Pack Rat Planet
Astounding – December 1954
(1954)*
Frank Herbert

The Truth can be very painful—and sometimes the dirtiest trick you can play on a man is to do what he demands!

-

	Vincent Coogan pulled at his thin lower lip as he stared at the image of his home planet growing larger in the star ship's viewscreen.

	"What kind of an emergency would make Patterson call me off a Library collection trip?" he muttered.

	The chief navigator turned toward Coogan, noted the down-drooping angles on the Library official's face. "Did you say something, sir?"

	"Huh?" Coogan realized he had been speaking his thoughts aloud. He drew in a deep breath, squared his stringy frame in front of the view-screen, said, "It's good to get back to the Library."

	"Always good to be home," said the navigator. He turned toward the planet in the screen.

	It was a garden world of rolling plains turning beneath an old sun. Pleasure craft glided across shallow seas. Villages of flat, chalk-white houses clustered around elevator towers which plumbed the interior. Slow streams meandered across the plains. Giant butterflies fluttered among trees and flowers. People walked while reading books or reclined with scan-all viewers hung in front of their eyes.

	The star ship throbbed as its landing auxiliaries were activated. Coogan felt the power through his feet. Suddenly, he sensed the homecoming feeling in his chest, an anticipating that brought senses to new alertness. It was enough to erase the worry over his call-back, to banish his displeasure at the year of work he had abandoned uncompleted.

	It was enough to take the bitterness out of his thoughts when he recalled the words someone on an outworld had etched beside the star ship's main port. The-words had been cut deeply beneath the winged boot emblem of the Galactic Library, probably with a Gernser flame chisel.

	"Go home dirty pack rats!"

	The dirty pack rats were home.

-

	Director Caldwell Patterson of the Galactic Library sat at the desk in his office deep in the planet, a sheet of metallic paper in his hands. He was an old man even by Eighty-first Century standards when geriatrics made six hundred years a commonplace. Some said he had been at the Library that long. Gray hair clung in molting wisps to a pale pate. His face had the leathery, hook-nosed appearance of an ancient bird.

	As Coogan entered the office, a desk visor in front of Patterson chimed. The director clicked a switch, motioned Coogan to a chair and said, "Yes," with a tired, resigned air.

	Coogan folded his tall frame into the chair and listened with half his mind to the conversation on the visor. It seemed some outworld ship was approaching and wanted special landing facilities. Coogan looked around the familiar office. Behind the director was a wall of panels, dials, switches, rheostats, speakers, microphones, oscillographs, code keys, screens. The two side walls were focus rhomboids for realized images. The wall which was split by the door held eight miniature viewscreens all tuned to separate channels of the Library information broadcasts. All sound switches had been turned to mute, leaving a continuous low murmur in the room.

	Patterson began drumming his fingers on the desk top, glaring at the desk visor. Presently, he said, "Well, tell them we have no facilities for an honor reception. This planet is devoted to knowledge and research. Tell them to come in at the regular field. I'll obey my Code and any government order of which I'm capable, but we simply don't have the facilities for what they're asking." The director cut the switch on his visor, turned to Coogan. "Well, Vincent, I see you avoided the Hesperides green rot. Now I presume you're anxious to learn why I called you back from there?"

	Same old didactic, pompous humbug, thought Coogan. He said, "I'm not exactly a robot," and shaped his mouth in a brief, wry smile.

	A frown formed on Patterson's bluish lips. "We've a new government," he said.

	"Is that why you called me in?" asked Coogan. He felt an upsurge of all the resentment he'd swallowed when he'd received the call-back message.

	"In a way, yes," said Patterson. "The new government is going to censor all Library broadcasts. The censor is on that ship just landing."

	"They can't do that!" blurted Coogan. "The Charter expressly forbids chosen broadcasts or any interference with Library function! I can quote you—"

	Patterson interrupted him in a low voice. "What is the first rule of the Library Code?"

	Coogan faltered, stared at the director. He said, "Well—" paused while the memory came back to him. "The first rule of the Galactic Library Code is to obey all direct orders of the government in power. For the preservation of the Library, this must be the primary command."

	"What does it mean?" demanded Patterson.

	"It's just words that—"

	"More than, words!" said Patterson. A faint color crept into his old cheeks. "That rule has kept this Library alive for eight thousand years."

	"But the government can't—"

	"When you're as old as I am," said Patterson, "you'll realize that governments don't know what they can't do until after they cease to be governments. Each government carries the seeds of its own destruction."

	"So we let them censor us," said Coogan.

	"Perhaps," said Patterson, "if we're lucky. The new Grand Regent is the leader of the Gentle Ignorance Party. He says he'll censor us. The trouble is, our information indicates he's bent on destroying the Library as some kind of an example."

	It took a moment for Coogan to accept the meaning of the words. "Destroy—"

	"Put it to the torch," said Patterson. "His censor is his chief general and hatchetman."

	"Doesn't he realize this is more than a Library?" asked Coogan.

	"I don't know what he realizes," said Patterson." But we're faced with a primary emergency and, to complicate matters, the entire staff is in a turmoil. They're hiding arms and calling in collection ships against my express orders. That Toris Sil-Chan has been around telling every—"

	"Toris!"

	"Yes, Toris. Your boon companion or whatever he is. He's leading this insurrection and I gather that he—"

	"Doesn't he realize the Library can't fight a war without risking destruction?" asked Coogan.

	Patterson sighed. "You're one of the few among the new generation who realizes that," he said.

	"Where's Toris?" demanded Coogan. "I'll—"

	"There isn't time right now," said Patterson. "The Grand Regent's hatchetman is due any minute."

	"There wasn't a word of this out on Hesperides," said Coogan. "What's this Grand Regent's name?"

	"Leader Adams," said Patterson.

	"Never heard of him," said Coogan. 

	"Who's the hatchetman?"

	"His name's Pchak."

	"Pchak what?"

	"Just Pchak."

-

	He was a coarse man with over-drawn features, none of the refinements of the inner worlds. A brown toga almost the same color as his skin was belted around him. Two slitted eyes stared out of a round, pushed-in face. He came into Patterson's office followed by two men in gray togas, each wearing a blaster at the belt.

	"I am Pchak," he said.

	Not a pretty specimen, thought Coogan. There was something chilling about the stylized simplicity of the man's dress. It reminded Coogan of a battle cruiser stripped down for action.

	Director Patterson came around his desk, shoulders bent, walking slowly as befitted his age. "We are honored," he said.

	"Are you?" asked Pchak. "Who is in command here?"

	Patterson bowed. "I am Director Caldwell Patterson."

	Pchak looked him up and down.

	"We are at your service," said Patterson.

	Pchak's lips twisted into something faintly like a smile. "I would like to know who is responsible for those insulting replies to our communications officer.  'This planet is devoted to knowledge and research!'  Who said that?"

	"Why—" Patterson broke off, wet his lips with his tongue, "I said that."

	The man in the brown toga stared at Patterson, said, "Who is this other person?" He hooked a thumb toward Coogan.

	"This is Vincent Coogan," said Patterson. "He has just returned from the Hesperides Group to be on hand to greet you. Mr. Coogan is my chief assistant and successor."

	Pchak looked at Coogan. "Out scavenging with the rest of the pack rats," he said. He turned back to Patterson. "But perhaps there will be need of a successor."

	One of the guards moved up to stand beside the general. Pchak said, "Since knowledge is unhappiness, even the word is distasteful when used in a laudatory manner."

	Coogan suddenly sensed something electric and deadly in the room. It was evident that Patterson did, too, because he looked directly at Coogan and said, "We are here to obey."

	"You demonstrate an unhappy willingness to admire knowledge," said Pchak.

	The guard's blaster suddenly came up and chopped down against the director's head. Patterson slumped to the floor, blood welling from a gash on his scalp.

	Coogan started to take a step forward, was stopped by the other guard's blaster prodding his middle. A red haze formed in front of Coogan's eyes, a feeling of vertigo swept over him. In spite of the dizziness, part of his mind went on clicking, producing information to be observed. This is standard procedure for oppressors, said his mind. Cow your victims by an immediate show of violence. Something cold, hard and calculating took over Coogan's consciousness.

	"Director Coogan," said Pchak, "do you have any objections to what has just occurred?"

	Coogan stared down at the squat brown figure. I have to stay in control of the situation, he thought. I'm the only one left who'll fight this according to the Code. He said, "Every man seeks advancement."

	Pchak smiled. "A realist. Now explain your Library." He strode around the desk, sat down. "It hardly seems just for our government to maintain a pesthole such as this, but my orders are to investigate before passing judgment."

	Your orders are to make a show of investigation before putting the Library to the torch, thought Coogan. He picked up an image control box from the desk, clipped it to his belt. Immediately, a blaster in a guard's hand prodded his side.

	"What is that?" demanded Pchak.

	Coogan swallowed. "These are image controls," he said. He looked down at Patterson sprawled on the floor. "May I summon a hospital robot for Mr. Patterson?"

	"No," said Pchak. "What are image controls?"

	Coogan took two deep breaths, looked at the side wall. "The walls of this room are focus rhomboids for realized images," he said. "They were turned off to avoid distractions during your arrival."

	Pchak settled back in the chair. "You may proceed."

	The guard continued to hold his blaster on Coogan.

-

	Moving to a position opposite the wall, Coogan worked the belt controls. The wall became a window looking down an avenue of filing cases. Robots could be seen working in the middle distance.

	"Terra is mostly a shell," said Coogan. "The major portion of the matter was taken to construct spaceships during the great outpouring."

	"That fable again," said Pchak.

	Coogan stopped. Involuntarily, his eyes went to the still figure of Caldwell Patterson on the floor.

	"Continue," said Pchak.

	The cold, hard, calculating something in Coogan's mind said, You know what to do. Set him up for your Sunday punch.

	Coogan concentrating on the screen, said: "The mass loss was compensated by a giant gravitronic unit in the planet center. Almost the entire subsurface of Terra is occupied by the Library. Levels are divided into overlapping squares one hundred kilometers to the side. The wealth of records stored here staggers the imagination. It's—"

	"Your imagination perhaps," said Pchak. "Not mine."

	Coogan fought down a shiver which crawled along his spine, forced himself to continue. He said, "It is the repository for all the reported doings of every government in the history of the galaxy. The format was set by the original institution from which this one grew. It was known as the Library of Congress. That institution had a reputation of—"

	"Congress," said Pchak in his deadly flat tones. "Kindly explain that term."

	Now what have I said? Coogan wondered. He faced Pchak, said, "Congress was an ancient form of government. The closest modern example is the Tschi Council which—"

	"I thought so!" barked Pchak. "That debating society! Would you explain to me, Mr. Coogan, why a re-cent Library broadcast extolled the virtues of this form of government?"

	There's the viper, thought Coogan. He said, "Well, nobody watches Library broadcasts anyway. What with some five thousand channels pouring out—"

	"Answer my question, Mr. Coogan." Pchak leaned forward. An eager look came into the eyes of the guard with the blaster. Again Coogan's eyes sought out the still form of Patterson on the floor.

	"We have no control of program selection," said Coogan, "except on ten special channels for answering research questions and ten other channels which scan through the new material as it is introduced into the ' Library."

	"No control," said Pchak. "That's an interesting answer. Why is this?"

	Coogan rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, said, "The charter for the broadcasts was granted by the first system-wide government in the Twenty-first Century. A method of random program selection was devised to insure impartiality. It was considered that the information in the Library should always be freely available to all—" His voice trailed off and he wondered if he had quoted too much of the charter. Well, they can read it in the original if they want, he thought.

	"Fascinating," said Pchak. He looked at the nearest guard. "Isn't that so?"

	The guard grinned.

	Coogan took a slow, controlled breath, exhaled. He could feel a crisis approaching. It was like a weight on his chest.

	"This has to be a thorough investigation," said Pchak. "Let's see what you're broadcasting right now."

-

	Coogan worked the belt controls and an image realized before the right-hand rhomboid. It was of a man with a hooked nose. He wore leather pants and shirt, shoes with some kind of animal face projecting from the toes, a feather crest hat on his head.

	"This is a regular random information broadcast," said Coogan. He looked at his belt. "Channel Eighty-two." He turned up the volume.

	The man was talking a language of harsh consonants punctuated by sibilant hisses. Beside him on the floor was a mound of tiny round objects, each bearing a tag.

	"He is speaking the dead Procyon language," said Coogan. "He's a zoologist of a system which was destroyed by corona gas thirty-four centuries ago. The things on the floor are the skulls of a native rodent. He's saying that he spent eleven years classifying more than eight thousand of those skulls."

	"Why?" asked Pchak. He seemed actually interested, leaned forward to look at the mound of skulls on the floor.

	"I think we've missed that part," said Coogan. "It probably was to prove some zoological theory."

	Pchak settled back in his chair. "He's dead," he said. "His system no longer exists. His language is no longer spoken. Is there much of this sort of thing being broadcast?"

	"I'm afraid ninety-nine per cent of the Library broadcasts—excluding research channels—is of this nature," said Coogan. "It's the nature of the random selection."

	"Who cares what the zoologist's theory was?" asked Pchak.

	"Perhaps some zoologist," said Coogan. "You never can tell when a piece of information will be valuable."

	Pchak muttered something under his breath which sounded like, "Pack rats!"

	Coogan said, "Pack rats?"

	The little brown man smiled. "That's what we call you," he said. "And with some justification evidently. You're packed with the kind of useless material a rodent would admire."

	Time for one small lesson, thought Coogan. He said, "The pack rat, also known as the trade rat, was a rodent indigenous to this planet. It's now extinct here, but there are examples on Markeb IX and several of the Ring planets. The pack rat lived in forest land and was known for his habit of stealing small things from hunters' camps. For everything it took, the pack rat left an item from its nest, a bit of twine, a twig, a shiny piece of glass, a rock. In all of that useless material which cluttered its nest there might be one nugget of a precious metal. Since the pack rat showed no selection in its trading—was random, so to speak—it might leave the precious metal in a hunter's camp in exchange for a bottle top."

	Pchak got to his feet, walked across the room to the zoologist's image, passed a hand through the projection. "Remarkable," he said, sarcasm filling his voice. "This is supposed to be a nugget?"

	"More likely a twig," said Coogan.

	Pchak turned back, faced Coogan. "What else do you hide in this rat's nest? Any nuggets?"

	Coogan looked down at Patterson on the floor. There was a stillness about the thin old figure. "First, may I have a hospital robot attend to Mr. Patterson?"

	The general kept his eyes on Coogan. "No. Answer my request."

-

	First rule of the Code—obey, thought Coogan. With a slow, controlled movement, he shifted a lever on the box at his belt. The Procyon zoologist vanished and the wall became a screen showing a page of a book. Here's the bait, thought Coogan, and I hope it poisons yon. He said, "This is an early account of military tactics showing some methods that succeeded and others that failed."

	Pchak turned to the screen, put his hands behind him, rocked back and forth on heels and toes. "What language?"

	"Ancient English of Terra," said Coogan. "We have a scanner that'll give you an oral translation if you'd like."

	The general kept his eyes on the screen. "How do I know this account is accurate?"

	"The Library Code does not permit tampering with records," said Coogan. "Our oath is to preserve the present for the future." He glanced at Pchak, back to the screen. "We have other battle records, the tactics of every species encountered by humans. For example, we have the entire war history of the Praemir of Roman II."

	Coogan shifted his belt controls and the screen took up a history of warfare which had been assembled for a general sixteen centuries dead. Pchak watched as the record went from clubs and rocks to spears and made a side journey into bizarre weapons. Suddenly, Coogan blanked the screen.

	Pchak's head snapped up. "Why did you stop that?"

	Hooked him, thought Coogan. He said, "I thought you might rather view this at your leisure. If you wish, I'll set up a viewing room and show you how to order the records when there are side issues you'd like to study." Coogan held his breath. Now we learn if he's really caught, he thought.

	The general continued to study the blank screen. "I have orders to make a thorough investigation," he said. "I believe this comes under the category of investigation. Have your viewing room prepared." He turned, went to the door, followed by his guards.

	"It's down on the sixty-ninth level," said Coogan. "Viewing room A." He started toward Pchak. "I'll get you all set up and—"

	"You will remain here," said Pchak. "We will use Viewing Room B, instead. Send an assistant to explain things." He glanced back. "You do have an assistant, do you not? "

	"I'll send Toris Sil-Chan," said Coogan and then remembered what Patterson had said about Toris leading the hotheads who wanted to do battle. He would have bitten off his tongue to retract the words, but knew he dared not change now or it would arouse Pchak's suspicions. He returned to the desk, had central-routing find Toris and send him to the viewing room. Please don't do anything rash, he prayed.

	"Is this assistant your successor?" asked Pchak, looking down at Patterson.

	"No," said Coogan.

	"You must appoint a successor," said Pchak and left with his two guards.

	Coogan immediately summoned a hospital robot for Patterson. The scarab shape came in on silent wheels, lifted the still form on its flat pad extensors and departed.

-

	The sunset rain was drifting along its longitudinal mark on Terra, spattering a shallow sea, dewing the grasslands, filling the cups of flowers. One wall screen of the director's office was activated to show this surface scene—a white village in the rain, flutterings of trees. Surface copters whirred across the village, their metal gleaming in the wetness.

	Coogan, his thin face wearing a look of weariness, sat at the director's desk; hands clasped in front of him. Occasionally, he glanced at the wall screen. The spire of a government star ship—tall alabaster with a sunburst insignia on its bow—could be seen beyond the village. Coogan sighed.

	A chime sounded behind him. He turned to the control panel wall, depressed a button, spoke into a microphone. "Yes?"

	A voice like wire scraped across a tin plate came out of the speaker. "This is the hospital."

	"Well?" Coogan's voice showed irritation.

	"Director Patterson was dead upon arrival here," said the wire-scraping voice. "The robots already have disposed of his body through the CIB orifice."

	"Don't say anything about it yet," said Coogan. He removed his hand from the switch, turned back to the desk. His desk now. Director Coogan. The thought gave him no satisfaction. He kept remembering a still form sprawled on the floor. A terrible way to go, he thought. A Librarian should end at his researches, just quietly topple over in lite slacks.

	The desk visor chimed. Coogan hit the palm switch and Pchak's face appeared on the screen. The general was breathing rapidly, beads of sweat on his forehead.

	"May I help you?" asked Coogan.

	"How do I get the condemned instruction records for the Zosma language?" demanded Pchak. "Your machine keeps referring me to some nonsense about abstract symbolism."

	The door of Coogan's office opened and Sil-Chan entered, saw that a caller was on the screen, stopped just inside the door. Sil-Chan was a blocky figure who achieved fat without looking soft. His round face was dominated by up-swept almond eyes characteristic of the inhabitants of the Mundial Group planets of Ruchbah.

	Coogan shook his head at Sil-Chan, his mind searching through memories for an answer to Pchak's question. It came to him, lagged semantics study. "Zosma," he said. "Yes, that was a language which dealt only in secondary referents. Each phrase was two times removed from—"

	"What in Shandu is a secondary referent?" exploded Pchak.

	Calmly, thought Coogan. I can't afford to precipitate action yet. He said, "Ask for the section on semantics. Did Mr. Sil-Chan show you how to get the records you need?"

	"Yes, yes," said Pchak. "Semantics, eh?" The screen went blank.

-

	Sil-Chan closed the door, came across the office. "I would imagine," he said, "that the general is under the impression his researches will be completed in a week or two."

	"So it would seem," said Coogan. He studied Sil-Chan. The man didn't look like a hothead, but perhaps it had taken this threat to the Library to set him off.

	Sil-Chan took a chair across from Coogan. "The general is a low alley dog," he said, "but he believes in this Leader Adams. The gleam in his eyes when he talks about Adams would frighten a saint."

	"How was it down in the viewing room?" asked Coogan.

	"Pchak is busy studying destruction," said Sil-Chan. "We haven't made up our minds yet whether to exterminate him. Where's Director Patterson?"

	A sixth sense warned Coogan not to reveal that the director was dead. He said, "He isn't here."

	"That's fairly obvious," said Sil-Chan. "I have an ultimatum to deliver to the director. Where is he?"

	"You can deliver your ultimatum to me," said Coogan dryly.

	Sil-Chan's eyes showed little glints deep in the pupils as he stared at Coogan. "Vince, we've been friends a long time," he said, "but you've been away in the Hesperides Group and don't know what's been going on here. Don't take sides yet."

	"What's been going on?" asked Coogan. He looked up at Sil-Chan out of the corners of his eyes.

	The Mundial native hitched himself forward and leaned an elbow on the desk. "There's a new government, Vince, and they're planning to destroy the Library. And that gourd-head Patterson has been giving in to every order they send. Do this! Do that! He does it! He told us flat out he wouldn't defy a government order." Sil-Chan's mouth set in a thin line. "It's against the Library Code!"

	"Who is we?" asked Coogan.

	"Huh?" Sil-Chan looked blank.

	"The we you said hasn't decided whether to exterminate Pchak," said Coogan.

	"Oh." Sil-Chan leaned back. "Only about a third of the home staff. Most of the collection crews are joining us fast as they come in."

	Coogan tapped a finger against the desk. Some eight thousand people, more or less, he thought. He said, "What's your plan?"

	"Easy." Sil-Chan shrugged. "I've about fifty men in Section 'Con the sixty-ninth level waiting for the word to move against Pchak and his bodyguards. Another three hundred are topside ready to jump the government ship."

	Coogan tipped his head to one side and stared at Sil-Chan in amazement. "Is that your ultimatum?"

	Sil-Chan shook his head. "No. Where's Patterson?"

	Something decisive meshed in Coogan's mind. He got to his feet. "Patterson's dead. I'm director. What's your ultimatum?"

	There was a moment's silence with Sil-Chan looking up at Coogan. "How'd he die?" asked Sil-Chan.

	"He was old," said Coogan. "What's your ultimatum?"

	Sil-Chan wet his lips with his tongue. "I'm sorry to hear that, Vince." Again he shrugged. "But this makes our job simpler. You're a man who'll listen to reason." He met Coogan's stare. "This is our plan. We take over this Pchak and his ship, hold him as hostage while we convert every broadcast channel we have to public support. With five thousand channels telling the—"

	"You bone-brain!" barked Coogan. "That's as stupid a plan as I've ever heard. Adams would ignore your hostage and drop a stellar bomb in our laps!"

	"But, Vince—"

	"Don't but, Vince, me," said Coogan. He came around the desk and stood over Sil-Chan. "As long as you're running around disobeying the orders of your superiors you'll refer to me as Mr. Director and—"

	Sil-Chan charged to his feet, glared up at Coogan. "I hate to do this, Vince," he said, "but we have organization and purpose. You can't stop us! You're relieved of your directorship until such time as—"

	"Shut up!" Coogan strode around behind his desk, put his hand on a short lever low on the control panel. "Do you know what this is, Toris?"

	Sil-Chan's face showed uncertainty. He shook his head.

	"This is the master control for the gravitronic unit," said Coogan. "If I push it down, it shuts off the unit. Every bit of soil, everything beyond the Library shell will drift off into space!"

	A pasty color came over Sil-Chan's features. He put out a hand toward Coogan. "You can't do that," he said. "Your wife and family—all of our families are up there. They wouldn't have a chance!"

	"I'm director here," said Coogan. "The position is my earned right!" With his free hand, he moved four switches on the control wall. "That seals off your sixty-ninth level group behind fire panels." He turned back to Sil-Chan. "Now, get in touch with every insurgent under you and have them turn in their arms to robots which I'll release for the job. I know who some of your men are. They'd better be among the ones you contact. If you make one move I don't like, this lever goes down and stays down!"

	"You!" said Sil-Chan. He ground his teeth together. "I knew I should've carried a blaster when I came in here. But no! You and Patterson were the civilized types! We could reason with you!"

	"Start making those calls," said Coogan. He pushed his desk visor toward the other man.

-

	Sil-Chan jerked the visor to him, obeyed. Coogan gave his orders to robot dispatching headquarters, waited for Sil-Chan to finish. The Mundial native finally pushed the visor back across the desk. "Does that satisfy you?" he demanded.

	"No." Coogan steepled his hands in front of him. "I'm arming some of the staff I can trust. Their orders will be to shoot to kill if there's a further act of insurrection." He leaned forward. "In addition, we're going to have guard stations between sectors and a regular search procedure. You're not getting another chance to cause trouble."

	Sil-Chan clenched and unclenched his fists. "And what do you intend to do about this Pchak and his Leader Adams?"

	"They're the government," said Coogan. "As such the Code requires that we obey their orders. I will obey their orders. And, any man on the staff who even hints at disobedience, I'll personally turn over to Pchak for disciplinary action."

	Sil-Chan arose slowly. "I've known you more than sixty years, Mr. Coogan. That just shows how little you can learn about a rat. After you've lost the Library to this madman, you won't have a friend left here. Not me, not the people who trust you now. Not your wife or your family." He sneered. "Why—one of your own sons, Phil, is in with us." He pointed a finger at Coogan. "I intend to tell everyone about the threat you used today to gain control of the Library."

	"Control of the Library is my earned right," said Coogan. He Smiled, pushed down the lever in the control wall. The wall made a quarter turn on a central pivot. "Toris, send up a repair robot when you report back to Pchak. I've special installations I want to make here."

	Sil-Chan came to the edge of the desk, staring down at the lever which had controlled the movement of the wall. "Tricked me!"

	"You tricked yourself," said Coogan. "You did it the moment you turned your back on our greatest strength—obedience to the government."

	Sil-Chan grunted, whirled and left the office.

	Coogan watched the door as it closed behind the other man, thought, If I only had as much faith in those words as I'm supposed to have.

-

	She was a pretty woman with hair like glowing coals, small features except for a wide, sensual mouth. Her green eyes seemed to give off sparks to match her hair as she stared out of the visor at Coogan.

	"Vince, where have you been?" she demanded.

	He spoke in a tired voice. "I'm sorry, Fay. I had work that had to be done."

	She said, "The boys brought their families from Antigua for a reunion and we've been ready for you for hours. What's going on? What's this nonsense Toris is bleating?"

	Coogan sighed and brushed a hand through his hair. "I don't know what Toris is saying. But the Library is in a crisis. Patterson is dead and I've nobody I can trust to hold things together."

	Her eyes went wide; she put a hand to her mouth, spoke through her fingers. "Oh, no! Not Pat!"

	"Yes," he said.

	"How?"

	"I guess it was too much for him," said Coogan. "He was old." 

	"I couldn't believe Toris," she said.

	Coogan felt a great weariness just at the edge of his mind. "You said the boys are there," he said. "Ask Phil if he was part of the group backing Toris."

	"I can tell you myself he was," she said. "It's no secret. Darling, what's come over you? Toris said you threatened to dump the whole surface off into space."

	"It was an empty threat then," said Coogan. "Toris was going to disobey the government. I couldn't permit it. That would only—"

	"Vince! Have you gone out of your mind?" Her eyes registered amazement and horror. "This Adams means to destroy the Library! We can't just sit back and let him!"

	"We've grown lax in our training," said Coogan. "We've had it too easy for too long. That's a situation I intend to correct!"

	"But what about—"

	"If I'm permitted to handle things my way, he won't destroy the Library," said Coogan. "I was hoping you'd trust me."

	"Of course I trust you, darling, but—"

	"Then trust me," he said. "And please understand that there's no place I'd rather be right now than home with you."

	She nodded. "Of course, dear."

	"Oh, yes," he said, "tell Phil he's under house arrest for deliberate disobedience to the Code. I'll deal with him, personally, later." He closed the switch before she could reply.

	Now for General Pchak, he thought. Let's see if he can give us a hint on how to deal with Leader Adams.

-

	The room was vaguely egg-shaped for acoustical reasons, cut at one end by the flat surface of a screen and with space in the center for a realized image. The wall opposite the screen was occupied by a curved couch split by drop arms in which control instruments were set.

	Pchak was sprawled on the couch, a brown blob against the gray plastic, watching two Krigellian gladiators spill each other's blood in an arena which had a shifting floor. As Coogan entered, Pchak turned the screen to a book page in the Zosma language of Krigellia, scanned a few lines. He looked up at Coogan with an expression of irritation.

	"Director Coogan," said Pchak, "have you chosen a successor yet?" He slid his feet to the floor. "I find semantics most interesting, Director Coogan. The art of using words as weapons appeals to me. I'm particularly interested in psychological warfare."

	Coogan stared thoughtfully at the figure in the brown toga, an idea racing through his mind. If I get this barbarian started on a study of psychological warfare, he'll never leave. He pulled out a section of the curved couch, sat down facing Pchak. "What's the most important thing to know about a weapon?" he asked.

	The general's forehead creased. "How to use it effectively, of course."

	Coogan shook his head. "That's an overgeneralization. The most important thing is to know your weapon's limitations."

	Pchak's eyes widened. "What it cannot do. Very clever."

	"Psychological warfare is an extensive subject," said Coogan. "According to some, it's a two-edged sword with no handle. If you grasp it strongly enough to strike down your enemy, you render yourself hors de combat before your blow is delivered."

	Pchak leaned against an arm of the couch. "I don't believe I understand you."

	Coogan said, "Well, the whole argument is specious, anyway. You'd first have to apply the methods of psychology to yourself. As you measured  more and more of your own sanity, you'd be more and more incapable of using the weapon against another."

	In a cold voice, Pchak said, "Are you suggesting that I'm insane?"

	"Of course not," said Coogan. "I'm giving you a summary of one of the arguments about psychological warfare. Some people believe any warfare is insanity. But sanity is a matter of degree. Degree implies measurement. To measure, we must use some absolute referent. Unless we could agree on the measuring device, we couldn't say anyone was sane or insane. Nor could we tell what opponent might be vulnerable to our weapon."

	Pchak jerked forward, a hard light in his slitted eyes.

	Coogan hesitated, wondered, Have I gone too far? He said, "I'll give you another example." He hooked a thumb toward the viewscreen. "You just watched two gladiators settle an issue for their cities. That particular action occurred twenty centuries ago. You weren't interested in the issue they settled. You were examining their method of combat. Twenty centuries from now, who will examine your methods? Will they be interested in the issues you settled?"

	Pchak turned his head to one side, keeping his eyes on Coogan. "I think you're using clever words in a way to confuse me," he said.

	"No, general." Coogan shook his head. "We're not here to confuse people. We believe in our Code and live by it. That Code says we must obey the government. And that doesn't mean we obey when we feel like it or when we happen to agree with you. We obey. Your orders will be carried out. It doesn't pay us to lead you into confusion."

	In a strangely flat voice, Pchak said, 41 Knowledge is a blind alley leading only to unhappiness."

	Coogan suddenly realized that the man was quoting Leader Adams. He said, "We don't put out knowledge, general. We store information. That's our first job."

	"But you blat that information all over the universe!" stormed the general. "Then it becomes knowledge!"

	"That is under the Charter, not the Code," said Coogan.

	Pchak pursed his lips, leaned toward Coogan. "Do you mean if I ordered you to shut down your broadcasts, you'd just do it? We understood you were prepared to resist us at every turn."

	"Then your information was incorrect," said Coogan.

	The general leaned back, rubbed his chin. "All right, shut them down," he said. "I'll give you a half hour. I want all five thousand of them quiet and your special channels, too."

	Coogan bowed, got to his feet. "We obey," he said.

