of the

resentment he felt. He hated to give the order but he had to.

"All right, take her in."

He looked gloomily through -the filter-windows as they

went in. In this fringe-spiral of the galaxy, stars were rela-

tively infrequent, and there were only ragged drifts of them

across the darkness. Full ahead shone a small, compact sun

like a diamond. It was a white dwarf and had been so for two

thousand years, giving forth so little warmth that the planets

which circled it had been frozen and ice-locked all that time.

They still were, all except the innermost world.

Kellon stared at that planet, a tawny blob. The ice that

had sheathed it ever since its primary collapsed into a white

dwarf had now melted. Months before, a dark wandering body

had passed very close to this lifeless system. Its passing had

perturbed the planetary orbits and the inner planets had

started to spiral slowly in toward their sun, and the ice had

begun to go.

Viresson, one of the junior officers, came into the bridge

looking harassed. He said to Kellon,

"They want to see you down below, sir. Especially Mr.

Borrodale. He says it's urgent."

Kellon thought wearily, Well, I might as well go down and

face the pack of them. Herd's where they really begin.

He nodded to Viresson, and went do'wn below to the main

cabin. The sight of it revolted him. Instead of his own men

in it, relaxing or chinning, it held a small and noisy mob of

overdressed, overloud men and women, all of whom seemed

to be talking at once and uttering brittle, nervous laughter.

"Captain Kellon, I want to ask you--"

"Captain, if you please--"

He patiently nodded and smiled and plowed through them

to Borrodale He had been given particular instructions to

cooperate with Borrodale, the most famous tetaudio com-

mentator in the Federation.

Borrodale was a slightly plump man with a round pink

face and incongruously large and solemn black eyes. When

he spoke, one recognized at once that deep, incredibly rich

and meaningful voice.

"My first broadcast is set for thirty minutes from now,

Captain. I shall want a view as we go in. If my men could

take a mobile up to the bridge--"

Kellon nodded. "Of course. Mr. Viresson is up there and

will assist them in any way."

"Thank you, Captain. Would you like to see the broad-

cast?"

"I would, yes, but--"

He was interrupted by Lorri Lee, whose glitteringly hand-

some face and figure and sophisticated drawl made her the

idol of all female telaudio reporters.

"My broadcast is to be right after landing--remember? I'd

like to do it alone, with just the emptiness of that world as

background. Can you keep the others from spoiling the effect?

Please?"

"We'll do what we can," Kellon mumbled. And as the rest

of the pack converged on him he added hastily, "I'll talk to

you later. Mr. Borrodale's broadcast--"

He got through them, following after Borrodale toward the

cabin that had been set up as a telaudio-transmitter room.

It had, Kellon thought bitterly, once served an honest pur-

pose, holding the racks of soil and water and other samples

from far worlds. But that had been when they were doing an

honest Survey job, not chaperoning chattering fools on this

sentimental pilgrimage.

The broadcasting set-up was beyond Kellon. He didn't

want to hear this but it was better than the mob in the main

cabin. He watched as Borrodale made a signal. The monitor-

screen came alive.

It showed a dun-colored globe spinning in space, growing

visibly larger as they swept toward it. Now straggling seas

were identifiable upon it. Moments passed and Borrodale did

not speak, just letting that picture go out. Then his deep voice

spoke over the picture, with dramatic simplicity.

"You are looking at the Earth," he said.

Silence again, and the spinning brownish ball was bigger

now, with white clouds ragged upon it. And then Borrodale

spoke again.

"You who watch from many worlds in the galaxy--this is

the homeland of our race. Speak its name to yourselves. The

Earth."

Kellon felt a deepening distaste. This was all true, but

still it was phony. What was Earth now to him, or to Bor-

rodale, or his billions of listeners? But it was a story, a sen-

timental occasion, so they had to pump it up into something

big.

"Some thirty-five hundred years ago," Borrodale was say-

ing, "our ancestors lived on this world alone. That was when

they first went into space. To these other planets first--but

very soon, to other stars. And so our Federation began, our

community of human civilization on many stars and worlds."

Now, in the monitor, the view of Earth's dun globe had

been replaced by the face of Borrodale in close-up. He paused

dramatically.

"Then, over two thousand years ago, it was discovered that

the sun of Earth was about to collapse into a white dwarf. So

those people who still remained on Earth left it forever and

when the solar change came, it and the other planets became

mantled in eternal ice. And now, within months, the final

end of the old planet of our origin is at hand. It is slowly

spiraling toward the sun and soon it will plunge into it as

Mercury and Venus have already done. And when that occurs,

the world of man's origin will he gone forever."

Again the pause, for just the right length of time, and then

Borrodale continued in a voice expertly pitched in a lower

key.

"We on this ship--we humble reporters and servants of

the vast telaudio audience on all the worlds--have come here

so that in these next weeks we can give you this last look at

our ancestral world. We think--we hope--that you'll find

interest in recalling a past that is almost legend."

And Kellon thought, The bastard has no more interest in

this old planet than I have, but he surely is smooth.

As soon as the broadcast ended, Kellon found himself be-

sieged once more by the clamoring crowd in the main cabin.

He held up his hand in protest.

"Please, now now--we have a landing to make first. Will

you come with me, Doctor Darnow?"

Darnow was from Historical Bureau, and was the titular

head of the whole expedition, although no one paid him much

attention. He was a sparrowy, elderly man who babbled ex-

citedly as he went with Kellon to the bridge.

He at least, was sincere in his interest, Kellon thought.

For that matter, so were all the dozen-odd scientists who were

aboard. But they were far outnumbered by the fat cats and

big brass out for publicity, the professional enthusers and

sentimentalists. A real hell of a job the Survey had given

him!

In the bridge, he glanced through the window at the dun-

colored planet and its satellite. Then he asked Darnow, "You

said something about a particular place where you wanted

to land?"

The historiographer bobbed his head, and began unfolding

a big, old-fashioned chart.

"See this continent here? Along its eastern coast were a

lot of the biggest cities, like New York."

Kellon remembered that name, he'd learned it in school

history, a long time ago.

Darnowls finger stabbed the chart. "If you could land there,

right on the island--"

Kellon studied the relief features, then shook his head.

"Too low. There'll be great tides as time goes on and we can't

take chances. That higher ground back inland a bit should

be all right, though."

Darnow looked disappointed. "Well. I suppose you're

right."

Kellon told Riney to set up the landing-pattern. Then he

asked Darnow skeptically,

"You surely don't expect to find much in those old cities

now--not after they've had all that ice on them for two thou-

sand years?"

"They'll be badly damaged, of course," Darnow admitted.

"But there should be a vast number of relics. I could study

here for years--"

"We haven't got years, we've got only a few months before

this planet gets too close to the Sun," said Kellon. And he

added mentally, "Thank God."

The ship went into its landing-pattern. Atmosphere whined

outside its hull and then thick gray clouds boiled and raced

around it. It went down through the cloud layer and moved

above a dull brown landscape that had flecks of white in its

deeper valleys. Far ahead there was the glint of a gray ocean.

But the ship came down toward a rolling brown plain and

settled there, and then there was the expected thunderclap

of silence that always followed the shutting off of all ma-

chinery.

Kellon looked at Riney, who turned in a moment from the

test-panel with a slight surprise on his face. "Pressure, ox-

ygen, humidity, everything--all optimum." And then he said,

"But of course. This place was optimum."

Kellon nodded. He said, "Doctor Darnow and I will have

a look out first. Viresson, you keep our passengers in."

When he and Darnow went to the lower airlock he heard

a buzzing clamor from the main cabin and he judged that

Viresson was having his hands full. The people in there were

not used to being said no to, and he could imagine their

resentment.

Cold, damp air struck a chill in Kellon when they stepped

down out of the airlock. They stood on muddy, gravelly

ground that squashed a little under their boots as they

trudged away from the ship. They stopped and looked around,

shivering.

Under the low gray cloudy sky there stretched a sad, sun-

less brown landscape. Nothing broke the drab color of raw

soil, except the shards of ice still lingering in low places, A

heavy desultory wind stirred the raw air, and then it was

still. There was not a sound except the clink-clinking of the

ship's skin cooling and contracting, behind them. Kellon

thought that no amount of sentimentality could make this

anything but a dreary world,

But Darnow's eyes were shining. "We'll have to make

every minute of the time count," he muttered, "Every min-

ute."

Within two hours, the heavy broadcast equipment was

being trundled away from the ship on two motor-tracs that

headed eastward. On one of the tracs rode Lorri Lee, re-

splendent in lilac-colored costume of synthesilk.

Kellon, worried about the possibility of quicksands, went

along for that first broadcast from the cliffs that looked down

on the ruins of New York. He wished he hadn't, when it got

under way.

For Lorri Lee, her blond head bright even in the dull light,

turned loose all her practiced charming gestures for the

broadcast cameras, as she gestured with pretty excitement

down toward the ruins.

"It's so unbelievable!" she cried to a thousand worlds. "To

be here on Earth, to see the old places again--it does some-

thing to you!"

It did something to Kellon. It made him feel sick at his

stomach. He turned and went back to the ship, feeling at that

moment that if Lorri Lee went into a quicksand on the way

back, it would be no great loss.

But that first day was only the beginning. The big ship

quickly became the center of multifarious and continuous

broadcasts. It had been especially equipped to beam strongly

to the nearest station in the Federation network and its

transmitters were seldom quiet.

Kellon found that Darnow, who was supposed to coordinate

all this programming, was completely useless. The little his-

torian was living in a seventh heaven on this old planet which

had been uncovered to view for the first time in millennia,

and he was away most of the time on field trips of his own.

It fell to his assistant, an earnest and worried and harassed

young man, to try to reconcile the clashing claims and de-

mands of the highly temperamental broadcasting stars.

Kellon felt an increasing boredom at having to stand

around while all this tosh went out over the ether. These

people were having a field-day but he didn't think much of

them and of their broadcasts. Roy Quayle, the young male

fashion designer, put on a semi-humorous, semi-nostalgic .

display of the old Earth fashions, with the prettier girls wear-

ing some of the ridiculous old costumes he had had duplicated.

Harden, the famous teleplay producer, ran off ancient films

of the old Earth dramas that had everyone in stitches. Jay

Maxson, a rising politician in Federation Congress, discussed

with Borrodale the governmental systems of the old days, in a

way calculated to give his own Wide-Galaxy Party none the

worst of it. The Arcturus Players, that brilliant group of

young stage-folk, did readings of old Earth dramas and

poems.

It was, Kellon thought disgustedly, just playing. Grown

people, famous people, seizing the opportunity given by the

accidental end of a forgotten planet to posture in the spotlight

like smart-aleck children. There was real work to do in the

galaxy, the work of the Survey, the endless and wearying but

always-fascinating job of charting the wild systems and

worlds. And instead of doing that job, he was condemned to

spend weeks and months here with these phonies.

The scientists and historians he respected. They did few

broadcasts and they did not fake their interest. It was one of

them, Haller, the biologist, who excitedly showed Kellon a

handful of damp soil a week after their arrival.

"Look at that!" he said proudly.

Kellon stared. "What?"

"Those seeds--they're common weed-grass seeds. Look at

them."

Kellon looked, and now he saw that from each of the tiny

seeds projected a new-looking hairlike tendril.

"They're sprouting?" he said unbelievingly.

Haller nodded happily. "I was hoping for it. You see, it

was almost spring in the northern hemisphere, according to

the records, when Sol collapsed suddenly into a white dwarf.

Within hours the temperature plunged and the hydrosphere

aad atmosphere began to freeze."

"But surely that would kill all plant-life?"

"Ne," said Haller. "The larger plants, trees, perennial

shrubs, and so on, yes. But the seeds of the smaller annuals

just froze into suspended animation. Now the warmth that

melted them is causing germination."

"Then we'll have grass--small plants?"

"Very soon the way the warmth is increasing,"

It was, indeed, getting a little warmer all the time as these

first weeks went by. The clouds lifted one day and there was

brilliant, thin white sunshine from the little diamond sun.

And there came a morning when they found the rolling land-

scape flushed with a pale tint of green.

Grass grew. Weeds grew, vines grew, all of them seeming

to rush their growth as though they knew that this, their last

season, would not be long. Soon the raw brown mud of the

hills and valleys had been replaced by a green carpet, and

everywhere taller growths were shooting ap, and flowers be-

ginning to appear. Hepaticas, bluebells, dandelions, violets,

bloomed once more.

Kellon took a long walk, now that he did not have to plow

through mud. The chattering people around the ship, the

constant tug and pull of clashing temperaments, the

brittle, febrile voices, got him down. He felt better to get

away by himself.

The grass and the flowers had come back but otherwise

this was still an empty world. Yet there was a certain peace

of mind'in tramping up and down the long green rolling

slopes. The sun was bright and cheerful now, and white clouds

dotted the sky, and the warm wind whispered as he sat

upon a ridge and looked away westward where nobody

was, or would ever be again.

Damned dull, he thought. But at least it's better than back

with the gabblers.

He sat for a long time in the slanting sunshine, feeling his

bristling nerves relax. The grass stirred about him, rippling

in long waves, and the taller flowers nodded.

No other movement, no other life, A pity, he thought,

that there were no birds for this last spring of the old

planet--not even a butterfly. Well, it made no difference, all

this wouldn't last long.

As Kellon tramped back through the dusk, he

suddenly became aware of a shining bubble in the darkening

sky. He st&pped and stared up at it and then remembered.

Of course, it was the old planet's moon--during the cloudy

nights he had forgotten all about it. He went on, with its

vague light about him.

When he stepped back into the lighted main cabin of the

ship, he was abruptly jarred out of his relaxed mood. A first-

class squabble was going on, and everybody was either con-

tributing to it or commenting on it. Lorri Lee, looking like

a pretty child complaining of a hurt, was maintaining that

she should have broadcast time next day for her special

women's-interest feature, and somebody else disputed her

claim, and young Vallely, Darnow's assistant, looked harried

and upset. Kellon got by them without being noticed, locked

the door of his cabin and poured himself a long drink, and

damned Survey all over again for this assignment.

He took good care to get out of the ship early in the morn-

ing, before the storm of temperament blew up again. He left

Viresson in charge of the ship, there being nothing for any

of them to do now anyway, and legged it away over the green

slopes before anyone could call him back.

They had five more weeks of this, Kellon thought. Then,

thank God, Earth would be getting so near the sun that they

must take the ship back into its proper element of space.

Until that wished-for day arrived, he would stay out of sight

as much as possible.

He walked miles each day. He stayed carefully away from

the east and the ruins of old New York, where the others so

often were. But he went north and west and south, over the

grassy, flowering slopes of the empty world. At least it was

peaceful, even though there was nothing at all to see.

But after a while, Kellon found that there were things to

see if you looked for them. There was the way the sky

changed, never seeming to look the same twice. Sometimes

it was deep blue and white clouds sailed it like mighty ships.

And then it would suddenly turn gray and miserable, and

rain would drizzle on him, to be ended when a lance of sun-

light shot through the clouds and slashed them to flying rib-

bons. And there was a time when, upon a ridge, he watched

vast thunderheads boil up and darken in the west and black

storm clouds marched across the land like an army with ban-

ners of lightning and drums of thunder.

The winds and the sunshine, the sweetness of the air and

the look of the moonlight and the feel of the yielding grass

under his feet, all seemed oddly right. Kellon had walked on

many worlds under the glare of many-colored suns, and some

of them he had liked much better than this one and some of

them he had not liked at all, but never had he found a world

that seemed so exactly attuned to his body as this outworn,

empty planet.

He wondered vaguely what it had been like when there

were trees and birds, and animals of many kinds, and roads

and cities. He borrowed film-books from the reference library

Darnow and the others had brought, and looked at them in

his cabin of nights. He did not really care very much but at

feast it kept him out of the broils and quarrels, and it had

a certain interest.

Thereafter in his wandering strolls, Kellon tried to see the

place as it would have been in the long ago. There would have

been robins and bluebirds, and yellow-and-black bumblebees

nosing the flowers, and tall trees with names that were

equally strange to him, elms and willows and sycamores. And

small furred animals, and humming clouds of insects, and

fish and frogs in the pools and streams, a whole vast complex

symphony of life, long gone, long forgotten.

But were all the men and women and children who had

lived here less forgotten? Borrodale and the others talked

much on their broadcasts about the people of old Earth, but

that was just a faceless name, a term that meant nothing.

Not one of those millions, surely, had ever thought of himself

as part of a numberless multitude. Each one had been to

himself, and to those close to him or her, an individual, unique

and never to be exactly repeated, and what did the glib talkers

know of all those individuals, what could anyone know?

Kellon found traces of them here and there, bits of flotsam

that even the crash of the ice had spared. A twisted piece of

steel, a girder or rail that someone had labored to make. A

quarry with the tool-marks still on the rocks, where surely

men had once sweated in the sun. The broken shards of con-

crete that stretched away in a ragged line to make a road

upon which men and women had once traveled, hurrying

upon missions of love or ambition, greed or fear.

He found more than that, a startling find that he made

by purest chance. He followed a brook that ran down a very

narrow valley, and at one point he leaped across it and as he

landed he looked up and saw that there was a house.

Kellon thought at first that it was miraculously preserved

whole and unbroken, and surely that could not be, But when

he went closer he saw that this was only illusion and that

destruction had been at work upon it too. Still, it remained,

incredibly, a recognizable house.

It was a rambling stone cottage with low walls and a slate

roof, set close against the steep green wall of the valley. One

gable-end was smashed in, and part of that end wall. Studying

the way it was embayed in the wall, Kellon decided that a

chance natural arch of ice must have preserved it from the

grinding pressure that had shattered almost all other struc-

tures.

The windows and doors were only gaping openings. He

went inside and looked around the cold shadows of what had

once been a room. There were some wrecked pieces of rotting

furniture, and dried mud banked along one wall contained

unrecognizable bits of rusted junk, but there was not much

else. It was chill and oppressive in there, and he went out

and sat on the little terrace in the sunshine.

He looked at the house. It could have been built no later

than the Twentieth Century, he thought. A good many dif-

ferent people must have lived in it during the hundreds of

years before the evacuation of Earth.

Kellon thought that it was strange that the airphoto sur-

veys that Darnow's men had made in quest of relics had not

discovered the place. But then it was not so strange, the stone

walls were so grayly inconspicuous and it was set so deeply

into the sheltering bay of the valley wall.

His eye fell on'eroded lettering on the cement side of the

terrace, and he went and brushed the soil off that place. The

words were time-eaten and faint but he could read them.

"Ross and Jennie--Their House."

Kellon smiled. Well, at least he knew now who once had

lived here, who probably had built the place. He could imag-

ine two young people happily scratching the words in the wet

cement, exuberant with achievement. And who had Ross and

Jennie been, and where were they now?

He walked around the place. To his surprise, there was a

ragged flower-garden'at one side. A half-dozen kinds of bril-

liant little flowers, unlike the wild ones of the slopes, grew

in patchy disorder here. Seeds of an old garden had been

ready to germinate when the long winter of Earth came down,

and had slept in suspended animation until the ice melted

and the warm blooming time came at last. He did not know

what kinds of flowers these were, but there was a brave jaun-

tiness about them that he liked.

Starting back across the green land in the soft twilight,

Kellon thought that he should tell Darnow about the place.

But if he did, the gabbling pack in the ship would certainly

stampede toward it. He could imagine the solemn and cute

and precious broadcasts that Borrodale and the Lee woman

and rest of them would stage from the old house.

No, he thought. The devil with them.

He didn't care anything himself about the old house, it

was just that it was a refuge of quiet he had found and he

didn't want to draw to it the noisy horde he was trying to

escape.

Kellon was glad in the following days that he had not told.

The house gave him a place to go to, to poke around and

investigate, a focus for his interest in this waiting time. He

spent hours there, and never told anyone at all.

Haller, the biologist, lent him a book on the flowers of

Earth, and he brought it with him and used it to identify

those in the ragged garden. Verbenas, pinks, morning glories,

and the bold red and yellow ones called nasturtiums. Many

of these, he read, did not do well on other worlds and had

never been successfully transplanted. If that was so, this

would be their last blooming anywhere at all.

He rooted around the interior of the house, trying to figure

out how people had lived in it. It was strange, not at all like

a modern metalloy house. Even the interior walls were thick

beyond belief, and the windows seemed small and ppkey. The

biggest room was obviously where they had lived most, and

its window-openings looked out on the little garden and the

green valley and brook beyond.

Kellon wondered what they had been like, the Ross and

Jennie who had once sat here together and looked out these

windows. What things had been important to them? What

had hurt them, what had made them laugh? He himself had

never married, the far-ranging captains of the Survey seldom

did. But he wondered about this marriage of long ago, and

what had come of it. Had they had children, did their blood

still run on the far worlds? But even if it did, what was that

now to those two of long ago?

There had been a poem about flowers at the end of the old

book on flowers Halter had lent him, and he remembered

some of it.

All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of

the winds and the fields and the sea. Not a breath

of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft

with a summer to be.

Well, yes. Kellon thought, they were all at one ROW, the

Bosses and the Jennies and the things they had done and the

things they had thought, ail at one now in the dust of this

old planet whose fiery final summer would be soon, very soon.

Physically, everything that had been done, everyone who had

lived, on Earth was still here in its atoms, excepting the tiny

fraction of its matter that had sped to other worlds.

He thought of the names that were so famous still through

all the galactic worlds, names of men and women and places.

Shakespeare, Plato, Beethoven, Blake, and the splendor of

Babylon and the bones of Angkor and the humble houses of

his own ancestors, all here, all still here.

Kellon mentally shook himself. He didn't have enough to

do, that was his trouble, to be brooding here on such shadowy

things. He had seen all there was to this queer little old place,

and there was no use in coming back to it.

But he came back. It was not, he told himself, as though

he had any sentimental antiquarian interests in this old

place. He had heard enough of that kind of gush from all the

glittering phonies in the ship. He was a Survey man and all

he wanted was to get back to his job, but while he was stuck

here it was better to be roaming the green land or poking

about this old relic than to have to listen to the endless bab-

bling and quarreling of those others.

They were quarreling more and more, because they were

tired of it here. It had seemed to them a fine thing to posture

upon a galactic stage by helping to cover the end of Earth,

but time dragged by and their flush of synthetic enthusiasm

wore thin. They could not leave, the expedition must broad-

cast the final climax of the planet's end, but that was still

weeks away. Darnow and his scholars and scientists, busy

coming and going to many old sites, could have stayed here

forever but the others were frankly bored.

But Kellon found in the old house enough interest to keep

the waiting from being too oppressive. He had read a good

bit now about the way things had been here in the good old

days, and he sat long hours on the little terrace in the after-

noon sunshine, trying to imagine what it had been like when

the man and woman named Ross and Jennie had lived here.

So strange, so circumscribed, that old life seemed now!

Most people had had ground-cars in those days, he had read,

and had gone back and forth in them to the cities where they

worked. Did both the man and woman go, or just the man?

Did the woman stay in the house, perhaps with their children

if they had any, and in the afternoons did she do things in

the little flower garden where a few bright, ragged survivors

still bloomed? Did they ever dream that some future day

when they were long gone, their house would lie empty and

silent with no visitor except a stranger from far-off stars? He

remembered a line in one of the old plays the Arcturus Play-

ers had read. "Come like shadows, so depart."

No, Kellon thought, Ross and Jennie were shadows now

but they had not been then. To them, and to all the other

people he could visualize going and coming busily about the

Earth in those days, it was he, the future, the man yet to

come, who was the shadow. Alone here, sitting and trying to

imagine the long ago, Kellon had an eerie feeling sometimes

that his vivid imaginings of people and crowded cities and

movement and laughter were the reality and that he himself

was only a watching wraith.

Summer days came swiftly, hot and hotter. Now the white

sun was larger in the heavens and pouring down such light

and heat as Earth had not received for millennia. And all the

green life across it seemed to respond with an exultant surge

of final growth, an act of joyous affirmation that Kellon found

infinitely touching. Now even the nights were warm, and the

winds blew thrilling soft, and on the distant beaches the ocean

leaped up in a laughter of spray and thunder, running in

great solar tides.

With a shock as though awakened from dreaming, Kellon

suddenly realized that only a few days were left. The spiral

was closing in fast now and very quickly the heat would

mount beyond all tolerance.

He would, he told himself, be very glad to leave. There

would be the wait in space until it was all over, and then he

could go back to his own work, his own life, and stop fussing

over shadows because there was nothing else to do.

Yes. He would be glad.

Then when only a few days were left, Kellon walked out

again to the old house and was musing over it when a voice

spoke behind him. "Perfect," said Borrodale's voice. "A

perfect relic."

Kellon turned, feeling somehow startled and dismayed.

Borrodale's eyes were alight with interest as he surveyed the

house, and then he turned to Kellon.

"I was walking when I saw you, Captain, and thought I'd

catch up to you. Is this where you've been going so often?"

Kellon, a little guiltily, evaded. "I've been here a few

times."

"But why in the world didn't you tell us about this?" ex-

claimed Borrodale. "Why, we can do a terrific final broadcast

from here. A typical ancient home of Earth. Roy can put some

of the Players in the old costumes, and we'll show them living

here the way people did--"

Unexpectedly to himself, a violent reaction came up in

Kellon. He said roughly,

"No."

Borrodale arched his eyebrows. "No?-But why not?"

Why not, indeed? What difference could it possibly make

to him if they swarmed all over the old house, laughing at

its ancientness and its inadequacies, posing grinning for the

cameras in front of it, prancing about in old-fashioned cos-

tumes and making a show of it. What could that mean to

him, who cared nothing about this forgotten planet or any-

thing on it?

And yet something in him revolted at what they would do

here, and he said,

"We might have to take off very suddenly, now. Having

you all out here away from the ship could involve a dangerous

delay."

"You said yourself we wouldn't take off for a few days yet!"

exclaimed Borrodale. And he added firmly, "I don't know why

you should want to obstruct us, Captain. But I can go over

your head to higher authority."

He went away, and Kellon thought unhappily, He'll mes-

sage back to Survey headquarters and I'll get my ears burned

off, and why the devil did I do it anyway? I must be getting

real planet-happy.

He went and sat down on the terrace, and watched until

the sunset deepened into dusk. The moon came up white and

brilliant, but the air was not quiet tonight. A hot, dry wind

had begun to blow, and the stir of the tall grass made the

slopes and plains seem vaguely alive. It was as though a

queer pulse had come into the air and the ground, as the sun

called its child homeward and Earth strained to answer. The

house dreamed in the silver light, and the flowers in the

garden rustled.

Borrodale came back, a dark pudgy figure in the moon-

light. He said triumphantly,

"I got through to your headquarters. They've ordered your

full cooperation. We'll want to make our first broadcast here

tomorrow."

Kellon stood up. "No."

"You can't ignore an order--"

"We won't be here tomorrow," said Kellon. "It is my re-

sponsibility to get the ship off Earth in ample time for safety.

We take off in the morning."

Borrodale was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his

voice had a puzzled quality.

"You're advancing things just to block our broadcast, of

course. I just can't understand your attitude."

Well, Keilon thought, he couldn't quite understand it him-

self, so how could he explain it? He remained silent, and

Borrodale looked at him and then at the old house.

"Yet maybe I do understand," Borrodale said thoughtfully,

after a moment. "You've come here often, by yourself. A man

can get too friendly with ghosts--"

Kellon said roughly, "Don't talk nonsense. We'd better get

back to the ship, there's plenty to do before takeoff."

Borrodale did not speak as they went back out of the moon-

lit valley. He looked back once, but Kellon did not look back.

They took the ship off twelve hours later, in a morning

made dull and ominous by racing clouds. Kellon felt a sharp

relief when they cleared atmosphere and were out in the

depthless, starry blackness. He knew where he was, in space.

It was the place where a spaceman belonged. He'd get a stiff

reprimand for this later, but he was not sorry.

They put the ship into a calculated orbit, and waited. Days,

many of them, must pass before the end came to Earth. It

seemed quite near the white sun now, and its moon had slid

away from it on a new distorted orbit, but even so it would

be a while before they could broadcast to a watching galaxy

the end of its ancestral world.

Kellon stayed much of that time in his cabin. The gush

that was going out over the broadcasts now, as the grand

finale approached, made him sick. He wished the whole thing

was over. It was, he told himself, getting to be a bore--

An hour and twenty minutes to E-time, and he supposed

he must go up to the bridge and watch it. The mobile camera

had been set up there and Borrodale and as many others of

them as could crowd in were there. Borrodale had been given

the last hour's broadcast, and it seemed that the others re-

sented this.

"Why must you have the whole last hour?" Lorri Lee was

saying bitterly to Borrodale. "It's not fair."

Quayle nodded angrily. "There'll be the biggest audience

in history, and we should all have a chance to speak."

Borrodale answered them, and the voices rose and bick-

ered, and Kellon saw the broadcast technicians looking wor-

ried. Beyond them through the filter-window he could see the

dark dot of the planet closing on the white star. The sun

called, and it seemed that with quickened eagerness Earth

moved on the last steps of its long road. And the clamoring,

bickering voices in his ears suddenly brought rage to Kellon.

"Listen," he said to the broadcast men. "Shut off all sound

transmission. You can keep the picture on, but no sound."

That shocked them all into silence. The Lee woman finally

protested, "Captain Kellon, you can't!"

"I'm in full command when in space, and I can, and do,"

he said.

"But the broadcast, the commentary--"

Kellon said wearily, "Oh, for Christ's sake all of you shut

up, and let the planet die in peace."

He turned his back on them. He did not hear their resentful

voices, did not even hear when they fell silent and watched

through the dark filter-windows as he was watching, as the

camera and the galaxy was watching. '

And what was there to see but a dark dot almost engulfed

in the shining veils of the Sun? The thought that already the

stones of the old house must be beginning to vaporize. And

now the veils of light and fire almost concealed the little

planet, as the star gathered in its own.

All the atoms of old Earth, Kellon thought, in this moment

bursting free to mingle with the solar being, all that had been

Ross and Jennie, all that had been Shakespeare and Schubert,

gay flowers and running streams, oceans and rocks and the

wind of the air, received into the brightness that had given

them life.

They watched in silence, but there was nothing more to

see, nothing at all. Silently the camera was turned off.

Kellon gave an order, and presently the ship was pulling

out of orbit, starting on the long voyage back. By that time

the others had gone, all but Borrodale. He said to Borrodale,

without turning,

"Now go ahead and send your complaint to headquarters."

Borrodale shook his head. "Silence can be the best requiem

of all. There'll be no complaint. I'm glad now, Captain."

"Glad?"

"Yes," said Borrodale. "I'm glad that Earth had one true

mourner, at the last."

At the Core

LARRY NIVEN

I couldn't decide whether to call it a painting, a relief mural,

a sculpture, or a hash; but it was the prize exhibit in the Art

Section of the Institute of Knowledge on Jinx, The Kdatlyno

must have strange eyes, I thought. My own were watering.

The longer I looked at "FTLSPACE," the more blurred it got.

I'd tentatively decided that it was supposed to look blurred

when a set of toothy jaws clamped gently on my arm. I jumped

a foot in the air. A soft, thrilling contralto voice said, "Beo-

wulf Shaeffer, you are a spendthrift."

That voice would have made a singer's fortune. And I

thought I recognized it--but it couldn't be; that one was on

We Made It, light-years distant. I turned.

The puppeteer had released my arm. It went OB: "And

what do you think of Hrodenu?"

"He's ruining my eyes."

"Naturally. The Kdatlyno are blind to all but radar.

'FTLSPACE' is not meant to be seen but to be touched. Run

your tongue over it."

"My tongue? No, thanks." I tried running my hand over

it. If you want to know what it felt like, hop a ship for Jinx;

the thing's still there. I flatly refuse to describe the sensation.

The puppeteer cocked its head dubiously. "I'm sure your

tongue is more sensitive. No guards are nearby."

"Forget it. You know, you sound just like the regional

president of General Products on We Made It."

"It was he who sent me your dossier, Beowulf Shaeffer. No

doubt we had the same English teacher, I am the regional

president on Jinx, as you no doubt recognized from my mane,"

Well, not quite. The auburn mop over the brain case be-

tween the two necks is supposed to show caste once you learn

to discount variations of mere style. To do that, you have to

be a puppeteer. Instead of admitting my ignorance, I asked,

"Did that dossier.say I was a spendthrift?"

"You have spent more than a million stars in the past four

years."

"And loved it."

"Yes. You will shortly be in debt again. Have you thought

of doing more writing? I admired your article on the neutron

star BVS-1. 'The pointy bottom of a gravity well...' 'Blue

starlight fell on me like intangible sleet...' Lovely."

"Thanks. It paid well, too. But I'm mainly a spaceship

pilot."

"It is fortunate, our meeting here. I had thought of having

you found. Do you wish a job?"

That was a loaded question. The last and only time I took

a job from a puppeteer, the puppeteer blackmailed me into

it, knowing it would probably kill me. It almost did. I didn't

hold that against the regional president of We Made It, but

to let them have another crack at me--? "I'll give you a

conditional 'Maybe.' Do you have the idea I'm a professional

suicide pilot?"

"Not at all. If I show details, do you agree that the infor-

mation shall be confidential?"

"I do," I said formally, knowing it would commit me. A

verbal contract is as binding as the tape it's recorded on.

"Good. Come." He pranced toward a transfer booth.

The transfer booth let us out somewhere in Jinx's vacuum

regions. It was night. High in the sky, Sirius B was a pain-

fully bright pinpoint casting vivid blue moonlight on a ragged

lunar landscape. I looked up and didn't see Binary, Jinx's

bloated orange companion planet, so we must have been in

the Farside End.

But there was something hanging over us.

A No. 4 General Products hull is a transparent sphere a

thousand-odd feet in diameter. No bigger ship has been built

anywhere in the known galaxy. It takes a government to buy

one, and they are used for colonization projects only. But this

one could never have been so used; it was all machinery. Our

transfer booth stood between two of the landing legs, so that

the swelling flank of the ship looked down on us as an owl

looks down at a mouse. An access tube ran through the vac-

uum from the booth to the airlock.

I said, "Does General Products build complete spacecraft

nowadays?"

"We are thinking of branching out. But there are prob-

lems."

From the viewpoint of the puppeteer-owned company, it

must have seemed high time. General Products makes the

hulls for ninety-five percent of all ships in space, mainly

because nobody else knows how to build an indestructible

hull. But they'd made a bad start with this ship. The only

room I could see for crew, cargo, or passengers was a few

cubic yards of empty space right at the bottom, just above

the airlock, and just big enough for a pilot.

"You'd have a' hard time selling that," I said.

"True. Do you notice anything else?"

"Well..." The hardware that filled the transparent hull

was very tightly packed. The effect was as if a race of ten-

mile-tall giants had striven to achieve miniaturization. I saw

no sign of access tubes; hence there could be no m-space

repairs. Four reaction motors poked their appropriately huge

nostrils through the hull, angled outward from the bottom.

No small attitude jets; hence, oversized gyros inside. Oth-

erwise ... "Most of it looks like hyperdrive motors. But that's

silly. Unless you've thought of a good reason for moving

moons around?"

"At one time you were a commercial pilot for Nakamura

Lines. How long was the run from Jinx to We Made It?"

"Twelve days if nothing broke down." Just long enough

to get to know the prettiest passenger aboard, while the au-

topilot did everything for me but wear my uniform.

"Sirius to Procyon is a distance of four light-years. Our

ship would make the trip in five minutes."

"You've lost your mind."

"No."

But that was almost a light-year per minute! I couldn't

visualize it. Then suddenly I did visualize it, and my mouth

fell open, for what I saw was the galaxy opening before me.

We know so little beyond our own small neighborhood of the

galaxy. But with a ship like that--

"That's goddam fast."

"As you say. But the equipment is bulky, as you note. It

cost seven billion stars to build that ship, discounting cen-

turies of research, but it will only move one man. As is, the

ship is a failure. Shall we go inside?"

The lifesystem was two circular rooms, one above the

other, with a small airlock to one side. The lower room was

the control room, with banks of switches and dials and blink-

ing lights dominated by a huge spherical mass pointer. The

upper room was bare walls, transparent, through which I

could see air- and food-producing equipment.

"This will be the relaxroom," said the puppeteer. "We de-

cided to let the pilot decorate it himself."

"Why me?"

"Let me further explain the problem." The puppeteer be-

gan to pace the floor. I hunkered down against the wall and

watched. Watching a puppeteer move is a pleasure. Even in

Jinx's gravity the deerlike body seemed weightless, the tiny

hooves tapping the floor at random. "The human sphere

of colonization is some thirty light-years across, is it

not?"

"Maximum. It's not exactly a sphere--"

"The puppeteer region is much smaller. The Kdatlyno

sphere is half the size of yours, and the Kzinti is fractionally

larger. These are the important space-traveling species. We

must discount the Outsiders since they do not use ships. Some

spheres coincide, naturally. Travel from one sphere to an-

other is nearly nil except for ourselves, since our sphere of

influence extends to all who buy our hulls. But add all these

regions, and you have a region sixty light-years across. This

ship could cross it in seventy-five minutes. Allow six hours

for takeoff and six for landing, assuming no traffic snarls

near the world of destination, and we have a ship which can

go anywhere in thirteen hours but nowhere in less than

twelve, carrying one pilot and no cargo, costing seven billion

stars."

"How about exploration?"

"We puppeteers have no taste for abstract knowledge. And

how should we explore?" Meaning that whatever race flew

the ship would gain the advantages thereby. A puppeteer

wouldn't risk his necks by flying it himself. "What we need

is a great deal of money and a gathering of intelligences, to

design something which may go slower but must be less

bulky. General Products (Joes not wish to spend so much on

something that may fail. We will require the best minds of

each sentient species and the richest investors. Beowulf

Shaeffer, we need to attract attention."

"A publicity stunt?"

"Yes. We wish to send a pilot to the center of the galaxy

and back."

"Ye.. .gods! Will it go that fast?"

"It would require some twenty-five days to reach the cen-

ter and an equal time to-return. You can see the reasoning

behind--"

"It's perfect. You don't need to spell it out. Why me?"

"We wish you to make the trip and then write of it. I have

a list of pilots who write. Those I have approached have been

reluctant. They say that writing on the ground is safer than

testing unknown ships. I follow their reasoning."

"Me too."

"Will you go?"

"What am I offered?"

"One hundred thousand stars for the trip. Fifty thousand

to write the story, in addition to what you sell it for."

"Sold."

From then on, my only worry was that my new boss would

find out that someone had ghost-written that neutron star

article.

Oh, I wondered at first why General Products was willing

to trust, me. The first time I worked for them I tried to steal

their ship, for reasons which seemed good at the time. But

the ship I now called Long Shot really wasn't worth stealing..

Any potential buyer would know it was hot; and what good

would it be to him? Long Shot could have explored a globular

cluster; but her only other use was publicity.

Sending her to the Core was a masterpiece of promotion.

Look: It was twelve days from We Made It to Jinx by

conventional craft, and twelve hours by Long Shot. What's

the difference? You spent twelve years saving for the trip.

But the Core! Ignoring refueling and reprovisioning prob-

lems, my old ship could have reached the galaxy's core in

three hundred years. No known species had ever seen the

Core! It hid behind layer on layer of tenuous gas and dust

clouds. You can find libraries of literature on those central

stars, but they all consist of generalities and educated guesses

based on observation of other galaxies, like Andromeda.

Three centuries dropped to less than a month! There's

something anyone can grasp. And with pictures!

The lifesystem was finished in a couple of weeks. I had

them leave the control-room walls transparent and paint the

relaxroom solid blue, no windows. When they finished, I had

entertainment tapes and everything it takes to keep a man

sane for seven weeks in a room the size of a large closet.

On the last day the puppeteer and I spoke the final version

of my contract. I had four months to reach the galaxy's center

and return. The outside cameras would run constantly; I was

not to interfere with them. Jf the ship suffered a mechanical

failure, I could return before reaching the center; otherwise,

no. There were penalties. I took a copy of the tape to leave

with a lawyer.

"There is a thing you should know," the puppeteer said

afterward. "The direction of thrust opposes the direction of

hyperdrive." "I don't get it."

The puppeteer groped for words. "If you turned on the

reaction motors and the hyperdrive together, the flames

would precede your ship through hyperspace."

I got the picture then. Ass backward into the unknown.

With the control room at the ship's bottom, it made sense.

To a puppeteer, it made sense.

3

And I was off.

I went up under two standard gees because I like my com-

fort. For twelve hours I used only the reaction motors. It

wouldn't do to be too deep in a gravity well when 1 used a

hyperdrive, especially an experimental one. Pilots who do

that never leave hyperspace. The relaxroom kept me enter-

tained until the bell rang. I slipped down to the control room,

netted myself down against free fall, turned off the motors,

rubbed my hands briskly together, and turned on the hyper-

drive.

It wasn't quite as I'd expected.

I couldn't see out, of course. When the hyperdrive goes on,

it's like your blind spot expanding to take in all the windows,

It's not just that you don't see anything; you forget that

there's anything to see. If there's a window between the

kitchen control bank and your print of Dali's "Spam," your

eye and mind will put the picture right next to the kitchen

bank, obliterating the space between. It takes getting ased

to, in fact it has driven people insane, but that wasn't what

bothered me. I've spent thousands of man-hours in hyper-

space. I kept my eye on the mass pointer.

The mass pointer is a big transparent sphere with a num-

ber of blue lines radiating from the center. The direction of

the line is the direction of a star; its length shows the star's

mass. We wouldn't need pilots if the mass pointer could be

hooked into an autopilot, but it can't. Dependable as it is,

accurate as it is, the mass pointer is a psionic device. It needs

a mind to work it. I'd been using mass pointers for so long

that those lines were like real stars.

A star came toward me, and I dodged around it. I thought

that another line that didn't point quite straight ahead was

long enough to show dangerous mass, so I dodged. That put

a blue dwarf right in front of me. I shifted fast and looked

for a throttle. I wanted to slow down.

Repeat, I wanted to slow down.

Of course there was no throttle. Part of the puppeteer

research project would be designing a throttle. A long fuzzy

line reached for me: a protosun--

Put it this way: Imagine one of Earth's freeways. You

must have seen pictures of them from space, a tangle of twist-

ing concrete ribbons, empty and abandoned but never torn

down. Some lie broken; others are covered with houses. Peo-

ple use the later rubberized ones for horseback riding. Imag-

ine the way one of these must have looked about six o'clock

on a week night in, say, nineteen seventy. Groundcars from

end to end.

Now, let's take all those cars and remove the brakes. Fur-

ther, let's put governors on the accelerators, so that the max-

imum speeds are between sixty and seventy miles per hour,

not all the same. Let something go wrong with all the gov-

ernors at once, so that the maximum speed also becomes the

minimum. You'll begin to see signs of panic.

Eeady? Okay. Get a radar installed in your car, paint your

windshield and windows jet black, and get out on that free-

way.

It was like that.

It didn't seem so bad at first. The stars kept coming at me,

and I kept dodging, and after a while it settled down to a

kind of routine. From experience I could tell at a glance

whether a star was heavy enough and close enough to wreck

me. But in Nakamura Lines I'd only had to take that glance

every six hours or so. Here I didn't dare look away. As I grew

tired, the near-misses came closer and closer. After three

hours of it I had to drop out.

The stars had a subtly unfamiliar look. With a sudden jar

I realized that I was entirely out of known space. Sirius,

Antares--I'd never recognize them from here; I wasn't even

sure they were visible. I shook it off and called home.

"Long Shot calling General Products, Long Shot call-

ing--"

"Beowulf Shaeffer?"

"Have I ever told you what a lovely, sexy voice you have?"

"No. Is everything going well?"

"I'm afraid not. In fact, I'm not going to make it."

A pause. "Why not?"

"I can't keep dodging these stars forever. One of them's

going to get me if I keep on much longer. The ship's just too

goddam fast."

"Yes. We must design a slower ship."

"I hate to give up that good pay, but my eyes feel like

peeled onions. I ache all over. I'm turning back."

"Shall I play your contract for you?"

"No. Why?"

"Your only legal reason for returning is a mechanical fail-

ure. Otherwise you forfeit twice your pay."

I said, "Mechanical failure?" There was a tool box some-

where in the ship, with a hammer in it....

"I did not mention it before, since it did not seem polite,

but two of the cameras are in the lifesystem. We had thought

to use films of you for purposes of publicity, but--"

"I see. Tell me one thing, just one thing. When the regional

president of We Made It sent you my name, did he mention

that I'd discovered your planet has no moon?"

"Yes, he did mention that matter. You accepted one million

stars for your silence. He naturally has a recording of the

bargain."

"I see." So that's why they'd picked Beowulf Shaeffer, well-

known author. "The trip'll take longer than I thought."

"You must pay a penalty for every extra day over four

months. Two thousand stars per day late."

"Your voice has acquired an unpleasant grating sound.

Good-bye."

I went on in. Every hour I shifted to normal space for a

ten-minute coffee break. I dropped out for meals, and I

dropped out for sleep. Twelve hours per ship's day I spent

traveling, and twelve trying to recover. It was a losing battle.

By the end of day two I knew I wasn't going to make the

four-month limit. I might do it in six months, forfeiting one

hundred and twenty thousand stars, leaving me almost

where I started. Serve me right for trusting a puppeteer!

Stars were all around me, shining through the floor and

between the banked instruments. I sucked coffee, trying not

to think. The milky way shone ghostly pale between my feet.

The stars were thick now; they'd get thicker as I approached

the Core, until finally one got me.

An idea! And about time, too.

The golden voice answered immediately. "Beowulf Shaef-

fer?"

"There's nobody else here, honey. Look, I've thought of

something. Would you send--"

''Is one of your instruments malfunctioning, Beowulf

Shaeffer?"

"No, they all work fine, as far as they go. Look--"

"Then what could you possibly have to say that would

require my attention?"

"Honey, now is the time to decide. Do you want revenge,

or do you want your ship back?"

A small silence. Then, "You may speak."

"I can reach the Core much faster if I first get into one of

the spaces between the arms. Do we know enough about the

galaxy to know where our arm ends?"

"I will send to the Institute of Knowledge to find out."

"Good."

Four hours later I was dragged from a deathlike sleep by

the ringing of the hyperphone. It was not the president, but

some flunky, I remembered calling the puppeteer "honey"

last night, tricked by my own exhaustion and that seductive

voice, and wondered if I'd hurt his puppeteer feelings. "He"

might be a male; a puppeteer's is one of his little secrets.

The flunky gave me a bearing and distance for the nearest

gap between stars.

It took me another day to get there. When the stars began

to thin out, I could hardly believe it. I turned off the hyper-

drive, and it was true. The stars were tens and hundreds of

light-years apart. I could see part of the Core peeking in a

bright rim above the dim flat cloud of mixed dust and stars.

From then on, it was better, f was safe if I glanced at the

mass pointer every ten minutes or so. I could forget the rest

breaks, eat meals and do isometrics while watching the point-

ers. For eight hours a day I slept, but during the other sixteen

I moved. The gap swept toward the Core in a narrowing

curve, and I followed it.

As a voyage of exploration the trip would have been a

fiasco. I saw nothing. I stayed well away from anything worth

seeing. Stars and dust, anomalous wispy clusters shining in

the dark of the gap, invisible indications that might have

been stars--my cameras picked them up from a nice safe

distance, showing tiny blobs of light. In three weeks I moved

almost seventeen thousand light-years toward the Core.

The end of those three weeks was the end of the gap.

Before me was an uninteresting wash of stars backed by a

wall of opaque dust clouds. I still had thirteen thousand light-

years to go before I reached the center of the galaxy.

I took some pictures and moved in.

Ten-minute breaks, mealtimes that grew longer and

longer for the rest they gave, sleep periods that left my eyes

red and burning. The stars were thick and the dust was

thicker, so that the mass pointer showed a blur of blue broken

by sharp blue lines. The lines began to get less sharp. I took

breaks every half hour--

Three days of that.

It was getting near lunchtime on the fourth day. I sat

watching the mass pointer, noting the fluctuations in the

blue blur which showed the changing density of the dust

around me. Suddenly it faded out completely. Great! Wouldn't

it be nice if the mass pointer went out on me? But the sharp

" starlines were still there, ten or twenty of them pointing in

all directions. I went back to steering. The clock chimed to

indicate a rest period. I sighed happily and dropped into nor-

mal space.

The clock showed I had half an hour to wait for lunch, i

thought about eating anyway, decided againsf it. The routine

was all that kept me going. I wondered what the sky looked

like, reflexively looked up so I wouldn't have to look down

at the transparent floor. That big an expanse of hyperspace

is hard even on trained eyes. I remembered I wasn't in hy-

perspace and looked down.

For a time I jus? stared. Then, without taking my eyes off

the floor, I reached for the hyperphone,-

"Beowulf Shaeffer?"

"No, this is Albert Einstein. I stowed away when the Long

Shot took off, and I've decided to turn myself in for the re-

ward."

"Giving misinformation is an implicit violation of con-

tract. Why have you called?"

"I can see the Core;"

"That is not a reason to call. It was implicit in your eon-

tract that you would see the Core."

"Dammit, don't you care? Don't you want to know what

it looks like?"

"If you wish to describe it now, as a precaution against

accident, I will switch you to a dictaphone. However, if your

mission is not totally successful, we cannot use your record-

ing."

I was thinking up a really searing answer when I heard

the click. Great, my boss had hooked me into a dictaphone.

I said one short sentence and hung up.

The Core.

Gone were the obscuring masses of dust and gas. A billion

years ago they must have been swept up for fuel by the hun-

gry, crowded stars. The Core lay before me like a great jew-

eled sphere. I'd expected it to be a gradual thing, a thick

mass of stars thinning out into the arms. There was nothing

gradual about it. A clear ball of multicolored light five or six

thousand light-years across nestled in the heart of the galaxy,

sharply bounded by the last of the dust clouds. I was ten

thousand four hundred light-years from the center.

The red stars were the biggest and brightest. I could ac-

tually pick some of them out as individuals. The rest was a

finger painting in fluorescent green and blue. But those red

stars...they would have sent Aldebaran back to kindergar-

ten.

It was all so bright. I needed the telescope to see black

between the stars.

I'll show you how bright it was.

Is it night where you are? Step outside and look at the

stars. What color are they? Antares may show red, if your

near enough; in the System, so will Mars. Sirius may ahow

bluish. But all the rest are white pinpoints. Why? Because

it's dark. Your day vision is in color, but at night you see

black-and-white, like a dog.

The Core suns were bright enough for color vision.

I'd pick a planet here! Not in the Core itself, but right out

here, with the Core on one side and on the other the dimly

starred dust clouds forming their strange convoluted curtain.

Man, what a view! Imagine that flaming jeweled sphere ris-

ing in the east, hundreds of times as big as Binary shows on

Jinx; but without the constant feeling Binary gives you, the

fear that the orange world will fall on you; for the vast,

twinkling Core is only starlight, lovely and harmless. I'd pick

my world now and stake a claim. When the puppeteers got

their drive fixed up, I'd have the finest piece of real estate

in the known universe! If I could only find a habitable planet.

If only I could find it twice.

Hell, I'd be lucky to find my way home from here. I shifted

into hyperspace and went back to work.

5

An hour and fifty minutes, one lunch break and two rest

breaks, and fifty light-years later, I noticed something pe-

culiar in the Core,

It was even clearer then, if not much bigger; I'd passed

through the almost transparent wisps of the last dust cloud.

Not too near the center of the sphere was a patch of white,

bright enough to make the green and blue and red look dull

around it. I looked for it again at the neyt break, and it was

a little brighter. It was brighter again at the next break--

"Beowulf Shaeffer?"

"Yah. I--"

"Why did you use the dictaphone to call me a cowardly

two-headed monster?"

"You were off the line. I had to use the dictaphone."

"That is sensible. Yes. We puppeteers have never under-

stood your attitude toward a natural caution." My boss was

peeved, though you couldn't tell from his voice.

"I'll go into that if you like, but it's not why I called."

"Explain, please."

"I'm all for caution. Discretion is the better part of valor,

and like that. You can even be good businessmen, because

it's easier to survive with lots of money. But you're so damn

concerned with various kinds of survival that you aren't even

interested in something that isn't a threat. Nobody but a

puppeteer would have turned down my offer to describe the

Core."

"You forget the Kzinti,"

"Oh, the Kzinti." Who expects rational behavior from

Kzinti? You whip them when they attack; you reluctantly

decide not to exterminate them; you wait till they build up

their strength; and when they attack, you whip 'em again.

Meanwhile you sell them foodstuffs and buy their metals and

employ them where you need good games theorists. It's not

as if they were a real threat. They'll always attack before

they're ready.

"The Kzinti are carnivores. Where we are interested in

survival, carnivores are interested in meat alone. They con-

quer because subject peoples can supply them with food, They

cannot do menial work. Animal husbandry is alien to them.

They must have slaves or be barbarians roaming the forests

for meat. Why should they be interested in what you call

abstract knowledge? Why should any thinking being, if the

knowledge has no chance of showing a profit? In practice,

your description Of the Core would attract only an omnivore."

"You'd make a good case if it were not for the fact that

most sentient races are omnivores."

"We have thought long and hard on that."

Ye cats. I was going to have to think long and hard on

that.

"Why did you call, Beowulf Shaeffer?"

Oh, yeah, "Look, I know you don't want to know what the

Core looks like, but I see something that might represent

personal danger. You have access to information I don't. May

I proceed?"

"You may,"

Hah! I was learning to think like a puppeteer. Was that

good? I told my boss about the blazing, strangely shaped

white patch in the Core. "When I turned the telescope en it,

it nearly blinded me. Grade two sunglasses don't give any

details at all. It's just a shapeless white patch, but so bright

that the stare m front look like black dots with colored rims,

I'd like to know what's causing it."

"It sounds very unusual," Pause. 'Is the white color uni-

form? Is the brightness uniform?"

"Just a sec." I used the scope again. "The color is, but the

brightness isn't. I see dimmer areas inside the patch, I think

the center is fading out."

"Use the telescope to find a nova star. There ought to be

several in such a large mass of stars."

I tried it. Presently I found something: a blazing disk of

a peculiar blue-white color with a dimmer, somewhat smaller

red disk half in front of it. That had to be a nova. In the core

of Andromeda galaxy, and in what I'd seen of our own Core,

the red stars were the biggest and brightest.

"I've found one."

"Comment."

A moment more and I saw what he meant. "It's the same

color as the patch. Something like the same brightness, too.

But what could make a patch of supernovas go off all at

once?"

"You have studied the Core. The stars of the Core are an

average of half a light-year apart. They are even closer near

the center, and no dust clouds dim their brightness. When

stars are that close, they shed enough light on each other to

increase materially each other's temperature. Stars burn

faster and age faster in the Core."

"I see that,"

"Since the Core stars age faster, a much greater portion

are near the supernova stage than in the arms. Also, all are

hotter considering their respective ages. If a star were a few

millennia from the supernova stage, and a supernova ex-

ploded half a light-year away, estimate the probabilities."

"They might both blow. Then the two could set off a third,

and the three might take a couple more...."

"Yes. Since a supernova lasts-on the order of one human

standard year, the chain reaction would soon die out. Your

patch of light must have occurred in this way."

"That's a relief. Knowing what did it, I mean. I'll take

pictures going in,"

"As you say." Click.

The patch kept expanding as I went in, still with no more

shape than a veil nebula, getting brighter and bigger. It

hardly seemed fair, what I was doing. The light which the

patch novas had taken fifty years to put out, I covered in an

hour, moving down the beam at a speed which made the

universe itself seem unreal. At the fourth rest period I

dropped out of hyperspace, looked down through the floor

while the cameras took their pictures, glanced away from the

patch for a moment, and found myself blinded by tangerine

afterimages. I had to put on a pair of grade one sunglasses,

out of the packet of twenty which every pilot carries for work-

ing near suns during takeoff and landing.

It made me shiver to think that the patch was stil! nearly

ten thousand light-years away. Already the radiation must

have killed all life in the Core if there ever had been life

there. My instruments on the hull showed radiation like a

solar flare.

At the next stop I needed grade two sunglasses. Somewhat

later, grade three. Then four. The patch became a great

bright amoeba reaching twisting tentacles of fusion fire deep

into the vitals of the Core. In hyperspace the sky was jammed

bumper to bumper, so to speak, but I never thought of stop-

ping. As the Core came closer, the patch grew like something

alive, something needing ever more food. I think I knew,

even then.

Night came. The control room was a blaze of light. I slept

in the relaxroom, to the tune of the laboring temperature

control. Morning, and I was off again. The radiation meter

snarled its death-song, louder during each rest break. If I'd

been planning to go outside, J would have dropped that plan.

Radiation Couldn't get through a General Products hull.

Nothing else can, either, except visible light.

I spent a bad half hour trying to remember whether one

of the puppeteers' customers saw X-rays. I was afraid to call

up and ask.

The mass pointer began to show a faint blue blur. Gases

thrown outward from the patch. I had to keep changing sun-

glasses. .,.

Sometime during the morning of the next day I stopped.

There was no point in going farther.

"Beowulf Shaeffer, have you become attached to the sound

of my voice? I have other work than supervising your prog-

ress."

"I would like to deliver a lecture on abstract knowledge,"

"Surely it can wait until your return."

"The galaxy is exploding."

There was a strange noise. Then: "Repeat, please."

"Have I got your attention?"

"Yes."

"Good. I think I know the reason so many sentient races

are omnivores. Interest in abstract knowledge is a symptom

of pure curiosity. Curiosity must be a survival trait."

"Must we discuss this? Very well. You may well be right.

Others have made the same suggestion, including

puppeteers. But how has our species survived at all?"

"You must have some substitute for curiosity. Increased

intelligence, maybe. You've been around long enough to

develop it. Our hands can't compare with your mouths for

tool-building. If a watchmaker had taste and smell in his

hands, he still wouldn't have the strength of your jaws or the

delicacy of those knobs around your lips. When I want to

know how old a sentient race is, I watch what he uses for

hands and feet."

"Yes. Human feet are still adapting to their task of

keeping you erect. You propose, then, that our intelligence

has grown sufficiently to ensure our survival without

depending on your hit-or-miss method of learning

everything you can for the sheer pleasure of learning."

"Not quite. Our method is better. If you hadn't sent

me to the Core for publicity, you'd never have known about

this."

"You say the galaxy is exploding?"

"Rather, it finished exploding some nine thousand years

ago. I'm wearing grade twenty sunglasses, and it's still too

bright. A third of the Core is gone already. The patch is

spreading at nearly the speed of light. I don't see that any-

thing can stop it until it hits the gas clouds beyond the Core,"

There was no comment. I went on. "A lot of the inside of

the patch has gone out, but all of the surface is new novas.

And remember, the light I'm seeing is nine thousand years

old. Now, I'm going to read you a few instruments. Radiation,

two hundred and ten. Cabin temperature normal, but

you can hear the whine of the temperature control. The

mass indicator shows nothing but a blur ahead. I'm

turning back."

"Radiation two hundred and ten? How far are you

from the edge of the Core?"

"About four thousand light-years, I think. I can see

plumes of incandescent gas starting to form in the near

side of the patch, moving toward galactic north and south.

It reminds me of something. Aren't there pictures of

exploding galaxies in the Institute?"

"Many. Yes, it has happened before. Beowulf Shaeffer,

this is bad news. When the radiation from the Core reaches

our worlds, it will sterilize them. We puppeteers will soon

need considerable amounts of money. Shall I release you

from your contract, paying you nothing?"

I laughed. I was too surprised even to get mad. "No,"

"Surely you do not intend to enter the Core?"

"No. Look, why do you--"

"Then by the conditions of our contract, you forfeit."

"Wrong again. I'll take pictures of these instruments.

When a court sees the readings on the radiation meter and

the blue blur in the mass indicator, they'll know wrong with

them."

"Nonsense. Under evidence drugs you will explain the

readings."

"Sure. And the court will know you tried to get me to go

right to the center of that holocaust. You know what they'll

say to that?"

"But how can a court of law find against a recorded con-

tract?"

"The point is they'll want to. Maybe they'll decide that

we're both lying and the instruments really did go haywire.

Maybe they'll find a way, to say the contract was illegal. But

they'll find against you. Want to make a side bet?"

"No. You have won. Come back."

6

The Core was a lovely multicolored jewel when it disap-

peared below the lens of the galaxy, I'd have liked to visit

it someday, but there aren't any time machines,

I'd penetrated nearly to the Core in something like a

month. I took my time coming home, going straight up along

galactic north and flying above the lens where there were no

stars to bother me, and still made it in two. All the way I

wondered why the puppeteer had tried to cheat me at the

last. Long Shot's publicity would have been better than ever;

yet the regional president had been willing to throw it away

just to leave me broke. I couldn't ask why, because nobody

was answering my hyperphone. Nothing I knew about pup-

peteers could tell me. I felt persecuted.

My come-hither brought me down at the base in the Far-

side End. Nobody was there. I took the transfer booth back

to Sirius Mater, Jinx's biggest city, figuring to contact Gen-

eral Products, turn over the ship, and pick up my pay.

More surprises awaited me.

1) General Products had paid one hundred and fifty thou-

sand stars into my account in the Bank of Jinx. A personal

note stated that whether or not I wrote my article was solely

up to me.

2) General Products has disappeared. They are selling no

more spacecraft hulls. Companies with contracts have had

their penalty clauses paid off. It all happened two months

ago, simultaneously on all known worlds.

3) The bar I'm in is on the roof of the tallest building in

Sirius Mater, more than a mile above the streets. Even from

here I can hear the stock market crashing. It started with

the collapse of spacecraft companies with no hulls to build

ships. Hundreds of others have followed. It takes a long time

for an interstellar market to come apart at the seams, but,

as with the Core novas, I don't see anything that can stop

the chain reaction.

4) The secret of the indestructible General Products hull

is being advertised for sale. General Products' human rep

resentatives will collect bids for one year, no bid to be less

than one trillion stars. Get in on the ground floor, folks.

5) Nobody knows anything. That's what's causing most of

the panic. It's been a month since a puppeteer was seen on

any known world. Why did they drop so suddenly out of

interstellar affairs?

I know.

In twenty thousand years a flood of radiation will wash

over this region of space. Thirty thousand light-years may

seem a long, safe distance, but it isn't, not with this big an

explosion. I've asked. The Core explosion will make this gal-

axy uninhabitable to any known form of life.

Twenty thousand years is a long time. It's four times as

long as human written history. We'll all be less than dust

before things get dangerous, and I for one am not going to

worry about it.

But the puppeteers are different. They're scared. They're

getting out right now. Paying off their penalty clauses and

buying motors and other equipment to put in their inde-

structible hulls will take so much money that even confis-

cating my puny salary would have been a step to the good.

Interstellar business can go to hell; from now on, the pup-

peteers will have no time for anything but running.

Where will they go? Well, the galaxy is surrounded by a

halo of small globular clusters. The ones near the rim might

be safe. Or the puppeteers may even go as far as Andromeda.

They have the Long Shot for exploring if they come back for

it, and they can build more. Outside the galaxy is space empty

enough even for a puppeteer pilot, if he thinks his species is

threatened.

It's a pity. This galaxy will be dull without puppeteers,

Those two-headed monsters were not only the most depend-

able faction in interstellar business; they were like water in

a wasteland of more-or-less humanoids. It's too bad they

aren't brave, like us.

But is it?

I never heard of a puppeteer refusing to face a problem.

He may merely be deciding how fast to run, but he'll never

pretend the problem isn't there. Sometime within the next

twenty millennia we humans will have to move a. population

that already numbers forty-three billion. How? To where?

When should we start thinking about this? When the glow

of the Core begins to shine through the dust clouds?

Maybe men are the cowards--at the core.

A Pail of Air

FRITZ LEIBER

Pa had sent me out to get an extra pail of air. I'd just about

scooped it full and most of the warmth had leaked from my

fingers when I saw the thing.

You know, at first I thought it was a young lady. Yes, a

beautiful young lady's face all glowing in the dark and look-

ing at me from the fifth floor of the opposite apartment, which

hereabouts is the floor just above the white blanket of frozen

air. I'd never seen a live young lady before, except in the old

magazines--Sis is just a kid and Ma is pretty sick and mis-

erable--and it gave me such a start that I dropped the pail.

Who wouldn't, knowing everyone on Earth was dead except

Pa and Ma and Sis and you?

Even at that, I don't suppose I should have been surprised.

We all see things now and then. Ma has some pretty bad

ones, to judge from the way she bugs her eyes at nothing and

just screams and screams and huddles back back against the

blankets hanging around the Nest. Pa says it is natural we

should react like that sometimes.

When I'd recovered the pail and could look again at the

opposite apartment, I got an idea of what Ma might be feeling

at those times, for I saw it wasn't a young lady at all but

simply a light--a tiny light that moved stealthily from win-

dow to window, just as if one of the cruel little stars had come

down out of the airless sky to investigate why the Earth had

gone away from the Sun, and maybe to hunt down something

to torment or terrify, now that the Earth didn't have the

Sun's protection.

I tell you, the thought of it gave me the creeps, I just stood

there shaking, and almost froze my feet and did frost my

helmet so solid on the inside that I couldn't have seen the

light even if it had come out of one of the windows to get me.

Then I had the wit to go back inside.

Pretty soon I was feeling my familiar way through the

thirty or so blankets and rugs Pa has got hung around to

slow down the escape of air from the Nest, and I wasn't quite

so scared. I began to hear the tick-ticking of the clocks in the

Nest and knew I was getting back into air, because there's

no sound outside in the vacuum, of course. But my mind was

still crawly and uneasy as I pushed through the last blan-

kets--Pa's got them faced with aluminum foil to hold in the

heat--and came into the Nest.

Let me tell you about the Nest. It's low and snug, just

room for the four of us and our things. The floor is covered

with thick woolly rugs. Three of the sides are blankets, and

the blankets roofing it touch Pa's head. He tells me it's inside

a much bigger room, but I've never seen the real walls or

ceiling.

Against one of the blanket-walls is a big set of shelves,

with tools and books and other stuff, and on top of it a whole

row of clocks. Pa's very fussy about keeping them wound. He

says we must never forget time, and without a sun or moon,

that would be easy to do.

The fourth wall has blankets all over except around the

fireplace, in which there is a fire that must never go out. It

keeps us from freezing and does a lot more besides. One of

us must always watch it. Some of the clocks are alarm and

we can use them to remind us. In the early days there was

only Ma to take turns with Pa--I think of that when she gets

difficult--but now there's me to help, and Sis too.

It's Pa who is the chief guardian of the fire, though. I

always think of him that way: a tall man sitting cross-legged,

frowning anxiously at the fire, his lined face golden in its

light, and every so often carefully placing on it a piece of coal

from the big heap beside it. Pa tells me there used to be

guardians of the fire sometimes in the very old days--vestal

virgins, he calls them--although there was unfrozen air all

around then and you didn't really need one,

He was sitting just that way now, though he got up quick

to take the pail from me and bawl me out for loitering--he'd

spotted my frozen helmet right off. That roused Ma and she

joined in picking on me. She's always trying to get the load

off her feelings, Pa explains. He shut her up pretty fast. Sis

let off a couple of silly squeals too.

Yet it's that glimmery white stuff in the pail that keeps

us alive. It slowly melts and vanishes and refreshes the Nest

and feeds the fire. The blankets keep it from escaping too

fast. Pa'd like to seal the whole place, but he can't--building's

too earthquake-twisted, and besides he has to leave the chim-

ney open for smoke,

Pa says air is tiny molecules that fly away like a flash if

there isn't something to stop them. We have to watch not to

let the air run low. Pa always keeps a big reserve supply of

it IB buckets behind the first blankets, along with extra coal

and cans of food and other things, such as pails of snow to

melt for water. We have to go way down to the bottom floor

for that stuff, which is a mean trip, and get it through a

door to outside.

You see, when the Earth got cold, all the water in the air

froze first and made a blanket ten feet thick or so everywhere,

and then down on top of that dropped the crystals of frozen

air, making another white blanket sixty or seventy feet thick

maybe.

Of course, all the parts of the air didn't freeze and snow

down at the same time.

First to drop out was the carbon dioxide--when you're

shoveling for water, you have to make sure you don't go too

high and get any of that stuff mixed in, for it would put you

to sleep, maybe for good, and make the fire go out. Next

there's the nitrogen, which doesn't count one way or the other,

though it's the biggest part of the blanket. On top of that

and easy to get at, which is lucky for us, there's the oxygen

that keeps us alive. Pa says we live better than kings ever

did, breathing pure oxygen, but we're used to it and don't

notice. Finally, at the very top, there's a slick of liquid helium,

which is funny stuff. All of these gases in neat separate layers.

Like a pussy caffay, Pa laughingly says, whatever that is.

I was busting to tell them all about what I'd seen, and so

as soon as I'd ducked out of my helmet and while I was still

climbing out of my suit, I cut loose. Right away Ma got ner-

vous and began making eyes at the entry-slit in the blankets

and wringing her hands together--the hand where she'd lost

three fingers from frostbite inside the good one, as usual. I

could tell that Pa was annoyed at me scaring her and wanted

to explain it all away quickly, yet could see I wasn't fooling.

"And you watched this light for some time, son?" he asked

when I finished.

I hadn't said anything about first thinking it was a young

lady's face. Somehow that part embarrassed me.

"Long enough for it to pass five windows and go to the

next floor."

"And it didn't look like stray electricity or crawling liquid

or starlight focused by a growing crystal, or anything like

that?"

He wasn't just making up those ideas. Odd things happen

in a world that's about as cold as can be, and just when you

think matter would be frozen dead, it takes on a strange new

life. A slimy stuff comes crawling toward the Nest, just like

an animal snuffing for heat--that's the liquid helium. And

once, when I was little, a bolt of lightning--not even Pa could

figure where it came from--hit the nearby steeple and

crawled up and down it for weeks, until the glow finally died.

"Not like anything I ever saw," I told him.

He stood for a moment frowning. Then, "I'll go out with

you, and you show it to me," he said.

Ma raised a howl at the idea of being left alone, and Sis

Joined in, too, but Pa quieted them. We started climbing into

our outside clothes--mine had been warming by the fire. Pa

made them. They have plastic headpieces that were once big

double-duty transparent food cans, but they keep heat and

air in and can replace the air for a little while, long enough

for our trips for water and coal and food and so on.

Ma started moaning again, "I've always known there was

something outside there, waiting to get us. I've felt it for

years--something that's part of the cold and hates all warmth

and wants to destroy the Nest. It's been watching us all this

time, and now it's coming after us. It'll get you and then

come for me. Don't go, Harry!"

Pa had everything on but his helmet. He knelt by the

fireplace and reached in and shook the long metal rod that

goes up the chimney and knocks off the ice that keeps trying

to clog it. Once a week he goes up on the roof to check if it's

working all right. That's our worst trip and Pa won't let me

make it alone.

"Sis," Pa said quietly, "come watch the fire. Keep an eye

on the air, too. If it gets low or doesn't seem to be boiling fast

enough, fetch another bucket from behind the blanket. But

mind your hands. Use the cloth to pick up the bucket."

Sis quit helping Ma be frightened and came over and did

as she was told. Ma quieted down pretty suddenly, though

her eyes were still kind of wild as she watched Pa fix on his

helmet tight and pick up a pail and the two of us go out.

Pa led the way and I took hold of his belt. It's a funny

thing, but when Pa's along I always want to hold on to him.

Habit, I guess, and then there's no denying that this time I

was a bit scared.

You see, it's this way. We know that everything is dead

out there. Pa heard the last radio voices fade away years

ago, and had seen some of the last folks die who weren't as

lucky or well-protected as us. So we knew that if there was

something groping around out there, it couldn't be

anything human or friendly.

Besides that, there's a feeling that comes with it always

being night, cold night. Pa says there used to be some of that

feeling even in the old days, but then every morning the Sun

would come and chase it away. I have to take his word for

that, not ever remembering the Sun as being anything more

than a star. You see, I hadn't been born when the dark star

snatched us away from the Sun, and by now it's dragged us

out beyond the orbit of the planet Pluto, Pa says, and taking

us farther out all the time.

I found myself wondering whether there mightn't be some-

thing on the dark star that wanted us, and if that was why

it had captured the Earth. Just then we came to the end of

the corridor and I followed Pa out on the balcony.

I don't know what the city looked like in the old days, but

now it's beautiful. The starlight lets you see it pretty well--

there's quite a bit of light in those steady points speckling

the blackness above. (Pa says the stars used to twinkle once,

but that was because there was air.) We are on a hill and the

shimmery plain drops away from us and then flattens out,

cut up into neat squares by the troughs that used to be streets.

I sometimes make my mashed potatoes look like it, before I

pour on the gravy.

Some taller buildings push up out of the feathery plain,

topped by rounded caps of air crystals, like the fur hood Ma

wears, only whiter. On these buildings you can see the darker

squares of windows, underlined by white dashes of air crys-

tals. Some of them are on a slant, for many of the buildings

are pretty badly twisted by the quakes and all the rest that

happened when the dark star captured the Earth.

Here and there a few icicles hang, water icicles from the

first days of the cold, other icicles of frozen air that melted

on the roofs and dripped and froze again. Sometimes one of

those icicles will catch the light of a star and send it to you

so brightly you think the star has swooped into the city. That

was one of the things Pa had been thinking of when I told

him about the light, but I had thought of it myself first and

known it wasn't so.

He touched his helmet to mine so we could talk easier and

he asked me to point out the windows to him. But there wasn't

any light moving around inside them now, or anywhere else.

To my surprise, Pa didn't bawl me out and tell me I'd been

seeing things. He looked all around quite a while after filling

his pail, and just as we were going inside he whipped around

without warning, as if to take some peeping thing off guard.

I could feel it, too. The old peace was gone. There was

something lurking out there, watching, waiting, getting

ready.

Inside, he said to me, touching helmets, "If you see some-

thing like that again, son, don't tell the others. Your Ma's

sort of nervous these days and we owe her all the feeling of

safety we can give her. Once--it was when your sister was

born--I was ready to give up and die, but your Mother kept

me trying Another time she kept the fire going a whole week

all by herself when I was sick. Nursed me and took care of

the two of you, too.

"You know that game we sometimes play, sitting in a

square in the Nest, tossing a ball around? Courage is like a

ball, son. A person can hold it only so long, and then he's got

to toss it to someone else. When it's tossed your way, you've

got to catch it and hold it tight--and hope there'll be someone

else to toss it to when you get tired of being brave."

His talking to me that way made me feel grown-up and

good. But it didn't wipe away the thing outside from the back

of my mind--or the fact that Pa took it seriously.

It's hard to hide your feelings about sach a thing. When

we got back in the Nest and took off our outside clothes, Pa

laughed about it and told them it was nothing and kidded me

for having such an imagination, but his words fell flat. He

didn't convince Ma and Sis any more than he did me. It looked

for a minute like we were all fumbling the courage-ball.

Something had to be done, and almost before I knew what

I was going to say, I heard myself asking Pa to tell us about

the old days, and how it all happened.

He sometimes doesn't mind telling that story, and Sis and

I sure like to listen to it, and he got my idea. So we were all

settled around the fire in a wink, and Ma pushed up some

cans to thaw for supper, and Pa began. Before he did, though,

I noticed him casually get a hammer from the shelf and lay

it down beside him.

It was the same old story as always--I think I could recite

the main thread of it in my sleep--though Pa always puts

in a new detail or two and keeps improving it in spots.

He told us how the Earth had been swinging around the

Sun ever so steady and warm, and the people an it fixing to

make money and wars and have a good time and get power

and treat each other right or wrong, when without warning

there comes charging out of space this dead star, this burned-

out sun, and upsets everything.

You know, I find it hard to believe in the way those people

felt, any more than I can believe in the swarming number

of them. Imagine people getting ready for the horrible sort

of war they were cooking up. Wanting it even, or at least

wishing it were over so as to end their nervousness. As if all

folks didn't have to hang together and pool every bit of

warmth just to keep alive. And how can they have hoped to

end danger, any more then we can hope to end the cold?

Sometimes I think Pa exaggerates and makes things out

too black. He's cross with us once in a while and was probably

cross with all those folks. Still some of the things I read in

the old magazines sound pretty wild. He may be right.

The dark star, as Pa went on telling it, rushed in pretty

fast and there wasn't much time to get ready. At the begin-

ning they tried to keep it a secret from most people, but then

the truth came out, what with the earthquakes and floods--

imagine, oceans of unfrozen water!--and people seeing stars

blotted out by something on a clear night. First off they

thought it would hit the Sun, and then they thought it would

hit the Earth. There was even the start of a rush to get to a

place called China, because people thought the star would hit

on the other side. But then they found it wasn't going to hit

either side, but was going to come very close to the Earth.

Most of the other planets were on the other side of the Sun

and didn't get involved. The Sun and the newcomer fought

over the Earth for a little while--pulling it this way and that,

like two dogs growling over a bone, Pa described it this time--

and then the newcomer won and carried us off. The Sun got

a consolation prize, though. At the last minute he managed

to hold on to the Moon.

That was the time of the monster earthquakes and floods,

twenty times worse than anything before. It was also the .,

time of the Big Jerk, as Pa calls it, when all Earth got yanked

suddenly, just as Pa has done to me once or twice, grabbing

me by the collar to do it, when I've been sitting too far from

the fire.

You see, the dark star was going through space faster than

the Sun, and in the opposite direction, and it had to wrench

the world considerably in order to take it away.

The Big Jerk didn't last long. It was over as soon as the

Earth was settled down in its new orbit around the dark star.

But it was pretty terrible while it lasted. Pa says that all

sorts of cliffs and buildings toppled, oceans slopped over,

swamps and sandy deserts gave great sliding surges that

buried nearby lands. Earth was almost jerked out of its at-

mosphere blanket and the air got so thin in spots that people

keeled over and fainted--though of course, at the same time

they were getting knocked down by the Big Jerk and maybe

their bones broke or skulls cracked.

We've often asked Pa how people acted during that time,

whether they were scared or brave or crazy or stunned, or all

four, but he's sort of leery of the subject, and he was again

tonight. He says he was mostly too busy to notice.

You see, Pa and some scientist friends of his had figured

out part of what was going to happen--they'd known we'd

get captured and our air would freeze--and they'd been work-

ing like mad to fix up a place with airtight walls and doors,

and insulation against the cold, and big supplies of food and

fuel and water and bottled air. But the place got smashed in

the last earthquakes and all Pa's friends were killed then

and in the Big Jerk. So he had to start over and throw the

Nest together quick without any advantages, just using any

stuff he could lay his hands on.

I guess he's telling pretty much the truth when he says

he didn't have any time to keep an eye on how other folks

behaved, either then or in the Big Freeze that followed--

followed very quick, you know, both because the dark star

was pulling us away very fast and because Earth's rotation

had been slowed in the tug-of-war, so that the nights were

ten old nights long.

Still, I've got an idea of some of the things that happened

from the frozen folk Fve seen, a few of them in other rooms

in our building, others clustered around the furnaces in the

basements where we go for coal.

In one of the rooms, an old man sits stiff m a chair, with

an arm and a leg in splints. In another, a man and woman

are huddled together in a bed with heaps of covers over them.

You can just see their heads peeking out, close together. And

m another a beautiful young lady is sitting with a pile of

wraps huddled around her, looking hopefully toward the door,

as if waiting for someone who never came back with warmth

and food. They're all still and stiff as statues, of course, but

lust like life.

Pa showed them to me once in quick winks of his flashlight,

when he still had a fair supply of batteries aad could afford

to waste a little light. They scared me pretty bad and made

my heart pound, especially the young lady.

Now, with Pa telling his story for the umpteenth time to

take our minds off another scare, I got to thinking of the

frozen folk again. All of a sudden I got an idea that scared

me worse than anything yet. You see, I'd just remembered

the face I'd thought I'd seen in the window. I'd forgotten about

that on account of trying to hide it from the others.

What, I asked myself, if the frozen folk were coming to

life? What if they were like the liquid helium that got a new

lease on life and started crawling toward the heat just when

you thought its molecules ought to freeze solid forever? Or

like the electricity that moves endlessly when it's just about

as cold as that? What if the ever-growing cold, with the tem-

perature creeping down the last few degrees to the last zero,

had mysteriously wakened the frozen folk to life--not warm-

blooded life, but something icy and horrible?

That was a worse idea than the one about something com-

ing down from the dark star to get us.

Or maybe, I thought, both ideas might be true. Something

coming down from the dark star and making the frozen folk

move, using them to do its work. That would fit with both

things I'd seen--the beautiful young lady and the moving,

starlike light.

The frozen folk with minds from the dark star behind their

unwinkling eyes, creeping, crawling, snuffing their way, fol-

lowing the heat to the Nest.

I tell you, that thought gave me a very bad turn and I

wanted very badly to tell the others my fears, but I remem-

bered what Pa had said and clenched my teeth and didn't

speak.

We were all sitting very still. Even the fire was burning

silently. There was just the sound of Pa's voice and the clocks.

And then, from beyond the blankets, I thought I heard a

tiny noise. My skin tightened all over me.

Pa was telling about the early years in the Nest and had

come to the place where he philosophizes.

"So I asked myself then," he said, "what's the use of going

on? What's the use of dragging it out for a few years? Why

prolong a doomed existence of hard work and cold and lone-

liness? The human race is done. The Earth is done. Why not

give up, I asked myself--and all of a sudden I got the answer."

Again I heard the noise, louder this time, a kind of un-

certain shuffling tread, coming closer. I couldn't breathe.

"Life's always been a business of working hard and fight-

ing the cold," Pa was saying. "The Earth's always been a

lonely place, millions of miles from the next planet. And no

matter how long the human race might have lived, the end

would have come some night. Those things don't matter.

What matters is that life is good. It has a lovely texture, like

some rich cloth or fur, or the petals of flowers--you've seen

pictures of those, but I can't describe how they feel--or the

fire's glow. It makes everything else worthwhile. And that's

as true for the last man as the first."

And still the steps kept shuffling closer. It seemed to me

that the inmost blanket trembled and bulged a little. Just as

if they were burned into my imagination, I kept seeing those

peering, frozen eyes.

"So right then and there," Pa went on, and now I could

tell that he heard the steps, too, and was talking loud so we

maybe wouldn't hear them, "right then and there I told myself

that I was going on as if we had all eternity ahead of us. I'd

have children and teach them all I could. I'd get them to read

books. I'd plan for the future, try to enlarge and seal the Nest.

I'd do what I could to keep everything beautiful and

growing. I'd keep alive my feeling of wonder even at the

cold and the dark and the distant stars."

But then the blanket actually did move and lift. And there

was a bright light somewhere behind it. Pa's voice stopped

and his eyes turned to the widening slit and his hand went

out until it touched and gripped the handle of the hammer

beside him.

In through the blanket stepped the beautiful young lady.

She stood there looking at us the strangest way, and she

carried something bright and unwinking in her hand.

And

two other faces peered over her shoulders--men's faces, white

and staring.

Well, my heart couldn't have been stopped for more than

four or five beats before I realized she was wearing a suit and

helmet like Pa's homemade ones, only fancier, and that the

men were, too--and that the frozen folk certainly wouldn't

be wearing those. Also, I noticed that the bright thing in her

hand was just a kind of flashlight.

The silence kept on while I swallowed hard a couple of

times, and after that there was all sorts of jabbering and

commotion.

They were simply people, you see. We hadn't been the only

ones to survive; we'd just thought so, for natural enough

reasons. These three people had survived, and quite a few

others with them. And when we found out how they'd sur-

vived, Pa let out the biggest whoop of joy.

They were from Los Alamos and they were getting their

heat and power from atomic energy. Just using the uranium

and plutonium intended for bombs, they had enough to go on

for thousands of years. They had a regular little airtight city,

with airlocks and all. They even generated electric light and

grew plants and animals by it. (At this Pa let out a second

whoop, waking Ma from her faint.)

But if we were flabbergasted at them, they were double-

flabbergasted at us.

One of the men kept saying, "But it's impossible, I tell

you. You can't maintain an air supply without hermetic seal-

ing. It's simply impossible."

That was after he had got his helmet off and was using

our air. Meanwhile, the young lady kept looking around at

us as if we were saints, and telling us we'd done something

amazing, and suddenly she broke down and cried.

They'd been scouting around for survivors, but thev never

expected to find any in a place like this. They had rocket

ships at Los Alamos and plenty of chemical fuel. As for liquid

oxygen, all you had to do was go out and shovel the air blanket

at the top level. So after they'd got things going smoothly at

Los Alamos, which had taken years, they'd decided to make

some trips to likely places where there might be other sur-

vivors. No good trying long-distance radio signals, of course,

since there was no atmosphere to carry them around the

curve of the Earth.

Well, they'd found other colonies at Argonne and Brook-

haven and way around the world at Harwell and Tanna Tuva.

And now they'd been giving our city a look, not really ex-

pecting to find anything. But they had an instrument that

noticed the faintest heat waves and it had told them there

was something warm down here, so they'd landed to inves-

tigate. Of course we hadn't heard them land, since there was

no air to carry the sound, and they'd had to investigate around

quite a while before finding us. Their instruments had given

them a wrong steer and they'd wasted some time in the build-

ing across the street.

By now, all five adults were talking like sixty. Pa was

demonstrating to the men how he worked the fire and got rid

of the ice in the chimney and all that. Ma had perked up

wonderfully and was showing the young lady her cooking and

sewing stuff, and even asking about how the women dressed

at Los Alamos. The strangers marveled at everything and

praised it to the skies. I could tell from the way they wrinkled

their noses that they found the Nest a bit smelly, but they

never mentioned that at all and just asked bushels of ques-

tions.

In fact, there was so much talking and excitement that Pa

forgot about things, and it wasn't until they were all getting

groggy that he looked around and found the air had all boiled

away in the pail. He got another bucket of air quick from

behind the blankets. Of course that started them all laughing

and jabbering again. The newcomers even got a little drunk.

They weren't used to so much oxygen.

Funny thing, though--I didn't do much talking at all and

Sis hung on to Ma all the time and hid her face when anybody

looked at her. I felt pretty uncomfortable and disturbed my-

self, even about the young lady. Glimpsing her outside there,

I'd had all sorts of mushy thoughts, but now I was just em-

barrassed and scared of her, even though she tried to be nice

as anything to me.

I sort of wished they'd all quit crowding the Nest and let

us be alone and get our feelings straightened out.

And when the newcomers began to talk about our all going

to Los Alamos, as if that were taken for granted, I could see

that something of the same feeling struck Pa and Ma, too,"

Pa got very silent all of a sudden and Ma kept telling the

young lady, "But I wouldn't know how to act there and I

haven't any clothes."

The strangers were puzzled like anything at first, but then

they got the idea. As Pa kept saying, "It just doesn't seem

right to let this fire go out."

Well, the strangers are gone, but they're coming back. It

hasn't been decided yet just what will happen. Maybe the

Nest will be kept up as what one of the strangers called a

"survival school." Or maybe we will join the pioneers who

are going to try to establish a new colony at the uranium

mines at Great Slave Lake or in the Congo.

Of course, now that the strangers are gone, I've been think-

ing a lot about Los Alamos and those other tremendous col-

onies. I have a hankering to see them for myself.

You ask me, Pa wants to see them, too. He's been getting

pretty thoughtful, watching Ma and Sis perk up.

"It's different, now that we know others are alive," he

explains to me. "Your mother doesn't feel so hopeless arty

more. Neither do I, for that matter, not having to carry the

whole responsibility for keeping the human race going, so to

speak It scares a person."

I looked around at the blanket walls and the fire and the

pails of air boiling away and Ma and Sis sleeping in the

warmth and the flickering light.

"It's not going to be easy to leave the Nest," I said, wanting

to cry, kind of. "It's so small and there's just the four of us.

I get scared at the idea of big places and a lot of strangers."

He nodded and put another piece of coal on the fire. Then

he looked at the little pile and grinned suddenly and put a

couple of handfuls on, just as if it was one of our birthdays

or Christmas.

"You'll quickly get over that feeling son," he said. "The

trouble with the world was that it kept getting smaller and

smaller, till it ended with just the Nest. Now it'll be good to

have a real huge world again, the way it was in the begin-

ning."

I guess he's right. You think the beautiful young lady will

wait for me till I grow up? I'll be twenty in only ten years.

King of the Hill

CHAD OLIVER

She floated there in the great nothing, still warm and soft

and blue-green if you could eyeball her from a few thousand

miles out, still kissed under blankets of clouds.

Mama Earth, Getting old now, tired, her blankets soiled

with her own secretions, her body bruised and torn by a

billion forgotten passions.

Like many a mother before her, she had given birth to a

monster. Me was not old, not as planets measure time, and

there had been other children. But he was old enough. He

had taken over.

His name?

You know it: there are no surprises left. Man. Big Daddy

of the primates. The ape that walks like a chicken. Homo

sap. Ah, the tool-maker, flapper of tongues, builder of fires,

sex fiend, dreamer, destroyer, creator of garbage...

You know me, Al.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall--

Ant is the name, anthill is the game.

There were many men, too many men. They have names.

Try this one on for size: Sam Gregg. Don't like it? Rings

no bells? Not elegant enough? Wrong ethnic affiliation?

Few among the manswarm, if any, cared for Sam Gregg.

One or two, possibly, gave a damn about his name. A billion

or so knew his name.

Mostly, they hated his guts--and envied him.

He was there, Sam Gregg, big as life and twice as ugly.

He stuck out.

A rock in the sandpile.

They were after him again.

Sam Gregg felt the pressure. There had been a time when

he had thrived on it; the adrenaline had flowed and the juices

bubbled. Sure, and there had been a time when dinosaurs

had walked the earth. Sam had been born in the year that

men had first walked on the moon. (It had tickled him, when

he was old enough to savor it. A man with the unlikely name

of Armstrong, no less. And his faithful sidekick, Buzz. And

good old Mike holding the fort, Jesus.) That made him nearly

a century old. His doctors were good, the best. It was no

miracle to live a hundred years, not these days. But he wasn't

a kid anymore, as he demonstrated occasionally with Lois.

The attacks were not particularly subtle, but they were

civilized. That meant that nobody called you a son of a bitch

to your face, and the assassins carried statistics and plati-

tudes instead of knives and strangling cords.

Item. A bill had been introduced in Washington by good

old Senator Raleigh, millionaire defender of the poor. Stripped

of its stumbling oratorical flourishes, it argued that undersea

development was now routine and therefore that there should

be no tax dodges for phony risk capital investment. That

little arrow was aimed straight at one of Sam's companies--

at several of them, in fact, although the somewhat dim-witted

Raleigh probably did not know that. Sam .could beat the bill,

but it would cost him money. That annoyed him. He had an

expensive hobby.

Item. Sam retained a covey of bright boys whose only job

it was to keep his name out of the communications media.

They weren't entirely successful; your name is not known to

a billion people on a word-of-mouth basis. Still, he had not

been subjected to one of those full-scale, no-holds-barred, dy-

namic, daring personal close-ups for nearly a year now. One

was coming up, on Worldwide. The mystery man--revealed!

The richest man in the world--exposed! The hermit--trapped

by fearless reporters! Sam was not amused. The earth was

sick, blotched by hungry and desperate people from pole to

shining pole. There had never been an uglier joke than pin-

ning man's future on birth control. A sick world needs a

target for its anger. Sam's only hope was to be inconspicuous.

He had failed in that, and it would get him in the end. Still,

he only needed a little more time,,,

Item. The U.N. delegate from the Arctic Republic had

charged that Arctic citizens of Eskimo descent were being

passed over for high administrative positions in franchises

licensed to operate in the Republic. "We must not and will

not allow," he said, "the well-known technical abilities of oar

people to serve as a pretext for modern-day colonial exploi-

tation." The accusation was so much rancid blubber, of course;

Sam happened to like Eskimos as well as he liked anybody,

and in any event he was always very careful about such

things. No matter. There would be a hearing, facts would

have to be tortured by the computers, stories would have to

be planted, money would be spent. The root of all evil pro-

duced a popular shrub.

There were other items, most of them routine. Sam did

not deal with them himself, and had not done so for fifty

years. ("Mr. Gregg never does anything personally," as one

aide had put it in a famous interview.) Sam routed the prob-

lems down to subordinates; that was what they were for.

Nevertheless, he kept in touch. A ruler who does not know

what is going on in his empire can expect the early arrival

of the goon squad that escorts him into oblivion. There were

the usual appeals to support Worthy Causes, to contribute

to Charity, to help out Old Friends. Sam denied them all

without a qualm and without doing anything; his lieutenants

had their orders. A penny saved...

Sam was not really worried; at worst he was harassed,

which was the chronic complaint of executives. They were

not on to him yet. There was no slightest hint of a leak where

it counted. If that one ever hit the air cleaner there would

be a stink they could smell in the moon labs.

Still, he felt the pressure. He was human, at least in his

own estimation. There was a classic cure for pressure, known

to students of language as getting away from it all. It was

a cure that was no longer possible for the vast majority of

once-human beings, for the simple reason that there was

nowhere to go.

("To what do you attribute your long and successful life,

Mr. Gregg?'" "Well, I pension off my wives so that I always

have a young one, and I see to it that she talks very

little. I drink a lot of good booze, but I never get drunk. I

don't eat meat. I count my money when I get depressed. If I

feel tense, I knock about the estate until I feel better. I try

to break at least three laws every day. I owe it all to being a

completely evil man.")

Sam Gregg could take the cure, and he did.

He did not have to leave his own land, of course. Sam

never left his Estate. (Well, hardly ever.) He took the

private tube down from his suite in the tower

and stepped outside. That was the way he thought of it, but

it was not precisely true. There was a miniature life-support;

pod that arched over a thousand acres of his property. It was

a high price to pay for clean air, but it was the only way. Sam

needed it and so did the animals.

There were two laws that he broke every day. In a world

so strangled by countless tons of human meat that land per

capita was measured in square feet, Sam Gregg owned more

than a thousand acres. Moreover, he did nothing useful with

that supremely illegal land. He kept animals on it. Even dogs

and cats had been outlawed for a quarter of a century, and

what passed for meat was grown in factory vats. When people

are starving, wasting food on pets is a criminal act, (Who

says so? Why, people do.) Most of the zoos were gone now,

and parks and forests and meadows were things of the past.

Sam took a deep breath, drinking in the air. It was just

right, and not completely artificial either. Cool it was, and

fragrant with living smells: trees and wet-green grass and

water that glided over rocks and earth that was soft and

thick.

This was all that was left, a fact that Sam fully appreci-

ated.

This was the world as it once had been, lost now and

forever.

Man had come, mighty man. Oh, he was smart, he was

clever. He had turned the seas into cesspools, the air into

sludge, the mountains into shrieking cities. Someone had

once said that one chimpanzee was no chimpanzee. It was

true; they were social animals. But how about ten thousand

chimpanzees caged in a square mile? That was no chimpanzee

also--that was crazy meat on a fanny farm.

Oh, man was clever. He raped a world until he could not

live with it, and then he screamed for help.

Don't call me, AI. Ill call you.

Sam shook his head. It was no good thinking about it. He

could not ride to the rescue, not with all of his billions. He

had no great admiration for his fellow men, and it would not

matter if he had.

There was only one thing left to try.

Sam tried to close his mind to it. He had to stay alive a

little longer. He had to relax, value, enjoy--

He walked along an unpaved trail, very likely the last one

left on the planet. He breathed clean air, he felt the warmth

of the sun glowing through the pod, he absorbed...

There were squirrels chattering in the trees, rabbits busy

at rabbit-business in the brush. He saw a deer, a beautiful

buck with moss on his horns; the buck ran when he spotted

Sam. He knew who the enemy was. He saw a thin raccoon,

a female that stared at him from behind her bandit's mask.

She had three young ones with her and they were bold, but

Mama herded them up into an oak and out of danger. He

could see the three little masks peering down at him from

the branches.

The trail wound along a stream of cold, fast water. Sam

watched the dark olive shadows lurking in the pools. Trout,

of course. Sam drew the line at bass and carp,

He came out of the trees and into a field of tall grass.

There were yellow flowers and insects buzzed in the air. He

sensed the closeness of shapes and forms, but he could not

see them in the breeze-swept grass. There was life here, and

death, and life again.

But not for long.

He turned and retraced his steps. He felt a little better.

The raccoons were still in the oak.

Sam went back inside. Back to the salt mine.

He worked hard until dinner.

"What was the exact hour?" Lois asked him, absently

stroking one of her remarkable legs. (She had two of them.)

"I don't remember," Sam said. "I was very young."

"Come on, Sam. I'm not stupid. You can't tell me that with

all the resources of your mysterious enterprises you can't find

out the exact time."

"I am telling you. I don't know." Sam looked at her, which

was always pleasant in a tense sort of way. Lois was sensual

but there was no softness in her. She had a lacquered surface

stretched like a drumhead over taut springs. She always

looked perfect, but even her casual clothes were somehow

formal. She never forgot herself. She was a challenge, which

was fine once in a while. Sam was old enough to decline most

challenges without dishonor.

Lois did not have to remind Sam that she had a brain.

Sam never made that mistake. Her little reference to "mys-

terious enterprises" was an effective threat. At thirty, she

had climbed the highest pinnacle on her scale of values: she

was the wife of the richest man in the world. She didn't want

a settlement. She wanted it all. Sam had no children.

Bright, yes. Cunning, yes. Skilled, certainly. Faithful with

her body, yes--Lois took no needless risks. But that fine-

boned head enclosed a brain that was all output; not much

of significance ever went in. The hard violet eyes looked out

from jelly that had been molded in Neolithic times.

She would have made a dandy witch.

She spent her days puttering with expensive clothing and

obscure cosmetics. She had a library of real books, thus prov-

ing her intellectual capacity. They were all about reincar-

nation and astrology. She considered herself something of an

expert with horoscopes. A pun had frequently occurred to

Sam in this connection, but he had refrained. He was not a

cruel man.

"I want to do it for you," she

make. It would help. Really, Sam."

She was quite sincere, like all fanatics. It was a gift she

could give him, and that was important to her. It was an

ancient problem for women like Lois: what do you give to a

man who has everything? The gag presents get pretty thin

very quickly, and Sam was not a man who was easily con-

vulsed.

He sipped his drink, enjoying it. He always drank Scotch;

the labs could create nothing better. "Well," he said, "I

haven't a clue about the minute of my birth. I'd just as soon

forget my birthday."

Lois was patient. "It would be so simple to find out."

"But I don't give a damn."

"I give a damn. What about me? It's a small thing. I know

the day, of course. But if the moons of Saturn were in the

right position..."

Sam raised his eyebrows and took a large swallow of

Scotch before he answered. "They are always in the right

position," he said carefully, 'That's the way moons are."

"Oh, Sam." She did not cry; she had learned some things,

Sam Gregg stood up to refill his glass. He did not like to

have obtrusive robots around the house. Self-reliance and all

that.

He was not unaware of himself. He did not look his age.

He was a tall, angular man. There was still strength in him.

His hair was gray, not white. His craggy face was lined but

there was no flab on him. His brown eyes were sharp, like

dirty ice,

Sam sometimes thought of himself as a vampire in one of

the still-popular epics. ("Ah, my dear, velcome to Castle Mor-

dar. A moment while I adjust my dentures.") Splendid-looking

chap, distinguished even. But then, suddinkly, at the worst

possible moment, he dissolves into a puff of primeval dust...

"Let's go beddy-bye," Sam said, draining his glass.

"Maybe I can remember."

"I'll help you," Lois said, reporting for duty.

"You'll have to," Sam agreed.

Sam worked very hard the next few weeks. He even found

time to check the hour and the minute of his birth. He was

being very careful indeed, trying to think of everything.

Lois was delighted. She retreated to her mystic stewpott

consulted her illustrated charts, talked it over with several

dead Indians, and informed Sam that he was thinking about

a long, long journey.

Sam didn't explode into laughter.

His work was difficult because so much of it involved wait-

ing. There were many programs to consider, all of them set

in motion years ago. They had to mesh perfectly. They all

depended on the work of other men. And they all had to be

masked.

It wasn't easy. How, for instance, do you hide a couple of

spaceships? Particularly when they keep taking off and land-

ing with all the stealth of trumpeting elephants?

("Spaceship? I don't see any spaceship. Do you see a space-

ship?")

Answer: You don't hide them. You account for them. For

all practical purposes, Sam owned the space station that or-

bited the Earth. He controlled it through a mosaic of inter-

locking companies, domestic and foreign. It was only natural

for him to operate a few shuttle ships. A man has a right to

keep his finger in his own pie.

Owned the space station, Daddy?

Yes, Junior. Listen, my son, and you shall hear...

The great space dream had been a bust. A colossal fizzle.

A thumping anticlimax.

The trails blazed by the space pioneers led--quite liter-

ally--Nowhere.

Fortunately or otherwise, Mighty Man could not create

the solar system in his own image. The solar system was one

hell of a place, and not just on Pluto. There were no conve-

niently verdant worlds. There were just rocks and craters,

heat and cold, lifeless dust and frozen chemicals.

There were other suns, other planets. Big deal. There were

no handy space warps, no faster-than-light drives. Un-

manned survey ships took a very long time to report, and

their news produced no dancing in the streets: rocks, craters,

desolation. Who would spend a lifetime to visit Nothing?

Would you? (Naw, I'd rather go see Grandma.)

Scientific bases had been established on Luna, and they

survived. They survived with enormous expense, with highly

trained personnel, with iron discipline. Even the scientific

teams had to be replaced at short intervals.

Radiation, you know. Puts funny kinks in the old chro-

mosomes.

The Mars Colony of half a century ago, widely advertised

as a solution to the population crisis, was a solution only in

the grim sense of a Final Solution. Even with the life-support

pods--Sam had lost a fortune on the early models, but he

had learned a few things--it was no go. Five thousand human

beings had gone to Mars to start the New Life. (A drop in

the bucket, to be sure. But there was much talk about Be-

ginnings, and Heroic Ancestors, and First Steps.) A few of

them had gotten back. Most had died or gone mad or both.

Some of them were still there, although this was not gen-

erally known. They -were no longer human.

The problem was that it was perfectly possible to set up

a scientific base on Mars, or even a military base if there had

been any need for one. But soldiers on Mars are a joke, and

appropriations committees had long since stopped playing

the old game: Can You Top This? Scientists could do little

on Mars that they could not do on Luna. And people--plain,

ordinary people, the kind that swarmed the Earth and

scratched for a living, the kind that had to go--could not

exist on Mars.

And so?

And so, kiddies, what was left of the space program was

taken over by what was referred to as the Private Sector of

the Economy. Got your decoder badges ready? It works out

to S-a-m G-r-e-g-g. Governments could not continue to pour

billions into space when there was no earthly reason for doing

so. But with existing hardware and accumulated expertise

it was not prohibitively expensive for Sam Gregg to keep a

few things going. There was the matter of motive, of course.

Sam Gregg had one, and he made money besides.

There were other projects to conceal, but they were easier

than spaceships. Genetics research? Well, cancer was still a

killer and everyone wanted to live forever. Such work was

downright humanitarian, and therefore admirable. Ecolog-

ical studies? The whole wretched planet was fouled by its

own ecology--a solution had to be found. (There was no so-

lution at this late date, but so what? It was a Good Thing.

Everyone said so.) Computers, robots, cybernetics? Certainly

they were beyond reproach. Hadn't they ushered in the

Golden Age? Well, hadn't they?

Sam Gregg had his faults--ask anyone--but wishful

thinking was not among them. He knew that he could succeed

if he just had time. He could succeed if they didn't get him

first. He could succeed because he had the resources and

because the problem was essentially one of technology. No

matter how complex they are, technological problems can be

solved unless they involve flat impossibilities. You can build

a suspension bridge, send a man to Mars or wherever, con-

struct cities beneath the sea.

There are other problems, human problems. How do you

build a bridge between people? How do you, send a better

man to Mars? How do you construct an anthill city that is

not a bughouse? Money will not solve those problems. Rhet-

oric will not solve them. Technology will not solve them.

Therefore, Sam did not fool with them. He used them for

protective coloration, but he did not kid himself.

He stuck to the art of the possible.

Oh yes, he had a dream.

There was justice in it, of a sort. But human beings care

nothing for justice. They look out for Number One.

Number One?

Sam permitted himself a brief, cold smile.

They would tear him apart if they knew, all those billions

of Number Ones...

A day came when all the bits and pieces fell into place.

The data came back, coded across the empty hundreds of

millions of miles. The columns added up. The light turned

green.

Sam was exultant, in a quiet sort of way. He had expected

it to work, of course. He had checked it all out countless

times. But that was theory, and Sam was a skeptic about

theories.

This was fact.

It was ready. Not perfect, no--but that too had been an-

ticipated.

Ain't science wunnerful?

He could not stay inside, not when he was this close. He

had to get outside, taste what was left of freedom. At times

like these, it was not enough to know that it was there. He

had to see it.

He walked on the Estate.

Lois joined him, which was a pain in the clavicle but Sam

did not allow her presence to destroy his mood. Lois had on

one of her cunning Outdoor Suits. She always professed to

adore what she called Nature, but she walked as though

every blade of grass were poison ivy.

(Poison ivy had been extinct for decades, Lois would soon

follow suit.)

"It's so peaceful," Lois said. She usually said that here.

Rather to his own surprise, Sam answered her. He wanted

to talk to somebody, to celebrate. Failing that, he talked to

Lois. "No," he said. "Not really. It only seems peaceful be-

cause we are observers, not part of it. And it is controlled,

to some extent."

Lois looked at him sharply. It had been one of his longer

speeches.

"See that cedar?" Sam pointed to it, knowing that she did

not know a cedar from a cottonwood. "Tough little tree. It'll

grow in poor soil, it doesn't take much water. See how the

roots come up near the surface? It's brittle, though. Won't

last long. That oak is crowding it, and it's got a century or

two to play with. See that little willow--there, the droopy

one? It needs too much water and the drainage is wrong. It'll

never make it. Am I boring you?"

"No," Lois said truthfully. She was too amazed to be bored.

"See the bunny rabbit?" Sam's voice lapsed into parody.

"See bunny run? He'd better run. Lots of things eat bunny

rabbits. Hawks, bobcats, wolves. Snakes eat little bun-

nies--"

"Oh, Sam."

As if to prove his point, a beagle hound stuck his wet nose

out of the brush. His white-tipped tail wagged tentatively.

His liquid eyes were pools of adoration, (Beagles were orig-

inally bred as hunters. Remember?)

Sam turned his back on the dog, "Man's best friend. The

supreme opportunist. He figured the odds twenty thousand

years ago and threw in with us. K-9, Secret Agent. Con. Fink.

Surplus now. Dear old pal."

"I don't understand you sometimes," Lois said with rare

perception.

I don't understand them, either, Sam thought. Animals,

not women. Little Forest Friends Nobody understands them.

We were too busy. There wasn't even a decent field study of

the chimpanzee until around 1930. Seventy years later there

were no chimpanzees. We didn't bother with the animals that

were not like men; who cared? We learned exactly nothing

about kudus and bears, coons and possums, badgers and buf-

falo. Too late now. They are gone or going, and so is their

world.

Sam Gregg was not a sentimental man. He was a realist.

Still, the facts bothered him. It was hard not to know. He

would never know, and that was that. There was no way.

They walked along the trail together. (Arm in arm, lovely

couple, backbone of empire.) Sam was a little nervous. It had

been a long fight and--as they used to say--victory was at

hand.

He felt a little like God and a lot like an old man.

From the branches of a gnarled oak, a masked mother and

three small bandits watched them pass.

There were ancient raccoon thoughts in the air.

You are ready.

So do it. Don't wobble.

Sam did it.

Sound dramatic?

It was (in the very long run) and it wasn't (here and now).

An extremely well-balanced, insulated, innocuous conveyor

left the main lab and hissed gently to the spaceport. A large

gray metallic box was loaded into a shuttle ship and locked

into place. The box was ten feet square, and it was heavy.

It could have been much smaller and lighter--about the size

of a jigger glass--except for the refrigeration units, the elec-

tronic circuits, the separation cubicles, and the protective

layers.

The shuttle lifted to the space station. Strictly routine.

The gray cube of metal was transferred very gingerly to

a larger ship. She (that was surely the proper pronoun) was

a special ship, a swimmer of deep space. She was crammed

with expensive gear. Say, a billion dollars' worth. Maybe

more.

She took off. She was completely automated, controlled by

computers, powered by atomics.

There were no men on board.

The ship was never corning back.

Sam?

He stayed home.

There was nowhere for him to go.

Remember?

It is curious how a small gesture will offend some people.

There was no more capital punishment, unless living on

earth was it, but good men and true were willing to make

an exception in Sam's case.

"So you sunk twenty billion into it over a ten-year period,"

his chief lawyer said. He said it the same way he might have

asked, "So you think you're a kumquat, eh?"

"Give or take a few million. Of course, some of the basic

research goes back more than ten years. If you figure all that

in, it might go to twenty-two billion. Maybe twenty-three."

"Never mind that." The lawyer groaned. He really did.

Lois was not happy and developed a case of severe fri-

gidity. She was not only married to a man confronting bank-

ruptcy, but she was also the wife of a Master Criminal. It

does imperil one's social position.

(There was no way to keep it quiet, naturally, Sam had

known that. Too many people were involved.)

They had a great time, the venom-spewers: senators and

editorialists, presidents and kings, cops and commissions,

professors and assorted hotshots. All the Good People.

Sam had. to put it mildly, violated a public trust. (Trans-

lation: he hadn't spent his money on what they wanted.)

He was guilty of a crime against humanity. (Judge and

jury, definer of crime? Humanity. All heart.)

It did not matter in the least that twenty billion dollars

(or twenty-two, or twenty-three, or a hundred) could not have

saved the earth. Earth was finished, smothered by her most

illustrious spawn. It would take a few years yet, while she

gasped for breath and filled the bedpan. But she was through.

Man had never cared overmuch for facts.

He believed what he wanted to believe.

("Things may be bad, but they are getting better. All we

have to do is like be relevant, you know? Enforce the Law.

Consult the swami Have a hearing. Salvation through ar-

chitecture. When the going gets tough the tough get going.

All problems have solutions.")

There was one other thing that made Sam's sin inexcus-

able.

You see, animals have no votes.

The defense?

It was clear, simple, correct, and beyond dispute. It was

therefore doomed.

("We'll give him a fair trial, then hang him.")

Way down deep where convictions solidify, Big Man had

expected to meet his counterpart on other worlds. ("Ah,

Earthling, you surprise I speak your language so good.") He

had failed. He had found only barren rocks at the end of the

road.

From this, he had drawn a characteristically modest con-

clusion.

Man, he decided, was alone in the accessible universe.

This was a slight error. There were primitive men who

would not have made it, but there were no more primitive

men.

The plain truth was that it was Earth that was unique

and alone. Earth had produced life. Not just self-styled Num-

ber One, not just Superprimate. No. He was a late arrival,

the final guest.

("All these goodies just for me!")

Alone? Man?

Well, not quite.

There were a million different species of insects. (Get the

spray-gun, Henry.) Twenty thousand kinds of fish. (I got

one, I got one!) Nine thousand types of birds. (You can

still see a stuffed owl in a museum.) Fifteen thousand species

of mammals. (You take this arrow, see, and fit the string

into the notch...)

Alone? Sure, except for the kangaroos and bandicoots,

shrews and skunks, bats and elephants, armadillos and rab-

bits, pigs and foxes, raccoons and whales, beavers and lions,

moose and mice, oryx and otter and opossum--

Oh well, them.

Yes.

They too had come from the earth. Incredible, each of

them. Important? Only if you happened to think that the

only known life in the universe was important.

Man didn't think so. Not him.

Not the old perfected end-product of evolution.

He didn't kill them all, of course. He hadn't been around

that long. The dinosaurs had managed to become extinct

without his help. There were others.

He did pretty well, though. He could be efficient, give him

that.

He started early. Remember the ground sloth, the mam-

moth, the mastodon? You don't? Odd.

He kept at it. He was remarkably objective about it, really.

He murdered his own kin as readily as the others. The orang

had gone down the tube when Sam was a boy, the gorilla and

the chimp and the gibbon a little later.

Sorry about that, gang.

In time, he got them all. It was better than in the old days.

He took no risks, dug no traps, fired no guns. He simply

crowded them out. When there were billions upon billions of

naked apes stacked in layers over the earth, there was no

room for anything else.

Goodbye, Old Paint,

So long. Rover.

Farewell, Kitty-cat,

Nothing personal, you understand.

All in the name of humanity. What higher motive can

there be?

This is a defense?

What in hell did Sam do?

In hell, he did this:

Sam Gregg decided that mankind could not be saved. Not

should not (although Sam, it must be confessed, did not get

all choked up at the thought of human flesh) but could not,

It was too late, too late when Sam was born. Man had poi-

soned his world and there were no fresh Earths,

Man could not survive on other planets, not without dras-

tic genetic modifications.

And man would not change, not voluntarily.

After all, he was perfect, wasn't he?

That left the animals. Earth's other children, the ones

pushed aside. The dumb ones. The losers. The powerless.

You might call it the art of the possible.

Did they matter? If they were the only life in the universe?

Who knew? Who decided?

Well, there was Sam, A nut, probably. Still, he could play

God as well as the next man. He had the money.

Pick a world, then. Not Mars. Too close, and there were

still those ex-human beings running around there. Don't

want to interfere with them.

Sam chose Titan, the sixth moon of Saturn. It was plenty

big enough; it had a diameter of 3650 miles. It had an at-

mosphere of sorts, mostly methane. He liked the name.

Besides, think of the view.

It was beyond human engineering skill to convert Titan

into a replica of Mother Earth in her better days. Tough, but

that's the way the spheroid rebounds.

However, with atomic power generated on Titan a great

deal could be done. It was, in fact, titanic.

The life-support pods--enormous energy shields--made it

possible to create pockets in which breathable air could be

born. It just required heat and water and chemical triggers

and doctored plants--

A few little things.

A bit of the old technological razzle-dazzle.

Men could not live there, even under the pods. Neither

could the animals that had once roamed the earth.

Sam's animals were different, though. He cut them to fit.

That was one thing about genetics. When you knew enough

about it, you couldmake alterations. Not many, perhaps. But

enough.

Getting the picture?

Sam did not line the critters up two by two and load them

into the Ark. (Noah, indeed.) He could not save them all.

Some were totally gone, some were too delicate, some were

outside the range of Sam's compassion. (Who needs a million

kinds of bugs?) He did what he could, within the time he had.

He sent sex cells, sperm and ova, one hundred sets for

each species. (Was that what was in the box? Yes, Junior.)

Animals learn some things, some more than others, but most

of what they do is born into them. Instinct, if you like. There

was a staggering amount of information in that little box.

The problem was to get it out.

Parents have their uses, sometimes.

But robots will do, if you build them right. You can build

a long, long program into a computer. You can stockpile food

for a few years.

So--get the joint ready. Then bring down the ship and

reseal the pods. Activate-the mechanisms. Fertilize the eggs

Subdivide the zygotes. Put out the incubators. Pill the pens.

And turn 'em loose.

Look out, world.

That was what Sam Gregg did with his money.

They didn't actually execute him, the good people of Earth.

There was not even a formal trial. They just confiscated what

was left of his money and put him away in a Nice Place with

the other crazies.

It would be pleasant to report that Sam died happy and

that his dust was peaceful in its urn. In fact, Sam was sorry

to go and he was even a little bitter.

If he could have known somehow, he might--or might

not--have been more pleased.

Millions of lonely miles from the dead earth, she floated

there in the great nothing. Beneath the shimmering pods

that would last for thousands of years, a part of her was cool

rather than cold, softer than the naked rocks, flashed with

green.

Saturn hovered near the horizon, white and frozen and

moonlike.

The ancient lifeways acted out their tiny dramas, strange

under an alien sky. They had changed little, most of them.

There was one exception,

It might have been the radiation.

Then again, the raccoon had always been a clever animal.

He had adroit hands, and he could use them. He had alert

eyes, a quick intelligence. He could learn things, and on oc-

casion he could pass on what he knew.

Within ten generations, he had fashioned a crude chopping

tool out of flaked stone.

Within twenty, he had built a fire.

That beat man's record by a considerable margin, and the

point was not lost on those who watched.

A short time later, the dog showed up, out in the shadows

cast by the firelight. He whined. He thumped his shaggy tail.

He oozed friendship.

The raccoons ignored him for a few nights. They huddled

together, dimply proud of what they had done. They thought

it over.

Eventually, one of the raccoons threw him a bloody bone,

and the dog came in.

Don't like the ending?

A trifle stark?

Is there no way we can communicate with them from out

of the past? Can't we say something, a few words, now that

we are finished?

Ah, man. Ever the wishful thinker.

Still talking.

Sam had tried. He was human; he made the gesture.

There was a small plaque still visible on the outside of the

silent ship that had brought them here. It was traditional in

spaceflights, but Sam had done it anyhow.

It could not be read, of course.

It could not be deciphered, ever.

But it was there.

It said the only words that had seemed appropriate to Sam:

Good luck, old friends.

4

HUM

ANIT

Y

DES

TRO

YED

Earth might maintain its physical structure reasonably in-

tact and still become uninhabitable in a "Catastrophe of the

Fourth Class."

Of course, the least stable portion of the Earth is its crust,

which is divided into half a dozen large plates and a number

of smaller ones. These move against each other, crushing

together or pulling apart at the joints, or One slipping under

the other--prevented from destroying us only by the extreme

slowness of the process. And yet for drama's sake, we can

imagine the changes becoming more rapid ("The New At-

lantis" by Ursula K. Le Guin),

Closer to reality-is the fact that over the last million years,

our planet has been undergoing periodic ice ages. It seems

almost certain that there will be additional ice ages and that

the glaciers will come grinding down again in some tens of

thousands of years. What if the next ice age is a particularly

bad one? And what will be left to bear testimony to the ex-

istence of humanity ("History Lesson" by Arthur C. Clarke)?

Nor may it be inanimate changes that will destroy hu-

manity. It may be other life forms. To be sure, human beings

have established their dominion over the Earth fas they were

directed to do in the first chapter of Genesis) but other life

forms may evolve and grow more intelligent; or life forms

may come across the void of space ("Seeds of the Dusk" by

Raymond Z. Gallun).

The difficulty might be not with anything intelligent but

with our great enemy, the pathogenic microorganism. The

greatest catastrophe humanity ever suffered was the Black

Death in the fourteenth century. As late as the mid-1970s,

"Legionnaire's disease" put a fright into us. What else might

happen ("Dark Benediction" by Walter M. Miller, Jr.)?

The New Atlantis

URSULA K. LE GUIN

Coming back from my Wilderness Week I sat by an odd sort

of man in the bus. For a long time we didn't talk; I was

mending stockings and he was reading. Then the bus broke

down a few miles outside Gresham. Boiler trouble, the way

it generally is when the driver insists on trying to go over

thirty. It was a Supersonic Superscenic Deluxe Longdistance

coal-burner, with Home Comfort, that means a toilet, and the

seats were pretty comfortable, at least those that hadn't yet

worked loose from their bolts, so everybody waited inside the

bus; besides, it was raining. We began talking, the way people

do when there's a breakdown and a wait. He held up his

pamphlet and tapped it--he was a dry-looking man with a

schoolteacherish way of using his hands--and said, "This is

interesting. I've been reading that a new continent is rising

from the depths of the sea."

The blue stockings were hopeless. You have to have some-

thing besides holes to darn onto. "Which sea?"

"They're not sure yet. Most specialists think the Atlantic.

But there's evidence it may be happening in the Pacific, too."

"Won't the oceans get a little crowded?" I said, not taking

it seriously. I was a bit snappish, because of the breakdown

and because those blue stockings had been good warm ones.

He tapped the pamphlet again and shook his head, quite

serious. "No," he said. "The old continents are sinking, to

make room for the new. You can see that that is happening."

You certainly can. Manhattan Island is now under eleven

feet of water at low tide, and there are oyster beds in Ghir-

ardelli Square,

"I thought that was because the oceans are rising from

polar melt."

He shook his head again. "That is a factor. Due to the

greenhouse effect of pollution, indeed Antarctica may become

inhabitable. But climatic factors will not explain the emerg-

ence of the new--or, possibly, very old--continents in the

Atlantic and Pacific." He went on explaining about conti-

nental drift, but I liked the idea of inhabiting Antarctica and

daydreamed about it for a while. I thought of it as very empty,

very quiet, all white and blue, with a faint golden glow north-

ward from the unrising sun behind the long peak of Mount

Erebus. There were a few people there; they were very quiet,

too, and wore white tie and tails. Some of them carried oboes

and violas. Southward the white land went up in a long si-

lence toward the Pole.

Just the opposite, in fact, of the Mount Hood Wilderness

Area. It had been a tiresome vacation: The other women in

the dormitory were all right, but it was macaroni for break-

fast, and there were so many organized sports. I had looked

forward to the hike up to the National Forest Preserve, the

largest forest left in the United States, but the trees didn't

look at all the way they do in the postcards and brochures

and Federal Beautification Bureau advertisements. They

were spindly, and they all had little signs on saying which

union they had been planted by. There were actually a lot

more green picnic tables and cement Men's and Women's

than there were trees. There was an electrified fence all

around the forest to keep out unauthorized persons. The forest

ranger talked about mountain jays, "bold little robbers," he

said, "who will come and snatch the sandwich from your very

hand," but I didn't see any, Perhaps because that was the

weekly Watch Those Surplus Calories! Day for all the women,

and so we didn't have any sandwiches. If I'd seen a mountain

jay I might have snatched the sandwich from his very hand,

who knows. Anyhow it was an exhausting week, and I wished

I'd stayed home and practiced, even though I'd have lost a

week's pay because staying home and practicing the viola

doesn't count as planned implementation of recreational lei-

sure as defined by the Federal Union of Unions.

When I came back from my Antarctican expedition, the

man was reading again, and I got a look at his pamphlet; and

that was the odd part of it. The pamphlet was called "In-

creasing Efficiency in Public Accountant Training Schools,"

and I could see from the one paragraph I got a glance at that

there was nothing about new continents emerging from the

ocean depths in it--nothing at all.

Then we had to get out and walk on into Gresham, because

they had decided that the best thing for us all to do was get

onto the Greater Portland Area Rapid Public Transit Lines,

since there had been so many breakdowns that the charter

bus company didn't have any more buses to send out to pick

us up. The walk was wet, and rather dull, except when we

passed the Cold Mountain Commune. They have a wall

around it to keep out unauthorized persons, and a big neon

sign out front saying COLD MOUNTAIN COMMUNE and

there were some people in authentic jeans and ponchos by

the highway selling macrame belts and sandcast candies and

soybean bread to the tourists. In Gresham, I took the 4:40

GPARPTL Superjet Flyer train to Burnside and East 230th,

and then walked to 217th and got the bus to the Goldschmidt

Overpass, and transferred to the shuttlebus, but it had boiler

trouble, so I didn't reach the downtown transfer point until

ten after eight, and the buses go on a once-an-hour schedule

at 8:00, so I got a meatless hamburger at the Longhorn Inch-

Thick Steak House Dinerette and caught the nine o'clock bus

and got home about ten. When I let myself into the apartment

I flipped the switch to turn on the lights, but there still

weren't any. There had been a power outage in West Portland

for three weeks. So I went feeling about for the candles in

the dark, and it was a minute or so before I noticed that

somebody was lying on my bed.

I panicked, and tried again to turn the lights on.

It was a man, lying there in a long thin heap. I thought

a burglar had got in somehow while I was away and died. I

opened the door so I could get out quick or at least my yells

could be heard, and then I managed not to shake long enough

to strike a match, and lighted the candle, and came a little

closer to the bed.

The light disturbed him. He made a sort of snorting in his

throat and turned his head. I saw it was a stranger, but I

knew his eyebrows, then the breadth of his closed eyelids,

then I saw my husband.

He woke up while I was standing there over him with the

candle in my hand. He laughed and said still half-asleep,

"Ah, Psyche! From the regions which are holy land."

Neither of us made much fuss. It was unexpected, but it

did seem so natural for him to be there, after all, much more

natural than for him not be there, and he was too tired to be

very emotional. We lay there together in the dark, and he

explained that they had released him from the Rehabilitation

Camp early because he had injured his back in an accident

in the gravel quarry, and they were afraid it might get worse.

If he died there it wouldn't be good publicity abroad, since

there have been some nasty rumors about deaths from illness

in the Rehabilitation Camps and the Federal Medical As-

sociation Hospitals, and there are scientists abroad who have

heard of Simon, since somebody published his proof of Gold-

bach's Hypothesis in Peking, So they let him out early, with

eight dollars in his pocket, which is what he had in his pocket

when they arrested him, which made it, of course, fair. He

had walked and hitched home from Coeur D'Alene, Idaho,

with a couple of days in jail in Walla Walla for being caught

hitchhiking. He almost fell asleep telling me this, and when

he had told me, he did fall asleep. He needed a change of

clothes and a bath but I didn't want to wake him. Besides,

I was tired, too. We lay side by side and his head was on my

arm. I don't suppose that I have ever been so happy. No; was

it happiness? Something wider and darker, more like knowl-

edge, more like the night: joy.

It was dark for so long, so very long. We were all blind.

And there was the cold, a vast, unmoving, heavy cold.

We could not move at all. We did not move. We did not

speak. Our mouths were closed, pressed shut by the cold

and by the weight. Our eyes were pressed shut. Our limbs

were held still. Our minds were held still. For how long?

There was no length of time; how long is death? And

is one dead only after living, or before life as well? Cer-

tainly we thought, if we thought anything, that we were

dead; but if we had ever been alive, we had forgotten it.

There was a change. It must have been the pressure

that changed first, although we did not know it. The

eyelids are sensitive to touch. They must have been weary

of being shut. When the pressure upon them weakened

a little, they opened. But there was no way for us to know

that. It was too cold for us to feel anything. There was

nothing to be seen. There was black.

But then--"'then," for the event created time,

created before and after, near and far, now and then--

"then" there was the light. One light. One small,

strange light that passed slowly, at what distance we

could not tell. A small, greenish white, slightly blurred

point of radiance, passing.

Our eyes were certainly open, "then," for we saw it. We

saw the moment. The moment in a point of light.

Whether in darkness or in the field of all light, the mo-

ment is small, and moves, but not quickly. And "then"

it is gone.

It did not occur to us that there might be another

moment. There was no reason to assume that there might

be more than one. One was marvel enough: that in all

the field of the dark, in the cold, heavy, dense, moveless,

timeless, placeless, boundless black, there should have

occurred, once, a small slightly blurred, moving light!

Time need be created only once, we thought.

But we were mistaken. The difference between one

and more than one is all the difference in the world.

Indeed, that difference is the world.

The light returned.

The same light, or another one? There was no telling.

But, "this time," we wondered about the light: Was

it small and near to us, or large and far away? Again

there was no telling; but there was something about the

way it moved, a trace of hesitation, a tentative quality,

that did not seem proper to anything large and remote.

The stars, for instance. We began to remember the stars.

The stars had never hesitated.

Perhaps the noble certainty of their gait had been a

mere effect of distance. Perhaps in fact they had hurtled

wildly, enormous furnace-fragments of a primal bomb

thrown through the cosmic dark; but time and distance

soften all agony. If the universe, as seems likely, began

with an act of destruction, the "Stars we had used to see

told no tales of it. They had been implacably serene.

The planets, however... We began to remember the

planets. They had suffered certain changes both of ap-

pearance and of course. At certain times of the year Mars

would reverse its direction and go backward through the

stars. Venus had been brighter and less bright as she

went through her phases of crescent, full, and wane.

Mercury had shuddered like a skidding drop of rain on

the sky flushed with daybreak. The light we now watched

had that erratic, trembling quality. We saw it, unmis-

takably, change direction and go backward. It then grew

smaller and fainter; blinked--an eclipse?--and slowly

disappeared.

Slowly, but not slowly enough for a planet.

Then--the third "then!"--arrived the indubitable and

positive Wonder of the World, the Magic Trick, watch

now, watch, you will not believe your eyes, mama, mama,

look what I can do--

Seven lights in a row, proceeding fairly rapidly, with

a darting movement, from left to right. Proceeding less

rapidly from right to left, two dimmer, greenish lights.

Two-lights halt, blink, reverse course, proceed hastily

and in a wavering manner from left to right. Seven-

lights increase speed, and catch up. Two-lights flash

desperately, flicker, and are gone.

Seven-lights hang still for some while, then merge

gradually into one streak, veering away, and little by

little vanish into the immensity of the dark.

But in the dark now are growing other lights, many

of them: lamps, dots, rows, scintillations--some near at

hand, some far. Like the stars, yes, but not stars. It is

not the great Existences we are seeing, but only the little

lives.

In the morning Simon told me something about the Camp,

but not until after he had had me check the apartment for

bugs. I thought at first he had been given behavior mod and

gone paranoid. We never had been infested. And I'd been

living alone for a year and a half; surely they didn't want to

hear me talking to myself? But he said, "They may have been

expecting me to come here."

"But they let you go free!"

He just lay there and laughed at me. So I checked every-

where we could think of. I didn't find any bugs, but it did look

as if somebody had gone through the bureau drawers while

I was away in the Wilderness. Simon's papers were all at

Max's, so that didn't matter. I made tea on the Primus, and

washed and shaved Simon with the extra hot water in the

kettle--he had a thick beard and wanted to get rid of it be-

cause of the lice he had brought from Camp--and while we

were doing that he told me about the Camp. In fact he told

me very little, but not much was necessary.

He had lost about 20 pounds. As he only weighed 140 to

start with, this left little to go on with. His knees and wrist

bones stuck out like rocks under the skin. His feet were all

swollen and chewed-looking from the Camp boots; he hadn't

dared take the boots off, the last three days of walking, be-

cause he was afraid he wouldn't be able to get them back on.

When he had to move or sit up so I could wash him, he shut

his eyes.

"Am I really here?" he asked. "Am I here?"

"Yes," I said. "You are here. What I don't understand is

how you got here."

"Oh, it wasn't bad so long as I kept moving. All you need

is to know where you're going--to have someplace to go. You

know, some of the people in Camp, if they'd let them go, they

wouldn't have had that. They couldn't have gone anywhere.

Keeping moving was the main thing. See, my back's all seized

up, now."

When he had to get up to go to the bathroom he moved

like a ninety-year-old. He couldn't stand straight, but was all

bent out of shape, and shuffled. I helped him put on clean

clothes. When he lay down on the bed again, a sound of pain

came out of him, like tearing thick paper. I went around the

room putting things away. He asked me to come sit by him

and said I was going to drown him if I went on crying. "You'll

submerge the entire North American continent," he said. I

can't remember what he said, but he made me laugh finally.

It is hard to remember things Simon says, and hard not to

laugh when he says them. This is not merely the partiality

of affection: He makes everybody laugh. I doubt that he in-

tends to. It is just that a mathematician's mind works dif-

ferently from other people's. Then when they laugh, that

pleases him.

It was strange, and it is strange, to be thinking about

"him," the man I have known for ten years, the same man,

while "he" lay there changed out of recognition, a different

man. It is enough to make you understand why most lan-

guages have a word like "soul." There are various degrees of

death, and time spares us none of them. Yet something en-

dures, for which a word is needed.

I said what I had not been able to say for a year and a

half: "I was afraid they'd brainwash you."

He said, "Behavior mod is expensive. Even just the drugs.

They save it mostly for the VIPs. But I'm afraid they got a

notion I might be important after all. I got questioned a lot

the last couple of months. About my 'foreign contacts.'" He

snorted. "The stuff that got published abroad, I suppose. So

I want to be careful and make sure it's just a Camp again

next time, and not a Federal Hospital."

"Simon, were they... are they cruel, or just righteous?"

He did not answer for a while. He did not want to answer.

He knew what I was asking. He knew by what thread hangs

hope, the sword, above our heads.

"Some of them..." he said at last, mumbling.

Some of them had been cruel. Some of them had enjoyed

their work. You cannot blame everything on society,

"Prisoners, as well as guards," he said.

You cannot blame everything on the enemy.

"Some of them, Belle," he said with energy, touching my

hand--"some of them, there were men like gold there--"

The thread is tough; you cannot cut it with one stroke.

"What have you been playing?" he asked.

"Forrest, Schubert."

"With the quartet?"

"Trio, now. Janet went to Oakland with a new lover."

"Ah, poor Max."

"It's just as well, really. She isn't a good pianist."

I make Simon laugh, too, though I don't intend to. We

talked until it was past time for me to go to work. My shift

since the Full Employment Act last year is ten to two. I am

an inspector in a recycled paper bag factory. I have never

rejected a bag yet; the electronic inspector catches all the

defective ones first. It is a rather depressing job. But it's only

four hours a day, and it takes more time than that to go

through all the lines and physical and mental examinations,

and fill out all the forms, and talk to all the welfare counselors

and inspectors every week in order to qualify as Unemployed,

and then line up every day for the ration stamps and the dole.

Simon thought I ought to go to work as usual. I tried to, but

I couldn't. He had felt very hot to the touch when I kissed

him goed-bye. I went instead and got a black-market doctor.

A girl at the factory had recommended her, for an abortion,

if I ever wanted one without going through the regulation

two years of sex-depressant drugs the fed-meds make you

take when they give you an abortion. She was a jeweler's

assistant in a shop on Alder Street, and the girl said she was

convenient because if you didn't have enough cash you could

leave something in pawn at the jeweler's as payment. Nobody

ever does have enough cash, and of course credit cards aren't

worth much on the black market.

The doctor was willing to come at once, so we rode home

on the bus together. She gathered very soon that Simon and

I were married, and it was funny to see her look at us and

smile like a cat. Some people love illegality for its own sake.

Men, more often than women. It's men who make laws, and

enforce them, and break them, and think the whole perfor-

mance is wonderful. Most women would rather just ignore

them. You could see that this woman, like a man, actually

enjoyed breaking them. That may have been what put her

into an illegal business in the first place, a preference for the

shady side. But there was more to it than that. No doubt

she'd wanted to be a doctor, too; and the Federal Medical

Association doesn't admit women into the medical schools.

She probably got her training as some other doctor's private

pupil, under the counter. Very much as Simon learned math-

ematics, since the universities don't teach much but Business

Administration and Advertising and Media Skills any more.

However she learned it, she seemed to know her stuff. She

fixed up a kind of homemade traction device for Simon very

handily and informed him that if he did much more walking

for two months he'd be crippled the rest of his life, but if he

behaved himself he'd just be more or less lame. It isn't the

kind of thing you'd expect to be grateful for being told, but

we both were. Leaving, she gave me a bottle of about two

hundred plain white pills, unlabeled. "Aspirin," she said.

"He'll be in a good deal of pain off and on for weeks."

I looked at the bottle. I had never seen aspirin before, only

the Super-Buffered Pane-Gon and the Triple-Power N-L-G-

Zic and the Extra-Strength Apansprin with the miracle in-

gredient more doctors recommend, which the fed-meds al-

ways give you prescriptions for, to be filled at your FMA-

approved private enterprise friendly drugstore at the low,

low prices established by the Pure Food and Drug Admin-

istration in order to inspire competitive research.

"Aspirin," the doctor repeated. "The miracle ingredient

more doctors recommend." She cat-grinned again. I think she

liked us because we were living in sin. That bottle of black-

market aspirin was probably worth more than the old Navajo

bracelet I pawned for her fee.