-

	In the director's office Coogan sat at the desk, staring at the opposite wall. The screens were silent. It was almost as though there was some interspatial hole in the room, a lack. The door opened and Sil-Chan entered. "You sent for me?" he asked.

	Coogan looked at the man for a moment before speaking, then said, "Why didn't you return to Pchak's viewing room as I ordered?"

	"Because Pchak dismissed me," said Sil-Chan curtly.

	"Come in and sit down," said Coogan. He turned on his desk visor, called records. "What's the parentage and upbringing of the new Grand Regent?" he asked.

	After a brief pause, a voice came from the visor: "Leader Adams, also known as Adam Yoo.' Mother, Simila Yoo, native of Mundial Group"—Coogan glanced at Sil-Chan—"planet Sextus C III. Father Princeps Adams, native of Hercules Group. Father was killed in accident with subspace translator on University Planet of Hercules XII when son age nine. Young Adams raised with mother's family on Sextus C II until age eighteen when sent to Shandu for training as a Mundial religious leader. While on Shandu—"

	Coogan interrupted, "Send me a transcript on it." He broke the connection, looked at Sil-Chan. "Still angry, Toris?"

	Sil-Chan's lips tightened.

	As though he had not noticed, Coogan said, "Adams' father was killed in an accident on a university planet. That could be the unconscious origin of his hatred of knowledge." He looked speculatively at Sil-Chan. "You're a Mundial native. What's the group like?"

	"If Adams was raised there, he's a mystic," said Sil-Chan. He shrugged. "All of our people are mystics. No Mundial family would permit otherwise. That's why he was taken to the home planet to be raised." Sil-Chan suddenly put a hand to his chin. "Father killed in an accident—" He looked at Coogan, through him. "That could have been an arranged accident." He leaned forward, tapped the desk. "Let's say the father objected to the son being raised in the Mundial Group—"

	"Are you suggesting that the mother could have arranged (>he accident?"

	"Either she or some of her kinsmen," said Sil-Chan. "It's been known to happen. The Mundials are jealous of their own. I had the glax of a time getting permission to come to the Library staff."

	"This happiness through ignorance cult," said Coogan. "How would mysticism bear on that?"

	Sil-Chan looked at the desk surface, forehead creased. "He'll believe absolutely in his own destiny. If he thinks he has to destroy the Library to fulfill that destiny, there'll be no stopping him."

	Coogan clasped his hands together on the desk top, gripped them until they hurt. Obey! he thought. What a weapon to use against a fanatic!

	"If we could prove the mother or the Yoo Clan had the father killed, that might be a valuable piece of knowledge," said Sil-Chan.

	"A wise man depends upon his friends for information and upon himself for decisions," said Coogan.

	"That's a Mundial axiom," said Sil-Chan.

	"I read it somewhere," said Coogan. "You're a Mundial native, Toris. Explain this mysticism."

	"It's mostly rubbed off of me," said Sil-Chan, "but I'll try. It revolves around an ancient form of ancestor worship. Mysticism, you see, is the art of looking backward while convincing yourself that you're looking forward. The ancient Terran god Janus was a mystic. He looked forward and backward at the same time. Everything a mystic does in the present must find its interpretation in the past. Now, the interpretation—"

	"That's a subtle one," said Coogan. "It almost slipped past me. Interpretation. Substitute explanation for interpretation—"

	"And you have a librarian," said Sil-Chan.

	"Explanation is something that may or may not be true," said Coogan. "We're convinced of an interpretation."

	"Semantics again," said Sil-Chan. A brief smile touched his lips. "Maybe that's why you're director."

	"Still against me?" asked Coogan.

	The smile left Sil-Chan's mouth. "It's suicide, Vince." He hitched himself forward. "If we follow your orders, when this Adams says to destroy the Library, we'd have to help him!"

	"So we would," said Coogan. "But it's not going to come to that. I wish you'd trust me, Toris."

	"If you were doing something that even remotely made sense, of course I would," said Sil-Chan. "But—" He shrugged.

	"I've a job for you," said Coogan. "It may or may not make sense, but I want it carried out to the letter. Take any ship you can get and hop to this Sextus C III in the Mundial Group. When you get there, I want you to prove that the Yoo Clan killed Leader Adams' father. I don't care whether it's true or not. I want the proof."

	"That makes sense," said Sil-Chan. "If we can discredit the big boss—"

	The visor chimed. Coogan hit the switch and a sub-librarian's face appeared in the screen. "Sir," the man blurted, "the Library information broadcasts are silent! I just got a call from-"

	"Orders of the government," said Coogan. "It's quite all right. Return to your duties." He blanked the screen.

	Sil-Chan was leaning on the desk, fists clenched. "You mean you let them close us down without a struggle."

	"Let me remind you of some things," said Coogan. "We must obey the government to survive. I am director here and I've given you an order. Get on it!"

	"What if I refuse?"

	"I'll get somebody else to do it and you'll be locked up."

	"You don't leave me any choice." He turned and slammed out of the office.

-

	Twenty-four times the evening rains passed across the tower far above Coogan's office. The game of cat-and-mouse with Pchak went on as usual, the little brown general delving deeper and deeper into the files. On the twenty-fifth day Coogan came into his office in midafternoon.

	Pchak is completely hooked, he thought, but what happens when Adams finds out the Library hasn't been destroyed?

	He sat down at his desk, swiveled to face the control panel and activated a tiny screen linked to a spy cell on the sixty-ninth level. Pchak was in the viewing room, studying the Albireo language preparatory to examining that double-star system's war history. Behind Coogan, a mechanical hum sounded, indicating someone was emerging from the elevator. Hastily, he blanked the spy screen, turned to his desk just as the door burst open. Toris Sil-Chan staggered into the room, his clothing torn, a dirty bandage over one shoulder.

	The Mundial native lurched across the room, clutched the edge of Coogan's desk. "Hide me!" he said. "Quick!"

	Coogan jerked around to the panel, swung it open and motioned toward the hole that was exposed. Sil-Chan darted in and Coogan closed the panel, returned to his desk.

	Again the telltale signaled. Two armed guards burst into the room, blasters in their hands. "Where is he?" demanded the first.

	"Where's who?" asked Coogan. He squared a stack of papers on his desk.

	"The guy who jumped off that lifeboat," said the guard.

	"I don't know what you're talking about," said Coogan, "but I can see that I'll have to call General Pchak and tell him how you've burst into my office without preamble and—"

	The guard lowered his blaster and retreated one step. "That won't be necessary, sir," he said. "We can see the man's not here. He probably went to a lower level. Please excuse the interruption." They backed out of the room.

	Coogan waited until his spy relays in the corridor told him the men had gone, then opened the panel. Sil-Chan was crumpled on the floor. Coogan bent over him, shook him. "Toris! What's wrong?"

	Sil-Chan stirred, looked up at Coogan with eyes that were at first un-recognizing. "Uh ... Vince—"

	The director put an arm behind Sil-Chan, supported the man to a sitting position. "Take it easy now. Just tell me what happened."

	"Made a mess of assignment," said Sil-Chan. "Yoo Clan got wind of what I was after. Had Adams send order ... arrest. Lost ship. Got away in escape boat. Landed other side ... planet. Pchak's guards tried stop—" His head slumped forward.

	Coogan put a hand to the man's heart, felt its steady pumping. He eased Sil-Chan back to the floor, went out and summoned a hospital robot. Sil-Chan regained consciousness while the robot was lifting him. "Sorry to go out on you like that," he said. "I—"

	The message visor on the director's desk chimed. Coogan pushed the response switch, scanned the words of a visual message, blanked the screen and turned back to Sil-Chan. "You'll have to be treated here," he said. "Couldn't risk carrying you through the corridors right now."

-

	The spy beam hummed at the door. Coogan pushed Sil-Chan behind the panel, closed it. Pchak strode into the office, a blaster in his hand, the two guards behind him. The general glanced at the hospital robot, looked at Coogan. "Where's the man that robot was called to treat?"

	The last guard into the office closed the door, drew his blaster.

	"Talk or you'll be cut down where you stand," said Pchak.

	The showdown, thought Coogan. He said, "These hospital robots are a peculiar kind of creature, general. They don't have the full prime directive against harming humans because sometimes they have to choose between saving one person and letting another one die. I can tell this robot that if I'm harmed it must give all of you an overdose of the most virulent poison it carries in its hypo arm. I inform the robot that this action will save my life. It naturally is loyal to the Library and will do exactly what I have just now told it to do."

	Pchak's face tightened. He raised the blaster slightly.

	"Unless you wish to die in agony, place your blasters on my desk," said Coogan.

	"I won't," said Pchak. "Now what're you going to do?"

	"Your blasters can kill me," said Coogan, "but they won't stop that robot until it has carried out my order."

	Pchak's finger began to tighten on the trigger. "Then let's give it the—"

	The sharp blat! of an energy bolt filled the room. Pchak slumped. The guard behind him skirted the robot fearfully, put his blaster on Coogan's desk. The weapon smelled faintly of ozone from the blast that had killed Pchak. "Call that thing off me now," said the man, staring at the robot.

	Coogan looked at the other guard. "You, too," he said.

	The other man came around behind the robot, put his weapon on the desk. Coogan picked up one of the weapons. It felt strange in his hand.

	"You're not going to turn that thing loose on us now, are you?" asked the second guard. He seemed unable to take his gaze from the robot.

	Coogan glanced down at the scarab shape of the mechanical with its flat pad extensors and back hooks for carrying a stretcher. He wondered what the two men would do if he told them the thing Pchak had undoubtedly known—that the robot could take no overt action against a human, that his words had been a lie.

	The first guard said, "Look, we're on your side now. We'll tell you everything. Just before he came down here, Pchak got word that Leader Adams was coming and—"

	"Adams!" Coogan barked the word. He thought, Adams coming! How to turn that lo advantage? He looked at the first guard. "You were with Pchak when he came the first day, weren't you?"

	"I was his personal guard," said the man.

	Coogan scooped the other blaster off his desk, backed away. "All right. When Adams lands, you get on that visor and tell him Pchak wishes to see him down here. With Adams a hostage, I can get the rest to lay down their arms."

	"But—" said the guard.

	"One false move and I turn that robot loose on you," said Coogan.

	The guard's throat worked visibly. He said, "We'll do it. Only I don't see how you can get the whole government to give up just because—"

	"Then stop thinking," said Coogan. "Just get Adams down here." He backed against the control wall and waited.

-

	"I don't understand," said Sil-Chan.

	The Mundial native sat in a chair across the desk from Coogan. A fresh Library uniform bulged over Sil-Chan's bandaged shoulder. 'You pound it into us that we have to obey," he said. "You tell us we can't go against the Code. Then at the last minute you turn around and throw a blaster on the whole crew and toss them into the hospital's violent ward."

	"I don't think they can get out of there," said Coogan.

	"Not with all those guards around them," said Sil-Chan. "But it's still disobedience and that's against the Code." He held up a hand, palm toward Coogan. "Not that I'm objecting, you understand. It's what I was advocating all along."

	"That's where you're mistaken," said Coogan. "People were perfectly willing to ignore the Library and its silly broadcasts as long as that information was available. Then the broadcasts were stopped by government order."

	"But—" Sil-Chan shook his head.

	"There's another new government," said Coogan. "Leader Adams was booted out because he told people they couldn't have something. That's bad policy for a politician. They stay in office by telling people they can have things."

	Sil-Chan said, "Well, where does—" 

	"Right after you came stumbling in here," said Coogan, "I received a general order from the new government which I was only too happy to obey. It said that Leader Adams was a fugitive and any person encountering him was empowered to arrest him and hold him for trial." Coogan arose, strode around to Sil-Chan, who also got to his feet. "So you see," said Coogan, "I did it all by obeying the government."

	The Mundial native glanced across Coogan's desk, suddenly smiled and went around to the control wall. "And you got me with a tricky thing like this lever." He put a hand on the lever with which Coogan had forced his submission.

	Coogan's foot caught Sil-Chan's hand and kicked it away before the little man could depress the lever.

	Sil-Chan backed away, shaking his bruised hand. "Ouch!" He looked up at Coogan. "What in the name of—"

	The director worked a lever higher on the wall and the panel made a quarter turn. He darted behind the wall, began ripping wires from a series of lower connections. Presently, he stepped out. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

	Sil-Chan stared at the lever he had touched. "Oh, no—" he said. "You didn't really hook that to the grav unit!"

	Coogan nodded mutely.

	Eyes widening, Sil-Chan backed against the desk, sat on it. "Then you weren't certain obedience would work, that—"

	"No, I wasn't," growled Coogan.

	Sil-Chan smiled. "Well, now, there's a piece of information that ought to be worth something." The smile widened to a grin. "What's my silence worth?"

	The director slowly straightened his shoulders. He wet his lips with his tongue. "I'll tell you, Toris. Since you were to get this position anyway, I'll tell you what it's worth to me." Coogan smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made Sil-Chan squint his eyes.

	"You're my successor," said Coogan.

The End

Cease Fire
Astounding – January 1958
(1958)
Frank Herbert
illustrated by Freas

You can sometimes end the power of a method—but that does not affect the end.

-

	Snow slanted across the frozen marshland, driven in fitful gusts. It drifted in a low mound against the wooden Observation Post. The antennae of the Life Detector atop the OP swept back and forth in a rhythmic half-circle like so many frozen sticks brittle with rime ice.

	The snow hid all distance, distorted substance into gray shadows without definition. A suggestion of brightness to the north indicated the sun that hung low on the horizon even at midnight in this season.

	Out of possible choices of a place for a world-shattering invention to be born-, this did not appear in the running.

	A rifle bullet spanged against an abandoned tank northeast of the OP, moaned away into the distance. The bullet only emphasized the loneliness, the isolation of the OP set far out ahead of the front lines on the Arctic battlefields of 1972. Behind the post to the south stretched the long reaches of the Canadian barren lands. An arm of the Arctic Ocean below Banks Island lay hidden in the early snow storm to the north.

	One operator—drugged to shivering wakefulness—stood watch in the OP. The space around him was barely six feet in diameter, crammed with equipment, gridded screens glowing a pale green with spots that indicated living flesh: a covey of ptarmigan, a possible Arctic fox. Every grid point on the screens held an aiming code for mortar fire.

	This site was designated OP 114 by the Allied command. It was no place for the sensitive man who had found himself pushed, shunted and shamed into this position of terror. The fact that he did occupy OP 114 only testified to the terrible urgencies that governed this war.

	Again a rifle bullet probed the abandoned tank. Corporal Larry Hulser—crouched over the OP's screens—tried to get a track on the bullet. It had seemed to come from the life-glow spot he had identified as probably an Arctic fox.

	Much too small for a human, he thought. Or is it?

	The green glow of the screens under-lighted Hulser's dark face, swept shadows upward where they merged with his black hair. He chewed his lip, his eyes darting nervously with the fear he could never hide, the fear that made him the butt of every joke back at the barracks.

	Hulser did not look like a man who could completely transform his society. He looked merely like an indefinite lump of humanity encased in a Life Detector shield, crouching in weird green shadows.

	In the distant days of his youth, one of Hulser's chemistry professors had labeled him during a faculty tea: "A mystic—sure to jail in the modern world."

	The glow spot Hulser had identified as a fox shifted its position.

	Should I call out the artillery? Hulser wondered. No. This could be the one they'd choose to investigate with a flying detector. And if the pilot identified the glow as a fox—Hulser cringed with the memory of the hazing he had taken on the wolf he'd reported two months earlier.

	"Woffie Hulser!"

	I'm too old for this game, he thought. Thirty-eight is too old. If there were only some way to end—

	Another rifle bullet spanged against the shattered tank. Hulser tried to crouch lower in the tiny wooden OP. The bullets were like questing fingers reaching out for unrecognized metal—to identify an OP. When the bullets found their mark, a single 200 mm. mortar shell followed, pinpointed by echo-phones. Or it could be as it had been with Breck Wingate, another observer.

	Hulser shivered at the memory.

	They had found Wingate slumped forward across his instruments, a neat hole through his chest from side to side just below the armpits. Wind had whistled through the wall of the OP from a single bullet hole beside Wingate. The enemy had found him and never known.

	Hulser glanced up nervously at the plywood walls: all that shielded him from the searching bullets—a wood shell designed to absorb the metal seekers and send back the sound of a bullet hitting a snowdrift. A rolled wad of plot paper filled a bullet hole made on some other watch near the top of the dome.

	Again Hulser shivered.

	And again a bullet spanged against the broken tank. Then the ground rumbled and shook as a mortar shell zeroed the . tank.

	Discouraging us from using it as an OP, thought Hulser.

	He punched the backtrack relay to give the mortar's position to his own artillery, but without much hope. The enemy was beginning to use the new "shift" shells that confused backtrack.

	The phone beside his L-D screens glowed red. Hulser leaned into the cone of silence, answered: "OP 114. Hulser."

	The voice was Sergeant Chamberlain's. "What was that mortar shooting at, Wolfie?"

	Hulser gritted his teeth, explained about the tank.

	Chamberlain's voice barked through the phone: "We shouldn't have to call for an explanation of these things! Are you sure you're awake and alert?"

	"Yeah, Sarg."

	"O.K. Keep your eyes open, Wolfie!"

	The red glow of the phone died.

	Hulser trembled with rage. Wolfe!

	He thought of Sergeant Mike Chamberlain: tall, overbearing, the irritating nasal twang in his voice. And he thought of what he'd like to do to Chamberlain's narrow, small-eyed face and its big nose. He considered calling back and asking for "Schnozzle" Chamberlain.

	Hulser grinned tightly. That'd get him! And he'd have to wait another four hours before he could do anything about it.

	But the thought of the certain consequences in arousing Chamberlain's anger wiped the grin from Hulser's face.

	Something moved on his central screen. The fox. Or was it a fox? It moved across the frozen terrain toward the shattered tank, stopped halfway.

	A fox investigating the strange odors of cordite and burned gas? he wondered. Or is it the enemy?

	With this thought came near panic, If any living flesh above a certain minimum size—roughly fifty kilos—moved too close to an OP without the proper IFF, the hut and all in it exploded in a blinding flash of thermite: everything incinerated to prevent the enemy from capturing the observer's Life Detector shield.

	Hulser studied the grid of his central screen. It reminded him of a game he'd played as a boy: two children across a room from one another, ruled graph paper hidden behind books in their laps. Each player's paper contained secretly marked squares: four in a row—a battleship, three in a row—a destroyer, two in a ...

	Again the glow on his screen moved toward the tank crater.

	He stared at the grid intersection above the glowing spot, and far away in his mind a thought giggled at him: Call and tell 'em you have a battleship on your screen at 0-6-C. That'd get you a Section Eight right out of this man's army!

	Out of the army!

	His thoughts swerved abruptly to New Oakland, to Carol Jean. To think of her having our baby back there and—.

	Again the (fox?) moved toward the tank crater.

	But his mind was hopelessly caught now in New Oakland. He thought of all the lonely years before Carol: to work five days a week at Planetary Chemicals ... the library and endless pages of books (and another channel of his mind commented: You scattered your interests too widely!) ... the tiny cubbyhole rooms of his apartment ... the tasteless—

	Now, the (fox?) darted up to the tank crater, skirted it.

	Hulser's mind noted the movement, went right on with its reverie: Then Carol! Why couldn't we have found each other sooner? just one month together and—

	Another small glowing object came on the screen near the point where he'd seen the first one. It, too, darted toward the tank crater.

	Hulser was back in the chill present, a deadly suspicion gnawing at him: The enemy has a new type of shield, not as good as ours. It merely reduces image size!

	Or is it a pair of foxes?

	Indecision tore at him.

	They could have a new shield, he thought. We don't have a corner on the scientific brains.

	And a piece of his mind wandered off in a new direction—the war within the war: the struggle for equipment superiority. A new weapon—a new shield—a better weapon—a better shield. It was like a terrible ladder dripping with maimed flesh.

	They could have a new shield, his mind repeated.

	And another corner of his mind began to think about the shields—the complex flicker-lattice that made human flesh transparent to—

	Abruptly, he froze. In all clarity, every diagram in place, every equation, every formula complete—all spread out in his mind was the instrument he knew could end this war. Uncontrolled shivering took over his body. He swallowed in a dry throat.

	His gaze stayed on the screen before him. The two glow spots joined, moved into the tank crater. Hulser bent into the cone of silence at his phone. "This is OP 114. I have two greenies at co-ordinates 0-6-C-sub T-R. I think they're setting up an OP!"

	"Are you sure?" It was Chamberlain's nasal twang. "Of course I'm sure!" "We'll see." The phone went dead.

	Hulser straightened, wet his lips with his tongue. Will they send a plane for a sky look? They don't really trust me.

	A rending explosion at the tank crater answered him.

	Immediately, a rattle of small arms fire sprang up from the enemy lines.

	Bullets quested through the gray snow.

	It was an enemy OP! Now, they know ice have an observer out here!

	Another bullet found the dome of the OP.

	Hulser stared at the hole in terror. What if they kill me? My idea will die with me! The war will go on and on and—He jerked toward the phone, screamed into it: "Get me out of here! Get me out of here! Get me out of here!"

	When they found him, Hulser was still mumbling the five words.

	Chamberlain's lanky form crouched before the OP's crawl hole. The three muffled figures behind him ignored the OP, their heads turning, eyes staring off into the snow, rifles at the ready. The enemy's small arms fire had stopped.

	Another one's broke, thought Chamberlain. I thought shame might make him last a little while longer!

	He dragged Hulser out into the snow, hissed: "What is it, you? Why'd you drag us out into this?"

	Hulser swallowed, said, "Sarg, please believe me. I know how to detonate enemy explosives from a distance without even knowing where the explosives are. I can—"

	"Detonate explosives from a distance?" Chamberlain's eyes squinted until they looked like twin pieces of flint. Another one for the head shrinkers unless we can shock him out of it, he thought. He said, "You've gone off your rocker, you have. Now, you git down at them instruments and—" Hulser paled. "No, Sarg! I have to get back where—"

	"I could shoot your head off right where you—"

	Fear, frustration, anger—all of the complex pressure-borne emotions in Hulser—forced the words out of ;him: "You big-nosed, ignorant lump. I can end this war! You hear?" His voice climbed. "Take me back to the lieutenant! I'm gonna send your kind back under the rocks you—"

	Chamberlain's fist caught Hulser on the side of the head, sent him tumbling into the snow. Even as he fell, Hulser's mind said: But you told him, man! You finally told him!

	The sergeant glanced back at his companions, thought, If the enemy heard him, we've had it! He motioned one of the other men in close. "Mitch, take the watch oh this OP. We'll have to get Hulser back."

	The other nodded, ducked through the crawl hole, Chamberlain bent over Hulser. "You stinkin' coward!" he hissed. "I've half a mind to kill you where you sit! But I'm gonna take you in so's I can have the personal pleasure of watchin' you crawl when they turn the heat on you! Now you git on your feet! An' you git to walkin'!"

	Major Tony Lipari—"Tony the Lip" to his men—leaned against the canvas-padded wall of his dugout, hands clasped behind his head. He was a thin, oily-looking man with black hair, parted in the middle and slicked to his head like two beetle wings. In civilian life he had sold athletic supplies from a wholesale house. He had once worn a turban to an office party, and it had been like opening a door on his appearance. Somewhere in his ancestry there had been a Moor.

	The major was tired (Casualty reports! Endless casualty reports!) and irritable, faintly nervous.

	We don't have enough men to man the OP's now! he thought. Do we have to lose another one to the psych boys?

	He said, "The lieuten—" His voice came out in a nervous squeak, and he stopped, cleared his throat. "The lieutenant has told me the entire story, corporal. Frankly, it strikes me as utterly fantastic."

	Corporal Hulser stood at attention before the major. "Do I have the major's permission to speak?"

	Lipari nodded. "Please do."

	"Sir, I was a chemist ... I mean as a civilian. I got into this branch because I'd dabbled in electronics and they happened to need L-D observers more than they needed chemists. Now, with our shields from—" He broke off, suddenly overwhelmed by the problem of convincing Major Lipari.

	He's telling me we need L-D observers! thought Lipari. He said, "Well, go on, Hulser."

	"Sir, do you know anything about chemistry?"

	"A little."

	"What I mean is, do you understand Redox equations and substitution reactions of—"

	"Yes, yes. Go on!"

	Hulser swallowed, thought: He doesn't understand. Why won't he send me back to someone who does? He said, "Sir, you're aware that the insulation layer of our L-D shields is a special kind of protection for—"

	"Certainly! Insulates the wearer from the electrical charge of the suit!"

	Hulser goggled at the major. "Insulates ... Oh, no, sir. Begging the major's pardon, but—"

	"Is this necessary, corporal?" asked Lipari. And he thought: If he'd only stop this act and get back to work! It's so obvious he's faking! If-

	"Sir, didn't you get the—"

	"I had a full quota of L-D shield orientation when they called me back into the service," said Lipari. "Infantry's my specialty, of course. Korea, you know. But I understand how to operate a shield. Go on, corporal." He kicked his chair away from the wall.

	"Sir, what that insulation layer protects the wearer from is a kind of pseudo-substitution reaction in the skin. The suit's field can confuse the body into producing nitrogen bubbles at—"

	"Yes, Hulser! I know all that! But what's this have to do with your wonderful idea?"

	Hulser took a deep breath. "Sir, I can build a projector on the principle of the L-D suits that will produce an artificial substitution reaction in any explosive. I'm sure I can!"

	"You're sure?"

	"Yes, sir. For example, I could set up such a reaction in Trinox that would produce flourine and ionized hydrogen—in minute quantities, of course—but sufficient that any nearby field source would detonate—"

	"How would you make sure there was such a field in the enemy's storage area?"

	"Sir! Everybody wears L-D shields of one kind or another! They're field generators. Or an internal combustion motor ... or ... or just anything ! If you have an explosive mixture collapsing from one system into another in the presence of flourine and hydrogen—" He shrugged. "It'd explode if you looked cross-eyed at it!"

	Lipari cleared his throat. "I see." Again he leaned back against the wall. The beginnings of an eyestrain headache tugged at his temples. Now, the put-up-or-shut-up, he thought. He said, "How do we build this wonderful projector, corporal?"

	"Sir, I'll have to sit down with some machinists and some E-techs and—"

	"Corporal, I'll decide who sits down with whom among my men. Now, I'll tell you what you do. You just draw up the specifications for your projector and leave them with me. I'll see that they get into the proper hands through channels." '"Sir, it's not that simple. I have all of the specs in my head now, yes, but in anything like this you have to work out bugs that—"

	"We have plenty of technical experts who can do that," said Lipari. And he thought: Why doesn't he give up? I gave him the chance to duck out gracefully! Scribble something on some paper, give it to me. That's the end of it!

	"But, sir—"

	"Corporal! My orderly will give you paper and pencil. You just—"

	"Sir! It can't be done that way!"

	Lipari rubbed his forehead. "Corporal Hulser, I am giving you an order. You will sit down and produce the plans and specifications for your projector. You will do it now."

	Hulser tasted a sourness in his mouth. He swallowed. And that's the last we'd ever hear of Corporal Larry Hulser, he thought. Tony the Lip would get the credit.

	He said, "Sir, after you submit my plans, what would you do if someone asked, for example, how the polar molecules of—"

	"You will explain all of these things in your outline. Do I make myself clear, corporal?"

	"Sir, it would take me six months to produce plans that could anticipate every—"

	"You're stalling, corporal!" Major Lipari pushed himself forward, came to his feet. He lowered his voice. "Let's face it, Hulser. You're faking! I know it. You know it. You just had a bellyful of war and you decided you wanted out."

	Hulser shook his head from side to side,

	"It's not that simple, corporal. Now, I've shown you in every way I can that I understand this, that I'm willing to—"

	"Begging the major's pardon, but—"

	"You will do one of two things, Corporal Hulser. You either produce the diagrams, sketches or whatever to prove that you do have a worthy idea, or you will go back to your unit. I'm done fooling with you!"

	"Sir, don't you under—"

	"I could have you shot under the Articles of War!"

	And Lipari thought: That's what he needs—a good shock!

	Bitter frustration almost overwhelmed Hulser. He felt the same kind of anger that had goaded him to attack Sergeant Chamberlain. "Major, enough people know about my idea by now that at least some of them would wonder if you hadn't shot the goose that laid the golden egg!"

	Lipari's headache was full-blown now. He pushed his face close to Hulser's. "I have some alternatives to a firing squad, corporal!"

	Hulser returned Lipari's angry glare. "It has occurred to me, sir, that this project would suddenly become 'our' project, and then 'your' project, and somewhere along the line a mere corporal would get lost!"

	Lipari's mouth worked wordlessly. Presently, he said, "That did it, Hulser! I'm holding you for a general court! There's one thing I can do without cooking any goose but yours!"

	And that ends the matter as far as I'm concerned, thought Lipari. What a day!

	He turned toward the door of his dugout. "Sergeant!"

	The door opened to admit Chamberlain's beanpole figure. He crossed the room, came to attention before Lipari, saluted. "Sir?"

	"This man is under arrest, sergeant," said Lipari. "Take him back to area headquarters under guard and have him held for a general court. On your way out send in my order-

	If-"

	Chamberlain saluted. "Yes, sir." He turned, took Hulser's arm. "Come along, Hulser."

	Lipari turned away, groped on a corner shelf for his aspirin. He heard the door open and close behind him. And it was not until this moment that he asked himself: Could that crackpot actually have had a workable idea? He found the aspirin, shrugged the thought away. Fantastic!

	Hulser sat on an iron cot with his head in his hands. The cell walls around him were flat, riveted steel. It was a space exactly the length of the cot, twice as wide as the cot. At his left, next to the foot of the bed, was a barred door. To his right, at the other end of the floor space, were a folding washbasin with water closet under. The cell smelled foul despite an overriding stink of disinfectant.

	Why don't they get it over with? he asked himself. Three days of this madhouse! How long are they—

	The cell door rattled.

	Hulser looked up. A wizened figure in a colonel's uniform stood on the other side of the bars. He was a tiny man, gray-haired, eyes like a curious t bird, a dried parchment skin. In the proper costume he would have looked like a medieval sorcerer.

	A youthful MP sergeant stepped into view, unlocked the door, stood aside. The colonel entered the cell.

	"Well, well," he said.

	Hulser came to his feet, saluted.

	"Will you be needing me, sir?" asked the MP sergeant.

	"Eh?" The colonel turned. "Oh. No, sergeant. Just leave that door open and—"

	"But, sir—"

	"Nobody could get out of this cell block, could they sergeant?"

	"No, sir. But—"

	"Then just leave the door open and run along."

	"Yes, sir." The sergeant saluted, frowned, turned away. His footsteps echoed down the metal floor of the corridor.

	The colonel turned back to Hulser. "So you're the young man with the bright idea."

	Hulser cleared his throat. "Yes, sir."

	The colonel glanced once around the cell. "I'm Colonel Page of General Savage's staff. Chemical warfare."

	Hulser nodded.

	"The general's adjutant suggested that I come over and talk to you," said Page. "He thought a chemist might—"

	"Page!" said Hulser. "You're, not the Dr. Edmond Page who did the work on pseudo-lithium?"

	The colonel's face broke into a pleased smile. "Why ... yes, I am."

	"I read everything about your work that I could get my hands on," said Hulser. "It struck me that if you'd just—" His voice trailed off.

	"Do go on," said Page.