I went out again to register Simon as 'temporarily domi-

ciled at my address and to apply for Temporary Unemploy-

ment Compensation ration stamps for him. They, only give

them to you for two weeks and you have to come every day;

but to register him as Temporarily Disabled meant getting

the signatures of two fed-meds, and I thought I'd rather put

that off for a while. It took three hours to go through the

lines and get the forms he would have to fill out, and to

answer the 'crats' questions about why he wasn't there in

person. They smelled something fishy. Of course it's hard for

them to prove that two people are married and aren't just

adultering if you move now and then and your friends help

out by sometimes registering one of you as living at their

address; but they had all the back files on both of us and it

was obvious that we had been around each other for a sus-

piciously long time. The State really does make things aw-

fully hard for itself. It must have been simpler to enforce the

laws back when marriage was legal and adultery was what

got you into trouble. They only had to catch you once. But

I'll bet people broke the law just as often then as they do now.

The lantern-creatures came close enough at last that

we could see not only their light, but their bodies in. the

illumination of their light. They were not pretty. They

were dark colored, most often a dark red, and they were

all mouth. They ate one another whole. Light light all

swallowed together in the vaster mouth of the

darkness. They moved slowly, for nothing, however

small and hungry, could move fast under that weight,

in that cold. Their eyes, round with fear, were never

closed. Their bodies were tiny and bony behind the gap-

ing jaws. They wore queer, ugly decorations on their lips

and skulls: fringes, serrated wattles, featherlike fronds,

gauds, bangles, lures. Poor little sheep of the deep pas-

tures! Poor ragged, hunch-jawed dwarfs squeezed to the

bone by the weight of the darkness, chilled to the bone

by the cold of the darkness, tiny monsters burning with

bright hunger, who brought us bock to life!

Occasionally, in the wan, sparse illumination of one

of the lantern-creatures, we caught a momentary glimpse

of other, large, unmoving shapes: the barest suggestion,

off in the distance, not of a wall, nothing so solid and

certain as a wall, but of a surface, an angle... Was it

there?

Or something would glitter, faint, far off, far down.

There was no use trying to make out what it might be.

Probably it was only a fleck of sediment, mud or mica,

disturbed by a struggle between the lantern-creatures,

flickering like a bit of diamond dust as it rose and settled

slowly. In any case, we could not move to go see what

it was. We had not even the cold, narrow freedom of the

lantern-creatures. We were immobilized, borne down,

still shadows among the half-guessed shadow walls.

Were we there?

The lantern-creatures showed no awareness of us.

They passed before us, among us, perhaps even through

us--it was impossible to be sure. They were not afraid,

or curious.

Once something a little larger than a hand came

crawling near, and for a moment we saw quite distinctly

the clean angle where the foot of a wall rose from the

pavement, in the glow cast by the crawling creature,

which was covered with a foliage of plumes, each plume

dotted with many tiny, bluish paints of light. We saw

the pavement beneath the creature and the wall beside

it, heartbreaking in its exact, clear linearity, its oppo-

sition to all that was fluid, random, vast, and void. We

saw the creature's claws, slowly reaching out and re-

tracting like small stiff fingers, touch the wall. Its plum-

age of light quivering, it dragged itself along and van-

ished behind the corner of the wall.

So we knew that the wall was there; and that it was

an outer wall, a housefront, perhaps, or the side of one

of the towers of the city.

We remembered the towers. We remembered the city.

We had forgotten it. We had forgotten who we were; but

we remembered the city, now.

When I got home, the FBI had already been there. The

computer at the police precinct where I registered Simon's

address must have flashed it right over to the computer at

the FBI building. They had questioned Simon for about an

hour, mostly about what he had been doing during the twelve

days it took him to get from the Camp to Portland. I suppose

they thought he had flown to Peking or something. Having

a police record in Walla Walla for hitchhiking helped him

establish his story. He told me that one of them had gone to

the bathroom. Sure enough I found a bug stuck on the top of

the bathroom door frame. I left it, as we figured it's really

better to leave it when you know you have one, than to take

it off and then never be sure they haven't planted another

one you don't know about. As Simon said, if we felt we had

to say something unpatriotic we could always flush the toilet

at the same time.

I have a battery radio--there are so many work stoppages

because of power failures, and days the water has to be boiled,

and so on, that you really have to have a radio to save wasting

time and dying of typhoid--and he turned it on while I was

making supper on the Primus. The six o'clock All-American

Broadcasting Company news announcer announced that

peace was at hand in Uruguay, the president's confidential

aide having been seen to smile at a passing blonde as he left

the 613th day of the secret negotiations in a villa outside

Katmandu. The war in Liberia was going well; the enemy

said they had shot down seventeen American planes but the

Pentagon said we had shot down twenty-two enemy planes,

and the capital city--I forget its name, but it hasn't been

inhabitable for seven years anyway--was on the verge of

being recaptured by the forces of freedom. The police action

in Arizona was also successful. The Neo-Birch insurgents in

Phoenix cauld not hold out much longer against the massed

might of the American army and air force, since their un-

derground supply of small tactical nukes from the Weath-

ermen in Los Angeles had been cut off. Then there was an

advertisement for Ped-Cred cards, and a commercial for the

Supreme Court: "Take your legal troubles to the Nine Wise

Men!" Then there was something about why tariffs had gone

up, and a report from the stock market, which had just closed

at over two thousand, and a commercial for U.S. Government

canned water, with a catchy little tune: "Don't be sorry when

you drink/It's not as healthy as you think/Don't you think

you really ought to/Drink coo-ool, puu-uure U.S.G. water?"--

with three sopranos in close harmony on the last line. Then,

just as the battery began to give out and his voice was dying

away into a faraway tiny whisper, the announcer seemed to

be saying something about a new continent emerging.

"What was that?"

"I didn't hear," Simon said, lying with his eyes shut and

his face pale and sweaty. I gave him two aspirins before we

ate. He ate little, and fell asleep while I was washing the

dishes in the bathroom. I had been going to practice, but a

viola is fairly wakeful in a one-room apartment. I read for

a while instead. It was a best seller Janet had given me when

she left. She thought it was very good, but then she likes

Franz Liszt too. I don't read much since the libraries were

closed down, it's too hard to get books; all you can buy is best

sellers. I don't remember the title of this one, the cover just

said "Ninety Million Copies in Print!!!" It was about small-

town sex life in the last century, the dear old 1970s when

there weren't any problems and life was so simple and nos-

talgic. The author squeezed all the naughty thrills he could

out of the fact that all the main characters were married. I

looked at the end and saw that all the married couples shot

each other after all their children became schizophrenic hook-

ers, except for one brave pair that divorced and then leapt

into bed together with a clear-eyed pair of government-em-

ployed lovers for eight pages of healthy group sex as a

brighter future dawned. I went to bed then, too. Simon was

hot, but sleeping quietly. His breathing was like the sound

of soft waves far away, and I went out to the dark sea on the

sound of them.

I used to go out to the dark sea, often, as a child, falling

asleep. I had almost forgotten it with my waking mind. As

a child all I had to do was stretch out and think, "the dark

sea ... the dark sea ..." and soon enough I'd be there, in the

great depths, rocking. But after I grew up it only happened

rarely, as a great gift. To know the abyss of the darkness and

not to fear it, to entrust oneself to it and whatever may arise

from it--what greater gift?

We watched the tiny lights come and go around us,

and doing so, we gained a sense of space and of direc-

tion--near and far, at least, and higher and lower. It

was that sense of space that allowed us to became aware

of the currents. Space was no longer entirely still around

us, suppressed by the enormous pressure of its own

weight. Very dimly we were aware that the cold darkness

moved, slowly, softly, pressing against us a little for a

long time, then ceasing, in a vast oscillation. The empty

darkness flowed slowly along our unmoving unseen bod-

ies; along them, past them; perhaps through them; we

could not tell.

Where did they come from, those dim, slow, vast tides?

What pressure or attraction stirred the deeps to these

slow drifting movements? We could not understand that;

we could only feel their touch against us, but in straining

our sense to guess their origin or end, we became aware

of something else: something out there in the darkness

of the great currents: sounds. We listened. We heard.

So our sense of space sharpened and localized to a sense

of place. For sound is local, as sight is not. Sound is

delimited by silence; and it does not rise out of the

silence unless it is fairly close, both in space and in time.

Though we stand where once the singer stood we cannot

hear the voice singing; the-years have carried it off on

their tides, submerged it. Sound is a fragile thing, a

tremor, as delicate as life itself. We may see the stars,

but we cannot hear them. Even were the hollowness of

outer space an atmosphere, an ether that transmitted the

waves of sound, we could not hear the stars; they are too

far away. At most if we listened we might hear our own

sun, all the mighty, roiling, exploding storm of its burn-

ing, as a whisper at the edge of hearing.

A sea wave laps one's feet: It is the shock wave of a

volcanic eruption on the far side of the world. But one

hears nothing.

A red light flickers on the horizon: It is the reflection

in smoke of a city on the distant mainland, burning. But

one hears nothing.

Only on the slopes of the volcano? in the suburbs of

the city, does one begin to hear the deep thunder, and

the high voices crying.

Thus, when we became aware that we were hearing,

we were sure that the sounds we heard were fairly close

to us. And yet we may have been quite wrong. For we

were, in a strange place, a deep place. Sound travels fast

and far in the deep places, and the silence there is perfect,

letting the least noise be heard for hundreds of miles.

And these were not small noises. The lights were tiny,

but the sounds were vast: not loud, but very large. Often

they were below the range of hearing, long slow vibra-

tions rather than sounds, The first we heard seemed to

us to rise up through the currents from beneath us im-

mense groans, sighs felt along the bone, a rumbling, a

deep uneasy whispering.

Later, certain sounds came down to us from above,

or borne along the endless levels of the darkness, and

these were stranger yet, for they were music. A huge,

calling, yearning music from far away in the darkness,

calling not to us. Where are you? I am here.

Not to us.

They were the voices of the great souls, the great lives,

the lonely ones, the voyagers. Calling. Not often an-

swered. Where are you? Where have you gone?

But the bones, the keels and girders of white bones

on icy isles of the South, the shores of bones did not

reply.

Nor could we reply. But we listened, and the tears

rose in our eyes, salt, not so salt as the oceans, the world-

girdling deep bereaved currents, the abandoned road-

ways of the great lives; not so salt, but warmer.

I am here. Where have you gone?

No answer.

Only the whispering thunder from below. But we knew

now, though we could not answer, we knew because

we heard, because we felt, because we wept, we knew that

we were; and we remembered other voices.

Max came the next night. I sat on the toilet lid to practice,

with the bathroom door shut. The FBI men on the other end

of the bug got a solid half hour of scales and doublestops, and

then a quite good performance of the Hindemith unaccom-

panied viola sonata. The bathroom being very small and all

hard surfaces, the noise I made was really tremendous. Not

a good sound, far too much echo, but the sheer volume was

contagious, and I played louder as I went on. The man up

above knocked on his floor once; but if I have to listen to the

weekly All-American Olympic Games at full blast every Sun-

day morning from his TV set, then he has to accept Paul

Hindemith coming up out of his toilet now and then.

When I got tired I put a wad of cotton over the bug, and

came out of the bathroom half-deaf. Simon and Max were on

fire. Burning, unconsumed. Simon was scribbling formulae

in traction, and Max was pumping his elbows up and down

the way he does, like a boxer, and saying "The e - lec - tron

emis - sion..." through his npse, with his eyes narrowed, and

his mind evidently going light-years per second faster than

his tongue, because he kept beginning over and saying "The

e - lec - tron emis - sion..." and pumping his elbows.

Intellectuals at work are very strange to look at. As

strange as artists. I never could understand how an audience

can sit there and look at a fiddler rolling his eyes and biting

his tongue, or a horn player collecting spit, or a pianist like

a black cat strapped to an electrified bench, as if what they

saw had anything to do with the music.

I damped the fires with a quart of black-market beer--the

legal kind is better, but I never have enough ration stamps

for beer; I'm not thirsty enough to go without eating--and

gradually Max and Simon cooled down. Max would have

stayed talking all night, but I drove him out because Simon

was looking tired.

I put a new battery in the radio and left it playing in the

bathroom, and blew out the candle and lay and talked with

Simon; he was too excited to sleep. He said that Max had

solved the problems that were bothering them before Simon

was sent to Camp, and had had fitted Simon's equations to

(as Simon put it) the bare facts, which means they have

achieved "direct energy conversion." Ten or twelve people

have worked on it at different times since Simon published

the theoretical part of it when he was twenty-two. The phy-

sicist Ann Jones had pointed out right away that the simplest

practical application of the theory would be to build a "sun

tap," a device for collecting and storing solar energy, only

much cheaper and better than the U.S.G. Sola-Heetas that

some rich people have on their houses. And it would have

been simple only they kept hitting the same snag. Now Max

has got around the snag.

I said that Simon published the theory, but that is inac-

curate. Of course he's never been able to publish any of his

papers, in print; he's not a federal employee and doesn't have

a government clearance. But it did get circulated in what the

scientists and poets call Sammy's-dot, that is, just hand-

written or hectographed. It's an old joke that the FBI arrests

everybody with purple fingers, because they have either been

hectographing Sammy's-dots, or they have impetigo.

Anyhow, Simon was on top of the mountain that night.

His true joy is in the pure math; but he had been working

with Clara and Max and the others in this effort to mater-

ialize the theory for ten years, and a taste of material victory

is a good thing, once in a lifetime.

I asked him to explain what the sun tap would mean to

the masses, with me as a representative mass. He explained

that it means we can tap solar energy for power, using a

device that's easier to build than ajar battery. The efficiency

and storage capacity are such that about ten minutes of sun-

light will power an apartment complex like ours, heat and

lights and elevators and all, for twenty-four hours; and no

pollution, particulate, thermal, or radioactive. "There isn't

any danger of using up the sun?" I asked. He took it soberly--

it was a stupid question, but after all not so long ago people

thought there wasn't any danger of using up the earth--and

said no, because we wouldn't be pulling out energy, as we did

when we mined and lumbered and split atoms, but just using

the energy that comes to us anyhow: as the plants, the trees

and grass and rosebushes, always have done. "You could call

it Flower Power," he said. He was high, high up on the moun-

tain, ski-jumping in the sunlight.

"The State owns us," he said, "because the corporative

State has a monopoly on power sources, and there's not

enough power to go around. But now, anybody could build

a generator on their roof that would furnish enough power

to light a city."

I looked out the window at the dark city.

"We could completely decentralize industry and agricul-

ture. Technology could serve life instead of serving capital.

We could each run our own life. Power is power!... The State

is a machine. We could unplug the machine, now. Power

corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. But that's true

only when there's a price on power. When groups can keep

the power to themselves; when they can use physical power-

to in order to exert spiritual power-over; when might makes

right. But if power is free? If everybody is equally mighty?

Then everybody's got to find a better way of showing that

he's right..."

"That's what Mr. Nobel thought when he invented dy-

namite," I said. "Peace on earth."

He slid down the sunlit slope a couple of thousand feet

and stopped beside me in a spray of snow, smiling. "Skull at

the banquet," he said, "finger writing on the wall. Be still!

Look, don't you see the sun shining on the Pentagon, all the

roofs are off, the sun shines at last into the corridors of

power...And they shrivel up, they wither away. The green

grass grows through the carpets of the Oval Room, the Hot

Line is disconnected for nonpayment of the bill. The first

thing we'll do is build an electrified fence outside the elec-

trified fence around the White House. The inner one prevents

unauthorized persons from getting in. The outer one will

prevent authorized persons from getting out..."

Of course he was bitter. Not many people come out of

prison sweet.

But it was cruel, to be shown this great hope, and to know-

that there was no hope for it. He did know that. He knew it

right along. He knew that there was no mountain, that he

was skiing on the wind.

The tiny lights of the lantern-creatures died out one

by one, sank away. The distant lonely voices were silent.

The cold, slow currents flowed, vacant, only shaken from

time to time by a shifting in the abyss.

It was dark again, and no voice spoke. All dark,

dumb, cold.

Then the sun rose.

It was not like the dawns we had begun to remember: the

change, manifold and subtle, in the smell and touch

of the air; the hush that, instead of sleeping, wakes, holds

still, and waits; the appearance of objects, looking gray,

vague, and new, as if just created--distant mountains

against the eastern sky, one's own hands, the hoary grass

full of dew and shadow, the fold in the gdge of a curtain

hanging by the window--and then, before one is quite

sure that one is indeed seeing again, that the light has

returned, that day is breaking, the first, abrupt, sweet

stammer of a waking bird. And after that the chorus,

voice by voice: This is my nest , this is my tree, this is

my egg, this is my day, this ig my Life, here I am, here

I am, hurray for me! I'm here!--No, it wasn't like that

at all, this dawn. It was completely silent, and it was

blue.

In the dawns that we had begun to remember, one

did not become aware of the light itself, but of the sep-

arate objects touched by the light, the things, the world.

They were there, visible again, as if visibility were their

own property, not a gift from the rising sun,

In this,dawn, there was nothing but the light itself.

Indeed there was not even light, we would have said, but

only color: blue.

There was no compass bearing to it. It was not

brighter in the east. There was no east or west. There

was only up and down, below and above. Below was

dark. The blue light came from above. Brightness fell.

Beneath, where the shaking thunder had stilled, the

brightness died away through violet into blindness.

We, arising, watched light fall.

In a way it was more like an ethereal snowfall than

like a sunrise. The light seemed to be in discrete parti-

cles, infinitesimal flecks, slowly descending, faint, faint-

er than flecks of fine snow on a dark night, and tinier;

but blue. A soft, penetrating blue tending to the violet,

the color of the shadows in an iceberg, the color of a

streak of sky between gray clouds on a winter afternoon

before snow: faint in intensity but vivid in hue: the color

of the remote, the color of the cold, the color farthest from

the sun.

On Saturday night they held a scientific congress in our

room. Clara and Max came, of course, and the engineer Phil

Drum and three others who had worked on the sun tap. Phil

Drum was very pleased with himself because he had actually

built one of the things, a solar cell, and brought it along. I

don't think it had occurred to either Max or Simon to build

one. Once they knew it could be done they were satisfied and

wanted to get on with something else. But Phil unwrapped

his baby with a lot of flourish, and people made remarks like,

"Mr. Watson, will you come here a minute," and "Hey, Wil-

bur, you're off the ground!" and "I say, nasty mould you've

got there, Alec, why don't you throw it out?" and "Ugh, ugh,

burns, burns, wow, ow," the latter from Max, who does look

a little pre-Mousterian. Phil explained that he had exposed

the cell for one minute at four in the afternoon up in Wash-

ington Park during a light rain. The lights were back on on

the West Side since Thursday, so we could test it without

being conspicuous.

We turned off the lights, after Phil had wired the table-

lamp cord to the cell. He turned on the lamp switch. The bulb

came on, about twice as bright as before, at its full forty

watts--city power of course was never full strength. We all

looked at it. It was a dime-store table lamp with a metallized

gold base and a white plasticloth shade.

"Brighter than a thousand suns," Simon murmured from

the bed.

"Could it be," said Clara Edmonds, "that we physicists

have known sin--and have come out the other side?"

"It really wouldn't be any good at all for making bombs

with," Max said dreamily.

"Bombs," Phil Drum said with scorn. "Bombs are obsolete.

Don't you realize that we could move a mountain with this

kind of power? I mean pick up Mount Hood, move it, and set

it down. We could thaw Antarctica, we could freeze the

Congo. We could sink a continent. Give me a fulcrum and

I'll move the world. Well, Archimedes, you've got your ful-

crum. The sun."

"Christ," Simon said, "the radio, Belle!"

The bathroom door was shut and I had put cotton over the

bug, but he was right; if they were going to go ahead at this

rate there had better be some added static. And though I

liked watching their faces in the clear light of the lamp--

they all had good, interesting faces, well worn, like the han-

dles of wooden tools or the rocks in a running stream--I did

not much want to listen to them talk tonight. Not because

I wasn't a scientist, that made no difference. And not because

I disagreed or disapproved or disbelieved anything they said.

Only because it grieved me terribly, their talking. Because

they couldn't rejoice aloud over a job done and a discovery

made, but had to hide there and whisper about it. Because

they couldn't go out into the sun.

I went into the bathroom with my viola and sat on the

toilet lid and did a long set of sautille exercises. Then I tried

to work at the Forrest trio, but it was too assertive. I played

the solo part from Harold in Italy, which is beautiful, but it

wasn't quite the right mood either. They were still going

strong in the other room. I began to improvise.

After a few minutes in E-minor the light over the shaving

mirror began to flicker and dim; then it died. Another outage,

The table lamp in the other room did not go out, being con-

nected with the sun, not with the twenty-three atomic fission

plants that power the Greater Portland Area. Within two

seconds somebody had switched it off, too, so that we

shouldn't be the only window in the West Hills left alight;

and I could hear them rooting for candles and rattling

matches. I went on improvising in the dark. Without light,

when you couldn't see all the hard shiny surfaces of things,

the sound seemed softer and less muddled. I went on, and it

began to shape up. All the laws of harmonics sang together

when the bow came down. The strings of the viola were the

cords of my own voice, tightened by sorrow, tuned to the pitch

of joy. The melody created itself out of air and energy, it

raised up the valleys, and the mountains and hills were made

low, and the crooked straight, and the rough places plain.

And the music went out to the dark sea and sang in the

darkness, over the abyss.

When I came out they were all sitting there and none of

them was talking. Max had been crying. I could see little

candle flames in the tears around his eyes. Simon lay flat on

the bed in the shadows, his eyes closed, Phil Drum sat

hunched over, holding the solar cell in his hands.

I loosened the pegs, put the bow and the viola in the case,

and cleared my throat. It was embarrassing. I finally said,

I'm sorry."

One of the women spoke: Rose Abramski, a private student.

of Simon's, a big shy woman who could hardly speak at all

unless it was in mathematical symbols. "I saw it," she said.

I saw it. I saw the white towers, and the water streaming

down their sides, and running back down to the sea. And the

sunlight shining in the streets, after ten thousand years of

darkness."

"I heard them," Simon said, very low, from the shadow.

"I heard their voices."

"Oh, Christ! Stop it!" Max cried out, and got up and went

blundering out into the unlit hall, without his coat. We heard

him running down the stairs.

"Phil," said Simon, lying there, "could we raise up the

white towers, with our lever and our fulcrum?"

After a long silence Phil Drum answered, "We have the

*power to do it."

"What else do we need?" Simon said. "What else do we

need, besides power?"

Nobody answered him.

The blue changed. It became brighter, lighter, and

at the same time thicker: impure. The ethereal lumi-

nosity of blue-violet turned to turquoise, intense and

opaque. Still we could not have said that everything was

now turquoise-colored, for there were still no things.

There was nothing, except the color of turquoise.

The change continued. The opacity became veined

and thinned. The dense, solid color began to appear

translucent, transparent. Then it seemed as if we were

in the heart of a sacred jade, or the brilliant crystal of

a sapphire or an emerald.

As at the inner structure of a crystal, there was no

motion. But there was something else, now, to see. It was

as if we saw the motionless, elegant inward structure

of the molecules of a precious stone. Planes and angles

appeared about us, shadowless and clear in that even,

glowing, blue-green light.

These were the walls and towers of the city, the streets,

the windows, the gates.

We knew them, but we did not recognize them. We

did not dare to recognize them. It had been so long. And

it was so strange. We had used to dream, when we lived

in this city. We had lain down, nights, in the rooms

behind the windows, and slept, and dreamed. We had

all dreamed of the ocean, of the deep sea. Were we not

dreaming now?

Sometimes the thunder and tremor deep below us

rolled again, but it was faint now, far away; as far away

as our memory of the thunder and the tremor and the

fire and the towers falling, long ago. Neither the sound

nor the memory frightened us. We knew them.

The sapphire light brightened overhead to green, al-

most green-gold. We looked up. The tops of the highest

towers were hard to see, glowing in the radiance of light.

The streets and doorways were darker, more dearly de-

fined.

In one of those long, jewel-dark streets something was

moving--something not composed of planes and angles,

but of curves and arcs. We all turned to look at it, slowly,

wondering as we did so at the slow ease of our own

motion, our freedom. Sinuous, with a beautiful flowing,

gathering, rolling movement, now rapid and now ten-

tative, the thing drifted across the street from a blank

garden wall to the recess of a door. There, in the dark

blue shadow, it was hard to see for a while. We watched.

A pale blue curve appeared at the top of the doorway.

A second followed, and a third. The moving thing clung

or hovered there, above the door, like a swaying knot of

silvery cords or a boneless hand, one arched finger point-

ing carelessly to something above the lintel of the door,

something like itself, but motionless--a carving. A carv-

ing in jade light. A carving in stone.

Delicately and easily the long curving tentacle fol-

lowed the curves of the carved figure, the eight petal-

limbs, the round eyes. Did it recognize its image?

The living one swung suddenly, gathered its curves

in a loose knot, and darted away down the street, swift

and sinuous. Behind it a faint cloud of darker blue hung

for a minute and dispersed, revealing again the carved

figure above the door: the sea-flower, the cuttlefish,

quick, great-eyed, graceful, evasive, the cherished sign,

carved on a thousand walls, worked into the design of

cornices, pavements, handles, lids of jewel boxes, can-

opies, tapestries, tabletops, gateways.

Down another street, about the level of the first-floor

windows, came a flickering drift of hundreds of motes

of silver. With a single motion all turned toward the

cross street, and glittered off into the dark blue shadows.

There were shadows, now.

We looked up, up from the flight of silverfish, up from the

streets where the jade-green currents flowed and the blue

shadows fell. We moved and looked up, yearning, to the

high towers of our city. They stood, the fallen towers.

They glowed in the ever-brightening radiance, not blue

or blue-green, up there, but gold. Far above

them lay a vast, circular, trembling brightness: the sun's

light on the surface of the sea.

We are here. When we break through the bright circle

into life, the water will break and stream white down

the white sides, of the towers, and run down the steep

streets back into the sea. The water will glitter in dark

hair, on the eyelids of dark eyes, and dry to a thin white

film of salt.

We are here.

Whose voice? Who called to us?

He was with me for twelve days. On January 28th the

'crats came from the Bureau of Health, Education and Wel-

fare and said that since he was receiving Unemployment

Compensation while suffering from an untreated illness, the

government must look after him and restore him to health,

because health is the inalienable right of the citizens of a

democracy. He refused to sign the consent forms, so the chief

health officer signed them. He refused to get up, so two of

the policemen pulled him up off the bed. He started to try to

fight them. The chief health officer pulled his gun and said

that if he continued to struggle he would shoot him for re-

sisting welfare, and arrest me for conspiracy to defraud the

government. The man who was holding my arms behind my

back said they could always arrest me for unreported preg-

nancy with intent to form a nuclear family. At that Simon

stopped trying to get free. It was really all he was trying to

do, not to fight them, just to get his arms free. He looked at

me, and they took him out.

He is in the federal hospital in Salem. I have not been

able to find out whether he is in the regular hospital or the

mental wards.

It was on'the radio again yesterday, about the rising land

masses in the South Atlantic and the Western Pacific. At

Max's the other night I saw a TV special explaining about

geophysical stresses and subsidence and faults. The U.S.

Geodetic Service is doing a lot of advertising around town,

the most common one is a big billboard that says IT'S NOT

OUR FAULT! with a picture of a beaver pointing to a sche-

matic map that shows how even if Oregon has a major earth-

quake and subsidence as California did last month, it will

not affect Portland, or only the western suburbs perhaps. The

news also said that they plan to halt the tidal waves in Flor-

ida by dropping nuclear bombs where Miami was. Then they

will reattach Florida to the mainland with landfill. They are

already advertising real estate for housing developments on

the landfill. The president is staying at the Mile High White

House in Aspen, Colorado. I don't think it will do him much

good. Houseboats down on the Willamette are selling for

$500,000. There are no trains or buses running south from

Portland, because all the highways were badly damaged by

the tremors and landslides last week, so I will have to see

if I can get to Salem on foot. I still have the rucksack I bought

for the Mount Hood Wilderness Week. I got some dry lima

beans and raisins with my Federal Pair Share Super Value

Green Stamp minimal ration book for February--it took the

whole book--and Phil Drum made me a tiny camp stove

powered with the solar cell. I didn't want to take the Primus,

it's too bulky, and I did want to be able to carry the viola.

Max gave me a half pint of brandy. When the brandy is gone

I expect I will stuff this notebook into the bottle and put the

cap on tight and leave it on a hillside somewhere between

here and Salem. I like to think of it being lifted up little fay

little by the water, and rocking, and going out to the dark

sea.

Where are you?

We are here. Where have you gone?

History Lesson

ARTHUR C. CLARKE

No one could remember when the tribe had begun its long

journey. The land of great rolling plains that had been its

first home was now no more than a half-forgotten dream.

For many years Shann and his people had been fleeing

through a country of low hills and sparkling lakes, and now

the mountains lay ahead. This summer they must cross them

to the southern lands. There was little time to lose. The white

terror that had come down from the Poles, grinding conti-

nents to dust and freezing the very air before it, was less

than a day's march behind.

Shann wondered if the glaciers could climb the mountains

ahead, and within his heart he dared to kindle a little flame

of hope. This might prove a barrier against which even the

remorseless ice would batter in vain. In the southern lands

of which the legends spoke, his people might find refuge at

last.

It took weeks to discover a pass through which the tribe

and the animals could travel. When midsummer came, they

had camped in a lonely valley where the air was thin and

the stars shone with a brilliance no one had ever seen before.

The summer was waning when Shann took his two sons

and went ahead to explore the way. For three days they

climbed, and for three nights slept as best they could on the

freezing rocks. And on the fourth morning there was nothing

ahead but a gentle rise to a cairn of gray stones built by other

travelers, centuries ago.

Shann felt himself trembling, and not with cold, as they

walked toward the little pyramid of stones. His sons had

fallen behind. No one spoke, for too much was at stake. In

a little while they would know if all their hopes had been

betrayed.

To east and west, the wall of mountains curved away as

if embracing the land beneath. Below lay endless miles of

undulating plain, with a great river swinging across it in

tremendous loops. It was a fertile land; one in which the tribe

could raise crops knowing that there would be no need to flee

before the harvest came.

Then Shann lifted his eyes to the south, and saw the doom

of all his hopes. For there at the edge of the world glimmered

that deadly light he had seen so often to the north--the glint

of ice below the horizon.

There was no way forward. Through all the years of flight,

the glaciers from the south had been advancing to meet them.

Soon they would be crushed beneath the moving walls of

ice....

Southern glaciers did not reach the mountains until a

generation later. In that last summer the sons of Shann car-

ried the sacred treasures of the tribe to the lonely cairn over-

looking the plain. The ice that had once gleamed below the

horizon was now almost at their feet. By spring it would be

splintering against the mountain walls.

No one understood the treasures now. They were from a

past too distant for the understanding of any man alive. Their

origins were lost in the mists that surrounded the Golden

Age, and how they had come at last into the possession of

this wandering tribe was a story that now would never be

told. For it was the story of a civilization that had passed

beyond recall.

Once, all these pitiful relics had been treasured for some

good reason, and now they had become sacred though their

meaning had long been lost. The print in the old books had

faded centuries ago though much of the lettering was still

visible--if there had been any to read it. But many gener-

ations had passed since anyone had had a use for a set of

seven-figure logarithms, an atlas of the world, and the score

of Sibelius' Seventh Symphony, printed, according to the fly-

leaf, by H. K. Chu and Sons, at the City of Pekin in the year

2371 A.D.

The old books were placed reverently in the little crypt

that had been made to receive them. There followed a motley

collection of fragments--gold and platinum coins, a broken

telephoto lens, a watch, a cold light lamp, a microphone, the

cutter from an electric shaver, some midget radio tubes, the

flotsam that had been left behind when the great tide of

civilization had ebbed forever.

All these treasures were carefully stowed away in their

resting place. Then came three more relics, the most sacred

of all because the least understood.

The first was a strangely shaped piece of metal, showing

the coloration of intense heat. It was, in its way, the most

pathetic of all these symbols from the past, for it told of man's

greatest achievement and of the future he might have known.

The mahogany stand on which it was mounted bore a silver

plate with the inscription:

Auxiliary Igniter from Starboard Jet

Spaceship "Morning Star"

Earth-Moon, A.D. 1985

Next followed another miracle of the ancient science--a

sphere of transparent plastic with strangely shaped pieces

of metal embedded in it. At its centre was a tiny capsule of

synthetic radio-element, surrounded by the converting screens

that shifted its radiation far down the spectrum. As long as

the material remained active, the sphere would be a tiny

radio transmitter, broadcasting power in all directions. Only

a few of these spheres had ever been made. They had been

designed as perpetual beacons to mark the orbits of the as-

teroids. But man had never reached the asteroids and the

beacons had never been used.

Last of all was a flat, circular tin, wide in comparison with

its depth. It was heavily sealed, and rattled when shaken.

The tribal lore predicted that disaster would follow if it were

ever opened, and no one knew that it held one of the great

works of art of nearly a thousand years before.

The work was finished. The two men rolled the stones

back into place and slowly began to descend the mountain-

side. Even to the last, man had given some thought to the

future and had tried to preserve something for posterity.

That winter the great waves of ice began their first assault

on the mountains, attacking from north and south. The foot-

hills were overwhelmed in the first onslaught, and the gla-

ciers ground them into dust. But the mountains stood firm,

and when the summer came the ice retreated for a while.

So, winter after winter, the battle continued, and the roar

of the avalanches, the grinding of rock and the explosions of

splintering ice filled the air with tumult. No war of man's

had been fiercer than this, and even man's battles had not

quite engulfed the globe as this had done.

At last the tidal waves of ice began to subside and to creep

slowly down the flanks of the mountains they had never quite

subdued. The valleys and passes were still firmly in their

grip. It was stalemate. The glaciers had met their match, but

their defeat was too late to be of any use to man.

So the centuries passed, and presently there happened

something that must occur once at least in the history of

every world in the universe, no matter how remote and lonely

it may be.

The ship from Venus came five thousand years too late,

but its crew knew nothing of this. While still many millions

of miles away, the telescopes had seen the great shroud of

ice that made Earth the most brilliant object in the sky next

to the sun itself.

Here and there the dazzling sheet was marred by black

specks that revealed the presence of almost buried moun-

tains. That was all. The rolling oceans, the plains And forests,

the deserts and lakes--all that had been the world of man

was sealed beneath the ice, perhaps forever.

The ship closed in to Earth and established an orbit less

than a thousand miles away. For five days it circled the

planet, while cameras recorded all that was left to see and

a hundred instruments gathered information that would give

the Venusian scientists many years of work.

An actual landing was not intended. There seemed little

purpose in it. But on the sixth day the picture changed. A

panoramic monitor, driven to the limit of its amplification,

detected the dying radiation of the five-thousand-year-old

beacon. Through all the centuries, it had been sending out

its signals with ever-failing strength as its radioactive heart

steadily weakened.

The monitor locked on the beacon frequency. In the control

room, a bell clamored for attention, A little later, the Ven-

usian ship broke free from its orbit and slanted down toward

Earth, toward a range of mountains that still towered proudly

above the ice, and to a cairn of gray stones that the years

had scarcely touched....

The great disc of the sun blazed fiercely in a sky no longer

veiled with mist, for the clouds that had once hidden Venus

had now completely gone. Whatever force had caused the

change in the sun's radiation had doomed one civilization,

but had given birth to another. Less than five thousand years

before, the half-savage people of Venus had seen Sun and

stars for the first time. Just as the science of Earth had begun

with astronomy, so had that of Venus, and on the warm, rich

world that man had never seen progress had been incredibly

rapid.

Perhaps the Venusians had been lucky. They never knew

the Dark Age that held man enchained for a thousand years.

They missed the long detour into chemistry and mechanics

but came at once to the more fundamental laws of radiation

physics. In the time that man had taken to progress from the ,

Pyramids to the rocket-propelled spaceship, the Venusians

had passed from the discovery of agriculture to anti-gravity

itself--the ultimate secret that man had never learned.

The warm ocean that still bore most of the young planet's

life rolled its breakers languidly against the sandy shore. So

new was this continent that the very sands were coarse and

gritty. There had not yet been time enough for the sea to

wear them smooth.

The scientists lay half in the water, their beautiful rep-

tilian bodies gleaming in the sunlight. The greatest minds

of Venus had gathered on this shore from all the islands of

the planet. What they were going to hear they did not yet

know, except that it concerned the Third World and the mys-

terious race that had peopled it before the coming of the ice.

The Historian was standing on the land, for the instru-

ments he wished to use had no love of water. By his side was

a large machine which attracted many curious glances from

his colleagues. It was clearly concerned with optics, for a lens

system projected from it toward a screen of white material

a dozen yards away.

The Historian began to speak. Briefly he recapitulated

what little had been discovered concerning the Third Planet

and its people.

He mentioned the centuries of fruitless research that had

failed to interpret a single word of the writings of Earth. The

planet had been inhabited by a race of great technical ability.

That, at least, was proved by the few pieces of machinery

that had been found in the cairn upon the mountain.

"We do not know why so advanced a civilization came to

an end," he observed. "Almost certainly, it had sufficient

knowledge to survive an Ice Age. There must have been some

factor of which we know nothing. Possibly disease or racial

degeneration may have been responsible. It has even been

suggested that the tribal conflicts endemic to our own species

in prehistoric times may have continued on the Third Planet

after the coming of technology.

"Some philosophers maintain that knowledge of machin-

ery does not necessarily imply a high degree of civilization,

and it is theoretically possible to have wars in a society pos-

sessing mechanical power, flight, and even radio. Such a

conception is alien to our thoughts, but we must admit its

possibility. It would certainly account for the downfall of the

lost race.

"It has always been assumed that we should never know

anything of the physical form of the creatures who lived on

Planet Three. For centuries our artists have been depicting

scenes from the history of the dead world, peopling it with

all manner of fantastic beings. Most of these creations have

resembled us more or less closely, though it has often been

pointed out that because we are reptiles it does not follow

that all intelligent life must necessarily be reptilian,

"We now know the answer to one of the most baffling

problems of history. At last, after a hundred years of

research,

we have discovered the exact form and nature of the

ruling

life on the Third Planet,"

There was a murmur of astonishment from the assembled

scientists. Some were so taken aback that they disappeared

for a while into the comfort of the ocean, as all Venusians

were apt to do in moments of stress. The Historian waited

until his colleagues reemerged into the element they so dis-

liked. He himself was quite comfortable, thanks to the tiny

sprays that were continually playing over his body. With

their help he could live on land for many hours before having

to return to the ocean.

The excitement slowly subsided and the lecturer contin-

ued.

"One of the most puzzling of the objects found on Planet

Three was a flat metal container holding a great length of

transparent plastic material, perforated at the edges and

would tightly into a spool. This transparent tape at first

seemed quite featureless, but an examination with the new

subelectronic microscope has shown that this is not the case.

Along the surface of the material, invisible to our eyes but

perfectly clear under the correct radiation, are literally thou-

sands of tiny picture It is believed that they were imprinted

on the material by some chemical means, and have faded

with the passage of time.

"These pictures apparently form a record of life as it was

on the Third Planet at the height of its civilization. They are

not independent. Consecutive pictures are almot identical,

differing only in the detail of movement. The purpose of such

a record is obvious. It is only necessary to project the scenes

in rapid succession to give an illusion of continuous move-

ment. We have made a machine to do this, and I have here

an exact reproduction of the picture sequence.

"The scenes you are now going to witness take us back

many thousands of years, to the great days of our sister

planet. They show a complex civilization, many of whose

activities we can only dimly understand. Life seems to have

been very violent and energetic, and much that you will see

is quite baffling.

"It is clear that the Third Planet was inhabited by a num-

ber of different species, none of them reptilian. That is a blow

to our pride, but the conclusion is inescapable. The dominant

type of life appears to have been a two-armed biped. It walked

upright and covered its bodv with some flexible material,

possibly for protection against the cold, since even before the

Ice Age the planet was at a much lower temperature than

our own world. But I will not try your patience any further.

You will now see the record of which I have been speaking."

A brilliant light flashed from the projector. There was a

gentle whirring, and on the screen appeared hundreds of

strange beings moving rather jerkily to and fro. The picture

expanded to embrace one of the creatures, and the scientists,

could see that the Historian's description had been correct.

The creature possessed two eyes, set rather close together,

but the other facial adornments were a little obscure. There

was a large orifice in the lower portion of the head that was

continually opening and closing. Possibly it had something

to do with the creature's breathing.

The scientists watched spellbound as the strange being

became involved in a series of fantastic adventures. There

was an incredibly violent conflict with another, slightly dif-

ferent creature. It seemed certain that they must both be

killed, but when it was all over neither seemed any the worse.

Then came a furious drive over miles of country in a four-

wheeled mechanical device which was capable of extraordi-

nary feats of locomotion. The ride ended in a city packed with

other vehicles moving in all directions at breath-taking

speeds. No one was surprised to see two of the machines meet

headon with devastating results.

After that, events became even more complicated. It was

now quite obvious that it would take many years of research

to analyze and understand all that was happening. It was

also clear that the record was a work of art, somewhat styl-

ized, rather than an exact reproduction of life as it actually

had been on the Third Planet.

Most of the scientists felt themselves completely dazed

when the sequence of pictures came to an end. There was a

final flurry of motion, in which the creature that had been

the center of interest became involved in some tremendous

but incomprehensible catastrophe. The picture contracted to

a circle, centered on the creature's head.

The last scene of all was an expanded view of its face,

obviously expressing some powerful emotion. But whether

it was rage, grief, defiance, resignation or some other feeling

could not be guessed. The picture vanished. For a moment

some lettering appeared on the screen, then it was all over.

For several minutes there was complete, silence, save the

lapping of the waves upon the sand. The scientists were too

stunned to speak. The fleeting glimpse of Earth's civilization

had had a shattering effect on their minds. Then little groups

began to start talking together, first in whispers and then

more and more loudly as the implications of what they had

seen became clearer. Presently the Historian called for at-

tention and addressed the meeting again.

"We are now planning," he said, "a vast program of re-

search to extract all available knowledge from this record.

Thousands of copies are being made for distribution to all -

workers. You will appreciate the problems involved. The psy-

chologists in particular have an immense task confronting

them.

"But I do not doubt that we shall succeed. In another

generation, who can say what we may not have learned of

this wonderful race? Before we leave, let us look again at our

remote cousins, whose wisdom may have surpassed our

own

but of whom so little has survived."

Once more the final picture flashed on the screen, mo-

tionless this time, for the projector had been stopped. With

something like awe, the scientists gazed at the still figure

from the past, while in turn the little biped stared back at

them with its characteristic expression of arrogant bad tem-

per.

For the rest of time it would symbolize the human race.

The psychologists of Venus would analyze its actions and

watch its every movement until they could reconstruct its

mind. Thousands of books would be written about it. Intricate

philosophies would be contrived to account for its behavior.

But all this labor, all this research, would be utterly in

vain. Perhaps the proud and lonely figure on the screen was

smiling sardonically at the scientists who were starting on

their age-long fruitless quest.

Its secret would be safe as long as the universe endured,

for no one now would ever read the lost language of Earth.

Millions of times in the ages to come those last few words

would flash across the screen, and none could ever guess their

meaning:

A Walt Disney Production

Seeds of the Dusk

RAYMOND Z. GALLUN

It was a spore, microscopic in size. Its hard shell--resistant

to the utter dryness of interplanetary space--harbored a tiny

bit of plant protoplasm. That protoplasm, chilled almost to

absolute zero, possessed no vital pulsation now--only a grim

potentiality, a savage capacity for revival, that was a chal-

lenge to Fate itself.

For years the spore had been drifting and bobbing errat-

ically between the paths of Earth and Mars, along with bil-

lions of other spores of the same kind. Now the gravity of the

Sun drew it a few million miles closer to Earth's orbit, now

powerful magnetic radiations from solar vortices forced it

back toward the world of its origin.

It seemed entirely a plaything of chance. And, of course,

up to a point it was. But back of its erratic, unconscious

wanderings, there was intelligence that had done its best to

take advantage of the law of averages.

The desire for rebirth and survival was the dominant urge

of this intelligence. For this was during the latter days, when

Earth itself was showing definite signs of senility, and Mars

was near as dead as the Moon.

Strange, intricate spore-pods, conceived as a man might

conceive a new invention, but put into concrete form by a

process of minutely exact growth control, had burst explo-

sively toward a black, spacial sky. In dusty clouds the spores

had been hurled upward into the vacuum thinness that had

once been an extensive atmosphere. Most of them had, of

course, dropped back to the red, arid soil; but a comparative

few, buffeted by feeble air currents, and measured numeri-

cally in billions, had found their way from the utterly tenuous

upper reaches of Mars' gaseous envelope into the empty ether

of the void.

With elements of a conscious purpose added, the thing that

was taking place was a demonstration of the ancient Ar-

rhenius Spore Theory, which, countless ages ago, had ex-

plained the propagation of life from world to world.

The huge, wonderful parent growths were left behind, to

continue a hopeless fight for survival on a burnt-out world.

During succeeding summer seasons they would hurl more

spores into the interplanetary abyss. But soon they them-

selves would be only brown, mummied relics--one with the

other relics of Mars; the gray, carven monoliths; the strange,

hemispherical dwellings, dotted with openings arranged like

the cells of a honeycomb. Habitations of an intelligent animal

folk, long perished, who had never had use for halls or rooms,

as such things are known to men on Earth.

The era of utter death would come to Mars, when nothing

would move on its surface except the shadows shifting across

dusty deserts, and the molecules of sand and rock vibrating

with a little warmth from the hot, though shrunken Sun.

Death--complete death! But the growths which were the last

civilized beings of Mars had not originated there. Once they

had been on the satellites of Jupiter, too. And before that--

well, perhaps even the race memory of their kind had lost the

record of those dim, distant ages. Always they had waited

their chance, and when the time came--when a world was

physically suited for their development--they had acted,

A single spore was enough to supply the desired foothold

on a planet. Almost inevitably--since chance is, in funda-

mentals, a mathematical element depending on time and

numbers and repetition--that single spore reached the upper

atmosphere of Earth,

For months, it bobbed erratically in tenuous, electrified

gases. It might have been shot into space again. Upward and

downward it wandered; but with gravity to tug at its insig-

nificant mass, probability favored its ultimate descent to the

harsh surface.

It found a resting place, at last, in a frozen desert gully.

Around the gully were fantastic, sugar-loaf mounds. Near-by

was one thin, ruined spire of blue porcelain--an empty re-

minder of a gentler era, long gone.

The location thus given to it seemed hardly favorable in

its aspect. For this was the northern hemisphere, locked now

in the grip of a deadly winter. The air, depleted through the

ages, as was the planet's water supply, was arid and thin.

The temperature, though not as rigorous and deadening as

that of interplanetary space, ranged far below zero. Mars in

this age was near dead; Earth was a dying world.

But perhaps this condition, in itself, was almost favorable.

The spore belonged to a kind of life developed to meet the

challenge of a generally much less friendly environment than

that of even this later-day Earth.

There was snow in that desert gully--maybe a quarter-

inch depth of it. The rays of the Sun--white and dwarfed

after so many eons of converting its substance into energy--

did not melt any of that snow even at noon. But this did not

matter. The life principle within the spore detected favorable

conditions for its germination, just as, in spring, the vital

principle of Earthly seeds had done for almost incalculable

ages.

By a process parallel to that of simple fermentation, a tiny

amount of heat was generated within the spore. A few crystals

of snow around it turned to moisture, a minute quantity of

which the alien speck of life absorbed. Roots finer than spi-

derweb grew, groping int& the snow. At night they were fro-

zen solid, but during the day they resumed their brave ac-

tivity.

The spore expanded, but did not burst. For its shell was

a protecting armor which must be made to increase in size

gradually without rupture. Within it, intricate chemical pro-

cesses were taking place. Chlorophyl there was absorbing

sunshine and carbon dioxide and water. Starch and cellulose

and free oxygen were being produced.

So far, these processes were quite like those of common

terrestrial flora. But there were differences. For one thing,

the oxygen was not liberated to float in the atmosphere. It

had been ages since such lavish waste had been possible on

Mars, whose thin air had contained but a small quantity of

oxygen in its triatomic form, ozone, even when Earth was

young.

The alien thing stored its oxygen, compressing the gas into

the tiny compartments in its hard, porous, outer shell. The

reason was simple. Oxygen, combining with starch in a slow,

fermentive combustion, could produce heat to ward off the

cold that would otherwise stop growth.

The spore had become a plant now. First, it was no bigger

than a pinhead. Then it increased its size to the dimensions

of a small marble, its fuzzy, green-brown shape firmly an-

chored to the soil itself by its long, fibrous roots. Like any

terrestrial growth, it was an intricate chemical laboratory,

where transformations took place that were not easy to com-

prehend completely.

And now, perhaps, the thing was beginning to feel the first

glimmerings of a consciousness, like a human child rising

out of the blurred, unremembering fog of birth. Strange, oily

nodules, scattered throughout its tissues, connected by means

of a complex network of delicate, white threads, which had

the functions of a nervous system, were developing and grow-

ing--giving to the sporeplant from Mars the equivalent of a

brain. Here was a sentient vegetable in the formative stage.

A sentient vegetable? Without intelligence it is likely that

the ancestors of this nameless invader from across the void

would long ago have lost their battle for survival.

What senses were given to this strange mind, by means

of which it could be aware of its environment? Undoubtedly

it possessed faculties of sense that could detect things in a

way that was as far beyond ordinary human conception as

vision is to those individuals who have been born blind. But

in a more simpler manner it must have been able to feel heat

and cold and to hear sounds, the latter perhaps by the sen-

sitivity of its fine, cilialike spines. And certainly it could see

in a way comparable to that of a man.

For, scattered over the round body of the plant, and imbed-

ded deep in horny hollows in its shell, were little organs,

lensed with a clear vegetable substance. These organs were

eyes, developed, perhaps, from far more primitive light-sen-

sitive cells, such as many forms of terrestrial flora possess.

But during those early months, the spore plant saw little

that could be interpreted as a threat, swiftly to be fulfilled.

Winter ruled, and the native life of this desolate region was

at a standstill.

There was little motion except that of keen, cutting winds,

shifting dust, and occasional gusts of fine, dry snow. The

white, shrunken Sun rose in the east, to creep with protracted

slowness across the sky, shedding but the barest trace of

warmth. Night came, beautiful and purple and mysterious,

yet bleak as the crystalline spirit of an easy death.

Through the ages, Earth's rate of rotation had been much

decreased by the tidal drag of Solar and Lunar gravities. The

attraction of the Moon was now much increased, since the

satellite was nearer to Terra than it had been in former times.

Because of the decreased rate of rotation, the days and nights

were correspondingly lengthened.

All the world around the spore plant was a realm of bleak,

unpeopled desolation. Only once, while the winter lasted, did

anything happen to break the stark monotony. One evening,

at moonrise, a slender metal car flew across the sky with the

speed of a bullet. A thin propelling streamer of fire trailed

in its wake, and the pale moonglow was reflected from its

prow. A shrill, mechanical scream made the rarefied atmo-

sphere vibrate, as the craft approached to a point above the

desert gully, passed, and hurtled away, to leave behind it

only a startling silence and an aching memory.

For the spore plant did remember. Doubtless there was a

touch of fear in that memory, for fear is a universal emotion,

closely connected with the law of self-preservation, which is

engrained in the texture of all life, regardless of its nature

or origin.

Men. Or rather, the cold, cruel, cunning little beings who

were the children of men. The Itorloo, they called themselves.

The invader could not have known their form as yet, or the

name of the creatures from which they were descended. But

it could guess something of their powers from the flying ma-

chine they had built. Inherited memory must have played a

part in giving the queer thing from across the void this dim

comprehension. On other worlds its ancestors had encoun-

tered animal folk possessing a similar science. And the spore

plant was surely aware that here on Earth the builders of

this speeding craft were its most deadly enemies.

The Itorloo, however, inhabiting their vast underground

cities, had no knowledge that their planet had received an

alient visitation--one which might have deadly potentiali-

ties. And in this failure to know, the little spore plant, hidden

in a gully where no Itorloo foot had been set in a thousand

years, was safe.

Now there was nothing for it to do but grow and prepare

to reproduce its kind, to be watchful for lesser enemies, and

to develop its own peculiar powers.

It is not to be supposed that it must always lack, by its

very nature, an understanding of physics and chemistry and

biological science. It possessed no test tubes, or delicate in-

struments, as such things were understood by men. But it

was gifted with something--call it an introspective sense--

which enabled it to study in minute detail every single chem-

ical and physical process that went on within its own sub-

stance. It could feel not only the juices coursing sluggishly

through its tissues, but it could feel, too, in a kind of atomic

pattern, the change of water and carbon dioxide into starch

and free oxygen.

Gift a man with the same power that the invader's kind

had acquired, perhaps by eons of practice and directed will--

that of feeling vividly even the division of cells, and the na-

ture of the protoplasm in his own tissues--and it is not hard

to believe that he would soon delve out even the ultimate

secret of life. And in the secret of life there must be involved

almost every conceivable phase of practical science.

The spore plant proceeded with its marvelous self-educa-

tion, part of which must have been only recalling to mind the

intricate impressions of inherited memories.

Meanwhile it studied carefully its bleak surroundings,

prompted not only by fear, but by curiosity as well. To work

effectively, it needed understanding of its environment. In-

telligence it possessed beyond question; still it was hampered

by many limitations. It was a plant, and plants have not an

animal's capacity for quick action, either of offense or defense.

Here, forever, the entity from across the void was at a vast

disadvantage, in this place of pitiless competition. In spite

of all its powers, it might now have easily been destroyed.

The delicate, ruined tower of blue porcelain, looming up

from the brink of the gully. The invader, scrutinizing it

carefully for hours and days, soon knew every chink and crack

and fanciful arabesque on its visible side. It was only a ruin,

beautiful and mysterious alike by sunshine and moonlight,

and when adorned with a fine sifting of snow. But the invader,

lost on a strange world, could not be sure of its harmless-

ness.

Close to the tower were those rude, high, sugar-loaf

mounds, betraying a sinister cast. They were of hard-packed

earth, dotted with many tiny openings. But in the cold, arid

winter, there was no sign of life about them now.

All through those long, arctic months, the spore plant con-

tinued to develop, and to grow toward the reproductive stage.

And it was making preparations too--combining the knowledge

acquired by its observations with keen guesswork, and with

a science apart from the manual fabrication of metal and

other substances,

A milder season came at last. The Sun's rays were a little

warmer now. Some of the snow melted, moistening the ground

enough to germinate Earthly seeds. Shoots sprang up, soon

to develop leaves and grotesque, devilish-looking flowers.

In the mounds beside the blue tower a slow awakening

took place. Millions of little, hard, reddish bodies became

animated once more, ready to battle grim Nature for suste-

nance. The ages had done little to the ants, except to increase

their fierceness and cunning. Almost any organic substances

could serve them as food, and their tastes showed but little

discrimination between one dainty and another. And it was

inevitable, of course, but presently they should find the spore

plant.

Nor were they the letter's only enemies, even in this desert

region. Of the others, Kaw and his black-feathered brood were

the most potent makers of trouble. Not because they would

attempt active offense themselves, but because they were

able to spread news far and wide.

Kaw wheeled alone now, high in the sunlight, his ebon

wings outstretched, his cruel, observant little eyes studying

the desolate terrain below. Buried in the sand, away from

the cold, he and his mate and their companions had slept

through the winter. Now Kaw was fiercely hungry. He could

eat ants if he had to, but there should be better food available

at this time of year.

Once, his keen eyes spied gray movement far below. As

if his poised and graceful flight was altered by the release of

a trigger, Kaw dived plummet-like and silent toward the

ground.

His attack was more simple and direct than usual. But it

was successful. His reward was a large, long-tailed rodent,

as clever as himself. The creature uttered squeaks of terror

as meaningful as human cries for help. In a moment, however,

Kaw split its intelligently rounded cranium with a deter-

mined blow from his strong, pointed beak. Bloody brains were

devoured with indelicate gusto, to be followed swiftly by the

less tasty flesh of the victim. If Kaw had ever heard of table

manners, he didn't bother with them. Kaw was intensely

practical.

His crop full, Kaw was now free to exercise the mischie-

vous curiosity which he had inherited from his ancient fore-

bears. They who had, in the long-gone time when Earth was

young, uprooted many a young corn shoot, and had yammered

derisively from distant treetops when any irate farmer had

gone after them with a gun.

With a clownish skip of his black, scaly feet, and a show-

offish swerve of his dusty ebon wings, Kaw took to the air

once more. Upward he soared, his white-lidded eyes directed

again toward the ground, seeking something interesting to

occupy his attention and energies.

Thus, presently, he saw a brownish puff that looked like

smoke or dust in the gully beside the ruined blue tower at

the pinnacle of which he and his mate were wont to build

their nest in summer. Sound came then--a dull, ringing pop.

The dusty cloud expanded swiftly upward, widening and thin-

ning until its opacity was dissipated into the clearness of the

atmosphere.

Kaw was really startled. That this was so was evinced by

the fact that he did not voice his harsh, rasping cry, as he

would have done had a lesser occurrence caught his attention.

He turned back at first, and began to retreat, his mind rec-

ognizing only one possibility in what had occurred. Only the

Itorloo, the Children of Men, as far as he knew, could produce

explosions like that. And the Itorloo were cruel and danger-

ous.

However, Kaw did not go far in his withdrawal. Pres-

ently--since there were no further alarming developments--

he was circling back toward the source of the cloud and the

noise. But for many minutes he kept what he considered a

safe distance, the while he tried to determine the nature of

the strange, bulging, grayish-green thing down there in the

gully.

A closer approach, he decided finally, was best made from

the ground. And so he descended, alighting several hundred

yards distant from the narrow pocket in the desert.

Thence he proceeded to walk cautiously forward, taking

advantage of the cover of the rocks and dunes, his feathers

gleaming with a dusty rainbow sheen, his large head bobbing

with the motion of his advance like any fowl's. His manner

was part laughably ludicrous, part scared, and part deter-

mined.

And then, peering from behind a large boulder, he saw

what he had come to see. It was a bulging, slightly flattened

sphere, perhaps a yard across. Prom it projected flat, oval

things of a gray-green color, like the leaves of a cactus. And

from these, in turn, grew clublike protuberances of a hard,

horny texture--spore-pods. One of them was blasted open,

doubtless by the pressure of gas accumulated within it. These

spore-pods were probably not as complexly or powerfully de-

signed as those used by the parent growths on Mars, for they

were intended for a simpler purpose. The entire plant bristled

with sharp spines, and was furred with slender hairs, gleam-

ing like little silver wires.

Around the growth, thousands of ant bodies lay dead, and

from its vicinity other thousands of living were retreating.

Kaw eyed these evidences critically, guessing with wits as

keen as those of a man of old their sinister significance. He

knew, too, that presently other spore-pods would burst with

loud, disturbing noises.

Kaw felt a twinge of dread. Evolution, working through

a process of natural selection--and, in these times of hardship

and pitiless competition, putting a premium on intelligence--

had given to his kind a brain power far transcending that of

his ancestors. He could observe, and could interpret his ob-

servations with the same practical comprehension which a

primitive human being might display. But, like those prim-

itives, he had developed, too, a capacity to feel superstitious

awe.

That gray-green thing of mystery had a fantastic cast

which failed to identify it with--well--with naturalness.

Kaw was no botanist, certainly; still he could recognize the

object as a plant of some kind. But those little, bright, eye-

lenses suggested an unimaginable scrutiny. And those spines,

silvery in sheen, suggested ghoulish animation, the existence

of which Kaw could sense as a nameless and menacing

unease.

He could guess, then, or imagine--or even know, per-

haps--that here was an intruder who might well make itself

felt with far-reaching consequences in the future. Kaw was

aware of the simple fact that most of the vegetation he was

acquainted with grew from seeds or the equivalent. And he

was capable of concluding that this flattened spheroid repro-

duced itself in a manner not markedly unfamiliar. That is,

if one was to accept the evidence of the spore-pods. Billions

of spores, scattering with the wind! What would be the result?

Kaw would not have been so troubled, were it not for those

crumpled thousands of ant bodies, and the enigma of their

death. It was clear that the ants had come to feed on the

invader--but they had perished. How? By some virulent plant

poison, perhaps?

The conclusions which intelligence provides can produce

fear where fear would otherwise be impossible. Kaw's impulse

was to seek safety in instant departure, but horror and cu-

riosity fascinated him. Another deeper, more reasoned urge

commanded him. When a man smells smoke in his house at

night, he does not run away; he investigates. And so it was

with Kaw.

He hopped forward cautiously toward the invader. A foot

from its rough, curving side he halted. There, warily, as if

about to attack a poisonous lizard, he steeled himself. Lightly

and swiftly his beak shot forward. It touched the tip of a

sharp spine.

The result left Kaw dazed. It was as though he had received

a stunning blow on the head, A tingling, constricting sen-

sation shot through his body, and he was down, flopping in

the dust.

Electricity. Kaw had never heard of such a thing. Elec-

tricity generated chemically in the form of the invader, by

a process analogous to that by which, in dim antiquity, it had

been generated in the bodies of electric eels and other similar

creatures.

However, there was a broad difference here between the

subject and the analogy. Electric eels had never understood

the nature of their power, for they were as unresponsible for

it as they were unresponsible for the shape of the flesh in

which they had been cast. The spore plant, on the other hand,

comprehended minutely. Its electric organs had been min-

utely preplanned and conceived before one living cell of their

structure had been caused to grow on another. And these

organs were not inherited, but were designed to meet the

more immediate needs of self-protection. During the winter,

the invader, studying its surroundings, had guessed well.

Slowly Kaw's brain cleared. He heard an ominous buzzing,

and knew that it issued from the plant. But what he did not

know was that, like the electric organs, the thing's vocal

equipment was invented for possible use in its new environ-

ment. For days, since the coming of spring, the invader had

been listening to sounds of various kinds, and had recognized

their importance on Earth.

Now Kaw had but one thought, and that was to get away.

Still dazed and groggy, he leaped into the air. From behind

him, in his hurried departure, he heard a dull plop. More

billions of spores, mixing with the wind, to be borne far and

wide.

But now, out of his excitement, Kaw drew a reasoned and

fairly definite purpose. He had a fair idea of what he was

going to do, even though the course of action he had in mind

might involve him with the greatest of his enemies. Yet,

when it came to a choice, he would take the known in pref-

erence to the unknown.

He soared upward toward the bright blue of the heavens.

The porcelain tower, the ant hills, and the low mounds which

marked the entrances to the rodent colonies slipped swiftly

behind. As if the whole drab landscape were made to move

on an endless belt.

Kaw was looking for his mate, and for the thirty-odd,

black-winged individuals who formed his tribe. Singly and

in small groups, he contacted and collected them. Loud, rau-

cous cries, each with a definite verbal meaning, were ex-

changed. Menace was on the Earth--bizarre, nameless men-

ace. Excitement grew to fever pitch.

Dusk, beautiful and soft and forbidding, found the bird

clan assembled in a chamber high-placed in a tremendous

edifice many miles from where Kaw had made his discovery.

The building belonged to the same gentle culture which had

produced the blue porcelain tower. The floor of the chamber

was doubtless richly mosaicked. But these were relics of de-

parted splendor now thickly masked with dust and filth.

From the walls, however, painted landscapes of ethereal

beauty, and the faces of a happy humankind of long ago

peeped through the gathering shadows. They were like

ghosts, a little awed at what had happened to the world to

which they had once belonged. Those gentle folk had dwelt

in a kindlier climate which was now stripped forever from

the face of the Earth. And they had been wiped out by crea-

tures who were human too, but of a different, crueler race.

Through delicately carven screens of pierced marble, far

up on the sides of the chamber's vast, brooding rotunda, the

fading light of day gleamed, like a rose glow through the

lacework of fairies.

But this palace of old, dedicated to laughter and fun and

luxury, and to the soaring dreams of the fine arts, was now

only a chill, dusty gathering place for a clan of black-winged,

gruesome harpies.

They chuckled and chattered and cawed, like the crows of

dead eras. But these sounds, echoing eerily beneath cloistered

arches, dim and abhorrent in the advancing gloom of night,

differed from that antique yammering. It constituted real,

intelligent conversation.

Kaw, perched high on a fancifully wrought railing of

bronze, green with the patina of age, urged his companions

with loud cries, and with soft, pleading notes, In his own way,

he had some of the qualities of a master orator. But, as all

through an afternoon of similar arguing, he was getting no-

where. His tribe was afraid. And so it was becoming more

and more apparent that he must undertake his mission alone.

Even Teka, his mate, would not accompany him.

At last Kaw ruffled his neck feathers, and shook his head

violently in an avian gesture of disgust. He leaped from his

perch and shot through a glassless window with an angry

scream that was like the curse of a black ghoul.

It was the first time that he had ever undertaken a long

journey at night. But in his own judgment, necessity was

such that no delay could be tolerated.

The stars were sharp and clear, the air chill and frosty.

The ground was dotted sparsely with faint glimmerings from

the chimneys of the crude furnaces which, during the colder

nights of spring and fall, warmed the underground rodent

colonies.

After a time the Moon rose, huge and yellow, like the eye

of a monster. In that bloom and silence, Kaw found it easy

to feel the creeping and imperceptible, yet avalanching,

growth of horror. He could not be sure, of course, that he was

right in his guess that the mission he had undertaken was

grimly important. But his savage intuition was keen.

The Itorloo--the Children of Men--he must see them, and

tell them what he knew. Kaw was aware that the Itorioo had

no love for any but themselves. But they were more powerful

than the winds and the movements of the Sun and Moon

themselves. They would find a swift means to defeat the silent

danger.

And so, till the gray dawn, Kaw flew on and on, covering

many hundreds of miles, until he saw a low dome of metal,

capping a hill. The soft half-light of early morning sharpened

its outlines to those of a beautiful, ebon silhouette, peaceful

and yet forbidding. Beneath it, as Kaw knew, was a shaft

leading down to the wondrous underworld of the Itorloo, as

intriguing to his mind as a shadowland of magic.

Fear tightened its constricting web around Kaw's heart--

but retreat was something that must not be. There was too

much at stake ever to permit a moment of hesitation.

Kaw swung into a wider arc, circling the dome. His long

wings, delicately poised for a soaring glide, did not flap now,

but dipped and rose to capture and make use of the lifting

power of every vagrant wisp of breeze. And from his lungs,

issued a loud, raucous cry.

"Itorloo!" he screamed. "Itorloo!"

The word, except for its odd, parrot-like intonation, was

pronounced in an entirely human manner. Kaw, in common

with his crow ancestors, possessed an aptitude for mimicry

of the speech of men.

Tensely he waited for a sign, as he swung lower and nearer

to the dome.

3

Zar felt irritable. He did not like the lonely surface vigil

and the routine astronomical checkings that constituted his

duty. All night he'd sat there at his desk with signal lights

winking around him, helping surface watchers at the other

stations check the position of a new meteor swarm by means

of crossing beams of probe rays.

Angles, distances, numbers! Zar was disgusted. Why didn't

the construction crews hurry? The whole race could have been

moved to Venus long ago, and might just as well have been.

For as far as Zar could see, there was no real reason to retain

a hold on the burnt-out Earth. The native Venusians should

have been crushed a century back. There wasn't any reason

why this pleasant task shouldn't have been accomplished

then--no reason except stupid, official inertia!

The sound of a shrill bird cry, throbbing from the pickup

diaphragm on the wall, did not add any sweetening potion

to Zar's humor. At first he paid no attention; but the insistent

screaming of the name of his kind--"Itorloo! Itorloo!"--at

length aroused him to angry action.

His broad, withered face, brown and hideous and goblin-

like, twisted itself into an ugly grimace. He bounded up from

his chair, and seized a small, pistol-like weapon.

A moment later he was out on the sandy slopes of the hill,

looking up at the black shape that swooped and darted

timidly, close to his head. On impulse Zar raised his weapon,

no thought of compassion in his mind.

But Raw screamed again: "Itorloo! Loaaah!"

In Zar's language, "Loaaah!" meant "Danger!" very em-

phatically, Zar's hand, bent on execution, was stayed for the

moment at least. His shrewd little eyes narrowed, and from

his lips there issued yammering sounds which constituted an

understandable travesty of the speech of Kaw's kind.