	Hulser swallowed. "Well, if you'd just moved from organic chemistry into inorganic, that—" He shrugged.

	"I might have induced direct chemical rather than organic reactions?" asked Page.

	"Yes, sir."

	"That thought didn't occur to me until I was on my way over here," said Page. He gestured toward the cot. "Do sit down."

	Hulser slumped back to the cot.

	Page looked around, finally squeezed past Hulser's knees, sat down on the lid of the water closet. "Now, let's find out just what your idea is."

	Hulser stared at his hands.

	"I've discussed this with the general," said Page. "We feel that you may know what you're talking about. We would deeply appreciate a complete explanation."

	"What do I have to lose?" asked Hulser.

	"You may have reason for feeling bitter," said Page. "But after reading the charges against you I would say that you've been at least partly responsible for your present situation." He glanced at his wrist watch. "Now, tell me exactly how you propose to detonate munitions at a distance ... this projector you've talked about."

	Hulser took a deep breath. This is a chemist, he thought. Maybe 1 can convince him. He looked up at Page, began explaining.

	Presently, the colonel interrupted. "But it takes enormous amounts of energy to change the atomic—"

	"I'm not talking about changing atomic structure in that sense, sir. Don't you see it? I merely set up an artificial condition as though a catalyst were present. A pseudo-catalyst. And this brings out of the static mixture substances that are already there: Ionized hydrogen from moisture—fluorine from the actual components in the case of Trinox. White phosphorus from Ditrate. Nitric oxide and rhombic sulfur from common gunpower."

	Page wet his lips with his tongue. "But what makes you think that—in a nonorganic system—the presence of the pseudo-catalyst—" He shook his head. "Of course! How stupid of me! You'd first get a polar reaction—just as I did with pseudo-lithium. And that would be the first step into—" His eyes widened and he stared at Hulser. "My dear boy, I believe you've opened an entirely new field in nonorganic chemistry!"

	"Do you see it, sir?"

	"Of course I see it!" Page got to his feet. 'You'd be creating an artificial radical with unstable perimeter. The presence of the slightest bit of moisture in that perimeter would give you your ionized hydrogen and—" He clapped his hands like a small boy in glee. "Kapowie!"

	Hulser smiled.

	Page looked down at him. "Corporal, I do believe your projector might work. I confess that I don't understand about field lattices and these other electronic matters, but you apparently do."

	"Yes, sir."

	"How did you ever stumble onto this?" asked Page.

	"I was thinking about the lattice effect in our Life Detector systems—when suddenly, there it was: the complete idea!"

	Page nodded. "It was one of those things that had to remain dormant until the precisely proper set of circumstances." Page squeezed past Hulser's knees. "No, no. Stay right there. I'm going to set up a meeting with Colonel Allenby of the L-D section, and I'll get in someone with more of a mechanical bent—probably Captain Stevens." He nodded. "Now, corporal, you just stay right here until—" His glance darted around the cell, and he laughed nervously. "Don't you worry, young man. We'll have you out of here in a few hours."

	Hulser was to look back on the five weeks of the first phase in "Operation Big Boom" as a time of hectic unreality. Corps ordered the project developed in General Savage's reserve area after a set of preliminary plans had been shipped outside. The thinking was that there'd be less chance of a security leak that close to a combat zone, and that the vast barrens of the reserve area offered better opportunity for a site free of things that could detonate mysteriously and lead to unwanted questions.

	But Corps was taking no chances. They ringed the area with special detachments of MP's. Recording specialists moved in on the project, copied everything for shipment stateside.

	. They chose an open tableland well away from their own munitions for the crucial test. It was a barren, windy place: gray rocks poking up from frozen earth. The long black worm of a power cable stretched away into the distance behind the test shelter.

	A weasel delivered Hulser and Page to the test site. The projector box sat on the seat between them. It was housed in a green container two feet square and four feet long. A glass tube protruded from one end. A power connection, sealed and with a red "do not connect" sign, centered the opposite end. A tripod mounting occupied one side at the balance point.

	The morning was cold and clear with a brittle snap to the air. The sky had a deep cobalt quality, almost varnished in its intensity.

	About fifty people were gathered for the test. They were strung out through the shelter—a long shed open along one side. An empty tripod stood near the open side and almost in the center. On both sides of the tripod technicians sat before recording instruments. Small black wires trailed away ahead of them toward an ebony mound almost a mile from the shed and directly opposite the open side.

	General Savage already was on the scene, talking with a stranger who had arrived that morning under an impressive air cover. The stranger had worn civilian clothes. Now, he was encased in an issue parka and snow pants. He didn't look or act like a civilian. And it was noted that General Savage addressed him as "sir."

	The general was a brusque, thick-bodied man with the overbearing confidence of someone secure in his own ability. His face held a thick-nosed, square-jawed bulldog look. In fatigues without insignia, he could have been mistaken for a sergeant. He looked the way a hard, old-line sergeant is expected to look. General Savage's men called him "Me Tarzan" mainly because he took snow baths, mother naked, in subzero weather.

	A white helmeted security guard ringed the inside of the test shed. Hulser noted that they wore no side-arms, carried no weapons except hand-held bayonets. He found himself thinking that he would not have been surprised to see them carrying crossbows.

	General Savage waved to Page as the colonel and Hulser entered the shed. Colonel Page returned the gesture, stopped before a smooth-cheeked lieutenant near the tripod.

	"Lieutenant," said Page, "have all explosives except the test stack been removed from the area?"

	The lieutenant froze to ramrod attention, saluted. "Yes, sir, colonel."

	Page took a cigarette from his pocket. "Let me have your cigarette lighter, please, lieutenant."

	"Yes, sir." The lieutenant fumbled in a pocket, withdrew a chrome lighter, handed it to Page.

	Colonel Page took the lighter in his hand, looked at it for a moment, hurled both lighter and cigarette out into the snow. The lighter landed about sixty feet away.

	The lieutenant paled, then blushed.

	The colonel said, "Every cigarette lighter, every match. And check with everyone to see that they took those special pills at least four hours ago. We don't want any internal, combustion without a motor around it."

	The lieutenant looked distraught. "Yes, sir."

	"And, lieutenant, stop the last weasel and have the driver wait to cart the stuff you collect out of our area."

	"Yes, sir." The lieutenant hurried away.

	Page turned back to Hulser, who had mounted the projector on its tripod, now stood beside it.

	"All ready, sir," said Hulser. "Shall I connect the cable?"

	"What do you think?" asked Page.

	"We're as ready as we'll ever be."

	"O.K. Connect it, then stand by with the switch in your hands."

	Hulser turned to comply. And now, as the moment of the critical test approached, he felt his legs begin to tremble. He felt sure that everyone could see his nervousness.

	A tense stillness came over the people in the shed.

	General Savage and his visitor approached. The general was explaining the theory of the projector.

	His visitor nodded.

	Seen close-up, the other man gave the same impression of hard competence that radiated from General Savage—only more competent, harder. His cheek bones were like two ridges of tan rock beneath cavernous sockets, brooding dark eyes.

	General Savage pointed to the black mound of explosives in the distance. "We have instruments in there with the explosives, sir. The wires connect them with our recorders here in the shed. We have several types of explosives to be tested, including kerosene, gasoline, engine oil. Everything we could lay our hands on except atomics. But if these things blow, then we'll know the projector also will work on atomics."

	The visitor spoke, and his voice came out with a quality like a stick dragged through gravel. "It was explained to me that—the theory being correct—this projector will work on any petroleum fuel, including coal."

	"Yes, sir," said Savage. "It is supposed to ignite coal. We have a few lumps in a sack to one side.

	You can't see it because of the snow. But our instruments will tell us which of these things are affected"—he glanced at Hulser—"if any."

	Colonel Page returned from checking the recording instruments.

	Savage turned to the colonel. "Are we ready, Ed?"

	"Yes, general." He glanced at Hulser, nodded. "Let's go, Larry. Give it power."

	Hulser depressed the switch in his hand, involuntarily closed his eyes, then snapped them open and stared at the distant explosives.

	A low humming arose from the projector.

	Page spoke to the general. "It'll take a little time for the effect to build u—"

	As he started to say "up" the mound of explosives went up in a giant roaring and rumbling. Colonel Page was left staring at the explosion, his mouth shaped to say "p."

	Steam and dust hid the place where the explosives had been.

	The gravel voice of the visitor spoke behind Hulser. "Well, there goes the whole shooting match, general. And I do mean shooting!"

	"It's what we were afraid of, sir," said Savage. "But there's no help for it now." He sounded bitter.

	Hulser was struck by the bitterness in both voices. He turned, became conscious that the lieutenant whom Page had reprimanded was beating at a flaming breast pocket, face livid. The people around him were laughing, trying to help.

	Page had hurried along the line of recorders, was checking each one.

	The significance of the lieutenant's antics suddenly hit Hulser. Matches! He forgot his spare matches after losing his cigarette lighter! Hulser glanced to where the colonel had thrown the lighter, saw a black patch in the snow.

	Page returned from checking the recorders. "We can't be sure about the coal, but as nearly as we can determine, it touched off everything else in the stack!" He put an arm on Hulser's shoulder. "This young genius has won the war for us."

	The (civilian?) snorted.

	Savage turned, scowled at Hulser.

	But Hulser was staring out at the explosion crater, a look of euphoria on his face.

	The technicians were moving out into the area now, probing cautiously for unexploded fragments.

	The general and his visitor exchanged a glance that could have meant anything.

	Savage signaled his radio operator to call for transportation.

	Presently, a line of weasels came roaring up to the test site.

	Savage took Hulser's arm in a firm grip. "You'd better come with us. You're a valuable piece of property now."

	Hulser's mind came back to the curious conversation between Savage and the visitor after the explosion, and he was struck by the odd sadness in the general's voice. Could he be an old war dog sorry to see it end?: Somehow, on looking at the general, that didn't fit.

	They sped across the barrens to the base, Hulser uncomfortable between the general and his visitor. Apparently, no one wanted to discuss what had just happened. Hulser was made uncomfortable by the lack of elation around him. He looked at the back of the driver's neck, but that told him nothing.

	They strode into the general's office, an oblong room without windows. Maps lined the walls. A low partition separated one space containing two barren tables from another space containing three desks, one set somewhat apart. They crossed to the separate desk.

	Savage indicated his visitor. "This is Mr. Sladen." There was a slight hesitation on the "mister."

	Hulser suppressed a desire to salute, shook hands. The other man had a hard grip in an uncalloused hand.

	Sladen's gravelly baritone came out brusque and commanding. "Brief him, general. I'll go get my people and their gear together. We'll have to head right back."

	Savage nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll get right at it."

	Sladen cast a speculative look at Hulser. "Make sure he understands clearly what has just happened. I don't believe he's considered it."

	"Yes, sir."

	Sladen departed.

	Hulser felt an odd sinking sensation in his stomach.

	Savage said, "I'm not rank happy, Hulser, and we haven't much time. We're going to forget about military formality for a few minutes."

	Hulser nodded without speaking.

	"Do you know what has just happened?" asked Savage.

	"Yes, sir. But what puzzles me is that you people don't seem pleased about our gaining the whip hand so we can win this war. It's—"

	"It's not certain that we have the whip hand." Savage sat down at his desk, picked up a book bound in red leather.

	"You mean the enemy—"

	"Bright ideas like yours just seem to float around in the air, Hulser. They may already have it, or they could be working on it. Otherwise, I'd have seen that your brainstorm was buried. It seems that once human beings realize something can be done, they're not satisfied until they've done it."

	"Have there been any signs that the enemy—"

	"No. But neither have they seen any signs of our new weapon ... I hope. The point is: we do have it and we're going to use it. We'll probably overwhelm them before they can do anything about it. And that'll be the end of this war."

	"But, if explosives are made obsolete, that'll mean an end to all wars," protested Hulser. "That's what I'm concerned about!"

	The general sneered. "Nothing, my bright-eyed young friend, has thus far made war impossible! When this one's over, it'll be just a matter of time until there's another war, both sides using your projector." "But, sir—"

	"So the next war will be fought with horse cavalry, swords, crossbows and lances," said Savage. "And there'll be other little improvements!" He slammed the red book onto his desk, surged to his feet. "Elimination of explosives only makes espionage, poisons, poison gas, germ warfare—all of these—a necessity!"

	"How can you—"

	"Don't you understand, Hulser? You've made the military use of explosives impossible. That means gasoline. The internal combustion motor is out. That means jet fuels. Airplanes are out. That means gunpowder. Everything from the smallest sidearm to the biggest cannon is out!"

	"Certainly, but—"

	"But we have other alternatives, Hulser. We have the weapons King Arthur used. And we have some modern innovations: poison gases, curare-tipped crossbow bolts, bacterial—"

	"But the Geneva Convention—" "Geneva Convention be damned! And that's just what will happen to it as soon as a big enough group of people decide to ignore it!" General Savage hammered a fist on his desk. "Get this! Violence is a part of human life. The lust for power is a part of human life. As long as people want power badly enough, they'll use any means to get it—fair or foul! Peaceful or otherwise!"

	"I think you're being a pessimist, sir."

	"Maybe I am. I hope I am. But I come from a long line of military people. We've seen some things to make us pessimists."

	"But the pressures for peace—"

	"Have thus far not been strong enough to prevent wars, Hulser." The general shook his head. "I'll tell you something, my young friend: When I first saw the reference to your ideas in the charges against you, I had the sinking sensation one gets when going down for the third time. I hoped against hope that you were wrong, but I couldn't afford not to investigate, I hoped that Major Lipari and Sergeant Chamberlain had you pegged for—"

	The general stopped, glared at Hulser. "There's another bone I have to pick with you! Your treatment of two fine soldiers was nothing short of juvenile! If it wasn't for the Liparis and the Chamberlians, you'd be getting thirty lashes every morning from your local slave keeper!"

	"But, sir—"

	"Don't 'But, sir' me, Hulser! If there was time before you leave, I'd have you deliver personal apologies to both of them!"

	Hulser blushed, shook his head. "I don't know. All I really know is that I was sure my idea would work, and that Lipari and Chamberlain didn't understand. And I knew if I was killed, or if my idea wasn't developed, the enemy might get it first."

	Savage leaned back against his desk, passed a hand across his eyes. "You were right, of course. It's just that you were bucking the system, and you're not the right kind to buck the system. Your kind usually fails when you try."

	Hulser sighed.

	"You're now a valuable piece of property, my lad. So don't feel sorry for yourself. You'll be sent home where you can be around when your wife has that child."

	Hulser looked surprised.

	"Oh, yes, we found out about her," said Savage. "We thought at first you were just working a good dodge to get home to her." He shrugged. "You'll probably have it fairly soft now. You'll be guarded and coddled. You'll be expected to produce another act of genius I The Lord knows, maybe you are a genius."

	"You wait and see, sir. I think this will mean an end to all wars."

	The general suddenly looked thoughtful. "Hulser, a vastly underrated and greatly despised writer—in some circles—once said, 'There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.' That's a very deep statement, Hulser. And there you are, way out in front with 'a new order of things.' I hope for the sake of that child you're going to have—for the sake of all children—that we don't have another war." He shrugged. "But I don't hold out too—"

	Sladen popped back into the office. "Our air cover's coming up, general. We'll have to take him like he is. Send his gear along later, will you?"

	"Certainly, sir." Savage Straightened, stuck out his right hand, shook with Hulser. "Good luck, Hulser. You take what I said to heart. It's the bitter truth that men of war have to live with. You weren't attacking the source of the problem with your bright idea. You were attacking one of the symptoms."

	Savage's left hand came up from his desk with the red book. "Here's a gift for that child you're going to have." He pressed the book into Hulser's hands. "The next generation will need to understand this book."

	Hulser had time to say, "Thank you, sir." Then he was propelled out the door by Sladen.

	It was not until he was! Oh the plane winging south that Hulser had an opportunity to examine the book. Then he gripped it tightly in both hands, stared out the window at the sea of clouds. The book was a limited edition copy, unexpurgated, of the works of Niccolo Machiavelli, the master of deceit and treachery.

-

Epilogue

	Many people labor under the misapprehension that the discovery of the Hulser Detonator was made in a secret government laboratory. In actuality, the genius on Dr. Lawrence Hulser was first seen on the Arctic battlefields of 1972 where he conceived his idea and where that idea was immediately recognized.

	Beecher Carson, "The Coming of the Sword—A History of Ancient and Modern Wars"

The End

The Priests of Psi
Fantastic Science Fiction Stories – February 1960
(1960)
Frank Herbert
illustrated By SUMMERS

He was sent to test the powers of the Fanatic Planet ... to learn its secrets. And in The Ordeal, he trembled on the edge of the Ultimate Secret.

-

	THE instant he stepped out of the transport's shields into Amel's sunlight warm on the exit ramp Lewis Orne felt the psi fields. He caught the hand rail in sudden dizziness, stared down some two hundred meters at the glassy tricrete of the space port. Heat waves shimmered off the glistening surface, baking the air even up to this height. There was no wind except inside him where the hidden gusts of the psi fields howled against his recently awakened senses.

	The techs who had trained Orne in the use of the flesh-buried psi detection instruments had given him a small foretaste of this sensation back in the laboratory on Marak. It had been far short of this reality. The first sharp signal of the primary detector concealed in his neck had been replaced by the full spectrum of psi awareness.

	Orne shuddered. Amel crawled with skin-creeping sensations. Weird urges flickered through his mind like flashes of heat lightning. He wanted to grunt like a wallowing kiriffa, and in the next instant felt laughter welling in him while a sob tore at his throat.

	I knew it was going to be bad, he thought. They warned me.

	The counter conditioning only made this moment worse because now he aware. Without the psi training, he knew that his mind would have confused the discreet sensations into a combined awe-fear—perfectly logical emotions for him to feel when debarking on the priest planet.

	This was holy ground: sanctuary of all the religions in the known universe (and, some said, of all the religions in the unknown universe).

	Orne forced his attention onto the inner focus as the techs had taught him. Slowly, psi awareness dimmed to background annoyance. He drew in a deep breath of the hot, dry air. It was vaguely unsatisfying as though lacking some essential element to which his lungs were accustomed.

	Still holding the rail, he waited to make certain he had subdued the ghost urges within him. Across the ramp, the glistening inner surface of the opened port reflected his image, distorting it slightly in a way that accented his differences from the lean, striding norm. He looked like a demigod reincarnated out of this world's ancient past: square and solid with the corded neck muscles of a heavy-grav native. A faint scar demarked the brow line of his close-cropped red hair. Other fine scars on his bulldog face were visible because he knew where to look, and his memory told of more scars on his heavy body. There was a half-humorous saying in Investigation & Adjustment that senior field agents could be detected by the number of scars and medical patches they carried.

	Orne tugged at the black belt on his aqua toga, feeling uncomfortable in this garment that all "students" on Amel had to wear.

	The yellow sun, Dubhe, hung at the meridian in a cloudless blue sky. It hammered through the toga with oppressive warmth. Orne felt the perspiration slick on his body. One step away the escalfield hummed softly, ready to drop him into the bustle visible at the foot of the transport. Priests and passengers were engaged in some kind of ceremony down there—initiation of the new students. Faintly to his ears came a throbbing drumchant and a singsong keening almost hidden beneath the port's machinery clatter.

	Orne studied the scene around him, still waiting to make sure he would not betray his awareness. The transport's ramp commanded a sweeping view: a fantastic scratchwork of towers, belfries, steeples, monoliths, domes, ziggurats, pagodas, stupas, minarets, dagobas.

	They cluttered a flat plain that stretched to a horizon dancing in the heat waves. Golden sunlight danced off bright primary colors and weathered pastels—buildings in tile and stone, tricrete and plasteel, and the synthetics of a thousand thousand civilizations.

	Staring out at the religious warren, Orne experienced an abrupt feeling of dread at the unknown things that could be waiting in those narrow, twisted streets and jumbled buildings. The stories that leaked out of Amel always carried a hint of forbidden mystery, and Orne knew his emotions were bound to be tainted by some of that mystery. But his sudden dread shifted subtly to a special kind of fear.

	This peculiar fear, coming out of his new awareness, had begun back on Marak.

	Orne had been seated at the desk in his bachelor officer quarters, staring out at the park-like landscape of the I-A university grounds. Marak's green sun hung low in the afternoon quadrant. Orne had been filling in as a lecturer on "Exotic Clues to War Tendencies" while waiting for his wedding to Diana Bullone. He was scheduled to marry the High Commissioner's daughter in only three weeks, and after a honeymoon on Kirachin he was expecting permanent assignment to the anti-war college. He could look forward to a life of training new I-A agents in the arts of seeking out and destroying the seeds that could grow into another Rim War.

	That had been his concept of the future that afternoon on Marak. But suddenly he had turned away from his desk to frown at the stiffly regulation room. Something was awry. He studied the gray walls, the sharp angles of the bunk, the white bedcover with its blue I-A monogram: the crossed sword and stylus. The room's other chair stood backed against the foot of the bunk, leaving a three-centimeter clearance for the gray flatness of the closet door.

	Something he could not define was making him restless—call it premonition.

	Abruptly, the hall door hanged open. Umbo Stetson, Orne's superior officer, strode into the room. The section chief wore his characteristic patched blue fatigues. His only badge of rank, golden i-A emblems on his collar and uniform cap, looked faintly corroded. Orne wondered when they had last been polished, then he pushed the thought aside. Stetson reserved all of his polish for his mind.

	Behind the I-A officer rolled a mechanocart piled with cramtapes, microfilms and even some old style books. It trundled itself into the room, its wheels rumbling as it cleared the doorsill. The door closed itself.

	Good Lord! thought Orne. Not an assignment! Not now. He got to his feet, looked first at the cart, then at Stetson. There was an edge of uneasiness in Orne's voice as he asked: "What's this, Stet?"

	Stetson pulled out the chair from the foot of the bunk, straddled it, sailed his cap onto the blanket. His dark hair straggled in an uncombed muss. His eyelids drooped, accenting his usual look of haughty superciliousness.

	"You've had enough assignments to know what this is," he growled. A wry smile touched his lips. "Got a little job for you."

	"Don't I have any say in this anymore?" asked Orne.

	"Well now, things may've changed a bit, and then again maybe they haven't," said Stetson.

	"I'm getting married in three weeks," said Orne. "To the daughter of the High Commissioner."

	"Your wedding is being postponed," said Stetson. He held up a hand as Orne's face darkened. "Wait a bit. Just postponed. Emergency. The High Commissioner sent his daughter off today on a job we just trumped up for the purpose."

	Orne's voice was dangerously low: "What purpose?"

	"The purpose of getting her out of your hair. You're leaving for Amel in six days and there's lots to be done before you're ready to go."

	Orne drummed his fingers on the desk. "Just like that. Wedding's off. I'm assigned to a ... Amel?"

	"Yes."

	"What is this, Stet? Amel's a picnic ground."

	"Well ..." Stetson shook his head. "Maybe not."

	A sudden fear struck Orne. "Whose job was trumped up?" he demanded. "Has Diana ..."

	"She's off to Franchi Primus to help design a new uniform for the I-A women," said Stetson. "That safe enough for you?"

	"But why so sudden?"

	"We have to get you ready for Amel. Miss Bullone would have wasted time, diverted your attention. She knows something's up, but she takes orders just like the rest of us in the I-A. Have I made myself clear?"

	"No notice. No nothing. Oh, this 1-A is real fun! I must recommend it every time I find a young fellow looking for a job!"

	"Mrs. Bullone will bring a note from Diana tonight," said Stetson. "She's perfectly safe. You can get married when this is over."

	"Provided the 1-A doesn't dream up some new emergency for me!" marked Orne.

	"You're the ones who took the I-A oath," said Stetson. "You knew when you took it that this sort of thing could happen."

	"I'm going to rewrite the oath," said Orne. "To the words. 7 pledge my life and my sacred honor to seek out and destroy the seeds of war wherever they may be found'. let us add: 'and I will sacrifice anything and anybody in the process.' "

	"Not a bad addition," said Stetson. "Why don't you recommend it when you get back?"

	"If I get back! What's the emergency this time?"

	"This emergency must be hunting for you specifically," said Stetson.

	"How thoughtful of it."

	"Your name's on the list for the latest summoning to Amel."

	"A religious student? But I've never applied for ..."

	"But your name's on the list. Nice great big letters. List signed by Halmyrach Abbod himself."

	"There has to be a mistake. It's obviously a confusion of names with ..."

	"You've been specifically identified by family and current abode. No mistake."

	Orne pushed himself away from the desk. "But there has to be! I tell you I've never applied for ..." He broke off. "Anyway, what's the difference? The I-A couldn't be interested in Amel. Never been a war anywhere near the place. The big shots were always afraid of offending their gods."

	Stetson pointed to the mechanocart. "I don't have much time for this briefing, so stop interrupting. You're going to need everything on this cart and more. You're going to the medics this evening for a quick-heal operation. Some very hush-hush ..." He frowned, repeated himself: "... very hush-hush equipment is to be hidden under your skin. Do you know anything about psi powers and what they involve ?"

	The change of pace caused Orne to blink. He wet his lips with his tongue. "You mean like that fellow on Wessen who was supposed to be able to jump to any planet in the universe without a ship?"

	"Something like that."

	"Say, what ever happened to him? All the stories, then ..."

	"Maybe it was a fake," said Stetson. "Maybe it wasn't. We hope you can find out. Our techs will be showing you some psi equipment later. An amplifier ..."

	"But how does this connect with Amel?"

	"You're going to tell us ... we hope. You see, Lew, we just had the confirmation early this morning. At the next session of the Assembly there's going to be a motion to do away with the I-A, turn all of our functions over to Rediscovery & Re-education."

	"Put us under Tyler Gemine? That political hack! Half our problems come from Rah & Rah stupidities! They've damn' near bumbled us into another Rim War a dozen times!"

	"Mmmmm, hmmmm," said Stetson. "And the next session of the Assembly is just over the horizon—five months."

	"But ... but a motion like that wouldn't stand a chance! It's assinine! I mean, look at the ..."

	"You'll be interested to know, Lew, that the pressure for this change comes from the priests of Amel. There does not seem to be any doubt that religious heat can put it over."

	"Which sect of the priests?"

	"All of them."

	Orne shook his head. "But there are thousands of sects on Amel ... millions, maybe. Under the Ecumenical Truce they ..."

	"All of them," repeated Stetson.

	Orne frowned. "None of this fits. If the priests are gunning for us, why should they invite a I-A field agent onto their planet at the same time? That doesn't ..."

	"Exactly," said Stetson. "I'm sure you'll jump with joy when you learn that nobody—repeat: nobody!—has ever before been able to put an agent into Amel. Not the I-A. Not the old Marakian Secret Service. Not even the Nathians. All attempts have been met with polite rejections. No agent's ever gotten farther than their landing field." Stetson got to his feet.

	glared down at Orne. "You'd better get started on this background material I brought. Your first session with the techs is tonight after the medics get through with you."

	"What provision will there be for getting me off if Amel goes sour?" asked Orne.

	"None."

	Orne bounced to his feet. "None?"

	"Our best information indicates that your training—they call it The Ordeal-takes about six months. If there's no report from you within that limit, we'll make inquiries."

	"Like: 'What've you done with the body?'" snarled Orne. "Hell! There might not even be any I-A to make an inquiry in six months!"

	Stetson shrugged. "I know this is sudden, and our data's skimpy where it ..."

	"This is like a last resort!"

	"Exactly, Lew. But we have to find out why the galactic center of all religions had turned against us. We have no hope of going in there and subduing them. It'd start religious uprisings all through the galaxy. Make the Rim War look like a game of ball at a girls' school. I'm not even certain we could get enough volunteers to do the job. We never qualify an agent be-cause of his religion, but I'm damned sure they'd qualify us on that score. No. We have to find out why! Maybe we can change whatever's bothering them. It's our only hope. Maybe they don't understa ..."

	"What if they have plans for conquest by war? What then, Stet? A new faction could've come to power on Amel. Why not?"

	Stetson looked sad, shrugged. "If you could prove it ..." lie shook his head.

	"When am I going to the medics?"

	"They'll come for you."

	"Yeah. Somebody already came for me ... it looks like."

	It was early evening in Orne's hospital room at the I-A medical center—the quiet time between dinner and visiting hours. The nurse had turned on the light beside his bed. It cast a soothing reflection from the green walls. The induction bandage felt bulky under his chin, but the characteristic quick-heal itching had not yet started.

	Being in a hospital room made him vaguely uneasy. He knew why: the smells and the sounds reminded him of all the months he'd spent creeping back from death after his injuries in the Heleb uprising. Heleb had been another planet where war just could not start. Like Amel.

	The door to his hospital room opened. A tech officer strode through, closed the door. The man's uniform bore odd forked lightning insignia. Orne had never seen the emblem before. Psi? he wondered. The officer stopped at the foot of the bed, leaned on the cross bar. His face was birdlike. There was a long nose, pointed chin, narrow mouth. The eyes made quick, darting movements. He was tall, bone skinny, and when he lifted his right hand in a mock salute, the gesture appeared to be Buttery.

	"Hi," he said. "I'm Ag Emolirdo, head of our Psi Section. The Ag is for Agony."

	Unable to move his head because of the induction bandage, Orne stared down the length of the bed at Emolirdo. The officer carried an aura of ... confidence, knowing confidence. Pie reminded Orne of a priest back on Orne's home planet, Chargon. This idea made Orne uneasy. He said: "How d'you do."

	"This will have to move rather rapidly," said the tech. He smiled. "You'll be into parahypnoid sessions by midnight."

	"Join the I-A and learn the mysteries of the universe," quipped Orne.

	Emolirdo cocked one eyebrow. "Were you aware that you're a psi focus?"

	"A what?" Orne tried to sit up, but the bandage restraints held him fast.

	"Psi focus," said Emolirdo. "You'll understand it later. Briefly, you're an island of order in a disordered universe. Four times since you came to the attention of the I-A you've done the impossible. Any one of the incidents you tackled should have led to ferment and then general war. You've brought order out of ..."

	"So I did what I was trained to do."

	"Trained? By whom?"

	"By my government ... by the I-A. That's a stupid question."

	"Is it?" Emolirdo found a chair, sat down, his head level with Orne's. "Well, we won't argue the point. The chief thing now is that you know consciously the broad areas to be covered. You understand?"

	"I know the parahypnoid technique," said Orne.

	"First, psi focus," said Emolirdo. "Let us define life as a bridge between Order and Chaos. Then, let us define Chaos as raw energy available to anything that can subdue it—that is, to anything that can put it into some order. Life, then, becomes stored Chaos. You follow?"

	"I hear you. Get on with it."

	"Ah, the impatience of the non-adept," murmured Emolirdo. He cleared his throat. "To restate the situation, Life feeds on Chaos, but must exist in Order. An apparent paradox. This brings us to the condition called stasis. Stasis is like a magnet. It attracts free energy to itself until the pressure becomes too great and it explodes ... and, exploding, goes back to Chaos. One is left with the unavoidable conclusion that stasis leads always to Chaos."

	"That's dandy," said Orne.

	Emolirdo frowned. "This rule is true on both the levels of chemical-inanimate and chemical-animate, Mr. Orne. For example, ice, the stasis of water, explodes when brought into abrupt contact with extreme heat. The frozen society explodes when exposed suddenly to the chaos of war or the apparent chaos of a strange new society. Nature abhors stasis."

	"Like a vacuum," said Orne.

	"Precisely."

	"Outside of the vacuum in my head, what other little problems do we have?" asked Orne. "Amel."

	"Oh, yes. Another vacuum?"

	"Apparently a stasis that does not explode."

	"Then perhaps it isn't static."

	"You're very astute, Mr. Orne."

	"Golly ... thanks."

	"You think you're being very humorous, don't you, Mr. Orne?"

	"I thought you were the prize joker here. What's all this have to do with Amel?"

	"Miracles," said Emolirdo. "You obviously were summoned to Amel because they consider you a worker of miracles."

	The pain stabbed through Orne's bandaged neck as he tried to turn his head. "Miracles?" he croaked.

	"Substitute psi for miracle," said the tech. "Psi focus, to be more precise." A weird half smile flickered across Emolirdo's mouth. It was as though he had fought down an internal dispute on whether to laugh or cry, solved it by doing neither.

	Orne felt confused, uneasy. He said: "You've left me."

	"Psi focus is the scientific label for miracle," said Emolirdo. "It's something that happens outside of recognized channels, in spite of accepted rules. Religions say it's a miracle. Certain scientists say we have encountered a psi focus. That can be either a person or a locale."

	"I'm not reading you at all," muttered Orne.

	"You've heard of the ancient miracle caverns on the older planets?"

	Orne blinked. "I've heard the legends."

	"We're convinced that they concealed shapes ... convolutions that projected out of our apparent universe. Except at these focus points, the raw energy of outer Chaos cannot be bent to our needs. But at these focus points, Chaos—the wild energy—is richly available in a way that can be tamed. It may be moulded in unique ways that defy ordinary rules." Emolirdo's eyes blazed. He seemed to be fighting a great inner excitement.

	Orne then wet his lips. "Shapes?"

	"Men have bent wires, coiled them, carved bits of plastic, jumbled together odd assortments of completely unrelated objects. And weird things happen. A smooth piece of metal becomes tacky, as though you'd smeared it with glue. A man draws a pentagram on a certain floor, and flame dances within it. Smoke curls from a strangely shaped bottle and does another man's bidding, obeys his will. Then there are certain men who conceal this focus within themselves. They walk into ... nothing, and reappear light years away. They look at a person suffering from an incurable disease. The incurable is cured. They raise the dead. They read minds."

	Orne tried to swallow in a dry throat. "All this is psi?"

	"We believe so." Emolirdo bent toward Orne's bedside light, thrust a fist in between the light and the green wall. "Look at the wall."

	"I can't turn my head," said Orne.

	"Sorry. Just a shadow." Emolirdo withdrew his hand. "But let us say there were sentient beings confined to the flat plane of that wall. Let us say they saw the shadow of my fist. Could a genius among them imagine the shape that cast the shadow—a shape that projected outside of his dimensions?"

	"Good question," said Orne.

	"What if the being in the wall fashioned a device that projected into our dimension?" asked Emolirdo. "lie would be like the blind men studying the legendary elephant. His device would respond in ways that do not fit his dimension. He would have to set up all kinds of new postulates."

	Under the bandage, the skin of Orne's neck began to itch maddeningly. He resisted the desire to probe there with a finger. Bits of the folklore from Chargon flitted through his memory: the magicians, the little people who granted wishes in a way that made the wisher regret his desires, the cavern where the sick were cured. The quick-heal itching lured his finger with almost irresistible force. He groped for a pill on his bed-stand, gulped it down, waited for the relief.

	Presently, Orne said: "What's this thing you've put in my neck?"

	"It has a dual purpose," said Emolirdo. "It signals the presence of psi activity—psi fields, we call them. And it's an amplifier, giving a boost to any latent ... ah, talents you may have. It'll often permit a novice to produce some of the minor psi effects."

	Orne rubbed the outside of his neck bandage, forced his hand away. "Such as what?"

	"Oh ... resisting psi-induced emotions, detecting motivation in others through some of their emotions. It may give a small degree of prescience. You'd be able to detect extremes of personal danger when they were still some distance off in time. You'll understand about this after the parahypnoid session we're going to give you."

	Orne felt something tingling in his neck. There was a vacant sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Prescience?"

	"You'd recognize it at first as a kind of fear ... a peculiar kind of fear. Sometimes it's like hunger, though you've just eaten. Something feels like it's lacking ... inside you, or in the air you breathe. If you feel it, you'll recognize it. It'll always be a warning of danger. Very trustworthy."

	Orne's skin felt clammy. There was the vacant sensation in his stomach. The air of the room tested stale. His immediate reaction was to reject the sensations and all of the suggestive conversation, but there was still the fact of Stetson. Nobody in the I-A was more coldly objective or quicker to toss out mumbo-jumbo. And Stetson obviously accepted this psi thing. Stetson could be trusted. That was the major fact keeping Orne from booting this ... this ...

	"You look a little pale," said Emolirdo.

	"Probably." Orne managed a tight smile. "I think I feel your prescience thing right now."

	"Describe your sensations." Orne obeyed.

	"You feel irritated, jumpy without apparent reason," said Emolirdo. "Odd that it should happen so soon, before the training, that is. Unless ..." He pursed his lips.

	"Unless what?"

	"Unless your ... ah, talent were quite strong. And unless psi training itself were actually dangerous to you. Wouldn't that be interesting, though?"

	"Yeah. Fascinating. I can hardly wait to get through this training and be on my way to Amel."

	It was reluctance, Orne decided. There was no real excuse to wait up here on the transport's ramp any longer. Obviously, he had overcome the first staggering impact of the psi fields of Amel. There was still the prescient awareness of danger—like a sore tooth signaling its presence. The day was hot, and the toga was too heavy. He was soaked in perspiration.

	Damn! If I wait too long they'll get suspicious.

	He took a half step toward the escalfield, still fighting the reluctance. His nostrils caught an acrid bite of incense that had evaded the oil-and-ozone dominance of the landing area. In spite of counter conditioning and carefully nurtured agnosticism, he felt an abrupt sensation of awe. Amel exuded an aura of magic that defied cynical disbelief.

	The chanting and keening that lifted fog-like from the religious warren sparked memory fragments. Shards of his childhood on Chargon tumbled through Orne's mind: the religious processions on holy days ... the image of Mahmud glowering down from the kiblah ... and the azan ringing out across the great square on the day of Bairam—

	"Let no blasphemy occur nor permit a blasphemer to live! May such a one be accursed of God and of the blessed from the sole of his foot to the crown of his heady sleeping and waking, sitting and standing ..." Orne shook his head. Yes, bow down to Ullua, the star wanderer of the Ayrbs, he thought. Now would be a great time for him to get religion !

	But the roots were deep. He tightened the belt of his toga, strode forward into the escalfield. Its feathery touch dropped him to the ground, disgorged him beside a covered walkway. A cluster of priests and students were pressed into the thin shade of the cover. They began to separate as Orne approached, leaving in pairs—a white-clad priest with each student.

	One priest remained facing Orne. He was tall and with a thick body. There was a heavy feeling about him as though the ground would shudder when he walked. His head was shaved bald. Deep lines scratched patterns on his wide, jowled face. Dark eyes glowered from beneath overhanging grey brows.

	"Are you Orne?" the priest rumbled.

	Orne stepped under the walkway. "That's right." There was a yellowish gleam to the priest's skin.

	"I am Bakrish," said the priest. He put his slab hands on his hips, glared at Orne. "You missed the ceremony of lustration."

	Something about the heavy figure, the glowering face reminded Orne abruptly of an I-A gunnery sergeant he had known. The thought restored Orne's sense of balance, brought a grin to his face.

	"Sorry," said Orne. "I was enjoying the view."

	"You find something amusing?" demanded Bakrish.

	"This humble face reflects happiness," said Orne, "Happiness to be on Amel."

	"Oh. Well, come along." Bakrish turned away, strode off under the covered walk, not looking to see if Orne followed.

	Orne shrugged, set off after the priest, found that he had to force himself to a half trot to keep up with the other's long-legged stride.

	No moving walks, no hop-alongs, thought Orne. This place is primitive.

	The walk jutted like a long beak from a windowless, low stone building. Double doors opened into a dim hall. The doors had to be opened manually, and one of them creaked. Bakrish led the way past rows of narrow cells open to the hall, came finally to another door. It let them into a cell slightly larger than the others, big enough to accommodate one small desk and two chairs. Pink light filled the room from concealed exciters.

	Bakrish crossed the cell ahead of Orne, crunched into the chair behind the desk, motioned for Orne to take the other seat. "Sit down."

	Orne complied, but with a sudden feeling of wariness. Something here failed to add up for his highly tuned senses.

	"As you know, we here on Amel live under the Ecumenical Truce," said Bakrish. "Your intelligence service will have briefed you on some of the significance behind that fact, of course."

	Orne concealed his surprise at this turn in the conversation. He nodded.

	Bakrish smiled. "The main thing you need to understand about it now is that there is nothing unusual in my being assigned as your guru."

	"I don't understand."

	"You are a follower of Mah-mud. I am a Hynd and a Wali, under divine protection. Under the Truce, all of us serve the one God who has many names. You understand?"

	"I see."

	Bakrish nodded. "When Emolirdo told us about you, we had to see for ourselves, of course. That is why you are here."

	Emolirdo a traitor! Iron control kept Orne from revealing his shock.

	"You pose a fascinating problem," said Bakrish.

	Anger coursed through Orne. What a foul up! He set his face in a wolfish grin, probed with his newly awakened psi awareness for some weakness here, an emotion, a clue to the feeling of oddness about the room. "I'm so happy you've found something to keep you occupied," he said with resentment.

	Bakrish leaned forward, glanced behind Orne, nodded. In the same instant, Orne felt the sensation of oddness dissipate. He whirled, caught a flicker of robe and a wheeled object being pulled away from the open door.

	"That's better," said Bakrish. "Now we have the tensor phase pattern of your booster equipment. We can nullify it at will, or destroy you with it."

	Orne froze. What kind of a bomb did Emolirdo have the medics plant in me?

	"However, we do not wish to destroy you," said Bakrish. "For the time being we will not tamper with your equipment. We want you to use it."

	Orne drew two deep breaths. Without volition, his psi training took over. He concentrated on the inner focus for calmness. It came like a wash of cool water: icy, observant calm.

	Boxed! All it took was one traitor! The thoughts blazed through his mind. But outwardly he remained calm, alert.

	"Have you nothing to say?" asked Bakrish.

	"Yes." Orne cleared his throat. "I want to see the Halmyrach Abbod. I've got to find out why you're trying to destroy the ..."

	"All in due time," said Bakrish.

	"Where's the Abbod?"

	"Nearby. When the time comes for you to have your audience with him it will be arranged."

	"Meanwhile, I just wait for you to blow me up!"

	"Blow you ..." Bakrish looked puzzled. "Believe me, my young friend, we have no desire to cause your destruction. That is merely a necessary precaution. Now, there are two facts here: You want to find out about us, and we want to find out about you. The best way for both of us to accomplish our aims would be for you to submit to your ordeal. You really don't have any choice, of course."

	"You mean I let you lead me around like a grifka being brought to the slaughterhouse ! That or you put an end to me immediately!"

	"It would be better if you just looked on this as an interesting test," murmured Bakrish. "Your bloody thoughts really aren't suitable."

	"Somehow, I'm going to find out what makes you tick," grated Orne. "When I do, I'm going to smash your mainspring!"

	Bakrish frowned, swallowed. "You must be exposed to the holy mysteries," he said. His yellow skin paled.

	Orne leaned back. His sudden burst of bravado had left an aftermath of embarrassment. He thought: This joker should've laughed at me. He's in the driver's seat. But my threat frightened him. Why?

	"Do you submit to your ordeal?" asked Bakrish.

	Orne pushed himself up out of the chair. "You said it for me: I really don't have any choice."

	"This is the cell of meditation-on-faith," said Bakrish. "Stretch out on the floor, flat on your back. Do not try to sit up or stand until I give you permission. It is very dangerous."

	"Why?" Orne looked around the room. It was high and narrow. Walls, floor and ceiling looked like white stone veined by thin brown lines like insect tracks. Pale white light, sourceless and as flat as skimmed milk, filled the room. A damp stone smell permeated the place.

	"Flat on your back you are relatively safe," said Bakrish.

	"Accept my word for it. I have seen the results of disbelief."

	Orne cleared his throat, feeling suddenly cold. He sat down, stretched out on the floor. The stone was chill against his back.

	"Once started on your ordeal, the only way out is to go through it," said Bakrish.

	"Have you been through this?" asked Orne.

	"But of course."

	Orne probed for the other's motive-emotions, met a sense of cold sympathy ... if the psi awareness could be trusted. After all, much of it had come from Emolirdo, a traitor.

	"So I've crawled into your tunnel ... or is it a cave?" said Orne. "What's at the other end?"

	"That's for you to discover."

	"You're using me to find out something, Bakrish. What if I refuse to cooperate? Is that stalemate?"

	A sense of tentative regret radiated from Bakrish. "When the scientist sees that his experiment has failed, he is not necessarily barred from further experiments ... with new equipment. You truly have no choice."

	"Then let's get on with it."

	"As you will." Bakrish moved to the end wall. It swung open to reveal the outer hallway, closed behind the priest. There was an abrupt feeling of increased pressure.

	Orne studied the cell. It appeared to be about four meters long, two meters wide, some ten meters high. But the mottled stone ceiling appeared blurred. Perhaps the room was higher. The pale lighting could be designed for confusing the senses. He probed the prescient sense, felt its amorphous twinge—peril.

	The priest's voice suddenly filled the room, booming from a concealed speaker: "You are enclosed within a psi machine. This ordeal is ancient and exacting: to test the quality of your faith. Failure means loss of your life, your soul or both."

	Orne clenched his hands. Perspiration made his palms oily. An abrupt increase in background psi activity registered on his booster.

	"Immerse yourself in the mystical stream," said Bakrish. "Of what are you afraid?"

	Orne thought of the pressures focused on him, all the evidence of deep and hidden intent. "I don't like to act just on faith. I like to know where I'm going."

	"Sometimes you must go for the sake of going," said Bakrish. "In fact, you do this all the time when ...

	"Nuts!"

	"When you press the stud to turn on a room's lights, you act on faith that there will be light," said Bakrish.

	"Faith in past experience."

	"And what about the first time?"

	"J guess I must've been surprised at the light."

	"Then prepare yourself for surprises, because there is no lighting mechanism in your cell. The light you see there exists because you desire it, and for no other reason."

	"What ..."

	Darkness engulfed the room.

	Bakrish's voice filled the darkness with a husky whisper. "Have faith."

	The prescient warning gripped Orne: writhing terror. He fought down the desire to jump up and dash for the door-wall. The priest's warning, grimly matter of fact, had rung true. Death lay in flight.

	Smokey glowing appeared near the ceiling, coiled down toward Orne.

	Light f

	Orne lifted his right hand. He couldn't see the hand. The radiance cast no light into the rest of the cell. The sense of pressure in the cell increased with each heartbeat.

	Light if I wish it? Well ... it became dark when I doubted.

	He thought of the milky light.

	A shadowless illumination flickered into being, but near the ceiling where he had seen the glowing radiance there boiled a black cloud. It beckoned like the outer darkness of space.

	Orne froze, staring.

	Darkness filled the room.

	Again, radiance glowed at the ceiling.

	The claxon of prescient fear cried through Orne. He closed his eyes in the effort of concentration. Immediately fear lessened. His eyes snapped open in shock.

	Fear!

	And the ghostly glowing crawled nearer. Eyes closed.

	Still the sense of peril, but without immediacy.

	Fear equals darkness. Even in the light, darkness beckons. He stilled his breathing, concentrated on the inner focus. Faith? Blind faith? What do they want of me? Fear brings the dark.

	He forced his eyes to open, stared into the lightless void of the cell. Radiance coiling downward. Even in the darkness there is light. But it's not really light because I can't see by it.

	It was like a time he could remember—long ago in childhood: darkness in his own bedroom. Mooncast shadows transmuted to monsters. He had clenched his eyes tightly closed, fearful that if he opened them he would see a thing too horrible to face.

	Orne stared up at the coiling radiance. False light. Like false hope. The radiance coiled backward into itself, receding. Utter darkness equals utter fear.

	The radiance winked out.

	Dank, stone-smelling darkness permeated the cell, a darkness infected with creeping sounds—claw scrabbles and hisses, little slitherings ...

	Orne invested the sounds with every shape of terror his imagination could produce; poisonous lizards, insane monsters ... The peril sense enfolded him, and he hung there suspended in it.

	Bakrish's hoarse whisper snaked through the darkness: "Orne? Are your eyes open?"

	His lips trembled with the effort to speak: "Yes."

	"What do you see, Orne?"

	An image suddenly danced onto the black field in front of Orne: Bakrish in an eerie red light, leaping and capering, grimacing ...

	"What do you see?" hissed Bakrish.

	"You. I see you in Saduirs inferno."

	"The hell of Mahmud?"

	"Yes. Why?"

	"Orne, do you not prefer the light?"

	"Why do I see you?"

	"Orne, 1 beg of you! Choose the ..."

	"Why do I see you in ..." Orne broke off. He had the feeling that something peered inside him with heavy deliberation, checked his thoughts, his vital processes, weighed them. He knew suddenly that if he willed it, Bakrish would be cast into the deepest torture pit dreamed of in Mali-mud's nightmares. Why not? Then again: why? Who am I to decide? He may not be the right one. Perhaps the Halmyrach Abbod ...

	Groaning, creaking filled the stones of the cell. A tongue of flame lanced out of the darkness above Orne, poised. It cast a ruddy glow on the stone walls.

	Prescient fear clawed at him.

	Faith? He had the inner knowledge—not faith—that in this instant he could do a dangerous and devilish thing: cast a man into eternal torture. Which man and why? No man. He rejected the choice.

	Above him, the dancing flame receded, winked out, leaving only darkness and its slithering noises. Realization swept over Orne: he felt his own fingernails trembling and scrabbling against the stone floor—claws! He laughed aloud, stilled his hands. The claw sound stopped. He felt his feet writhing with involuntary efforts at flight. He stilled his feet, recognized the absence of the suggestive slithering sound. And the hissing! He focused on it, realized that it was his own breath fighting through clenched teeth.

	Orne laughed.

	Light?

	In sudden perversity, he rejected the idea of light. Somehow, he knew this machine was responding to his innermost wishes, but only to those wishes uncensored by a doubting consciousness. Light was his for the willing of it, but he chose the darkness, and in the sudden release of tension, ignored Bakrish's warning, got to his feet. He smiled into the darkness, said: "Open the door, Bakrish."

	Again, Orne felt something peer inside him, and recognized it for a psi probe—greatly magnified ~ from the training probe used by Emolirdo. Someone was checking his motives.

	"I'm not afraid," said Orne. "Open the door."

	A scraping sound grated in the cell. Light fanned inward from the hall as the end wall swung open. Orne looked out at Bakrish, a shadow framed against the light like a robed statue.

	The Hynd stepped forward, jerked to a halt as he saw Orne standing.

	"Did you not prefer the light, Orne?"

	"No."

	"But you must have understood this test: you're standing ... unafraid of my warning."

	"This machine obeys my uncensored will," said Orne. "That's faith: the uncensored will."

	"You do understand. And still you preferred the dark?"

	"Does that bother you, Bakrish?"

	"Yes, it does."

	"Good."

	"1 see." Bakrish bowed. "Thank you for sparing me."

	"You know about that?"

	"I felt flames and heat, smelled the burning ..." The priest shook his head. "The life of a guru here is not safe. Too many possibilities."

	"You were safe," said Orne. "I censored my will."

	"The most enlightened degree of faith," murmured Bakrish.

	"Is that all there is to my ordeal?" Orne then glanced around at the darkened cell walls.

	"Merely the first step," said Bakrish. "There are seven steps in all: the test of faith, the test of the miracle's two faces, the test of dogma and ceremony, the test of ethics, the test of the religious ideal, the test of service to life, and the test of the mystical experience. They do not necessarily fall in that order."

	Orne felt the absence of immediate prescient fear. He tasted a sense of exhilaration. "Then let's get on with it."

	Bakrish sighed. "Holy Empress defend me," he muttered, then: "Yes, of course. Your next step: the miracle's two faces."

	And the prescient sense of peril began to flicker within Orne. Angrily, he put it aside. I . have faith, he thought. Faith in myself. I've proved I can conquer my fear.

	"Well, what're we waiting for?" he demanded.

	"Come along," said Bakrish. He turned with a swirl of his white robe, led the way down the hall.

	Orne followed. "By miracle, do you mean psi focus?"

	"What difference does it make what we call it?" asked Bakrish.

	"If I solve all your riddles, do" you take the heat off the I-A?" asked Orne.

	"The heat ... Oh, you mean ... That is a question for the Halmyrach Abbod to decide."

	"He's nearby, eh?"

	"Very near."

	Bakrish stopped before a heavy bronze door at the end of the hall, turned an ornate handle at one side, threw his shoulder against the door. It creaked open. "We generally don't come this way," he said. "These two tests seldom are included in the same ordeal."

	Orne blinked, followed the priest through the door into a gigantic round room. Stone walls curved away to a domed ceiling far above them. In the high curve of the ceiling slit windows admitted thin shafts of light that glittered downward through gilt dust. Orne followed the light downward to its focus on a straight barrier wall about twenty meters high and forty or fifty meters long, chopped off and looking incomplete in the middle of the room. The wall was dwarfed in the immensity of the domed space.

	Bakrish circled around behind Orne, swung the heavy door closed, nodded toward the central barrier. "We go over there." He led the way.

	Their slapping footsteps echoed off the walls. The damp stone smell was strong, like a bitter taste. Orne glanced left, saw doors evenly spaced around the room's perimeter, bronze doors like the one they had entered.

	As they approached the barrier, Orne centered his attention on it. The surface looked to be a smooth gray plastic—featureless, but somehow menacing.

	Bakrish stopped about ten meters from the middle of the wall. Orne stopped beside him, became conscious of prescient fear: something to do with the wall. Within him there was a surging and receding like waves on a beach. Emolirdo had described this sensation and interpreted it: Infinite possibilities in a situation basically perilous.

	A blank wall?

	"Orne, is it not true that a man should obey the orders of his superiors?" Bakrish's voice carried a hollow echo in the immensity of the room.

	Orne's throat felt dry. He cleared it, rasped: "I suppose so ... if the orders make sense. Why?"

	"You were sent here as a spy, Orne. By rights, anything that happens to you is no concern of ours. Is that not so?"

	Orne tensed. "What're you driving at?"

	Bakrish looked down at Orne, large eyes dark and glistening. "Sometimes these machines frighten us. Their methods are so unpredictable, and anyone who comes within the field of one of them can be subjected to its power."

	"Like back there in that cell when you hung at the edge of the inferno?"

	Bakrish shuddered. "Yes."

	"But I still have to go through with this thing?"

	"You must. It is the only way you will accomplish what you were sent here to do ... and ... you could not stop now, anyway. The ball-is rolling down the hill. You don't even want to stop."

	Orne tested this against his own feelings, shrugged. "I am curious."

	"The thing is, Orne, you suspect us and fear us. These lead to hate. We saw that back there at the cell. But hate can be supremely dangerous to you in this present test. You ..."

	A scraping sound behind them brought Orne's attention around. Two oblate brothers deposited a heavy, square-armed chair on the stone floor facing the wall. They cast frightened glances at Orne, the wall, turned and scampered toward one of the heavy bronze doors.

	"As I was saying, Orne, I am merely following orders here. I beg of you not to hate me, nor to hate anyone. You should not harbor hate during this test."

	"What frightened those two fellows who brought that chair?" asked Orne. He watched the pair scurry through their door, slam it behind them.

	"They know the reputation of this test. The very fabric of our world is woven into it. Many things can hang in the balance here. Infinite possibilities."

	Cautiously, Orne probed for Bakrish's motives. The priest obviously sensed the probe. He said: "I am afraid, Orne. Is that what you wanted to know?"

	"Why are you afraid?"

	"In my ordeal, this test proved nearly fatal. I had sequestered a core of hate. This place clutches at me even now." He shivered.

	Orne found the priest's fright unsteadying. He looked at the chair. It was squat, ugly. An inverted metallic bowl projected on an arm over the seat. "What's the chair?"

	"You must sit down in it."

	Orne glanced at the gray wall, at Bakrish, back to the chair. There was tension here as though each heartbeat pumped pressure into the room. The surging and receding of his prescient sense increased, but he felt himself committed to this blind course.

	"Sometimes we must go for the sake of going." The words rang in his memory. Who had said them?

	He crossed to the chair, turned, sat down. In the act of sitting, the prescient sense of peril came to full surge, stayed. But there was no time for a change of heart. Metal bands leaped from concealed openings in the chair, pinned his arms, circled his chest and legs. Orne surged against them, twisting.

	"Do not struggle," warned Bakrish. "You cannot escape."

	Orne sank back.

	"Please, Orne: you must not hate us. Your danger is magnified manyfold if you do. Hate could make you fail."

	"Dragging you down with me, eh?"

	"Quite possibly," muttered Bakrish. "One never quite escapes the consequences of his hate." He stepped behind the chair, lowered the inverted bowl over Orne's head. "If you move suddenly or try to jerk away the microfilament probes within this bowl will cause you great pain."

	Orne felt something touch his scalp, crawling, tickling. "What is this?"

	"One of the great psi machines." Bakrish adjusted something on the chair. Metal clicked. "Observe the wall. It can manifest your most latent urges. You can bring about miracles, call forth the dead, do many wonders. You may be on the brink of a deep mystical experience."

	Orne swallowed in a dry throat. "You mean if I wanted my father to appear here he would?"

	"He is deceased?"

	"Yes."

	"Then it could happen. But I must caution you. The things you see here will not be hallucination. And one thing more: If you are successful in calling forth the dead, you must realize that what you call forth will be that dead person, and yet not that dead person."

	The back of Orne's right arm itched. He longed to scratch it. "How can ..."

	"The paradox is like this: any living creature manifested here through your will must be invested with your psyche as well as its own. The original matter is not present. Therefore, the new matter will impinge on your matter. All of your memories will be available to whatever living flesh you call forth."

	"But ..."

	"Hear me out, Orne. In some cases, your creates may fully understand their duality. Others will reject your half out of hand because they have not the capacity. Some may even lack sentience."

	Orne felt the fear driving Bakrish's words, sensed truth in them. He believes this, anyway. He said: "But why trap me here in this chair?"

	"It's important that you do not run away from yourself." Bakrish's hand fell on Orne's shoulder. "I must leave you now. May grace guide you."

	There was a swishing of robes as the priest strode away. Presently, a door closed, its sound a hollow sharpness. Orne felt infinitely alone.

	A faint humming became audible—distant bee sound. The booster in his neck tugged sharply, and he felt the flare of a psi field around him. The barrier wall blinked alive to the color of grass green, and immediately began to crawl with iridescent purple lines. They squirmed and writhed like countless glowing worms trapped in a visquid green aquarium.

	Orne drew in a shuddering breath. Prescient fear hammered at him. The crawling purple lines held hypnotic fascination. Some appeared to waft out toward him. The shape of Diana's face glowed momentarily among them. He tried to hold the image, saw it melt away.

	Because she's alive? he wondered.

	Shapeless deformities squirmed across the wall, coalesced abruptly into the outline of a shriggar, the saw-toothed lizard that Chargonian mothers invoked to frighten their children into obedience. The image took on more substance, developed yellow scale plates, stalk-eyes.

	Time suddenly slowed to a grinding, creeping pace within Orne. He thought back to his childhood on Chargon: terror memories.

	But even then shriggar were extinct, he told himself.

	Memory persisted down a long corridor full of empty echoes that suggested gibbering insanity. Down ... down ... down ... He remembered childish laughter, a kitchen, his mother. And there were his sisters screaming derisively. And he remembered himself cowering, ashamed. He couldn't have been more than three years old. He had come running into the house to babble that he had seen a shriggar ... in the deep shadows of the creek gully.

	Laughing girls! Hateful little girls! "He thinks he saw a shriggar!" "Hush now, you two!"

	On the green wall, the shriggar outline bulged outward. A taloned foot extended. It stepped from the wall onto the stone floor: half again as tall as a man, stalked eyes swivelling right, left ...

	Orne jerked out of his reverie, felt sudden throbbing in his head as movement disturbed the microfilament probes.

	There was the scratching of talons on stone as the shriggar took three tentative steps away from the wall. Orne tasted the fear within himself, thought: Some ancestor of mine was hunted by such a creature! The panic goes too deep! It was a clear thought that flickered through his mind while every sense remained focused on the nightmare lizard.

	Its yellow scales rasped with every breath it took. The narrow, birdlike head twisted to one side, lowered. Its beak mouth opened to reveal a forked tongue and saw teeth.

	Primordial instinct pressed Orne back in his chair. He smelled the stink of the creature: sickly sweet with overtones of sour cheese.

	The shriggar bobbed its head, coughed: "Chunk!" Its stalk eyes moved, centered on Orne. One taloned foot lifted and it plunged into motion toward the figure trapped in the chair. Its high-stepping lope stopped about four meters away, and the lizard cocked its head to one side while it examined Orne.

	He stared up at it, his only bodily sensation a vague awareness of tightness across chest and stomach. The beast stink was almost overpowering.

	Behind the shriggar, the green wall continued to wriggle with iridescent purple lines. It was a background blur on Orne's eyes. The lizard moved closer, and he smelled a draft of breath as fetid as swamp ooze.

	No matter what Bakrish said, this has to be hallucination, he told himself. Shriggar have been extinct for centuries. But then another thought blinked at him: The priests could have bred zoo specimens to maintain the species. How does anyone know what's been done lie re in the name of religion?

	The shriggar cocked its head to the other side.

	At the green wall, lines solidified. Two children dressed in scanty sun aprons skipped out onto the stone floor. Their footsteps echoed, and childish giggling sounded in the vast emptiness. One child appeared to be about five years old, the other slightly older—possibly eight. The older child carried a small bucket with a toy shovel protruding from it. They stopped, looked around, Confused.

	The shriggar turned its head, bent its stalk eyes toward them. It swivelled its body back toward the wall, poised one foot, lunged into its high-stepping lope.

	The youngest child looked up, squealed.

	The shriggar increased its speed.

	Shocked, Orne recognized the children: his two sisters, the ones who had laughed at his fearful cries on that long-ago day. It was as though he had brought this incident to life for the sole purpose of venting his hate, inflicting on these children the thing they had derided.

	The lizard swooped down, blocked the children from view. Orne tried to close his eyes, could not. There came a shriek cut off with abrupt finality. Unable to stop, the shriggar hit the green wall, hi cited into it!

	The older child lay sprawled on the floor still clutching her bucket and toy shovel. A red smear spread across the stones beside her. She stared across the room at Orne, slowly got to her feet.

	No matter what Bakrish said, tli is can't be real, thought Orne. Yet he felt an odd wash of relief that the shriggar had vanished.

	The child began walking toward Orne, swinging her bucket. Her right hand clutched the toy shovel. She stared fixedly at Orne. He brought her name into his mind: Lurie, my sister, Lurie. But she's a grown woman non\ married and with children of her own.