"Speak your own tongue, creature!" he ordered sharply,

"I can understand!"

Still swooping and darting nervously, Kaw screamed forth

his story, describing in quaint manner the thing he had seen,

employing comparisons such as any primitive savage would

use. In this way the invader was like a boulder, in that way

it was like a thorn cactus, and in other ways it resembled

the instruments of death which the Itorioo employed. In all

ways it was strange, and unlike anything ever seen before.

And Zar Listened with fresh and calculated attention, get-

ting from this bird creature the information he required to

locate the strange miracle. Kaw was accurate and clear

enough in giving his directions.

Zar might have forgotten his inherent ruthlessness where

his feathered informer was concerned, had not Kaw become

a trifle too insistent in his exhortations to action. He lingered

too long and screamed too loudly.

Irritated, Zar raised his weapon. Kaw swept away at once,

but there was no chance for him to get out of range. Invisible

energy shot toward him. Black feathers were torn loose, and

floated aflame in the morning breeze. Kaw gave a shrill

shriek of agony and reproach. Erratically he wavered to the

ground.

Zar did not even glance toward him, but retraced his way

leisurely into the surface dome. An hour later, however, hav-

ing received permission from his superiors, he had journeyed

across those hundreds of miles to the gully beside the blue

porcelain tower. And there he bent over the form of the in-

vader. Zar was somewhat awed. He had never been to Mars.

For two hundred thousand years or more, no creature from

Earth had ever visited that planet. The Itorloo were too prac-

tical to attempt such a useless venture, and their more recent

predecessors had lacked some of the adventurous incentive

required for so great and hazardous a journey.

But Zar had perused old records, belonging to an era half

a million years gone by. He knew that this gray-green thing

was at least like the flora of ancient Mars. Into his mind,

matter-of-fact for the most part, came the glimmerings of a

mighty romance, accentuating within him a consciousness

of nameless dread, and of grand interplanetary distances.

Spines. Bulging, hard-shelled, pulpy leaves that stored

oxygen under pressure. Chlorophyl that absorbed sunshine

and made starch, just as in an ordinary Earthly plant. Only

the ehlorophyl of this growth was beneath a thick, translu-

cent shell, which altered the quality of the light it could

reflect. That was why astronomers in the pre-interplanetary

era had doubted the existence of vegetation on Mars. Green

plants of Terra, when photographed with infrared light,

looked silvery, like things of frost. But--because of their

shells--Martian vegetation could not betray its presence in

the same manner.

Zar shuddered, though the morning air was not chill by

his standards. The little gleaming orbs of the invader seemed

to scrutinize him critically and coldly, and with a vast wis-

dom. Zar saw the shattered spore-pods, knowing that their

contents now floated in the air, like dust--floated and set-

tled--presenting a subtle menace whose tool was the unex-

pected, and against which--because of the myriad numbers

of the widely scattered spores--only the most drastic methods

could prevail.

Belatedly, then, anger came. Zar drew a knife from his

belt. Half in fury and half in experiment, he struck the in-

vader, chipping off a piece of its shell. He felt a sharp electric

shock, though by no means strong enough to kill a creature

of his size. From the wound he made in the plant, oxygen

sizzled softly. But the invader offered no further defense. For

the present it had reached the end of its resources.

Zar bounded back. His devilish little weapon flamed then,

for a full two minutes. When he finally released pressure on

its trigger, there was only a great, smouldering, glowing hole

in the ground where the ghoulish thing from across space

had stood.

Such was Zar's and the entire Itorloo race's answer to the

intruder. Swift destruction! Zar chuckled wickedly. And there

were ways to rid Earth of the treacherous menace of the plant

intelligences of Mars entirely, even though they would take

time.

Besides there was Venus, the world of promise. Soon half

of the Itorloo race would be transported there. The others

certainly could be accommodated if it became necessary.

* * *

Necessary? Zar laughed. He must be getting jittery. What

had the Itorloo to fear from those inert, vegetable things?

Now he aimed his weapon toward the blue tower, and

squeezed the trigger. Weakened tiles crumbled and fell down

with a hollow, desolate rattle that seemed to mock Zar's ruth-

lessness.

Suddenly he felt sheepish. To every intelligent being there

is a finer side that prompts and criticizes. And for a moment

Zar saw himself and his people a little more as they really

were.

Unlike the lesser creatures, the Children of Men had not

advanced very much mentally. The ups and downs of history

had not favored them. War had reversed the benefits of nat-

ural selection, destroying those individuals of the species best

suited to carry it on to greater glory. Zar knew this, and

perhaps his senseless assault upon the ruined building was

but a subconscious gesture of resentment toward the people

of long ago who had been kinder and wiser and happier.

Zar regretted his recent act of destroying the spore plant.

It should have been preserved for study. But now--well--

what was done could not be changed.

He entered his swift, gleaming rocket car. When he closed

its cabin door behind him, it seemed that he was shutting

out a horde of mocking, menacing ghosts.

In a short while he was back at the surface station. Re-

lieved there of his duty by another little brown man, he de-

scended the huge cylindrical shaft which dropped a mile to

the region that was like the realm of the Cyclops. Thrumming

sounds, winking lights, shrill shouts of the workers, blasts

of incandescent flame, and the colossal majesty of gigantic

machines, toiling tirelessly.

In a vast, pillared plaza the keels of spaceships were being

laid--spaceships for the migration and the conquest. In per-

haps a year--a brief enough time for so enormous a task--

they would soar away from Earth, armed to the teeth. There

would be thousands of the craft then, for all over the world,

in dozens of similar underground places, they were in process

of construction.

Zar's vague fears were dissipated in thoughts of conquest

to come. The Venus folk annihilated in withering clouds of

flame. The glory of the Itorloo carried on and on--

Kaw was not dead. That this was so was almost a miracle,

made possible, perhaps, by a savage, indomitable will to live.

In his small bird body there was a fierce, burning courage

that compensated for many of his faults.

For hours he lay there on the desert sand, a pathetic and

crumpled bundle of tattered feathers, motionless except for

his labored breathing, and the blinking of his hate-filled eyes.

Blood dripped slowly from the hideous, seared wound on his

breast, and his whole body ached with a vast, dull anguish.

Toward sundown, however, he managed to hobble and flut-

ter forward a few rods. Here he buried himself shallowly in

the sand, where his chilled body would be protected from the

nocturnal cold.

For three days he remained thus interred. He was too

weak and sick to leave his burrow. Bitterness toward Zar and

the other cruel Itorloo, he did not feel. Kaw had lived too

long in this harsh region to expect favors. But a black fury

stormed within him, nevertheless--a black fury as agonizing

as physical pain. He wanted revenge. No, he needed revenge

as much as he needed the breath of life. He did not know that

Itorloo plans directed against the intruding spores from Mars

were already under way, and that--as a by-product--they

would destroy his own kind, and all primitive life on the

surface of the Earth.

Kaw left his hiding place on the fourth- day. Luck favored

him, for he found a bit of carrion--part of the dead body of

an antelopelike creature.

Somehow, through succeeding weeks and days, he man-

aged to keep alive. The mending of his injured flesh was slow

indeed, for the burnt wound was unclean. But he started

toward home, hopping along at first, then flying a little, a

hundred yards at a time, Tedium and pain were endless. But

the fiendish light of what must seem forever fruitless hatred,

never faded in those wicked, white-lidded eyes. Frequently

Kaw's long, black beak snapped in a vicious expression of

boundless determination.

Weeks of long days become a month, and then two months.

Starved to a black-clad skeleton, and hopeless of ever being

fit to hunt again, Kaw tottered into a deep gorge one evening.

Utterly spent, he sank to the ground here, his brain far too

weary to take note of any subtle unusualness which the deep-

ening shadows half masked.

He scarcely saw the rounded things scattered here. Had

he noticed them, his blurred vision would have named them

small boulders and nothing more. Fury, directed at the Itor-

loo, had made him almost forget the spore plants. He did not

know that this was to be a place of magic, Chance and the

vagrant winds had made it so. A hundred spores, out of many

millions, had lodged here. Conditions had been just right for

their swift development. It was warm, but not too warm. And

there was moisture too. Distantly Kaw heard the trickle of

water. He wanted to get to it, but his feebleness prevented

him.

He must have slept, then, for a long time, It seemed that

he awoke at the sound of an odd buzzing, which may have

possessed hypnotic properties. He felt as weak and stiff as

before, but he was soothed and peaceful now, in spite of his

thirst and hunger.

He looked about. The gorge was deep and shadowy. A still

twilight pervaded it, though sunshine gilded its bulging, ir-

regular lips far above. These details he took in in a moment.

He looked, then, at the grotesque shapes around him--

things which, in the deeper darkness, he had thought to be

only boulders. But now he saw that they were spore plants,

rough, eerie, brooding, with their little, lensed light-sensitive

organs agleam.

The excitement of terror seized him, and he wanted to flee,

as from a deadly enemy. But this urge did not last long. The

hypnotic buzz, which issued from the diaphragmic vocal or-

gans of the plants, soothed and soothed and soothed, until

Kaw felt very relaxed.

There were dead ants around him, doubtless the victims

of electrocution. Since no better food was within reach, Kaw

hopped here and there, eating greedily.

After that he hobbled to the brackish spring that dripped

from the wall, and drank. Next he dropped to the ground, his

fresh drowsiness characterized by sleepy mutterings about

himself, his people, and the all-wise Itorloo, And it seemed,

presently, that the buzzing of the invaders changed in char-

acter at last, seeming to repeat his own mutterings clumsily,

like a child learning to talk.

"Kaw! Itorloo!" And other words and phrases belonging

to the speech of the crow clans.

It was the beginning of things miraculous and wonderful

for Kaw, the black-feathered rascal. Many suns rose and set,

but somehow he felt no urge to wander farther toward his

home region. He did not know the Lethean fascination of

simple hypnotism. True, he sallied afield farther and farther,

as his increasing strength permitted. He hunted now, eating

bugs and beetles for the most part. But always he returned

to the gorge, there to listen to the weird growths, buzzing,

chattering, speaking to him in his own tongue. In them there

seemed somehow to be a vague suggestion of the benignance

of some strange, universal justice, in spite of their horror.

And night and day, rocket cars, streamlined and gleaming,

swept over the desert. Now and then beams of energy were

unleashed from them, whipping the sand into hot flame, de-

stroying the invading spore plants that had struck root here

and there. Only the law of chance kept them away from the

gorge, as doubtless it allowed them to miss other hiding

places of alien life. For the wilderness was wide.

But this phase of the Itorloo battle against the invading

spore plants was only a makeshift preliminary, intended to

keep the intruders in check. Only the Itorloo themselves

knew about the generators now being constructed far un-

derground--generators which, with unseen emanations, could

wipe out every speck of living protoplasm on the exposed

crust of the planet. Theirs was a monumental task, and a

slow one. But they meant to be rid, once and for all, of the

subtle threat which had come perhaps to challenge their do-

minion of the Earth. Kaw and his kind, the rodents, the ants,

and all the other simple People of the Dusk of Terra's Great-

ness, were seemingly doomed.

Kaw's hatred of the Children of Men was undimmed, more

justly than he was aware. Thus it was easy for him to listen

when he was commanded: "Get an Itorloo! Bring him here!

Alone! On foot!"

Zar was the logical individual to produce, for he was the

nearest, the most readily available. But summer was almost

gone before Kaw encountered the right opportunity, though

he watched with care at all times.

Evening, with Venus and the Moon glowing softly in the

sky. Kaw was perched on a hilltop, close to the great surface

dome, watching as he had often watched before. Out of its

cylindrical hangar, Zar's flier darted, and then swung in a

slow arc. Presently it headed at a leisurely pace into the

northwest. For once its direction was right, and it was not

traveling too fast for Kaw to keep pace with it. Clearly its

pilot was engaged in a rambling pleasure jaunt, which had

no definite objective,

Kaw, pleased and excited, fell in behind at a safe distance.

There he remained until the craft was near the gorge. Now

there was danger, but if things were done right--

He flapped his wings violently to catch up with his me-

chanical quarry. He screamed loudly: "Itorloo! Itorloo! De-

scend! Descend! I am Kaw, who informed you of the unknowns

long ago! I would show you more! More! More!" All this in

ahrill, avian chatterings.

Kaw's trickery was naively simple. But Zar heard, above

the noise of his rocket blasts. Suspicion? He felt it, of course.

There was no creature in this era who accepted such an in-

vitation without question. Yet he was well armed. In his own

judgment he should be quite safe. Curiosity led him on.

He shut off his rocket motors, and uttered the bird jargon,

questioning irritably: "Where? What is it, black trickster?"

Kaw skittered about defensively. "Descend!'" he repeated.

"Descend to the ground. The thing that bears you cannot take

you where we must go!"

The argument continued for some little time, primitive

with matching curiosity and suspicion.

And meanwhile, in the gloomy gorge cut in vague geologic

times by some gushing stream, entities waited patiently. Sap

flowed in their tissues, as in the tissues of any other vege-

tation, but the fine hairs on their forms detected sounds, and

their light-sensitive cells served as eyes. Within their forms

were organs equivalent to human nerve and brain. They did

not use tools or metals, but worked in another way, dictated

by their vast disadvantages when compared to animal in-

telligences. Yet they had their advantages, too.

Now they waited, dim as bulking shadows. They detected

the excited cries of Kaw, who was their instrument. And

perhaps they grew a little more tense, like a hunter in

a blind, when he hears the quacking of ducks through a

fog.

There was a grating of pebbles and a little brown man,

clad in a silvery tunic, stepped cautiously into view. There

was a weapon clutched in his slender hand. He paused, as

if suddenly awed and fearful. But no opportunity to retreat

was given him.

* * *

A spore-pod exploded with a loud plop in the confined

space. A mass of living dust filled the gorge, like a dense,

opaque cloud, choking, blinding. Zar squeezed the trigger of

his weapon impulsively. Several of the invaders were blasted

out of existence. Stones clattered down from where the

unaimed beam of energy struck the wall.

Panic seized the little man, causing him to take one stran-

gling breath. In a few moments he was down, writhing help-

less on the ground. Choked by the finely divided stuff, his

consciousness seemed to drop into a black hole of infinity.

He, Zar, seemed about to pay for his misdeeds. With a mad

fury he heard the derisive screams of Kaw, who had tricked

him. But he could not curse in return, and presently his

thoughts vanished away to nothing.

Awareness of being alive came back to him very slowly

and painfully. At first he felt as though he had pneumonia--

fever, suffocation, utter vagueness of mind. Had the spores

germinated within his lungs, he would surely have died. But

they did not, there; conditions, were too moist and warm for

them. Gradually he coughed them up.

He felt cold with a bitter, aching chill, for the weather had

changed with the lateness of the season. Fine snow sifted

down into the gorge from clouds that were thin and pearly

and sun-gilded. Each tiny crystal of ice glittered with a

thousand prismatic hues as it slowly descended. And the si-

lence was deathly, bearing a burden of almost tangible des-

olation. In that burden there seemed to crowd all the antique

history of a world--history whose grand movement shaded

gradually toward stark, eternal death.

Zar wanted to flee this awful place that had become like

part of another planet. He jerked his body as if to scramble

feebly to his feet. He found then that he was restrained by

cordlike tendrils, hard as horn, and warm with a faint, fer-

mentive, animal-like heat. Like the beat of a nameless pulse,

tiny shocks of electricity tingled his flesh in a regular rhythm.

It was clear to Zar that while he had been inert the tendrils

had fastened themselves slowly around him, in a way that

was half like the closing of an ancient Venus Flytrap, car-

nivorous plant of old, and half like the simple creeping of a

vine on a wall.

Those constricting bonds were tightening now. Zar could

feel the tiny thorns with which they were equipped biting

into his flesh. He screamed in horror and pain. His cries

echoed hollowly in the cold gorge. The snow, slowly sifting,

and the silence, both seemed to mock--by their calm, pitiless

lack of concern--the plight in which he found himself.

And then a voice, chattering faintly in the language

of Kaw the Crow: "Be still. Peace. Peace. Peace. Peace.

Peace--"

Gradually the sleepy tone quieted Zar, even though he

was aware that whatever the invaders might do to him could

bring him no good.

Plants with voices. Almost human voices! Some sort of

tympanic organs, hidden, perhaps, in some of those pulpy

leaves, Zar judged. From the records of the old explanations

of Mars, he knew a little about these intruders, and their

scheme of life. Organs, with the functions of mechanical con-

trivances, conceived and grown as they were needed! An alien

science, adapted to the abilities and limitations of vegetative

intelligences--intelligences that had never controlled the

mining and smelting and shaping of metal!

Zar, tight in the clutch of those weird monstrosities, re-

alized some of their power. Strangely it did not affect the

hypnotic calm that wrapped him.

Mars. These wondrous people of the dusk of worlds had

survived all animal life on the Red Planet. They had spanned

Mars in a vast, irregularly formed network, growing along

dry river beds, and the arms of vanished seas. They had not

been mere individuals, for they had cooperated to form a

civilization of a weird, bizarre sort. Great, hollow roots, buried

beneath the ground, had drawn water from melting polar

snows. Those roots had been like water conduits. A rhythmic

pulsation within them had pumped the water across thou-

sands of miles of desert, providing each plant along the way

with moisture, even on that dying and almost dehydrated

world. The canals of Mars! Yes, a great irrigation system, a

great engineering feat--but out of the scope of Itorloo meth-

ods entirely.

And through the Jiving texture of those immense joining

roots, too, had doubtless flown the impulses of thoughts and

commands--the essence of leadership and security. Even

now, when Mars was. all but dead, its final civilization must

still be trying to fight on.

Strange, wonderful times those old explorers had seen.

Cold sunlight on bizarre ruins, left by extinct animal folk.

Thin air and arctic weather, worse than that of Earth in the

present age. Death everywhere, except for those vegetative

beings grouped in immense, spiny, ribbonlike stretches. Dim

shapes at night under hurtling Phobos, the nearer moon, and

Deimos, her leisurely sister. Zar did not know just how it had

happened, but he had heard that only a few of those human

adventurers had escaped from the people of Mars with their

lives.

Zar's thought rambled on in a detached way that was odd

for him. Perhaps Nature had a plan that she used over and

over again. On Terra the great reptiles of the Mesozoic period

had died out to be replaced by mammals. Men and the Chil-

dren of Men had become supreme at last.

Succession after succession, according to some well-or-

dered scheme? In the desolate quiet of falling snow, tempered

only by the muted murmur of the frigid wind, it was easy for

Zar to fall prey to such a concept, particularly since he was

held powerless in the grasp of the invaders. Tendrils, thorny,

stinging tendrils, which must have been grown purposely to

receive an Itorloo captive! Zar could realize, then, a little of

the fantastic introspective sense which gave these beings a

direct contact with the physical secrets of their forms. And

in consequence a knowledge of chemistry and biology that

was clearer than anything that an Itorloo might be expected

to attain along similar lines.

Zar wanted to shriek, but his awe and his weakness stran-

gled him beyond more than the utterance of a gasping sigh.

Then the mighty spirit of his kind reasserted itself. Zar

was aware that most probably he himself would presently

perish; but the Itorloo, his kind, his real concern, could never

lose! Not with all the mighty forces at their command! To

suppose that they could be defeated by the sluggish intruders

was against reason! In a matter of months--when the prep-

arations for the vast purification process had been com-

pleted--Earth would be free of those intruders once more,

Zar's brown face contracted into a leer of defiance that had

a touch of real greatness. Brutality, force, cunning, and the

capacity for quick action--those were the tools of the Itorloo,

but they had strength too. Zar was no fool--no short-sighted

individual who leaps to hasty, optimistic conclusions--but in

a contest between the Itorloo and the invaders there could

be but a single outcome by any standard within Zar's reach.

In this belief, he was comforted, and his luck, presently,

after long hours of suffering, seemed far better than he had

any reason to hope for. The hard, thorny tendrils unques-

tionably were relaxing from about him a very little. He could

not guess why, and in consequence he suspected subtle

treachery, But he could find no reason to suppose that some

hidden motive was responsible.

All his avid energies were concentrated, now, on escape.

He concluded that perhaps the cold had forced the slight

vegetable relaxation, and he proceeded to make the best pos-

sible use of his chances. Some time daring the night his

straining hands reached the hilt of his knife. Not long after-

ward Zar clutched his blast gun.

Zar limped stiffly to his flier, cursing luridly; while behind

him in the gorge, red firelight flickered, and wisps of smoke

lanced into the frigid wind.

Zar wished that Kaw was somewhere in sight, to receive

his wrath too. The ebon rascal had vanished.

Winter deepened during succeeding days. The Itorloo in

their buried cities felt none of its rigors, however.

Zar had submitted to a physical examination after his

weird adventure, and had been pronounced fit. And of all his

people he seemed to toil the most conscientiously.

The Venus project. Soon the Children of Men would be

masters of that youthful, sunward planet. The green plains

and jungles, and the blue skies of Venus. Soon! Soon! Soon!

Zar was full of dreams of adventure and brutal pleasure.

Periodically the rocket craft of the Itorloo sallied forth

from the cities to stamp out the fresh growth of the invaders.

The oxygen-impregnated substance of their forms flamed in

desert gullies, and along the rims of shrivelled salt seas,

where the spore plants were trying to renew their civilization.

Most of them did not get a chance, even, to approach matu-

rity. But because even one mature survivor could pollute the

Earth with billions of spores, impossible to destroy otherwise,

the purification process must be carried through.

Spring again, and then midsummer. The spaceships were

almost ready to leap Venus-ward on the great adventure.

The generators, meant to spread life-destroying emanations

over the crust and atmosphere above, stood finished and

gleaming in the white-domed caverns that housed them.

Zar looked at the magnificent, glittering array in the

spaceship construction chamber of his native community

with pride and satisfaction.

"Tomorrow," he said to a companion, a fierce light in his

eyes.

The othgr nodded, the white glare of the atomic welding

furnaces lighting up his features, and betraying there a wolf-

ish grin of pleasure.

"Tomorrow," Zar repeated, an odd sort of vagueness in

his tone.

5

Kaw had long ago rejoined his tribe. Life, during those

recent months, had been little different from what had been

usual in the crow clans for thousands of years. For purposes

of safety, Kaw had led his flock into a desert fastness where

patrolling Itorloo fliers were seldom seen, and where only a

few spore plants had yet appeared.

His first intimation that all was not well was a haunting

feeling of unease, which came upon him quite suddenly one

day just before noon. His body burned and prickled uncom-

fortably, and he felt restless. Other than these dim evidences,

there was nothing to betray the invisible hand of death.

Emanations, originating in the generators of the Itorloo,

far underground. But Kaw was no physicist. He knew only

that he and his fellows were vaguely disturbed.

With Teka, his mate, and several of their companions, he

soared high into the sky. There, for a time, he felt better. Far

overhead, near the Sun's bright disc, he glimpsed the incan-

descent streamers of Itorloo vessels, distant in space. And

preseritly, with little attention, he saw those vessels--there

were five in the group--turn back toward Earth.

The advance in the strength of the deadly emanations was

slow. Vast masses of rock, covering the upper crust of the

planet in a thin shell, had to develop a kind of resonance to

them before they could reach their maximum power.

By nightfall Kaw felt only slightly more uncomfortable.

By the following dawn, however, he was definitely droopy

and listless. The gradual, worldwide process of purification

advanced, directed at the invaders, but promising destruction

to the less favored native life of Earth, too.

Four days. Huddled in a pathetic group in a ruined struc-

ture of antiquity, Kaw's tribe waited. Their features were

dull and ruffled, and they shivered as if with cold. Some of

them uttered low, sleepy twitterings of anguish.

That evening Kaw watched the pale Moon rise from a

battered window embrasure. He was too weak to stand, but

rested slumped forward on his breast. His eyes were rheumy

and heavy-lidded, but they still held a savage glitter of de-

fiance, which perhaps would burn in them even after they

had ceased to live and see. And Raw's clouded mind could

still hazard a guess as to the identity of the author of his

woes. Brave but impotent, he could still scream a hoarse

challenge inspired by a courage as deathless as the ages.

"Itorloo! Itorloo!--"

Some time before the first group of spaceships, headed for

Venus, had been recalled to Earth, Zar, assigned to the second

group, which had not yet entered the launching tubes, had

collapsed against his instrument panels.

His affliction had come with a suddenness that was utterly

abrupt. Recovering from his swoon, he found himself lying

on a narrow pallet in the hospital quarters of the city. His

vision was swimming and fogged, and he felt hot and cold by

turns.

But he could see the silvery tunic'd figure of the physician

standing close to him.

"What is wrong?" he stammered. "What is it that has

happened to me? A short time ago I was well!"

"Much is wrong," the physician returned quietly. "And

you have not really been well for a long time. A germ dis-

ease--a type of thing which we thought our sanitation had

stamped out millenniums ago--has been ravaging your brain

and nerves for months! Only its insidiousness prevented it

from being discovered earlier. During its incipient stages the

poisons of it seem actually to stimulate mental and physical

activity, giving a treacherous impression of robust health.

And we know, certainly, that this disease is extremely con-

tagious. It does not reveal itself easily, but I and others have

examined many apparently healthy individuals with great

care. In each there is the telltale evidence that the disease

is not only present, but far advanced. Hundreds have col-

lapsed as you have. More, surely, will follow. It is my belief

that the entire race has been afflicted. And the plague has

a fatal look. Panic has broken out. There is a threatened

failure of power and food supplies. Perhaps an antitoxin can

be found--but there is so little time."

Half delirious, Zar could still grasp the meaning of the

physician's words, and could understand the origin of the

disease.

He began to mutter with seeming incoherence: "The

changing Earth. Reptiles. Mammals. Men-- Succession

Nature--"

His voice took on a fiercer tone. "Fight, Itorloo!" he

screamed. "Fight!"

Cruel he was, as were all his people, but he had pluck.

Suddenly he arose to a sitting posture on his bed His eyes

flamed. If his act represented the final dramatic gesture of

all the hoary race of man, still it was magnificent. Nor were

any tears to be shed, for extinction meant only a task com-

pleted.

"Fight!" he shouted again, as if addressing a limitless

multitude. "Fight, Itorloo! Study! Learn! Work! It is the only

hope! Keep power flowing in the purification generators if

you can. The old records of the explorations of Mars--those

plants! Their approach to problems is different from our own.

No metals. No machines as we know them. But in hidden

compartments in their tissues it was easy for them to create

the bacteria of death! They invented those bacteria, and grew

them, breaking them away from their own substance. Some

way, when I was a captive, I was infected. The thorns on the

tendrils that held me! I was the carrier! Find an antitoxin

to fight the plague, Itorloo! Work--"

6

One year. Two. Three. The sunshine was brilliant, the air

almost warm. The rusty desert hills in the distance were the

same. Ancient ruins brooded in the stillness, as they had for

so long. On the slopes ant hordes were busy. Rodent colonies

showed similar evidence of population. In the sky, Kaw and

his companions wheeled and turned lazily.

This was the same Earth, with several changes. Bulbous,

spiny things peopled the gorges, and were probing out across

the desert, slowly building--with hollow, connecting roots--

the water pipes of a tremendous irrigation system. Like that

of Mars, and like that of Ganymede, moon of Jupiter, in

former ages. Saline remnants of seas and polar snows could

alike provide the needed moisture.

Thoughts traveled swiftly along connecting roots. Little

orbs and wicked spines gleamed. The invaders were at peace

now. Only the Itorloo could have threatened their massed

might. There was no danger in the lesser native life.

The subterranean cities of the former rulers of Earth were

inhabited only by corpses and by intruding ants, who, like

the other fauna of this planet, were immune to the plague,

which had been directed and designed for the Itorloo alone.

The last race of men was now one with the reptiles of the

Mesozoic. But all was peace.

Kaw screamed put his contentment in loud, lazy cries, as

he circled in the clear air. He seldom thought of the past any

more. If the new masters were not truly benignant, they were

indifferent. They left him alone. Kaw, creature of Earth's

dusk, was happy.

The great surface dome where Zar, the Itorloo, had once

kept watch, was already surrounded by crowded growths.

The plants had achieved a great, but an empty, victory. For

Earth was a dying planet. Within the dome an astronomical

telescope gleamed dully, collecting dust. Often Zar had di-

rected it toward Venus, goal of shattered Itorloo dreams.

But who knew? Out of the void to Ganymede the invaders

had come. Across space to Mars. Riding light to Earth. Per-

haps when the time came--when Venus was growing

old--

Dark Benediction

WALTER M. MILLER, JR,

Always fearful of being set upon during the night, Paul slept

uneasily despite his weariness from the long trek southward.

When dawn broke, he rolled out of his blankets and found

himself still stiff with fatigue. He kicked dirt over the re-

mains of the campfire and breakfasted on a tough forequarter

of cold boiled rabbit which he washed down with a swallow

of earthy-tasting ditchwater. Then he buckled the cartridge

belt about his waist, leaped the ditch, and climbed the em-

bankment to the trafficless four-lane highway whose pave-

ment was scattered with blown leaves and unsightly debris

dropped by a long-departed throng of refugees whose only

wish had been to escape from one another. Paul, with char-

acteristic independence, had decided to go where the crowds

had been the thickest--to the cities--on the theory that they

would now be deserted, and therefore noncontagious.

The fog lay heavy over the silent land, and for a moment

he paused groping for cognizance of direction. Then he saw

the stalled car on the opposite shoulder of the road--a late

model convertible, but rusted, flat-tired, with last.year's li-

cense plates, and most certainly out of fuel. It obviously had

been deserted by its owner during the exodus, and he trusted

in its northward heading as he would have trusted the read-

ing of a compass. He turned right and moved south on the

empty highway. Somewhere just ahead in the gray vapor lay

the outskirts of Houston. He had seen the high skyline before

the setting of yesterday's sun, and knew that his journey

would soon be drawing to a close.

Occasionally he passed a deserted cottage or a burned-out

roadside tavern, but he did not pause to scrounge for food.

The exodus would have stripped such buildings clean. Pick-

ings should be better in the heart of the metropolitan area,

he thought--where the hysteria had swept humanity away

quickly.

Suddenly Paul froze on the highway, listening to the fog.

Footsteps in the distance--footsteps and a voice singing an

absent-minded ditty to itself. No other sounds penetrated the

sepulchral silence which once had growled with the life of a

great city. Anxiety caught him with clammy hands. An old

man's voice it was, crackling and tuneless. Paul groped for

his holster and brought out the revolver he had taken from

a deserted police station.

"Stop where you are, dermie!" he bellowed at the fog. "I'm

armed."

The footsteps and the singing stopped. Paul strained his

eyes to penetrate the swirling mist-shroud. After a moment,

the oldster answered: "Sure foggy, ain't it, sonny? Can't see

ya. Better come a little closer. I ain't no dermie."

Loathing choked in Paul's throat. "The hell you're not.

Nobody else'd be crazy enough to sing. Get off the road! I'm

going south, and if I see you I'll shoot. Now move!"

"Sure, sonny. I'll move. But Fm no dermie. I was just

singing to keep myself company. I'm past caring about the

plague. I'm heading north, where there's people, and if some

dermie hears me a'singing... why, I'll tell him t'come jine in.

What's the good o' being healthy if yer alone?"

While the old man spoke, Paul heard his sloshing across

the ditch and climbing through the brush. Doubt assailed

him. Maybe the old crank wasn't a dermie. An ordinary

plague victim would have whimpered and pleaded for sat-

isfaction of his strange craving--the !aying-on of hands, the

feel of healthy skin beneath moist gray palms. Nevertheless,

Paul meant to take no chances with the oldster.

"Stay back in the brush while I walk past!" he called.

'"Okay, sonny. You go right by, I ain't gonna touch you.

You aiming to scrounge in Houston?"

Paul began to advance. "Yeah, I figure people got out so

fast that they must have left plenty of canned goods and stuff

behind."

"Mmmm, there's a mite here and there," said the cracked

voice in a tone that implied understatement. "Course, now,

you ain't the first to figure that way, y'know."

Paul slacked his pace, frowning. "You mean... a lot of

people are coming back?"

"Mmmm, no--not a lot. But you'll bump into people every-

day or two. Ain't my kind o' folks. Rough characters, mostly--

don't take chances, either. They'll shoot first, then look to see

if you was a dermie. Don't never come busting out of a door-

way without taking a peek at the street first. And if two

people come around a corner in opposite directions, some-

body's gonna die. The few that's there is trigger happy. Just

thought I'd warn ya." " "Thanks."

"D'mention it. Been good t'hear a body's voice again, tho

I can't see ye."

Paul moved on until he was fifty paces past the voice.

Then he stopped and turned. "Okay, you can get back on the

road now. Start walking north. Scuff your feet until you're

out of earshot."

"Taking no chances, are ye?" said the old man as he waded

the ditch. "All right, sonny." The sound of his footsteps hes-

itated on the pavement. "A word of advice--your best

scrounging'll be ar&und the warehouses. Most of the stores

are picked clean. Good luck!"

Paul stood listening to the shuffling feet recede northward.

When they became inaudible, he turned to continue his jour-

ney. The meeting had depressed him, reminded him of the

animal-level to which he and others like him had sunk. The

oldster was obviously healthy; but Paul had been chased by-

three dermies in as many days. And the thought of being

trapped by a band of them in the fog left him unnerved. Once

he had seen a pair of the grinning, maddened compulsives

seize a screaming young child while each of them took turns

caressing the youngster's arms and face with the gray and

slippery hands that spelled certain contraction of the dis-

ease--if disease it was. The dark pall of neuroderm was un-

like any illness that Earth had ever seen.

The victim became the eager ally of the sickness that

gripped him. Caught in its demoniac madness, the stricken

human searched hungrily for healthy comrades, then set

upon them with no other purpose than to paw at the clean

skin and praise the virtues of the blind compulsion that drove

him to do so. One touch, and infection was insured. It was

as if a third of humanity had become night-prowling maniacs,

lurking in the shadows to seize the unwary, working in bands

to trap the unarmed wanderer. And two-thirds of humanity

found itself fleeing in horror from the mania, seeking the

frigid northern climates where, according to rumor, the dis-

ease was less infectious. The normal functioning of civili-

zation had been dropped like a hot potato within six months

after the first alarm. When the man at the next lathe might

be hiding gray discolorations beneath his shirt, industrial

society was no place for humanity.

Rumor connected the onslaught of the plague with an un-

predicted swarm of meteorites which had brightened the sky

one October evening two weeks before the first case was dis-

covered. The first case was, in fact, a machinist who had

found one of the celestial cannon balls, handled it, weighed

it, estimated its volume by fluid-displacement, then cut into

it on his lathe because its low density suggested that it might

be hollow. He claimed to have found a pocket of frozen jelly,

still rigid from deep space, although the outer shell had been

heated white-hot by atmospheric friction. He said he let the

jelly thaw, then fed it to his cat because it had an unpleasant

fishy odor. Shortly thereafter, the cat disappeared.

Other meteorites had been discovered and similarly

treated by- university staffs before there was any reason to

blame them for the plague. Paul, who had been an engi-

neering student at Texas U at the time of the incident, had

heard it said that the missiles were purposefully manufac-

tured by parties unknown, that the jelly contained micro-

organisms which under the microscope suggested a cross be-

tween a sperm-cell (because of a similar tail) and a Pucini

Corpuscle (because of a marked resemblance to nerve tissue

in subcellular detail).

When the meteorites were connected with the new and

mushrooming disease, some people started a panic by theo-

rizing that the meteor-swarm was a pre-invasion artillery

attack by some space-horde lurking beyond telescope range,

and waiting for their biological bombardment to wreck civ-

ilization before they moved in upon Earth. The government

had immediately labeled all investigations "top-secret," and

Paul had heard no news since the initial speculations. Indeed,

the government might have explained the whole thing and

proclaimed it to the country for all he knew. One thing was

certain: the country had not heard. It no longer possessed

channels of communication.

Paul thought that if any such invaders were coming, they

would have already arrived--months ago. Civilization was

not truly wrecked; it had simply been discarded daring the

crazed flight of the individual away from the herd. Industry

lay idle and unmanned, but still intact. Man was fleeing from

Man. Fear had destroyed the integration of his society, and

had left him powerless before any hypothetical invaders.

Earth was ripe for plucking, but it remained unplucked and

withering. Paul, therefore, discarded the invasion hypothe-

sis, and searched for nothing new to replace it. He accepted

the fact of his own existence in the midst of chaos, and sought

to protect that existence as best he couid. It proved to be a

full-time job, with no spare time for theorizing.

Life was a rabbit scurrying over a hill. Life was a warm

blanket, and a secluded sleeping place. Life was ditchwater,

and an unbloated can of corned beef, and a suit of clothing

looted from a deserted cottage. Life, above all else, was an

avoidance of other human beings. For no dermie had the

grace to cry "unclean!" to the unsuspecting. If the dermie's

discolorations were still in the concealable stage, then con-

cealed they would be, while the lost creature deliberately

sought to infect his wife, his children, his friends--whoever

would not protest an idle touch of the hand. When the gray-

ness touched the face the backs of the hands, the creature

became a feverish night wanderer, subject to strange hal-

lucinations and delusions and desires.

The fog began to part toward midmorning as Paul drove

deeper into the outskirts of Houston. The highway, was be-

coming a commercial subcenter, lined with businesses and

small shops. The sidewalks were showered with broken glass

from windows kicked in by looters. Paul kept to the center

of the deserted street, listening and watching cautiously for

signs of life. The distant barking of a dog was the only sound

in the once-growing metropolis. A flight of sparrows winged

down the street, then darted in through a broken window to

an inside nesting place.

He searched a small grocery store, looking for a snack,

but the shelves were bare. The thoroughfare had served as

a main avenue of escape, and the fugitives had looted it

thoroughly to obtain provisions. He turned onto a side street,

then after several blocks turned again to parallel the high-

way, moving through an old residential section. Many houses

had been left open, but few had been looted. He entered one

old frame mansion and found a can of tomatoes in the kitchen.

He opened it and sipped the tender delicacy from the con-

tainer, while curiosity sent him prowling through the rooms.

He wandered up the first flight of stairs, then halted with

one foot on the landing. A body lay sprawled across the second

flight--the body of a young man, dead quite a while. A well-

rusted pistol had fallen from his hand. Paul dropped the

tomatoes and bolted for the street. Suicide was a common

recourse, when a man learned that he had been touched.

After two blocks, Paul stopped running. He sat panting

on a fire hydrant and chided himself for being overly cau-

tious. The man had been dead for months; and infection was

achieved only through contact. Nevertheless, his scalp wag

still tingling. When he had rested briefly, he continued his

plodding course toward the heart of the city. Toward noon,

he saw another human being.

The man was standing on the loading dock of a warehouse,

apparently enjoying the sunlight that came with the dis-

solving of the fog. He was slowly and solemnly spooning the

contents of a can into a red-lipped mouth while his beard

bobbled with appreciative chewing. Suddenly he saw Paul

who had stopped in the center of the street with his hand on

the butt of his pistol. The man backed away, tossed the can

aside, and sprinted the length of the platform. He bounded

off the end, snatched a bicycle away from the wall, and ped-

aled quickly out of sight while he bleated shrill blasts on

a police whistle clenched between his teeth.

Paul trotted to the corner, but the man had made another

turn. His whistle continued bleating. A signal? A dermie

summons to a touching orgy? Paul stood still while he tried

to overcome an urge to break into panicked flight. After a

minute, the clamor ceased; but the silence was ominous.

If a party of cyclists moved in, he could not escape on foot.

He darted toward the nearest warehouse, seeking a place to

hide. Inside, he climbed a stack of boxes to a horizontal girder,

kicked the stack to topple it, and stretched out belly-down

on the steel I-beam to command a clear shot at the entrances.

He lay for an hour, waiting quietly for searchers. None came.

At last he slid down a vertical support and returned to the

loading platform. The street was empty and silent. With

weapon ready, he continued his journey. He passed the next

intersection without mishap.

Halfway up the block, a calm voice drawled a command

from behind him: "Drop the gun, dermie. Get your hands

behind your head."

He halted, motionless. No plague victim would hurl the

dermie-charge at another. He dropped the pistol and turned

slowly. Three men with drawn revolvers were clambering

from the back of a stalled truck. They were all bearded, wore

blue jeans, blue neckerchiefs, and green woolen shirts. He

suddenly recalled that the man on the loading platform had

been similarly dressed. A uniform?

"Turn around again!" barked the speaker.

Paul turned, realizing that the men were probably some

sort of self-appointed quarantine patrol. Tow ropes suddenly

skidded out from behind and came to a stop near his feet on

the pavement--a pair of lariat loops.

"One foot in each loop, dermie!" the speaker snapped.

When Paul obeyed, the ropes were jerked taut about his

ankles, and two of the men trotted out to the sides, stood

thirty feet apart, and pulled his legs out into a wide straddle.

He quickly saw that any movement would cost him his bal-

ance.

"Strip to the skin."

"I'm no dermie," Paul protested as he unbuttoned his shirt.

"We'll see for ourselves, Joe," grunted the leader as he

moved around to the front. "Get the top off first. If your chest's

okay, we'll let your feet go."

When Paul had undressed, the leader walked around him

slowly, making him spread his fingers and display the soles

of his feet. He stood shivering and angry in the chilly winter

air while the men satisfied themselves that he wore no gray

patches of neuroderm.

"You're all right, I guess," the speaker admitted; then as

Paul stooped to recover his clothing, the man growled, "Not

those! Jim, get him a probie outfit."

Paul caught a bundle of clean clothing, tossed to him from

the back of the truck. There were jeans, a woolen shirt, and

a kerchief, but the shirt and kerchief were red. He shot an

inquiring glance at the leader, while he climbed into the

welcome change.

"All newcomers are on two weeks probation," the man

explained. "If you decide to stay in Houston, you'll get an-

other exam next time the uniform code changes. Then you

can join our outfit, if you don't show up with the plague. In

fact, you'll have to join if you stay."

"What is the outfit?" Paul asked suspiciously.

"It just started. Schoolteacher name of Georgelle organized

it. We aim to keep dermies out. There's about six hundred

of us now. We guard the downtown area, but soon as there's

enough of us we'll move out to take in more territory. Set up

road blocks and all that. You're welcome, soon as we're sure

you're clean.., and can take orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Georgelle's. We got no room for goof-offs, and no time for

argument. Anybody don't like the setup, he's welcome to get

out, Jim here'll give you a leaflet on the. rules. Better read it

before you go anywhere. If you don't, you might make a

wrong move. Make a wrong move, and you catch a bullet."

The man called Jim interrupted, "Reckon you better call

off the other patrols, Digger?" he said respectfully to the

leader.

Digger nodded curtly and turned to blow three short blasts

and a long with his whistle. An answering short-long-short

came from several blocks away. Other posts followed suit.

Paul realized that he had been surrounded by a ring of similar

ambushes.

"Jim, take him to the nearest water barrel, and see that

he shaves," Digger ordered, then: "What's your name, probie?

Also your job, if you had one."

"Paul Harris Oberlin. I was a mechanical engineering stu-

dent when the plague struck. Part-time garage mechanic

while I was in school."

Digger nodded and jotted down the information on a

scratchpad. "Good, I'll turn your name in to the registrar.

Georgelle says to watch for college men. You might get a

good assignment, later. Report to the Esperson Building on

the seventeenth. That's inspection day. If you don't show up,

we'll come looking for you. All loose probies'll get shot. Now

Jim here's gonna see to it that you shave. Don't shave again

until your two-weeker. That way, we can estimate how long

you been in town--by looking at your beard. We got other

ways that you don't need to know about. Georgette's got a

system worked out for everything, so don't try any tricks,"

"Tell me, what do you do with dermies?"

Digger grinned at his men. "You'll find out, probie."

Paul was led to a rain barrel, given a basin, razor, and

saapv He-scraped-his-face clean while-Jim sat at a safe

dis-tance, munching a quid of tobacco and watching the

operation with tired boredom. The other men had gone,

"May I have my pistol back?"

"Uh-uh! Read the rules. No weapons for probies,"

"Suppose I bump into a dermie?"

"Find yourself a whistle and toot a bunch of short blasts.

Then run like hell. We'll take care of the dermies. Read the

rules."

"Can I scrounge wherever 1 want to?''

"Probies have their own assigned areas. There's a map in

the rules."

"Who wrote the rules, anyhow?"

"Jeezis!" the guard grunted disgustedly. "Read 'em and

find out."

When Paul finished shaving, Jim stood up, stretched, then

bounded off the platform and picked up his bicycle.

"Where do I go from here?" Paul called.

The man gave him a contemptuous snort, mounted the

bike, and pedaled leisurely away. Paul gathered that he was

to read the rules. He sat down beside the rain barrel and

began studying the mimeographed leaflet.

Everything was cut and dried. As a probie, he was confined

to an area six blocks square near the heart of the city. Once

he entered it, a blue mark would be stamped on his forehead.

At the two-week inspection, the indelible brand would be

removed with a special solution. If a branded probie were

caught outside his area, he would be forcibly escorted from

the city. He was warned against attempting to impersonate

permanent personnel, because a system of codes and pass-

words would ensnare him. One full page of the leaflet was

devoted to propaganda. Houston was to become a "Bulwark

of health in a stricken world, and the leader of a glorious

recovery." The paper was signed by Dr. Georgelle, who had

given himself the title of Director.

The pamphlet left Paul with a vague uneasiness. The uni-

forms--they reminded him of neighborhood boys' gangs in

the slums, wearing special sweaters and uttering secret pass-

words, whipping intruders and amputating the tails of stray

cats in darkened garages. And, in another way, it made him

think of frustrated little people, gathering at night in brown

shirts around a bonfire to sing the Horst Wessel Lied and

listen to grandiose oratory about glorious destinies. Their

stray eats had been an unfavored race.

Of course, the dermies were not merely harmless alley

prowlers. They were a real menace. And maybe Georgelle's

methods were the-orily ones effective.

While Paul sat with the pamphlet on the platform, he had

been gazing absently at the stalled truck from which the men

had emerged. Suddenly it broke upon his consciousness that

it was a diesel. He bounded off the platform, and went to

check its fuel tank, which had been left uncapped.

He knew that it was useless to search for gasoline, but

diesel fuel was another matter. The exodus had drained all

existing supplies of high octane fuel for the escaping motor-

cade, but the evacuation had been too hasty and too fear-

crazed to worry with out-of-the-ordinary methods. He sniffed

the tank. It smelled faintly of gasoline. Some unknowing

fugitive had evidently filled it with ordinary fuel, which had

later evaporated. But if the cylinders had not been damaged

by the trial, the truck might be useful. He checked the engine

briefly, and decided that it had not been tried at all. The

starting battery had been removed.

He walked across the street and looked back at the ware-

house. It bore the sign of a trucking firm. He walked around

the block, eyeing the streets cautiously for other patrolmen.

There was a fueling platform on the opposite side of the block.

A fresh splash of oil on the concrete told him that Georgelle's

crew was using the fuel for some purpose--possibly for heat-

ing or cooking. He entered the building and found a repair

shop, with several dismantled engines lying about. There

was a rack of batteries in the corner, but a screwdriver placed

across the terminals brought only a weak spark.

The chargers, of course, drew power from the city's electric

service, which was dead. After giving the problem some

thought, Paul connected five of the batteries in series, then

placed a sixth across the total voltage, so that it would collect

the charge that the others lost. Then he went to carry buckets

of fuel from the pumps to the truck. When the tank was

filled; he hoisted each end of the truck with a roll-under

jack and inflated the tires with a harohpump. It was a long

and la-borious job.

Twilight was gathering by the time he was ready to try

it. Several times during the afternoon, he had been forced

to hide from cyclists who wandered past, lest they send him

on to the probie area and use the truck for their own

purposes. Evidently they had long since decided that

automotive trans-portation was a thing of the past.

A series of short whistle-blasts came to his ears just as he

was climbing into the cab. The signals were several blocks

away, but some of the answering bleats were closer. Evi-

dently another newcomer, he thought. Most new arrivals

from the north would pass through the same area on their

way downtown. He entered the cab, closed the door softly,

and ducked low behind the dashboard as three cyclists raced

across the intersection just ahead.

Paul settled down to wait for the all-clear. It came after

about ten minutes. Apparently the newcomer had tried to

run instead of hiding. When the cyclists returned, they were

moving leisurely, and laughing among themselves. After

they had passed the intersection, Paul stole quietly out of the

cab and moved along the wall to the corner, to assure himself

that all the patrolmen had gone. But the sound of shrill plead-

ing came to his ears.

At the end of the building, he clung close to the wall and

risked a glance" around the corner, A block away, the

nude-figure of a girl was struggling between taut ropes

held by green-shirted guards. She was a pretty girl, with a

tousled mop of chestnut hair and clean white limbs--clean

except for her forearms, which appeared dipped in dark

stain. Then he jaw the dark irregular splotch across her

flank, like a splash of ink not quite washed clean. She was a

dermie.

Paul ducked close to the ground so that his face was hidden

by a clump of grass at the corner. A man--the leader of the-

group--had left the girl, and was advancing up the street

toward Paul, who prepared to roll under the building out of

sight. But in the middle of the block, the man stopped. He

lifted a manhole cover in the pavement, then went back for

the girl's clothing, which he dragged at the end of a fishing

pole with a wire hook at its tip. He dropped the clothing, one

piece at a time, into the manhole. A cloud of white dust arose

from it, and the man stepped back to avoid the dust. Quick-

lime, Paul guessed.

Then the leader cupped his hands to his mouth and called

back to the others. "Okay, drag her on up here!" He drew his

revolver and waited while they tugged the struggling girl

toward the manhole.

Paul felt suddenly ill. He had seen dermies shot in self-

defense by fugitives from their deathly gray hands, but here

was cold and efficient elimination. Here was Dachau and

Buchenwald and the nameless camps of Siberia. He turned

and bolted for the truck.

The sound of its engine starting brought a halt to the

disposal of the pest-girl. The leader appeared at the inter-

section and stared uncertainly at the truck, as Paul nosed it

away from the building. He fidgeted with his revolver doubt-

fully, and called something over his shoulder to the others.

Then he began walking out into the street and signaling for

the truck to stop. Paul let it crawl slowly ahead, and leaned

out the window to eye the man questioningly.

"How the hell you get that started?" the leader called

excitedly. He was still holding the pistol, but it dangled al-

most unnoticed in his hand. Paul suddenly fed fuel to the

diesel and swerved sharply toward the surprised guardsman.

The leader yelped and dived for safety, but the fender

caught his hips, spun him off balance, and smashed him down

against the pavement. As the truck thundered around the

corner toward the girl and her captors, he glanced in the

mirror to see the hurt man weakly trying to crawl out of the

street. Paul was certain that he was not mortally wounded.

As the truck lumbered on, the girl threw herself prone

before it, since the ropes prevented any escape. Paul swerved

erratically, sending the girl's captors scurrying for the alley.

Then he aimed the wheels to straddle her body. She glanced

up, screamed, then hugged the pavement as the behemoth

thundered overhead. A bullet plowed a furrow across the

hood. Paul ducked low in the seat and jammed the brake

pedal down, as soon as he thought she was clear.

There were several shots, but apparently they were shoot-

ing at the girl. Paul counted three seconds, then gunned the

engine again. If she hadn't climbed aboard, it was just tough

luck, he thought grimly. He shouldn't have tried to save her

anyway. But continued shooting told him that she had man-

aged to get inside. The trailer was heaped with clothing, and

he trusted the mound of material to halt the barrage of bul-

lets. He heard the explosion of a blowout as he swung around

the next corner, and the trailer lurched dangerously. It

swayed from side to side as he gathered speed down the wide

and trafficless avenue. But the truck had double wheels, and

soon the dangerous lurching ceased.

He roared on through the metropolitan area, staying on

the same street and gathering speed. An occasional scrounger

or cyclist stopped to stare, but they seemed too surprised to

act. And they could not have known what had transpired a

few blocks away.

Paul could not stop to see if he had a passenger, or if she

was still alive. She was more dangerous than the gunmen.

Any gratitude she might feel toward her rescuer would be

quickly buried beneath her craving to spread the disease. He

wished fervently that he had let the patrolmen kill her. Now

he was faced with the problem of getting rid of her. He no-

ticed, however, that mirrors were mounted on both sides of

the cab. If he stopped the truck, and if she climbed out, he

could see, and move away again before she had a chance to

approach him. But he decided to wait until they were out of

the city.

Soon he saw a highway marker, then a sign that said

"Galveston--58 miles." He bore ahead, thinking that perhaps

the island-city would provide good scrounging, without the

regimentation of Doctor Georgelle's efficient system with its

plan for "glorious recovery."

Twenty miles beyond the city limits, he stopped the truck,

let the engine idle, and waited for his passenger to climb out.

He locked the doors and laid a jack-handle across the seat

as an added precaution. Nothing happened. He rolled down

the window and shouted toward the rear.

"All passengers off the bus! Last stop! Everybody out!"

Still the girl did not appear. Then he heard something--

a light tap from the trailer, and a murmur... or a moan. She

was there all right. He called again, but she made no re-

sponse. It was nearly dark outside.

At last he seized the jack-handle, opened the door, and

stepped out of the cab. Wary of a trick, he skirted wide around

the trailer and approached it from the rear. One door was

closed, while the other swung free. He stopped a few yards

away and peered inside. At first he saw nothing.

"Get out, but keep away or I'll kill you,"

Then he saw her move. She was sitting on the floor, lean-

ing back against a heap of clothing, a dozen feet from the

entrance. He stepped forward cautiously and flung open the

other door. She turned her head to look at him peculiarly,

but said nothing. He could see that she had donned some of

the clothing, but one trouser-leg was rolled up, and she had

tied a rag tightly about her ankle.

"Are you hurt?"

She nodded. "Bullet..." She rolled her head dizzily and

moaned.

Paul went back to the cab to search for a first aid kit. He

found one, together with a flashlight and spare batteries in

the glove compartment. He made certain that the ceils were

not corroded and that the light would burn feebly. Then he

returned to the trailer, chiding himself for a prize fool. A

sensible human would haul the dermie "out at the end of a

towing chain and leave her sitting by the side of the road.

"If you try to touch me, I'll brain you!" he warned, as he

clambered into the trailer.

She looked up again "Would you feel . . . like enjoying

anything ... if you were bleeding like this?" she muttered

weakly. The flashlight beam caught the glitter of pam in her

eyes, and accentuated the pallor of her small face. She was

a pretty girl--scarcely older than twenty--but Paul was in

no mood to appreciate pretty women, especially dermies.

"So that's how you think of it, eh? Enjoying yourself!"

She said nothing. She dropped her forehead against her

knee and rolled it slowly.

"Where are you hit? Just the foot?"

"Ankle..."

"All right, take the rag off. Let's see."

"The wound's in back."

"All right, lie down on your stomach, and keep your hands

under your head."

She stretched out weakly, and he shone the light over her

leg, to make certain its skin was clear of neuroderm. Then

he looked at the ankle, and said nothing for a time. The bullet

had missed the joint, but had neatly severed the Achilles'

tendon just above the heel.

"You're a plucky kid," he grunted, wondering how she had

endured the self-torture of getting the shoe off and clothing

herself.

"It was cold back here--without clothes," she muttered.

Paul opened the first aid packet and found an envelope

of sulfa powder. Without touching her, he emptied it into the

wound, which was beginning to bleed again. There was noth-

ing else he could do. The tendon had pulled apart and would

require surgical stitching to bring it together until it could

heal. Such attention was out of the question.

She broke the silence. "I... I'm going to be crippled, aren't

I?"

"Oh-, not crippled," he heard himself telling her. "If we can

get you to a doctor, 'anyway. Tendons can be sutured with

wire. He'll probably put your foot in a cast, and you might

get a stiff ankle from it."

She lay breathing quietly, denying his hopeful words by

her silence.

"Here!" he said. "Here's a gauze pad and some tape. Can

you manage it yourself?"

She started to sit up. He placed the first aid pack beside

her, and backed to the door. She fumbled in the kit, and

whimpered while she taped the pad in place.

"There's a tourniquet in there, too. Use it if the bleeding's

worse."

She looked up to watch his silhouette against the dark-

ening evening sky. "Thanks... thanks a lot, mister. I'm grate-

ful. I promise not to touch you. Not if you don't want me to."

Shivering, he moved back to the cab. Why did they always

get that insane idea that they were doing their victims a

favor by giving them the neural plague? Not if you don't want

me to. He shuddered as he drove away. She felt that way

now, while the pain robbed her of the craving, but later--

unless he got rid of her quickly--she would come to feel that

she owed it to him--as a favor. The disease perpetuated itself

by arousing such strange delusions in its bearer. The micro-

organisms' methods of survival were indeed highly special-

ized. Paul felt certain that such animalcules had not evolved

on Earth.

A light gleamed here and there along the Alvin-Galveston

highway--oil lamps, shining from lonely cottages whose oc-

cupants had not felt the pressing urgency of the crowded city.

But he had no doubt that to approach one of the farmhouses

would bring a rifle bullet as a welcome. Where could he find

help for the girl? No one would touch her but another dermie.

Perhaps he could unhitch the trailer and leave her in down-

town Galveston, with a sign hung on the back--"Wounded

dermie inside." The plague victims would care for their own--

if they found her.

He chided himself again for worrying about her. Saving

her life didn't make him responsible for her.. .did it? After

all, if she lived, and the leg. healed, she would only prowl in

search of healthy victims again. She would never be rid of

the disease, nor would she ever die of it--so far as anyone

knew. The death rate was high among dermies, but the cause

was usually a bullet.

Paul passed a fork in the highway and knew that the

bridge was just ahead. Beyond the channel lay Galveston

Island, once brightly lit and laughing in its role as seaside

resort--now immersed in darkness. The wind whipped at the

truck from the southwest as the road led up onto the wide

causeway. A faint glow in the east spoke of a moon about to

rise. He saw the wide structure of the drawbridge just ahead.

Suddenly he clutched at the wheel, smashed furiously

down on the brake, and tugged the emergency back. The tires

howled ahead on the smooth concrete, and the force threw

him forward over the wheel. Dusty water swirled far below

where the upward folding gates of the drawbridge had once

been. He skidded to a stop ten feet from the end. When he

climbed out, the girl was calling weakly from the trailer, but

he walked to the edge and looked over. Someone had done

a job with dynamite.

Why, he wondered. To keep islanders on the island, or to

keep mainlanders off? Had another Doctor Georgelle started

his own small nation in Galveston? It seemed more likely

that the lower island dwellers had done the demolition.

He looked back at the truck. An experienced truckster

might be able to swing it around all right, but Paul was

doubtful. Nevertheless, he climbed back in the cab, and tried

it. Half an hour later he was hopelessly jammed, with the

trailer twisted aside and the cab wedged near the sheer drop

to the water. He gave it up and went back to inspect his

infected cargo.

She was asleep, but moaning faintly. He prodded her

awake with the jack-handle. "Can you crawl, kid? If you can,

come back to the door."

She nodded, and began dragging herself toward the flash-

light. She clenched her lip between her teeth to keep from

whimpering, but her breath came as a voiced murmur . . .

nnnng . . . nnnng . . .

She sagged weakly when she reached the entrance, and

for a moment he thought she had fainted. Then she looked

up. "What next, skipper?" she panted.

"I... I don't know. Can you let yourself down to the pave-

ment?"

She glanced over the edge and shook her head. "With a

rope, maybe. There's one back there someplace. If you're

scared of me, I'll try to crawl and get it."

"Hands to yourself?" he asked suspiciously; then he

thanked the darkness for hiding the heat of shame that

crawled to his face.

"I won't..."

He scrambled into the trailer quickly and brought back

the rope. "I'll climb up on top and let it down in front of you.

Grab hold and let yourself down."

A few minutes later she was sitting on the concrete cause-

way looking at the wrecked draw. "Oh!" she muttered as he

scrambled down from atop the trailer. "I thought you just

wanted to dump me here. We're stuck, huh?"

"Yeah! We might swim it, but doubt if you could make it."

"I'd try..." She paused, cocking her head slightly. "There's

a boat moored under the bridge. Right over there."

"What makes you think so?"

"Water lapping against wood. Listen." Then she shook her

head. "I forgot. You're not hyper."

"I'm not what?" Paul listened. The water sounds seemed

homogeneous.

"Hyperacute. Sharp senses. You know, it's one of the symp-

toms."

He nodded, remembering vaguely that he'd heard some-

thing to that effect--but he'd chalked it up as hallucinatory

phenomenon. He walked to the rail and shone his light to-

ward the water. The boat was there--tugging its. rope taut

from the mooring as the tide swirled about it. The bottom

was still fairly dry, indicating that a recent rower had crossed

from the island to the mainland.

"Think you can hold onto the rope if I let you down?" he

called.

She gave him a quick glance, then picked up the end she

had previously touched and tied a loop about her waist. She

began crawling toward the rail. Paul fought down a crazy

urge to pick her up and carry her; plague be damned. But hi

had already left himself dangerously open to contagion. Still,

he felt the drumming charges of conscience... depart from

me, ye accursed, for I was sick and you visited me not...

He turned quickly away, and began knotting the end of

the rope about the rail. He reminded himself that any sane

person would desert her at once, and swim on to safety. Yet,

he could not. In the oversized clothing she looked like a child,

hurt and helpless, Paul knew the demanding arrogance that

could possess the wounded--help me, you've got to help me,

you damn merciless bastard!...No, don't touch me there,

damn you! Too many times, he had heard the sick curse the

physician, and the injured curse the rescuer. Blind aggres-

sion, trying to strike back at pain.

But the girl made no complaint except the involuntary

hurt sounds. She asked nothing, and accepted his aid with

a wide-eyed gratitude that left him weak. He thought that

it would be easier to leave her if she would only beg, or plead,

or demand.

"Can you start me swinging a little?" she called as he

lowered her toward the water.

Paul's eyes probed the darkness below, trying to sort the

shadows, to make certain which was the boat. He used both

hands to feed out the rope, and the light laid on the rail only

seemed to blind him. She began swinging herself pendulum-

wise somewhere beneath him.

"When I say "ready," let me go!" she shrilled.

"You're not going to drop!"

"Have to! Boat's out further. Got to swing for it. I can't

swim, really."

"But you'll hurt your--"

"Ready!"

Paul still clung to the rope. "I'll let you down into the

water and you can hang onto the rope. I'll dive, and then pull

you into the boat."

"Uh-uh! You'd have to touch me. You don't want that, do

you? Just a second now... one more swing... ready!"

He let the rope go. With a clatter and a thud, she hit the

boat. Three sharp cries of pain clawed at him. Then--muffled

sobbing.

"Are you all right?"

Sobs. She seemed not to hear him.

"Jeezis!" He sprinted for the brink of the drawbridge and

dived out over the deep channel. How far... down... down.

... Icy water stung his body with sharp whips, then opened

to embrace him. He fought to the surface and swam toward

the dark shadow of the boat. The sobbing had subsided. He

grasped the prow and hauled himself dripping from the chan-

nel. She was lying curled in the bottom of the boat.

"Kid...you all right, kid?"

"Sorry... I'm such a baby," she gasped, and dragged her-

self back to the stern.

Paul found a paddle, but no oars. He cast off and began

digging water toward the other side, but the tide tugged them

relentlessly away from the bridge. He gave it up and paddled

toward the distant shore. "You know anything about Gal-

veston?" he called--mostly to reassure himself that she was

not approaching him in the darkness with the death-gray

hands,

''I used to come here for the summer, I know a little about

it"

Paul urged her to talk while he plowed toward the island.

Her name was Willie, and she insisted that it was for

Willow, not for Wilhelmina. She came from Dallas, and

claimed she was a salesman's daughter who was done in

by a traveling farmer. The farmer, she explained, was just

a wandering dermie who had caught her napping by the

roadside. He had: stroked her arms until she awoke, then

had run away, howling with glee.

""That was three weeks ago," said, "If I'd had a

gun, I'd have dropped him. Of course, I know better now,"

Paul shuddered and paddled on. "Why did you head

south?"

"I was coming here,"

"Here? To Galveston?"

"Uh-huh. I heard someone say that a lot of nuns were

coming to the island. I thought maybe they'd take me in,"

The moon was high over the lightless city, and the tide

had swept the small boat far east from the bridge by the

time Paul's paddle dug into the mud beneath the shallow

water. He bounded out and dragged the boat through thin

marsh grass onto the shore. Fifty yards away, a ramshackle

fishing cottage lay sleeping in the moonlight.

"Stay here, Willie," he grunted. "I'll find a couple of

boards or something for crutches."

He rummaged about through a shed behind the cottage

and brought back a wheelbarrow. Moaning and laughing at

once, she struggled into it, and he wheeled her to the

house, humming a verse of Rickshaw Boy.

"You're a funny guy, Paul, I'm sorry..." She jiggled her

tousled head in the moonlight, as if she disapproved of her

own words.

Paul tried the cottage door, kicked it open, then walked

the wheelbarrow up three steps and into a musty room. He

struck a match, found an oil lamp with a little kerosene,

and tit it. Willie caught her breath.

He looked around. "Company," he grunted.

The company sat in a fragile rocker with a shawl about

her shoulders and a shotgun between her knees. She had

been dead at least a month. The charge of buckshot had sieved

the ceiling and spattered it with bits of gray hair and brown

blood.

"Stay here," he told the girl tonelessly. "I'll try to get a

dermie somewhere--one who knows how to sew a tendon. Got

any ideas?"

She was staring with a sick face at the old woman. "Here?

With--"

"She won't bother you," he said as he gently disentangled

the gun from the corpse. He moved to a cupboard and found

a box of shells behind an orange teapot. "I may not be back,

but I'll send somebody."

She buried her face in her plague-stained hands, and he

stood for a moment watching her shoulders shiver. "Don't

worry... I will send somebody." He stepped to the porcelain

sink and pocketed a wafer-thin sliver of dry soap.

"What's that for?" she muttered, looking up again.

He thought of a lie, then checked it. "To wash you off of

me," he said truthfully. "I might have got too close. Soap

won't do much good, but I'll feel better," He looked at the

corpse coolly. "Didn't do her much good. Buckshot's the best

antiseptic all right."

Willie moaned as he went out the door. He heard her crying

as he walked down to the waterfront. She was still crying

when he waded back to shore, after a thorough scrubbing. He

was sorry he'd spoken cruelly, but it was such a damned relief

to get rid of her...

With the shotgun cradled on his arm, he began patting

distance between himself and the sobbing. But the sound

worried his ears, even after he realized that he was no longer

hearing her.

He strode a short distance inland past scattered fishing

shanties, then took the highway toward the city whose out-

skirts he was entering. It would be at least an hour's trek to

the end of the island where he would be most likely to en-

counter someone with medical training. The hospitals were

down there, the medical school, the most likely place for any

charitable nuns--if Willie's rumor were true. Paul meant to

capture a dermie doctor or nurse and force the amorous-

handed maniac at gun-point to go to Willie's aid. Then he

would be done with her. When she stopped hurting, she would

start craving--and he had no doubt that he would be

the object of her manual affections.

The bay was wind-chopped in the moonglow, no longer

glittering from the lights along 61st Street. The oleanders

along Broadway were choked up with weeds. Cats or

rabbits

rustled in the tousled growth that had been a carefully tended

parkway.

Paul wondered why the plague had chosen Man, and not

the lower animals. It was true that an occasional dog or cow

was seen with the plague, but the focus was upon humanity.

And the craving to spread the disease was Man-directed, even

in animals. It was as if the neural entity deliberately sought

out the species with the most complex nervous system. Was

its onslaught really connected with the meteorite swarm?

Paul believed that it was.

In the first place, the meteorites not predicted.

They were not a part of the regular cosmic bombardment.

And then there was the strange report that they were man-

ufactured projectiles, teeming with frozen micro-organisms

which came alive upon thawing. In these days of tumult

and

confusion, however, it was hard. Nevertheless Paul believed

it. Neuroderm had no first cousins among Earth diseases.