	Flecks of sand marked the child's legs and cheeks. One of her two blonde braids hung down partly undone. She looked angry, shivering with an eight-year-old's fury. About two meters away she stopped.

	"You did that!" she screamed.

	Orne shuddered at the madness in the child voice. She lifted the bucket, hurled its-contents at him. He shut his eyes, felt coarse sand deluge his face, pelt the silver dome, run down his cheeks. Pain coursed through him as he shook his head, disrupting the microfilaments against his scalp. Through slitted eyes he saw the dancing lines on the green wall leap into wild motion—bending, twisting, flinging. Orne stared at the purple frenzy through a red haze of pain. And he remembered the guru's warning that any life he called forth here would contain his own psyche as well as its own.

	"Lurie," he said, "please try to ..."

	"You tried to get into my head!" she screamed. "But I pushed you out!"

	Bakrish had said it: "Others will reject your half out of hand because they have not the capacity." This dual create had rejected him because her eight-year-old mind could not accept such an experience. And Orne realized that he was taking this scene as reality and not as hallucination.

	"I'm going to kill you!" screamed Lurie.

	She hurled herself at him, the toy shovel swinging. Light glinted from the tiny blade. It slashed down on his right arm. Abrupt pain! Blood darkened the sleeve of his gown.

	Orne felt himself caught up in a nightmare. Words leaped to his lips: "Stop that, Lurie! God will punish you!"

	Movement behind the child. He looked up.

	A toga-clad figure in red turban came striding out of the green wall: a tall man with gleaming eyes, the face of a tortured ascetic—long gray beard parted in the sufi manner.

	Orne whispered the name: "Mahmud!"

	A gigantic tri-di of that face dominated the inner mosque of Chargon.

	God, will punish you!

	Orne remembered standing beside his father, staring up at the image in the mosque, bowing to it.

	The Mahmud figure strode up behind Lurie, caught her arm as she started another blow. She turned, struggling, but he held her, twisted the arm slowly, methodically. A bone snapped with sickening sharpness. The child screamed and screamed and kept screaming.

	"Don't!" protested Orne.

	Mahmud had a low, rumbling voice. He said: "One does not command God's agent to stop His just punishment." He held the child's hair, stooped, caught up the fallen shovel, slashed it across her neck. The screaming stopped. Blood spurted over his gown. He let the now limp figure fall to the floor, dropped the shovel, turned to Orne.

	Nightmare! thought Orne. This has to be a nightmare!

	"You are thinking this is a nightmare," rumbled Mahmud.

	And Orne remembered: this creature, too, if it were real, could think with his reactions and memories. He rejected the thought. "You are a nightmare!"

	"Your create had done its work," said Mahmud. "It had to be disposed of, you know, because it was embodied by hate, not by love."

	Orne felt sickened, guilty, angry. He remembered that this test involved understanding miracles. "This was a miracle?" he demanded.

	"What is a miracle?" asked Mahmud.

	Abruptly, an air of suspense enclosed Orne. Prescient fear sucked at his vitals.

	"What is a miracle?" repeated Mahmud.

	Orne felt his heart hammering. He couldn't seem to focus on the words, stammered: "Are you really an agent of God?"

	"Quibbles and labels!" barked Mahmud. "Don't you know about labels? An expediency! There's something beyond your labels. Where the zone of the word stops, something else begins."

	A tingling sense of madness prickled through Orne. He felt himself balanced on the edge of chaos. "What is a miracle?" he whispered. And he thought back to Emolirdo: words ... chaos ... energy. Psi equals miracle! No. More labels. Energy.

	"Energy from chaos moulded into duration," he said.

	"Very close for words," murmured Mahmud. "Is a miracle good or evil?"

	"Everybody says miracles are good." Orne took a deep breath. "But they don't have to be either. Good and evil are all tied up in motives."

	"Man has motives," said Mahmud.

	"Man can be good or evil in his miracles by any definition he wants," said Orne.

	Mahmud lifted his head, stared down his nose at Orne. "Yes?"

	After a moment of tension, Orne returned the stare. Success in this test had taken on a deep meaning for him. He could feel the inner goading. "Do you want me to say that men create gods to enforce their definitions of good and evil?"

	"Do I?"

	"So I've said it!" "Is that all you have to say?"

	Orne had to force his attention onto the meanings of words. It was like wading upstream in a swift river. So easy to relax and forget it all. His thoughts showed a tendency to scatter. Is what all I have to say?

	"What is it about men's creations?" demanded Mahmud. "What is it about any creation?"

	Orne recalled the nightmare sequence of events in this test. He wondered: Could this psi machine amplify the energy we call religion? Bakrish said I could bring the dead to life here.

	Religion's supposed to have a monopoly on that. And the original Mahmuad's certainly dead. Been dead for centuries. Provided it isn't hallucination, this whole thing makes a peculiar kind of sense. Even then ...

	"You know the answer," said Mahmud.

	Orne nodded. "Creations may act independently of their creators."

	"Ah-hah! You have learned this lesson!"

	Mahmud stooped, lifted the dead child figure. There was an odd tenderness to his motions. He turned away, marched back into the writhings of the green wall. Silence blanketed the room. The dancing purple lines became almost static, moved in viscous torpor.

	Orne felt drained of energy. His arms and legs ached as though he had been using their muscles to the absolute limit. He felt that he must rest for awhile.

	A bronze clangor echoed behind him, and the green wall returned to its featureless gray. Footsteps slapped against the stone floor. Hands worked at the metallic bowl, lifted it off his head. The straps that held him to the chair fell away. Bakrish came around to stand in front of Orne.

	"Did I pass this test?" asked Orne.

	"You are alive and still in possession of your soul, are you not?"

	"How do I know if I still have my soul?"

	"One knows by the absence," murmured Bakrish. He glanced down at Orne's wounded arm. "We must get that bandaged. It's night and time for the next step in your ordeal."

	"Night?" Orne glanced up at the slitted windows in the dome, saw darkness punctured by stars. He looked around, realized that shadowless exciter light had replaced the daylight. "Time goes quickly here."

	"For some ... not for others."

	"I feel so tired."

	"We'll give you an energy pill when we fix the arm. Come along."

	"What's this next test?"

	"You must walk through the shadow of dogma and ceremony, Orne. For it is written that motive is the father of ethics, and caution is the brother of fear ..." he paused "... and fear is the daughter of pain."

	There was a nip of chill in the night air. Orne felt thankful now for the thickness of the robe around him. A cooing of birds sounded from the deeper shadows of a park area ahead. Beyond the park arose a hill outlined against the stars, and up the hill marched a snake-track of moving lights.

	Bakrish spoke from beside Orne. "The lights are carried by students. Each student has a pole, and on its top a translucent box. The four sides of the boxes each show a different color: red, blue, yellow and green."

	Orne watched the lights. They flickered like weird phosphorescent insects in the dark. "What's the reason for that?"

	"They show their piety."

	"I mean the four colors?"

	"Ah. Red for the blood you dedicate to your god, blue for the truth, yellow for the richness of religious experience, and green for the growth of that experience."

	"So they march up the mountain."

	"Yes. To show their piety." Bakrish took Orne's arm. "The procession is coming out of the city through a gate in the wall over here. There will be a light for you there. Come along."

	They crossed the park, stopped by a narrow gate. Bakrish took a pole from a rack beside the wall, twisted the handle and light glowed at the top. "Here."

	The pole felt slippery smooth in Orne's hand. The light above him was turned to cast a red glow on the people passing through the gate: a student, then a priest, a student, then a priest ... Their faces carried a uniform gravity.

	The end of the procession appeared. "Stay behind that priest," said Bakrish. He urged Orne into the line, fell in behind.

	Immediately, prescient fear tugged at Orne's energy. He stumbled, faltered, heard Bakrish grunt: "Keep up! Keep up!"

	Orne recovered his balance. His light cast a dull green reflection off the back of the priest ahead. A murmuring, shuffling sounded from the procession. Insects chittered in the tall grass beside their trail. Orne looked up. The bobbing lights wove a meander line up the hill.

	The prescient fear grew stronger. Orne fell fragmented. Part of him cowered sickly with the thought that he could fail here. Another part groped out for the chimera of this ordeal. He sensed tremendous elation only a heartbeat away, but this only piled fuel on his fear. It was as though he struggled to awaken from a nightmare within a nightmare, knowing that the pseudo-awakening would only precipitate him into new terror.

	The line halted. Orne stumbled to a stop, focused on what was happening around him. Students bunched into a semicircle. Their lights bounced multicolored gleams off a stone stupa about twice the height of a man. A bearded priest, his head covered by a red three-cornered hat, his body vague motions under a long black robe, stood in front of the stupa like a dark judge at some mysterious trial.

	Orne found a place in the outer ring of students, peered between two of them.

	The red-hatted priest bowed, spoke in a resonant bass voice: "You stand before the shrine of purity and the law, the two inseparables of all true belief. Here before you is a key to the great mystery that can lead you to paradise. Observe well."

	Orne felt tension, then the impact of a strong psi field, realized abruptly that this psi field was different. It beat like a metronome with the cadence of the priest's words rising with the passion of his speech.

	"... the immortal goodness and purity of all the great prophets!" he was saying. "Conceived in purity, born in purity, their thoughts ever bathed in goodness! Untouched by base nature in all their aspects!"

	With a shock, Orne realized that this psi field around him arose not from some machine, but from a blending of emotions in the rapt students here. The emotions he sensed played subtle harmonics on the overriding field. It was as though the priest played these people as a musician might play his instrument.

	"... the eternal truth of this divine dogma!" shouted the priest.

	Incense wafted across Orne's nostrils. A hidden voder began to emit low organ notes: a rumbling, sonorous melody. To the right, Orne saw a graveman circling the ring of students and priests waving a censer. Blue smoke hung over the mass of people in ghostly curls. From off in the darkness a bell tinkled seven times.

	Orne felt like a man hypnotized, thinking: Massed emotions act like a psi field! Great God! What is a psi field?

	The priest raised both arms, fists clenched. "Eternal paradise to all true believers! Eternal damnation to all unbelievers!" His voice lowered. "You students seeking the eternal truth, fall down to your knees and beg for enlightenment. Pray for the veil to be lifted from your eyes."

	There was a shuffling and whisper of robes as the students around Orne sank to their knees. Still Orne stared ahead, all attention caught up in his discovery. Massed emotions act like a psi field!

	A muttering sound passed through the students.

	What is a psi field? Orne asked himself. He felt an answer lurking in a hidden corner of his mind.

	Angry glances were directed at Orne from the kneeling students. The muttering grew louder. Belatedly, Orne became aware of danger. Prescient fear was like a claxon roaring within him.

	Bakrish leaned close, whispered: "There's a trail into the woods off to your right. Better start working toward it."

	At the far side of the kneeling crowd a student lifted an arm, pointed at Orne. "What about him? He's a student!"

	Someone lost in the mass of people shouted: "Unbeliever!" Others took it up like a mindless chant.

	Orne grasped his light standard tightly, began inching his way to the right. Tension in the crowd was like a fuse smoking and sizzling toward a mass of explosives.

	The red-hatted priest glared at Orne, dark face contorted in the kaleidoscopic gleams of the students' lights. He thrust out an arm toward Orne. "Death to unbelievers!"

	Students began climbing to their feet.

	Orne moved faster, stumbling back into the darkness beyond the lights, realized he still carried his own light like a waving beacon. Its colored reflections picked out a side trail leading off into blackness.

	The priest's voice behind him leaped to an insane pitch: "Bring me the head of that blasphemer!"

	Orne hurled his light standard like a spear at the suddenly congested group behind him, whirled, fled along the trail.

	A ragged, demoniacal yell lifted into the night from the mass of students. A thunder of footsteps pounded after him.

	Orne put on more speed. His eyes adjusted to the starlight, and he could just make out the line of the trail curving around the slope to the left. A blotch of deeper blackness loomed ahead. The woods?

	The scrambling mob sound filled the night behind him.

	Under Orne's feet, the path became uneven, twisted to the right down to a steep slope, turned left. He tripped, almost fell. His robe caught on bushes, and he lost seconds freeing himself, glanced back. Another few seconds and the lights of the mob would reveal him. He came to a split second decision, plunged off the trail downhill to the right and parallel to the line of trees. Bushes snagged his robe. He fumbled with the belt, shed the robe.

	"I hear him!" someone screamed from above.

	The mob came to a plunging stop, held silent. Orne's crashing progress dominated the night sounds.

	"Down there!"

	And they were after him.

	"His head!" someone screamed. "Tear his head off him!"

	Orne plunged on, feeling cold and exposed in nothing but sandals and the light shorts he had worn beneath the robe. The mob was a crashing avalanche on the hill above him: curses, thumps and tearing sounds, waving lights. Abruptly, Orne stumbled onto another trail, was almost across it before he could turn left. His legs ached. There was a tight band across his chest. He plunged into deeper darkness, glanced up to see trees outlined against the stars. The mob was a confused clamor behind him.

	Orne stopped, listened to the voices: "Part of you go that way! We'll go this way!"

	He drew in gasping breaths, looked around. Like a hunted animal! he thought. And he remembered Bakrish's words: "... caution is the brother of fear." He smiled grimly, slipped off the trail downhill to the right, ducked beneath low limbs, crawled behind a log. Moving softly, silently, he dug dirt from beside the log, smeared it over his face and chest.

	Lights came closer along the trail. He heard the angry voices.

	Keeping his head down, Orne wriggled deeper into the trees, arose to his knees, slid down a hill. He worked his way to the right down the hill. The mob sounds grew dim, faded. He crossed another trail, melted through more trees and bushes. His wounded arm ached, and unaccountably this reminded him of the itching sensation he had felt while strapped in the chair ... an itching like a healing wound but before the wound! He felt that he had met another clue, but its meaning baffled him.

	The trees thinned, bushes grew farther apart. He came out onto the flat park area, a lawn underfoot. Beyond the park he saw the wall, and above that streetlights and glowing windows.

	Bakrish said the Halmyrach Abbod is in this city, thought Orne. Why bother with the lower echelons? I'm a field agent of the I-A. It's time I got down to work. And in the back of his mind another thought niggled: Did I pass that last test? Angrily, he pushed the thought aside, crouched as footsteps sounded on a path to his left.

	Through the thin starlight filtered by scattered trees he saw a priest in white walking along the path. Orne flattened himself against a tree, waited. Fragrance of night blooming flowers crossed his nostrils. Birds whirring and rustling sounded from the branches overhead. The footsteps came closer.

	Orne waited for the priest to pass, slipped out behind him.

	Presently, Orne strode toward the wall and the streetlights. The priest's robe hung a little long. He tucked a fold under the belt, smiled. In the dark bushes at the edge of the park lay an unconscious figure bound and gagged with strips torn from his own underclothing.

	Now, tee see what makes this place tick, thought Orne. He paused while still in the shadows of the park, scrubbed at the dirt on his face and chest with an undercorner of the robe, then continued on his way calmly—a priest out on normal business. Or so it would seem.

	No movement showed beyond the low wall. Orne walked along it, entered by a gate, crossed to an alley. A sour smell of cooking tainted the narrow way. The slapping of his sandalled feet made a double echo off the stone walls. Ahead, a standard light showed the crossing of another narrow alley.

	Orne stopped as thin shadows projected across the intersection. Two priests strode into view. Orne hurried ahead, recalled a religious greeting from his own childhood training on Chargon. "Shari'a, gentle sirs," he said. "God grant you peace."

	The pair stopped with their faces in shadows, half turned in his direction. The near one spoke: "May you follow the highway of divine command and guidance." The other said: "May we be of service?"

	"I am from another sector and have been summoned to the Halmyrach Abbod," said Orne. "I seem to have lost my way." He waited, alert to every movement from~ the pair.

	"These alleys are like a maze," said the nearest priest. "But you are near." He turned, and the street light revealed a pinched-in face, narrow eyes. "Take the next turning to your right. Follow that way to the third turning left. That street ends at the court of the Abbod."

	"I am grateful," murmured Orne.

	"A service to one of God's creatures is a service to God," said the priest. "May you find wisdom." The pair bowed, passed around Orne, went on their way.

	Orne smiled into the darkness, thinking: Old I-A maxim—Go straight to the top.

	The street of the Abbod proved to be even narrower than the others. Orne could have stretched out his arms to touch both walls. At the end of the alley a door glowed dimly grey in reflected starlight. The door proved to be locked.

	A locked door? he thought. Can all be sweetness and purity here? He stepped back, peered up at the wall. Dark irregularities there suggested spikes or a similar barrier. His thought was cynically amused: Such civilized appointments on this peaceful planet!

	A glance back up the alley showed it still empty. He shed the priestly robe, swung a hemmed corner up onto the wall, pulled. The robe slipped back slightly, caught. There was a small tearing sound as he tested it, but the robe held. He tried his weight on it. The fabric stretched, but remained firmly caught.

	Scrabbling sounds marked his passage up the wall. He avoided sharp spikes on the top, crouched there. One window in the building wall opposite him glowed with a dim rose color behind loose draperies. He glanced down, saw a starlit courtyard, tall pots in rows topped with flowering bushes. Another glance at the window, and he felt the abrupt stab of prescient fear. Danger there! An air of tension hung over the courtyard.

	Orne freed the robe from the spike, dropped into the courtyard, crouched in shadows while he slipped back into the priest's garment. One deep breath, and he began working his way around the courtyard to the left, hugging the shadows. Vines dropped from a balcony below the lighted window. He tested one, found it too fragile, moved farther along the wall. A draft touched his left cheek. Darker blackness there—an open door.

	Prescient fear tingled along his nerves. Angrily, he put down the fear, slipped through the door into the hall.

	Light glared in the hall!

	Orne froze, then suppressed laughter as he saw the beam switch beside the door. He stepped back: darkness. Forward: light.

	Stairs climbed curving to the left at the end of the hall. Orne moved quietly along the hall, paused at the foot of the stairs, looked up at a heavy wooden door with golden initials on it in bas relief: "H.A."

	Halmyrach Abbod! Right to the top!

	He slipped up the stairs, cautiously gripped the door handle, turned it with the gentlest of pressure. The lock clicked. He threw the door open, lunged through, slammed the door behind him.

	"Ah, Mr. Orne. Very resourceful of you." It was a faintly tenor masculine voice with just an edge of quaver to it.

	Orne slewed around, saw a wide hooded bed. Remote in the bed like a dark-skinned doll sat a man in a nightshirt. He was propped up by a mound of pillows. The face looked familiar. It was narrow, smooth-skinned with a nose that hung like a precipice over a wide mouth. His head was polished dark baldness.

	The wide mouth mowed, and the faintly quavering tenor voice said: "I am the Halmyrach Abbod. You wished to see me?"

	An aura of oldness hung over the man in the bed like an ancient odor of parchment.

	Orne took two steps toward the bed, his prescient fear clamoring. He paused, recalling the resemblance. "You look like Emolirdo."

	"My younger brother, Mr. Orne. Do be seated." He gestured toward a chair beside the bed. "Forgive me for receiving you this way, but I find myself jealous of my rest in these later years."

	Orne moved to the chair.

	Something about this skinny ancient spoke of deadliness beyond anything Orne had ever before encountered. He glanced around the room, saw dark hangings on the walls covered with weird shapes: curves and squares, pyramids, swastikas and a repetitive symbol like an anchor—a vertical line with an arc at its base. The floor was black and white tile of gigantic pentagonal pieces, each at least two meters across. Furniture of polished woods was crowded into the corners: a desk, a low table, chairs, a tape rack and a stand in the shape of a spiral staircase.

	"Have you already summoned your guards?" asked Orne.

	"I have no need of them, Mr. Orne. Please sit down." Again the skeletal arm gestured toward the chair.

	Orne looked at the chair. It had no arms to conceal secret bindings.

	"The chair is just a chair," said the Abbod.

	Orne sat down like a man plunging into cold water, tensed.

	The Abbod smiled. "You see?"

	Orne wet his lips with his tongue. Something was wrong here. This was not working out at all as he had imagined. "I came here to find out some things," he said.

	"Good. We shall share information."

	"Why're you people out to get the I-A?"

	"First things first, Mr. Orne. Have you deciphered the intent of your ordeal?" The Abbod's large eyes, brown and glossy, stared at Orne. "Do you know why you cooperated with us?"

	"What else could I do?"

	"Many things, as you have demonstrated just this night."

	"All right, I was curious."

	"About what?"

	Orne lowered his eyes, felt something quicken within himself.

	"Be honest with yourself, Mr. Orne."

	"I ... I suspected you were teaching me things about myself that ... that I didn't already know."

	"Superb!" The Abbod was smiling. "But you were a product of the Marakian civilization. All aberative tendencies had been removed at an early age by microsurgical atenture. How, then, could there be left anything about yourself that you did not know?"

	"There just was. I found out I could be afraid without knowing why. I ..."

	"Had you ever heard of the thaumaturgic psychiatrists of the ancient Christian era?"

	"What era was that?"

	"Long ago. So long ago that there are left only small, tantalizing fragments to tell us of those days. The Christeros religion derives from that period."

	"What about it?"

	"You have not heard of these ancient practices?"

	"I know there were mental sciences before the microsurgical techniques were developed. Is that what you mean?"

	"In a way." The Abbod fell silent, waiting.

	Orne swallowed. This was not going the way it should have gone. He felt on the defensive, and all he faced was one skinny old man in a ridiculous nightshirt. Anger swelled in Orne. "I came here to find out if you people were fomenting war!"

	"And what if we were? What then? Were you prepared to be the surgeon, to cut out the infection and leave society in its former health?"

	Orne's anger receded.

	"Do you not see the parallel, Mr. Orne?" The Abbod frowned. "The best of a supreme mechanistic science worked you over and declared you sane, balanced, clear. Yet there remained something more that they had not touched."

	"Then there's something the I-A isn't ... touching?"

	"But of course."

	"What?"

	"Most of every iceberg is beneath the surface of the sea," said the Abbod.

	A tiny wave of Orne's anger surged back. Now what's that supposed to mean?"

	"Then let us approach it this way," said the Abbod. "The Guru called Pasawan, who led the Ramakrishnanas into the Great Unifying we know as the Ecumenical Truce, was a follower of the Hynd doctrine. This has always taught the divinity of the soul, the unity of all existence, the oneness of the Godhead and the harmony of all religions."

	Orne stiffened. "You're not going to get anywhere trying to force a lot of religious pap down my throat!"

	"One does not successfully force religion onto anyone," murmured the Abbod. "If it pleases you to do so, you may consider this in the nature of a history lesson."

	Orne sank back in the chair. "So get on with it."

	"Thanks to Pasawan, we believe we have developed here a science of religion. The discovery of psi powers and an interpretation of their significance tends to confirm our postulates."

	"Which are?"

	"That mankind, acting somewhat as a great psi machine, does create a force, an energy system. We may refer to this system as religion, and invest it with an independent focus of action which we will call God. But remember that a god without discipline faces the same fate as the merest human under the same circumstances. It is unfortunate that mankind has always been so attracted by visions of absolutes—even in his gods."

	Orne recalled his experience that night when he had felt a psi field surging out of the emotions in the massed students. He rubbed his chin.

	"Let us consider this idea of absolutes," said the Abbod. "Let us postulate a finite system in which a given being may exhaust all avenues of knowledge—know everything, as it were."

	In an intuitive leap, Orne saw the image being painted by the Abbod's words. He blurted: "It'd be worse than death!"

	"Unutterable, deadly boredom would face such a being.

	It's future would be endless repetition, replaying all of its old tapes. A boredom worse than extinction."

	"But boredom is a kind of stasis," said Orne. "Stasis would lead to chaos."

	"And what do we have?" asked the Abbod. "We have chaos: an infinite system where anything can happen—a place of constant change. And let us recognize one of the inevitable properties of this infinite system. If anything can happen, then our hypothetical being could be extinguished. Quite a price to pay to escape boredom, eh?"

	"All right. I'll go along with your game and your hypothetical being. Couldn't it find some kind of ... well, insurance?"

	"Such as scattering its eggs in an infinite number of baskets, eh?"

	"Life's done just that, hasn't it? It's scattered all over the universe in billions of forms."

	"Yet anything can happen," murmured the Abbod. "So we have two choices: infinite boredom or infinite chance."

	"So what?"

	"Do you wish me to continue with the history lesson?"

	"Go ahead."

	"Now, behind or beneath or projecting into this scattered Life, let us postulate a kind of consciousness that ..." He raised a hand as Orne's face darkened. "Hear me out, Mr. Orne. This other consciousness has been suspected for countless centuries. It has been called such things as 'collective unconscious', 'the para-matman', 'urgrund', 'sana-tana dharma', 'super mind', 'ober palliat' ... It has been called many things."

	"None of which makes it any more real!" snapped Orne. "Let's not mistake clear reasoning for correct reasoning. The fact that a name exists for something doesn't mean that thing exists."

	"You are then an empiricist," said the Abbod. "Good. Did you ever hear the legend of Doubting Thomas?" "No."

	"No matter," said the Abbod. "He was always one of my favorite characters. He refused to take crucial facts on faith."

	"Sounds to me like a wise man."

	The Abbod smiled. "A moment ago I said that mankind generates a power we may call religion, and within that religion a focus of independent action you may refer to as God."

	"Are you sure it isn't the other way around?"

	"That's of no importance at the moment, Mr. Orne. Let us go on to a corollary of the original postulate, which is that mankind also generates prophets in the same way—men who point out the paths that lead to degeneracy and failure. And here we come to a function of our order as we see it. We find these prophets and educate them."

	"You educate men like Mahmud?"

	"Mahmud escaped us."

	Orne suddenly sat up straight. "Are you implying that I'm a prophet?"

	"But of course you are. You're a man with extraordinary powers. Psi instruments have only sharpened and brought to focus what was already there, latent within you."

	Orne slapped a hand onto his right knee. "If this isn't the wildest train of ..."

	"I'm serious, Mr. Orne. In the past, prophets have tended to preach without restriction—uninhibited and really undisciplined. The results were always the same: temporary order that climbed toward greater and greater power, then the inevitable degeneration. We, on the other hand, have another method. We seek the slow, self-disciplined accumulation of data that will extend our science of religion. The broad course ahead of us is already becoming ..."

	"Do you mean to tell me that you people presume to educate prophets?"

	An inner light glittered in the Abbod's glossy eyes. "Mr. Orne, have you any idea how many innocents have been tortured to death in the name of religion during the course of Man's bloody history?"

	Orne shrugged. "There's no way of knowing how many."

	"Countless?"

	"Certainly."

	"That is one of the things which always happens when religions run wild, Mr. Orne. War and bloodshed of countless sorts develop from undisciplined religion."

	"And you think I'm a prophet?"

	"We know you are. It is uncertain whether you could start a new religion, but you are a prophet. We had you out on that mountainside tonight for just one purpose. Your fellow students did not turn out to be prophets. They will never rise above the oblate brotherhood. We know their character, however, and we know your character. Put the two together, and you should have learned a lesson."

	"Sure! That I could get my head torn off by a mob!"

	"That would have, meant you failed the test," said the Abbod. "Now, please be calm and tell me the basic significance of your experience out there."

	"Wait a minute," said Orne. "How'd you know what happened out there?"

	"I knew within seconds when you ran away from the mob," said the Abbod. "I was waiting for the report. We suspected you would come here."

	"Of course. And you just sat here and waited for me."

	"Of course. Now answer the question: What's the basic significance of your expedience?"

	Orne turned his head, looked out of the corners of his eyes at the Abbod. "That there's a great amount of explosive energy in religion. That's what I learned."

	"You already knew this, naturally."

	"Yes. You just made the fact important to me."

	"Mr. Orne, I will tell you about just one of the many prophets we have on Amel. His talents are extreme. He can cause a glowing aura to appear around his body. He can levitate. What we understand as space does not exist for him. Seemingly, he can step from planet to planet as easily as a normal person would cross the street. He can ..."

	"Is this that fellow who was on Wessen? The one the feature scribes went nuts over when ..."

	"I see you've heard of him. We got to him barely in time, Mr. Orne. I ask you now: What would happen if he were to appear to a crowd, say, on Marak, that enlightened center of our government, and display there his full powers?"

	Orne frowned.

	"Is it likely they would put a religious interpretation on his activities?" demanded the Abbod.

	"Well ... probably."

	"Most certainly! And what if he did not fully understand his own talents. Picture it. He knows the true from the false by some inner sense—call it instinct. Around him he sees much that is false. What's he likely to do?"

	"All right!" barked Orne. "He'd probably start a new religion! You've made your point."

	"A wild religion," corrected the Abbod. He glared at Orne, pointed to Orne's left, "Look there!"

	Orne turned, saw a dancing sword of flame about two meters away. Its point was aimed at his head. He shivered, felt perspiration drench his body. Prescient fear screamed within him.

	"The first lone man to tap that source of energy was burned alive as a sorcerer by his fellow humans," said the Abbod. "The ancients thought that flame was alive. They gave it religious significance, called it a salamander. They thought of it as a demon. And when you don't know how to control it, the thing does act like a wild demon with a life and will of its own. It's raw energy, Mr. Orne. I direct it through a psi focus. You act so superior. You think of yourself as a servant of a great organization that prevents war. Yet I—one man alone—could utterly annihilate any military force you could bring against me—and I would use nothing but this ancient discovery!"

	The old man sank back against his pillows, closed his eyes. Presently, he opened his eyes, said: "Sometimes I forget my years, but they never forget me."

	Orne drew in a ragged breath. The deadliness that he had suspected in this skeletal human had taken on form and dimension: deadliness magnified to new dimensions.

	"When Emolirdo informed us of you, we had to bring you here, test you, see for ourselves," murmured the Abbod. "So many do not test out. In your case, though, the tests proved Emolirdo correct. You ..."

	"I did things Emolirdo taught me how to do, and with equipment he had put in my body!"

	"Your equipment has been nullified by a dampening projection since your interview with Bakrish at your arrival," said the Abbod.

	Orne opened his mouth to protest, closed it. He recalled his sensation of strangeness during that first interview. Nullified? Yet he still sensed danger all around.

	"What Emolirdo did was to force you to accept the things you already could do," said the Abbod. "Your first lesson: faith in yourself." He looked grimly amused. "But it is plain that you still cherish doubts."

	"You're damn' right I do! I think this whole hocus pocus was designed to confuse me, put me off the track!"

	"You doubt the existence of a superior consciousness that manifests itself in gods and prophets and even sometimes in our machines," said the Abbod.

	"I think you may have stumbled onto something with your psi powers, but you've mucked it up with your mystical hogwash! There's a scientific explanation for these things that'd appear if you blew away all this fog!"

	"The empiricist demands his demonstration," murmured the Abbod. "Very well. Let us introduce you to the graduate school, Mr. Orne. Thus far, you've been playing with toys. Let's see how you react when we threaten the basic fiber of your being!"

	Orne pushed himself to his feet, reached behind for the back of the chair. He glanced left at the dancing point of flame, saw it sweep around in front of his yes. Burning, prickling sensations crawled along his skin. The flame grew to a ball almost a meter in diameter, pressed forward. Orne stumbled backward, knocked over the chair. Heat blasted his face.

	"How now?" cried the Abbod.

	He's trying to panic me, thought Orne. This could be an illusion. He darted to the left, and the flame shot ahead of him, cutting him off, pressed even closer.

	Orne retreated. His face burned where the flame seared against it.

	"Is this illusion, Mr. Orne?" called the Abbod.

	Doggedly, Orne shook his head. His eyes smarted. The flaming ball pressed him backward. He shook perspiration from his head, glanced down at the floor. Pentagonal tiles. Giant pentagonal tiles at least two meters across. He stepped to the center of a white tile, immediately felt the heat diminish.

	"Psi must be faced with psi," called the Abbod.

	Orne nodded, wet his lips with his tongue, swallowed. He tried to focus on the inner awareness as Emolirdo had taught him. Nothing. He closed his eyes, concentrated, felt something give.

	Somewhere, there was a great howling of not-sound. He was being pulled inward, distorted. Twisted in a vortex that sucked him down ... down ... down ... down ...

	The thought of ticking seconds blazed within him. time!

	No sensation except a dim touch of the pentagram as though it pressed against his body at every point: a pentagram, a box, a cage. And the ticking seconds. His mind boiled with the thought of time!

	Time and tension, he thought. And his mind juggled symbols like blocks of energy, manipulated energy like discreet signals. There was a problem. That was it, a problem. Tension! Tension = energy source. Energy -f- opposition = growth of energy. To strengthen a thing, oppose it. Growth of energy-f-opposition = opposites blending into a new identity.

	"You become like the worst in what you oppose," he thought. It was a quotation. He had heard it somewhere. Priest slips into evil. The great degenerates into the small.

	And he remembered his wounded arm, the itching before the wound.

	time!

	Beyond the pentagram he sensed a place where chaotic energy flowed. A great blank not-darkness filled with not-light and a ceaseless flowing. And he felt himself as on a mountaintop—as though he were the mountaintop. Pressing upward but still connected to a living earth below. Somewhere he felt the touch of the pentagram: a shape that could be remembered and located.

	A voice came from below the mountain: "Mr. Orne?"

	He felt the pentagram press more tightly.

	"Mr. Orne?"

	The Abbod's voice.

	Orne felt himself flowing back, compressed, twisted. The shape of his body became a new distortion to his senses. He wanted to resist.

	"Don't fight it, Mr. Orne."

	Pressure against side and arms: the floor. He opened his eyes, found that he was stretched out on the tiles, his head at one corner of the white pentagram, his feet at the opposite corner. The Abbod stood over him in a belted white robe: a dark, monkeylike creature with overlarge, staring eyes.

	"What did you see, Mr. Orne?"

	Orne drew in a deep, gasping breath. He felt dizzy, weak. "Nothing," he gasped.

	"Oh, yes. You saw with every sense you possess. One does not walk without seeing the path."

	Walk? Path? Orne remembered the sense of flowing chaos. He pulled his arms back, pushed himself up. The floor felt cold against his palms. The wound in his arm itched He shook his head. "What do you want from me?"

	The Abbod's gaze bored into him. "You tell me."

	Orne swallowed in a dry throat. "I saw chaos."

	The Abbod leaned forward. "And where is this chaos?"

	Orne looked down at his feet extended along the floor, glanced around the room, back to the Abbod. "Here. It was this world, this universe, this ..."

	"Why could you see it as chaos?"

	Orne shook his head. Why? I was threatened. I ... time ! He looked up. "It has something to do with time."

	"Mr. Orne, have you ever seen a jungle?"

	"Yes."

	"The plant life, its growth is not immediately apparent to your senses, is it?"

	"Not ... immediately. But over a period of days, of course, you ..." He broke off.

	"Precisely!" barked the Abbod. "If you could, as it were, speed up the jungle, it would become a place of writhing contention. Vines would shoot up like snakes to clutch and strangle the trees. Plants would leap upward, blast forth with pods, hurl out their seeds. You would see a great strangling battle for sunlight."

	"Time," said Orne. And he recalled Emolirdo's analogy: the three-dimensional shadow cast into the two-dimensional world. "How does the person in the two-dimensional world interpret the shadow of a three-dimensional object?" he murmured.

	The Abbod smiled. "Emolirdo so enjoys that analogy."

	"The two-dimensional being can interpolate," said Orne. "He can stretch his imagination to create ... things that reach into the other dimension."

	"So?"

	Orne felt the tension. Nerves trembled along his arms. "Psi machines!" he blurted. "They manipulate time!"

	"Psi phenomena are time phenomena," said the Abbod.

	It was like veils falling away from Orne's senses. He remembered his wounded arm, the itching he had felt before the arm was wounded in that exact place. He recalled a small psi instrument that Emolirdo had displayed: loops, condensers, electronic tubes, all focusing on a thin square of plastic. Rubbed one way, the plastic felt tacky. Rubbed the other way, the plastic felt as slick as glass, greased.

	In a half-musing way, he said: "There was a thin layer of time flow along the plastic. One direction, my hand moved with the flow; the other direction, my hand opposed the flow."

	"Eh?" The Abbod looked puzzled.

	"I was remembering something," said Orne.

	"Oh." The Abbod turned, shuffled back to his bed, sat on the edge. His robe opened, revealing thin shanks under his nightshirt. He looked incredibly old and tired.

	Orne felt a pang of sympathy for the old man. The . sense of dread that had surrounded this place was gone. In its place he felt an awakening akin to awe.

	"Life projects matter through the dimension of time," said the Abbod.

	"A kind of time machine?"

	The Abbod nodded. "Yes. Our awareness is split. It exists within these three dimensions and outside of them. We have known this for centuries. Thoughts can blaze through a lifetime in the merest fraction of a second. Threaten the human life, and you can force awareness to retreat into no-time. One can weigh countless alternatives, select the course of action that has the greatest survival potential. All of this you can do while time in this dimension stands still."

	Orne took a deep breath. He knew this was true. He recalled that final terrible instant in the Heleb uprising. There he had sat at the controls of his escape ship while around him great weapons swung about to bear on the vessel's flimsy walls. There had seemed no way to avoid blasting energies that were sure to come. And he remembered the myriad alternatives that had flitted through his mind while outside the terrible weapons seemed to hang-frozen. And he had escaped. The one sure way had been seen.

	The Abbod pushed himself back into the bed, pulled covers over his legs. "I am a very old man." He looked sideways at Orne. "But it still pleasures me to see a person make the old discovery."

	Orne took a step forward. "Old?"

	"Ancient. Thousands of years before the first man ventured into space from the original home world, a scattered few were discovering this way of looking at the universe. They called it Maya The tongue was Sanskrit. Our view of the matter is a little more ... sophisticated. But there's no essential difference. The ancients said: 'Abandon forms; direct yourself toward temporal reality!' You know, Mr. Orne, it's amazing. Man has such an ... appetite to encompass ... everything."

	Like a sleep walker, Orne moved forward, righted the chair beside the bed, sank into it. Extensions of his awakening captured his attention. "The prophet who calls forth the dead," he said. "He returns the matter of the body to a time when it was alive. That flame you threatened me with. You bring it out of a time when the matter around us was gaseous incandescence. The man from Wessen who walks from planet to planet like you would cross a stream on stepping stones." Orne held up his hands. "Of course. Without time to stretch across it, there can be no space. To him, time is a specific location!"

	"Think of the universe as an expanding balloon," said the Abbod. "A balloon of weird shape and unexplored convolutions. Suppose you have a transparent grid, three-dimensional. Like graph paper. You look through it at the universe. It is a matrix against which you can plot out the shapes and motions of the universe."

	"Education," said Orne.

	The Abbod spoke like a teacher praising a pupil. "Very good!" He smiled. "This grid, this matrix is trained into human beings. They project it onto the universe. With this matrix they break nature into bits. Usable bits. But, somehow, they too often get the idea that nature ... the universe is the bits. The matrix is so very useful, permitting us to communicate our ideas, for example. But it is so near-sighted. It's like an old man reading script with his nose pressed almost to the page. He sees one thing at a time. But our universe is not one thing at a time. It's an enormous complex. Still we concentrate on the bits." He shook his head. "Do you know how we see the bits, Mr. Orne?"

	Orne snapped out of a half-reverie in which the Abbod's words had been like gross areas of understanding that flowed into his awareness. "We see them by contrast. Each bit moves differently, has a different color, or ..."

	"Very good! We see them by contrast. To see a bit we must see also its background. Bit and background are in-separable. Without one you cannot discern the other. Without evil you cannot determine good. Without war, you cannot determine peace. Without ..."

	"Wait a minute!" Orne jerked to attention. "Is that why you're out to ruin the I-A?"

	"Mr. Orne, a compulsive peace is not peace. To compel peace, you must use warlike methods. It is nonsense to think that you can get rid of one of a pair and possess only the other. You are doing this by force! You create a vacuum into which chaos will flow."

	Orne shook his head. He felt trapped in a maze, caught by the idea that something had to be wrong with the Abbod's words.

	"It is like a drug habit," said the Abbod. "If you enforce peace, it will take greater and greater amounts of peace to satisfy you. And you will use more and more violence to obtain it. The cycle will end in cataclysm. Think rather of how light reaches your eyes. When you are reading you do not seek out, striving for the light. In the same way, peace comes to your senses. Pleasure comes to you. Good comes to you. As the light comes to your eyes.

	These are functions of your nerves. You cannot make an effort with your nerves. You can make an effort with your muscles. That is the way it is with our universe. Our matrix must be a direct function of reality, of actual matter. In this, it is like our nerves. If we distort the matrix, we do not change reality, but only our way of seeing it. If we destroy one half of a pair, the remaining half overwhelms us. Take away the predator, and the creature preyed upon undergoes a population explosion. All of these things fit the basic law."

	"And the I-A has broken that law?"

	"It has." The Abbod frowned. "You see, peace is an internal matter. It's a self discipline. It must come from within. If you set up an outside power to enforce peace, that outside power grows stronger and stronger. It must. Inevitably, it degenerates. Comes the cataclysm."

	"You people on Amel look on yourselves as a kind of super I-A, don't you."

	"In a sense," the Abbod agreed. "But we want to go to the root. We wish to plant the seed of self discipline where-ever it will take root. And to do this, we prepare certain ground for cultivation."

	"Ground?"

	"Worlds. Societies." The Abbod stared at Orne. "And we desperately need farmers, Mr. Orne."

	"Meaning me?"

	"Would you care to enlist?"

	Orne cleared his throat, broke his attention away from the Abbod's intent gaze. He felt that he was being stampeded.

	The Abbod's voice intruded. "This is a chaotic universe, Mr. Orne. Things are changing. Things will change. There is an instinct in human beings that realizes this. Our instinct foments a feeling of insecurity. We seek something unchanging. Beliefs are temporary because the bits we believe about are in motion. They change. And periodically, we go through the cataclysm. We tear down the things that refuse to work. They don't do what we expect them to do, and we become children, smashing the toys that refuse to obey. In such times, the teachers of self discipline are much needed."

	"You say we're approaching some great smashing up, some cataclysm?"

	"We are always approaching it. Always ahead of us is the great burning from which the Phoenix arises. Only one thing endures: Faith. The object changes, but faith endures. It's the absolute we yearn after in a changing universe. "

	Orne felt overwhelmed by a sense of outrage. "Faith? That's nonsense! There's no logic, no scientific ..."

	"Trust your senses!" barked the Abbod. "Do not try to distort the matrix to fit what you want to believe! You have experienced another dimension. Many have done this without realizing it. You realize it."

	"But ... faith? In what?"

	"In our appetite. Faith that we will encompass this other dimension and find there a new area of mystery to beckon our senses. Faith that there is something enduring in all this chaos ... and if not, that we can create a thing that will endure. That faith, Mr. Orne."

	Orne lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry. I ... didn't understand."

	The Abbod's voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Of course you didn't. You had not heard our simple definition of a religion. A religion is the faith that something will endure beyond the apparent chaos surrounding us. The central concepts are Faith and Endurance."

	Orne turned the thought over in his mind.

	"Our faith here is in the linear endurance of humankind," said the Abbod. "On Amel we call it the Great Continuity. It is our faith that there will always be a descendant of humankind—evolved, changed, unrecognizable to today's humans, no matter what, but still our descendant."

	Cynicism, his most dependable defense, took over Orne's thinking. "Very high sounding," he said. "And if that's what you're really doing here, quite attractive. But how can I be certain what you're doing? You use lots of words. Some even make sense."

	"But all it takes is one weak link, eh?"

	Orne shrugged.

	"That's why we seek out only the strong, the prophets," said the Abbod. "That is why the testing and the education. If we tame the wild religions and harness their energies to our purpose, that makes sense, doesn't it?"

	"Certainly."

	"Then we will give you this, Mr. Orne: You may go anywhere on Amel, ask any questions, look at any records, request any cooperation that does not oppose our purpose. Satisfy yourself. And even then, you do not have to decide to stay with us. You may return to any of the outer worlds, to Marak, to Chargon, wherever you wish to go. We insist only that you subject your talents to our instructions, that you permit us to show you how they may be tamed."

	Orne wet his lips with his tongue. A tentative probe at the Abbod's emotions revealed candor and faint amusement. The amusement annoyed Orne. He had the feeling that this was an old story to the Abbod, that the reactions of one Lewis Orne could be classified as type such and so. A kind of pique made him say: "Aren't you afraid 1 might ... well, double-cross you once I was off Amel?"

	"We have faith in you> Mr. Orne. Your ordeal has given us grounds for that, at least. We are not worried."

	Orne chuckled. "The least I can do is return the favor, eh?"

	"After you've pried and tested us to your satisfaction, yes. You said it yourself, you know: Faith is the uncensored will. Doubt is a censor we'd rather you didn't have."

	Orne nodded, and a new thought hit him. "Do you have enough faith in me to let me return to Marak and make over the I-A along lines you'd approve?"

	The Abbod shook his head. "Faith in you, we have that. But your I-A has gone too far along the road to power. You understand, my son, that a bureau is like an individual. It will fight for survival. It will seek power. Your I-A has a personality made up of all its parts. Some such as yourself we would trust. Others ... I'm afraid not. No. Before we permit you to leave here, the I-A will be dead, and other bureaus will be feeding on the remains."

	Orne stared at the ancient face. Presently, he said: "1 guess I failed them."

	"Perhaps not. Your original purpose is still intact. Peace as a self discipline can be more gratifying than any other kind. It grows more slowly, to be sure, but it's confident growth that counts."

	Orne still tasted a certain bitterness. "You seem pretty confident that I'll join you."

	"You've already passed that decision," murmured the Abbod. "When you asked to return and make over the I-A."

	This time Orne's chuckle was aimed at himself. "Know me pretty well, don't you."

	"We know your purpose, your religion, as it were. You share our faith in humankind. When we learned that, we knew you were already one of us." The Abbod smiled, and the old face seemed to light up. "There's much ground to prepare, and we have need of many farmers."

	"Yeah, I'm a hayseed, all right," said Orne.

	"After you have pried into Amel to your heart's content, come back and talk to me. I know there's a certain young lady awaiting you on Marak. Perhaps we could discuss your returning to another bureau—Recovery & Re-education."

	"R & R! Those bumble-heads! They're the ... "

	"You have an interesting conditioned reaction there," said the Abbod. "For now, I will only remind you that any bureau is the sum of its parts."

	In his office on Marak, Tyler Gemine, director of Rediscovery & Re-education, faced Orne across an immense black wood desk. Behind Gemine a wide window looked out on the packed office buildings of Marak's central government quarter. The director was a rounded outline against the window, a fat and genial surface with smiling mouth and hard eyes. Frown wrinkles creased his forehead.

	The office fitted Gemine. On the surface it seemed built for comfort: soft chairs, thick carpet, unobtrusive lighting. But three walls held file cases geared to a remote search control at the desk. Six auto-secretaries flanked the desk.

	Sitting opposite the director, Orne still wore his aqua toga from Amel. R & R security police had rushed him here from the spaceport, giving him no time to change his garb.

	"All of this haste must appear unseemly to you, Mr. Orne," said Gemine. "Separating you from your fiancée at the spaceport like that. Rude of us." The hard eyes bored into Orne.

	Orne hid his amusement under a mask of concern. "I know you must have good reasons, sir."

	Gemine leaned back. "Indeed we do." He pulled a stack of papers toward him on the desk, squared them. "Before the I-A took you away from us, Mr. Orne, you were an agent of the R & R."

	"Yes, sir. They drafted me."

	"That unfortunate business on Hamal!"

	"There was nothing I could do, sir."

	"No blame attaches to you, Mr. Orne. But you understand that we do have some curiosity about you now that we have superseded the I-A."

	"You want to know where my loyalties are?"

	"Precisely."

	"The R & R's purpose is still my purpose, sir."

	"Good! Good!" Gemine patted the stack of papers in front of him. "Ahhh, this mission to Amel. What about that?"

	"Why was I sent?"

	Gemine's stare was cold and measuring, "Yes."

	"It was very simple. The I-A executive staff heard about the move to do away with their department. They had reason to believe the priests were a prime factor in the move. I was sent to Amel to see if they could be circumvented."

	"And you failed." It was a flat statement.

	"Sir, I beg to remind you that I once volunteered for the R & R. I was one of your agents before the I-A took me away from you." He managed a tight smile. "And it didn't take a giant brain to realize that you would take over the I-A's functions once they were out of the way."

	Gemine's eyes clouded with thought. He cleared his throat. "What about this psi thing? In the final audit of I-A we came across this odd department. Unfortunately ..." Gemine studied a paper in front of him. "... the director, one Ag Emolirdo, has disappeared. There were records, though, showing that you were trained by him before your recent ... ah, mission."

	So Agony took it on the lam, thought Orne. Gone home to report, no doubt. He said: "It was a questionable field. Oriented along ESP lines." (And he thought: That'll fit this little hack's executive logic!) "They were looking for rules to explain certain non-chance phenomena," he went on. "Their results were debatable."

	Gemine restacked the papers in front of him. "As I suspected. Well ... we can go into it in more detail later. I confess it sounded extremely far-fetched in outline. Typical of I-A wastefulness." He leaned back, steepled his hands in front of him. "Now, Mr. Orne, as you know, we are taking over the key functions of the I-A. But we're running into stupid resistance. That's where I've hoped you could come in."

	"My record with R & R is clear, sir."

	Gemine swivelled his chair, looked out the window at Marak's executive warren.

	"You know both the R & R and the I-A, Mr. Orne. It's in my mind to attach you to my office—as a special executive assistant. Your duties would be to facilitate absorption of the I-A." He turned back to look at Orne. "What would you say to that?"

	Orne hesitated just the right length of time. "I'd ... I'd consider that an honor, sir."

	"Excellent!" Gemine bent forward. "You'll want to get situated first, of course." His maner became more confidential. "You'll be getting married, I understand. Take what time you need. Say, a month. How's that sound?"

	"That's very kind of you, sir."

	"Not at all. I want you to be happy with us." He wet his lips with his tongue. "Miss Bullone may not have had the time to tell you ... about her father, that is. He is no longer our high commissioner. Lost out in the recent shake-up. A pity after so many years of excellent service."

	"Has he stayed on in the Assembly?"

	"Oh, yes. He's still an important member. Minority leader." Gemine stared at Orne. "We'd like to have you act—unofficially, you under-stand—as a sort of liaison with Mr. Bullone."

	"I'm sure something could be worked out, sir."

	Gemine smiled, relaxed. He nodded.

	Orne said: "What about my staff, sir?"

	"Staff?"

	"I'll need assistants of my own if I'm to do this job correctly."

	Sudden tension filled the room. "Anyone special in mind?"

	Gently, thought Orne. This is the delicate part. He said: "All the time I was in the I-A, 1 was directly under one man. When he said frog, I jumped. Wherever he pointed, that's where I went."

	"Ahhh ... Mr. Umbo Stetson."

	"I see you know him."

	"Know him? He's a major source of resistance!"

	"That'd make it even more pleasant," said Orne.

	Gemine chortled. He radiated gleeful sadism. "Take him! Any authority you need to whip him into line, it's yours!"

	Orne matched Gemine's smile. "This is going to be even more fun than I thought."

	Gemine arose. "I'll have an office fitted for you next to mine, Lewis. Want everything cozy and neat." He nodded. "I think this is going to work out very well. Indeed I do."

	Orne stood up. "I hope I'll live up to all your expectations, sir."

	"You already are, my boy! You know what's expected of you, and you know how to deliver." He gave Orne a knowing smile. "And I won't soon forget your failure on Amel." He chortled. "Eh?"

	From the secret report: Lew is Orne to the Halmyrach Abbod:

	"Gemine was every bit as easy as you said he would be. He has already given me Stetson, and through Stetson I'll bring in the others. This is fallow ground, indeed. Needs the ministrations of a trained farmer.

	"It was fascinating to talk to Gemine. There was the pattern just as you anticipated it. The weak was absorbing the strong, completely unaware that the strong could eat it up from within. But this time, only a selective seed of the strong.

	"Stetson raised no objections at all. The idea he found particularly intriguing was this: We must find a way of preventing war without making tear impossible. For myself, I find this no paradox. In a universe without limits, Life must grow through self-imposed limits. Every teaching turns on its discipline. And what is a discipline but a limit self-imposed for the benefits derived? My new matrix needs no distortion to encompass this concept.

	"Out of all this, one thought keeps coming back to me. I will mention it this once. It occurs to me that the most-effective government is that one where the governed do not know they are being governed, but believe they govern themselves.

	"Your obed't farmer, Lewis Orne."

The End

In The Complaints Service
Fantastic Science Fiction Stories – February 1960
(1960)
David R. Bunch

Another problem for Slonk and his men. But they are up to solving any difficulty—even one concerning love.

-

	I'M NOT a pleasure-crowded man with a feel-suit lounging back in one of those big-deal bubble-dome homes soaking up sensations. I'm a Servicer. Been in some phase of the Complaints Service for about forty years, and proud of it too. The Complaints Service, if I may be allowed to explain myself a little, is an absolute necessity to modern living, and we're really the most important workers in the world, if I may be allowed to brag a bit, though we're not paid like it, if I may be allowed to complain at a pay scale. Complaints Service, in short, is what our modern pleasure-loving people require to complete their kicks in modern living by, pardon the expression, kicking about what they think is lacking in modern living. It's as simple as that. And when we get a complaint about a pleasure lack we just send out a crew and a machine to fix things up.

	But let me give you a rundown on a job we went on yesterday, and maybe that'll help explain the service as well as give you a little idea of how we're living out here in Brave New Hap, the happiest, the most modern, the most complete country in the world. I was part of the on-crew that day—it was yesterday—when the word came in, that big blue-green emergency on our Alert Screen, meaning that some desperate lack had arisen in one of the bubble huts, those modern domed homes in the hinterland of Brave New Hap. We didn't slide down the pole like those dramatic firemen are expected to do at any little blaze; we went upfloor slowly, with dignity, in our bucket ride, thinking things over. Slonk, our crew leader, was grim, the way he gets when that blue-green word comes in, and the rest of us were resting in the bucket ride, thoughtful and attentive—eyes wide open and breathing—as befits a member of the Complaints Service at all times.

	Slonk broke the silence, as befit him, being the leader, and said, "Gott tarn, husband-wife again." We nodded drowsily, our eyes open and attentive, at something we already knew. Blue-green meant husband-wife emergency, no doubt about that. Red-pink was for children, yellowish-orange for old aunts, purple-violet for widowed fathers, and on like that. Each hue has its meaning in the broad range of emergency as it flashes in to us from the Complain Units of the bubble huts. Other than that and the hut's location our information is usually skimpy, which translated into terms you can understand means we usually go with a General. The Generals, the latest things in the Complaints Service, are machines designed to analyze individuals, evaluate situations and cope generally with all eventualities. We used to go with the Basics and then call in the Specials when we saw we had to have them. But the Generals do the job now of both the Basics and the Specials, maybe not quite to the fine line we used to have, but you have to give up something when you broaden your base. Don't you? And we've broadened our base! Those Generals are huge machines.

	Upfloor we of the crew lounged around on our yellow float-bunks for ten minutes, cracked a few jokes into the Joy Booster if we felt like it, and generally we got in that relaxed fine mood necessary for the blue-green emergency. Slonk sat at a gently undulating nylon kidney desk, muttered Gott tarn, Gott tarn, as befit him being a leader, and read a few case histories of blue-green emergencies of the past. Then Slonk, in that terribly dignified and dramatic way he has, belched, and he stood up tall, very tall in his spangled cream and silver uniform of a crew leader of the Complaints Service, and his shapely thighs sloped toward his black guardsman's boots like two good limbs of the old Mr. Americas. We of the crew, all four of us, popped from our soof-air bunks and stood tall as we could and respectful in our night-black garb of the inconspicuous uniform of the crew. We knew the time of the grim-ness was on us. We went to select a General. We chose Kelly.

	Kelly is of the K-5 design, the latest of the Generals, a huge ball on wheels that can unfold wings and take to the air when time is precious, say in the triple-A emergency, pink-red for bored-kids-fighting. But this was the husband-and-wife blue-green, which in the long run would probably be worse than a pink-red bored-kids-fighting, but not so immediately so. So we stuck to the wheels, and Kelly sped with the special homing devices toward the bubble hut from whence the distress signals had originated. Across the plastic yards and fields of Hap we raced—it was yesterday—a jolly crew, spring, you know, plastic flowers and metal blooms up everywhere through the yard holes, the winey smell of gardens on the wind from the smells sent out by the Central Seasons Committee for spring, and the birds, the tin birds popping up everywhere and spurting off across the spring-blue sky and singing, singing until their tapes gave out. Ah spring!

	But here was Kelly homing in on a bubble hut where husband-wife trouble was. And we were the crew of the Complaints Service on the spot. Kelly braked in and set wheels before a hut and we sprang down, jaunty, you know, and yet assault-like, in that special invasion efficiency we use in the Complaints Service. Puts bounce in our work and makes us seem all business, which we are. We surrounded the place and peeped in through small glass portholes in the thick plastic walls. And we saw the young husband sitting encased in all the usual pleasure-and-sensation devices that are standard equipment for a young man's evening-at-home in Hap. A tiny suction device in his mouth was gently and soothingly smoking a flip-tip cigarette for him, a fine set of masticators just outside his lips was daintily chewing a creamy nougat-centered candy bar for him and pouring a wonderful nectar into his mouth, the soof-air chair was massaging and relaxing his muscles as he sat, a soothing yet commanding kind of melody was booming through the room, and I'm sure the smells were on, because I saw different colored smoke coming out of little cups. In addition to all this his eyes were enjoying a shape-feast on the picture walls. In short, that young man was about as happy as anyone is ever supposed to be in Brave New Hap.

	But when we saw the young wife we hesitated not an instant. She sat all bereft, without a stitch of her pleasure on, as you might say. Her sensation-and-feel gear was strewn about her, as if she had taken it off in a kind of hapless desperation. "Open in the name of the Complaints Service!" Slonk yelled as he beat on an entrance panel with his orange and pink-striped swagger stick. Dreamy and pleasure-stuffed the young husband pressed the button that opened the wall. We poured through and seized him. We took him into the sunlight. We showed him it was spring. We took him and gave him to Kelly. We let Kelly have him for fifteen minutes. We knew Kelly would know what to do.

	"How long has this been going on?" asked Slonk, joshing with the young wife, quite a pretty and blue-eyed blonde little thing, in something of an artificial way, however, as women are apt to be in Brave New Hap, let's admit it.

	"Oh, generally it's O.K.," she said. "I mean, usually it's fine for him to just be in his pleasure rig. But, well—"—she seemed delightfully embarrassed—"it is spring, you know. And I felt so funny when I stripped out of my pleasure suit this morning. And in the spring a young man's fancy is supposed to—well, you know about that. Isn't it?"

	We did know. We did know, indeed! So we turned Kelly up a few notches higher on what we knew Kelly was doing to that young man. When we opened the panel, Kelly coughed him out, and he looked like he had been through a massage, among other things. He looked like he had muscles. He looked like a lover. He ran to ship some tin flowers and came rushing to his love. "I do love you," he said solidly and completely. We watched at the door. They went inside, the door closed and we rushed for the portholes. We saw them kiss, once, very very gently. And then he climbed back into his pleasure apparatus and went ahead with the shape show! "Gott tarn," I heard Slonk mutter. The wife slipped into her own pleasure things and turned to her special color show on the other side of the wall, and Slonk in a kind of cold dismay cursed twice before he screamed, "Open again, in the name of the Complaints Service!"

	They both came to the panel this time and Slonk snarled at the wife, "Why did you let him get back into his pleasure rig, without anything happening?"

	She, dreamy and pleasure-stuffed already from her color wall and the rest of it, said, "It did happen. Flowers! And he said he loved me. He kissed me! Didn't he? Ah spring!"

	"Well, Gott tarn," Slonk said slowly, sadly and with genuine disgust. Then we seized them both for Kelly. For a full hour we left them both to Kelly, and we outside could only surmise, from our past experience with the Basics and the Specials, what methods of persuasion Kelly was employing to change these two young members of Hap into something approximating human beings again. When they came out they were smiling—hungrily—at each other.

	Before we left, looking into a porthole, we could make out two shriveled and empty pleasure suits abandoned on the floor, and hearing little sounds we knew two lovers were together in the spring in another part of the dome. Then Slonk flipped out the periviewer tube, which he has a right to use being a Captain, and ran it up for a look down the top of the dome. "Well Gott tarn." he said, "with enough prompting from the Complaints Service—" Then one ice-colored eye flapped shut in a sly wink which we understood. "Mission completed!" Slonk said crisply, and we climbed into Kelly for the dash back to our station.

The End

Egg and Ashes
If – November 1960
(1960)
Frank Herbert

A Siukumin is so becoming!

-

	FOR a week now the Siukurnin had hung above the hunters' camp disguised as a pine cone. One of the ropes holding their tent fly passed within inches of it, and when the cold evening wind blew, as it was doing now, the rope hummed. This created a masking harmonic that had to be filtered out (along with many other "noises") before the Siukurnin could concentrate on the vibrations coming from the figures around the fire.

	Already imprinted and stored in the Siukurnin's subcellular structure was a long catalogue of light-reflected shapes and vibration meanings from this place and the other places. It knew that when one of the carbon life-forms moved to the nearby flowing liquid, the creature was going to the water. (And that was one of the vibrations for the great heaving expanse of liquid beyond the mountains to the east.) And it knew that when one of these creatures became dormant for the night (low vibration period), that was sleep.

	Oh, there were so many vibration meanings.

	The Siukurnin tried reproducing the vibrations for sleep and water at a subaural level, gloried in its growing mastery of these subtleties.

	An aroma of coffee and broiled meat arose from the fire. The Siukurnin listened to these for a moment, savoring the full roundness of the vibration spectrum in this enchanting place. As yet it had not thought of the necessity for a nori-chilitigish vibration to refer to itself.

	(You must understand that when it thought of itself at this stage (which was seldom), it did not think: "I am a Siukurnin." In the first place, a natural mechanism inhibited prolonged introspection. In the second place, "Siukurnin" is a make-do vibration—a limited auditory approach to the actual "term" that is used only in communicating with creatures who do not hear into the visual spectrum, and who are not yet able to detect the chilitigish spectrum. Since this is only a start at communication, it's perfectly all right for you to think of this creature as a "Siukurnin" but you should keep in mind that there's a limitation.)

-

	BEFORE coming to this hunters' camp, the Siukurnin had spent two weeks as a false rivet head in the wardroom of a long gray warship. It had left the warship as a coating of "film" on a garbage container, and had arrived here in the pine glade as a length of "wire" in the trunk lid of a used car that had been sold to one of the hunters.