What manner of beings, then, had sent such a curse? Po-

tential invaders? If so, they were slow in coming. One thing

was generally agreed upon by the scientists: the missiles had

not been "sent" from another solar planet. Their direction

upon entering the atmosphere was wrong. They could con-

ceivably have been fired from an interplanetary launching

ship, but their velocity was about equal to the theoretical

velocity which a body would obtain in falling sunward from

the near-infinite distance. This seemed to hint the projectiles

had come from another star.

Paul was startled suddenly by the flare of a match from

the shadow of a building. He stopped dead still in the street.

A man was leaning against the wall to light a cigarette. He

flicked the match out, and Paul watched the cigarette-glow

make an arc as the man waved at him.

"Nice night, isn't it?" said the voice from the darkness.

Paul stood exposed in the moonlight, carrying the shotgun

at the ready. The voice sounded like that of an adolescent,

not fully changed to its adult timbre. If the youth wasn't a

dermie, why wasn't he afraid that Paul might be one? And

if he was a derrnie, why wasn't he advancing in the hope that

Paul might be as yet untouched?

"I said, 'Nice night, isn't it?' Watcha carrying the gun for?

Been shooting rabbits?"

Paul moved a little closer and fumbled for his flashlight

Then he threw its beam on the slouching figure in the shad-

ows. He saw a young man, perhaps sixteen, reclining against

the wall. He saw the pearl-gray face that characterized the

final and permanent stage of neuroderm! He stood frozen to

the spot a dozen feet away from the youth, who blinked per-

plexedly into the light. The kid was assuming automatically

that he was another dermie! Paul tried to keep him blinded

while he played along with the fallacy.

"Yeah, it's a nice night. You got any idea where I can find

a doctor?"

The boy frowned. "Doctor? You mean you don't know?"

"Know what? I'm new here "

"New? Oh..." the boy's nostrils began twitching slightly,

as if he were sniffing at the night air. "Well, most of the

priests down at Saint Mary's were missionaries. They're all

doctors. Why? You sick?"

"No, there's a girl... But never mind. How do I get there?

And are any of them dermies?"

The boy's eyes wandered peculiarly, and his mouth fell

open, as if he had been asked why a circle wasn't square.

"You are new, aren't you? They're all dermies, if you want

to call them that. Wh--" Again the nostrils were flaring. He

flicked the cigarette away suddenly and inhaled a slow draft

of the breeze. "I... I smell a nonhyper," he muttered.

Paul started to back away. His scalp bristled a warning.

The boy advanced a step toward him. A slow beam of antic-

ipation began to glow in his face. He bared his teeth in a wide

grin of pleasure.

"You're not a hyper yet," he hissed, moving forward. "I've

never had a chance to touch a nonhyper..."

"Stay back, or I'll kill you!"

The lad giggled and came on, talking to himself. "The

padre says it's wrong, but . . . you smell so ... so ... ugh

. . ." He flung himself forward with a low throaty cry.

Paul sidestepped the charge and brought the- gun barrel

down across the boy's head. The dermie sprawled howling in

the street. Paul pushed the gun close to his face, but the

youth started up again. Paul jabbed viciously with the barrel,

and felt it strike and tear. "I don't want to have to blow your

head off--"

The boy howled and fell back. He crouched panting on his

hands and knees, head hung low, watching a dark puddle of

blood gather on the pavement from a deep gash across his

cheek. "Whatcha wanta do that for?" he whimpered. "I wasn't

gonna hurt you." His tone was that of a wronged and rejected

suitor,

"Now, where's Saint Mary's? Is that one of the hospitals?

How do I get there?" Paul had backed to a safe distance and

was covering the youth with the gun.

"Straight down Broadway... to the Boulevard ... you'll

see it down that neighborhood. About the fourth street, I

think." The boy looked up, and Paul saw the extent of the

gash. It was deep and ragged, and the kid was crying.

"Get up! You're going to lead me there."

Pain had blanketed the call of the craving. The boy strug

gled to his feet, pressed a handkerchief against the wound,

and with an angry glance at Paul, he set out down the road.

Paul followed ten yards behind,

"If you take me through any dermie traps, I'll kill you."

"There aren't any traps," the youth mumbled.

Paul snorted unbelief, but did not repeat the warning.

"What made you think I was another dermie?" he snapped.

"Because there's no nonhypers in Galveston, This is a hy-

per colony. A nonhyper used to drift in occasionally, but the

priests had the bridge dynamited. The nonhypers upset the

colony. As long as there aren't any around to smell, nobody

caused any trouble. During the day, there's a guard out on

the causeway, and if any hypers come looking for a place to

stay, the guard ferries them across. If nonhypers come, he

tells them about the colony, and they go away,"

Paul groaned. He had stumbled into a rat's nest. Was there

no refuge from the gray curse? Now he would have to move

on. It seemed a hopeless quest. Maybe the old man he met

on his way to Houston had arrived at the only possible for

peace: submission to the plague. But the thought sickened

him somehow. He would have to find some barren island, find

a healthy mate, and go to live a savage existence apart from

all traces of civilization.

"Didn't the guard stop you at the bridge?" the boy asked.

"He never came back today. He must be still out there."

Paul grunted "no" in a tone that warned against idle con-

versation. He guessed what had happened. The dermie guard

had probably spotted some healthy wanderers; and instead

of warning them away, he rowed across the drawbridge and

set out to chase them. His body probably lay along the high-

way somewhere, if the hypothetical wanderers were armed.

When they reached 23rd Street, a few blocks from the

heart of the city, Paul hissed at the boy to stop. He heard

someone laugh. Footsteps were wandering along the side-

walk, overhung by trees. He whispered to the boy to take

refuge behing a hedge. They crouched in the shadows several

yards apart while the voices drew nearer.

"Brother James had a nice tenor," someone said softly.

"But he sings his Latin with a western drawl. It sounds . . .

well . . . peculiar, to say the least. Brother John is a stickler

for pronunciation. He won't let Fra James solo. Says it gives

a burlesque effect to the choir. Says it makes the sisters

giggle."

The other man chuckled quietly and started to reply. But

his voice broke off suddenly. The footsteps stopped a dozen

feet from Paul's hiding place. Paul, peering through the

hedge, saw a pair of brown-robed monks standing on the

sidewalk. "They were looking around suspiciously.

"Brother Thomas, do you smell--"

"Aye, I smell it."

Paul changed his position slightly, so as to keep the gun

pointed toward the pair of plague-stricken monastics. They

stood in embarrassed silence, peering into the darkness and

shuffling their feet uneasily. One of them suddenly pinched

his nose between thumb and forefinger. His companion fol-

lowed suit.

"Blessed be God," quavered one.

"Blessed be His Holy Name," answered the other.

"Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man."

"Blessed be..."

Gathering their robes high about their shins, the two

monks turned and scurried away, muttering the Litany of

the Divine Praises as they went. Paul stood up and stared

after them in amazement. The sight of dermies running from

a potential victim was almost beyond belief. He questioned

his young guide. Still holding the handkerchief against his

bleeding face, the boy hung his head.

"Bishop made a ruling against touching nonhypers," he

explained miserably. "Says it's a sin, unless the nonhyper

submits of his own free will. Says even then it's wrong, except

in the ordinary ways that people come in contact with each

other. Calls it fleshly desire, and all that."

"Then why did you try to do it?"

"I ain't so religious."

"Well, sonny, you better get religious until we come to the

hospital. Now, let's go,"

They marched on down Broadway encountering no other

pedestrians. Twenty minutes later, they were standing in the

shadows before a hulking brick building, some of whose win-

dows were yellow with lamplight. Moonlight bathed the

statue of a woman standing on a ledge over the entrance,

indicating to Paul that this was the hospital,

"'All right, boy. You go in and: send oat a derrnie doctor.

Tell him somebody wants to see him, but if you say I'm not

a dermie, I'll come in and kill you. Now move. And don't come

back. Stay to get your face fixed,"

The youth stumbled toward the entrance. Paul sat in the

shadow of a tree, where he could see twenty yards in ail

directions and guard himself against approach. Soon a black-

clad priest came out of the emergency entrance, stopped on

the sidewalk, and glanced around.

"Over here!" Paul hissed from across the street.

The priest advanced uncertainly. In the center of the road

he stopped again, and held his nose. "Y-you're a nonhyper,"

he said, almost accusingly.

"That's right, and I've got a gun, so don't try anything."

"What's wrong? Are you sick? The lad said--"

"There's a dermie girl down the island. She's been shot.

Tendon behind her heel is cut clean through. You're going

to help her,"

"Of course, but..," The priest paused. "You? A nonhyper?

Helping a so-called dermie?" His voice went high with amaze-

ment.

"So I'm a sucker!" Paul barked. "Now get what you need,

and come on."

"The Lord bless you," the priest mumbled in embarrass-

ment as he hurried away,

"Don't sic any of your maniacs on me?" Paul called after

him. "I'm armed."

"I'll have to bring a surgeon," the cleric said over his shoul-

der.

Five minutes later, Paul heard the muffled grunt of a

starter. Then an engine coughed to life. Startled, he scurried

away from the tree and sought safety in a clump of shrubs.

An ambulance backed out of the driveway and into the street.

It parked at the curb by the tree, engine running, A pallid

face glanced out curiously toward the shadows. "Where are

you?" it called, but it was not the priest's voice.

Paul stood up and advanced a few steps.

"We'll have to wait on Father Mendelhaus," the driver

called. "He'll be a few minutes."

"You a dermie?"

"Of course. But don't worry. I've plugged my nose and I'm

wearing rubber gloves. I can't smell you. The sight of a non-

hyper arouses some craving, of course. But it can be overcome

with a little willpower. I won't infect you, although I don't

understand why you nonhypers fight so hard. You're bound

to catch it sooner or later. And the world can't get back to

normal until everybody has it."

Paul avoided the startling thought. "You the surgeon?"

"Uh, yes. Father Williamson's the name. I'm not really a

specialist, but I did some surgery in Korea. How's the girl's

condition? Suffering shock?"

"I wouldn't know."

They fell silent until Father Mendelhaus returned. He

came across the street carrying a bag in one hand and a

brown bottle in the other. He held the bottle by the neck with

a pair of tongs and Paul could see the exterior of the bottle

steaming slightly as the priest passed through the beam of

the ambulance's headlights. He placed the flask on the curb

without touching it, then spoke to the man in the shadows.

"Would you step behind the hedge and disrobe, young

man? Then rub yourself thoroughly with this oil,"

"I doubt it," Paul snapped. "What is it?"

"Don't worry, it's been in'the sterilizer. That's what took

me so long. It may be a little hot for you, however. It's only

an antiseptic and deodorant. It'll kill your odor, and it'll also

give you some protection against picking up stray microor-

ganisms."

After a few moments of anxious hesitation, Paul decided

to trust the priest. He carried the hot flask into the brush,

undressed, and bathed himself with the warm aromatic oil.

Then he slipped back into his clothes and reapproached the

ambulance.

"Ride in back," Mendelhaus told him. "And you won't be

infected. No one's been in there for several weeks, and as you

probably know, the microorganisms die after a few hours'

exposure. They have to be transmitted from skin to skin, or

else an object has to be handled very soon after a hyper has

touched it."

Paul warily climbed inside. Mendelhaus opened a slide

and spoke through it from the front seat. "You'll have to show

us the way."

"Straight out Broadway. Say, where did you get the gas-

oline for this wagon?"

The priest paused. "That has been something of a secret,

Oh well... I'll tell you. There's a tanker out in the harbor.

The people left town too quickly to think of it. Automobiles

are scarcer than fuel in Galveston. Up north, you find them

stalled everywhere. But since Galveston didn't have any

through-traffic, there were no cars running out of gas, The

ones we have are the ones that were left in the repair shop,

something wrong with them. And we don't have any me-

chanics to fix them."

Paul neglected to mention that he was qualified for the

job. The priest might get ideas. He fell into gloomy silence

as the ambulance turned onto Broadway and headed down-

island. He watched the back of the priests heads, silhouetted

against the headlighted pavement. They seemed not at all

concerned about their disease. Mendelhaus was a slender

man, with a blond crew cut and rather bushy eyebrows. He

had a thin, aristocratic face--now plague-gray--but jovial

enough. It might be the face of an ascetic, but for the quick

blue eyes that seemed full of lively interest rather than in-

ward-turning mysticism, Williamson, on the other hand, was

a rather plain man, with a stolid tweedy look, despite his

black cassock.

"What do you think of our plan here?" asked Father Men-

delhaus.

"What plan?" Paul grunted.

"Oh, didn't the boy tell you? We're trying to make the

island a refuge for hypers who are willing to sublimate their

craving and turn their attentions toward reconstruction.

We're also trying to make an objective study of this neural

condition, We have some good scientific minds, too--Doctor

Relmone of Fordham, Father Seyes of Notre Dame, two bi-

ologists from Boston College..."

"Dermies trying to cure the plague?" Paul gasped.

Mendelhaus laughed merrily. "I didn't say cure it, son. I

said 'study it.'"

"Why?"

"To learn how to live with it, of course. Itrs been pointed

out by our philosophers that things become evil only through

human misuse. Morphine, for instance, is a product of the

Creator; it is therefore good when properly used for relief of

pain. When mistreated by an addict, it becomes a monster.

We bear this in mind as we study neuroderm."

Paul snorted contemptuously. "Leprosy is evil, I suppose,

because Man mistreated bacteria?"

The priest laughed again. "You've got me there. I'm no

philosopher. But you can't compare neuroderm with leprosy,"

Paul shuddered. "The hell I can't! It's worse."

"Ah? Suppose you tell me what makes it worse? List the

symptoms for me."

Paul hesitated, listing them mentally. They were: discol-

oration of the skin, low fever, hallucinations, and the insane

craving to infect others. They seemed bad enough, so he listed

them orally. "Of course, people don't die of it," he added. "But

which is worse, insanity or death?"

The priest turned to smile back at him through the port-

hole. "Would you call me insane? It's true that victims have

frequently lost their minds. But that's not a direct result of

neuroderm. Tell me, how would you feel if everyone screamed

and ran when they saw you coming, or hunted you down like

a criminal? How long would your sanity last?"

Paul said nothing. Perhaps the anathema was a contrib-

uting factor--

"Unless you were of very sound mind to begin with, you

probably couldn't endure it."

"But the craving . . . and the hallucinations . . ."

"True," murmured the priest thoughtfully. "The halluci-

nations. Tell me something else, if all the world was blind

save one man, wouldn't the world be inclined to call that

man's sight a hallucination? And the man with eyes might

even come to agree with the world,"

Again Paul was silent. There was no arguing with Men-

delhaus, who probably suffered the strange delusions and

thought them real.

"And the craving," the priest went on. "It's true that the

craving can be a rather unpleasant symptom. It's the con-

dition's way of perpetuating itself. Although we're not certain

how it works, it seems able to stimulate erotic sensations in

the hands. We do know the microorganisms get to the brain,

but we're not yet sure what they do there."

"What facts have you discovered?" Paul asked cautiously.

Mendelhaus grinned at him. "Tut! I'm not going to tell

you, because I don't want to be called a 'crazy dermie.' You

wouldn't believe me, you see."

Paul glanced outside and saw that they were approaching

the vicinity of the fishing cottage, He pointed out the lamplit

window to the driver, and the ambulance turned onto a side

road. Soon they were parked behind the shanty. The priests

scrambled out and carried the stretcher toward the light,

while Paul skulked to a safer distance and sat down in the

grass to watch. When Willie was safe in the vehicle, he meant

to walk back to the bridge, swim across the gap, and return

to the mainland.

Soon Mendelhaus came out and walked toward him with

a solemn stride, although Paul was sitting quietly in the

deepest shadow--invisible, he had thought. He arose quickly

as the priest approached. Anxiety tightened his throat, "Is

she. . . is Willie...?"

"She's irrational," Mendelhaus murmured sadly. "Al-

most .., less than sane. Some of it may be due to high fever,

but..."

"Yes?"

"She tried to kill herself. With a knife. Said something

about buckshot being the best way, or something..."

"Jeezis! Jeezis!" Paul sank weakly in the grass and covered

his face with his hands,

"Blessed be His Holy Name," murmured the priest by

way of turning the oath aside. "She didn't hurt herself

badly, though. Wrist's cut a little. She was too weak to do a

real job of it, Father Will's giving her a hypo and a tetanus

shot and some sulfa. We're out of penicillin."

He stopped speaking and watched Paul's wretchedness for

a moment, "You love the girl, don't you?"

Paul stiffened. "Are you crazy? Love a little tramp dermie?

Jeezis..,"

"Blessed be--"

"Listen! Will she be all right? I'm getting out of here!" He

climbed unsteadily to his feet,

"I don't know, son, infection's the real threat, and shock.

If we'd got to her sooner, she'd have been safer. And if she

was in the ultimate stage of neuroderm, it would help."

"Why?"

"Oh, various reasons. You'll learn, someday. But listen,

you look exhausted. Why don't you come back to the hospital

with us? The third floor is entirely vacant. There's no danger

of infection up there, and we keep a sterile room ready just

in case we get a nonhyper case. You can lock the door inside,

if you want to, but it wouldn't be necessary. Nuns are on

the

floor below. Our male staff lives in the basement. There aren't

any laymen in the building. I'll guarantee that you won't be

bothered."

"No, I've got to go," he growled, then softened his voice:

"I appreciate it though, Father "

"Whatever you wish. I'm sorry, though. You might be able

to provide yourself with some kind of transportation if you

waited."

"Uh-uh! I don't mind telling you, your island makes me

jumpy."

"Why?"

Paul glanced at the priest's gray hands, "Well... you still

feel the craving, don't you?"

Mendelhaus touched his nose. "Cotton plugs, with a little

camphor. I can't smell you." He hesitated. "No, I won't lie to

you. The urge to touch is still there to some extent."

"And in a moment of weakness, somebody might--"

The priest straightened his shoulders. His eyes went

chilly. "I have taken certain vows, young man. Sometimes

when I see a beautiful woman, I feel desire. When I see a

man eating a thick steak on a fast-day, I feel envy and hunger.

When I see a doctor earning large fees, I chafe under the vow

of poverty. But by denying desire's demands, one learns to

make desire useful in other ways. Sublimation, some call it.

A priest can use it and do more useful work thereby. I am a

priest."

He nodded curtly, turned on his heel and strode away.

Halfway to the cottage, he paused. "She's calling for someone

named Paul. Know who it might be? Family perhaps?"

Paul stood speechless. The priest shrugged and continued

toward the lighted doorway.

"Father, wait..."

"Yes?"

"I--I am a little tired. The room... I mean, will you show

me where to get transportation tomorrow?"

"Certainly."

Before midnight, the party had returned to the hospital.

Paul lay on a comfortable mattress for the first time in weeks,

sleepless, and staring at the moonlight on the sill. Somewhere

downstairs, Willie was lying unconscious in an operating

room, while the surgeon tried to repair the torn tendon. Paul

had ridden back with them in the ambulance, sitting a few

feet from the stretcher, avoiding her sometimes wandering

arms, and listening to her delirious moaning.

Now he felt his skin crawling with belated hypochondria.

What a fool he had been--touching the rope, the boat, the

wheelbarrow, riding in the ambulance. There were a thou-

sand ways he could have picked up a few stray microorga-

nisms lingering from a dermie's touch. And now he lay here

in this nest of disease....

But strange--it was the most peaceful, the sanest place

he'd seen in months. The religious orders simply accepted the

plague--with masochistic complacency perhaps--but calmly.

A cross, or a penance, or something. But no, they seemed to

accept it almost gladly. Nothing peculiar about that. All der-

mies went wild-eyed with happiness about the "lovely desire"

they possessed. The priests weren't wild-eyed

Neither was normal man equipped with socially shaped

sexual desire. Sublimation?

"Peace," he muttered, and went to sleep.

A knocking at the door awoke him at dawn. He grunted

at it disgustedly and sat up in bed. The door, which he had

forgotten to lock, swung open, A chubby nun with a breakfast

tray started into the room. She saw his face, then stopped.

She closed her eyes, wrinkled her nose, and framed a silent

prayer with her lips. Then she backed slowly out.

"I'm sorry, sir!" she quavered through the door, "I--I knew

there was a patient in here, but I didn't know... you weren't

a hyper. Forgive me."

He heard her scurrying away down the hall. Somehow, he

began to feel safe. But wasn't that exactly what they wanted

him to feel? He realized suddenly that he was trapped. He

had left the shotgun in the emergency room. What was he--

guest or captive? Months of fleeing from the gray terror had

left him suspicious.

Soon he would find out. He arose and began dressing.

Before he finished, Mendelhaus came. He did not enter, but

stood in the hallway beyond the door. He smiled a faint greet-

ing, and said, "So you're Paul?"

He felt heat rising in his face. "She's awake, then?" he

asked gruffly.

The priest nodded. "Want to see her?"

"No, I've got to be going."

"It would do her good."

He coughed angrily. Why did the black-cassocked dermie

have to put it that way? "Well it wouldn't do me any good!"

he snarled. "I've been around too many gray-leather hides

already!"

Mendelhaus shrugged, but his eyes bore a hint of con-

tempt. "As you wish. You may leave by the outside stairway--

to avoid disturbing the sisters."

"To avoid being touched, you mean!"

"No one will touch you."

Paul finished dressing in silence. The reversal of attitudes

disturbed him. He resented the seeming "tolerance" that was

being extended him. It was like asylum inmates being "tol-

erant" of the psychiatrist.

"I'm ready!" he growled.

Mendelhaus led him down the corridor and out onto a

sunlit balcony. They descended a stone stairway while the

priest talked over his shoulder.

"She's still not fully rational, and there's some fever. It

wouldn't be anything to worry about two years ago, but now

we're out of most of the latest drugs. If sulfa won't hold the

infection, we'll have to amputate, of course. We should know

in two or three days."

He paused and looked back at Paul, who had stopped on

the stairway. "Coming?"

"Where is she?" Paul asked weakly. "I'll see her."

The priest frowned. "You don't have to, son. I'm sorry if

I implied any obligation on your part. Really, you've done

enough. I gather that you saved her life. Very few nonhypers

would do a thing like that. I--"

"Where is she?" he snapped angrily.

The priest nodded. "Downstairs. Come on."

As they re-entered the building on the ground floor, the

priest cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, "Non-

hyper coming! Plug your noses, or get out of the way! Avoid

circumstances of temptation!"

When they moved along the corridor, it was Paul who felt

like the leper. Mendelhaus led him into the third room.

Willie saw him enter and hid her gray hands beneath the

sheet. She smiled faintly, tried to sit up, and failed. William-

son and a nun-nurse who had both been standing by the

bedside turned to leave the room. Mendelhaus followed them

out and closed the door.

There was a long, painful pause. Willie tried to grin. He

shuffled his feet.

"They've got me in a cast," she said conversationally.

"You'll be all right," he said hastily. "It won't be, long

before you'll be up. Galveston's a good place for you. They're

all dermies here."

She clenched her eyes tightly shut, "God! God! I hope I

never hear that word again. After last night... that old

woman in the rocking chair . . . I stayed there alt alone . . .

and the wind'd start the chair rocking. Ooh!" She looked at

him with abnormally bright eyes. "I'd rather die than touch

anybody now...after seeing that. Somebody touched her,

didn't they, Paul? That's why she did it, wasn't it?"

He squirmed and backed toward the door. "Willie... I'm

sorry for what I said. I mean--"

"Don't worry, Paul! I wouldn't touch you now." She

clenched her hands and brought them up before her face, to

stare at them with glittering hate. "I loathe myself!" she

hissed.

What was it Mendelhaus had said, about the dermie going

insane because of being an outcast rather than because of

the plague? But she wouldn't be an outcast here. Only among

nonhypers, like himself..."

"Get well quick, Willie," he muttered, then hurriedly

slipped out into the corridor. She called his name twice, then

fell silent.

"That was quick," murmured Mendelhaus, glancing at his

pale face.

"Where can I get a car?"

The priest rubbed his chin. "I was just speaking td Brother

Matthew about that. Uh... how would you like to have a

small yacht instead?"

Paul caught his breath, A yacht would mean access to the

seas, and to an island. A yacht was the perfect solution. He

stammered gratefully,

"Good," said Mendelhaus. "There's a small craft in dry

dock down at the basin. It was apparently left there because

there weren't any dock crews around to get her afloat again.

I took the liberty of asking Brother Matthew to find some

men and get her in the water."

"Dermies?"

"Of course. The boat will be fumigated, but it isn't really

necessary. The infection dies out in a few hours. It'll take a

while, of course, to get the boat ready. Tomorrow... next day,

maybe. Bottom's cracked; it'll need some patching."

Paul's smile weakened. More delay. Two more days of

living in the gray shadow. Was the priest really to be trusted?

Why should he even provide the boat? The jaws of an invisible

trap, slowly closing.

Mendelhaus saw his doubt, "If you'd rather leave now,

you're free to do so. We're really not going to as much trouble

as it might seem. There are several yachts at the dock;

Brother Matthew's been preparing to clean one or two up for

our own use. And we might as well let you have one. They've

been deserted by their owners. And . . . well . . . you helped

the girl when nobody else would have done so. Consider the

boat as our way of returning the favor, eh?"

A yacht. The open sea. A semitropical island, uninhabited,

on the brink of the Caribbean. And a woman, of course--

chosen from among the many who would be willing to share

such an escape. Peculiarjy, he glanced at Willie's door. It was

too bad about her. But she'd get along okay. The yacht"... if

he were only certain of Mendelhaus' intentions...

The priest began frowning at Paul's hesitation. "Well?"

"I don't want to put you to any trouble--"

"Nonsense! You're still afraid of us! Very well, come with

me. There's someone I want you to see." Mendelhaus turned

and started down the corridor.

Paul lingered. "Who...what--"

"Come on!" the priest snapped impatiently.

Reluctantly, Paul followed him to the stairway. They de-

scended to a gloomy basement and entered a smelly labo-

ratory through a double-door. Electric illumination startled

him; then he heard the sound of a gasoline engine and knew

that the power was generated locally.

"Germicidal lamps," murmured the priest, following his

ceilingward gaze. "Some of them are. Don't worry about

touching things. It's sterile in here."

"But it's not sterile for your convenience," growled an in-

visible voice. "And it won't be sterile at all if you don't stay

out! Beat it, preacher!"

Paul looked for the source of the voice, and saw a small,

short-necked man bending his shaggy gray head over a mi-

croscope at the other end of the lab. He had spoken without

glancing up at his visitors.

"This is Doctor Seevers, of Princeton, son," said the priest,

unruffled by the scientist's ire. "Claims he's an atheist, but

personally I think he's a puritan. Doctor, this is the young

man I was telling you about. Will you tell him what you

know about neuroderm?"

Seevers jotted something on a pad, but kept his eye to the

instrument. "Why don't we just give it to him, and let him

find out for himself?" the scientist grumbled sadistically.

"Don't frighten him, you heretic! I brought him here to be

illuminated."

"Illuminate him yourself. I'm busy. And stop calling me

names. I'm not an atheist; I'm a biochemist."

"Yesterday you were a biophysicist. Now, entertain my

young man." Mendelhaus blocked the doorway with his body.

Paul, with his jaw clenched angrily, had turned to leave.

"That's all I can do, preacher," Seevers grunted. ''Enter-

tain him. I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have some

observed data. I have noticed some correlations. I have seen

things happen, I have traced the patterns of the happenings

and found some probable common denominators. And that

is all! I admit it. Why don't you preachers admit it in your

racket?"

"Seevers, as you can see, is inordinately proud of his hu-

mility--if that's not a paradox," the priest said to Paul.

"Now, Doctor, this young man--"

Seevers heaved a resigned sigh. His voice went sour-sweet.

"All right, sit down, young man. I'll entertain you as soon

as I get through counting free nerve-endings in this piece of

skin."

Mendelhaus winked at his guest. "Seevers calls it ma-

sochism when we observe a fast-day or do penance. And there

he site, ripping off patches of his own hide to look at through

his peeping glass. Masochism--hen!"

"Get out, preacher!" the scientist bellowed.

Mendelhaus laughed mockingly, nodded Paul toward a

chair, and left the lab. Paul sat uneasily watching the back

of Seevers' lab jacket.

"Nice bunch of people really--these black-frocked yahoos,"

Seevers murmured conversationally. "If they'd just stop

trying to convert me."

"Doctor Seevers, maybe I'd better--"

"Quiet! You bother me. And sit still. I can't stand to have

people running in and out of here. You're in; now stay in."

Paul fell silent. He was uncertain whether or not Seevers

was a dermie. The small man's lab jacket bunched up to hide

the back of his neck, and the sleeves covered his arms. His

hands were rubber-gloved, and a knot of white cord behind

his head told Paul that he was wearing a gauze mask. His

ears were bright pink, but their color was meaningless; it

took several months for the gray coloring to seep to all areas

of the skin. But Paul guessed he was a dermie--and wearing

the gloves and mask to keep his equipment sterile.

He glanced idly around the large room. There were several

glass cages of rats against the wall. They seemed airtight,

with ducts for forced ventilation. About half the rats were

afflicted with neuroderm in its various stages, A few wore

shaved patches of skin where the disease had been freshly

and forcibly inflicted. Paul caught the fleeting impression

that several of the animals were staring at him fixedly. He

shuddered and looked away.

He glanced casually at the usual maze of laboratory glass-

ware, then turned his attention to a pair of hemispheres,

suspended like a trophy on the wall. He recognized them as

the twin halves of one of the meteorites, with the small jelly-

pocket in the center. Beyond it hung a large picture frame

containing several typewritten sheets. Another frame held

four pictures of bearded scientists from another century, ob-

viously clipped from magazine or textbook. There was noth-

ing spectacular about the lab. It smelted of clean dust and

sour things. Just a small respectable workshop,

Seevers' chair creaked suddenly. "It checks," he said to

himself. "It checks again. Forty per cent increase," He threw

down the stub pencil and whirled suddenly. Paul saw a pudgy

round face with glittering eyes. A dark splotch of neuroderm

had crept up from the chin to split his mouth and cover one

cheek and an eye, giving him the appearance of a black and

white bulldog with a mixed color muzzle.

"It checks," he barked at Paul, then smirked contentedly,

"What checks?"

The scientist rolled up a sleeve to display a patch of ad-

hesive tape on a portion of his arm which had been discolored

by the disease. "Here," he grunted. "Two weeks ago this area

was normal. I took a centimeter of skin from right next to

this one, and counted the nerve endings. Since that time, the

derm's crept down over the area. I took another square cen-

timeter today, and recounted. Forty per cent increase."

Paul frowned with disbelief. It was generally known that

neuroderm had a sensitizing effect, but new nerve

endings... No. He didn't believe it.

"Third time I've checked it," Seevers said happily. "One

place ran up to sixty-five per cent, Heh! Smart little bugs,

aren't they? Inventing new somesthetic receptors that way!"

Paul swallowed with difficulty. "What did you say?" he

gasped.

Seevers inspected him serenely, "So you're a nonhyper,

are you? Yes, indeed, I can smell that you are. Vile, really.

Can't understand why sensible hypers would want to paw

you. But then, I've insured myself against such foolishness."

He said it so casually that Paul blinked before he caught

the full impact of it. "Y-y-you've done what?"

"What I said. When I first caught it, I simply sat down

with a velvet-tipped stylus and located the spots on my hands

that gave rise to pleasurable sensations. Then I burned them

out with an electric needle. There aren't many of them,

really--one or two points per square centimeter." He tugged

off his gloves and exhibited pick-marked palms to prove it.

"I didn't want to be bothered with such silly urges. Waste of

time, chasing nonhypers---for me it is. I never learned what

it's like, so I've never missed it." He turned his hands over

and stared at them. "Stubborn little critters keep growing

new ones. and I keep burning them out."

Paul leaped to his feet, "Are you trying to tell me that the

plague causes new nerve cells to grow?"

Seevers looked up coldly. "Ah, yes. You came here to be

illoooominated, as the padre put it. If you wish to be de-

idiotized, please stop shouting, Otherwise, I'll ask you to

leave."

Paul, who had felt like leaving a moment ago, now sub-

sided quickly. "I'm sorry," he snapped, then softened his tone

to repeat: "I'm sorry,"

Seevers took a deep breath, stretched his short meaty arms

in an unexpected yawn, then relaxed and grinned, "Sit down,

sit down, m'boy. Ill tell you what you want to know, if you

really want to know anything. Do you?"

"Of course!"

"You don't! You just want to know how you--whatever

your name is--will be affected by events. You don"t care about

understanding for its own sake. Few people do. That's why

we're in this mess. The padre now, he cares about under-

standing events--but not for their own sake. He cares, bat

for his flock's sake for his God's sake--which is, I must

admit, a better attitude than that of the common herd, whose

only interest is in their own safety. But if people would just

want to understand events for the understanding's sake, we

wouldn't be in such a pickle."

Paul watched the professor's bright eyes and took the lec-

ture quietly.

"And so, before I illuminate you, I want to make an im-

possible request."

"Yes, sir."

"I ask you to be completely objective," Seevers continued,

rubbing the bridge of his nose and covering his eyes with his

hand. "I want you to forget you ever heard of neuroderm

while you listen to me. Rid yourself of all preconceptions,

especially those connected with fear. Pretend these are purely

hypothetical events that I'm going to discuss." He took his

hands down from his eyes and grinned sheepishly. "It always

embarrasses me to ask for that kind of cooperation when I

know damn well I'll never get it."

"I'll try to be objective, sir."

"Bah!" Seevers slid down to sit on his spine, and hooked

the base of his skull over the back of the chair. He blinked

thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment, then folded his

hands across his small paunch and closed his eyes.

When he spoke again, he was speaking to himself: "As-

sume a planet, somewhat earthlike, but not quite. It has

carboniferous life forms, but not human. Warm-blooded,

probably, and semi-intelligent. And the planet has something

else--it has an overabundance of parasite forms. Actually,

the various types of parasites are the dominant species. The

warm-blooded animals are the parasites' vegetables, so to

speak. Now, during two billion years, say, of survival contests

between parasite species, some parasites are quite likely to

develop some curious methods of adaptation. Methods of in-

suring the food supply--animals, who must have been taking

a beating."

Seevers glanced down from the ceiling. "Tell me, young-

ster, what major activity did Man invent to secure his veg-

etable food supply?"

"Agriculture?"

"Certainly. Man is a parasite, as far as vegetables are

concerned. But he learned to eat his cake and have it, too.

He learned to perpetuate the species he was devouring. A

very remarkable idea, if you stop to think about it. Very!"

"I don't see--"

"Hush! Now, let's suppose that one species of micropar-

asites on our hypothetical planet learned, through long ev-

olutionary processes, to stimulate regrowth in the animal

tissue they devoured. Through exuding controlled amounts

of growth hormone, I think. Quite an advancement, eh?"

Paul had begun leaning forward tensely.

"But it's only the first step. It let the host live longer,

although not pleasantly, I imagine. The growth control would

be clumsy at first. But soon, all parasite-species either

learned to do it, or died out. Then came the contest for the

best kind of control. The parasites who kept their hosts in

the best physical condition naturally did a better job of sur-

vival--since the parasite-ascendancy had cut down on the

food supply, just as Man wastes his own resources. And since

animals were contending among themselves for a place in

the sun, it was to the parasite's advantage to help insure the

survival of his host-species---through growth control."

Seevers winked solemnly. "Now begins the downfall of the

parasites--their decadence. They concentrated all their ef-

forts along the lines of ... uh ... scientific farming, you

might say. They began growing various sorts of defense and

attack weapons for their hosts--weird bio-devices, perhaps.

Horns, swords, fangs, stingers, poison-throwers--we can only

guess. But eventually, one group of parasites hit upon--

what?"

Paul, who was beginning to stir uneasily, could only stam-

mer. Where was Seevers getting all this?

"Say it!" the scientist demanded.

"The... nervous system?"

"That's- right. You don't need to whisper it. The nervous

system. It was probably an unsuccessful parasite at first,

because nerve tissue grows slowly. And it's a long stretch of

evolution between a microspecies which could stimulate

nerve growth and one which could direct utilize growth

for the host's advantage--and for its own. But at last, after a

long struggle, our little species gets there. It begins

sharpening the hosfs senses, building up complex senses

from aggregates of old-style receptors, and increasing the

host's intelligence within limits."

Seevers grinned mischievously. "Conies a planetary shake-

up of the first magnitude. Such parasites would naturally

pick the host species with the highest intelligence to begin

with. With the extra boost, this brainy animal quickly down

its own enemies, and consequently the enemies of its

microbenefactor. It puts itself in much the same position that

Man's in on Earth--lord it over the beasts, divine right to

run the place, and all that. Now understand--it's the animal

who's become intelligent, not the parasites. The parasites are

operating on complex instinct patterns,, like a hive of bees.

They're wonderful neurological engineers--like bees are

good structural engineers; blind instinct, accumulated through

evolution."

He paused to light a cigarette. "If you feel ill, young man,

there's drinking water in that bottle. You look ill."

"I'm all right!"

"Well, to continue: The intelligent animal became master

of his planet. Threats to his existence were overcome--unless

he was a threat to himself, like we are. But now, the parasites

had found a safe home. No new threats to force readaptation.

They sat back and sighed and became stagnant--as unchang-

ing as horseshoe crabs or amoeba or other Earth ancients.

They kept right on working in their neurological beehives,

and now they became cultivated by the animal, who recog-

nized their benefactors. They didn't know it, but they were

no longer the dominant species. They had insured their sur-

vival by leaning on their animal prop, who now took care of

them with godlike charity--and selfishness. The parasites

had achieved biological heaven. They kept on working, but

they stopped fighting. The host was their welfare state, you

might say. End of a sequence."

He blew a long breath of smoke and leaned forward to

watch Paul, with casual amusement. Paul suddenly realized

that he was sitting on the edge of his chair and gaping. He

forced a relaxation.

"Wild guesswork," he breathed uncertainly.

"Some of it's guesswork," Seevers admitted. "But none of

it's wild. There is supporting evidence. It's in the form of a

message."

"Message?"

"Sure. Come, I'll show you." Seevers arose and moved to-

ward the wall. He stopped before the two hemispheres. "On

second thought, you better show yourself. Take down that

sliced meteorite, will you? It's sterile."

Paul crossed the room, climbed unsteadily upon a bench,

and brought down the globular meteorite. It was the first

time he had examined one of the things, and he inspected it

curiously. It was a near-perfect sphere, about eight inches in

diameter, with a four-inch hollow in the center. The globe

was made up of several concentric shells, tightly fitted, each

apparently of a different metal. It was not seemingly heavier

than aluminum, although the outer shell was obviously of

tough steel.

"Set it face down," Seevers told him. "Both halves. Give

it a quick little twist. The shells will come apart. Take out

the center shell--the hard, thin one between the soft pro-

tecting shells."

"How do you know their purposes?" Paul growled as he

followed instructions. The shells came apart easily.

"Envelopes are to protect messages," snorted Seevers,

Paul sorted out the hemispheres, and found two mirror-

polished cells of paper-thin tough metal. They bore no in-

scription, either inside or out. He gave Seevers a puzzled

frown,

"Handle them carefully while they're out of the protectors.

They're already a little blurred..."

"I don't see any message." f

"There's a small bottle of iron filings in that drawer by

your knee. Sift them carefully over the outside of the shells.

That powder isn't fine enough, really, but it's the best I could

do. Felger had some better stuff up at Princeton, before we

all got out. This'business wasn't my discovery, incidentally."

Baffled, Paul found the iron filings and dusted the mirror-

shells with the powder. Delicate patterns appeared--latitu-

dinal circles, etched in iron dust and laced here and there

with diagonal lines. He gasped. It looked like the map of a

planet.

"I know what you're thinking," Seevers said. "That's what

we thought too, at first. Then Felger came up with this very

fine dust. Fine as they are, those lines are rows of pictograph

symbols. You can make them out vaguely with a good reading

glass, even with this coarse stuff. It's magnetic printing--

like two-dimensional wire-recording. Evidently, the animals

that printed it had either very powerful eyes, or a magnetic

sense."

"Anyone understand it?"

"Princeton staff was working on it when the world went

crazy. They figured out enough to guess at what I've just told

you. They found five different shell-messages among a dozen

or so spheres. One of them was a sort of a key. A symbol

equated to a diagram of a carbon atom, Another symbol

equated to a pi in binary numbers. Things like that--about

five hundred symbols, in fact. Some we couldn't figure. Then

they defined other symbols by what amounted to blank-filling

quizzes. Things like--'A star is...' and there would be the

unknown symbol. We would try to decide whether it meant

'hot,' 'white,' 'huge,' and so forth."

"And you managed it?"

"In part. The ruthless way in which the missiles were

opened destroyed some of the clarity The senders were guilty

of their own brand of anthropomorphism. They projected their

own psychology on us. They expected us to open the things

shell by shell, cautiously, and figure out the text before we

went further. Heh! What happens? Some machinist grabs

one, shakes it, weighs it, sticks it on a lathe, and--brrrrrr!

Our curiosity is still rather apelike. Stick our arm in a gopher

hole to see if there's a rattlesnake inside."

There was a long silence while Paul stood peering over

the patterns on the shell. "Why haven't people heard about

this?" he asked quietly.

"Heard about it!" Seevers roared. "And how do you propose

to tell them about it?"

Paul shook his head. It was easy to forget that Man had

scurried away from his presses and his broadcasting stations

and his railroads, leaving his mechanical creatures to sleep

in their own rust while he fled like a bee-stung bear before

the strange terror.

"What, exactly, do the patterns say, Doctor?"

"I've told you some of it--the evolutionary origin of the

neuroderm parasites. We also pieced together their reasons

for launching the missiles across space--several thousand

years ago. Their sun was about to flare into a supernova.

They worked out a theoretical space-drive, but they couldn't

fuel it--needed some element that was scarce in their system.

They could get to their outer planet, but that wouldn't help

much. So they just cultured up a batch of their parasite-ben-

efactors, rolled them into these balls, and fired them like

charges of buckshot at various stars. Interception-course,

naturally. They meant to miss just a little, so that the pro-

jectiles would swing into long elliptical orbits around the

suns--close enough in to intersect the radiational 'life-belt'

and eventually cross paths with planets whose orbits were

near-circular. Looks like they hit us on the first pass."

"You mean they weren't aiming at Earth in particular?"

"Evidently not. They couldn't know we were here. Not at

a range like that. Hundreds of light-years. They just took a

chance on several stars. Shipping off their pets was sort of

a last-ditch stand against extinction--symbolic, to be sure--

but a noble gesture, as far as they were concerned. A giving

away of part of their souls. Like a man writing his will and

leaving his last worldly possession to some unknown species

beyond the stars. Imagine them standing there--watching

the projectiles being fired out toward deep space. There goes

their inheritance, to as unknown heir, or perhaps to no one.

The little creatures that brought them up from beasthood,"

Seevers paused, staring up at the sunlight beyond

the high

basement window. He was talking to himself again, quietly:

"You can see them turn away and silently go back... to wait

for their collapsing sun to reach the critical point, the deto-

nating point. They've left their last mark--a dark and un-

certain benediction to the cosmos."

"You're a fool, Seevers," Paul grunted suddenly.

Seevers whirled, whitening. His hand darted out forget-

fully toward the young man's arm, but he drew it back as

Paul sidestepped.

"You actually regard this thing as desirable, don't you?"

Paul asked. "You can't see that you're under its effect. Why

does it affect people that way? And you say I can't be objec-

tive."

The professor smiled coldly. "I didn't say it's desirable. I

was simply pointing out that the beings who sent it it

as desirable. They were making some unwarranted assump-

tions."

"Maybe they just didn't care."

"Of course they cared. Their fallacy was that we would

open it as they would have done--cautiously. Perhaps they

couldn't see how a creature could be both brash and intelli-

gent. They meant for us to read the warning on the shells

before we went further."

"Warning...?"

Seevers smiled bitterly. "Yes, warning. There was one

group of oversized symbols on all the spheres. See that pattern

on the top ring? It says, in effect--'Finder-creatures, you who

destroy your own people--if you do this thing, then destroy

this container without penetrating deeper. If you are self-

destroyers then the contents will only help to destroy you.'"

There was a frigid silence.

"But somebody would have opened one anyway," Paul pro-

tested.

Seevers turned his bitter smile on the window. "You

couldn't be more right. The senders just didn't foresee our

monkey-minded species. If they saw Man digging out the

nuggets, braying over them, chortling over them, cracking

them like walnuts, then turning tail to run howling for the

forests--well, they'd think twice before they fired another

round of their celestial buckshot."

"Doctor Seevers, what do you think will happen now? To

the world, I mean?"

Seevers shrugged. "I saw a baby born yesterday--to a

woman down the island. It was fully covered with neuroderm

at birth. It has some new sensory equipment--small pores in

the fingertips, with taste buds and olfactory cells in them,

Also a nodule above each eye sensitive to infrared."

Paul groaned.

"It's not the first case. Those things are happening to

adults, too, but you have to have the condition for quite a

while. Brother Thomas has the finger pores already. Hasn't

learned to use them yet, of course. He gets sensations from

them, but the receptors aren't connected to olfactory and taste

centers of the brain. They're still linked with the somesthetic

interpretive centers. He can touch various substances and

get different perceptive combinations of heat, pain, cold, pres-

sure, and so forth. He says vinegar feels ice-cold, quinine

sharp-hot, cologne warm-velvet-prickly, and... he blushes

when he touches a musky perfume."

Paul laughed, and the hollow sound startled him.

"It may be several' generations before we know all that

will happen," Seevers went on. "I've examined sections of rat

brain and found the microorganisms. They may be working

at rerouting these new receptors to proper brain areas. Our

grandchildren--if Man's still on Earth by then--can perhaps

taste-analyze substances by touch, qualitatively determine

the contents of a test tube by sticking a finger in it. See a

warm radiator in a dark room--by infrared. Perhaps there'll

be some ultraviolet sensitization. My rats are sensitive to it."

Paul went to the rat cages and stared in at three gray

pelted animals that seemed larger than the others. They re-

treated against the back wall and watched him warily. They

began squeaking and exchanging glances among themselves.

"Those are third-generation hypers," Seevers told him.

"They've developed a simple language. Not intelligent by

human standards, but crafty. They've learned to use their

sensory equipment. They know when I mean to feed them,

and when I mean to take one out to kill and dissect. A slight

change in my emotional odor, I imagine. Learning's a big

hurdle, youngster. A hyper with finger pores gets sensations

from them, but it takes a long time to attach meaning to the

various sensations--through learning. A baby gets visual

sensations from his untrained eyes--but the sensation is ut-

terly without significance until he associates milk with white

mother with a face shape, and so forth."

"What will happen to the brain?" Paul breathed.

"Not too much, I imagine, I haven't observed much hap-

pening. The rats show an increase in intelligence, but not in

brain size. The intellectual boost apparently comes from an

ability to perceive things in terms of more senses. Ideas, con-

cepts, precepts--are made of memory collections of past sen-

sory experiences. An apple is red, fruity-smelling, sweet-acid

flavored--that's your sensory idea of an apple. A blind man

without a tongue couldn't form such a complete idea. A hyper,

on the other hand, could add some new adjectives that you

couldn't understand. The fully developed hyper--I'm not one

yet--has more sensory tools with which to grasp ideas. When

he learns to use them, he'll be mentally more efficient. But

there's apparently a hitch.

"The parasite's instinctive goal is to insure the host's sur-

vival. That's the substance of the warning. If Man has the

capacity to work together, then the parasites will help him

shape his environment. If Man intends to keep fighting with

his fellows, the parasite will help him do a better job of that,

too. Help him destroy himself more efficiently."

"Men have worked together--"

"In small tribes," Seevers interrupted. "Yes, we have group

spirit. Ape-tribe spirit, not race spirit."

Paul moved restlessly toward the door. Seevers had turned

to watch him with a cool smirk.

"Well, you're illuminated, youngster. Now what do you

intend to do?"

Paul shook his head to scatter the confusion of ideas.

"What can anyone do? Except run. To an island, perhaps."

Seevers hoisted a cynical eyebrow. "Intend taking the con-

dition with you? Or will you try to stay nonhyper?"

'Take... are you crazy? I mean to stay healthy?"

"That's what I thought. If you were objective about this,

you'd give yourself the condition and get it over with. I did.

You remind me of a monkey running away from a hypodermic

needle. The hypo has serum health-insurance in it, but the

needle looks sharp. The monkey chatters with fright."

Paul stalked angrily to the door, then paused. "Therers a

girl upstairs, a dermie. Would you--"

"Tell her all this? I always brief new hypers. It's one of

my duties around this ecclesiastical leper ranch. She's on the

verge of insanity, I suppose. They all are, before they get

rid of the idea that they're damned souls. What's she to

you?"

Paul strode out into the corridor without answering. He

felt physically ill. He hated Seevers' smug bulldog face

with a violence that was unfamiliar to him. The man had

given the plague to himself! So he said. But was it true?

Was any of it true? To claim that the hallucinations were

new sensory phenomena, to pose the plague as possibly

desirable--Seevers had no patent on those ideas. Every

dermie made such claims; it was a symptom. Seevers had

simply invented clever rationalizations to support his

delusions, and Paul had been nearly taken in. Seevers was

clever. Do you mean to take the condition with you when

you go? Wasn't that just another way of suggesting, "Why

don't you allow me to touch you?" Paul was shivering as he

returned to the third-floor room to recoat himself with the

pungent oil. Why not leave now? he thought.

But he spent the day wandering along the waterfront,

stopping briefly at the docks to watch a crew of monks scram-

bling over the scaffolding that surrounded the hulls of two

small sea-going vessels. The monks were caulking split

seams and trotting along the platforms with buckets of tar

and paint. Upon inquiry, Paul learned which of the vessels

was intended for his own use. And he put aside all

thoughts of immediate departure.

She was a fifty-footer, a slender craft with a weighted fin-

keel that would cut too deep for bay navigation. Paul

guessed that the colony wanted only a flat-bottomed vessel

for hauling passengers and cargo across from the mainland.

They would have little use for the trim seaster with the

lines of a baby destroyer. Upon closer examination, he

guessed that it had been a police boat, or Coast Guard

craft. There was a gun-mounting on the forward deck,

minus the gun. She was built for speed, and powered by

diesels, and she could be provisioned for a nice long cruise.

Paul went to scrounge among the warehouses and

locate a stock of supplies. He met an occasional monk or

nun, bat the gray-skinned monastics seemed only desirous

of avoiding him. The dermie desire was keyed principally,

by smell, and the deodorant oil helped preserve him from

their affections. Once he was approached by a wild-eyed

layman who startled him amidst a heap of warehouse

crates. The dermie was almost upon him before Paul heard

the footfall. Caught without

an escape route, and assailed by startled terror, he shattered

the man's arm with a shotgun blast, then fled from the ware-

house to escape the dermie's screams.

Choking with shame, he found a dermie monk and sent

him to care for the wounded creature. Paul had shot at other

plague victims when there was no escape, but never with

intent to kill. The man's life had been spared only by hasty

aim.

"It was self-defenset" he reminded himself.

But defense against what? Against the inevitable?

He hurried back to the hospital and found Mendelhaus

outside the small chapel. ''I better not wait for your boat," he

told the priest. "I just shot one of your people. I better leave

before it happens again."

Mendelhaus' thin lips tightened, "You shot--"

"Didn't kill him," Paul explained hastily. "Broke his arm.

One of the brothers is bringing him over. I'm sorry, Father,

but he jumped me."

The priest glanced aside silently, apparently wrestling

against anger, "I'm glad you told me," he said quietly. "I

suppose you couldn't help it. But why did you leave the hos-

pital? You're safe here. The yacht will be provisioned for you.

I suggest you remain in your room until it's ready. I won't

vouch for your safety any farther than the building." There

was a tone of command in his voice, and Paul nodded slowly.

He started away.

"The young lady's been asking for you," the priest called

after him.

Paul stopped. "How is she?"

"Over the crisis, I think. Infection's down. Nervous con-

dition not so good. Deep depression. Sometimes she goes a

little hysterical." He paused, then lowered his voice, "You're

at the focus of it, young man. Sometimes she gets the idea

that she touched you, and then sometimes she raves about

how she wouldn't do it."

Paul whirled angrily, forming a protest, but the priest

continued: "Seevers talked to her, and then a psychologist--

one of oar sisters. It seemed to help some. She's asleep now,

I don't know how much of Seevers' talk she understood, how-

ever. She's dared--combined effects of pain, shock, infection,

guilt feelings, fright, hysteria--and some other things, Mor-

phine doesn't make her mind any clearer. Neither does the

fact that she thinks you're avoiding her."

"It's the plague I'm avoiding!" Paul snapped. "Not her."

Mendelhaus chuckled mirthlessly. "You're talking to me,

aren't you?" He turned and entered the chapel through a

swinging door. As the door fanned back and forth, Paul

caught a glimpse of a candlelit altar and a stark wooden

crucifix, and a sea of monk-robes flowing over the pews, wait-

ing for the celebrant priest to enter the sanctuary and begin

the Sacrifice of the Mass. He realized vaguely that it was

Sunday.

Paul wandered back to the main corridor and found him-

self drifting toward Willie's room. The door was ajar, and he

stopped short lest she see him. But after a moment he inched

forward until he caught a glimpse of her dark mass of hair

unfurled across the pillow. One of the sisters had combed it

for her, and it spread in dark waves, gleaming in the can-

dlelight. She was still asleep. The candle startled him for an

instant--suggesting a deathbed and the sacrament of the

dying. But a dogeared magazine lay beneath it; someone had

been reading to her.

He stood in the doorway, watching the slow rise of her

breathing. Fresh, young, shapely--even in the crude cotton

gown they had given her, even beneath the blue-white pallor

of her skin--soon to become gray as a cloudy sky in a wintery

twilight. Her lips moved slightly, and he backed a step away.

They paused, parted moistly, showing thin white teeth. Her

delicately carved face was thrown back slightly on the pillow.

There was a sudden tightening of her jaw.

A weirdly pitched voice floated unexpectedly from down

the hall, echoing the semisinging of Gregorian chant: "As-

perges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor..." The priest was

beginning Mass.

As the sound came, the girl's hands clenched into rigid

fists beneath the sheet. Her eyes flared open to stare <wildly

at the ceiling. Clutching the bedclothes, she pressed the fists

up against her face and cried out: "No! Noooo! God, I won't!"

Paul backed out of sight and pressed himself against the

wall. A knot of desolation tightened in his stomach. He looked

around nervously. A nun, hearing the outcry, came scurrying

down the hall, murmuring anxiously to herself, A plump

mother hen in a dozen yards of starched white cloth. She gave

him a quick challenging glance and waddled inside.

"Child, my child, what's wrong! Nightmares again?"

He heard Willie breathe a nervous moan of relief. Then

her voice, weakly--"They . . . they made me . . . touch . . .

Ooo, God! I want to cut off my hands!"

Paul fled, leaving the nun's sympathetic reassurance to

fade into a murmur behind him.

He spent the rest of the day and the night in his room. On

the following day, Mendelhaus came with word that the boat

was not yet ready. They needed to finish caulking and stock

it with provisions. But the priest assured him that it should

be afloat within twenty-four hours, Paal omild not bring him-

self to ask about the girl.

A monk brought his food--unopened cans, still steaming

from the sterilizer, and on a covered tray. The monk wore

gloves and mask, and he had oiled his own skin. There were

moments when Paul felt as if he were the diseased and con-

tagious patient from whom the others protected themselves.

Like Omar, he thought, wondering--"which is the Potter,

pray, and which the Pot?"

Was Man, as Seevers implied, a terrorized ape-tribe

fleeing illogically from the gray hands that only wanted to

offer a blessing? How narrow was the line dividing blessing

from curse, god from demon! The-parasites came in a devil's

mask, the mask of disease, "Diseases have often killed me,"

said Man. "All disease is therefore evil." But was that nec-

essarily true? Fire had often killed Man's club-bearing ances-

tors, but later came to serve him. Even diseases had been

used to good advantage--artificially induced typhoid and

malaria to fight venereal infections.

But the gray skin ... taste buds in the fingertips.. . alien

microorganisms tampering with the nerves and the brain.

Such concepts caused his scalp to bristle. Man---made over

to suit the tastes of a bunch of supposedly beneficent para-

sites--was he still Man, or something else? Little bacterio-

logical farmers imbedded in the skin, raising a crop of nerve

cells--eat one, plant two, sow an olfactor in a new field,

reshuffle the feeder-fibers to the brain,

Monday brought a cold rain and stiff wind from the Gulf.

He watched the water swirling through littered gutters in

the street. Sitting in the window, he watched the gloom and

waited, praying that the storm would not delay his departure.

Mendelhaus smiled politely through his doorway once. "Wil-

lie's ankle seems healing nicely," he said. "Swelling's gone

down so much we had to change caste. If only she would--"

"Thanks for the free report, Padre," Paul growled irrita-

bly.

The priest shrugged and went away.

It was still raining when the sky darkened with evening.

The monastic dock-crew had certainly been unable to finish.

Tomorrow... perhaps.

After nightfall, he lit a candle and lay awake watching

its unflickering yellow tongue until drowsiness lolled his

head aside. He snuffed it out and went to bed.

Dreams assailed him, tormented him, stroked him with

dark hands while he lay back, submitting freely. Small

hands, soft, cool, tender--touching his forehead and his

cheeks, while a voice whispered caresses.

He awoke suddenly to blackness. The feel of the dream-

hands was still on his face. What had aroused him? A sound

in the hall, a creaking hinge? The darkness was impenetra-

ble. The rain had stopped--perhaps its cessation had dis-

turbed him. He felt curiously tense as he lay listening to the

humid, musty corridors. A... faint... rustle... and...

Breathing!. The sound of soft breathing was in the room

with him!

He let out a hoarse shriek that shattered the unearthly

silence. A high-pitched scream of fright answered him! Prom

a few feet away in the room. He groped toward it and fumbled

against a bare wall. He roared curses, and tried to find first

matches, then the shotgun. At last he found the gun, aimed

at nothing across the room, and jerked the trigger. The ex-

plosion deafened him. The window shattered, and a sift of

plaster rustled to the floor.

The brief flash had illuminated the room. It was empty.

He stood frozen. Had he imagined it all? But no, the visitor's

startled scream had been real enough.

A cool draft fanned his face. The door was open. Had he

forgotten to lock it again? A tumult of sound was beginning

to arise from the lower floors. His shot had aroused the sleep-

ers. But there was a closer sound--sobbing in the corridor,

and an irregular creaking noise.

At last he found a match and rushed to the door. But the

tiny flame revealed nothing within its limited aura. He heard

a doorknob rattle in the distance; his visitor was escaping

via the outside stairway. He thought of pursuit and ven-

geance. But instead, he rushed to the washbasin and began

scrubbing himself thoroughly with harsh brown soap. Had

his visitor touched him--or had the hands been only dream-

stuff? He was frightened and sickened.

Voices were filling the corridor. The light of several can-

dles was advancing toward his doorway. He turned to see

monks' faces peering anxiously inside. Father Mendelhaus

shouldered his way through the others, glanced at the win-

dow, the wall, then at Paul.

"What--"

"Safety, eh?" Paul hissed. "Well, I had a prowler! A woman!

I think I've been touched."

The priest turned and spoke to a monk. "Go to the stairway

and call for the Mother Superior. Ask her to make an im-

mediate inspection of the sisters' quarters. If any nuns have

been out of their rooms--"

A shrill voice called from down the hallway: "Father,

Father! The girl with the injured ankle! She's not in her bed!

She's gone!"

"Willie!" Paul gasped.

A small nun with a candle scurried up and panted to re-

cover her breath for a moment. "She's gone, Father. I was on

night duty. I heard the shot, and I went to see if it disturbed

her. She wasn't there!"

The priest grumbled incredulously. "How could she get

out? She can't walk with that cast."

"Crutches, Father. We told her she could get up in a few

days. While she was still irrational, she kept saying they

were going to amputate her leg. We brought the crutches in

to prove she'd be up soon. It's my fault, Father. I should

have--"

"Never mind! Search the building for her."

Paul dried his wet skin and faced the priest angrily. "What

can I do to disinfect myself?" he demanded.

Mendelhaus called out into the hallway where a crowd

had gathered. "Someone please get Doctor Seevers."

"I'm here, preacher," grunted the scientist. The monastics

parted ranks to make way for his short chubby body. He

grinned amusedly at Paul. "So, you decided to make your

home here after all, eh?"

Paul croaked an insult at him. "Have you got any effec-

tive--"

"Disinfectants? Afraid not. Nitric acid will do the trick on

one or two local spots. Where were you touched?"

"I don't know. I was asleep."

Seevers' grin widened. "Well, you can't take a bath in

nitric acid. We'll try something else, but I doubt if it'll work

for a direct touch."

"That oil--"

"Uh-uh! That'll do for" exposure-weakened parasites you

might pick up by handling an object that's been touched. But

with skin-to-skin contact, the bugs're pretty stout little ras-

cals. Come on downstairs, though, we'll make a pass at it,"

Paul followed him quickly down the corridor. Behind him,

a soft voice was murmuring: "I just can't understand why

nonhypers are so..." Mendelhaus said something to Seevers,

blotting out the voice. Paul chafed at the thought that they

might consider him cowardly.

But with the herds fleeing northward, cowardice was the

social norm. And after a year's flight, Paul had accepted the

norm as the only possible way to fight.

Seevers was emptying chemicals into a tub of water in the

basement when a monk hurried in to tug at Mendelhaus'

sleeve. "Father, the sisters report that the girl's not in the

building."

"What? Well, she can't be far! Search the grounds. If she's

not there, try the adjoining blocks."

Paul stopped unbuttoning his shirt. Willie had said some

mournful things about what she would rather do than submit

to the craving. And her startled scream when he had cried

out in the darkness--the scream of someone suddenly awak-

ening to reality--from a daze-world.

The monk left the room. Seevers sloshed more chemicals

into the tub. Paul could hear the wind whipping about the

basement windows and the growl of an angry surf not so far

away. Paul rebuttoned his shirt.

"Which way's the ocean?" he asked suddenly. He backed

toward the door.

"No, you fool!" roared Seevers. "You're not going to--get

him, preacher!"

Paul sidestepped as the priest grabbed for him. He darted

outside and began running for the stairs. Mendelhaus bel-

lowed for him to stop.

"Not me!" Paul called back angrily. "Willie!"

Moments later, he was racing across the sodden lawn and

into the street. He stopped on the corner to get his bearings.

The wind brought the sound of the surf with it. He began

running east and calling her name into the night.

The rain had ceased, but the pavement was wet and water

gurgled in the gutters. Occasionally the moon peered through

the thinning veil of clouds, but its light failed to furnish a

view of the street ahead. After a minute's running, he found

himself standing on the seawall. The breakers thundered a

stone's throw across the sand. For a moment they became

visible under the coy moon, then vanished again in blackness.

He had not seen her.

"Willie!"

Only the breakers' growl responded. And a glimmer of

phosphorescence from the waves,

"Willie!" He slipped down from the seawall and began

feeling along the jagged rocks that lay beneath it. She could

not have gotten down without faffing. Then he remembered

a rickety flight of steps just to the north, and he trotted

quickly toward it.

The moon came out suddenly. He saw her, and stopped.

She was sitting motionless on the bottom step, holding her

face in her hands. The crutches were stacked neatly against

the handrail. Ten yards across the sand slope lay the hungry,

devouring surf. Paul approached her slowly. The moon went

out again. His feet sucked at the rain-soaked sand.

He stopped by the handrail, peering at her motionless

shadow. "Willie?"

A low moan, then a long silence. "I did it, Paul," she mut-

tered miserably. "It was like a dream at first, but then... you

shouted.,. and..."

He crouched in front of her, sitting on his heels. Then he

took her wrists firmly and tugged her hands from her face.

"Don't,,,"

He pulled her close and kissed her. Her mouth was fright

ened. Then he lifted her--being cautious of the now-sodden

cast. He climbed the steps and started back to the hospital.

Willie, dazed and weary and still uncomprehending, fell

asleep in his arms. Her hair blew about his face in the wind.

It smelled warm and alive. He wondered what sensation it

would produce to the finger-pore receptors. "Wait and see,"

he said to himself.

The priest met him with a growing grin when he brought

her into the candlelit corridor. "Shall we forget the boat,

son?"

Paul paused. "No... I'd like to borrow it anyway."

Mendelhaus looked puzzled,

Seevers snorted at him: "Preacher, don't you know any

reasons for traveling besides running away?"

Paul carried her back to her room. He meant to have a

long talk when she awoke. About an island--until the world

sobered up.

5

CIVI

LIZA

TION

DES

TRO

YED

Even if humanity survives, the civilization it developed over

the last ten thousand years may not, in a "Catastrophe of the

Fifth Class."

We are, for instance, beginning to suspect that the Sun is

not quite as reliable a luminary as we have been taking for

granted. Suppose the Sun undergoes a small hiccup, nothing

of importance to itself, or very noticeable from out in space--

yet enough to introduce sufficient change on Earth to break

down humanity's fine-tuned system of society ("Last Night

of Summer" by Alfred Coppel).

Or humanity can do it to itself. Wars have been endemic

since the beginning of civilization, certainly, and they have

been growing steadily more deadly as technology advances.

With the coming of the nuclear bomb, the true Armageddon

has finally become possible. ("The Store of the Worlds" by

Robert Sheckley).

Consider, though, that civilization is the product of hu-

manity's three-pound brain, the most magnificently orga-

nized bit of matter we have any knowledge of. What if some-

thing goes wrong with it--whether other-induced or self-

induced ("How It Was When the Past Went Away" by Robert

Silverberg)?

And finally, what of the sword of Damocles that truly

hangs suspended over humanity; the one catastrophe that is

visible, perhaps even inevitable, and is eating away at us

now--overpopulation. What if we continue to increase our

numbers and if the mere weight of flesh and blood breaks us

down ("Shark Ship" by C. M. Kornbluth)?

Last Night of Summer

ALFRED COPPEL

There were fires burning in the city. With the house dark--

the power station was deserted by this time--Tom Henderson

could see the fires clearly. They reflected like bonfires against

the pall of smoke,

He sat in the dark, smoking and listening to the reedy

voice of the announcer that came out of the battery-powered

portable radio,

"--mean temperatures are rising to abnormal heights all

over the world. Paris reports a high yesterday of 110

degrees .,. Naples was 115... astronomers predict... the

government requests that the civil population remain calm.

Martial law has been declared in Los Angeles--"

The voice was faint. The batteries were low. Not that it

mattered. With all our bickering, Henderson thought, this is

the finish. And we haven't got what it takes to face it. It was

so simple, really. No war of the worlds, no collision with

another planet. A slight rise in temperature. Just that. The

astronomers had discovered it first, of course, And,there had

been reassuring statements to the press. The rise in temper-

ature would be small. Ten percent give or take a few million

degrees. They spoke of surface-tensions, internal stresses and

used all the astrophysical terms not one man in two million

had ever taken the trouble to understand. And what they

said to the world was that on the last night of summer it

would die.

It would be gradual at first. Temperatures had been high

all summer. Then on September 22nd, there would be a sud-

den surge of heat from that familiar red ball in the sky. The

surface temperature of the earth would be raised to 200deg

centigrade for seventeen hours. Then everything would be

back to normal.

Henderson grinned vacuously at the empty air. Back to

normal. The seas, which would have boiled away, would con-

dense and fall as hot rain for a month or so, flooding the land,

washing away all traces of man's occupation--those that

hadn't burned. And in two months, the temperature would

be down to where a man could walk on the surface without

protective clothing.

Only there would not be very many men left. There would

only be the lucky ones with the talismans of survivals, the

metal disks that gave access to the Burrows. Out of a pop-

ulation of two billions, less than a million would survive.

The announcer sounded bone-weary. He should, Hender-

son thought. He's been on the air for ten hours or more without

relief. We all do what we can. But it isn't much,

"--no more applicants are being taken for the Burrows--"

I should hope not, Henderson thought. There had been so

little time. Three months. That they had been able to build

the ten Burrows was tribute enough. But then money hadn't

mattered, had it? He had to keep reminding himself that the

old values didn't apply. Not money, or materials, or even

labor--that stand-by of commerce. Only time. And there

hadn't been any of that.

"--population of Las Vegas has been evacuated into sev-

eral mines in the area--"

Nice try, but it wouldn't work, Henderson thought lan-

guidly. If the heat didn't kill, the overcrowding would. And

if that failed, then the floods would succeed. And of course

there would be earthquakes. We can't accept catastrophe on

this scale, he told himself. We aren't equipped mentally for it

any better than toe are physically. The only thing a man could

understand were his own problems. And this last night of

summer made them seem petty, small, as though they were

being viewed through the wrong end of a telescope.

I'm sorry for the girls, he thought. Lorrie and Pam. They

should have had a chance to grow up. He felt a tightness in

his throat as he thought of his daughters. Eight and ten are

sad ages to die.

But he hadn't thought of them before, why should the end

of the world make it any different? He had left them and

Laura, too. For what? For Kay and money and a kind of life

that would go out in a bright flash with the coming of dawn.

They all danced their minuscule ballet on the rim of the world

while he sat, drained of purpose or feeling, watching them

through that reversed telescope.

He wondered where Kay was now. All over the city there

were Star Parties going on. The sky the limit tonight! Any-

thing you want. Tomorrow--bang! Nothing denied, nothing

forbidden. This is the last night of the world, kiddo!

Kay had dressed--if that was the word--and gone out at

seven. "I'm not going to sit here and just wait!" He remem-

bered the hysteria in her voice, the drugged stupor in her

eyes. And then Trina and those others coming in, some drunk,

others merely giddy with terror. Trina wrapped in her mink

coat, and dancing around the room singing in a shrill, cracked

voice. And the other girl--Henderson never could remember

her name, but he'd remember her now for all the time there

was left--naked except for her jewels. Diamonds, rubies, em-

eralds--all glittering sparkling in the last rays of the

swollen sun. And the tears streamed down her cheeks as she

begged him to make love to her--

It was'a nightmare. But it was real. The red sun that

slipped into the Pacific was real. The fires and looting in the

city were not dreams. This was the way the world was ending.

Star Parties and murder in the streets, and women dressed

in gems, and tears--a million gallons of tears.

Outside there was the squeal of tires and a crash, then the,

tinkling of broken glass and silence. A shot came from down

the street. There was a cry that was part laughter and part

scream,

I'm without purpose, Henderson thought. I sit and watch

and wait for nothing. And the radio's voice grew fainter still.

"--those in the Burrows will survive... in mines and eaves

... geologists promise a forty percent survival... behind the

iron curtain--"

Behind the iron curtain, surely nothing. Or perhaps it

would be instantaneous, not sweeping across the world with

dawn. Of course, it would be instantaneous. The sun would

swell--oh, so slightly--and eight minutes later, rivers, lakes,

streams, the oceans--everything wet--would boil up into the

sky'...

From the street came a rasping repetitive cry. Not a

woman. A man. He was burning. A street gang had soaked

him with gasoline and touched him with a match. They fol-

lowed him shrieking: preview, preview! Henderson watched

him through the window as he ran with that uuuh uuuh

uuuh noise seemingly ripped from his throat. He vanished

around the corner of the next house, closely pursued by

his tormentors,

I hope the girls and Laura are safe, Henderson thought.

And then he almost laughed aloud. Safe. What was safety

now? Maybe, he thought, I should have gone with Kay. Was

there anything left he wanted to do that he had never

done? Kill? Rape? Any sensation left untasted? The night

before, at the Gilmans', there had been a ludicrous Black

Mass full of horror and asininity: pretty Louise Gilman

taking the guests one after another amid the broken china

and sterling silver on the dining table while her husband

lay half-dead of self-administered morphine.

Our set, Henderson thought. Brokers, bankers, people

who matter. God, it was bad enough to die. But to die

without dignity was worse yet. And to die without purpose

was abysmal.

Someone was banging at the door, scratching at it,

shrieking. He sat still.

"Tom--Tom--it's Kay! Let me in, for God's sake!"

Maybe it was Kay. Maybe it was and he should let her

stay outside. I should keep what shreds of dignity I have,

he thought, and die alone, at least. How would it have been

to face this thing with Laura? Any different? Or was there

anything to choose? I married Laura, he thought. And I

married Kay, too. It was easy. If a man could get a divorce

every two years, say, and he lived to be sixty-five, say--then

how many women could he marry? And if you assumed

there were a billion women in the world, what percentage

would it be?

"Let me in, Tom, damn you! I know you're there!"

Eight and ten isn't very old, he thought. Not very old, really.

They might have been wonderful women... to lie amid the

crockery and cohabit like animals while the sun got

ready to blow up?

"Tom...!"

He shook his head sharply and snapped off the radio.

The fires in the city were brighter and bigger. Not sunfires,

those. Someone had set them. He got up and went to the

door. He opened it. Kay stumbled in, sobbing. "Shut the

door, oh, God, shut it!"

He stood looking at her torn clothes--what there was of

them--and her hands. They were sticky red with blood. He

felt no horror, no curiosity. He experienced nothing but a

dead feeling of loss. I never loved her, he thought suddenly.

That's why.

She reeked of liquor and her lipstick was smeared all over

her face. "I gave him what he wanted." she said shrilly. "The

filthy swine coming to mix with the dead ones and then run,

back to the Burrow--" Suddenly she laughed. "Look, Tom--

look!" She held out one bloody hand. Two disks gleamed dully

in her palm.

"We're safe, safe--" She said it again and again, bending

over the disks and crooning to them.

Henderson stood in the dim hallway, slowly letting his

mind understand what he was seeing. Kay had killed a man

for those tickets into the Burrow.

"Give them to me," he said.

She snatched them away. "No."

"I want them, Kay."

"No, nononono--" She thrust, them into the torn bosom of

her dress. "I came back. I came back for you. That's true, isn't

it?"

"Yes," Henderson said. And it was also true that she

couldn't have hoped to reach a Burrow alone. She would need

a car and. a man with a gun. "I understand, Kay," he said

softly, hating her.

"If I gave them to you, you'd take Laura," she said.

"Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you? Oh, I know you, Tom, I know

you so well. You'd never gotten free of her or those two sniv-

eling brats of yours--"

He struck her sharply across the face, surprised at the

rage that shook him.

"Don't do that again," she said, glaring hatred at him. "I

need you right now but you need me more. You don't know

where the Burrow is. I do."

It was true, of course. The entrances to the Burrows would

have to be secret, known only to those chosen to survive.

Mobs would storm them otherwise. And Kay had found out

from the man--that man who had paid with his life for for-

getting that there were only potential survivors now and

animals.

"All right, Kay," Henderson said. "Ill make a bargain with

you."

"What?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'll tell you in the car. Get ready. Take light things." He

went into the bedroom and took his Luger from the bedside

table drawer. Kay was busy stuffing her jewelry into a hand-

bag. "Come on," he said. "That's enough. Plenty. There isn't

much time."

They went down into the garage and got into the car,

"Roll up the windows," he said. "And lock the doors,"

"All right."

He started the engine and backed onto the street,

"What's the bargain?" Kay asked.

"Later," he said.

He put the car in gear and started down out of the resi-

dential district, going through the winding, wooded drives.

There were dark shapes running in the shadows. A man ap-

peared in the headlights' beam and Henderson swerved

swiftly by him. He heard shots behind. "Keep down," he

said.

"Where are we going? This isn't the way."

"I'm taking the girls with me," he said. "With us."

"They won't let them in."

"We can try."

"You fool, Tom! They won't let them in, I say!"

He stopped the car and twisted around to look at her.

"Would you rather try to make it on foot?"

Her face grew ugly with a renaissance of fear. She could

see her escape misting away. "All right. But I tell you they

won't let them in. No one gets into a Burrow without a disk."

"We can try." He started the car again, driving fast

along the littered streets toward Laura's apartment.

At several points the street was blocked with burning

debris, and once a gang of men and women almost

surrounded them, throwing rocks and bits of wreckage at

the car as he backed it around.

"You'll get us both killed for nothing," Kay said wildly.

Tom Henderson looked at his wife and felt sick for the

wasted years. "We'll be all right," he said.

He stopped the car in front of Laura's. There were two

overturned cars on the sidewalk. He unlocked the door and

got out, taking the keys with him. "I won't be long," he said.

"Say good-by to Laura for me," Kay said, her eyes glit-

tering.

"Yes," he said. "I will."

A shadow moved menacingly out of the dark doorway.

Without hesitation, Tom Henderson lifted the Luger and

fired. The man fell and did not move. I've just killed a man,

Henderson thought. And then: But what does it matter on the

last night of summer?

He shot away the lock and walked swiftly up the dark

hallway, up the two flights of stairs he remembered so

well.

At Laura's door he knocked. There was movement within.

The door opened slowly.

"I've come for the girls," he said. Laura

stepped back. "Come in," she said.

The scent she wore began to prod memories. His eyes

felt unaccountably hot and wet. "There's very little time," he

said.

Laura's hand was on his in the dark. "You can get

them into a Burrow?" she asked. And then faintly. "I put

them to bed. I didn't know what else to do."

He couldn't see her, but he knew how she would look:

the close-cropped sandy hair; the eyes the color of rich

chocolates; her so familiar body supple and warm under

the wrapper; the smell and taste of her. It didn't matter

now, nothing mattered on this last crazy night of the

world.

"Get them," he said, "Quickly,"

She did as was told. Pam and Lorrie--he could hear

them complaining softly about being awakened in the middle

of the night--soft little bodies, with the musty-childish odor

of sleep and safety. Then Laura was kneeling, holding them

against her, each in turn. And he knew the tears must be wet

on her cheeks. He thought: say good-by and make it quick.

Kiss your children good-by and watch them go out while you

remain alone in the dark that isn't ever going to end. Ah,

Laura. Laura--

"Take them quickly, Tom," Laura said. And then she

pressed herself against him just for an instant. "I love you,

Tom. I never stopped."

He lifted Pam into his arms and took Lome's hand. He

didn't trust himself to speak.

"Good-by, Tom," Laura said, and closed the door behind

him.

"Isn't Mommy coming?" Pam asked sleepily.

"Another time, baby," Tom said softly.

He took them out to the waiting car and Kay.

"They won't take them," she said. "You'll see."

"Where is it, Kay?"

She remained sullenly silent and Henderson felt his nerves

cracking. "Kay--"

"All right." She gave him directions grudgingly, as

though she hated to share her survival with him. She

wouldn't look at the girls, already asleep in the back of the

car.

They drove through the city, the looted, tortured city that

burned and echoed to the shrill gaiety of Star Parties and

already stank of death.

Twice, they were almost struck by careening cars, filled

with drunken, naked, insane people, all with the desperate

desire to make this last night more vivid than all the others'

back to the very beginning of time.

The headlights illuminated tableaus from some wild in-

ferno as the car swung around through the concrete cemetery

the city had become:

A woman hung by the ankles, her skirt shrouding her face

and upper body, her legs and buttocks flayed...

Psalm singers kneeling in the street, not moving as a truck

cut a swath through their midst. And the hymn, thin and

weak, heard over the moans of the dying: Rock of Ages, cleft

for me, let me hide myself in thee...

Sudden sun-worshippers and troglodytes dancing round

a fire of burning books...

The death throes of a world, Henderson thought. What

survives the fire and flood will have to be better.

And then they had reached the silent hill that was the

entrance to the Burrow, the miles-deep warren clothed in

refrigerator pipes and cooling earth. "There," Kay said.

"Where you see the light. There'll be a guard."

Behind them, the fires burned in the city. The night was

growing lighter, lit by a rising moon, a moon too red, too

large. Four hours left, perhaps, Tom thought. Or less.

"You can't take them," Kay was whispering harshly. "If

you try they might not let us in. It's kinder to let them stay

here--asleep. They'll never know."

"That's right," Tom said.

Kay got out of the car and started up the grassy slope.

"Then come on!"

Halfway up the hill, Henderson could make out the pacing

figure of the guard: death watch on a world. "Wait a minute,"

he said.

"What is it?"

"Are you sure we can get in?"

"Of course."

"No questions asked?"

"A11 we need are the disks. They can't know everybody

who belongs."

"No," Tom said quietly. "Of course not." He stood looking

at Kay under the light of the red moon,

"Tom--"

He took Kay's hand. "We weren't worth much, were we,

Kay?"

Her eyes were bright, wide, staring.

"You didn't really expect anything else, did you?"

"Tom--Tom!"

The pistol felt light in his hand.

"I'm your wife--" she said hoarsely,

"Let's pretend you're not. Let's pretend it's a Star Party."

"My God--please--nonono--"

The Luger bucked in his hand, Kay sank to the grass

awkwardly and lay there, eyes glazed and open in horrified

surprise. Henderson opened her dress and took the two disks

from between her breasts. Then he covered her carefully and

shut her eyes with his forefinger. "You didn't miss much,

Kay," he said looking down at her. "Just more of the same."

He went back to the car and woke up the girls.

"Where are we going now, Daddy?" Pam asked.

"Up there on the hill, dear. Where the light is."

"Carry me?"

"Both of you," he said, and dropped the Luger into the

grass. He-picked them up and carried them up the hill to

within a hundred feet of the bunker entrance. Then he put

them down and gave them each a disk. "Go to the light and

give the man there these," he said, and kissed them both.

"You're not coming?"

"No, babies."

Lorrie looked as though she might start crying.

"I'm afraid."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Tom said.

"Nothing at all," Pam said.

Tom watched them go. He saw the guard kneel and hug

them both. There is some kindness in this stripping of inhi-

bitions, Henderson thought, something is left after all. They

disappeared into the Burrow and the guard stood up saluting

the darkness with a wave. Henderson turned and walked

back down the hill, skirting the place where Kay lay face to

the sky. A Warm dry wind touched his face. Time running

out quickly now, he thought. He got into the car and started

back toward the city. There were still a few hours left of this

last night of summer, and Laura and he could watch the red

dawn together.

The Store of the Worlds

ROBERT SHECKLEY

Mr. Wayne came to the end of the long, shoulder-high mound

of gray rubble, and there was the Store of the Worlds. It was

exactly as his friends had described: a small shack con-

structed of bits of lumber, parts of cars, a piece of galvanized

iron and a few rows of crumbling bricks, all daubed over with

a watery blue paint.

He glanced back down the long lane of rubble to make

sure he hadn't been followed. He tucked his parcel more

firmly under his arm; then, with a little shiver at his own

audacity, he opened the door and slipped inside.

"Good morning," the proprietor said.

He, too, was exactly as described: a tall, crafty-looking old

fellow with narrow eyes and a downcast mouth. His name

was Tompkins. He sat in an old rocking chair, and perched

on the back of it was a blue-and-green parrot. There was one

other chair in the store and a table. On the table was a rusted

hypodermic.

"I've heard about your store from friends," Mr. Wayne

said.

"Then you know my price," Tompkins said. "Have you

brought it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Wayne, holding up his parcel. "All my

worldly goods. But I want to ask first--"

"They always want to ask," Tompkins said to the parrot,

who blinked. "Go ahead, ask."

"I want to know what really happens."

Tompkins sighed. "What happens is this: I give you an

injection which knocks you out. Then, with the aid of certain

gadgets which I have in the back of the store, I liberate your

mind."

Tompkins smiled as he said that, and his silent parrot

seemed to smile, too.

"What happens then?" Mr. Wayne asked.

"Your mind, liberated from its body, is able to choose from

the countless probability worlds which the earth easts off in

every second of its existence."

Grinning now, Tompkins sat up in his rocking chair and

began to show signs of enthusiasm.

"Yes, my friend, though you might not have suspected it,

from the moment this battered earth was born out of the sun's

fiery womb, it cast off its alternate-probability worlds. Worlds

without end, emanating from events large and small; every

Alexander and every amoeba creating worlds, just as ripples

will spread in a pond no matter how big or how small the

stone you throw. Doesn't every object cast a shadow? Well,

my friend, the earth itself is four-dimensional; therefore it

casts three-dimensional shadows, solid reflections of itself,

through every moment of its being. Millions, billions of

earths! An infinity of earths! And your mind, liberated by

me, will be able to select any of these worlds and live upon it

for a while."

Mr. Wayne was uncomfortably aware that Tompkins

sounded like a circus barker, proclaiming marvels that sim-

ply couldn't exist. But, Mr. Wayne reminded himself, things

had happened within his own lifetime which he would never

have believed possible. Never! So perhaps the wonders that

Tompkins spoke of were possible, too.

Mr. Wayne said, "My friends also told me--"

"That I was an out-and-out fraud?" Tompkins asked.

"Some of them implied that," Mr. Wayne said cautiously,

"But I try to keep an open mind. They also said--"

"I know what your dirty-minded friends said. They told

you about the fulfillment of desire. Is that what you want to

hear about?"

"Yes," said Mr. Wayne. "They told me that whatever I

wished for--whatever I wanted--"

"Exactly," Tompkins said. 'The thing could work in no

other way. There are the infinite worlds to choose among.

Your mind chooses and is guided only by desire. Your deepest

desire is the only thing that counts. If you have been har-

boring a secret dream of murder--" "Oh, hardly, hardly!"

cried Mr. Wayne. "--then you will go to a world where

you can murder, where you can roll in blood, where you can

outdo De Sade or

Nero or whoever your idol may be. Suppose it's power you

want? Then you'll choose a world where you are a god, lit-

erally and actually. A bloodthirsty Juggernaut, perhaps, or

an ail-wise Buddha."

"I doubt very much if I--"

"There are other desires, too," Tompkins said. "All heavens

and all hells will be open to you. Unbridled sexuality. Glut-

tony, drunkenness, love, fame--anything you want."

"Amazing!" said Mr. Wayne.

"Yes," Tompkins agreed. "Of course, my little list doesn't

exhaust all the possibilities, all the combinations and per-

mutations of desire. For all I know, you might want a simple,

placid, pastoral existence on a South Sea island among ideal-

ized natives."

"That sounds more like me," Mr. Wayne said with a shy

laugh.

"But who knows?" Tompkins asked, "Even you might not

know what your true desires are. They might involve your

own death."

"Does that happen often?" Mr, Wayne asked anxiously.

"Occasionally."

"I wouldn't want to die," Mr. Wayne said.

"It hardly ever happens," Tompkins said, looking at the

parcel in Mr. Wayne's hands.

"If you say so.... But how do I know all this is real? Your

fee is extremely high; it'll take everything I own. And for all

I know, you'll give me a drug and I'll just dream! Everything

I own just for a--shot of heroin and a lot of fancy words!"

Tompkins smiled reassuringly. "The experience has no

druglike quality about it. And no sensation of a dream, ei-

ther."

"If it's true," Mr. Wayne said a little petulantly, "why can't

I stay in the world of my desire for good?"

"I'm working on that," Tompkins said. "That's why I

charge so high a fee--to get materials, to experiment. I'm

trying to find a way of making the transition permanent. So

far I haven't been able to loosen the cord that binds a man

to his own earth--and pulls him back to it. Not even the great

mystics could cut that cord, except with death. But I still

have my hopes."

"It would be a great thing if you succeeded," Mr. Wayne

said politely.

"Yes, it would!" Tompkins cried with a surprising burst

of passion. "For then I'd turn my wretched shop into an escape

hatch! My process would be free then, free for everyone!

Everyone could go to the earth of his desires, the earth that

really suited him, and leave this damned place to the rats

and worms--"

Tompkins cut himself off in midsentence and became icy

calm. "But I fear my prejudices are showing. I can't offer a

permanent escape from this world yet, not one that doesn't

involve death. Perhaps I never will be able to. For now, all

I can offer you is a vacation, a change, a taste of another

world and a look at your own desires. You know my fee. I'll

refund it if the experience isn't satisfactory."

"That's good of you," Mr. Wayne said quite earnestly. "But

there's that other matter my friends told me about, The ten

years off my life."

"That can't be helped," Tompkins said, "and can't be re-

funded. My process is a tremendous strain on the nervous

system, and life expectancy is shortened accordingly. That's

one of the reasons why our so-called government has declared

my process illegal,"

"But they don't enforce the ban very firmly," Mr. Wayne

said.

"No. Officially the process is banned as a harmful fraud.

But officials are men, too. They'd like to leave this earth, just

like everyone else."

"The cost," Mr, Wayne mused, gripping his parcel tightly.

"And ten years off my life! For the fulfillment of my secret

desires Really, I must give this some thought,"

"Think away," Tompkins said indifferently.

All the way home Mr. Wayne thought about it. When his

train reached Port Washington, Long Island, he was still

thinking. And driving his car from the station to his house,

he was still thinking about Tompkins's crafty old face, and

worlds of probability, and the fulfillment of desire.

But when he stepped inside his home, those thoughts had

to stop. Janet, his wife, wanted him to speak sharply to the

maid, who had been drinking again. His son, Tommy, wanted

help with the sloop, which was to be launched tomorrow. And

his baby daughter wanted to tell about her day in kinder-

garten.

Mr. Wayne spoke pleasantly but firmly to the maid. He

helped Tommy put the final coat of copper paint on the sloop's

bottom, and he listened to Peggy tell about her adventures

in the playground.

Later, when the children were in bed and he and Janet

were alone in their living room, she asked him if something

was wrong.

"Wrong?"

"You seem to be worried about something," Janet said.

"Did you have 'a bad day at the office?"

"Oh, just the usual sort of thing--"

He certainly was not going to tell Janet, or anyone else,

that he had taken the day off and gone to see Tompkins in

his crazy old Store of the Worlds, Nor was he going to speak

about the right every man should have, once in his lifetime,

to fulfill his most secret desires. Janet, with her good common

sense, would never understand that.

The next days at the office were extremely hectic. All of

Wall Street was in a mild panic over events in the Middle

East and in Asia, and stocks were reacting accordingly. Mr.

Wayne settled down to work. He tried not to think of the

fulfillment of desire at the cost of everything he possessed,

with ten years of his life thrown in for good measure. It was

crazy! Old Tompkins must be insane!

On weekends he went sailing with Tommy. The old sloop

was behaving very well, taking practically no water through

her bottom seams. Tommy wanted a new suit of racing sails,

but Mr. Wayne sternly rejected that. Perhaps next year, if

'the market looked better. For now, the old sails would have

to do.

Sometimes at night, after the children were asleep, he and

Janet would go sailing. Long Island Sound was quiet then

and cool. Their boat glided past the blinking buoys, sailing

toward the swollen yellow moon.

"I know something's on your mind," Janet said,

"Darling, please!"

"Is there something you're keeping from me?"

"Nothing!"

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Then, put your arms around me. That's right...."

And the sloop sailed itself for a while.

Desire and fulfillment.... But autumn came and the sloop

had to be hauled. The stock market regained some stability,

but Peggy caught the measles. Tommy wanted to know the

differences between ordinary bombs, atom bombs, hydrogen

bombs, cobalt bombs and all the other kinds of bombs that

were in the news. Mr. Wayne explained to the best of his

ability. And the maid quit unexpectedly.

Secret desires were all very well. Perhaps he did want to

kill someone or live on a South Sea island. But there were

responsibilities to consider. He had two growing children and

the best of wives.

'Perhaps around Christmastime....

But in midwinter there was a fire in the unoccupied guest

room due to defective wiring. The firemen put out the blaze

without much damage, and no one was hurt. But it put any

thought of Tompkins out of his mind for a while. First the

bedroom had to be repaired, for Mr, Wayne was very proud

of his gracious old house.

Business was still frantic uncertain due to the inter-

national situation. Those Russians, those Arabs, those Greeks,

those Chinese. The intercontinental missiles, the atom

bombs, the Sputniks-- Mr. Wayne spent long days at the

office and sometimes evenings, too. Tommy caught the

mumps. A part of the roof had to be reshingled. And then

already it was time to consider the spring launching of the

sloop,

A year had passed, and he'd had very little time to think

of secret desires. But perhaps next year. In the mean-

time--

"Well?" said Tompkins. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, quite all right," Mr. Wayne said. He got up from the

chair and rubbed his forehead.

"Do you want a refund?" Tompkins asked.

"No. The experience was quite satisfactory."

"They always are," Tompkins said, winking lewdly at the

parrot. "Well, what was yours?"

"A world of the recent past," Mr. Wayne said.

"A lot of them are. Did you find out about your secret

desire? Was it murder? Or a South Sea island?"

"I'd rather not discuss it," Mr. Wayne said pleasantly but

firmly.

"A lot of people won't discuss it with me," Tompkins said

sulkily. "I'll be damned if I know why."

"Because--well, I think the world of one's secret desire

seems sacred, somehow. No offense Do you think you'll

ever be able to make it permanent? The world of one's

choice, I mean?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders, "I'm trying. If I suc-

ceed, you'll hear about it. Everyone will."

"Yes, I suppose so." Mr. Wayne undid his parcel and laid

its contents on the table. The parcel contained a pair of

army boots, a knife, two coils of copper wire and three

small cans of corned beef.

Tompkins's eyes glittered for a moment. "Quite satisfac-

tory," he said. "Thank you."

"Good-bye," said Mr. Wayne. "And thank you,"

Mr. Wayne left the shop and hurried down to the end of

the lane of gray rubble. Beyond it, as far as he could see, lay

flat fields of rubble, brown and gray and black. Those fields,

stretching to every horizon, were made of the twisted corpses

of buildings, the shattered remnants of trees and the fine

white ash that once was human flesh and bone.

"Well," Mr. Wayne said to himself, "at least we gave as

good as we got."

His year in the past had cost him everything he owned

and ten years of life thrown in for good measure. Had it

been a dream? It was still worth it! But now he had to put

away all thought of Janet and the children. That was

finished, unless Tompkins perfected his process. Now he

had to think about his own survival.

He picked his way carefully through the rubble, deter-

mined to get back to the shelter before dark, before the rats

came out. If he didn't hurry, he'd miss the evening potato

ration.

How It Was When the Past Went Away

ROBERT SILVERBERG

The day that an antisocial fiend dumped an amnesifacient

drug into the city water supply was one of the finest that San

Francisco had had in a long while. The damp cloud that had

been hovering over everything for three weeks finally drifted

across the bay into Berkeley that Wednesday, and the sun

emerged, bright and warm, to give the old town its warmest

day so far in 2003. The temperature climbed into the high

twenties, and even those oldsters who hadn't managed to

learn to convert to the centigrade thermometer knew it was

hot. Air-conditioners hummed from the Golden Gate to the

Embarcadero. Pacific Gas & Electric recorded its highest one-

hour load in history between two and three in the afternoon.

The parks were crowded. People drank a lot of water, some

a good deal more than others. Toward nightfall, the thirstiest

ones were already beginning to forget things. By the next

morning, everybody in the city was in trouble, with a few

exceptions. It had really been an ideal day for committing

a monstrous crime.

On the day before the past went away, Paul Mueller had

been thinking seriously about leaving the state and claiming

refuge in one of the debtor sanctuaries--Reno, maybe, or

Caracas. It wasn't altogether his fault, but he was close to

a million in the red and his creditors were getting unruly.

It had reached the point where they were sending their robot

bill collectors around to harass him in person, just about

every three hours.

"Mr. Mueller? I am requested to notify you that the sum

of $8,005.97 is overdue in your account with Modern Age

Recreators, Inc. We have applied to your financial represen-

tative and have discovered your state of insolvency, and

therefore, unless a payment of $395.61 is made by the elev-

enth of this month, we may find it necessary to begin con-

fiscation procedures against your person. Thus I advise

you--"

"--the amount of $11,554.97, payable on the ninth of Au-

gust, 2002, has not yet been received by Luna Tours, Ltd.

Under the Credit Laws of 1995 we have applied for injunctive

relief against you and anticipate receiving a decree of per-

sonal service due, if no payment is received by--"

"--interest on the unpaid balance is accruing, as specified

in your contract, at a rate of four percent per month--"

"--balloon payment now coming due, requiring the im-

mediate payment of--"

Mueller was growing accustomed to the routine. The ro-

bots couldn't call him--Pacific Tel & Tel had cut him out of

their data net months ago--and so they came around, polite

blank-faced machines stenciled with corporate emblems, and

in soft purring voices told him precisely how deep in the mire

he was at the moment, how fast the penalty charges were

piling up, and what they planned to do to him unless he

settled his debts instantly. If he tried to duck them, they'd

simply track him down in the streets like indefatigable pro-

cess servers, and announce his shame to the whole city. So

he didn't duck them. But fairly soon their threats would begin

to materialize.

They could do awful things to him. The decree of personal

service, for example, would turn him into a slave, he'd become

an employee of his creditor, at a court-stipulated salary, but

every cent he earned would be applied against his debt, while

the creditor provided him with minimal food, shelter, and

clothing. He might find himself compelled to do menial jobs

that a robot would spit at, for two or three years, just to clear

that one debt. Personal confiscation procedures were even

worse; under that deal he might well end up as the actual

servant of one of the executives of a creditor company, shining

shoes and folding shirts. They might also get an open-ended

garnishment on him, under which he and his descendants,

if any, would pay & stated percentage of their annual income

down through the ages until the debt, and the compounding

interest thereon, was finally satisfied. There were other tech-

niques for dealing with delinquents, too.

He had no recourse to bankruptcy. The states and the

federal government had tossed out the bankruptcy laws in

1995, after the so-called Credit Epidemic of the 1980's, when

for a while it was actually fashionable to go irretrievably

into debt and throw yourself on the mercy of the courts. The

haven of easy bankruptcy was no more; if you became in-

solvent, your creditors had you in their grip. The only way

was to jump to a debtor sanctuary, a place where local laws

barred any extradition for a credit offense. There were about

a dozen such sanctuaries, and you could live well there, pro-

vided you had some special skill that you could sell at a high

price. You needed to make a good living, because in a debtor

sanctuary everything was on a strictly cash basis--cash in

advance, at that, even for a haircut. Mueller had a skill that

he thought would see him through: he was an artist, a maker

of sonic sculptures, and his work was always in good demand.

All he needed was a few thousand dollars to purchase the

basic tools of his trade--his last set of sculpting equipment

had been repossessed a few weeks ago--and he could set up

a studio in one of the sanctuaries, beyond the reach of the

robot hounds. He imagined he could still find a friend who

would lend him a few thousand dollars. In the name of art,

so to speak. In a good cause.

If he stayed within the sanctuary area for ten consecutive

years, he would be absolved of his debts and could come forth

a free man. There was only one catch, not a small one. Once

a man had taken the sanctuary route, he was forever barred

from all credit channels when he returned to the outside

world. He couldn't even get a post office credit card, let alone

a bank loan. Mueller wasn't sure he could live that way,

paying cash for everything all the rest of his life. It would

be terribly cumbersome and dreary. Worse: it would be bar-

baric.

He made a note on his memo pad: Call Freddy Munson

in morning and borrow three bigs. Buy ticket to Caracas, Buy

sculpting stuff.

The die was cast--unless he changed his mind in the morn-

ing.

He peered moodily out at the row of glistening white-

washed just-post-Earthquake houses descending the steeply

inclined street that ran down Telegraph Hill toward Fish-

erman's Wharf. They sparkled in the unfamiliar sunlight. A

beautiful day, Mueller thought. A beautiful day to drown

yourself in the bay. Damn. Damn, Damn. He was going to

be forty years old soon, He had come into the world on the

same black day that President John Kennedy had left it.

Born in an evil hour, doomed to a dark fate. Mueller scowled.

He went to the tap and got a glass of water. It was the only

thing he could afford to drink, just now. He asked himself

how he had ever managed to get into such a mess. Nearly

a million in debt!

He lay down dismally to take a nap.

When he woke, toward midnight, he felt better than he

had felt for a long time. Some great cloud seemed to have

lifted from him, even as it had lifted from the city that day.

Mueller was actually in a cheerful mood. He couldn't imagine

why.

In an elegant townhouse on Marina Boulevard, The

Amazing Montini was rehearsing his act. The Amazing Mon-

tini was a professional mnemonist: a small, dapper man of

sixty, who never forgot a thing. Deeply tanned, his dark hair

slicked back at a sharp angle, his small black eyes glistening

with confidence, his thin lips fastidiously pursed. He drew

a book from a shelf and let it drop open at random. It was

an old one-volume edition of Shakespeare, a familiar prop in

his nightclub act. He skimmed the page, nodded, looked

briefly at another, then another, and smiled his inward smile.

Life was kind to The Amazing Montini. He earned a com-

fortable $30,000 a week on tour, having converted a freakish

gift into a profitable enterprise. Tomorrow night he'd open

for a week at Vegas; then on to Manila, Tokyo, Bangkok,

Cairo, on around the globe. In twelve weeks he'd earn his

year's take; then he'd relax once more.

It was all so easy. He knew so many good tricks. Let them

scream out a twenty digit number; he'd scream it right back.

Let them bombard him with long strings of nonsense sylla-

bles; he'd repeat the gibberish flawlessly. Let them draw

intricate mathematical formulas on the computer screen; he'd

reproduce them down to the last exponent. His memory was

perfect, both for visuals and auditories, and for the other

registers as well.

The Shakespeare thing, which was one of the simplest

routines he had, always awed the impressionable. It seemed

so fantastic to most people that a man could memorize the

complete works, page by page. He liked to use it as an opener.

He handed the book to Nadia, his assistant. Also his mis-

tress; Montini liked to keep his circle of intimates close. She

was twenty years old, taller than he was, with wide frost-

gleamed eyes and a torrent of glowing, artificially radiant

azure hair: up to the minute in every fashion. She wore a

glass bodice, a nice container for the things contained. She

was not very bright, but she did the things Montini expected

her to do, and did them quite well. She would be replaced,

he estimated, in about eighteen more months. He grew bored

quickly with his women. His memory was too good.

"Let's start," he said.

She opened the book. "Page 537, left-hand column."

Instantly the page floated before Montini's eyes. "Henry

VI, Part Two," he said. "King Henry: Say, man, were these

thy words? Horner: An't shall please your majesty, I never

said nor thought any such matter: God is my witness, I am

falsely accused by the villain. Peter: By these ten bones, my

lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we

were scouring my Lord of York's armour. York: Base dunghill

villain, and--"

"Page 778, right-hand column," Nadia said.

"Romeo and Juliet. Mercutio is speaking:... an eye would

spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an

egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as

addle as an egg for quarreling. Thou hast quarreled with a

man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy

dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not--"

"Page 307, starting fourteen lines down on the right side."

Montini smiled. He liked the passage. A screen would

show it to his audience at the performance.

"Twelfth Night," he said. "The Duke speaks: Too old, by

heaven. Let still the woman take an elder than herself, so

wears she to him, so sways she level in her husband's heart:

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, our fancies are

more giddy and unfirm--"

"Page 495, left-hand column."

"Wait a minute," Montini said. He poured himself a tall

glass of water and drank it in three quick gulps. "This work

always makes me thirsty."

Taylor Braskett, Lt. Comdr., Ret., U.S Space Service,

strode with springy stride into his Oak Street home, just

outside Golden Gate Park. At 71, Commander Braskett still

managed to move in a jaunty way, and he was ready to step

back into uniform at once if this country needed him. He

believed his country did need him, more than ever, now that

socialism was running like wildfire through half the nations

of Europe. Guard the home front, at least. Protect what's left

of traditional American liberty. What we ought to have, Com-

mander Braskett believed, is a network of C-bombs in orbit,

ready to rain hellish death on the enemies of democracy. No

matter what that treaty says, we must be prepared to defend

ourselves.

Commander Braskett's theories were not widely accepted.

People respected him for having been one of the first Amer-

icans to land on Mars, of course, but he knew that they quietly

regarded him as a crank, a crackpot, an antiquated Minute

Man still fretting about the Redcoats. He had enough of a

sense of humor to realize that he did cut an absurd figure to

these young people. But he was sincere in his determination

to help keep America free--to protect the youngsters from

the lash of totalitarianism, whether they laughed at him or

not. All this glorious sunny day he had been walking through

the park, trying to talk to the young ones, attempting to

explain his position. He was courteous, attentive, eager to

find someone who would ask him questions. The trouble was

that no one listened. And the young ones--stripped to the

waist in the sunshine, girls as well as boys, taking drugs out

in the open, using the foulest obscenities in casual speech--

at times, Commander Braskett almost came to think that the

battle for America had already been lost. Yet he never gave

up all hope.

He had been in the park for hours. Now, at home, he

walked past the trophy room, into the kitchen, opened the

refrigerator, drew out a bottle of water. Commander Braskett

had three bottles of mountain spring water delivered to his

home every two days; it was a habit he had begun fifty years

ago, when they had first started talking about putting fluor-

ides in the water. He was not unaware of the little smiles

they gave him when he admitted that he drank only bottled

spring water, but he didn't mind; he had outlived many of

the smilers already, and attributed his perfect health to his

refusal to touch the polluted, contaminated water that most

other people drank. First chlorine, then fluorides--probably

they were putting in some other things by now, Commander

Braskett thought.

He drank deeply.

You have no way of telling what sort of dangerous chem-

icals they might be putting in the municipal water system

these days, he told himself. Am I a crank? Then I'm a crank.

But a sane man drinks only water he can trust.

Fetally curled, knees pressed almost to chin, trembling,

sweating, Nate Haldersen closed his eyes and tried to ease

himself of the pain of existence. Another day. A sweet, sunny

day. Happy people playing in the park. Fathers and children.

Husbands and wives. He bit his lip, hard, just short of lac-

eration intensity. He was an expert at punishing himself.

Sensors mounted in his bed in the Psychotrauma Ward of

Fletcher Memorial Hospital scanned him continuously, send-

ing a constant flow of reports to Dr. Bryce and his team of

shrinks. Nate Haldersen knew he was a man without secrets.

His hormone count, enzyme ratios, respiration, circulation,

even the taste of bile in his mouth--it all became instanta-

neously known to hospital personnel. When the sensors dis-

covered him slipping below the depression line, ultrasonic

snouts came nosing up from the recesses of the mattress,

proximity nozzles that sought him out in the bed, found the

proper veins, squirted him full of dynajuice to cheer him up.

Modern science was wonderful. It could do everything for

Haldersen except give him back his family.

The door slid open. Dr. Bryce came in. The head shrink

looked his part: tall, solemn yet charming, gray at the tem-

ples, clearly a wielder of power and an initiate of mysteries.

He sat down beside Haldersen's bed. As usual, he made a big

point of not looking at the row of computer outputs next to

the bed that gave the latest details on Haldersen's condition.

"Nate?" he said. "How goes?"

"It goes," Haldersen muttered.

"Feel like talking awhile?"

"Not specially. Get me a drink of water?"

"Sure," the shrink said. He fetched it and said, "It's a

gorgeous day. How about a walk in the park?"

"I haven't left this room in two and a half years, Doctor.

You know that."

"Always a time to break loose. There's nothing physically

wrong with you, you know."

"I just don't feel like seeing people," Haldersen said. He

handed back the empty glass. "More?"

"Want something stronger to drink?"

"Water's fine." Haldersen closed his eyes. Unwanted im-

ages danced behind the lids: the rocket liner blowing open

over the pole, the passengers spilling out like autumn seeds

erupting from a pod, Emily tumbling down, down, falling

eighty thousand feet, her golden hair swept up by the thin

cold wind, her short skirt flapping at her hips, her long lovely

legs clawing at the sky for a place to stand. And the children

falling beside her, angels dropping from heaven, down, down,

down, toward the white soothing fleece of the polar ice. They

sleep in peace, Haldersen thought, and I missed the plane,

and I alone remain. And Job spake, and said, Let the day

perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was

said, There is a man child conceived.

"It was eleven years ago," Dr. Bryce told him. "Won't you

let go of it?"

"Stupid talk coming from a shrink. Why won't it let go of

me?"

"You don't want it to. You're too fond of playing your role."

"Today is talking-tough day, eh? Get me some more

water."

"Get up and get it yourself," said the shrink.

Haldersen smiled bitterly. He left the bed, crossing the

room a little unsteadily, and filled his glass. He had had all

sorts of therapy--sympathy therapy, antagonism therapy,

drugs, shock, orthodox freuding, the works. They did nothing

for him. He was left with the image of an opening pod, and

falling figures against the iron-blue sky. The Lord gave, and

the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

My soul is weary of my life. He put the glass to his lips.

Eleven years. I missed the plane. I sinned with Marie, and

Emily died, and John, and Beth. What did it feel like to fall

so far? Was it like flying? Was there ecstasy in it? Haldersen

filled the glass again.

"Thirsty today, eh?"

"Yes," Haldersen said.

"Sure you don't want to take a little walk?"

"You know I don't." Haldersen shivered. He turned and

caught the psychiatrist by the forearm. "When does it end,

Tim? How long do I have to carry this thing around?"

"Until you're willing to put it down."

"How can I make a conscious effort to forget something?

Tim, Tim, isn't there some drug I can take, something to

wash away a memory that's killing me?"

"Nothing effective."

"You're lying," Haldersen murmured. "I've read about the

amnesifacients. The enzymes that eat memory-RNA. The

experiments with di-isopropyl fluorophosphate. Puromycin.

The--"

Dr. Bryce said, "We have no control over their operations. -

We can't simply go after a single block of traumatic memories

while leaving the rest of your mind unharmed. We'd have to

bash about at random, hoping we got the trouble spot, but

never knowing what else we were blotting out. You'd wake

up without your trauma, but maybe without remembering

anything else that happened to you between, say, the ages

of 14 and 40. Maybe in fifty years we'll know enough to be

able to direct the dosage at a specific--"

"I can't wait fifty years."

"I'm sorry, Nate."

"Give me the drug anyway. I'll take my chances on what

I lose."

"We'll talk about that some other time, all right? The

drugs are experimental. There'd be months of red tape before

I could get authorization to try them on a human subject.

You have to realize--"

Haldersen turned him off. He saw only with his inner eye,

saw the tumbling bodies, reliving his bereavement for the

billionth time, slipping easily back into his self-assumed role

of Job. I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.

He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone: and mine

hope hath he removed like a tree.

The shrink continued to speak. Haldersen continued not

to listen. He poured himself one more glass of water with a

shaky hand.

It was close to midnight on Wednesday before Pierre Ger-

ard, his wife, their two sons, and their daughter had a chance

to have dinner. They were the proprietors, chefs, and total

staff of the Petit Pois Restaurant on Sansome Street, and

business had been extraordinarily, exhaustingly good all eve-

ning. Usually they were able to eat about half past five,

before the dinner rush began, but today people had begun

coining in early--made more expansive by the good weather,

no doubt--and there hadn't been a free moment for anybody

since the cocktail hour. The Gerards were accustomed to brisk

trade, for theirs was perhaps the most popular family-run

bistro in the city, with a passionately devoted clientele. Still,

a night like this was too much!

They dined modestly on the evening's miscalculations: an

overdone rack of lamb, some faintly corky Chateau Bey-

chevelle '97, a fallen souffle, and such. They were thrifty

people. Their one extravagance was the Evian water that

they imported from France. Pierre Gerard had not set foot

in his native Lyons for thirty years, but he preserved many

of the customs of the motherland, including the traditional

attitude toward water. A Frenchman does not drink much

water; but what he does drink comes always from the bottle,

never from the tap. To do otherwise is to risk a diseased liver.

One must guard one's liver.

That night Freddy Munson picked up Helene at her flat

on Geary and drove across the bridge to Sausalito for dinner,

as usual, at Ondine's. Ondine's was one of only four restau-

rants, all of them famous old ones, at which Munson ate in

fixed rotation. He was a man of firm habits. He awakened

religiously at six each morning, and was at his desk in the

brokerage house by seven, plugging himself into the data

channels to learn what had happened in the European fi-

nance markets while he slept. At half past seven local time

the New York exchanges opened and the real day's work

began. By half past eleven, New York was through for the

day, and Munson went around the corner for lunch, always

at the Petit Pois, whose proprietor he had helped to make a

millionaire by putting him into Consolidated Nucleonics' sev-

eral components two and a half years before the big merger.

At half past one, Munson was back in the office to transact

business for his own account on the Pacific Coast exchange;

three days a week he left at three, but on Tuesdays and

Thursdays he stayed as late as five in order to catch some

deals on the Honolulu and Tokyo exchanges. Afterwards,

dinner, a play or concert, always a handsome female com-

panion. He tried to get to sleep, or at least to bed, by midnight.

A man in Freddy Munson's position had to be orderly. At

any given time, his thefts from his clients ranged from six to

nine million dollars, and he kept all the details of his jugglings

in his head. He couldn't trust putting them on paper, because

there were scanner eyes everywhere; and he certainly didn't

dare employ the data net, since it was well known that any-

thing you confided to one computer was bound to be accessible

to some other computer somewhere, no matter how tight a pri-

vacy seal you slapped on it. So Munson had to remember the

intricacies of fifty or more illicit transactions, a constantly

changing chain of embezzlements, and a man who practices

such necessary disciplines of memory soon gets into the habit

of extending discipline to every phase of his life.

Helene snuggled close. Her faintly psychedelic perfume

drifted toward his nostrils. He locked the car into the Sau-

salito circuit and leaned back comfortably as the traffic-con-

trol computer took over the steering. Helene said, "At the

Bryce place last night I saw two sculptures by your bankrupt

friend."

"Paul Mueller?"

"That's the one. They were very good sculptures. One of

them buzzed at me."

"What were you doing at the Bryces?"

"I went to college with Lisa Bryce. She invited me over

with Marty."

"I didn't realize you were that old," Munson said.

Helene giggled. "Lisa's a lot younger than her husband,

dear. How much does a Paul Mueller sculpture cost?"

"Fifteen, twenty thousand, generally. More for specials."

"And he's broke, even so?"

"Paul has a rare talent for self-destruction," Munson said.

"He simply doesn't comprehend money. But it's his artistic

salvation, in a way. The more desperately in debt he is, the

finer his work becomes. He creates out of his despair, so to

speak. Though he seems to have overdone the latest crisis.

He's stopped working altogether. It's a sin against humanity

when an artist doesn't work."

"You can be so eloquent, Freddy," Helena said softly.

When The Amazing Montini woke Thursday morning, he

did not at once realize that anything had changed. His mem-

ory, like a good servant, was always there when he needed

to call on it, but the array of perfectly fixed farts he carried

in his mind remained submerged until required, A librarian

might scan shelves and see books- missing; Montini could not

detect similar vacancies of his synapses. He had been up for

half an hour, had stepped under the molecular bath and had

punched for his breakfast and had awakened Nadia to tell

her to confirm the pod reservations to Vegas, and finally,

like a concert pianist running off a few arpeggios to limber

his fingers for the day's chores, Montini reached into his

memory bank for a little Shakespeare and no Shakespeare

came.

He stood quite still, gripping the astrolabe that orna-

mented his picture window, and peered out at the bridge in

sudden bewilderment. It had never been necessary for him

to make a conscious effort to recover data. He merely looked

and it was there; but where was Shakespeare? Where was

the left-hand column of page 136, and the right-hand column

of page 654, and the right-hand column of page 806, sixteen

lines down? Gone? He drew blanks. The screen of his mind

showed him only empty pages.

Easy. This is unusual, but it isn't catastrophic. You must

be tense, for some reason, and you're forcing it, that's all.

Relax, pull something else out of storage--

The New York Times, Wednesday, October 3, 1973. Yes,

there it was, the front page, beautifully clear, the story on

the baseball game down in the lower right-hand corner, the

headline about the jet accident big and black, even the photo

credit visible. Fine. Now let's try--

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Sunday, April 19,1987. Mon-

tini shivered. He saw the top four inches of the page, nothing

else. Wiped clean.

He ran through the files of other newspapers he had mem-

orized for his act. Some were there. Some were not. Some,

like the Post-Dispatch, were obliterated in part. Color rose

to his cheeks. Who had tampered with his memory?

He tried Shakespeare again. Nothing.

He tried the 1997 Chicago data-net directory. It was there.

He tried his third-grade geography textbook. It was there,

the big red book with smeary print.

He tried last Friday's five-o'clock xerofax bulletin. Gone.

He stumbled and sank down on a divan he had purchased

in Istanbul, he recalled, on the nineteenth of May, 1985, for

4,200 Turkish pounds. "Nadia!" he cried. "Nadia!" His voice

was little more than a croak. She came running, her eyes

only half frosted, her morning face askew.

"How do I look?" he demanded. "My mouth--is my mouth

right? My eyes?"

"Your face is all flushed."

"Aside from that!"

"I don't know," she gasped. "You seem all upset, but--"

"Half my mind is gone," Montini said. "I must have had

a stroke. Is there any facial paralysis? That's a symptom.

Call my doctor, Nadia! A stroke, a stroke! It's the end for

Montini!"

Paul Mueller, awakening at midnight on Wednesday and

feeling strangely refreshed, attempted to get his bearings.

Why was he fully dressed, and why had he been asleep? A

nap, perhaps, that had stretched on too long? He tried to

remember what he had been doing earlier in the day, but he

was unable to find a clue. He was baffled but not disturbed;

mainly he felt a tremendous urge to get to work. The images

of five sculptures, fully planned and begging to be con-

structed, jostled in his mind. Might as well start right now,

he thought. Work through till morning. That small twittering

silvery one--that's a good one to start with. I'll block out the

schematics, maybe even do some of the armature--

"Carole?" he called. "Carole, art you around?"

His voice echoed through the oddly empty apartment.

For the first time Mueller noticed how little furniture

there was. A bed--a cot, really, not their double bed--and

a table, and a tiny insulator unit for food, and a few diehes.

No carpeting. Where were his sculptures, his private collec-

tion of his own best work? He walked into his studio and

found it bare from wall to wall, all of his tools mysteriously

swept away, just a few discarded sketches on the floor. And

his wife? "Carole? Carole?"

He could not understand any of this. While he dozed, it

seemed, someone had cleaned the place out, stolen his fur-

niture, his sculptures, even the carpet Mueller had heard of

such thefts. They came with a van, brazenly, posing as mov-

ing men. Perhaps they had given him some sort of drug while

they worked. He could not bear the thought that they had

taken his sculptures; the rest didn't matter, but he had cher-

ished those dozen pieces dearly. I'd better call the police, he

decided, and rushed toward the handset of the data unit, but

it wasn't there either. Would burglars take that too?

Searching for some answers, he scurried from wall to wall,

and saw a note in his own handwriting. Call Freddy Munson

in morning and borrow three bigs. Buy ticket to Caracas. Buy

sculpting stuff.

Caracas? A vacation, maybe? And why buy sculpting

stuff? Obviously the tools had been gone before he fell asleep,

then. Why? And where was his wife? What was going on? He

wondered if he ought to call Freddy right now, instead of

waiting until morning. Freddy might know. Freddy was al-

ways home by midnight, too. He'd have one of his damned

girls with him and wouldn't want to be interrupted, but to

hell with that; what good was having friends if you couldn't

bother them in a time of crisis?

Heading for the nearest public communicator booth, he

rushed out of his apartment and nearly collided with a sleek

dunning robot in the hallway. The things show no mercy,

Mueller thought. They plague you at all hours. No doubt this

one was on its way to bother the deadbeat Nicholson family

down the hall.

The robot said, "Mr. Paul Mueller? I am a properly qual-

ified respresentative of International Fabrication Cartel,

Amalgamated. I am here to serve notice that there is an

unpaid balance in your account to the extent of $9,150.55,

which as of 0900 hours tomorrow morning will accrue com-

pounded penalty interest at the rate of 5 percent per month,

since you have not responded to our three previous requests

for payment. I must further inform you-- ''

"You're off your neutrinos," Mueller snapped. "I don't owe

a dime to I.F.C.! For once in my life I'm in the black, and

don't try to make me believe otherwise."

The robot replied patiently, "Shall I give you a printout

of the transactions? On the fifth of January, 2003, you or-

dered the following metal products' from us: three 4-meter

tubes of antiqued iridium, six 10-centimeter spheres of--"

"The fifth of January, 2003, happens to be three months

from now," Mueller said, "and I don't have time to listen to

crazy robots. I've got an Important call to make. Can I trust

you to patch me into the data net without garbling things?"

"I am not authorized to permit you to make use of my

facilities."

"Emergency override," said Mueller. "Human being in

trouble. Go argue with that one!"

The robot's conditioning was sound. It yielded at once to

his assertion of an emergency and set up a relay to the main

communications net. Mueller supplied Freddy Munson's

number. "I can provide audio only," the robot said, putting

the call through. Nearly a minute passed. Then Freddy Mun-

son's familiar deep voice snarled from the speaker grille in

the robot's chest, "Who is it and what do you want?"

"It's Paul. I'm sorry to bust in on you, Freddy, but I'm in

big trouble. I think I'm losing my mind, or else everybody

else is."

"Maybe everybody else is. What's the problem?"

"All my furniture's gone. A dunning robot is trying to

shake me down for nine bigs, I don't know where Carole is.

I can't remember what I was doing earlier today. I've got a

note here about getting tickets to Caracas that I wrote myself,

and I don't know why. And--"

"Skip the rest," Munson said. "I can't do anything for you.

I've got problems of my own."

"Can I come over, at least, and talk?"

"Absolutely not!" In a softer voice Munson said, "Listen,

Paul, I didn't mean to yell, but something's come up here,

something very distressing--"

"You don't need to pretend. You've got Helene with you

and you wish I'd leave you alone. Okay."

"No. Honestly," Munson said. "I've got problems, suddenly.

I'm in a totally ungood position to give you any help at all.

I need help myself."

"What sort? Anything I can do for you?"

"I'm afraid not. And if you'll excuse me, Paul--"

"Just tell me one thing, at least. Where am I likely to find

Carole. Do you have any idea?"

"At her husband's place, I'd say."

"I'm her husband."

There was a long pause. Munson said finally, "Paul, she

divorced you last January and married Pete Castine in April."

"No," Mueller said.

"What, no?"

"No, it isn't possible."

"Have you been popping pills, Paul? Sniffing something?

Smoking weed? Look, I'm sorry, but I can't take time now

to--"

"At least tell me what day today is."

"Wednesday,"

"Which Wednesday?"

"Wednesday the eighth of May. Thursday the ninth, ac-

tually, by this time of night."

"And the year?"

"For Christ's sake, Paul--"

"The year?"

"2003."

Mueller sagged. "Freddy, I've lost half a year somewhere!

For me it's last October 2002, I've got some weird kind of

amnesia. It's the only explanation,"

"Amnesia," Munson said. The edge of tension left his voice.

"Is that what you've got? Amnesia? Can there be such a thing

as an epidemic of amnesia? Is it contagious? Maybe you better

come over here after all. Because amnesia's my problem too."

Thursday, May 9, promised to be as beautiful as the pre-

vious day had been. The sun once again beamed on San Fran-

cisco; the sky was clear, the air warm and tender, Commander

Braskett awoke early as always, punched for his usual spar-

tan breakfast, studied the morning xerofax news, spent an

hour dictating his memoirs, and, about nine, went out for a

walk. The streets were strangely crowded, he found, when he

got down to the shopping district along Haight Street, People

were wandering about aimlessly, dazedly, as though they

were sleepwalkers. Were they drunk? Drugged? Three times

in five minutes Commander Braskett was stopped by young

men who wanted to know the date. Not the time, the date.

He told them, crisply, disdainfully; he tried to be tolerant,

but it was difficult for him not to despise people who were so

weak that they were unable to refrain from poisoning their

minds with stimulants and narcotics and psychedelics and

similar trash. At the corner of Haight and Masonic a forlorn-

looking pretty girl of about seventeen, with wide blank blue

eyes, halted him and said, "Sir, this city is San Francisco,

isn't it? I mean, I was supposed to move here from Pittsburgh

in May, and if this is May, this is San Francisco, right?"

Commander. Braskett nodded brusquely and turned away,

pained. He was relieved to see an old friend, Lou Sandler, the

manager of the Bank of America office across the way, San-

dler was standing outside the bank door. Commander Bras-

kett crossed to him and said, "Isn't it a disgrace, Lou, the way

this whole street is filled with addicts this morning? What

is it, some historical pageant of the 1960's?" And Sandler

gave him an empty smile and said, "Is that my name? Lou?

You wouldn't happen to know the last name too, would you?

Somehow it's slipped my mind." In that moment Commander

Braskett realized that something terrible had happened to

his city and perhaps to his country, and that the leftist take-

over he had long dreaded must now be at hand, and that it

was time for him to don his old uniform again and do what

he could to strike back at the enemy.

In joy and in confusion, Nate Haldersen awoke that morn-

ing realizing that he had been transformed in some strange

and wonderful way. His head was throbbing, but not pain-

fully. It seemed to him that a terrible weight had been lifted

from his shoulders, that the fierce dead hand about his throat

had at last relinquished its grip.

He sprang from bed, full of questions.

Where am I? What kind of place is this? Why am I not at

home? Where are my books? Why do I feel so happy?

This seemed to be a hospital room.

There was a veil across his mind. He pierced its filmy folds

and realized that he had committed himself to--to Fletcher

Memorial--last--August--no, the August before last--suf-

fering with a severe emotional disturbance brought on by--

brought on by--

He had never felt happier than at this moment.

He saw a mirror. In it was the reflected upper half of

Nathaniel Haldersen, Ph.D. Nate Haldersen smiled at him-

self. Tall, stringy, long-nosed man, absurdly straw-colored

hair, absurd blue eyes, thin lips, smiling. Bony body. He

undid his pajama top. Pale, hairless chest; bump of hone like

an epaulet on each shoulder. I have been sick a long time,

Haldersen thought. Now I must get out of here, back to my

classroom. End of leave of absence. Where are my clothes?

"Nurse? Doctor?" He pressed his call button three times.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

No one came. Odd; they always came. Shrugging, Hald-

ersen moved out into the hall. He saw three orderlies, heads

together, buzzing at the far end. They ignored him. A robot

servitor carrying breakfast trays glided past, A moment later

one of the younger doctors came running through the hall,

and would not stop when Haldersen called to him. Annoyed,

he went back into his room and looked about for clothing. He

found none, only a little stack of magazines on the closet

floor. He thumbed the call button three more times. Finally

one of the robots entered the room.

"I am sorry," it said, "but the human hospital personnel

is busy at present. May I serve you, Dr. Haldersen?"

"I want a suit of clothing. I'm leaving the hospital."

"I am sorry, but there is no record of your discharge. With-

out authorization from Dr. Bryce, Dr. Reynolds, or Dr. Ka-

makura, I am not permitted to allow your departure."

Haldersen sighed. He knew better than to argue with a

robot. "Where are those three gentlemen right now?"

"They are occupied, sir. As you may know, there is a med-

ical emergency in the city this morning, and Dr. Bryce and

Dr. Kamakura are helping to organize the committee of pub-

lic safety. Dr. Reynolds did not report for duty today and we

are unable to trace him. It is believed that he is a victim of

the current difficulty."

"What current difficulty?"

"Mass loss of memory on the part of the human popula-

tion," the robot said.

"An epidemic of amnesia?"

"That is one interpretation of the problem."

"How can such a thing--" Haldersen stopped. He under-

stood now the source of his own joy this morning. Only yes-

terday afternoon he had discussed with Tim Bryce the ap-

plication of memory-destroying drugs to his own trauma, and

Bryce had said--

Haldersen no longer knew the nature of his own trauma,

"Wait," he said, as the robot began to leave the room. "I

need information. Why have I been under treatment here?"

"You have been suffering from social displacements and

dysfunctions whose origin, Dr. Bryce feels, lies in a situation

of traumatic personal loss."

"Loss of what?"

"Your family, Dr. Haldersen."

"Yes. That's right. I recall, now--I had a wife and two

children. Emily. And a fittle girt--Margaret, Elizabeth,

something like that. And a boy named John. What happened

to them?"

"They were passengers aboard Intercontinental Airways

Flight 103, Copenhagen to San Francisco, September 5,1991.

The plane underwent explosive decompression over the Arctic

Ocean and there were no survivors,"

Haldersen absorbed the information as calmly as though

he were hearing of the assassination of Julius Caesar.

"Where was I when the accident occurred?"

"In Copenhagen," the robot replied. "You had intended to

return to San Francisco with your family on Flight 103; how-

ever, according to your data file here, you became involved

in an emotional relationship with a woman named Marie

Rasmussen, whom you had met in Copenhagen, And failed

to return to your hotel in time to go to the airport. Your wife,

evidently aware of the situation, chose not to wait for you.

Her subsequent death, and that of your children, produced

a traumatic guilt reaction in which you came to regard your-

self as responsible for their terminations."

"I would take that attitude, wouldn't I?" Haldersen said.

"Sin and retribution. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I always

had a harsh view of sin, even while I was sinning. I should

have been an Old Testament prophet."

"Shall I provide more information, sir?"

"Is there more?"

"We have in the files Dr. Bryce's report headed, The Job

Complex: A Study in the Paralysis of Guilt."

"Spare me that," Haldersen said. "All right, go."

He was alone. The Job Complex, he thought. Not really

appropriate, was it? Job was a man without sin, and yet he

was punished grievously to satisfy a whim

A little presumptuous, I'd say, to identify myself with him.

Cain would have been a better choice. Cain said unto the

Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear. But Cain

was a sinner. I was a sinner. I sinned and Emily died for it.

When, eleven, eleven and a half years ago? And now I know

nothing at all about it except what the machine just told me.

Redemption through oblivion, I'd call it. I have expiated my

sin and now I'm free. I have no business staying in this hos-

pital any longer. Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way,

which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it. I've got

to get out of here. Maybe I can be of some help to others.

He belted his bathrobe, took a drink of water, and went

out of the room. No one stopped him. The elevator did not

seem to be running, but he found the stairs, and walked down,

a little creakily. He had not been this far from his room in

more than a year. The lower floors of the hospital were in

chaos--doctors, orderlies, robots, patients, all milling around

excitedly. The robots were trying to calm people and get them

back to their proper places. "Excuse me," Haldersen said se-

renely. "Excuse me. Excuse me." He left the hospital, un-

molested, by the front door. The air outside was as fresh as

young wine; he felt like weeping when it hit his nostrils. He

was free. Redemption through oblivion. The disaster high

abpve the Arctic no longer dominated his thoughts. He looked

upon it precisely as if it had happened to the family of some

other man, long ago. Haldersen began to walk briskly down

Van Ness, feeling vigor returning to his legs with every

stride. A young woman, sobbing wildly, erupted from a build-

ing and collided with him. He caught her, steadied her, Was

surprised at his own strength as he kept her from toppling.

She trembled and pressed her head against his chest, "Can

I do anything for you?" he asked. "Can I be of any help?"

Panic had begun to enfold Freddy Munson during dinner

at Ondine's Wednesday night. He had begun to be annoyed

with Helene in the midst of the truffled chicken breasts, and

so he had started to think about the details of business; and

to his amazement he did not seem to have the details quite

right in his mind; and so he felt the early twinges of terror.

The trouble was that Helene was going on and on about

the art of sonic sculpture in general and Paul Mueller in

particular. Her interest was enough to arouse faint jealousies

in Munson. Was she getting ready to leap from his bed to

Paul's? Was she thinking of abandoning the wealthy, glam-

orous, but essentially prosaic stockbroker for the irrespon-

sible, impecunious, fascinatingly gifted sculptor? Of course,

Helene kept company with a number of other men, but Mun-

son knew them and discounted them as rivals; they were

nonentities, escorts to fill her idle nights when he was-too

busy for her. Paul Mueller, however, was another Mun-

son could not bear the thought that Helene might leave him

for Paul. So he shifted his concentration to the day's maneu-

vers. He had extracted a thousand shares of the $5.87 con-

vertible preferred of Lunar Transit from the Schaeffer

account, pledging it as collateral to cover his shortage in the

matter of the Comsat debentures, and then, tapping the How-

ard account for five thousand Southeast Energy Corporation

warrants, he had--or had those warrants come out of the

Brewster account? Brewster was big on utilities. So was How-

ard, but that account was heavy on Mid-Atlantic Power, so

would it also be loaded with Southeast Energy? In any case,

had he put those warrants up against the Zurich uranium

futures, or were they riding as his markers in the Antarctic

oil-lease thing? He could not remember.

He could not remember.

He could not remember.

Each transaction had been in its own compartment. The

partitions were down, suddenly. Numbers were spilling about

in his mind as though his brain were in free fall. All of today's

deals were tumbling. It frightened him. He began to gobble

his food, wanting now to get out of here, to get rid of Helene,

to get home and try to reconstruct his activities of the after-

noon. Oddly, he could remember quite clearly all that he had

done yesterday--the Xerox switch, the straddle on Steel--

but today was washing away minute by minute.

"Are you all right?" Helene asked.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I'm coming down with something."

"The Venus Virus. Everybody's getting it."

"Yes, that must be it. The Venus Virus. You'd better keep

clear of me tonight."

They skipped dessert and cleared out fast. He dropped

Helene off at her flat; she hardly seemed disappointed, which

bothered him, but not nearly so much as what was happening

to his mind. Alone, finally, he tried to jot down an outline of

his day, but even more had left him now. In the restaurant

he had known which stocks he had handled, though he wasn't

sure what he had done with them. Now he couldn't even recall

the specific securities. He was out on the limb for millions

of dollars of other people's money, and every detail was in his

mind, and his mind was falling apart. By the time Paul Muel-

ler called, a little after midnight, Munson was growing des-

perate. He was relieved, but not exactly cheered, to learn that

whatever strange thing had affected his mind had hit Mueller

a lot harder. Mueller had forgotten everything since last

October.

"You went bankrupt," Munson had to explain to him, "You

had this wild scheme for setting up a central clearing house

for works of art, a kind of stock exchange--the sort of thing

only an artist would try to start. You wouldn't let me dis-

courage you. Then you began signing notes, and taking on

contingent liabilities, and before the project was six weeks

old you were hit with half a dozen lawsuits and it all began

to go sour."

"When did this happen, precisely?"

"You conceived the idea at the beginning of November, By

Christmas you were in severe trouble. You already had a

bunch of personal debts that had gone unpaid from before,

and your assets melted away, and you hit a terrible bind in

your work and couldn't produce a thing. You really don't

remember a thing of this, Paul?"

"Nothing."

"After the first of the year the fastest-moving creditors

started getting decrees against you. They impounded every-

thing you owned except the furniture, and then they took the

furniture. You borrowed from all of your friends, but they

couldn't give you nearly enough, because you were borrowing

thousands and you owed hundreds of thousands."

"How much did I hit you for?"

"Eleven bigs," Munson said. "But don't worry about that

now."

"I'm not. I'm not worrying about a thing. I was in! a bind

in my work, you say?" Mueller chuckled. "That's all gone,

I'm itching to start making things. All I need are the tools--

I mean, money to buy the tools."

"What would they cost?"

"Two and a half bigs," Mueller said.

Munson coughed. "All right. I can't transfer the money to

your account, because your creditors would lien it right away.

I'll get some cash at the bank. You'll have three bigs tomor-

row, and welcome to it."

"Bless you, Freddy." Mueller said, "This kind of amnesia

is a good thing, eh? I was so worried about money that I

couldn't work. Now I'm not worried at all. I guess I'm still

in debt, but I'm not fretting. Tell me what happened to my

marriage, now."

"Carole got fed up and turned off," said Munson. "She

opposed your business venture from the start. When it began

to devour you, she did what she could to untangle you from

it, but you insisted on trying to patch things together with

more loans, and she filed for a decree. When she was free,

Pete Castine moved in and grabbed her."

"That's the hardest part to believe. That she'd marry an

art dealer, a totally noncreative person, a--a parasite,

really--"

"They were always good friends," Munson said. "I won't

say they were lovers, because I don't know, but they were

close. And Pete's not that horrible. He's got taste, intelli-

gence, everything an artist needs except the gift. I think

Carole may have been weary of gifted men, anyway."

"How did I take it?" Mueller asked,

"You hardly seemed to notice, Paul. You were so busy with

your financial shenanigans."