	Between the garbage container and the used car there had been several other shape-aliases, all characterized by solid color and smoothness and all difficult to reproduce. The Siukurnin looked on its present pine cone form almost as a rest.

	Once started on its repertoire of new vibration meanings, the Siukurnin was like a lihm with a new arabeg, or, as you might say, like a child with a new toy. Presently, it recalled the period on the warship. "Now hear this! Now hear this!" it chanted to itself at a level too low to be detected by the figures beneath it.

	Darkness folded over the camp in the pine trees and the fire flickered low. The upright creatures retired into their tent. (To sleep, you understand.) Among these creatures was one identified by the primitive (non-chilitigish) vibration: "Sam."

	Now the Siukurnin listened to the soughing of the wind through the branches around it, to the scrabbling of night creatures—and once there was a figurative scream of skunk odor nearby. Much later, the Siukurnin defied its inhibitions, tried to recall a time before the awakening at the warship. Only faint fog memory came: a sensation of swimming upward through dark water.

	The effort of memory brought the inhibition mechanism into action. Destructive hunger gnawed at the Siukurnin. It sensed changes going on within its structure—a maturation of sorts.

	To put down the hunger, the Siukurnin imagined itself as one of the flying creatures to be seen in the delightful harmonics of sky above it—soaring ... soaring ...

	But this, too, became disturbing because its self-image insisted on resolving into a giant red-gold winged thing unfamiliar to these skies (but feeling disquietingly familiar to the Siukurnin).

	Dawn crystalled the peaks to the east, brought stirrings that aroused the Siukurnin from its reverie. A figure emerged from the tent, yawned, stretched. The Siukurnin matched light vibrations and sound vibrations for the figure and, in its own way, "recognized" the hunter, Sam. There were checkered harmonics with merging of long and short olfactory-visual waves punctured by great sound-meaning vibrations.

	"Chilly this morning," said the hunter. "Wish I could stay in the sack like you bums."

	From the tent came another voice: "You lost a fair and square toss, Sam. Get that fire goin'."

	A connoisseur sense within the Siukurnin came to full alert. It felt that this crude creature carried some supremely desirable element. In a sense, the Siukurnin "crouched."

	The hunter put a hand on the fly rope, glanced at the false pine cone. "Yeah," he said. "You'll burn like pitch." He reached up, touched the "cone," felt sudden warmth, then nothing. The "cone" was gone. He shook his hand, looked around the ground, back to the tree. Nothing. "I'll be danged," he muttered. He scratched the palm that had touched the "cone."

	"That fire goin' yet?" demanded the voice from the tent.

	Sam shook his head. "No. I was going to pick a pine cone to help start the fire and the darn thing disappeared."

	"You're gettin' old, gram-paw," came the voice from the tent. "Better buy some glasses when we get back to town."

	Another voice intruded from the tent: "Will you guys quit your yakking? I'm trying to sleep!"

	For the Siukurnin there had been an instant of exquisite languor. Then it had felt itself changing uncontrollably, spreading out over the hand of the carbon life-form, seeping immediately through pores, between cells, into a vein. It stretched out—no more than six cells in diameter—reaching reaching ...

	A long, thin thread explored the length of the vein. (You'll appreciate that the vibrations here were magnificent in their contrapuntal relationship: little hissings and squealings and lappings played against a superb background throb. There were also a few moments of delicate adjustment before the leucocytes ceased their ravening attack.)

-

	IN ITS own way, the Siukurnin danced for joy. Its hunger became only a faint beckoning: a dim sort of knowledge that end-of-hunger was at hand.

	And there came a trickle of memory from before the upward swimming and those first moments of awareness on the warship. There was not enough recollection to frighten it with the thought that its own little egg of ego might be overwhelmed ... just enough to whet its curiosity.

	(All Siukurnin are fully endowed with a curiosity that cannot be inhibited, you know. And chilitigish awareness makes this faculty even more potent.)

	The Siukurnin swam, crawled, wriggled, elongated and squeezed. Down, outward, upward. It had to filter out part of the "music" around it now: wheezings in the great air sacs, gurglings and sloshings, cracklings and swishings. All so distracting. One of its elements enwebbed the host's vocal cords ("great vibrators" to a Siukurnin).

	Another part interfingered the speech centers of the brain. Cilia reached out to the eye surfaces and the eyelid veins, contacting the exterior.

	It was distracting at first to discover how all the vibrations were separated by different sense organs; then temptation became irresistible. (Who can hurl blame for this?) The Siukurnin coordinated its contact with speech centers and vocal cords.

	Across the pine glade a human voice shouted: "Now hear this! Now hear this! Water! Sleep! Fire! Eat!"

	Oh, it was an exhilarating sensation!

	Two of the upright creatures, the other hunters, tumbled from the tent. One called: "It's about time you got ..." It broke off. There was no fire. Only Sam standing terror-eyed beside the firepit, left hand to throat, right hand outthrust as though to push something away.

	Then Sam swayed, collapsed.

	In the hospital room, gross vibrations had been dampened to a remote hush. Slatted blinds were closed against raw morning sunlight. The bedside lamp had been turned off. But there still was a soft harmonic reflection from cream-colored walls that mingled with the even hiss of sleep breathing.

	Sam lay on his back in the room's single bed, eyes closed. His chest under a green humming of blanket rose and fell gently. Somewhere, a pumping motor throbbed its obbligato. Distantly, stiff little shuntings and pantings and screechings told of city traffic. Ether trailed its solo virtuosity through the air, riding on a wave of disinfectant. A nurse's heels along the hall added an abrupt random rhythm that wove back and forth ... back and forth through the other vibrations in a way that excited the connoisseur sense of the figure on the bed.

	(After all, the long, virtual silence of the migration had now been recalled. In a sense, it was starved for these wonderful 'noises.")

	Outside the half-opened door of the room, a doctor could be heard talking to Beverly, Sam's wife. The doctor was tall, a beak-nosed shape: pink and blond with white on white on white echoing across the image. Acrid little shouts came from his hands, clinkings from his pockets, and a buzzing of tobacco rode his breath.

	There had been a strange dual recognition of Beverly: a sense of familiarity with her dark hair, soft curve of cheeks, alert gray-green eyes. (The Sam-memories, of course.) And there had been added to this a pungent explosion of perfume-base powder (still familiar, yes, but heightened to an indescribable pitch), plus a glissando of gold necklace on green coat on green suit, all played against a bright beating of gold-bronze buttons. (And there was much more, but without chilitigish awareness in the reader, the effects are meaningless.)

	The doctor's voice carried a drum quality as he uttered cautious reassurances. "There is no doubt that it's some type of narcolepsy," he said. "But there's no enlargement of the lymphatic glands. His pulse and respiration are normal. Temperature's up, but not dangerously. I'm inclined to suspect this may be a reaction due to nervous strain. Has he been working very hard?"

	"Narcolepsy, narcolepsy, narcolepsy," whispered the Siukurnin with its Sam-lips.

	Well ... they weren't exactly Sam-lips now. They were much more accurately Sam e Siukurnin power) lips.

	You just have to understand that single-ego orientation sets up difficult problems in communications here. What you would consider odd and irresistible things had been happening to Sam and Siukurnin. Cilia of Siukurnin had gone creeping and seeking of their own volition. It was now a great thin net spread throughout the host

	Wherever it touched nerve cells—in brain and elsewhere—subtle displacements occurred at the subcellular level. New memories (Sam-memories) filtered into Siukurnin. And Siukurnin memories, of course, filtered back to Sam. (This is one of those processes that just cannot be confined to a one-way circuit.)

-

	THINGS had gone so far that Siukurnin had displaced the temporary migration-ego. And Sam—"he" now thought of himself as a kind of "needle" at the end of an extremely long thread. You see, the "thread" was the Siukurnin ego-memory-chain, its past so ancient that the Sam-ego was staggered.

	(If you open up a Siukurnin-past you find that it is other creatures stretched out to a virtually meaningless number. This is a fascinating infinity process in which a quite satisfactory internal relationship has been worked out.)

	Fully awakened, Siukurnin now understood the necessity mechanism that had blanked out ego-memory-chain awareness. There is such a temptation in the migration period to turn inward upon the merged multiplicity, encyst all distracting processes, and just think and think and think and ...

	You can see how this would be a kind of death.

	(Strictly speaking, Siukurnin do not fear death, although they are vulnerable during the "flight-of-joy" vector in their life cycle.)

	Both Sam and Siukurnin were completely merged now.

	Sam-Siukurnin <ego-memory-chain

	+x) lay in the meaningful vibration core of the hospital room. Neither "unit" could now undo what had happened—nor wanted to undo it. Oh, there had been some Sam-resistance at first. Quite natural.

	But Siukurnin revealed how a reluctant host's flesh could be incinerated without stopping the merging process. (And there were all those memories laid out in the open to prove this!) The other capture memories were a compelling argument, too.

	The process is so drearily repetitive—except for the new life with its fascinating vibration meanings, of course.

	And now you know how it happens. Not painful (except for some initial shocks). Not harmful to the host-ego. And not to be resisted.

	In fact, this is being written in the hope that the rest of you will see (what an odd sensory division) how foolish it is to resist.

	There's no point in resistance.

	You cannot fight the inevitable.

	Besides, you will find the merging a very rewarding experience. And if you stop to think about it, this is not the first time your kind has encountered us (although never before in such numbers as our present migration). You do have your legend of the Phoenix. According to your legend, this was a great red-gold "bird" that returned to Heliopolis in ancient Egypt every five hundred years (a reasonable Siukurnin-host life span), there to be reborn from its own ashes.

	Naturally, the flesh of a dead host has to be incinerated to free the Siukurnin web for its "flight-of-joy." To think of the Phoenix as a "bird" was somewhat of an oversimplification, you understand. But we're sure you'll enjoy the flying sensation and the act of creating your new egg—especially when you view the experience with full chilitigish awareness.

The End

Feathered Pig
Destinies – October/December 1979
(1979)
Frank Herbert
illustrated by Alicia Austin

	When Bridik was four hundred and twenty-two years old and expecting to moult the next season, she decided to edit an old riddle for her companions. Bridik and her companions were long-lived and feathered pigs playing out an idyll among the oak groves of post-ancient Terra.

	"It is recorded in our history," Bridik said, "that our ancestors served Man and, as reward, Man gave us these lovely black and beige feathers. Who can tell me why Man chose these colors?"

	"Aww, Mom! Nobody likes to play that old game anymore," cried Kirid, her eleventh son. "We'd rather twang the lute and bamboozle."

	"Come, come," said Bridik. "I am about to moult and it is my right to edit the old riddle."

	"Ohhh, all right," said Kind (who was really a dutiful son and not like some we could mention). "Who goes first?"

	"That is the place of Lobrok, your father," she said, "but I don't want to hear him say the colors represent the oak tree alive and the oak tree burned."

	"The kid's right," said Lobrok. "It's a bore." Then, noting Bridik's angry glare and her exposed tusks, he said: "But I'll play because it pleases you."

	"Okay, Pop," Kirid said. "What's the beedeebee-deep answer?"

	"Man chose the colors because they represent day and night, the grass of autumn and the ashes of the past."

	"Veiny poetic, Pop!" said Kirid.

	"May I go next? Me next?" cried Inishbeby, a fair young thing of hardly one hundred who was making a big play for Kirid.

	"Very well," said Bridik. "You may play in the guest spot."

	"Now, don't tell me," said Inishbeby. "Let me guess." She wangled a bamboozly glance at Kirid, then: "Black is for charcoal and beige is for the parchment upon which Man drew with his charcoal."

	"That's worse than stupid," growled Lobrok. "A lot of us believe Man made parchment from pigskins!"

	"I didn't know!" cried Inishbeby. "It doesn't say that at the museum of Man."

	"You've spoiled the riddle," wailed Bridik." Now I won't be able to edit it before I moult."

	"Come on, Beby," said Kirid. "I think we better blow until things cool off here."

	"Ohhh, where are you going to take me?" asked Inishbeby, nuzzling up against Kirid.

	"Well ... let's go snoot out some truffles and have a picnic."

The End

The Primitives
Galaxy – April 1966
(1966)
Frank Herbert
illustrated by WOOD

It was the kind of crime a man could take pride in—hoisting a diamond from Mars with a girl from the past!

-

I

	When he was seventeen, Swimmer had decided his physical ugliness left him only one suitable career—crime. He came from a family noted for professional specialists—mathematicians, surgeons, physicists, teachers, biochemists. It was no surprise then that Swimmer chose the sinking of the Soviet propaganda ship for the sole purpose of stealing the Mars diamond was a typical Conrad Rumel (alias Swimmer) crime: a gigantic nose-thumbing for profit. And Swimmer had the gigantic nose for it, phis a hair line that crowded his eyebrows, small gray-green eyes, a chin that almost vanished into his neck and a wide thick-lipped mouth like a hungry sea bass.-

	to specialize. His specialty was underwater crime.

	He'd had his first gill mask and equalizer suit at the age of five (the gift of a father who preferred him out of sight) and there'd soon been no doubt that Swimmer was at home in his chosen element.

	Good breeding had marked him, though: he drew the line at bloodshed and murder. If there was any single modus operandi stamp on Swimmer's crimes (beyond touches that betrayed physical cowardice) it was bizarre humor. It's noteworthy that he sank the Soviety ship in shallow water when only five men of the anchor watch were aboard (the others being ashore at an official Mexican fiesta-reception) and the five were all on deck. Swimmer had thoughtfully provided an open carton of a product called "Flotation Palsies" which bobbed to the surface and provided the buoyancy on which the five Russians made their way safely to a nearby beach.

	By the nature of the crime and his subsequent actions, Swimmer had hoped to involve a professional mobster named Bime Jepson. Disposal of the Mars diamond was going to be no easy matter and Swimmer's sense of honor insisted he owed this to Jepson. Their last mutual enterprise had gone exceedingly sour, costing Jepson a bundle which he quoted at $288,764.51.

	Jepson's reaction then came at a surprise.

	((Hphis is a diamond?" he sneered, staring at the object in his hands. The stone was bluish-white, cloud-surfaced, about the size and shape of a medium cantaloupe. "Are you nuts or something?" Jepson demanded. "This is ... is ..." His one-track mind struggled for a suitable word. "This is a rock. This is a chunk of nothing!" His narrow blue eyes glared with anger.

	They stood in the bedroom of Jepson's suite on the 324th floor of the Mazatlan Hilton. Corner windows opened to a view of the ocean and city, colors blaring and gaudy in the bright Mexican afternoon.

	Jepson lifted his attention from the stone. He fixed his gaze on the dark-haired oversize gnome of a man who had brought this unpleasantness. The man was a walking reminder of their last encounter—all that money sunk into an invention by one of Swimmer's professional uncles, Professor Amino Rumel.

	Uncle Professor's project was a time machine of uncertain function. Apprised of the device by Swimmer, Jepson had conceived the idea of a sortie into the past backed by a crew with modern arms, the object being to raid the treasury of Knossos. (One of Jepson's mistresses had read a work of fiction in which this treasure figured.)

	After all those megabucks, Uncle Professor had pronounced the machine as requiring "much more development."

	"It didn't work," was Jepson's summation. And he was a man who did not like to be thwarted. Only the fact that Uncle Professor was "one of them" (legitimate) and the latent hope that the device might yet be made to work had prevented Jepson from committing bloody violence. Now, here was this creep-nephew, Swimmer, back with more trouble.

	Swimmer had read the signs of anger. He said: "Jep, I swear that's ..."

	"You swear nothing! This ain't no diamond! A diamond's something with ... something you can ..."

	"Jep, let me explain about ..."

	"Ain't you been warned never to interrupt me. Swimmer?"

	Swimmer retreated a short step toward the door. "Now, don't go getting excited, Jep."

	Jepson threw the stone onto the unmade bed behind him. "A diamond!" he sneered.

	"Jep, that rock's worth ..."

	"Sharrup!"

	His heart pounding, Swimmer took two steps backward, stood pressed against the door facing Jepson. This was not going at all as he had anticipated.

	"I should call in the boys and teach you a little manners," Jepson growled. "How many times I gotta tell you don't interrupt?" Jepson scowled. "Only reason the boys let you in was you told 'em you heisted a diamond too hot for you to handle. Everybody knows how big hearted I am. I'm here to help my friends with little matters like that. But I ain't here to help my friends with ... with ... I ain't here to be woke up every time some beachbum finds a big pebble what's good for nothing but tying around somebody's neck so they should sink!"

	"Can I say something, Jep?" Swimmer pleaded.

	"Say anything you want, but say it somewheres else. I want you should get outa here and—"

	"Jep!" Swimmer pleaded.

	"Interrupt me once more, Swimmer, and I lose my temper."

	By its lack of inflection, Jepson's voice managed to convey a profound menace.

	Swimmer nodded silently. He hadn't anticipated instant rage from Jepson. Everything depended on being able to explain.

	"You think I don't recognize this rock?" Jepson asked.

	Swimmer shook his head from side to side.

	"This is the Mars diamond," Jepson said. "Diamond! Ifs the rock them Ruskie's brung back in their spaceship. It was in their floating museum out in the harbor just yesterday. I seen it there myself. Does that answer all your questions, Swimmer?"

	"But ifs worth maybe ten million dollars!" Swimmer blurted. "Everybody said ..."

	"It ain't worth ten Mexican cents! Didn't you see all them charts and things in with it?"

	Swimmer patted a breast pocket of his permadry suit and a dollop of water trapped there spurted out onto the rug. He gulped, said: "I brought them, too. The diagrams, everything."

	"Then you shoulda known better," Jepson snarled. "There ain't no diamond cutter in the world'd touch this thing. Ain't no cutter wouldn't recognize it in the first place. And in the second place, them charts show why this diamond can't be cut without it breaks into chips worth maybe two-bits apiece. It's impossible to cut this thing, you dumbhead! And in the third place, this is what they call a cultural relic of Mars what the Russkies and every cop in the world's gonna be looking for soon's they find it missing. And you hadda bring it here!"

	For Jepson, this was a long, speech. He stopped to collect his thoughts. Stupid creep Swimmer!

	Swimmer stood trembling with the desire to speak and the fear of what might happen if he did.

	Jepson looked out the window, returned a speculative stare to Swimmer. "How'd you heist it?"

	"I sank the boat. While everybody was splashing around topside, I went in with a gill mask and burner, opened the case and took off across the bay. It was easy."

	Jepson slapped his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "You sunk the boat!" He sighed. "Well, I'm gonna do you a favor. Not because I wanta, but because I hafta. I'm gonna see this rock finds its way back into the bay near the Russky boat like maybe it fell overboard. And you ain't never gonna mention this thing again, right?"

	"Jep," Swimmer said, speaking with desperate urgency, "maybe I know a cutter."

-

	Jepson studied him, interested in spite of the lessons from past experiences with Swimmer. "A cutter who could handle this rock? A cutter who'd even try it?"

	"She'll work any rock, Jep. And she won't recognize it and she won't care where it came from."

	"She?"

	Swimmer wiped his forehead. He had Jepson's interest now. Maybe Jepson would come along after all.

	"That's right, she," Swimmer said. "And there isn't a cutter in this world can hold a candle to her."

	"I never heard of no dame cutter," Jepson said. "I din't think they had the nerves for it."

	"This is a brand new one, Jep."

	"A new cutter," Jepson mused. "A dame. Is she a looker?"

	"I' doubt it, but I've never seen her."

	"You've never seen her, but you've got her?"

	"I've got her."

	"Awwww," Jepson said. He shook his head. "I find it interesting you have a new cutter on the string, but nobody can cut this rock. You seen them charts. The Russkies don't make mistakes like that. This rock is for nobody. It can't be cut."

	"I think this cutter can do it," Swimmer said.

	The stubborn set to Swimmer's mouth whetted Jepson's interest. It wasn't like Swimmer to be stubborn in the face of determined opposition.

	"Where you got this cutter?" Jepson asked.

	Swimmer wet his lips with his tongue. This was the ticklish part, Jepson's temper being what it was. "You remember my uncle Amino and his advice for you to be patient about ..."

	"Ahhh, hah!" Jepson barked. He pointed to the door. "Out! You hear me, creep? Out!"

	"Jep, the time machine works!"

	Silence dragged out for a dozen heartbeats while Swimmer wondered if he had timed that revelation correctly, and while Jepson reminded himself that this possibility was one of the reasons he hadn't obliterated Swimmer.

	Presently, Jepson said: "It works?"

	"I swear it, Jep. It works, but the controls aren't too ... well, accurate. Sometimes my uncle says it balks and ... it doesn't go precisely where you want."

	"But it works?" Jepson demanded.

	"It brought back this cutter," Swimmer said. "From perhaps twenty or thirty thousand years ago."

	A muscle twitched on Jepson's left cheek and his jaw line went hard. "I thought you said your cutter dame was a expert."

	Swimmer took a deep breath, wondering how he could explain paleolithic culture to a man like Jepson. The patois of the underworld didn't fit the job.

	"You ain't got nothing to say?" Jepson asked.

	"I'm quoting my uncle, who's a very truthful man," Swimmer said "According to my uncle, the people of this dame's culture made all their tools out of stone. They have what my uncle calls an intuition about stones and working with them. He's the one said she could cut the Mars diamond."

	Jepson frowned. "Did Uncle Professor fall off the legit? He put you up to this job?"

	"Oh, no! None of my family know how I ... ahh, make my living."

	Jepson groped backward with one foot, found the edge of the bed, sat down. "How much more loot does Uncle Professor need to fix his machine?"

	"You have it all wrong, Jep. It isn't a matter of loot. My uncle says there are local anomalies and force-time variations and that it very likely will be impossible ever to steer the machine very close to a time mark." "But it works?"

	"With these limitations."

	"Then why ain't I heard about it? Thing like this, seems it'd be more important than any Mars diamond. Why ain't it big news?"

	"My uncle's trying to determine if his force-time variation theory is correct. Besides, he has a plan to present his stone-age woman before a scientific meeting and he's collecting supporting evidence. And he says he's having trouble teaching her how to talk. She thinks he's some kind of god."

	"I'm beginning to be very interested in what you tell me," Jepson said. "So say some more."

	"You're not mad any more, Jep?"

	"I've said unkind words. So? Maybe I'm entitled. Leave us now say that interest has overcome my unhappiness. You sure your uncle didn't plan this little job?"

	Swimmer shook his head. "Uncle Amino wouldn't take any part of action like this. He's cubed. No, this was mine. After our—you know—I was on the shorts. I figured to do this one for the ready and cut you in because ... well, I owe it to you. You'll get your bundle back with interest. And this is a job with style, Jep. The Mars diamond—impossible to cut. But we cut it."

	"And who's to believe?" Jepson said. He nodded. "You think this gal of your Uncle Professor's can do it?"

	"I ran into Uncle Amino up in Long Beach. He was there buying equipment when the Russian ship made port and the Mars diamond was big news. Uncle Amino read this part about it being impossible to cut and he laughed. He said his gal could cut it into a watch fob for Premier Sherdakov if she wanted. That's the first I knew about the gal and about the machine working. He's been keeping it pretty secret, as I explained. Well ... what he said, that's what gave me the idea. I questioned my uncle; he was serious. This stone-age gal can do it. He insists she can."

	Jepson nodded. "If he says this cutter can do it, perhaps ... just perhaps, mind you, we could do business. It don't go until I see for myself, though."

	Swimmer allowed himself a deep sigh. "Well, naturally, Jep."

	Jepson pursed his lips. "I tell you a thing, Swimmer. You ain't done this entirely outa kindness for me. You heist this rock, you maybe start a international incident, but you ain't got no way to get the rock outa Mexico."

	Swimmer stared at his feet, suppressed a smile. "I guess I didn't fool you a bit, Jep. I have to get the rock up north. I have to get the cutter away from my uncle and I need a place where she can work. I need organization. You have organization."

	"Organization is expensive," Jepson said.

	Swimmer looked up. "We deal?"

	"Seventy-five and twenty-five," Jepson said.

	"Ahhh, Jep! I was thinking fifty-five, forty-five." At the look in Jepson's eyes, he said: "Sixty-forty?"

	"Sharrup before I make it eighty-twenty," Jepson said. "Just be glad you got a friend like me who'll help when you need."

	"There's a few million bucks in this thing," Swimmer said, fighting to keep the hurt and anger from his voice. "The split's—"

	"The split stands," Jepson said. "Seventy-five and twenty-five. We don't argue. Besides, I'm nuts even to listen to you. Every time you say dough I buy trouble. This time, I better get some of my investment back. Now, you go out and tell Harpsy to slip the dolls some coin and send 'em packing. We gotta concentrate on getting this rock over the border. And thar is gonna take some doing."

II

	The chalet nestled furtively wren-brown within the morning shadows of pines and hemlocks on a lake island. The lake itself was a sheet of silvered glass reflecting upside down images of the island and a dock on its south shore. Two airboats had been brought up under the trees and hidden beneath instiflage netting. Seated in shadows above the dock, a man with a blast-pellet swagrifle puffed nervously on an alerto cigaret. Two other men, similarly armed and similarly drugged to eye-darting sensitivity, patrolled the island's opposite shore.

	The sounds of an argument could be heard coming from within what had been the chalet's dining room and now was a jury-rigged workshop. It was only one of many arguments that had consumed considerable time during the past five days of harried flight northward from Mazatlan.

	Swimmer, for one, was sick of the arguing, but he knew of no non-violent way to silence his uncle. Things were not going at all as he had planned. First, there had been the disconcerting discovery that a Mexican boy had identified him from mug files as the man who had walked out of the water wearing a normal business suit (permadry) and gill mask and carrying a "white rock."

	Jepson's organization had smuggled Swimmer over the border concealed in a freight load of canteloupes. One of the canteloupes had been hollowed out to hold the diamond.

	Next, Swimmer's uncle—alerted by the front-page hullabaloo—had absolutely balked at cooperating in anything his wayward nephew wanted.

	Jepson had lost his temper, had given terse orders to his boys and here they all were now—somewhere in Canada or northern Minnesota.

	Arguing.

	Only one of the dining room's occupants had failed to participate in the arguments. She answered to the name of Ob (although her own people had called her Kiunlan, which translated as Graceful Shape).

	l£~iunlan-Cp stood five feet one inch tall. Professor Amino Rumel's lab scales had placed her weight at one hundred twenty-seven pounds nine ounces. Her blue-black hair had been drawn back and tied with a red ribbon. She had a low forehead and large, wide-set blue-gray eyes. Her nose was flat and with large nostrils. Both chin and mouth were broad, the lips thick. Fifteen welted red scars down the left side of her face told the initiated that she had seen fifteen summers and had not yet Uttered. A simple brown pullover dress belted at the waist covered her heavy-legged body, but failed to conceal the fact that she had four breasts.

	This feature had first attracted Swimmer's fascinated attention. He had then noted her hands. These bore thick horn callouses over palms and fingers and along the inner edges of the fingers—even occasionally on the backs of the fingers, especially around the nails.

	Ob stood now beside a bench that had replaced the chalet dining room's table. One of her hands rested on the back of a high stool drawn up to the bench. The Mars diamond lay on a cushioned square of black velvet atop the bench. The stone's milky surface reflected a faint yellow from the spotlight hanging close to it on a gooseneck.

	As the argument progressed, Ob's attention shifted fearfully from speaker to speaker. First, there were many angry noises from Gruaaack, the super devil-god who was called Proff Ess Orr. Then came equally loud and angry noises from the big stout devil-god called Jepp, the one whose eyes blazed with the threat of unknown terrors and who obviously was superior over all the others in this place.

	Sometimes there were softer sounds from the smaller creature who had accompanied the devil-god Jepp. The status of this creature was not at all clear. He appeared to Ob to be vaguely human. The face was not at all unpleasant And he seemed to share some of Ob's fears. She thought perhaps the other creature was a human snared like herself by these terrible beings.

	"Yes, she's a genius at shaping stones!" Uncle Professor blared. "Yes! Yes! But she's still a primitive creature whose understanding of what we want is definitely limited."

	He paced back and forth in front of Ob and the bench, a bald, skinny little man trembling with indignation.

	Thieves, assassins, kidnappers, he thought. How could Conrad have become associated with such a crew? Coming on him in his lab that way, crating his equipment without a by-your-leave and spiriting him off to this remote place.

	"You through yakking?" Jepson asked.

	"No, I am not," Uncle Professor said. He pointed to the diamond on the bench. "That ... that is no ordinary diamond. That is the Mars diamond. Turning such a priceless stone over to  ..."

	"Sharrup!" Jepson said.

	Creeps with their stupid arguments, he thought

-

	Uncle Professor glanced at his nephew. There's been some bad moments during the past few days of their furtive journey. Again, the Professor wondered about nephew Conrad. Could the boy have been deceived by Jepson? The man was a criminal and that obviously was where all his money came from—all the money provided to develop the time machine. Was it possible this Jepson had dragged poor Conrad into this nefarious scheme through some terrible threat?

	In a quiet voice, Jepson said: "Did you or din't you tell your nephew the Swimmer here that your gal could cut this Mars rock?"

	"Yes, I said that; I said she could cut any stone, but ..."

	"So awright. I want she should cut."

	"Will you please try to underhand?" the Professor pleaded. "Ob undoubtedly can exit your stone. But any idea of facets and deriving the maximum brilliance from a given gem—this probably is outside her understanding. She's accustomed to functional artifacts, to simpler purposes in her ..."

	"Simple. Schmimple!" Jepson snarled. "You're stalling. What's it, huh? D'you lie about this dame? Alia stories I ever see 'bout creeps like her, the guys did the stone cutting and the dames sat around caves hiding from tigers they got teeth six feet long."

	"We're going to have to revise our previous hypotheses about stone-age divisions of labor," the Professor said. "As nearly as I can make out from Ob, women made the tools and weapons while the men did the hunting.

	Their society was matriarchal with certain women functioning somewhat like priestesses. Cave-Mothers, I believe it would translate."

	"Yeah? I ain't so sure. What about them things?"

	"Things?" The Professor peered at Jepson with a puzzled frown.

	"She's got four of 'em!" Jepson barked. "I think you're trying to pass off some freak as ..

	"Oh," the Professor said. Four, yes. That's very curious. About one in fourteen million human female births today demonstrate a condition of more than two mammaries. Heretofore, there've been three major hypotheses: one, mutation; two, absorbed sibling, and three, ahh ... throwback. Ob is living proof of the third case. Multiple births were more frequent in her time, you see? It's quite simple: female were required to suckle more infants. A survival characteristic that gradually disappear-as multiple births declined."

	"You don't say." Jepson growled.

	"George was particularly elated," the Professor said, "since he had maintained the third case."

	"George? Who is George?" Jepson demanded.

	"My associate, Professor George Elwin," the Professor said.

	"You didn't tell me about no George," Jepson said. "When I was sinking all that loot in your stupid machine, there wasn't no George around. Who's he, your new mark?"

	"Mark?" The Professor glanced at Swimmer back to Jepson.

	Swimmer tried to swallow in a dry throat, sensing how near Jepson was to a violent explosion of rage. Swimmer found it odd that his uncle couldn't see the danger.

	"I don't really see where my associate is any concern of yours," the Professor said. "But if ..."

	"How many people know about that rime machine—" Jepson pointed to the large crate in the corner behind him—" and about this Ob dame?"