Mueller nodded. He sauntered to one of his own works, a

three-meter-high arrangement of oscillating rods that ran

the whole sound spectrum into the high kilohertzes, and

passed two fingers over the activator eye. The sculpture began

to murmur.

After a few moments Mueller said, "You sounded awfully

upset when I called, Freddy. You say you have some kind of

amnesia too?"

Trying to be casual about it, Munson said, "I find I can't

remember some important transactions I carried out today.

Unfortunately, my only record of them is in my head. But

maybe the information will come back to me when I've slept

on it."

"There's no way I can help you with that."

"No. There isn't."

"Freddy, where is this amnesia coming from?"

Munson shrugged. "Maybe somebody put a drug in the

water supply, or spiked the food, or something. These days,

you never can tell. Look, I've got to do some work, Paul. If

you'd like to sleep here tonight--"

"I'm wide awake, thanks. I'll drop by again in the morn-

ing."

When the sculptor was gone, Munson struggled for a fe-

verish hour to reconstruct his data, and failed. Shortly before

two he took a four-hour-sleep pill. When he awakened, he

realized in dismay that he had no memories whatever for the

period from April 1 to noon yesterday. During those five

weeks he had engaged in countless securities transactions,

using other people's property as his collateral, and counting

on his ability to get each marker in his game back into its

proper place before anyone was likely to go looking for it. He

had always been able to remember everything. Now he could

remember nothing. He reached his office at seven in the

morning, as always, and out of habit plugged himself into

the data channels to study the Zurich and London quotes,

but the prices on the screen were strange to him, and he knew

that he was undone.

At the same moment of Thursday morning Dr. Timothy

Bryce's house computer triggered an impulse and the alarm

voice in his pillow said quietly but firmly, "It's time to wake

up, Dr, Bryce." He stirred but lay still. After the prescribed

ten-second interval the voice said, a little more sharply, "It's

time to wake up, Dr. Bryce." Bryce sat up, just in time; the

lifting of his head from the pillow cut off the third, much

sterner, repetition, which would have been followed by the

opening chords of the Jupiter Symphony. The psychiatrist

opened his eyes.

He was surprised to find himself sharing his bed with a

strikingly attractive girl.

She was a honey blonde, deeply tanned, with light-brown

eyes, full pale lips, and a sleek, elegant body. She looked to

be fairly young, a good twenty years younger than he was--

perhaps twenty-five, twenty-eight. She wore nothing, and she

was in a deep sleep, her lower lip sagging in a sort of invol-

untary pout. Neither her youth nor her beauty nor her nudity

surprised him; he was puzzled simply because he had no no-

tion who she was or how she had come to be in bed with him.

He felt as though he had never seen her before. Certainly he

didn't know her name. Had he picked her up at some party

last night? He couldn't seem to remember where he had been

last night. Gently he nudged her elbow.

She woke quickly, fluttering her eyelids, shaking her head.

"Oh," she said, as she saw him, and clutched the sheet up

to her throat. Then, smiling, she dropped it again. "That's

foolish. No need to be modest now, I guess."

"I guess. Hello."

"Hello," she said. She looked as confused as he was.

"This is going to sound stupid," he said, "but have slipped

me & weird weed last night, because I'm afraid I'm not sure

how I happed to bring you home. Or what your name is."

"Lisa," she said. "Lisa--Falk." She stumbled over the sec-

ond name. "And you're--"

'Tim Bryce."

"You don't remember where we met?"

"No," he said.

"Neither do I."

He got out of bed, feeling a little hesitant about his own

nakedness, and fighting the inhibition off. "They must have

given us both the same thing to smoke, then. You know"--

he grinned shyly--"I can't even remember if we had a good

time together last night. I hope we did."

"I think we did," she said, "I can't remember it either. But

I feel good inside--the way I usually do after I've--" She

paused. "We couldn't have met only just last night, Tim."

"How can you tell?"

"I've got the feeling that I've known you longer than that."

Bryce shrugged. "I don't see how. I mean, without being

too coarse about it, obviously we were both high last night,

really floating, and we met and came here and--"

"No. I feel at home here. As if I moved in with you weeks

and weeks ago."

"A lovely idea. But I'm sure you didn't."

"Why do I feel so much at home here, then?"

"In what way?"

"In every way." She walked to the bedroom closet and let

her hand rest on the touchplate. The door slid open; evidently

he had keyed the house computer to her fingerprints. Had he

done that last night too? She reached in. "My clothing," she

said. "Look. All these dresses, coats, shoes. A whole wardrobe.

There can't be any doubt. We've been living together and

don't remember it!"

A chill swept through him. "What have they done to us?

Listen, Lisa, let's get dressed and eat and go down to the

hospital together for a checkup. We--"

"Hospital?"

"Fletcher Memorial. I'm in the neurological department.

Whatever they slipped us last night has hit us both with a

lacunary retrograde amnesia--a gap in our memories--and

it could be serious. If it's caused brain damage, perhaps it's

not'irreversible yet, but we can't fool around."

She put her hand to her lips in fear. Bryce felt a sudden

warm urge to protect this lovely stranger, to guard and com-

fort her, and he realized he must be in love with her, even

though he couldn't remember who she was. He crossed the

room to her and seized her in a brief, tight embrace; she

responded eagerly, shivering a little. By a quarter to eight

they were out of the house and heading for the hospital

through unusually light traffic. Bryce led the girl quickly to

the staff lounge. Ted Kamakura was there already, in uni-

form. The little Japanese psychiatrist nodded curtly and said,

"Morning, Tim." Then he blinked. "Good morning, Lisa. How

come you're here?"

"You know her?" Bryce asked,

"What kind of question is that?"

"A deadly serious one."

"Of course I know her," Kamakura said, and Ms smile of

greeting abruptly faded. "Why? Is something wrong about

that?"

"You may know her, but I don't," said Bryce.

"Oh, God. Not you too!"

"Tell me who she is, Ted."

"She's your wife, Tim. You married her five years

ago."

By half past eleven Thursday morning the Gerards had

everything set up and going smoothly for the lunch rush at

the Petit Pois. The soup caldron was bubbling, the escargot

trays were ready to be popped in the oven, the sauces were

taking form. Pierre Gerard was a bit surprised when most

of the lunch-time regulars failed to show up. Even Mr. Mun-

son, always punctual at half past eleven, did not arrive. Some

of these men had not missed weekday lunch at the Petit Pois

in fifteen years. Something terrible must have happened on

the stock market, Pierre thought, to have kept all these fi-

nancial men at their desks, and they were too busy to call

him and cancel their usual tables. That must be the answer.

It was impossible that any of the regulars would forget to call

him. The stock market must be exploding. Pierre made a

mental note to call his broker after lunch and find out what

was going on.

About two Thursday afternoon, Paul Mueller stopped into

Metchinkoff's Art Supplies in North Beach to try to get a

welding pen, some raw metal, loudspeaker paint, and the rest

of the things he needed for the rebirth of his sculpting career.

Metchnikoff greeted him sourly with, "No credit at all, Mr.

Mueller, not even a nickel!"

"It's all right. I'm a cash customer this time."

The dealer brightened. "In that case it's all right, maybe.

You finished with your troubles?"

"I hope so," Mueller said.

He gave the order. It came to about $2,300; when the time

came to pay, he explained that he simply had to run down

to Montgomery Street to pick up the cash from his friend

Freddy Munson, who was holding three bigs for him. Metch-

nikoff began to glower again. "Five minutes!" Mueller called.

"I'll be back in five minutes!" But when he got to Munson's

office, he found the place in confusion, and Munson wasn't

there. "Did he leave an envelope for a Mr. Mueller?" he asked

a distraught secretary. "I was supposed to pick something

important up here this afternoon. Would you please check?"

The girl simply ran away from him. So did the next girl. A

burly broker told him to get out of the office. "We're closed,

fellow," he shouted. Baffled, Mueller left.

Not daring to return to Metchnikoff 's with the news that,

he hadn't been able to raise the cash after all, Mueller simply

went home. Three dunning robots were camped outside his

door, and each one began to croak its cry of doom as he ap-

proached. "Sorry," Mueller said, "I can't remember a thing

about any of this stuff," and he went inside and sat down on

the bare floor, angry, thinking of the brilliant pieces he could

be turning out if he could only get his hands on the tools of

his trade. He made sketches instead. At least the ghouls had

left him with pencil and paper. Not as efficient as a computer

screen and a light-pen, maybe, but Michelangelo and Ben-

venuto Cellini had managed to make out all right without

computer screens and light-pens.

At four o'clock the doorbell rang.

"Go away," Mueller said through the speaker. "See my

accountant! I don't want to hear any more dunnings, and the

next time I catch one of you idiot robots by my door I'm going

to--"

"It's me, Paul," a nonmeehanical voice said.

Carole.

He rushed to the door. There were seven robots out there,

surrounding her, and they tried to get in; but he pushed them

back so she could enter. A robot didn't dare lay a paw on a

human being. He slammed the door in their metal faces and

locked it.

Carole looked fine. Her hair was longer than he remem-

bered it, and she had gained about eight pounds in all the

right places, and she wore an iridescent peekaboo wrap that

he had never seen before, and which was really inappropriate

for afternoon wear, but which looked splendid on her. She

seemed at least five years younger than she really was; ev-

idently a month and a half of marriage to Pete Castine had

done more for her than nine years of marriage to Paul Muel-

ler. She glowed. She also looked strained and tense, but that

seemed superficial, the product of some distress of the last

few hours.

"I seem to have lost my key," she said.

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't understand you, Paul."

"I mean, why'd you come here?"

"I live here."

"Do you?" He laughed harshly. "Very funny,"

"You always did have a weird sense of humor, Paul." She

stepped past him. "Only this isn't any joke. Where is every-

thing? The furniture, Paul. My things." Suddenly she was

crying. "I must be breaking up. I wake up this morning in

a completely strange apartment, all alone, and 1 spend the

whole day wandering ia a sort of daze that I don't understand

at all, and now I finally come home and I find that you've

pawned every damn thing we own, or something, and--" She

bit her knuckles. "Paul?"

She's got it too, he thought. The amnesia epidemic.

He said quietly, "This is a funny thing to ask, Carole, but

will you tell me what today's date is?"

"Why--the fourteenth of September--or is it the fif-

teenth--"

"2002?"

"What do you think? 1776?"

She's got it worse than I have, Mueller told himself. She's

lost a whole extra month. She doesn't remember my business

venture. She doesn't remember my losing all the money. She

doesn't remember divorcing me. She thinks she's still my wife.

"Come in here," he said, and led her to the bedroom. He

pointed to the cot that stood where their bed had been. "Sit

down, Carole. I'll try to explain. It won't make much sense,

but I'll try to explain."

Under the circumstances, the concert by the visiting New

York Philharmonic for Thursday evening was canceled.

Nevertheless the orchestra assembled for its rehearsal at half

past two in the afternoon. The union required so many re-

hearsals--with pay--a week; therefore the orchestra re-

hearsed, regardless of external cataclysms. But there were

problems. Maestro Alvarez, who used an electronic baton and

proudly conducted without a score, thumbed the button for

a downbeat and realized abruptly, with a sensation as of

dropping through a trapdoor, that the Brahms Fourth was

wholly gone from his mind. The orchestra responded raggedly

to his faltering leadership; some of the musicians had no

difficulties, but the concertmaster stared in horror at his left

hand, wondering how to finger the strings for the notes his

violin was supposed to be yielding, and the second oboe could

not find the proper keys, and the first bassoon had not yet

even managed to remember how to put his instrument to-

gether.

By nightfall, Tim Bryce had managed to assemble enough

of the story so that he understood what had happened, not

only to himself and to Lisa, but to the entire city. A drug, or

drugs, almost certainly distributed through the municipal

water supply, had leached away nearly everyone's memory.

The trouble with modern life, Bryce thought, is that tech-

nology gives us the potential for newer and more intricate

disasters every year, but doesn't seem to give us the ability

to ward them off. Memory drugs were old stuff, going back

thirty, forty years. He had studied several types of them him-

self. Memory is partly a chemical and partly an electrical

process; some drugs went after the electrical end, jamming

the snyapses over which brain transmissions travel, and some

went after the molecular substrata in which long-term mem-

ories are locked up. Bryce knew ways of destroying short-

term memories by inhibiting synapse transmission, and he

knew ways of destroying the deep long-term memories by

washing out the complex chains of ribonucleic acid, brain-

RNA, by which they are inscribed in the brain. But such

drugs were experimental, tricky, unpredictable; he had hes-

itated to use them on human subjects; he certainly had never

imagined that anyone would simply dump them into an aq-

ueduct and give an entire city a simultaneous lobotomy.

His office at Fletcher Memorial had become an improvised

center of operations for San Francisco. The mayor was there,

pale and shrunken; the chief of police, exhausted and con-

fused, periodically turned his back and popped a pill; a dazed-

looking representative of the communications net hovered in

a corner, nervously monitoring the hastily rigged system

through which the committee of public safety that Bryce had

summoned could make its orders known throughout the city.

The mayor was no use at all. He couldn't even remember

having run for office. The chief of police was in even worse

shape; he had been up all night because he had forgotten,

among other things, his home address, and he had been afraid

to query a computer about it for fear he'd lose his job for

drunkenness. By now the chief of police was aware that he

wasn't the only one in the city having memory problems

today, and he had looked up his address in the files and even

telephoned his wife, but he was close to collapse. Bryce had

insisted that both men stay here as symbols of order; he

wanted only their faces and their voices, not their fumble-

headed official services.

A dozen or so miscellaneous citizens had accumulated in

Bryce's office too. At five in the afternoon he had broadcast

an all-media appeal, asking anyone whose memory of recent

events was unimpaired to come to Fletcher Memorial. "If you

haven't had any city water in the past twenty-four hours,

you're probably all right. Come down here. We need you." He

had drawn a curious assortment. There was a ramrod-

straight old space hero, Taylor Braskett, a pure-foods nut

who drank only mountain water. There was a family of

French restaurateurs, mother, father, three grown children,

who preferred mineral water flown in from their native land.

There was a computer salesman named McBurney who had

been in Los Angeles on business and hadn't had any of the

drugged water. There was a retired cop named Adler who

hved in Oakland, where there were no memory problems; he

had hurried across the bay as soon as he heard that San

Francisco was in trouble. That was before all access to the

city had been shut off at Bryce's orders. And there were some

others, of doubtful value but of definitely intact memory.

The three screens that the communications man had

mounted provided a relay of key points in the city. Right now

one was monitoring the Fisherman's Wharf district from a

camera atop Ghirardelli Square, one was viewing the finan-

cial district from a helicopter over the old Ferry Building

Museum, and one was relaying a pickup from a mobile truck

in Golden Gate Park. The scenes were similar everywhere:

people milling about, asking questions, getting no answers.

There wasn't any overt sign of looting yet. There were no

fires. The police, those of them able to function, were out in

force, and antiriot robots were cruising the bigger streets,

just in case they might be needed to squirt their stifling

blankets of foam at suddenly panicked mobs.

Bryce said to the mayor, "At half past six I want you to

go on all media with an appeal for calm. We'll supply you

with everything you have to say."

The mayor moaned.

Bryce said, "Don't worry. I'll feed you the whole speech by

bone relay. Just concentrate on speaking clearly and looking

straight into the camera. If you come across as a terrified

man, it can be the end for all of us. If you look cool, we may

be able to pull through."

The mayor put his face in his hands.

Ted Kamakura whispered, "You can't put him on the chan-

nels, Tim! He's a wreck, and everyone will see it!"

"The city's mayor has to show himself," Bryce insisted.

"Give him a double jolt of bracers. Let him make this one

speech and then we can put him to pasture."

"Who'll be the spokesman, then?" Kamakura asked. "You?

Me? Police Chief Dennison?"

"1 don't know," Bryce muttered. "We need an authority-

image to make announcements every half hour or so, and I'm

damned if I'll have time. Or you. And Dennison--"

"Gentlemen, may I make a suggestion?" It was the old

spaceman, Braskett. "I wish to volunteer as spokesman. You

must admit I have a certain look of authority. And I'm ac-

customed to speaking to the public."

Bryce rejected the idea instantly. That right-wing crack-

pot, that author of passionate nut letters to every news me-

dium in the state, that latter-day Paul Revere? Him, spokes-

man for the committee? But in the moment of rejection came

acceptance. Nobody really paid attention to far-out political

activities like that; probably nine people out of ten in San

Francisco thought of Braskett, if at all, simply as the hero

of the First Mars Expedition. He was s handsome old horse,

too, elegantly upright and lean. Deep voice; unwavering eyes.

A man of strength and presence.

Bryce said, "Commander Braskett, if we were to make

you chairman of the committee of public safety--"

Ted Kamakura gasped.

"---would I have your assurance thst such public an-

nouncements as you would make would be confined

entirely to statements of the policies arrived at by the

entire committee?"

Commander Braskett smiled glacially. "You want me to

be a figurehead, is that it?"

"To be our spokesman, with the official title of chairman."

"As I said: to be a figurehead. Very well, I accept. I'll

mouth my lines like an obedient puppet, and I won't attempt

to inject any of my radical, extremist ideas into my state-

ments. Is that what you wish?"

"I think we understand each other perfectly," Bryce

said, and smiled, and got a surprisingly warm smile in

return.

He jabbed now at his data board. Someone in the path lab

eight stories below his office answered, and Bryce said, "Is

there an up-to-date analysis yet?"

"I'll switch you to Dr. Madison."

Madison appeared on the screen. He ran the hospital's

radioisotope department, normally: a beefy, red-faced man

who looked as though he ought to be a beer salesman. He

knew his subject. "It's definitely the water supply, Tim," he

said at once. "We tentatively established that an hour and

a half ago, of course, but now there's no doubt. I've isolated

traces of two different memory-suppressant drugs, and there's

the possibility of a third. Whoever it was was taking no

chances."

"What are they?" Bryce asked.

"Well, we've got a good jolt of acetylcholine terminase,"

Madison said, "which will louse up the synapses and interfere

with short-term memory fixation. Then there's something

else, perhaps a puromycin-derivative protein dissolver, which

is going to work on the brain-RNA and smashing up older

memories. I suspect also that we've been getting one of the

newer experimental amnesifacients, something that I

haven't isolated yet, capable of working its way deep and

cutting out really basic motor patterns. So they've hit us high,

low, and middle."

'That explains a lot. The guys who can't remember what

they did yesterday, the guys who've lost a chunk out of then-

adult memories, and the ones who don't even remember their

names--this thing is working on people at all different lev-

els."

"Depending on individual metabolism, age, brain struc-

ture, and how much water they had to drink yesterday, yes."

"Is the water supply still tainted?" Bryce asked.

"Tentatively, I'd say no. I've had water samples brought

me from the upflow districts, and everything's okay there.

The water department has been running its own check; they

say the same. Evidently the stuff got into the system early

yesterday, came down into the city, and is generally gone by

now. Might be some residuals in the pipes; I'd be careful about

drinking water even today."

"And what does the pharmacopoeia say about the effec-

tiveness of these drugs?"

Madison shrugged. "Anybody's guess. You'd know that

better than I, Do they wear off?"

"Not in the normal sense," said Bryce. "What happens is

the brain cuts in a redundancy circuit and gets access to a

duplicate set of the affected memories, eventually--shifts to

another track, so to speak--provided a duplicate of the sector

in question was there in the first place, and provided that the

duplicate wasn't blotted out also. Some people are going to

get chunks of their memories back, in a few days or a few

weeks. Others won't."

"Wonderful," Madison said. "I'll keep you posted, Tim."

Bryce cut off the call and said to the communications man,

"You have that bone relay? Get it behind His Honor's ear,"

The mayor quivered. The little instrument was fastened

in place.

Bryce said, "Mr. Mayor, I'm going to dictate a speech, and

you're going to broadcast it on all media, and it's the last

thing I'm going to ask of you until you've had a chance to

pull yourself together. Okay? Listen carefully to what I'm

saying, speak slowly, and pretend that tomorrow is election

day and your job depends on how well you come across now.

You won't be going on live. There'll be a fifteen-second delay,

and we have a wipe circuit so we can correct any stumbles,

and there's absolutely no reason to be tense. Are you with

me? Will you give it all you've got?"

"My mind is all foggy."

"Simply listen to me and repeat what I say into the

camera's eye. Let your political reflexes take over. Here's

your chance to make a hero of yourself. We're living history

right now, Mr. Mayor. What we do here today will be studied

the way the events of the 1906 fire were studied. Let's go,

now. Follow me. People of the wonderful city of San Fran-

cisco--"

The words rolled easily from Bryce's lips, and, wonder of

wonders, the mayor caught them and spoke them in a clear,

beautifully resonant voice. As he spun out his speech, Bryce

felt a surging flow of power going through himself, and he

imagined for the moment that he were the elected leader of

the city, not merely a self-appointed emergency dictator. It

was an interesting, almost ecstatic feeling. Lisa, watching

him in action, gave him a loving smile.

He smiled at her. In this moment of glory he was almost

able to ignore the ache of knowing that he had lost his entire

memory archive of his life with her. Nothing else gone, ap-

parently. But, neatly, with idiot selectivity, the drug in the

water supply had sliced away everything pertaining to his

five years of marriage. Kamakura had told him, a few hours

ago, that it was the happiest marriage of any he knew. Gone.

At least Lisa had suffered an identical loss, against all prob-

abilities. Somehow that made it easier to bear; it would have

been awful to have one of them remember the good times and

the other know nothing. He was almost able to ignore the

torment of loss, while he kept busy. Almost,

"The mayor's going to be on in a minute," Nadia said.

''Will you listen to him? He'll explain what's been going on."

"I don't care," said The Amazing Montini dully.

"It's some kind of epidemic of amnesia. When I was out

before, I heard all about it. Everyone's got it. It isn't just you!

And you thought it was a stroke, but it wasn't. You're all

right"

"My mind is a ruin."

"It's only temporary." Her voice was shrill and uncon-

vincing. "It's something in the air, maybe. Some drug they

were testing that drifted in." We're all in this together. I can't

remember last week at all."

"What do I care?" Montini said. "Most of these people, they

have no memories even when they are healthy. But me? Me?

I am destroyed. Nadia, I should lie down in my grave now.

There is no sense in continuing to walk around."

The voice from the loudspeaker said, "Ladies and gentle-

men, His Honor Elliot Chase, the Mayor of San Francisco."

"Let's listen," Nadia said.

The mayor appeared on the wallscreen, wearing his sol-

emn face, his we-face-a-grave-challenge-citizens face. Mon-

tini glanced at him, shrugged, looked away.

The mayor said, "People of the wonderful city of San Fran-

cisco, we have just come through the most difficult day in

nearly a century, since the terrible catastrophe of April, 1906,

The earth has not quaked today, nor have we been smitten'

by fire, yet we have been severely tested by sudden calamity.

"As all of you surely know, the people of San Francisco

have been afflicted since last night by what can best be

termed an epidemic of amnesia. There has been mass loss of

memory, ranging from mild cases of forgetfulness to near-

total obliteration of identity. Scientists working at Fletcher

Memorial Hospital have succeeded in determining the cause

of this unique and sudden disaster.

"It appears that criminal saboteurs contaminated the mu-

nicipal water supply with certain restricted drugs that have

the ability to dissolve memory structures. The effect of these

drugs is temporary. There should be no cause for alarm. Even

those who are most severely affected will find their memories

gradually beginning to return, and there is every reason to

expect full recovery in a matter of hours or days."

"He's lying," said Montini,

"The criminals responsible have not yet been apprehend-

ed, but we expect arrests momentarily. The San Francisco

area is the only affected region, which means the drugs were

introduced into the water system just beyond city limits.

Everything is normal in Berkeley, in Oakland, in Marin

County, and other outlying areas. -

"In the name of public safety I have ordered the bridges

to San Francisco closed, as well as the Bay Area Rapid Transit

and other means of access to the city. We expect to maintain

these restrictions at least until tomorrow morning. The pur-

pose of this is to prevent disorder and to avoid a possible

influx of undesirable elements into the city while the trouble

persists. We San Franciscans are self-sufficient and can look

after our own needs without outside interference.

However, I have been in contact with the President and

with the Governor, and they both have assured me of all

possible assistance.

"The water supply is at present free of the drug, and

every precaution is being taken to prevent a recurrence of this

crime against one million innocent people. However, I am

told that some lingering contamination may remain in the

pipes for a few hours. I recommend that you keep your

consumption of water low until further notice, and that you

boil any water you wish to use.

"Lastly. Police Chief Dennison, myself, and your other city

officials will be devoting full time to the needs of the city so

long as the crisis lasts. Probably we will not have the oppor-

tunity to go before the media for further reports. Therefore,

I have taken the step of appointing a committee of public

safety, consisting of distinguished laymen and scientists of

San Francisco, as a coordinating body that will aid in gov-

erning the city and reporting to its citizens. The chairman

of this committee is the well-known veteran of so many ex-

ploits in space, Commander Taylor Braskett. Announcements

concerning the developments in the crisis will come from

Commander Braskett for the remainder of the evening, and

you may consider his words to be those of your city officials.

Thank you."

Braskett came on the screen. Montini grunted. "Look at

the man they find. A maniac patriot!"

"But the drug will wear off," Nadia said. "Your mind will

be all right again."

"I know these drugs. There is no hope. I am destroyed."

The Amazing Montini moved toward the door, "I need fresh

air. I will go out. Good-bye, Nadia."

She tried to stop him. He pushed her aside. Entering Mar-

ina Park, he made his way to the yacht dub; the doorman

admitted him, and took no further notice. Montini walked

out on the pier. The drug, they say, is temporary. It will wear

off. My mind will clear. I doubt this very much. Montini

peered at the dark, oily water, glistening with light reflected

from the bridge. He explored his damaged mind, scanning

for gaps. Whole sections of memory were gone. The walls had

crumbled, slabs of plaster falling away to expose bare lath.

He could not live this way. Carefully, grunting from the ex-

ertion, he lowered himself via a metal ladder into the water,

and kicked himself away from the pier. The water was ter-

ribly cold. His shoes seemed immensely heavy. He floated

toward the island of the old prison, but he doubted that he

would remain afloat much longer. As he drifted, he ran

through an inventory of his memory, seeing what remained

to him and finding less than enough. To test whether even

his gift had survived, he attempted to play back a recall of

the mayor's speech, and found the words shifting and melting.

It is just as well, then, he told himself, and drifted on, and

went under.

Carole insisted on spending Thursday night with him.

"We aren't man and wife any more," he had to tell her,

"You divorced me."

"Since when are you so conventional? We lived together

before we were married, and now we can live together after

we were married. Maybe we're inventing a new sin, Paul.

Post-marital sex."

"That isn't the point. The point is that you came to hate

me because of my financial mess, and you left me. If you try

to come back to me now, you'll be going against your own

rational and deliberate decision of last January."

"For me last January is still four months away," she said.

"I don't hate you. I love you. I always have and always will.

I can't imagine how I would ever have come to divorce you,

but in any case I don't remember divorcing you, and you don't

remember being divorced by me, and so why can't we just

keep going from the point where our memories leave off?"

"Among other things, because you happen to be Pete Cas-

tine's wife now,"

"That sounds completely unreal to me. Something you

dreamed."

"Freddy Munson told me, though. It's true."

"If I went back to Pete now," Carole said, "I'd feel sinful.

Simply because I supposedly married him, you want me to

jump into bed with him? I don't want him I want you. Can't

I stay here?"

"If Pete--"

"If Pete, if Pete, if Pete! In my mind I'm Mrs. Paul Mueller,

and in your mind I am too, and to hell with Pete, and with

whatever Freddy Munson told you, and everything else. This

is a silly argument, Paul. Let's quit it. If you want me to get

out, tell me so right now in that many words. Otherwise let

me stay."

He couldn't tell her to get out.

He had only the one small cot, but they managed to share

it. It was uncomfortable, but in an amusing way. He felt

twenty years old again for a while. In the morning they took

a long shower together, and then Carole went out to buy

some things for breakfast, since his service had been cut off

and he couldn't punch for food. A dunning robot outside the

door told him, as Carole was leaving, "The decree of personal

service due has been requested, Mr. Mueller, and is now

pending a court hearing."

"I know you not," Mueller said. "Be gone!"

Today, he told himself, he would hunt up Freddy Munson

somehow and get that cash from him, and buy the tools he

needed, and start working again. Let the world outside go

crazy; so long as he was working, all was well. If he couldn't

find Freddy, maybe he could swing the purchase on Carole's

credit. She was legally divorced from him and none of his

credit taint would stain her; as Mrs. Peter Castine she should

surely be able to get hold of a couple of bigs to pay Metch-

nikoff. Possibly the banks were closed on account of the mem-

ory crisis today, Mueller considered; but Metchnikoff surely

.wouldn't demand cash from Carole. He closed his eyes and

imagined how good it would feel to be making things once

more.

Carole was gone an hour. When she came back, carrying

groceries, Pete Castine was with her.

"He followed me," Carole explained. "He wouldn't let me

alone."

He was a slim, poised, controlled man, quite athletic, sev-

eral years older than Mueller--perhaps into his fifties al-

ready--but seemingly very young. Calmly he said, "I was

sure that Carole had come here. It's perfectly understandable,

Paul. She was here all night, I hope?"

"Does it matter?" Mueller asked.

"To some extent. I'd rather have had her spending the

night with her former husband than with some third party

entirely."

"She was here all night, yes," Mueller said wearily.

"I'd like her to come home with me now. She is my wife,

after all,"

"She has no recollection of that. Neither do I."

"I'm aware of that." Castine nodded amiably. "In my own

case, I've forgotten everything that happened to me before

the age of twenty-two. I couldn't tell you my father's first

name. However, as a matter of objective reality, Carole's my

wife, and her parting from you was rather bitter, and I feel

she shouldn't stay here any longer."

"Why are you telling all this to me?" Mueller asked. "If

you want your wife to go home with you, ask her to go home

with you."

"So I did. She says she won't leave here unless you direct

her to go."

"That's right," Carole said, "I know whose wife I think I

am. If Paul throws me out, I'll go with you. Not otherwise,"

Mueller shrugged. "I'd be a fool to throw her out, Pete. I

need her and I want her, and whatever breakup she and I

had isn't real to us. I know it's tough on you, but I can't help

that. I imagine you'll have no trouble getting an annulment

once the courts work out some law to cover cases like this."

Castine was silent for a long moment,

At length he said, "How has your work been going, Paul?"

"I gather that I haven't turned out a thing all year."

"That's correct."

"I'm planning to start again. You might say that Carole

has inspired me."

"Splendid," said Castine without intonation of any kind.

"I trust this little mixup over our--ah--shared wife won't

interfere with the harmonious artist-dealer relationship we

used to enjoy?"

"Not at all," Mueller said. "You'll still get my whole out-

put. Why the hell should I resent anything you did? Carole

was a free agent when you married her. There's only one

little trouble."

"Yes?"

"I'm broke. I have no tools, and I can't work without tools,

and I have no way of buying tools."

"How much do you need?"

"Two and a half bigs."

Castine said, "Where's your data pickup? I'll make a credit

transfer."

"The phone company disconnected it a long time ago."

"Let me give you a check, then. Say, three thousand even?

An advance against future sales." Castine fumbled for a

while before locating a blank check. "First one of these I've

written in five years, maybe. Odd how you get accustomed

to spending by telephone. Here you are, and good luck. To

both of you." He made a courtly, bitter bow. "I hope you'll be

happy together. And call me up when you've finished a few

pieces, Paul. I'll send the van. I suppose you'll have a phone

again by then." He went out.

"There's a blessing in being able to forget," Nate Hald-

ersen said. "The redemption of oblivion, I call it. What's hap-

pened to San Francisco this week isn't necessarily a disaster.

For some of us, it's the finest thing in the world."

They were listening to him--at least fifty people, cluster-

ing near his feet. He stood on the stage of the bandstand in

the park, just across from the De Young Museum. Shadows

were gathering. Friday, the second full day of the memory

crisis, was ending. Haldersen had slept in the park last night,

and he planned to sleep there again tonight; he had realized

after his escape from the hospital that his apartment had

been shut down long ago and his possessions were in storage.

It did not matter. He would live off the land and forage for

food. The flame of prophecy was aglow in him.

"Let me tell you how it was with me," he cried. "Three

days ago I was in a hospital for mental illness. Some of you

are smiling, perhaps, telling me I ought to be back there now,

but no! You don't understand. I was incapable of facing the

world. Wherever I went, I saw happy families, parents and

children, and it made me sick with envy and hatred, so that

I couldn't function in society. Why? Why? Because my own

wife and children were killed in an air disaster in 1991, that's

why, and I missed the plane because I was committing sin

that day, and for my sin they died, and I lived thereafter in

unending torment! But now all that is flushed from my mind.

I have sinned, and I have suffered, and now I am redeemed

through merciful oblivion!"

A voice in the crowd called, "If you've forgotten all about

it, how come you're telling the story to us?"

"A good question! An excellent question!" Haldersen felt

sweat bursting from his pores, adrenaline pumping in his

veins. "I know the story only because a machine in the hos-

pital told it to me, yesterday morning. But it came to me

from the outside, a secondhand tale. The experience of it

within me, the scars, all that has been washed away. The

pain of it is gone. Oh, yes, I'm sad that my innocent family

perished, but a healthy man learns to control his grief after

eleven years, he accepts his loss and goes on. I was sick, sick

right here, and I couldn't live with my grief, but now I can,

I look on it objectively, do you see? And that's why I say

there's a blessing in being able to ferget. What about you,

out there? There must be some of you who suffered painful

losses too, and now can no longer remember them, now have

been redeemed and released from anguish, Are there any?

Are there? Raise your hands. Who's been bathed in holy ob-

livion? Who out there knows that he's been cleansed, even

if he can't remember what it is he's been cleansed from?"

Hands were starting to go up.

They were weeping, now, they were cheering, they were

waving at him. Haldersen felt a little like a charlatan, But

only a little. He had always had the stuff of a prophet in him,

even while he was posing as a harmless academic, a stuffy

professor of philosophy. He had had what every prophet

needs, a sharp sense of contrast between guilt and purity, an

awareness of the existence of sin. It was that awareness that

had crushed him for eleven years. It was that awareness that

now drove him to celebrate his joy in public, to seek for

companions in liberation--no, for disciples--to found the

Church of Oblivion here in Golden Gate Park. The hospital

could have given him these drugs years ago and spared him

from agony. Bryce had refused, Kamakura, Reynolds, aH the

smooth-talking doctors; they were waiting for more tests,

experiments on chimpanzees, God knows what. And God had

said, Nathaniel Haldersen has suffered long enough for his

sin, and so He had thrust a drug into the water supply of San

Francisco, the same drug that the doctors had denied him,

and down the pipes from the mountains had come the sweet

draught of oblivion.

"Drink with me!" Haldersen shouted. "All you who are in

pain, you who live with sorrow! We'll get this drug ourselves!

We'll purify our suffering souls! Drink the blessed water, and

sing to the glory of God who gives us oblivion!"

Freddy Munson had spent Thursday afternoon, Thursday

night, and all of Friday holed up in his apartment with every

communications link to the outside turned off. He neither

took nor made calls, ignored the telescreenst and had

switched on the xerofax only three times in the thirty-six

hours.

He knew that he was finished, and he was trying to decide

how to react to it.

His memory situation seemed to have stabilized. He was

still missing only five weeks of market maneuvers. There

wasn't any further decay--not that that mattered; he was in

trouble enough--and, despite an optimistic statement last

night by Mayor Chase, Munson hadn't seen any evidence

that the memory loss was reversing itself. He was unable to

reconstruct any of the vanished details.

There was no immediate peril, he knew. Most of the clients

whose accounts he'd been juggling were wealthy old bats who

wouldn't worry about their stocks until they got next month's

account statements. They had given him discretionary pow-

ers, which was how he had been table to tap their resources

for his own benefit in the first place. Up to now, Munson had

always been able to complete each transaction within a single

month, so the account balanced for every statement. He had

dealt with the problem of the securities withdrawals that the

statements ought to show by gimmicking the house computer

to delete all such withdrawals provided there was no net

effect from month to month; that way he could borrow 10,000

shares of United Spaceways or Comsat or IBM for two weeks,

use the stock as collateral for a deal of his own, and get it

back into the proper account in time with no one the wiser.

Three weeks from now, though, the end-of-the-month state-

ments were going to go out showing all of his accounts pep-

pered by inexplicable withdrawals, and he was going to catch

hell.

The trouble might even start earlier, and come from a

different direction. Since the San Francisco trouble had be-

gun, the market had gone down sharply, and he would prob-

ably be getting margin calls on Monday. The San Francisco

exchange was closed, of course; it hadn't been able to open

Thursday morning because so many of the brokers had been

hit hard by amnesia. But New York's exchanges were open,

and they had reacted badly to the news from San Francisco,

probably out of fear that a conspiracy was afoot and the whole

country might soon be pushed into chaos. When the local

exchange opened again on Monday, if it opened, it would

most likely open at the last New York prices, or near them,

and keep on going down. Munson would be asked to put up

cash or additional securities to cover his loans. He certainly

didn't have the cash, and the only way he could get additional

securities would be to dip into still more of his accounts,

compounding his offense; on the other hand, if he didn't meet

the margin calls they'd sell him out and he'd never be able

to restore the stock to the proper accounts, even if he suc-

ceeded in remembering which shares went where,

He was trapped. He could stick around for a few weeks,

waiting for the ax to fall, or he could get out right now. He

preferred to get out right now.

And go where?

Caracas? Reno? Sao Paulo? No, debtor sanctuaries wouldn't

do him any good, because he wasn't an ordinary debtor. He

was a thief, and the sanctuaries didn't protect criminals, only

bankrupts. He had to go farther, all the way to Luna Dome.

There wasn't any extradition from the Moon. There'd be no

hope of coming back, either.

Munson got on the phone, hoping to reach his travel agent.

Two tickets to Luna, please. One for him, one for Helene; if

she didn't feel like coming, he'd go alone. No, not round trip.

But the agent didn't answer. Munson tried the number sev-

eral times. Shrugging, he decided to order direct, and called

United Spaceways next. He got a busy signal. "Shall we wait-

list your call?" the data net asked. "It will be three days, at

the present state of the backlog of calls, before we can put

it through."

"Forget it," Munson said.

He had just realized that San Francisco was closed off,

anyway. Unless he tried to swim for it, he couldn't get out

of the city to go to the spaceport, even if he did manage to

buy tickets to Luna. He was caught here until they opened

the transit routes again. How long would that be? Monday,

Tuesday, next Friday? They couldn't keep the city shut for-

ever--could they?

What it came down to, Munson saw, was a contest of prob-

abilities. Would someone discover the discrepancies in his

accounts before he found a way of escaping to Luna, or would

his escape access become available too late? Pat on those

terms, it became an interesting gamble instead of a panic

situation. He would spend the weekend trying to find a way

out of San Francisco, and if he failed, he would try to be a

stoic about facing what was to come.

Calm, now, he remembered that he had promised to lend

Paul Mueller a few thousand dollars, to help him equip his

studio again. Munson was unhappy over having let that slip

his mind. He liked to be helpful. And, even now, what were

two or three bigs to him? He had plenty of recoverable assets.

Might as well let Paul have a little of the money before the

lawyers start grabbing it.

One problem. He had less than a hundred in cash on him--

who bothered carrying cash?--and he couldn't telephone a

transfer of funds to Mueller's account, because Paul didn't

have an account with the data net any more, or even a phone.

There wasn't any place to get that much cash, either, at this

hour of evening, especially with the city paralyzed. And the

weekend was coming. Munson had an idea, though. What if

he went shopping with Mueller tomorrow, and simply charged

whatever the sculptor needed to his own account? Fine, He

reached for the phone to arrange the date, remembered that

Mueller could not be called, and decided to tell Paul about

it in person. Now. He could use some fresh air, anyway.

He half expected to find robot bailiffs outside, waiting to

arrest him. But of course no one was after him yet. He walked

to the garage. It was a fine night, cool, starry, with perhaps

just a hint of fog in the east. Berkeley's lights glittered

through the haze, though. The streets were quiet. In time of

crisis people stay home, apparently. He drove quickly to

Mueller's place. Four robots were in front of it. Munson eyed

them edgily, with the wary look of the man who knows that

the sheriff will be after him too, in a little while. But Mueller,

when he came to the door, took no notice of the dunners.

Munson said, "I'm sorry I missed connections with you.

The money I promised to lend you--"

"It's all right, Freddy. Pete Castine was here this morning

and I borrowed the three bigs from him. I've already got my

studio set up again. Come in and look."

Munson entered. "Pete Castine?"

"A good investment for him. He makes money if he has

work of mine to sell, right? It's in his best interest to help

me get started again. Carole and I have been hooking things

up all day."

"Carole?" Munson said. Mueller showed him into the stu-

dio. The paraphernalia of a sonic sculptor sat on the floor--

a welding pen, a vacuum bell, a big texturing vat, some ingots

and strands of wire, and such things, Carole was feeding

discarded packing cases into the wall disposal unit. Looking

up, she smiled uncertainly and ran her hand through her

long dark hair.

"Hello, Freddy."

"Everybody good friends again?" he asked; baffled.

"Nobody remembers being enemies," she said. She laughed.

"Isn't it wonderful to have your memory blotted out like this?"

"Wonderful," Munson said bleakly.

Commander Braskett said, "Can I offer you people any

water?"

Tim Bryce smiled. Lisa Bryce smiled. Ted Kamakura

smiled. Even Mayor Chase, that poor empty husk, smiled.

Commander Braskett understood those smiles. Even now,

after three days of close contact under pressure, they thought

he was nuts.

He had had a week's supply of bottled water brought from

his home to the command post here at the hospital. Every-

body kept telling him that the municipal water was safe to

drink now, that the memory drugs were gone from it; but

why couldn't they comprehend that his aversion to public

water dated back to an era when memory drugs were un-

known? There were plenty of other chemicals in the reservoir,

after all.

He hoisted bis glass in a jaunty toast and winked at them.

Tim Bryce said, "Commander, we'd like you to address the

city again at half past ten this morning. Here's your text,"

Braskett scanned the sheet. It dealt mostly with the re-

laxation of the order to boil water before drinking it. "You

want me to go on all media," he said, "and tell the people of

San Francisco that it's now safe for them to drink from the

taps, eh? That's a bit awkward for me. Even a figurehead

spokesman is entitled to some degree of personal integrity."

Bryce looked briefly puzzled, Then he laughed and took

the text back. "You're absolutely right, Commander. I can't

ask you to make this announcement, in view of--ah--your

particular beliefs. Let's change the plan. You open the spot

by introducing me, and I'll discuss the no-boiling thing. Will

that be all right?"

Commander Braskett appreciated the tactful way they

deferred

to his

special

obsessio

n. "I'm

at your

service,

Doctor,

" he

said

gravely

.

Bryc

e

finished

speakin

g and

the

camera

lights

left

him. He

said to

Lisa,

"What

about

lunch?

Or

breakfa

st, or

what-

ever

meal it

is we're

up to

now."

"Eve

rythi

ng's

read

y,

Tim.

Whe

neve

r

you"

are."

They

ate

togethe

r in the

hologra

ph

room,

which

had be-

come

the

kitchen

of the

comma

nd post.

Massive

cameras

and

tanks of

etching

fluid

surroun

ded

them.

The

others

thought

fully

left

them

alone.

These

brief

shared

meals

were

the only

fragme

nts of

privacy

he and

Lisa

had

had, in

the

fifty-

two

hours

since he

had

awaken

ed to

find her

sleeping

beside

him.

He

stared

across

the

table in

wonder

at this

delecta

ble

blond

girl who

they

said was

his wife.

How

beautifu

l her

soft

brown

eyes

were

against

that

backdro

p of

golden

hair!

How

perfect

the line

of her

lips, the

curve of

her

earlobes

! Bryce

knew

that no

one

would

object if

he and

Lisa

went off

and

locked

themsel

ves into

one of

the

private

rooms

for a

few

hours.

He

wasn't

that

indispe

nsable;

and

there

was so

much

he had

to begin

relearni

ng

about

his wife.

But he

was

unable

to leave

his post.

He

hadn't

been

out of

the

hospital

or even

off this

floor

for the

duration

of the

crisis;

he kept

himself

going

by

grabbin

g the

sleep

wire for

half an

hour

every

six

hours.

Perhaps

it was

an

illusiop

born of

too little

sleep

and too

much

data,

but he

had

come to

believe

that the

survival

of the

city

depende

d on

him. He

had

spent

his

career

trying

to heal

individu

al sick

minds;

now he

had a

whole

city to

tend to.

"Tire

d?"

Lisa

aske

d.

"I'm

in that

tirednes

s

beyond

feeling

tired.

My

mind is

so clear

that my

skull

wouldn'

t cast a

shadow

. I'm

nearing

nir-

vana."

"The

worst

is

over,

I

think

. The

city's

settli

ng

down

."

"It's

still

bad,

thou

gh.

Have

you

seen

the

suici

de

figur

es?"

"Bad

?"

"Hid

eous.

The

norm in

San

Francisc

o is 220

a year.

We've

had

close to

five

hundred

in the

last two

and a

half

days.

And

that's

just the

reporte

d cases,

the

bodies

discove

red, and

so on.

Probabl

y we

can

double

the

figure.

Thirty

suicides

re-

ported

Wednes

day

night,

about

two

hundred

on

Thursda

y, the

same

on

Friday,

and

about

fifty so

far this

mornin

g. At

least it

seems

as if the

wave is

past its

peak."

"But

why,

Tim?

"

"Some people react poorly to loss. Especially the loss of a

segment of their memories. They're indignant--they're

crashed--they're scared---and they reach for the exit pill.

Suicide's too easy now, anyway. In the old days you reacted

to frustration by smashing the crockery; now you go a dead-

lier route. Of course, there are special cases. A named

Montini they fished out of the bay--a professional mnemon-

ist, who did a trick act in nightclubs, total recall. I can hardly

blame him for caving in. And I suppose there were a lot of

others who kept their business in their heads--gamblers,

stock-market operators, oral poets, musicians--who might

decide to end it all rather than try to pick up the pieces."

"But if the effects of the drug wear off--"

"Do they?" Bryce asked.

"You said so yourself."

"I was making optimistic noises for the benefit of the cit-

izens. We don't have any experimental history for these drugs

and human subjects. Hell, Lisa, we don't even know the dos-

age that was administered; by the time we were able to get

water samples most of the system had been flushed clean,

and the automatic monitoring devices at the city pumping

stations were rigged as part of the conspiracy so they didn't

show a thing out of the ordinary. I've got no idea at all if

there's going to be any measurable memory recovery."

"But there is, Tim. I've already started to get some things

back."

"What?"

"Don't scream at me like that! You scared me."

He clung to the edge of the table. "Are you really recover-

ing?"

"Around the edges. I remember a few things already.

About us."

"Like what?"

"Applying for the marriage license. I'm standing stark

naked inside a diagnostat machine and a voice on the loud-

speaker is telling me to look straight into the scanners. And

I remember the ceremony, a little. Just a small group of

friends, a civil ceremony. Then we took the pod to Acapulco."

He stared grimly. "When did this start to come back?"

"About seven this morning, I guess."

"Is there more?"

"A bit. Our honeymoon. The robot bellhop who came blun-

dering in on our wedding night. You don't--"

"Remember it? No. No. Nothing. Blank."

"That's all I remember, this early stuff." "Yes, of

course," he said. "The older memories are always the first to

return in any form of amnesia. The last stuff in is the first

to go." His hands were shaking, not entirely from fatigue. A

strange desolation crept over him. Lisa remembered. He did

not. Was it a function of her youth, or of the chemistry of

her brain, or--?

He could not bear the thought that they no longer shared

an oblivion. He didn't want the amnesia to become one-sided

for them; it was humiliating not to remember his own mar-

riage, when she did. You're being irrational, he told himself.

Physician, heal thyself!

"Let's go back inside," he said.

"You haven't finished your--"

"Later."

He went into the command room. Kamakura had phones

in both hands and was barking data into a recorder. The

screens were alive with morning scenes, Saturday in the city,

crowds in Union Square. Kamakura hung up both calls and

said, "I've got an interesting report from Dr. Klein at Let-

terman General. He says they're getting the first traces of

memory recovery this morning. Women under thirty, only."

"Lisa says she's beginning to remember too," Bryce said.

"Women under thirty," said Kamakura. "Yes. Also the

suicide rate is definitely tapering. We may be starting to

come out of it."

"Terrific," Bryce said hollowly.

Haldersen was living in a ten-foot-high bubble that one

of his disciples had blown for him in the middle of Golden

Gate Park, just west of the Arboretum. Fifteen similar bub-

bles had gone up around his, giving the region the look of an

up-to-date Eskimo village in plastic igloos. The occupants of

the camp, aside from Haldersen, were men and women who

had so little memory left that they did not know who they

were or where they lived. He had acquired a dozen of these

lost ones on Friday, and by late afternoon on Saturday he

had been joined by some forty more. The news somehow was

moving through the city that those without moorings were

welcome to take up temporary residence with the group in

the park. It had happened that way during the 1906 disaster,

too.

The police had been around a few times to check on them.

The first time, a portly lieutenant had tried to persuade the

whole group to move to Fletcher Memorial, "That's where

most of the victims are getting treatment, you see. The doc-

tors give them something, and then we try to identify them

and find their next of kin--"

"Perhaps it's best for these people to remain away from

their next of kin for a while," Haldersen suggested. "Some

meditation in the park--an exploration of the pleasures of

having forgotten--that's all we're doing here," He would not go

to Fletcher Memorial himself except under duress. As for the

others, he felt he could do more for them in the park than

anyone in the hospital could.

The second time the police came, Saturday afternoan when

his group was much larger, they brought a mobile commu-

nications system. "Dr. Bryce of Fletcher Memorial wants to

talk to you," a different lieutenant said. Haldersen

watched the screen come alive. "Hello, Doctor, Worried

about me?"

"I'm worried about everyone, Nate. What the hell are you

doing in the park?"

"Founding a new religion, I think."

"You're a sick man. You ought to come back here."

"No, Doctor. I'm not sick any more. I've had my therapy

and I'm fine. It was a beautiful treatment: selective obliter-

ation, just as I prayed for. The entire trauma is gone."

Bryce appeared fascinated by that; his frowning expres-

sion of official responsibility vanished a moment, giving place

to a look of professional concern. "Interesting," he said.

"We've got people who've forgotten only nouns, and people

who've forgotten who they married, and people who've for-

gotten how to play the violin. But you're the first one who's

forgotten a trauma. You still ought to come back here,

though. You aren't the best judge of your fitness to face the

outside environment,"

"Oh, but I am," Haldersen said, "I'm doing fine. And my

people need me."

"Your people?"

"Waifs. Strays. The total wipeouts."

"We want those people in the hospital, Nate. We want to

get them back to their families."

"Is that necessarily a good deed? Maybe some of them can

use a spell of isolation from their families. These people look

happy, Dr. Bryce. I've heard there are a lot of suicides, but

not here. We're practicing mutually supportive therapy.

Looking for the joys to be found in oblivion. It seems to work,"

Bryce stared silently out of the screen for a long moment.

Then he said impatiently, "All right, have it your own way

for now. But I wish you'd stop coming on like Jesus and Freud

combined, and leave the park. You're still a sick man, Nate,

and the people with you are in serious trouble, I'll talk to you

later."

The contact broke. The police, stymied, left.

Haldersen spoke briefly to his people at five o'clock. Then

he sent them out as missionaries to collect other victims.

"Save as many as you can," he said. "Find those who are in

complete despair and get them into the park before they can

take their own lives. Explain that the loss of one's past is not

the loss of all things."

The disciples went forth. And came back leading those

less fortunate than themselves. The group grew to more than

one hundred by nightfall. Someone found the extruder again

and blew twenty more bubbles as shelters for the night. Hald-

ersen preached his sermon of joy, looking out at the blank

eyes, the slack faces of those whose identities had washed

away on Wednesday. "Why give up?" he asked them. "Now

is your chance to create new lives for yourself. The slate is

clean! Choose the direction you will take, define your new

selves through the exercise of free will--you are reborn in

holy oblivion, all of you. Rest, now, those who have just come

to us. And you others, go forth again, seek out the wanderers,

the drifters, the lost ones hiding in the corners of the city--"

As he finished, he saw a knot of people bustling toward

him from the direction of the South Drive. Fearing trouble,

Haldersen went out to meet them; but as he drew close he

saw half a dozen disciples, clutching a scruffy, unshaven,

terrified little man. They hurled him at Haldersen's feet. The

man quivered like a hare ringed by hounds. His eyes glis-

tened; his wedge of a face, sharp-chinned, sharp of cheek-

bones, was pale.

"It's the one who poisoned the water supply!" someone

called. "We found him in a rooming house on Judah Street.

With a stack of drugs in his room, and the plans of the water

system, and a bunch of computer programs. He admits it. He

admits it!"

Haldersen looked down. "Is this true?" he asked. "Are you

the one?"

The man nodded.

"What's your name?"

"Won't say. Want a lawyer."

"Kill him now!" a woman shrieked. "Pull his arms and

legs off!"

"Kill him!" came an answering cry from the other side

of the group. "Kill him!"

The congregation, Haldersen realized, might easily turn

into a mob.

He said, "Tell me your name, and I'll protect you. Oth-

erwise I can't be responsible."

"Skinner," the man muttered miserably.

"Skinner. And you contaminated the water supply."

Another nod.

"Why?"

"To get even."

"With whom?"

"Everyone. Everybody."

Classic paranoid. Haldersen felt pity. Not the others; they

were calling out for blood.

A tall man bellowed, "Make the bastard drink his own

drug!"

"No, kill him! Squash him!"

The voices became more menacing. The angry faces came

closer.

"Listen to me," Haldersen called, and his voice cut through

the murmurings. "There'll be no killing here tonight,"

"What are you going to do, give him to the police?"

"No," said Haldersen, "We'll hold communion together.

We'll teach this pitiful man the blessings of oblivion, and

then we'll share new joys ourselves. We are human beings.

We have the capacity to forgive even the worst of sinners.

Where are the memory drugs? Did someone say you had

found the memory drugs? Here. Here. Pass it up here. Yea,

Brothers, sisters, let as show this dark and twisted soul the

nature of redemption. Yes, Yes. Fetch some water, pleasfe.

Thank you. Here, Skinner. Stand him up, will you? Hold his

arms. Keep him from falling down. Wait a second, until I

find the proper dose. Yes. Yes, Here, Skinner, Forgiveness,

Sweet oblivion."

It was so good to be working again that Mueller didn't

want to stop. By early afternoon on Saturday his studio was

ready; he had long since worked out the sketches of the first

piece; now it was just a matter of time and effort, and he'd

have something to show Pete Castine. He worked on far into

the evening, setting up his armature and running a few tests

of the sound sequences that he proposed to build into the

piece. He had some interesting new ideas about the sonic

triggers, the devices that would set off the sound effect when

the appreciator came within range. Carole had to tell him,

finally, that dinner was ready. "I didn't want to interrupt

you," she said, "but it looks like I have to, or you won't ever

stop."

"Sorry. The creative ecstasy."

"Save some of that energy. There are other ecstasies. The

ecstasy of dinner, first."

She had cooked everything herself. Beautiful, He went

back to work again afterward, but at half past one in the

morning Carole interrupted him. He was willing to stop, now.

He had done an honest day's work, and he was sweaty with

the noble sweat of a job well done. Two minutes under the

molecular cleanser and the sweat was gone, but the good

ache of virtuous fatigue remained. He hadn't felt this way

in years.

He woke to Sunday thoughts of unpaid debts.

'The robots are still there," he said. "They won't go away,

will they? Even though the whole city's at a standstill, no-

body's told the robots to quit."

"Ignore them," Carole said.

"That's what I've been doing. But I can't ignore the debts.

Ultimately there'll be a reckoning."

"You're working again, though! You'll have an income

coming in."

"Do you know what I owe?" he asked. "Almost a million.

If I produced one piece a week for a year, and sold each piece

for twenty bigs, I might pay everything off. But I can't work

that fast, and the market can't possibly absorb that many

Muellers, and Pete certainly can't buy them all for future

sale."

He noticed the way Carole's face darkened at the mention

of Pete Castine.

He said, "You know what I'll have to do? Go to Caracas,

like I was planning before this memory thing started. I can

work there, and ship my stuff to Pete. And maybe in two or

three years I'll have paid off my debt, a hundred cents on the

dollar, and I can start-fresh back here. Do you know if that's

possible? I mean, if you jump to a debtor sanctuary, are you

blackballed for credit forever, even if you pay off what you

owe?"

"I don't know," Carole said distantly.

"I'll find that out later. The important thing is that I'm

working again, and I've got to go someplace where I can work

without being hounded. And then I'll pay everybody off.

You'll come with me to Caracas, won't you?"

"Maybe we won't have to go," Carole said.

"But how--"

"You should be working now, shouldn't you?"

He worked, and while he worked he made lists of creditors

in his mind, dreaming of the day when every name on every

list was crossed off. When he got hungry he emerged from

the studio and found Carole sitting gloomily in the living

room. Her eyes were red and puffy-lidded.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You don't want to go to Ca-

racas?"

"Please, Paul--let's not talk about it--"

"I've really got no alternative. I mean, unless we pick one

of the other sanctuaries. Sao Paulo? Spalato?"

"It isn't that, Paul."

"What, then?"

"I'm starting to remember again."

The air went out of him. "Oh," he said.

"I remember November, December, January. The crazy

things you were doing, the loans, the financial juggling. And

the quarrels we had. They were terrible quarrels."

"Oh."

"The divorce. I remember, Paul. It started coming back

last night, but you were so happy I didnt want to say any-

thing. And this morning it's much clearer. You still don't

remember any of it?"

"Not a thing past last October."

"I do," she said, shakily. "You hit me, do you know that?

You cut my lip. You slammed me against that wall, right

over there, and then you threw the Chinese vase at me and

it broke."

"Oh. Oh."

She went on, "I remember how good Pete was to me, too.

I think I can almost remember marrying him, being his wife.

Paul, I'm scared, I feel everything fitting into place in my

mind, and it's as scary as if my mind was breaking into

pieces. It was so good, Paul, these last few days. It was like

being a newly wed with you again, But now all the sour parts

are coming back, the hate, the ugliness, it's all alive for me

again. And I feel so bad about Pete. The two of us, Friday,

shutting him out. He was a real gentleman about it. But the

fact is that he saved me when I was going under, and I owe

him something for that."

"What do you plan to do?" he asked quietly.

"I think I ought to go back to him, I'm his wife, I've got

no right to stay here."

"But I'm not the same man you came to hate," Mueller

protested. "I'm the old Paul, the one from last year and before.

The man you loved. All the hateful stuff is gone from me."

"Not from me, though. Not now."

They were both silent,

"I think I should go back, Paul."

"Whatever you say."

"I think I should. I wish you all kinds of luck, but I can't

stay here. Will it hurt your work if I leave again?"

"I won't know until you do."

She told him three or four more times that she felt she

ought to go back to Castine, and then, politely, he suggested

that she should go back right now, if that was how she felt,

and she did. He spent half an hour wandering around the

apartment, which seemed so awfully empty again. He nearly

invited one of the dunning robots in for company. Instead,

he went back to work. To his surprise, he worked quite well,

and in an hour he had ceased thinking about Carole entirely.

Sunday afternoon, Freddy Munson set up a credit transfer

and managed to get most of his liquid assets fed into an old

account he kept at the Bank of Luna. Toward evening, he

went down to the wharf and boarded a three-man hovercraft

owned by a fisherman willing to take his chances with the

law. They slipped out into the bay without running lights

and crossed the bay on a big diagonal, landing some time

later a few miles north of Berkeley. Munson found a cab to

take him to the Oakland airport, and caught the midnight

shuttle to L.A., where, after a lot of fancy talking, he was

able to buy his way aboard the next Luna-bound rocket, lift-

ing off at ten o'clock Monday morning. He spent the night

in the spaceport terminal. He had taken with him nothing

except the clothes he wore; his fine possessions, his paintings,

his suits, his Mueller sculptures, and all the rest remained

in his apartment, and ultimately would be sold to satisfy the

judgments against him. Too bad. He knew that he wouldn't

be coming back to Earth again, either, not with a larceny

warrant or worse awaiting him. Also too bad. It had been so

nice for so long, here, and who needed a memory drug in the

water supply? Munson had only one consolation. It was an

article of his philosophy that sooner or later, no matter how

neatly you organized your life, fate opened a trapdoor un-

derneath your feet and catapulted you into something un-

known and unpleasant. Now he knew that it was true, even

for him.

Too, too bad. He wondered what his chances were of start-

ing over up there. Did they need stockbrokers on the Moon?

Addressing the citizenry on Monday night, Commander

Braskett said, 'The committee of public safety is pleased to

report that we have come through the worst part of the crisis.

As many of you have already discovered, memories are be-

ginning to return. The process of recovery will be more swift

for some than others, but great progress has been made. Ef-

fective at six AM tomorrow, access routes to and from San

Francisco will reopen. There will be normal mail service and

many businesses will return to normal. Fellow citizens, we

have demonstrated once again the real fiber of the American

spirit. The Founding Fathers must be smiling down upon us

today! How superbly we avoided chaos, and how beautifully

we pulled together to help one another in what could have

been an hour of turmoil and despair!

"Dr. Bryce requests me to remind you that anyone still

suffering severe impairment of memory--especially those

experiencing loss of identity, confusion of vital functions, or

other disability--should report to the emergency ward at

Fletcher Memorial Hospital. Treatment is available there,

and computer analysis is at the service of those unable to

find their homes and loved ones. I repeat--"

Tim Bryce wished that the good commander hadn't slipped

in that plug for the real fiber of the American spirit, espe-

cially in view of the necessity to invite the remaining victims

to the hospital with his next words. But it would be unchar-

itable to object. The old spaceman had done a beautiful job

all weekend as the Voice of the Crisis, and some patriotic

embellishments now were harmless.

The crisis, of course, was nowhere near as close to being

over as Commander Braskett's speech had suggested, but

public confidence had to be buoyed.

Bryce had the latest figures. Suicides now totaled 900

since the start of trouble on Wednesday; Sunday had been

an unexpectedly bad day. At least 40,000 people were still

unaccounted for, although they were tracing 1,000 an hour

and getting them back to their families or else into an in-

tensive-care section. Probably 760,000 more continued to

have memory difficulties. Most children had fully recovered,

and many of the women were mending; but older people, and

men in general, had experienced scarcely any memory re-

capture. Even those who were nearly healed had no recall

of events of Tuesday and Wednesday, and probably never

would; for large numbers of people, though, big blocks of the

past would have to be learned from the outside, like history

lessons.

Lisa was teaching him their marriage that way.

The trips they had taken--the good times, the bad--the

parties, the friends, the shared dreams--she described every-

thing, as vividly as she could, and he fastened on each an-

ecdote, trying to make it a part of himself again. He knew

it was hopeless, really. He'd know the outlines, never the

substance. Yet it was probably the best he could hope for.

He was so horribly tired, suddenly.

He said to Kamakura, "Is there anything new from the

park yet? That rumor that Haldersen's actually got a supply

of the drug?"

"Seems to be true, Tim. The word is that he and his friends

caught the character who spiked the water supply, and re-

lieved him of a roomful of various amnesifacients,"

"We've got to seize them," Bryce said.

Kamakura shook his head. "Not just yet. Police are afraid

of any actions in the park. They say it's a volatile situation."

"But if those drugs are loose--"

"Let me worry about it, Tim. Look, why don't you and Lisa '

go home for a while? You've been here without a break since

Thursday."

"So have--"

"No. Everybody else has had a breather. Go on, now. We're

over the worst. Relax, get some real sleep, make some love.

Get to know that gorgeous wife of yours again a little."

Bryce reddened. "I'd rather stay here until I feel I can

afford to leave."

Scowling, Kamakura walked away from him to confer

with Commander Braskett. Bryce scanned the screens, trying

to figure out what was going on in the park. A moment later,

Braskett walked over to him,

"Dr. Bryce?"

"What?"

"You're relieved of duty until sundown Tuesday."

"Wait a second--"

That's an order, Doctor. I'm chairman of the committee

of public safety, and I'm telling you to get yourself out of this

hospital. You aren't going to disobey an order, are you?"

"Listen, Commander--"

"Out, No mutiny, Bryce. Out! Orders."

Bryce tried to protest, but he was too weary to put up

much of a. fight. By noon, he was on his way home, soupy-

headed with fatigue. Lisa drove. He sat quite still,, struggling

to remember details of his marriage. Nothing came.

She put him to bed. He wasn't sure how long he slept; but

then he felt her against him, warm, satin-smooth,

"Hello," she said. "Remember me?"

"Yes," he lied gratefully. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!"

Working right through the night, Mueller finished his

armature by dawn on Monday. He slept a while, and in early

afternoon began to paint the inner strips of loudspeakers on:

a thousand speakers to the inch, no more than a few mole-

cules thick, from which the sounds of his sculpture would

issue in resonant fullness. When that was done, he paused

to contemplate the needs of his sculpture's superstructure,

and by seven that night was ready to move to the next phase.

The demons of creativity possessed him; he saw no reason to

eat and scarcely any to sleep.

At eight, just as he was getting up momentum for the long

night's work, he heard a knock at the door. Carole's signal.

He had disconnected the doorbell, and robots didn't have the

sense to knock. Uneasily, he went to the door. She was there.

"So?" he said.

"So I came back. So it starts all .over."

"What's going on?"

"Can I come in?" she asked.

"I suppose. I'm working, but come in."

She said, "I talked it all over with Pete, We both decided

I ought to go back to you."

"You aren't much for consistency, are you?" he asked.

"I have to take things as they happen. When I lost my

memory, I came to you. When I remembered things again,

I felt I ought to leave, I didn't want to leave. I felt I ought to

leave. There's a difference."

"Really," he said.

"Really. I went to Pete, but I didn't want to be with him.

I wanted to be here."

"I hit you and made your lip bleed. I threw the Ming vase

at you."

"It wasn't Ming, it was K'ang-hsi."

"Pardon me. My memory still isn't so good. Anyway, I did

terrible things to you, and you hated me enough to want a

divorce. So why come back?"

"You were right, yesterday. You aren't the man I came to

hate. You're the old Paul."

"And if my memory of the past nine months returns?"

"Even so," she said. "People change. You've been through

hell and come out the other side. You're working again. You

aren't sullen and nasty and confused. We'll go to Caracas, or

wherever you want, and you'll do your work and pay your

debts, just as you said yesterday."

"And Pete?"

"He'll arrange an annulment. He's being swell about it."

"Good old Pete," Mueller said. He shook his head. "How

long will the neat happy ending last, Carole? If you think

there's a chance you'll be bounding back in the other direction

by Wednesday, say so now. I'd rather not get involved again,

in that case."

"No chance. None."

"Unless I throw the Ch'ien-lung vase at you."

"K'ang-hsi," she said.

"Yes. K'ang-hsi." He managed to grin. Suddenly he felt

the accumulated fatigue of these days register all at once.

"I've been working too hard," he said. "An orgy of creativity

to make up for lost time. Let's go for a walk,"

"Fine," she said.

They went out, just as a dunning robot was arriving. "Top

of the evening to you, sir," Mueller said.

"Mr. Mueller, I represent the accounts receivable depart- j

ment of the Acme Brass and--"

"See my attorney," he said.

Fog was rolling in off the sea now. There were no stars. The

downtown lights were invisible. He and Carole walked t west,

toward the park. He felt strangely light-headed, not f

entirely from lack of sleep. Reality and dream had merged;

these were unusual days. They entered the park from the

Panhandle and strolled toward the museum area, arm in arm,

saying nothing much to one another. As they passed | the

conservatory Mueller became aware of a crowd up ahead,

thousands of people staring in the direction of the music shell.

"What do you think is going on?" Carole asked. Mueller

shrugged. They edged through the crowd,

Ten minutes later they were close enough to see the stage.

A tall, thin, wild-looking man with unruly yellow hair was

on the stage. Beside him was a small, scrawny man in ragged

clothing, and there were a dozen other flanking them, car-

rying ceramic bowls.

"What's happening?" Mueller asked someone in the crowd.

"Religious ceremony."

"Eh?"

"New religion. Church of Oblivion. That's the head

prophet up there. You haven't heard about it yet?"

"Not a thing."

"Started around Friday. You see that ratty-looking char-

acter next to the prophet?"

"Yes."

"He's the one that put the stuff in the water supply. He

confessed and they made him drink his own drug. Now he

doesn't remember a thing, and he's the assistant prophet.

Craziest damn stuff!"

"And what are they doing up there?"

"They've got the drug in those bowls. They drink and for-

get some more. They drink and forget some more."

The gathering fog absorbed the sounds of those on the

stage. Mueller strained to listen. He saw the bright eyes of

fanaticism; the alleged contaminator of the water looked pos-

itively radiant. Words drifted out into the night.

"Brothers and sisters . .. the joy, the sweetness of forget-

ting . . . come up here with us, take communion with us ...

oblivion ,.. redemption ,.. even the most wicked . . . forget

. . . forget. . ."

They were passing the bowls around on stage, drinking,

smiling. People were going up to receive communion, taking

a bowl, sipping, nodding happily. Toward the rear of the stage

the bowls were being refilled by three sober-looking func-

tionaries.

Mueller felt a chill. He suspected that what had been born

in this park during this week would endure, somehow, long

after the crisis of San Francisco had become part of history;

and it seemed to him that something new and frightening

had been loosed upon the land.

"Take ,,, drink ... forget..," the prophet cried.

And the worshipers cried, "Take . . . drink . . . forget..."

The bowls were passed.

"What's it all about?" Carole whispered.

"Take . . . drink . . . forget . . ."

"Take . . . drink . . . forget . . ."

"Blessed is sweet oblivion."

"Blessed is sweet oblivion."

"Sweet it is to lay down the burden of one's soul."

"Sweet it is to lay down the burden of one's soul."

"Joyous it is to begin anew."

"Joyous it is to begin anew."

The fog was deepening. Mueller could barely see the

aquarium building just across the way. He clasped his hand

tightly around Carole's and began to think about getting out

of the park.

He had to admit, though, that these people might have hit

on something true. Was he not better off for having taken a

chemical into his bloodstream, and thereby shedding a por-

tion of his past? Yes, of course. And yet--to mutilate one's

mind this way, deliberately, happily, to drink deep of obliv-

ion--

"Blessed are those who are able to forget," the prophet

said.

"Blessed are those who are able to forget," the crowd roared

in response.

"Blessed are those-who are able to forget," Mueller heard

his own voice cry. And he began to tremble. And he felt

sudden fear. He sensed the power of this strange new move-

ment, the gathering strength of the prophet's appeal to un-

reason. It was time for a new religion, maybe, a cult that

offered emancipation from all inner burdens. They would

synthesize this drug and turn it out by the ton, Mueller

thought, and repeatedly dose cities with it, so that everyone

could be converted, so that everyone might taste the joys of

oblivion. No one will be able to stop them. After a while, no

one will want to stop them. And so we'll go on, drinking deep,

until we're washed clean of all pain and all sorrow, of all sad

recollection, we'll sip a cup of kindness and part with auld

lang syne, we'll give up the griefs we carry around, and we'll

give up everything else, identity, soul, self, mind. We will

drink sweet oblivion. Mueller shivered. Turning suddenly,

tugging roughly at Carole's arm, he pushed through the joy-

ful worshiping crowd, and hunted somberly in the fog-

wrapped night, trying to find some way out of the park.

Shark Ship

CM. KORNBLUTH

It was the spring swarming of the plankton; every man and

woman and most of the children aboard Grenville's Convoy

had a job to do, As the seventy-five gigantic sailing ships

ploughed their two degrees of the South Atlantic, the fluid

that foamed beneath their cutwaters seethed also with life.

In the few weeks of the swarming, in the few meters-of surface

water where sunlight penetrated in sufficient strength to

trigger photosynthesis, microscopic spores burst into micro-

scopic plants, were devoured by minute animals which in

turn were swept into the maws of barely visible sea monsters

almost a tenth of an inch from head to tail; these in turn

were fiercely pursued and gobbled in shoals by the fierce little

brit, the tiny herring and shrimp that could turn a hundred

miles of green water to molten silver before your eyes.

Through the silver ocean of the swarming the Convoy

scudded and tacked in great controlled zigs and zags, reaping

the silver of the sea in the endlessly reeling bronze nets each,

ship payed out behind.

The Commodore in Grenville did not sleep during the

swarming; he and his staff dispatched cutters to scout the

swarms, hung on the meteorologists' words, digested the end-

less reports from the scout vessels, and toiled through the

night to prepare the dawn signal. The mainmast flags might

tell the captains "Convoy course five degrees right," or "Two

degrees left," or only "Convoy course; no change." On those

dawn signals depended the life for the next six months of the

million and a quarter souls of the Convoy. It had not happened

often, but it had happened that a succession of blunders re-

duced a convoy's harvest below the minimum necessary to

sustain life. Derelicts were sometimes sighted and salvaged

from such convoys; strong-stomached men and women were

needed for the first boarding and clearing away of human

debris. Cannibalism occurred, an obscene thing one had

nightmares about.

The seventy-five captains had their own particular pur-

gatory to endure throughout the harvest, the Sail-Seine

Equation. It was their job to balance the push on the sails

and the drag of the ballooning seines so that push exceeded

drag by just the number of pounds that would keep the ship

on course and in station, given every conceivable variation

of wind force and direction, temperature of water, consistency

of brit, and smoothness of hull. Once the catch was salted

down it was customary for the captains to converge on Gren-

ville for a roaring feast by way of letdown.

Rank had its privileges. There was no such relief for the

captains' Net Officers or their underlings in Operations and

Maintenance, or for their Food Officers under whom served

the Processing and Stowage people. They merely worked,

streaming the nets twenty-four hours a day, keeping them

bellied out with lines from mast and outriding gigs, keeping

them spooling over the great drum amidships, tending the

blades that had to scrape the brit from the nets, without

damaging the nets, repairing the damage when it did occur;

and without interruption of the harvest, flash-cooking the

part of the harvest to be cooked, drying the part to be dried,

pressing oil from the harvest as required, and stowing what

was cooked and dried and pressed where it would not spoil,

where it would not alter the trim of the ship, where it would

not be pilfered by children. This went on for weeks after the

silver had gone thin and patchy against the green, and after

the silver had altogether vanished.

The routines of many were not changed at all by the

swarming season. The blacksmiths, the sailmakers, the car-

penters, the watertenders, to a degree the storekeepers, func-

tioned as before, tending to the fabric of the ship, renewing,

replacing, reworking. The ships were things of brass, bronze,

and unrusting steel. Phosphor-bronze strands were woven

into net, lines, and cables; cordage, masts and hull were

metal; all were inspected daily by the First Officer and his

men and women for the smallest pinhead of corrosion. The

smallest pinhead of corrosion could spread; it could send a

ship to the bottom before it had done spreading, as the chap-

lains were fond of reminding worshipers when the ships

rigged for church on Sundays. To keep the hellish red of iron

rust and the sinister blue of copper rust from invading, the

squads of oilers were always on the move, with oil distilled

from the catch. The sails and the clothes alone could not be

preserved; they wore out. It was for this that the felting ma-

chines down below chopped wornout sails and clothing into

new fibers and twisted and rolled them with kelp and glue

from the catch into new felt for new sails and clothing.

While the plankton continued to swarm twice a year,

Grenville's Convoy could continue to sail the South Atlantic,

from ten-mile limit to ten-mile limit. Not one of the seventy-

five ships in the Convoy had an anchor.

The Captains' Party that followed the end of Swarming

283 was slow getting under way. McBee, whose ship was Port

Squadron 19, said to Salter of Starboard Squadron 30: "To

be frank, I'm too damned exhausted to care whether I ever

go to another party, but I didn't want to disappoint the Old

Man."

The Commodore, trim and bronzed, not showing his eighty

years, was across the great cabin from them greeting new

arrivals.

Salter said: "You'll feel differently after a good sleep. It

was a great harvest, wasn't it? Enough weather to make it

tricky and interesting. Remember 276? That was the one that

wore me out. A grind, going by the book. But this time, on

the fifteenth day my foretopsail was going to go about noon,

big rip in her, but I needed her for my S-S balance. What to

do? I broke out a balloon spinnaker--now wait a minute, let

me tell it first before you throw the book at me--and pumped

my fore trim tank out. Presto! No trouble; foretopsail replaced

in fifteen minutes."

McBee was horrified. "You could have lost your net!" "My

weatherman absolutely ruled out any sudden squalls."

"Weatherman. You could have lost your net!" Salter studied

him. "Saying that once was thoughtless, McBee. Saying it

twice is insulting. Do you think I'd gamble with twenty

thousand lives?"

McBee passed his hands over his tired face. "I'm sorry"

he said. "I told you I was exhausted. Of course under special

circumstances, it can be a safe maneuver." He walked to a

porthole for a glance at his own ship, the nineteenth in the

long echelon behind Grerwille. Salter stared after him, "Los-

ing one's net," was a phrase that occurred in several proverbs;

it stood for abysmal folly. In actuality a ship that lost its

phosphor-bronze wire mesh was doomed, and quickly. One

could improvise with sails or try to jury-rig a net out of the

remaining rigging, but not well enough to feed twenty thou-

sand hands, and no fewer than that were needed, for main-

tenance. Grenville's Convoy had met a derelict which lost its

net back before 240; children still told horror stories about

it, how the remnants of port and starboard watches, mad to

a man, were at war, a war of vicious night forays with knives

and clubs.

Salter went to the bar and accepted from the Commodore's

steward his first drink of the evening, a steel tumbler of

colorless fluid distilled from a fermented mash of sargassum

weed. It was about forty percent alcohol and tasted pleasantly

of iodides.

He looked up from his sip and his eyes widened. There

was a man in captain's uniform talking with the Commodore

and he did not recognize his face. But there had been no

promotions lately!

The Commodore saw him looking and beckoned him over.

He saluted and then accepted the old man's handclasp, "Cap-

tain Slater," the Commodore said, "my youngest and rashest,

and my best harvester; Salter, this is Captain Degerand of

the White Fleet."

Salter frankly gawked. He knew perfectly well that Gren-

ville's Convoy was far from sailing alone upon the seas. On

watch he had beheld distant sails from time to time. He was

aware that cruising the two-degree belt north of theirs was

another convoy and that in the belt south of theirs was still

another, in fact that the seaborne population of the world was

a constant one billion, eighty million. But never had he ex-

pected to meet face to face any of them except the one and

a quarter million who sailed under Grenville's flag,

Degerand was younger than he, all deeply tanned skin

and flashing pointed teeth. His uniform was perfectly ordi-

nary and very queer. He understood Salter's puzzled look.

"It's woven cloth," he said. 'The White Fleet was launched

several decades after Grenville's. By then they had machin-

ery to reconstitute fibers suitable for spinning and they

equipped us with it. It's six of one and half a dozen of the

other. I think our sails may last longer than yours, but the

looms require a lot of skilled labor when they break down."

The Commodore had left them.

"Are we very different from you?" Salter asked.

Degerand said: "Our differences are nothing. Against the

dirt men we are brothers--blood brothers."

The term "dirt men" was discomforting; the juxtaposition

with "blood" more so. Apparently he was referring to whoever

it was that lived on the continents and islands--a shocking

breach of manners, of honor, of faith. The words of the Charter

circled through Salter's head: "... return for the sea and its

bounty... renounce and abjure the land from which we--"

Salter had been ten years old before he knew that there were

continents and islands. His dismay must have shown on his

face.

"They have doomed us," the foreign captain said. "We can-

not refit. They have sent us out, each upon our two degrees

of ocean in larger or smaller convoys as the richness of the

brit dictated, and they have cut us off. To each of us will come

the catastrophic storm, and bad harvest, the lost net, and

death."

It was Salter's impression that Degerand had said the

same words many times before, usually to large audiences.

The Commodore's talker boomed out: "Now hear this!" His

huge voice filled the stateroom easily; his usual job was to

roar through a megaphone across a league of ocean, supple-

menting flag and lamp signals, "Now hear this!" he boomed.

"There's tuna on the table--big fish for big sailors'."

A grinning steward whisked a felt from the sideboard, and

there by Heaven it lay! A great baked fish as long as your

leg, smoking hot and trimmed with kelp! A hungry roar

greeted it; the captains made for the stack of trays and began

to file past the steward, busy with knife and steel.

Salter marveled to Degerand: "I didn't dream there were

any left that size. When you think of the tons of brit that old-

timer must have gobbled!"

The foreigner said darkly: "We slew the whales, the

sharks, the perch, the cod, the herring--everything that used

the sea but us. They fed on brit and one another and concen-

trated it in firm savory flesh like that, but we were jealous

of the energy squandered in the long food chain; we decreed

that the chain would stop with the link brit-to-man."

Salter by then had filled a tray. "Brit's more reliable," he

said. "A convoy can't take chances on fisherman's luck." He

happily bolted a steaming mouthful.

"Safety is not everything," Degerand said. He ate, more

slowly than Salter. "Your Commodore said you were a rash

seaman."

"He was joking. If he believed that, he would have to re-

move me from command."

The Commodore walked up to them, patting his mouth

with a handkerchief and beaming "Surprised, eh?" he de-

manded. "Glasgow's lookout spotted that big fellow yesterday

half a kilometer away. He signaled me and I told him to lower

and row for him. The boat crew sneaked up while he was

browsing and gaffed him clean. Very virtuous of us. By killing

him we economize on brit and provide a fitting celebration

for my captains. Eat hearty! It may be the last we'll ever see."

Degerand rudely contradicted his senior officer. "They

can't be wiped out clean, Commodore, not exterminated. The

sea is deep. Its genetic potential cannot be destroyed We

merely make temporary alterations of the feeding balance."

"Seen any sperm whale lately?" the Commodore asked,

raising his white eyebrows. "Go get yourself another helping,

captain, before it's gone." It was a dismissal; the foreigner

bowed and went to the buffet.

The Commodore asked: "What do you think of him?"

"He has some extreme ideas," Salter said.

"The White Fleet appears to have gone bad," the old man

said. "That fellow showed up on a cutter last week in the

middle of harvest wanting my immediate, personal attention.

He's on the staff of the White Fleet Commodore. I gather

they're all like him. They've got slack; maybe rust has got

ahead of them, maybe they're overbreeding. A ship lost its

net and they didn't let it go. They cannibalized rigging from

the whole fleet to make a net for it."

"But-"

"But--but--but. Of course it was the wrong thing and now

they're all suffering. Now they haven't the stomach to draw

lots and cut their losses." He lowered his voice. "Their idea

is some sort of raid on the Western Continent, that America

thing, for steel and bronze and whatever else they find not

welded to the deck. It's nonsense, of course, spawned by a few

silly-clever people on the staff. The crews will never go along

with it. Degerand was sent to invite us in!"

Salter said nothing for a while and then: "I certainly hope

we'll have nothing to do with it."

"I'm sending him back at dawn with my compliments, and

a negative, and my sincere advice to his Commodore'that he

drop the whole thing before his own crew hears of it and has

him bowspritted." The Commodore gave him a wintry smile.

"Such a reply is easy to make, of course, just after concluding

an excellent harvest. It might be more difficult to signal a

negative if we had a couple of ships unnetted and only enough

catch in salt to feed sixty per cent of the hands. Do you think

you could give the hard answer under those circumstances?"

"I think so, sir."

The Commodore walked away, his face enigmatic. Salter

thought he knew what was going en. He had been given one

small foretaste of top command. Perhaps he was being

groomed for Commodore--not to succeed the old man, surely,

but his successor.

McBee approached, full of big fish and drink. "Foolish

thing I said," he stammered. "Let's have drink, forget about

it, eh?"

He was glad to.

"Damn fine seaman'" McBee yelled after a couple more

drinks. "Best little captain in the Convoy! Not a scared old

crock like poor old McBee, 'fraid of every puff of wind!"

And then he had to cheer up MeBee until the party began

to thin out. McBee fell asleep at last and Salter saw him to

his gig before boarding his own for the long row to the bobbing

masthead lights of his ship.

Starboard Squadron 30-was at rest in the night. Only the

slowly moving oil lamps of the women on their ceaseless rust

patrol were alive. The brit catch, dried, came to some seven

thousand tons. It was a comfortable margin over the 5670

tons needed for six months full rations before the autumnal

swarming and harvest. The trim tanks along the keel had

been pumped almost dry by the ship's current prison popu-

lation as the cooked and dried and salted cubes were stored

in the glass-lined warehouse tier; the gigantic vessel rode

easily on a swelling sea before a Force One westerly breeze.

Salter was exhausted. He thought briefly of having his

cox'n whistle for a bosun's chair so that he might be hauled

at his ease up the fifty-yard cliff that was the "hull before

them, and dismissed the idea with regret. Rank hath its priv-

ileges and also its obligations. He stood up in the gig, jumped

for the ladder, and began the long climb. As he passed the

portholes of the cabin tiers he virtuously kept eyes front, on

the bronze plates of the hull inches from Ms nose. Many

couples in the privacy of their double cabins would be cele-

brating the end of the back-breaking, night-and-day toil. One

valued privacy aboard the ship; one's own 648 cubic feet of

cabin, one's own porthole, acquired an almost religious mean-

ing, particularly after the weeks of swarming cooperative

labor.

Taking care not to pant, he finished the climb with a floor-

ish, springing onto the flush deck. There was no audience.

Feeling a little ridiculous and forsaken, he walked aft in the

dark with only the wind and the creak of the rigging in his

ears. The five great basket masts strained silently behind

their breeze-filled sails; he paused a moment beside Wednes-

day mast, huge as a redwood, and put his hands on it to feel

the power that vibrated in its steel latticework.

Six intent women went past, their hand lamps sweeping

the deck; he jumped, though they never noticed him. They

were in something like a trance state while on their tour of

duty. Normal courtesies were suspended for them; with their

work began the job of survival. One thousand women, five

percent of the ship's company, inspected night and day for

corrosion. Seawater is a vicious solvent and the ship had to

live in it; fanaticism was the answer.

His stateroom above the rudder waited; the hatchway to

it glowed a hundred feet down the deck with the light of a

wasteful lantern. After harvest, when the tanks brimmed

with oil, one type acted as though the tanks would brim

forever. The captain wearily walked around and over a dozen

stay ropes to the hatchway and blew out the lamp. Before

descending he took a mechanical look around the deck; all

was well--

Except for a patch of paleness at the fantail.

"Will this day never end?" he asked the darkened lantern

and went to the fantail. The patch was a little girl in a night-

dress wandering aimlessly over the deck, her thumb in her

mouth. She seemed to be about two years old and was more

than half asleep. She could have gone over the railing in a

moment; a small wail, a small splash--

He picked her up like a feather. "Who's your daddy, prin-

cess?" he asked.

"Dunno," she grinned. The devil she didn't! It was too dark

to read her ID necklace and he was too tired to light the

lantern. He trudged down the deck to the crew of inspectors.

He said to their chief: "One of you get this child back to her

parents' cabin," and held her out.

The chief was indignant. "Sir, we are on watch!"

"File a grievance with the Commodore if you wish. Take

the child."

One of the rounder women did, and made cooing noises

while her chief glared. "Bye-bye, princess," the captain said.

"You ought to be keel-hauled for this, but I'll give you another

chance."

"Bye-bye," the little girl said, waving, and the captain

went yawning down the hatchway to bed.

His stateroom was luxurious by the austere standards of

the ship. It was equal to six of the standard nine-by-nine

cabins in volume, or to three of the double cabins for couples.

These however had something he did not. Officers above the

rank of lieutenant were celibate. Experience had shown that

this was the only answer to nepotism, and nepotism was a

luxury which no convoy could afford. It meant, sooner or later,

inefficient command. Inefficient command meant, sooner or

later, death.

Because he thought he would not sleep, he did not.

Marriage. Parenthood. What a strange business it must

bet To share a bed with a wife, a cabin with two children

decently behind their screen for sixteen years... what did one

talk about in bed? His last mistress had hardly talked at all,

except with her eyes. When these showed signs that was

falling in love with him, Heaven knew why, he broke with

her as quietly as possible and since then irritably rejected

the thought of acquiring a successor. That had been two years

ago when he was thirty-eight and already beginning to feel

like a cabin-crawler fit only to be dropped over the fantail

into the wake. An old lecher, a roue, a user of women. Of

course she had talked a little; what did they have in common

to talk about? With a wife ripening beside him, with children

to share, it would have been different. That pale, tall, quiet

girl deserved better than he could give; he hoped she was

decently married now in a double cabin, perhaps already

heavy with the first of her two children.

A whistle squeaked above his head; somebody was blowing

into one of the dozen speaking tubes clustered against the

bulkhead. Then a push-wire popped open the steel lid of Tube

Seven, Signals, He resignedly picked up the flexible reply

tube and said into it: "This is the captain. Go ahead."

"Grenville signals Force Three squall approaching from

astern, sir."

"Force Three squall from astern. Turn out the fore-star-

board watch. Have them reef sail to Condition Charlie."

"Fore-starboard watch, reef sail to Condition Charlie, aye-

aye."

"Execute."

"Aye-aye, sir." The lid of Tube Seven, Signals, popped shut.

At once he heard the distant, penetrating shrill of the pipe,

the faint vibration as one-sixth of the deck crew began to stir

in their cabins, awaken, hit the deck bleary-eyed, begin,to

trample through the corridors and up the hatchways to the

deck. He got up himself and pulled on clothes, yawning. Reef-

ing from Condition Fox to Condition Charlie was no serious

matter, not even in the dark, and Walters on watch was a

good officer. But he'd better have a look.

Being flush-decked, the ship offered him no bridge. He

conned her from the "first top" of Friday mast, the rearmost

of her five. The "first top" was a glorified crow's nest fifty feet

up the steel basketwork of that great tower; it afforded him

a view of all masts and spars in one glance.

He climbed to his command post too far gone for fatigue.

A full moon now lit the scene, good. That much less chance

of a green topman stepping on a ratline that would prove to

be a shadow and hurtling two hundred feet to the deck. That

much more snap in the reefing; that much sooner it would

be over. Suddenly he was sure he would be able to sleep if

he ever got back to bed again.

He turned for a look at the bronze, moonlit heaps of the

great net on the fantail. Within a week it would be cleaned

and oiled, within two weeks stowed below in the cable tier,

safe from wind and weather.

The regiments of the fore-starboard watch swarmed up the

masts from Monday to Friday, swarmed out along the spars

as bosun's whistles squealed out the drill--

The squall struck.

Wind screamed and tore at him; the captain flung his arms

around a stanchion. Rain pounded down upon his head and

the ship reeled in a vast, slow curtsey, port to starboard.

Behind him there was a metal sound as the bronze net shifted

inches sideways, back.

The sudden clouds had blotted out the moon; he could not

see the men who swarmed along the yards but with sudden

terrible clarity he felt through the soles of his feet what they

were doing. They were clawing their way through the sail-

reefing drill, blinded and deafened by sleety rain and wind.

They were out of phase by now; they were no longer trying

to shorten sail equally on each mast; they were trying to get

the thing done and descend. The wind screamed in his face

as he turned and clung. Now they were ahead of the job on

Monday and Tuesday masts, behind the job on Thursday and

Friday masts.

So the ship was going to pitch. The wind would catch it

unequally and it would kneel in prayer, and cutwater plung-

ing with a great, deep stately obeisance down into the fathoms

of ocean, the stern soaring slowly, ponderously, into the air

until the topmost rudder-trunnion streamed a hundred-foot

cascade into the boiling froth of the wake.

That was half the pitch. It happened, and the captain

clung, groaning aloud. He heard above the screaming wind

loose gear rattling on the deck, clashing forward in an ava-

lanche. He heard a heavy clink at the stern and bit his lower

lip until it ran with blood that the tearing cold rain flooded

from his chin.

The pitch reached its maximum and the second half began,

after interminable moments when she seemed frozen at a

five-degree angle forever. The cutwater rose, rose, rose, the

bowsprit blocked out horizon stars, the loose gear counter-

charged astern in a crushing tide of bales, windlass cranks,

water-breakers, stilling coils, steel sun reflectors, lashing

tails of bronze rigging--

Into the heaped piles of the net, straining at its retainers

on the two great bollards that took root in the keel itself four

hundred feet below. The energy of the pitch hurled the belly

of the net open crashing, into the sea. The bollards held for

a moment.

A retainer cable screamed and snapped like a man's back,

and then the second cable broke. The roaring slither of the

bronze links thundering over the fantail shook the ship.

The squall ended as it had come; the clouds scudded on

and the moon bared itself, to shine on a deck scrubbed clean.

The net was lost.

Captain Salter looked down the fifty feet from the rim of

the crow's nest and thought: I should jump. It would be

quicker that way.

But he did not. He slowly began to climb down the ladder

to the bare deck.

Having no electrical equipment, the ship was necessarily

a representative republic rather than a democracy. Twenty

thousand people can discuss and decide only with the aid of

microphones, loudspeakers, and rapid calculators to balance

the ayes and noes. With lungpower the only means of com-

munication and an abacus in a clerk's hands the only tallying

device, certainly no more than fifty people can talk together

and make sense, and there are pessimists who say the number

is closer to five than fifty. The Ship's Council that met at

dawn on the fantail numbered fifty.

It was a beautiful dawn; it lifted the heart to see salmon

sky, iridescent sea, spread white sails of the Convoy ranged

in a great slanting line across sixty miles of oceanic blue.

It was the kind of dawn for which one lived--a full catch

salted down, the water-butts filled, the evaporators trickling

from their thousand tubes nine gallons each sunrise to sunset,

wind enough for easy steerageway, and a pretty spread of

sail. These were the rewards. One hundred and forty-one

years ago Grenville's Convoy had been launched at Newport

News, Virginia, to claim them.

Oh, the high adventure of the launching! The men and

women who had gone,aboard thought themselves heroes, con-

querors of nature, self-sacrificers for the glory of NEMET; But

NEMET meant only Northeastern Metropolitan Area, one

dense warren that stretched from Boston to Newport, built

up and dug down, sprawling westward, gulping Pittsburgh -

without a pause, beginning to peter out past Cincinnati.

The first generation asea clung and sighed for the culture

of NEMET, consoled itself with its patriotic sacrifice; any relief

was better than none at all, and Grenville's Convoy had

drained one and a quarter million population from the huddle.

They were immigrants into the sea; like all immigrants they

longed for the Old Country. Then the second generation. Like

all second generations they had no patience with the old

people or their tales. This was real, this sea, this gale, this

rope! Then the third generation. Like all third generations

it felt a sudden desperate hollowness and lack of identity.

What was real? Who are we? What is NEMET which we have

lost? But by then grandfather and grandmother could only

mumble vaguely; the culture heritage was gone, squandered

in three generations, spent forever. As always, the fourth

generation did not care.

And those who sat in counsel on the fantail were members

of the fifth and sixth generations. They knew all there was

to know about life. Life was the hull and masts, the sail and

rigging, the net and the evaporators. Nothing more. Nothing

less. Without masts there was no life. Nor was there life

without the net.

The Ship's Council did. not command; command was re-

served to the captain and his officers. The Council governed,

and on occasion tried criminal cases. During the black Winter

Without Harvest eighty years before it had decreed euthan-

asia for all persons over sixty-three years of age and for one

out of twenty of the other adults aboard. It had rendered

bloody judgment on the ringleaders of Peale's Mutiny. It had

sent them into the wake and Peale himself had been bowsprit-

ted, given the maritime equivalent of crucifixion. Since then

no megalomaniacs had decided to make life interesting for

their shipmates, so Peale's long agony had served its purpose.

The fifty of them represented every department of the ship

and every age group. If there was wisdom aboard, it was

concentrated there on the fantail. But there was little to say.

The eldest of them, Retired Sailmaker Hodgins, presided.

Venerably bearded, still strong of voice, he told them:

"Shipmates, our accident has come. We are dead men.

Decency demands that we do not spin out the struggle and

sink into--unlawful eatings. Reason tells us that we cannot

survive. What I propose is an honorable voluntary death for

us all, and the legacy sf our ship's fabric to be divided among

the remainder of the Convoy at the discretion of the Com-

modore."

He had little hope of his old man's viewpoint prevailing.

The Chief Inspector rose at once. She had only three words

to say: "Not my children."

Women's heads nodded grimly and men's with resignation.

Decency and duty and common sense were all very well until

you ran up against that steel bulkhead. Not my children.

A brilliant young chaplain asked: "Has the question ever

been raised as to whether a collection among the fleet might

not provide cordage enough to improvise a net?"

Captain Salter should have answered that, but he, mur-

derer of the twenty thousand souls in his care, could not

speak. He nodded jerkily at his signals officer.

Lieutenant Zwingli temporized by taking out his signals

slate and pretending to refresh his memory. He said: "At 0035

today a lamp signal was made to Grenville advising that our

net was lost. Grenville replied as follows: 'Effective now, your

ship no longer part of Convoy. Have no recommendations.

Personal sympathy and regrets. Signed, Commodore.'"

Captain Salter found his voice. "I've sent a couple of other

messages to Grenville and to our neighboring vessels. They

do not reply. This is as it should be. We are no longer part

of the Convoy. Through our own--lapse--we have become a

drag on the Convoy. We cannot look to it for help. I have no

word of condemnation for anybody. This is how life is."

And then a council member spoke whom Captain Salter

knew in another role. It was Jewel Flyte, the tall, pale girl

who had been his mistress two years ago. She must be serving

as an alternate, he thought, looking at her with new eyes.

He did not know she was even that; he had avoided her since

then. And no, she was not married; she wore no ring. And

neither was her hair drawn back in the semiofficial style of

the semiofficial voluntary celibates, the superpatriots (or sim-

ply sex-shy people, or dislikers of children) who surrendered

their right to reproduce for the good of the ship (or their own

convenience). She was simply a girl in the uniform of a--a

what? He had to think hard before he could match the badge

over her breast to a department. She was Ship's Archivist

with her crossed key and quill, an obscure clerk and shelf-

duster under--far under!--the Chief of Yeomen Writers. She

must have been elected alternate by the Yeomen in a spasm

of sympathy for her blind-alley career.

"My job," she said in her calm, steady voice, "is chiefly to

search for precedents in the Log when unusual events must

be recorded and nobody recollects offhand the form in which

they should be recorded. It is one of those provoking jobs

which must be done by someone but which cannot absorb the

full time of a person. I have therefore had many free hours

of actual working time. I have also remained unmarried and

am not inclined to sports or games. I tell you this so you may

believe me when I say that during the past two years I have

read the Ship's Log in its entirety."

There was a little buzz. Truly an astonishing, and an as-

tonishingly pointless, thing to do! Wind and weather, storms

and calms, messages and meetings and censuses, crimes,

trials, and punishments of a hundred and forty-one years;

what a bore!

"Something I read," she went on, "may have some bearing

on our dilemma." She took a slate from her pocket and read:

"Extract from the Log dated June 30, Convoy Year 72. "The

Shakespeare-Joyce-Melville Party returned after dark in the

gig. They had not accomplished any part of their mission. Six

were dead of wounds; all bodies were recovered. The remain-

ing six were mentally shaken but responded to our last atar-

actics. They spoke of a new religion ashore and its conse-

quences on population. I am persuaded that we seabornes can

no longer relate to the continentals. The clandestine shore

trips will cease.' The entry is signed 'Scolley, Captain.'"

A man named Scolley smiled for a brief proud moment.

His ancestor! And then like the others he waited for the

extract to make sense. Like the others he found that it would

not do so,

Captain Salter wanted to speak and wondered how to ad-

dress her. She had been "Jewel" and they all knew it; could

he call her "Yeoman Flyte" without looking like, being, a

fool? Well, if he was fool enough to lose his net he was fool

enough to be formal with an ex-mistress. "Yeoman Flyte,"

he said, "where does the extract leave us?"

In her calm voice she told them all: "Penetrating the few

obscure words, it appears to mean that until Convoy Year 72

the Charter was regularly violated, with the connivance of

successive captains. I suggest that we consider violating it

once more, to survive."

The Charter, It was a sort of ground swell of their ethical

life, learned early, paid homage every Sunday when they

were rigged for church. It was inscribed in phosphor-bronze

plates on Monday mast of every ship at sea, and the wording

was always the same.

IN RETURN FOR THE SEA AND ITS BOUNTY WE

RENOUNCE AND ABJURE FOR OURSELVES AND

OUR DESCENDANTS THE LAND FROM WHICH

WE SPRUNG: FOR THE COMMON GOOD OF WE

SET SAIL FOREVER.

At least half of them were unconsciously murmuring the

words.

Retired Sailmaker Hodgins rose, shaking, "Blasphemy!"

he said. "The woman should be bowspritted!"

The chaplain said thoughtfully: "I know a little more about

what constitutes blasphemy than Sailmaker Hodgins, I be-

lieve, and assure you that he is mistaken. It is a superstitious

error to believe that there is any religious sanction for the

Charter. It is no ordinance of God but a contract between men."

"It is a Revelation!" Hodgins shouted. "A Revelation! It is

the newest testament! It is God's finger pointing the way to

the clean hard life at sea, away from the grubbing and filth,

from the overbreeding and the sickness!"

That was a common view.

"What about my children?" demanded the Chief Inspector.

"Does God want them to starve or be--be--" She could not

finish the question, but the last unspoken word of it rang in

all their minds.

Eaten.

Aboard some ships with an accidental preponderance of

the elderly, aboard other ships where some blazing person-

ality generations back had raised the Charter to a powerful

cult, suicide might have been voted. Aboard other ships where

nothing extraordinary had happened in six generations,

where things had been easy and the knack and tradition of

hard decision making had been lost, there might have been

confusion and inaction and the inevitable degeneration into

savagery. Aboard Salter's ship the Council voted to send a

small party ashore to investigate. They used every imagi-

nable euphemism to describe the action, took six hours to

make up their minds, and sat at last on the fantail cringing

a little, as if waiting for a thunderbolt.

The shore party would consist of Salter, Captain; Plyte,

Archivist; Pemberton, Junior Chaplain; Graves, Chief In-

spector.

Salter climbed to his conning top on Friday mast, consulted

a chart from the archives, and gave the order through speak-

ing tube to the tiller gang: "Change course red four degrees."

The repeat came back incredulously.

"Execute," he said. The ship creaked as eighty men heaved

the tiller; imperceptibly at first the wake began to curve

behind them.

Ship Starboard 30 departed from its ancient station; across

a mile of sea the bosun's whistles could be heard from Star-

board 31 as she put on sail to close the gap.

"They might have signaled something." Salter thought,

dropping his glasses at last on his chest. But the masthead

of Starboard 31 remained bare of all but its commission pen-

nant.

He whistled up his signals officer and pointed to their own

pennant. "Take that thing down," he said hoarsely, and went

below to his cabin.

The new course would find them at last riding off a place

the map described as New York City.

Salter issued what he expected would be his last commands

to Lieutenant Zwingli; the whaleboat was waiting in its dav-

its; the other three were in it.

"You'll keep your station here as well as you're able," said

the captain. "If we live, we'll be back in a couple of months.

Should we not return, that would be a potent argument

against beaching the ship and attempting to live off the con-

tinent--but it will be your problem then and not mine."

They exchanged salutes. Salter sprang into the whaleboat,

signaled the deck hands standing by at the ropes, and the

long creaking descent began.

Salter, Captain, age forty; unmarried ex offlcio; parents

Clayton Salter, master instrument maintenanceman, and

Eva Romano, chief dietician; selected from dame school age

ten for A Track training; seamanship school eertifieate at age

sixteen, navigation certificate at age twenty, First Lieuten-

ants School age twenty-four, commissioned ensign age twenty-

four, lieutenant at thirty, commander at thirty-two, com-

missioned captain and succeeded to command of Ship Star-

board 30 the same year.

Flyte, Archivist, age twenty-five; unmarried; parents Jo-

sepy Flyte, entertainer, and Jessie Waggoner, entertainer;

completed dame school age fourteen, B Track training; Yeo-

man's School certificate at age sixteen, Advanced Yeoman's

School certificate at age eighteen; efficiency rating, 3.5.

Pemberton, Chaplain, age thirty; married to Riva Shields,

nurse; no children by choice; parents Will Pemberton, master

distiller-watertender, and Agnea Hunt, felter-machinist's

mate; completed dame school age twelve, B Track training;

Divinity School Certificate at age twenty; midstarboard

watch curate, later fore-starboard chaplain.

Graves, Chief Inspector, age thirty-four; married to George

Omany, blacksmith third class; two children; completed dame

school age fifteen; Inspectors School Certificate at age six-

teen; inspector third class, second class, first class, master

inspector, then chief; efficiency rating, 4.0; three commend-

ations.

Versus the Continent of North America.

They all rowed for an hour; then a shoreward breeze came

up and Salter stepped the mast. "Ship your oars," he said and

then wished he dared countermand the order. Now they would

have time to think of what they were doing.

The very water they sailed was different in color from the

deep water they knew, and different in its way of moving.

The life in it--

"Great God!" Mrs. Graves cried, pointing astern,

It was a huge fish, half the size of their boat. It surfaced

lazily and slipped beneath the water in an uninterrupted arc,

They had seen steel-gray skin, not scales, and a great slit of

a mouth.

Slater said, shaken: "Unbelievable. Still, I suppose in the

unfished offshore waters a few of the large forms survive.

And the intermediate sizes to feed them-- And foot-long

smaller sizes to feed them, and--"

Was it mere arrogant presumption that Man had per-

manently changed the life of the sea?

The afternoon sun slanted down and the tip of Monday

mast sank below the horizon's curve astern; the breeze that

filled their sail bowled them toward a mist which wrapped

vague concretions they feared to study too closely. A shad-

owed figure huge as a mast with one arm upraised; behind

it blocks and blocks of something solid.

"This is the end of the sea," said the captain.

Mrs. Graves said what- she would have said if a silly un-

derinspector had reported to her blue rust on steel: "Non-

sense!" Then, stammering: "I beg your pardon, captain. Of

course you are correct."

"But it sounded strange," Chaplain Pemberton said help-

fully. "I wonder where they all are?"

Jewel Flyte said in her quiet way: "We should have passed

over the discharge from waste tubes before now. They used

to pump their waste through tubes under the sea and dis-

charge it several miles out. It colored the water and it stank.

During the first voyaging years the captains knew it was

time to tack away from land by the color and the bad smell."

"They must have improved their disposal system by now,"

Salter said. "It's been centuries."

His last word hung in the air.

The chaplain studied the mist from the bow. It was im-

possible to deny it; the huge thing was an Idol. Rising from

the bay of a great city, an Idol, and a female one--the worst

kind! "I thought they had them only in High Places," he

muttered, discouraged.

Jewel Flyte understood. "I think it has no religious sig-

nificance," she said. "It's a sort of--huge piece of scrimshaw."

Mrs. Graves studied the vast thing and saw in her mind

the glyphic arts as practiced at sea: compacted kelp shaved

and whittled into little heirloom boxes, miniature portrait

busts of children. She decided that Yeoman Flyte had a dan-

gerously wild imagination. Scrimshaw? Tall as a mastF

There should be some commerce, thought the captain.

Boats going to and fro. The Place ahead was plainly an island,

plainly inhabited; goods and people should be going to it and

coming from it. Gigs and cutters and whaleboats should be

plying this bay and those two rivers; at that narrow bit they

should be lined up impatiently waiting, tacking and riding

under sea anchors and furled sails. There was nothing but

a few white birds that shrilled nervously at their solitary

boat.

The blocky concretions were emerging from the haze; they

were sunset-red cubes with regular black eyes dotting them;

they were huge dice laid down side by side by side, each as

large as a ship, each therefore capable of holding twenty

thousand persons.

Where were they all?

The breeze and the tide drove them swiftly through the

neck of water where a hundred boats should be waiting, "Furl

the sail," said Salter. "Out oars,"

With no sounds but the whisper of the oarlocks, the cries

of the white birds, and the slapping of the wavelets, they

rowed under the shadow of the great red dice to a dock, one

of a hundred teeth projecting from the island's rim.

"Easy the starboard oars," said Salter; "handsomely the

port oars. Up oars. Chaplain, the boat hook," He had brought

them to a steel ladder; Mrs. Graves gasped at the red rust

thick on it. Salter tied the painter to a corroded brass ring.

"Come along," he said, and began to climb.

When the four of them stood on the iron-plated dock Pem-

berton, naturally, prayed. Mrs. Graves followed the prayer

with half her attention or lees; the rest she could riot divert

from the shocking slovenliness of the prospect--rust, dust,

litter, neglect. What went on in the mind of Jewel Flyte her

calm face did not betray. And the captain scanned those black

windows a hundred yards inboard--no; inland!--and waited

and wondered.

They began to walk to them at last, Salter leading. The

sensation under foot was strange and dead, tiring to the

arches and the thighs.

The huge red dice were not as insane close-up as they had

appeared from the distance. They were thousand-foot cubes

of brick, the stuff that lined ovens. They were set back within

squares of green, cracked surfacing which Jewel Flyte named

"cement" or "concrete" from some queer corner of her eru-

dition.

There was an entrance, and written over it: THE HERBERT

BROWNELL JR. MEMORIAL HOUSES. A bronze plaque shot a pang

of guilt through them all as they thought of The Compact,

but its words were different and ignoble.

NOTICE TO ALL TENANTS

A project Apartment is a Privilege and not a Right. Daily

Inspection is the Cornerstone of the Project. At-tendance at

Least Once a Week at the Church or Synagogue of your

Choice is Required for Families wishing to remain in Good

Standing; Proof of Attendance must be presented on Demand.

Possession of Tobacco or Alcohol will be considered Prime

Facie Evidence of Un-desirability. Excessive Water Use,

Excessive Energy Use and Food Waste will be Grounds for

Desirability Review. The speaking of Languages other than

American by persons over the Age of Six will be considered

Prima Facie Evidence of Nonassimilability, though this shall

not be construed to prohibit Religious Ritual in Languages

other than American.

Below it stood another plaque in paler bronze, an after-

thought:

None of the foregoing shall be construed to condone the

Practice of Depravity under the Guise of Religion by

Whatever Name, and all Tenants are warned that any

Failure to report the Practice of Depravity will result

in summary Eviction and Denunciation.

Around this later plaque some hand had painted with crude

strokes of a tar brush a sort of anatomical frame at which

they stared in wondering disgust.

At last Pemberton said: "They were a devout people."

Nobody noticed the past tense, it sounded so right.

"Very sensible," said Mrs. Graves. "No nonsense about

them."

Captain Salter privately disagreed. A ship run with such

dour coercion would founder in a month; could land people

be that much different?

Jewel Flyte said nothing, but her eyes were wet.

Perhaps she was thinking of scared little human rats

dodging and twisting through the inhuman maze of great

fears and minute rewards.

"After- all," said Mrs. Graves, "it's nothing but a Cabin

Tier. We have cabins and so had they. Captain, might we

have a look?"

"This is a reconnaissance," Salter shrugged. They went

into a littered lobby and easily recognized an elevator which

had long ago ceased to operate; there were many hand-run

dumbwaiters at sea.

A gust of air flapped a sheet of printed paper across the

chaplain's ankles; he .stooped to pick it up with a kind of

instinctive outrage--leaving paper unsecured, perhaps to

blow overboard and be lost forever to the ship's economy!

Then he flushed at his silliness. "So much to unlearn," he

said, and spread the paper to look at it. A moment later he

crumpled it in a ball and hurled it from him as hard and as

far as he could and wiped his hands with loathing on his

jacket. His face was utterly shocked.

The others stared. It was Mrs. Graves who went for the

paper.

"Don't look at it," said the chaplain.

"I think she'd better," Saiter said.

The maintenancewoman spread the paper, studied it, and

said: "Just some nonsense. Captain, what do you make of it?"

It was a large page torn from a book, and on it were simply

polychrome drawings and some lines of verse in the style of

a child's first reader. Saiter repressed a shocked guffaw. The

picture was of a little boy and a little girl quaintly dressed,

locked in murderous combat, using teeth and nails. "Jack

and Jill went up the hill" said the text, "to fetch a pail of

water. She threw Jack down and broke his crown; it was a

lovely slaughter."

Jewel Flyte took the page from his hands. All she said

was, after a long pause: "I suppose they couldn't start them

too young," She dropped the page and she too wiped her

hands.

"Come along," the captain said. "We'll try the stairs."

The stairs were dust, rat dung, cobwebs, and two human

skeletons. Murderous, knuckledusters fitted loosely the bones

of the two right hands, Saiter hardened himself to pick up

one of the weapons but could not bring himself to try it on.

Jewel Flyte said apologetically: "Please be careful, captain.

It might be poisoned. That seems to be the way they were."

Saiter froze. By God, but the girl was right! Delicately,

handling the spiked steel thing by its edges, he held it up.

Yes; stains--it would be stained, and perhaps with poison

also. He dropped it into the thoracic of one skeleton said:

"Come on." They climbed in quest of a dusty light from

above; it was a doorway onto a corridor of many doors. There

was evidence of fire and violence. A barricade of queer pudgy

chairs and divans had been built to block the corridor and

had been breached. Behind it were sprawled three more heaps

of bones.

"They have no heads," the chaplain said hoarsely. "Cap-

tain Salter, this is not a place for human beings. We must

go back to the ship, even if it means honorable death. This

is not a place for human beings."

'Thank you, chaplain," said Salter. "You've cast your vote.

Is anybody with you?"

"Kill youfown children, chaplain," said Mrs. Graves. "Not

mine."

Jewel Flyte gave the chaplain a sympathetic shrug and

said: "No."

One door stood open, its lock shattered by blows of a fire

axe. Salter said: "We'll try that one." They entered into the

home of an ordinary middle-class death-worshiping family

as it had been a century ago, in the one hundred and thirty-

first year of Merdeka the Chosen.

Merdeka the Chosen, the All-Foreigner, the Ur-Alien, had

never intended any of it. He began as a retail mail-order

vendor of movie and television stills, eight-by-ten glossies for

the fan trade. It was a hard dollar; you had to keep an im-

mense stock to cater to a tottery Mae Bush admirer, to the

pony-tailed screamer over flip Torn, and to everybody in be-

tween. He would have no truck with pinups. "Dirty, lascivious

pictures!" he snarled when broadly hinting letters arrived.

"Filth! Men and women kissing, ogling, pawing each other!

Orgies! Bah!" Merdeka kept a neutered dog, a spayed cat,

and a crumpled, uncomplaining housekeeper who was tech-

nically his wife. He was poor; he was very poor. Yet he never

neglected his charitable duties, contributing every year to

the Planned Parenthood Federation and the Midtown Hys-

terectomy Clinic.

They knew him in the Third Avenue saloons where he

talked every night, arguing with Irishmen, sometimes get-

ting asked outside to be knocked down. He let them knock

him down and sneered from the pavement, Was this their

argument? He could argue. He spewed facts and figures and

cliches in unanswerable profusion. Hell, man, the Russians'll

have a bomb base on the moon in two years and in two years

the army and the air force will still be beating each other

over the head with pigs' bladders. Just a minute, let me tell

you; the goddammycin's making idiots of us all; do you know

of any children born in the past two years that're healthy?

And: 'flu be go to hell; it's our own germ warfare from Camp

Crowder right outside Baltimore that got out of handr and

it happened the week of the twenty-fourth. And: the human

animal's obsolete; they've proved at M.I.T., Steinwitz and

Kohlmann proved that the human animal cannot survive the

current radiation levels. And: enjoy your lung cancer, friend;

for every automobile and its stinking exhaust there will be

two-point-seven-oh-three cases of lung cancer, and we've got

to have our automobiles, don't we? And: delinquency my foot;

they're insane and it's got to the point where the economy

cannot support mass insanity; they've got to be castrated; it's

the only way. And: they should dig up the body of Metehnikoff

and throw it to the dogs; he's the degenerate who invented

venereal prophylaxis and since then vice without punishment

has run hogwild through the world; what we need on the

streets is a few of those old-time locomotor ataxia cases limp-

ing and drooling to show the kids where vice leads.

He didn't know where he came from. The delicate New

York way of establishing origins is to ask: "Merdeka, hah?

What kind of a name is that now?" And to this he would reply

that he wasn't a lying Englishman or a loudmouthed Irish-

man or a perverted Frenchman or a chiseling Jew or a bar-

barian Russian or a toadying German or a thick-headed Scan-

dihoovian, and if his listener didn't like it, what did he'have

to say in reply?

He was from an orphanage, and the legend at the or-

phanage was that a policeman had found him, two hours old,

in a garbage can coincident with the death by hemorrhage

on a trolley car of a luetic young woman whose name appeared

to be Merdeka and who had certainly been recently delivered

of a child. No other facts were established, but for generation

after generation of orphanage inmates there was great solace

in having one of their number who indisputably had got off

to a worse start than they.

A watershed of his career occurred when he noticed that

he was, for the seventh time that year, reordering prints of

scenes from Mr. Howard Hughes' production The Outlaw.

These were not the off-the-bust stills of Miss Jane Russell,

surprisingly, but were group scenes of Miss Russell suspended

by her wrists and about to be whipped. Merdeka studied the

scene, growled "Give it to the bitch!" and doubled the order.

It sold out. He canvassed his files for other whipping and

torture stills from Desert Song-type movies, made up a special

assortment, and it sold out within a week. Then he knew.

The man and the opportunity had come together, for per-

haps the fiftieth time in history. He hired a model and took

the first specially posed pictures himself. They showed her

cringing from a whip, tied to a chair with a clothesline, and

herself brandishing the whip.

Within two months Merdeka had cleared six thousand

dollars and he put every cent of it back into more photographs

and direct-mail advertising. Within a year he was big enough

to attract the postoffice obscenity people. He went to Wash-

ington and screamed in their faces: "My stuff isn't obscene

and I'll sue you if you bother me, you stinking bureaucrats!

You show me one breast, you show me one behind, you show

me one human being touching another in my pictures! You

can't and you know you can't! I don't believe in sex and I

don't push sex, so you leave me the hell alone! Life is pain

and suffering and being scared so people like to look at my

pictures; my pictures are about them, the scared little jerks!

You're just a bunch of goddam perverts if you think there's

anything dirty about my pictures!"

He had them there; Merdeka's girls always wore at least

full panties, bras, and stockings; he had them there. The

postoffice obscenity people were vaguely positive that there

was something wrong with pictures of beautiful women tied

down to be whipped or burned with hot irons, but what?

The next year they tried to get him on his income tax;

those deductions for the Planned Parenthood Federation and

the Midtown Hysterectomy Clinic were preposterous, but he

proved them with canceled checks to the last nickel. "In fact,"

he indignantly told them, "I spend a lot of time at the Clinic

and sometimes they let me watch the operations. That's how

highly they think of me at the Clinic."

The next year he started DEATH: The Weekly Picture

Magazine with the aid of a half-dozen bright young grads

from the New Harvard School of Communicationeering. As

DEATH'S Communicator in Chief (only yesterday he would

have been its Publisher, and only fifty years before he would

have been its Editor) he slumped biliously in a pigskin-

paneled office, peering suspiciously at the closed-circuit TV

screen which had a hundred wired eyes throughout DEATH'S

offices, sometimes growling over the voice circuit:

"You! What's your name? Boland? You're through, Boland.

Pick up your time at the paymaster." For any reason; for no

reason. He was a living legend in his narrow-lapel charcoal

flannel suit and stringy bullfighter neckties; the bright yoang

men in their Victorian Revival frock coats and pearl-pinned

cravats wondered at his--not "obstinacy"; not when there

might be a mike even in the corner saloon; say, his "time-

lessness,"

The bright young men became bright young-old men, and

the magazine which had been conceived as a vehicle for dead-

heading house ads of the mail-order picture business went

into the black. On the cover of every issue of DEATH was a

pictured execution-of-the-week, and no price for one was ever

too high. A fifty-thousand-dollar donation to a mosqae had

purchased the right to secretly snap the Bread Ordeal by

which perished a Yemenite suspected of tapping an oil pipe-

line. An interminable illustrated "History of Flagellation"

was a staple of the reading matter, and the "Medical Section"

(in color) was tremendously popular. So too was the weekly

"Traffic Report."

When the last of the Compact Ships was launched into the

Pacific the event made DEATH because of the several fatal

accidents which accompanied the launching; otherwise Mer-

deka ignored the ships. It was strange that he who had unor-

thodoxies about everything had no opinion at all about the

Compact Ships and their crews. Perhaps it was that he really

knew he was the greatest man-slayer who ever lived, and

even so could not face commanding total extinction, including

that of the seaborne leaven. The more articulate Sokei-an,

who in the name of Rinzei Zen Buddhism was at that time

depopulating the immense area dominated by China, made

no bones about it: "Even I in my Hate may err; let the celestial

vessels be." The opinions of Dr, Spat. European member of

the trio, are forever beyond recovery due to his advocacy of

the "one-generation" plan.

With advancing years Merdeka's wits cooled and gelled.

There came a time when he needed a theory and was forced

to stab the button of the intercom for his young-old Managing

Communicator and growl at him: "Give me a theory!" And

the M.C. reeled out: "The structural intermesh of DEATH:

The Weekly Picture Magazine with Western culture is no ran-

dom point-event but a rising world-line. Predecessor attitudes

such as the Hollywood dogma 'No breasts--blood!' and the

tabloid press's exploitation of violence were floundering and

empirical. It was Merdeka who sigma-ized the convergent

traits of our times and asymptotically eongruentizes with

them publicationwise. Wrestling and the roller derby as blood

sports, the routinization of femicide in the detective tale, the

standardization at one million per year of traffic fatalities,

the wholesome interest of our youth in gang rumbles, all

point toward the Age of Hate and Death. The ethic of Love

and Life is obsolescent, and who is to say that Man is the

loser thereby? Life and death compete in the marketplace of

ideas for the Mind of Man--"

Merdeka growled something and snapped off the set. Mer-

deka leaned back. Two billion circulation this week, and the

auto ads were beginning to Tip. Last year only the suggestion

of a dropped shopping basket as the Dynajetic 16 roared

across the page, this year a hand, limp on the pictured pave-

ment. Next year, blood. In February the Sylphella Salon

chain ads had Tipped, with a crash: "--and the free optional

judo course for slenderized Madame or Mademoiselle: learn

how to kill a man with your lovely bare hands, with or without

mess as desired." Applications had risen twenty-eight per-

cent. By God there was a structural intermesh for you!

It was too slow; it was still too slow. He picked up a direct-

line phone and screamed into it: "Too slow? What am I paying

you people for? The world is wallowing in filth! Movies are

dirtier than ever! Kissing! Pawing! Ogling! Men and women

together--obscene! Clean up the magazine covers! Clean up

the ads!"

The person at the other end of the direct line was Executive

Secretary of the Society for Purity in Communications; Mer-

deka had no need to announce himself to him, for Merdeka

was S.P.C.'s principal underwriter. He began to rattle off at

once: "We've got the Mothers' March on Washington this

week, sir, and a mass dummy pornographic mailing ad-

dressed to every Middle Atlantic State female between the

ages of six and twelve next week, sir; I believe this one-two

punch will put the Federal Censorship Commission over the

goal line before recess--"

Merdeka hung up. "Lewd communications," he snarled.

"Breeding, breeding, breeding, like maggots in a garbage can.

Burning and breeding. But we will make them clean."

He did not need a Theory to tell him that he could not take

away Love without providing a substitute.

He walked down Sixth Avenue that night, for the first

time in years. In this saloon he had argued; outside that

saloon he had been punched in the nose. Well, he was winning

the argument, all the arguments. A mother and daughter

walked past uneasily, eyes on the shadows. The mother was

dressed Square; she wore a sheath dress that showed her

neck and clavicles at the top and her legs from mid-shin at

the bottom. In some parts of town she'd be spat on, but the

daughter, never. The girl was Hip; she was covered from neck

to ankles by a loose, unbelted sack-culotte. Her mother's hair

floated, hers was hidden by a cloche. Nevertheless the both

of them were abruptly yanked into one of those shadows they

prudently had eyed, for they had not watched the well-lit

sidewalk for waiting nooses.

The familiar sounds of a Working Over came from the

shadows as Merdeka strolled on, "I mean cool!" an ecstatic

young voice--boy's, girl's, what did it matter?--breathed be-

tween crunching blows.

That year the Federal Censorship Commission was cre-

atedt and the next year the old Internment Camps in the

southwest were tilled to capacity by violators, and the next

year the First Church of Merdeka was founded in Chicago.

Merdeka died of an aortal aneurism five years after that, but

his soul went marching fat.

"The Family That Prays Together Slays Together," was.

the wall motto in the apartment, but there was no evidence

that the implied injunction had been observed. The bedroom

of the mother and the father was secured by steel doors and

terrific-locks, but Junior had got them all the same; somehow

he had burned through the steel.

"Thermite?" Jewel Flyte asked herself softly, trying to

remember. First he had got the father, quickly and quietly

with a wire garotte as he lay sleeping, so as not to alarm his

mother. To her he had taken her own spiked knobkerry and

got in a mortal stroke, but not before she reached under her

pillow for a pistol, Junior's teenage bones testified by their

arrangement to the violence of that leaden blow.

Incredulously they looked at the family library of comic

books, published in a series called "The Merdekan Five-Foot

Shelf of Classics." Jewel Flyte leafed slowly through one

called Moby Dick and found that it consisted of a near-brain-

ing in a bedroom, agonizingly depicted deaths at sea, and for

a climax the eating alive of one Ahab by a monster. "Surely

there must have been more," she whispered.

Chaplain Pemberton put down Hamlet quickly and held

onto a wall. He was quite sure that he felt his sanity slipping

palpably away, that he would gibber in a moment. He prayed

and after a while felt better; he rigorously kept his eyes away

from the Classics after that.

Mrs. Graves snorted at the waste of it all, at the picture

of the ugly, pop-eyed, busted-nose man labeled MERDEKA THE

CHOSEN, THE PURE, THE PURIFIER. There were two tables,

which was a Ally. Who needed two tables? Then she looked

closer, saw that one of them was really a blood-stained

flogging bench and felt slightly ill. Its nameplate said

Correctional Furniture Corp. Size 6, Ages 10-14. She had,

God knew, slapped her children more than once when they

deviated from her standard of perfection, but when she saw

those stains she felt a stirring of warmth for the parricidal

bones in the next room.

Captain Salter said: "Let's get organized. Does anybody

think there are any of them- left?"

"I think not," said Mrs. Graves. "People like that can't

survive. The world must have been swept clean. They, ah,

killed one another but that's not the important point. This

couple had one child, age ten to fourteen. This cabin of theirs

seems to be built for one child. We should look at a few more

cabins to learn whether avone-child family is--was--normal.

If we find out that it was, we can suspect that they are--

gone. Or nearly so." She coined a happy phrase: "By race

suicide."

"The arithmetic of it is quite plausible," Salter said. "If

no factors work except the single-child factor, in one century

of five generations a population of two billion will have bred

itself down to 125 million. In another century, the population

is just under four million. In another, 122 thousand.. .by the

thirty-second generation the last couple descended from the

original two billion will breed one child, and that's the end.

And there are the other factors. Besides those who do not

breed, by choice"--his eyes avoided Jewel Flyte--"there are

the things we have seen on the stairs, and in the corridor,

and in these compartments."

"Then there's our answer," said Mrs. Graves. She smacked

the obscene table with her hand, forgetting what it was. "We

beach the ship and march the ship's company onto dry land.

We clean up, we learn what we have to do to get along--"

Her words trailed off. She shook her head. "Sorry," she said

gloomily. "I'm talking nonsense."

The chaplain understood her, but he said: "The land is

merely another of the many mansions. Surely they could

learn!"

"It's not politically feasible," Saiter said. "Not in its pres-

ent form." He thought of presenting the proposal to the Ship's

Council in the shadow of the mast that bore the Compact,

and twitched his head in-an involuntary negative.

"There is a formula possible," Jewel Flyte said.

The Browneils burst in on them then, all eighteen of the

Brownells, They had been stalking the shore party sinse

its landing. Nine sack-culotted women in clothes and nine

men in penitential black, they streamed through the gaping

door and surrounded the sea people with a ring of spears.

Other factors had indeed operated, but this was not yet the

thirty-second generation of extinction.

The leader of the Brownells, a male, said with satisfaction;

"Just when we needed--new blood." Saiter understood that

he was not speaking in genetic terms.

The females, more verbal types, said critically: "Evildoers,

obviously. Displaying their limbs without shame, brazenly

flaunting the rotted pillars of the temple of lust. Come from

the accursed sea itself, abode of infamy, to seduce us from

our decent and regular lives."

"We know what to do with the women," said the male

leader. The rest took up the antiphon.

"We'll knock them down."

"And roll them on their backs."

"And pull one arm out and tie it fast."

"And pull the other arm out and tie it fast."

"And pull one limb out and tie it fast."

"And pull the other limb out and tie it fast."

"And then--"

"We'll beat them to death and Merdeka will smile."

Chaplain Pemberton stared incredulously. "You mast took

into your hearts," he told them in a reasonable voice. "You

must look deeper than you have, and you will find that you

have been deluded. This is not the way for human beings to

act. Somebody has misled you dreadfully. Let me explain--"

"Blasphemy," the leader of the females said, and put her

spear expertly into the chaplain's intestines. The shock of the

broad, cold blade pulsed through him and felled him. Jewel

Flyte knelt beside him instantly, checking heartbeat and

breathing. He was alive.

"Get up," the male leader said. "Displaying and offering

yourself to such as we is useless. We are pure in heart."

A male child ran to the door. "Wagners!" he screamed

'Twenty Wagners coming up the stairs'"

His father roared at him: "Stand straight and don't mum-

ble!" and slashed out with the butt of his spear, catching him

hard in the ribs. The child grinned, but only after the pure-

hearted eighteen had run to the stairs.

Then he blasted a whistle down the corridor while the sea

people stared with what attention they could divert from the

bleeding chaplain. Six doors popped open at the whistle and

men and women emerged from them to launch spears into

the backs of the Brownells clustered to defend the stairs.

"Thanks, pop!" the boy kept screaming while the pure-

hearted Wagners swarmed over the remnants of the pure-

hearted Brownells; at last his screaming bothered one of the

Wagners and the boy was himself speared.

Jewel Flyte said: "I've had enough of this. Captain, please

pick the chaplain up and come along."

"They'll kill us."

"You'll have the chaplain," said Mrs. Graves. "One mo-

ment." She darted into a bedroom and came back hefting the

spiked knobkerry.

"Well, perhaps," the girl said. She began undoing the long

row of buttons down the front of her coveralls and shrugged

out of the garment, then unfastened and stepped out of her

underwear. With the clothes over her arm she walked into

the corridor and to the stairs, the stupefied captain and in-

spector following.

To the pure-hearted Merdekans she was not Phryne win-

ning her case; she was Evil incarnate. They screamed, broke,

and ran wildly, dropping their weapons. That a human being

could do such a thing was beyond their comprehension; Mer-

deka alone knew what kind of monster this was that drew

them strangely and horribly, in violation of all sanity. They

ran as she had hoped they would; the other side of the coin

was spearing even more swift and thorough than would have

been accorded to her fully clothed. But they ran, gibbering

with fright and covering their eyes, into apartments and cor-

ners of the corridor, their backs turned on the awful thing.

The sea-people picked their way over the shambles at the

stairway and went unopposed down the stairs and to the

dock. It was a troublesome piece of work for Salter to pass

the chaplain down to Mrs. Graves in the boat, but in ten

minutes they had cast off, rowed out a little, and set sail to

catch the land breeze generated by the differential twilight

cooling of water and brick. After playing her part in stepping

the mast, Jewel Flyte dressed.

"It won't always be that easy," she said when the last

button was fastened. Mrs. Graves had been thinking the same

thing, but had not said it to avoid the appearance of envying

that superb young body.

Salter was checking the chaplain as well as he knew how.

"I think he'll be all right," he said. "Surgical repair and a

long rest. He hasn't lost much blood. This is a strange story

we'll have to tell the Ship's Council."

Mrs. Graves said: 'They've no choice. We've lost our net

and the land is there waiting for us. A few maniacs oppose

us--what of it?"

Again a huge fish lazily surfaced; Salter regarded it

thoughtfully. He said: "They'll propose scavenging bronze

ashore and fashioning another net and going on just as if

nothing had happened. And really, we could do that, you

know."

Jewel Flyte said: "No, Not forever. This time it was the

net, at the end of harvest. What if it were three masts in

midwinter, in mid-Atlantic?"

"Or," said the captain, "the rudder--anytime. Anywhere.

But can you imagine telling the Council they've got to walk

off the ship onto land, take up quarters in those brick cabins,

change everything? And fight maniacs, and learn to farm?"

"There must be a way," said Jewel Flyte. "Just as Mer-

deka, whatever it was, was a way. There were too many

people, and Merdeka was the answer to too many people.

There's always an answer, Man is a land mammal in spite

of brief excursions at sea. We were seed stock put aside, wait

ing for the land to be cleared so we could return. Just as these

offshore fish are waiting very patiently for us to step har

vesting twice a year so they can return to deep water and

multiply. What's the way, captain?" "

He thought hard. "We eould," he said slowly, "begin by

simply sailing in close and fishing the offshore waters for big

stuff. Then tie up and build a sort of bridge from the ship to

the shore. We'd continue to live aboard the ship but we'd go

out during daylight to try farming."

"It sounds right,"

"And keep improving the bridge, making it more and more

solid, until before they notice it it's really a solid part of the

ship and a solid part of the shore. It might take... mmm,.,

ten years?"

"Time enough for the old shellbacks to make up their

minds," Mrs. Graves unexpectedly snorted.

"And we'd relax the one-to-one reproduction rule, and

some young adults will simply be crowded over the bridge to

live on the land--" His face suddenly fell. "And then the

whole damned farce starts all over again, I suppose. I pointed

out that it takes thirty-two generations bearing one child

apiece to run a population of two billion into zero. Well, I

should have mentioned that it takes thirty-two generations

bearing four children apiece to run a population of two into

two billion. Oh, what's the use, Jewel?"

She chuckled. "There was an answer last time," she said.

"There will be an answer the next time."

"It won't be the same answer as Merdeka," he vowed. "We

grew up a little at sea. This time we can do it with brains

and not with nightmares and superstition."

"I don't know," she said. "Our ship will be the first, and

then the other ships will have their accidents one by one and

come and tie up and build their bridges hating every minute

of it for the first two generations and then not hating it, just

living it... and who will be the greatest man who ever lived?"

The captain looked horrified.

"Yes, you! Salter, the Builder of the Bridge; Tommy, do

you know an old word for 'bridge-builder'? Pontifex."

"Oh, my God!" Tommy Salter said in despair.

A flicker of consciousness was passing through the wounded

chaplain; he heard the words and was pleased that somebody

aboard was praying.

Afterword

Despite the gloom of potential catastrophe that we mast face,

there is no reason to give up. If we think about catastrophes

with the sober scientific speculation of A Choice of Catastro-

phes, we must conclude that:

1) Some catastrophes are high-probability and even in

evitable, but will take place so far in the future that it makes

no sense to worry about them now,

2) Some catastrophes may take place in the near future,

even tomorrow, but are so extremely low-probability that it

makes no sense to worry about them excessively.

3) Some catastrophes are high-probability and may take

place in the near-future, even tomorrow. It is only these which

must concern us now.

In every case, however, the catastrophes that are both

high-probability and near-future are human-caused: nuclear

war, overpopulation, overpollution, resource depletion, and

so on. And if they are human-caused, they could, conceivably,

be human-cured.

As Isaac Asimov stated in A Choice of Catastrophes, the

most significant meaning of the title is that "We can delib-

erately choose to have no catastrophes at all."