	"Well, you know, of course, and ..."

	"Don't get smart with me, creep! Who knows?"

	The Professor stared at him, aware at last of the suppressed rage. Professor Rumel's mouth felt suddenly dry, Criminals such as this could be most violent—murderously so, at times.

	"Well, aside from those of us here in this room, there are Professor Elwin and very likely two or three of George's assistants. I didn't impose any special strictures of secrecy other than to suggest we'd wait for the complete investigation before publishing our ..."

	"How come this George?" Jepson demanded.

	"Well, my dear sir, someone with the proper training had to go to Northern France and seek the archeological authentication. Inevitably, there will be cries of fraud, you know."

	Jepson screwed his face into a puzzled frown. Archeo ... What's this Northern France bit?"

	The Professor's face came alight with the glow of a man launched on his favorite subject. "You may not know it, Mr. Jepson, but paleolithic artifacts bear markings that are, in some respects, as distinctive as the brushstrokes of a master painter. Now, under strictly controlled archeological conditions, we're seeking some of Ob's work in situ—where she originally made it."

	"Yeah?" Jepson said.

	"You see, Mr. Jepson, as nearly as we can determine, Ob came from the region just east of Cambrai in Northern France. This is something more than an educated guess. We have several pieces of evidence—a scrap of obsidian which Ob—you see how I got her name ... my little joke: Ob for obsidian ... well, this piece of obsidian she carried on her when we picked her up is of a type common in the region we've selected. There was also plant pollen on her person, types of clay soil in the mud on her feet and a photograph of the background landscape which we took as we snatched Ob from ..."

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "So only a few of us know about her."

	"Quite," the Professor said. "I'm sure you can see why we decided to delay any publication and prevent idle speculation. Nothing destroys the essential character of scientific endeavor more than Sunday supplement romanticizing."

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "Just like you tol' me."

	"And there's the ethical problem," the Professor said. "Some people may question the morality of our bringing this human being out of her natural habitat in the past. I, personally, incline to the theory that Ob's time-stream diverted from ours at the moment of her removal from her—and our—personal past. However, if you ..."

	"Yeah, yeah!" Jepson barked.

	Keerist! he thought. The old creep could yak all day about nothing. Big words! Big words! Didn't mean a thing.

III

	Swimmer looked from one to the other and marveled at the low level of communication be-tween his uncle and Jepson. The Professor might just as well be talking to Ob for all the sense he was making. Swimmer fingered the gill mask in his pocket, thinking of it as a back-door way of escape should things get completely out of hand here.

	"As I was about to say," the Professor said, "if you consider the equation of historical interference as one element of your total ..."

	"Yeah!" Jepson exploded. "That's very interesting. But what I wanna know is why can't I show this Ob dame a rock and say I want some other rock cut likewise and such and so? She could do the thing like that, ain't it?"

	The Professor sighed and threw up his hands. He'd thought he'd penetrated Jepson's strange jargon, conveyed some of the problems to the man, but not a bit of it appeared to have gotten through.

	"Din't you say she was a expert?" Jepson demanded.

	"Given time," The Professor said in a patient, long-suffering tone, "I do believe Ob could make one of the finest diamond cutters in the world. We've a few industrial diamond chips in the lab and part of our examination of her involved seeing what she could do with them. She needed no more than a glance to see the natural cleavage lines. No fumbling or mistakes. Just one prac-cal glance. But I wish to warn you—the measure of her understanding may be seen in the fact she thought the diamonds too hard for practical purposes."

	"But she worked them rocks okay?"

	"If that's what you want to call it."

	"Did she have any better tools than we got here?" Jepson motioned to the rack at the rear of the bench, the cutter's vice clamped to one end.

	"Not as good."

	"She know how to use them tools?"

	"She has a natural tool sense and she's quite awed by our equipment. She's an intuitive worker. You might say she lives the stone. Indeed, she appears to project ideas of life and animism into the stones she works."

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "So left get busy." He turned and studied Ob.

	She lowered her gaze under the pressure of that stare from the angry devil-god. Ob felt she understood what was wanted of her. She had a much better grasp of the language than she had permitted the devil-gods to suspect. The training imparted by her Cave Mother fitted well here: "When dealing with devil-gods and spirits, give them the obedience and subservience they demand. But dissemble, always dissemble."

	A pang of homesickness shot through her and her lower lip trembled, but she suppressed the emotion. A female trained to the cave-motherhood and the creation of living tools did not give way, even before devil-gods. And there was work to do here, creation for which she had been trained. Beyond her understanding of the devil-gods' words, there were much more direct ways of divining their desires. They had brought her into the presence of their wondrous tools and they had set up the stone as for a sacrifice. The stone was one of the difficult, very hard ones, and its grain had been criss-crossed and twisted by unimaginable forces. But Ob could see the points of entry and the manner in which the work should progress.

	"Tell her what she should do," Jepson said.

	"I refuse to have any more to do with this," the Professor said. Swimmer blanched. "Nobody," Jepson said in a low, cold voice, "but nobody refuses what I say do. You, Uncle Professor, will get across to your cutter dame what it is she should do. You will do this or I will permit you to watch my boys cut up your creep nephew here into exceedingly small pieces. We wouldn't want the fishes should choke while they are disposing of him. Do I make myself plain?"

	"You wouldn't dare," the Professor said. But even as he spoke he sensed that Jepson would indeed dare. The man was a criminal monster ... and they were at his mercy.

	Swimmer 'stood trembling. Now, he regretted ever having started this exploit. The gill mask in his pocket was useless. Jepson would never let him get off this island alive if there were the slightest upset in his plans.

	Grudgingly, the Professor said: "Just what is it you want me to do, Mr. Jepson?"

	"We been through all that!" Jepson snarled. "Get your dame started on this rock. The big-domes say it can't be cut. So let's see her cut it."

	"It's on your head," the Professor said.

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "So do."

	Swimmer took a deep breath as the Professor turned toward Ob. It was obvious to Swimmer now that Jepson had plans of his own concerning the cutter dame. The Mars diamond was merely a preliminary. Swimmer suspected he shortly would have no place in Jepson's plans. And people who had no place in Jepson's plans sometimes disappeared.

	As these thoughts went through Swimmer's mind, Ob looked at him with such a weight of shared understanding that he wondered if the ancients had possessed a telepathic faculty which had been lost in the genetic ebb and flow of the ensuing eons. And he wondered suddenly at the terrors this poor creature must be undergoing—and hiding so well. She'd been snatched from her place and time, taken forever from her friends. There could be no sending her back; the time machine couldn't be controlled that well. And here she was now, in Jepson's hands.

	Something would have to be done about Jepson, Swimmer thought. He shivered with fear of what he had to do ... and the fear of what would happen if he failed in any step.

	"Ob," the Professor said. Ob looked at Gruaaack, trying to convey by her waiting silence the almost frantic desire to please. Thank whatever benign spirits might hover near this place, the devil-gods were through fighting, she thought.

	"Ob," the Professor repeated, "look at this stone." He pointed to the Mars diamond on its bed of black velvet.

	Ob looked at the stone. The Professor spoke slowly and distinctly: "Ob can you work this stone?"

	Such a difficult stone, Ob thought. But there was a way. The devil-god Gruaaack must know this. It was a test then. The devil-god was testing her.

	"Ob. Work. Stone," she said.

	Swimmer marveled at the throaty quality of her voice.

	"First, you must cut off a small piece of the stone," the Professor said.

	Fes, it is a test, Ob thought. Everyone knows the work progresses a small chip at a time. This was such a difficult stone, though. The first cut would be somewhat larger than usual. Still, the cut would remove a small enough piece.

	"Small Piece," she agreed.

	"Do you have the tools you need?" the Professor asked. He indicated the vise, jeweler's mallet and wedges on the bench.

	Another test, Ob thought

	"Need. Wa. Ter," she said. "Need. Ongh-ongh."

	"What the devil's a ong-ong?" Jepson asked. "I never heard no cutter ask for a ong-ong."

	"I've no idea," the Professor said. "She's never used the term before." He turned a puzzled frown on Jepson. "Surely you must see now how limited our communication really is. There exists such a wide gap in ..."

	"So get 'er a ong-ong!" Jepson barked.

	Ob looked from one devil-god to the other. They must have ongh-ongh, she thought. Wherever there was fire there was ongh-ongh. She looked at Swimmer, seeing only the fear in him. He must be another human like herself. She turned her attention to Gruaaack. Could this be another test? It was very puzzling. She picked up the Mars diamond in one horn-calloused hand, drew a finger along it. "Ongh-ongh."

	The Professor shrugged. "Oh, you get ongh-ongh," he said.

	Ob sighed. Another test.

	She clasped the Mars diamond in both hands headed for the chalet's living room. There was a fire-hole in the living room; she had smelled it and seen it.

	The living room had been furnished with heavy rustic furniture and Mexican fabrics. The colorful upholstery filled Ob with awe. What manner of animal could have produced such skins? she wondered. Devil-god land must possess many terrors.

	Two of Jepson's boys sat at a round table near the windows, overlooking the lake. They were eating and playing poker. A fire had been layed in the stone fireplace and Ob headed directly toward it, trailed by Jepson, the Professor and Swimmer.

	The boys looked up from their game and one said: "Get a load of that shape. Gives me the creeps."

	"Yeah," his companion said, and looked at Jepson. "What's she doin' with the rock, boss?"

	Jepson spoke with an offhand, casual tone, keeping his attention on Ob. "Sharrup."

	The boys shrugged and went back to their game.

	/"vb knelt at the fireplace, scooped out a small handful of ashes. "Ongh-ongh," she said. She rested the diamond on the hearth, spat into the ashes, kneaded a bit of black mud which she transfer-ted to the diamond. Her horny hands worked the mud into the stone's surface.

	"What's she doon?" Jepson demanded.

	"I'm sure I don't know," the Professor said. "But ongh-ongh appears to be ashes."

	Jepson fixed his attention on the diamond which was now a black-streaked mess. Ob picked It up, walked to the room's east windows. She lifted the diamond to the sun, studied it.

	Yes, she thought, the light of Mighty Fire passed through this atone and was dimmed and cut Into strange patterns by the ongh-ongh. She rubbed the stone, removing some of its black cover, wiped her hands on the brown dress, again held the diamond to Mighty Fire. It was as she had expected, the technique taught her bv t>>° Cs«re Mother. Lines of ongh-ongh on the stone's surface betrayed tiny flaws and these lines provided a fixed reference against which to study the interior contours.

	"I believe this must be some sort of religious prelude to the actual work," the Professor said.

	Swimmer looked at him, glanced at Jepson, then moved up behind Ob. He bent, peered up at the stone in her hands, seeing the coruscating light and the patterns revealed by the ash coating.

	Ob turned, seeing him close there. She ventured a shy smile which was quickly erased as she darted glances at Jepson and the Professor.

	Swimmer straightened, grinned.

	Again, he was rewarded by that shy smile. It gave a momentary lightness to her heavy features.

	"Strange," the Professor said. "Sun worship, very likely. I must delve into her religious beliefs more ..."

	"When's she gonna cut out this crap and get to cutting?" Jepson demanded.

	"Ob. Work," she said.

	She turned, led the way back into the workroom, returned the stone to its square of velvet.

	Swimmer started to move up close, was stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder. He turned, looked up at Jepson.

	"I want you should stay back outa the way, boy," Jepson said.

	Swimmer shivered. He had sensed ultimate rejection in the man's voice.

	A bird chose this moment to sing outside the room's south window: "Willow, will-will, willow."

	Ob looked to the window, smiled. The birdsong was familiar, a voice she understood. He was saying: "This is my ground, my bush." She turned, met Jepson's harsh stare.

	"Cut that damn rock!" Jepson said.

	She cringed. There was death in that voice. She had heard it distinctly.

	The Professor adjusted the spotlight above the bench, touched Ob's arm.

	She looked up, surprised to find fear in his eyes, too. Gru-aaack afraid? All was not as it appeared with the devil-gods! Her mind churning, she bent to the stone, rested it in the vise-stand, turned it—gently, precisely—locked it in place. Such wonderful tools they had, these devil-gods.

	Jepson moved around beside the bench where he could command a clear view of her work. He wiped his hands against his sides to remove the perspiration. He had watched cutters at their work before. Time always seemed to stretch out during that first cut—dragging, dragging—while tensions mounted and the cutter drew on the nervous energy to make the single tap ... just right Expecting this, Jepson found Ob's actions stupefying.

IV

	Ohe searched a moment among  the wedges racked on the bench, selected one and rested it on the diamond. She lifted the mallet in her other hand.

	Jepson waited for the long drawn-out positioning and shifting of the wedge. He jumped as she brought the mallet down without changing that first, apparently casual placement.

	Crack!

	A long narrow piece of the Mars diamond fell to the bench. Crack!

	Another, slightly smaller this time. Crack!

	Jepson came out of his shock as a third chip clattered to the bench. "Wait!" he shrieked.

	Crack!

	Ob eased the vise, turned the diamond slightly. Crack!

	"Tell her to wait!" Jepson bleated. Crack!

	The Professor found his voice.

	"Obr

	She turned, still holding mallet and wedge firmly, waited for Gruaaack's command.

	"Stop work," the Professor said.

	Dutifully she lowered her hands.

	Jepson pursed his lips, made a low sound: "Whooooeeee." He picked up the largest chip, turned it in the light. "The rock that couldn't be cut, eh? Whooooeeee." He dropped the chip to the bench, drew a dart pistol from a shoulder holster, pointed it at Swimmer.

	"No hard feelings, Swimmer," he said. "But you are excess baggage. And Uncle Professor needs a lesson that he should do like he's told."

	"You wouldn't!" the Professor whispered.

	Jepson darted a glance at the Professor.

-

	In this instant, Swimmer acted from desperation, leaping sideways and kicking at the gun hand. Muscles hardened from years of swimming slammed the toe of his shoe into Jepson's hand. The gun went pffwt! as it left the hand. A dart buried itself in the ceiling. The gun clattered across the room.

	Ob stood for a frozen second, horrified by Swimmer's action against the devil-god. But she had heard the death in the devilgod's voice and she knew that even the will-will willow bird would attack a human if given enough reason. Why then couldn't a human attack a devil-god?

	As Jepson opened his mouth to call his boys, Ob brought a fist crashing down onto his head. There was a sound like the dropping of a ripe melon and a sharp snap of Jepson's neck broke. He collapsed with a soft thud.

	Swimmer dove for the fallen dart pistol, scooped it up, crouched facing the door to the living room, listening with every sense for a sign that the disturbance had been heard.

	"My word!" the Professor said.

	Only the ordinary sounds of the house penetrated the room—footsteps from one of the bedrooms overhead, the creak of bedsprings, a faucet being turned on, somebody whistling.

	Swimmer turned.

	Ob stood staring down at Jepson. A look of dawning wonder covered her face.

	Swimmer crossed to Jepson, bent, examined him.

	"Dead," he said. He straightened, smiled reassuringly at Ob. It was a reassurance he did not feel, however. "We're in the soup, Uncle," he said. "If any of the boys come in ..."

	The Professor fought down a shudder. "What shall we do?"

	"We have one chance," Swimmer said. "Ob, help me get this carcass behind your bench." He bent, started to drag Jepson's body.

	Gently, Ob brushed him aside, lifted Jepson's body with one hand through the belt. The dead man's head lolled; his arms dragged on the floor.

	Swimmer swallowed, indicated where he wanted the body deposited. They propped Jepson in a corner, moved the bench to conceal him.

	"My word," the Professor whispered. "She's strong as an ox!"

	"Now listen carefully," Swimmer said. "Ob must go right on working as though nothing had happened. I'll try to get into the lake. If I can, once under water, I can get away and bring help." He passed Jepson's dart pistol to the Professor. "Keep this in your pocket. Don't use it unless you have to."

	"This is dreadful," the Professor said.

	"It'll be more dreadful if you don't do this just the way I say," Swimmer rasped. "Now, put that gun in your pocket."

	The Professor gulped, obeyed.

	"Now get her back to work," Swimmer said.

	The Professor nodded, faced Ob. "You ... work ... stone," he said.

	She remained motionless, studying him, wondering at the tone of command the human had used against this devil-god. Could a human command devil-gods?

	"Please, Ob," Swimmer said. "Work the stone."

	Something near worship was in her eyes as she looked at Swimmer. "You. Want. Ob. Work?" she asked.

	"You work," Swimmer said. He patted her arm.

	Again, that shy smile touched her mouth. She turned back to the bench and the diamond. "Ob. Work?" she asked.

	Swimmer looked at his uncle. The man's eyes appeared glazed with shock.

	"Uncle?" Swimmer said.

	The Professor shook his head, met Swimmer's eyes with something like attention.

	"If anyone asks for Jep," Swimmer said, "he went for a walk and left you to supervise Ob cutting the rock. Got that?"

	The professor gulped. "I" quite understand, Conrad. I must dissemble, tell falsehoods. But do hurry. This is most distasteful."

	Crack!

	Ob chipped another piece from the diamond. Crack!

	Swimmer permitted himself a deep breath. He had no time to be afraid or remember that he was a physical coward. The lives of his uncle and this strangely attractive primitive woman depended on him. He composed his features, slipped out of the room and down the side passage to the kitchen. It was empty, but someone had left a pot of water boiling. A spicy steam odor followed him across the room as he left himself out the back door.

	A soft breeze rustled the pines overhead. He looked up, checked the position of the sun—still forenoon. There was motion along the shore to his right and left—two guards.

	Swimmer forced himself to a casual, strolling pace toward the lake, aiming for a point midway between the guards. A fallen tree reached across the sand into the water there, its dead limbs sprayed out into air and water. He sat down on the sand beside the tree and within inches of the water, tossed a cone into the lake as though in idle play.

	The guards ignored him after one searching glance.

	Swimmer waited, wondering why he found Ob so attractive. He decided at last that she was the only woman who'd ever really looked at him without some degree of revulsion.

	The guards strolled toward him, turned and patrolled away. Both had their backs to him now.

	Swimmer whipped out his gill mask, brought it down over his head, slipped into the water among the tree's branches, submerged. Years of practice made the action almost noiseless.

	Slowly, he worked himself out into the lake, staying close to the bottom. His permadry suit billowed around him, and he pulled the hidden cords to tighten it.

	Presently he was in deep water. He twisted his shoe heels. Flippers emerged from the toes. With a strong, steady stroke, he struck out for the opposite shore, guiding himself by the compass on the back of his wristwatch.

	Strange emotions churned in him, not the least being a sense of cleansing at the realization that he was cutting himself off from his criminal past. The code was explicit: you did not inform on your fellows—no matter the provocation.

	But he had to inform. Otherwise a woman who was suddenly very important to him might die.

IV

	When Swimmer looked back on it, that afternoon which the authorities referred to as "the day we broke up the Jepson Gang" contained shadows of dreamlike unreality criss-crossed with currents of profound immediacy.

	Ob! The danger!

	The Sheriff wanted to know about the Mars diamond.

	There was the comparative quiet of the lake crossing under water. That was routine and hardly counted. He emerged around a point hidden from the island and there was a brief dog-trot through trees and buckbrush to a dirt track, its sides piled high with duff blown there by skimmer fans. The track led to a rural road where he was picked up by a farm truck with outsize aprons and a hover-blast like a hurricane.

	The face of the farmer failed to register—but his voice, a whining twang, lingered for years, and there was a dark brown mole over the second knuckle of his right hand. It seemed important to Swimmer, reflecting upon it later, that the farmer was hauling a load of cabbage which smelled of fresh dirt.

	Worry over Ob kept Swimmer jittery and on the edge of the truck's seat. The farmer called him "neighbor" and complained about the price of fertilizer. The man asked Swimmer only one question: "Where y' going, neighbor?"

	"To town."

	Town, according to a sign at its edge, was Ackerville, population 12,908. The farmer dropped Swimmer across the street from a tall building which obviously dated from before the turn of the century: It presented a monotonous face of glass and aluminum. A plaque over the entrance revealed that it was the administrative center for Crane County.

	A whistle hooted for noon as Swimmer entered the building and followed arrow signs to the Sheriff's Office. He was to remember the place afterward chiefly for the smell of its halls (pine disinfectant) and the tall, skinny sheriff in a conservative business suit and western hat, who said as Swimmer entered the office:

	"You'd be Conrad Rumel. Ralph Abernathy just called from his truck and said he brought you into town."

	The fact that a farmer in Northern Minnesota could identify him that easily helped Swimmer to understand the terrifying efficiency in which he was abruptly immersed. Armed deputies appeared in the door behind him. They appeared surprised that he carried no weapons. He was hustled into a maple-paneled office that looked out through a wall of windows onto the street corner where the farmer had dropped him.

	Ralph Aberrtathy. There was no face in his memory to go with the name. Swimmer wondered how he could've ridden in the truck with the farmer and not remember the face.

	Swimmer had to repeat his story three times for the Sheriff and deputies, another time for a bald, white-bearded fat man identified as the County Prosecutor. They seemed unconcerned about the urgency, kept dragging out new questions.

	Abruptly, there were many more men in the room. Sheriff and County Prosecutor faded into the background.

	The newcomers deferred to Wallace MacPreston, a thin little rail not over five feet two inches tall, iron gray hair and a wide mouth set in a perpetual half-smile that never reached his large blue eyes.

	"I am a special assistant to the President," MacPherson said.

	Swimmer didn't have to ask President of what?

	MacPreston then launched into his own line of questioning. Some were the same questions the Sheriff and deputies had asked, but MacPreston was also concerned about how Swimmer had sunk the Soviet propaganda ship. Was Swimmer aware he'd cracked the ship in half? Had that been his intention? What had guided him in placement of the explosive charges? How large was each charge? Why? What type of detonator? How far had he retreated to avoid the compression shock? What clues in the ship's design had betrayed its weak points? What particular burner had he chosen to cut open the diamond box? Why had he selected that particular time for the operation?

	Gradually, Swimmer grew aware of faces in the crowd around MacPreston. One particularly caught his attention: a square-faced hulk of a man at MacPreston's left—eyes like brown caverns above a hooked nose, dark straw hair wisping away to twin bald spots at the temples. This man betrayed an obvious interest in the details of how Swimmer had sunk the ship.

	But none of these people appeared to grasp the urgency, the danger to Ob ... and Uncle Amino.

	MacPreston went over Swimmer's story ... and over it ... and over it ... and over it.

	The position of the diamond box—how had that guided him in placement of the explosives?

	"Look!" Swimmer suddenly raged. "Don't any of you realize what'll happen if Jepson's boys find out he's dead?"

	"Jepson's boys aren't going anywhere," MacPreston said.

	"But they'll kill Ob  ... and my uncle," Swimmer said.

	"Doubtful," MacPreston said.

	

	"Now, about this Ob. You say your uncle picked her up with a rime machine?"

	Swimmer had to explain then about the time machine, Jepson's money, about the break-through, the inaccurate controls. With every new question to answer, he could feel time running out for Ob and his uncle.

	"Time machine," MacPreston sneered.

	The hook-nosed man tugged at MacPreston's sleeve. MacPreston looked up, said: "Yeah, Mish?"

	"Outside," the man said. "Wan-ta talk." They left the room.

-

	More time raced past Swimmer began to lose all hope. MacPreston and his companion returned followed by an Army general and a Ranger colonel. The Colonel was speaking as they entered: "Three hundred and eighty men, counting the single-scooters and manjets, plus the twenty-five flying tanks the Marines are sending; that should do it"

	"What about him?" the General asked, and he nodded toward Swimmer.

	"Rumel goes with us," MacPreston said. "You heard what the President said."

	"We still have three hours of daylight," the Colonel said. "That's plenty of time."

	

	"Do you need transportation?" the General asked.

	"We'll use our limousine," MacPreston said.

	"Stay high and out of it until we send the signal," the General said. "I don't suppose you're armored."

	"A Presidential limousine—you're joking!" MacPreston said.

	"Yeah, well I still want you out of it until the shooting's over," the General said. "No telling what armament a mob like that'll have."

	"What shooting?" Swimmer asked.

	"We're going in and rescue your uncle and your stone-age woman friend," MacPreston said. He shook his head. "Time machine."

	Swimmer took two deep breaths, said: "You know where they are?"

	"We have a plan of the house from the architect," MacPreston said. He started to turn away, looked back at Swimmer. "One of Mish's boys just handed me the damndest report I've ever seen in my life—from a Professor Elwin in Cambrai, France. You know this Elwin?"

	"I know who he is," Swimmer said. And he stilled his own questions in the hope these people would launch themselves into their promised action.

	"Time machine," MacPreston muttered, but there was awe rather than doubt in his voice.

	Swimmer felt something grab his left wrist, looked down to find the wrist connected by handcuffs to the right wrist of the hooknosed companion—Mish.

	"I'm Mischa Levinsky, CID," the man said, staring hard at Swimmer. "Wanta talk to you sometime, Rumel, about that Mazatlan operation. For one man, that was a dilly."

	CID, Swimmer thought. The President. Army. Rangers. Marines. He had the feeling that he was lost in a mad pinball machine, about to be bounced from bumper to bumper while MacPreston shouted. "Tilt! Tilt! Tilt!"

	"Let's roll it,'" Levinsky said. V

	The combined force dove into the lake island out of the afternoon sun, screaming in like a swarm of angry insects onto an enemy hive. Army armored single-scooters formed a solid ring around the beach perimeter. Marine flying tanks darkened the sky. Leaping Rangers in man-jets popped up and down through the pines.

	To Swimmer, watching from the rear of the limousine which hovered at about seven thousand feet southeast of the scene, the orderly pandemonium was an insane game. He found it difficult to associate any of his own actions with this result. Had it not been for his fear over Ob, Swimmer knew he'd have found the whole thing ludicrous.

	The limousine dropped down to three thousand feet, moved in closer.

	Swimmer glanced at MacPreston on his right. "Are they ...?"

	"Dunno yet," MacPreston said. "Pretty good operation, eh, Mish?"

	"Too damn many of 'em," Levinsky growled. "Wonder they aren't falling all over each other."

	'What do you think, Rumel?" MacPreston asked.

	"What?"

	"Is it a good operation?"

	They're nuts, Swimmer thought. He said: "I agree with Mr. Levinsky. Jepson couldn't have had more than twenty of his men down there ... from my count. I'd have held the armor out farther and gone in with fifty men."

	"Where would you have hit?" MacPreston asked.

	"Right on top of the house."

	Levinsky nodded.

	The limousine dropped to five hundred feet above the lake's southeast shore. Swimmer could hear scattered rifle shots. Each one sent an agony of fear through him.

	Ob ...

	A man-made serenity returned to the island, a shocked silence broken only by faint shouts heard across the hush of water. A line of men with their hands in the air was marched onto the Island's dock through a cordon of single-scooters.

	Something buzzed from the limousine's dash.

	"That's it," MacPreston said. "Let's go."

	The limousine slanted in to the patch of open ground beside the chalet. Its hover jets raised a cloud of pine-needle duff that settled slowly after the motors were silenced.

	MacPreston opened his win-down, sneezed from the dust.

	A Ranger captain ran up, saluted, spoke through the window. "All secure, sir. Professor Rumel and the—ah—woman are safe in the house."

	Swimmer allowed himself a deep sigh.

	"What were the casualties?" Levinsky demanded.

	"Sir?" The Ranger captain bent to peer in at Levinsky.

	"The casualties!" Levinsky snapped.

	"We have ten wounded, sir. Eight from our own cross-fire. Nothing serious, though. And we killed two of the—uh—men here. Wounded four others."

	MacPreston touched a button beside him. The limousine's bubbletop swung back with a hiss of hydraulic mechanism.

	"Fifty men right on top of the house," Levinsky muttered. "Would've been plenty."

	"Well, Captain," MacPreston said, "bring Professor Rumel and the woman out here. I'm anxious to meet them."

	The Ranger captain fidgeted. "Well, sir ... you know we had orders to handle her and the Professor with kid gloves and we—

	"So bring them out here!" "Sir, the woman refuses to leave her work." "Her work?"

	"Sir, Professor Rumel says she'll take orders only from his nephew there." The Captain nodded toward Swimmer.

	Swimmer absorbed this silently, but with a strong upswing of good humor. He liked this Captain. He liked MacPreston. He liked Levinsky and all this damn fool mob of fighting men. Swimmer was surprised to come out of this reverie and find Levinsky and MacPreston staring at him.

	"What didn't you tell us?" Levinsky asked.

	About Ob working on the diamond, Swimmer thought. He swallowed, said: "I think she likes me."

	"So?" MacPreston said.

	"So that's good," Swimmer said.

	"From the description, she sounds like a freak," MacPreston said. "What's good about it?"

	Swimmer suddenly did not like MacPreston. The emotional reaction was apparently quite evident in the glare Swimmer turned on the Presidential assistant. "Maybe the description's wrong," MacPreston said.

	"Wally," Levinsky said, "why don't you shut up?"

	In the embarrassed silence which followed. Swimmer looked at Levinsky, reflecting: Ob a fr&ak? She's no more a freak than I am! So she has extra equipment. In her day, that was an advantage. And it isn't her fault she was snatched out of her day. She didn't ask to be brought here and have people sneer at her. Just because of the way she looks. She's a normal and healthy human female. Probably a lot more normal and healthy than this MacPreston jerk!

	MacPreston, his face flushed with anger, turned to the Ranger captain, said: "She refuses to come out here?"

	"Sir, the Professor insists she'll only take orders from his nephew. I'm ... I hesitate to use force."

	"Why?" MacPreston demanded. "Don't you have enough men for the job?"

	"Sir, there's a bench in there must weigh four hundred pounds. They hid this Jepson behind it We wanted to move the bench to see if Jepson was really dead. Sir, she lifted that bench with one hand."

	"A four hundred pound bench? With one hand?"

	"Yes, sir. Oh ... and Jepson was really dead, sir. Skull crushed. According to the Professor, she did that with one blow of her fist."

	"Her fist?" MacPreston turned his outraged stare onto Swimmer. "Rumel, what kind of female is that in there?"

	"Just an ordinary, normal woman," Swimmer said.

	"But—"

	"Nothing unusual at all about her!" Swimmer said. "In her day, she may even have been a ninety-seven-pound weakling. She didn't ask to be brought here, MacPreston. She didn't ask to have people pronounce stupid judgments on her appearance."

	MacPreston studied Swimmer's face, noting every detail of it from the low hairline to the vanishing chin. Presently he said: "Sorry, Mr. Rumel. My error."

	Swimmer nodded, thinking: She'll only take orders from me. A crazy elation filled him. He felt his left wrist being lifted by the handcuffs, looked down to see Levinsky unlocking the cuff.

	"Mish, what're you doing?" MacPreston asked.

	"Isn't it obvious?" Levinsky asked.

	"Now, wait a minute, Mish," MacPreston said. "I sympathize with your request, and the President does, too. But there are large obstacles. This man has committed crimes which no other man—"

	"He's the best demolition man I ever met," Levinsky said.

	"But we have the Russians to think about!" MacPreston said unhappily.

	"Well give 'em Jepson," Levinsky said. "Jepson's dead. He can't object ... or dispute our story."

	Swimmer massaged his wrist where the handcuff had been, stared from MacPreston to Levinsky. Their conversation made no sense to him. The Ranger captain, still standing beside the limousine, appeared equally puzzled.

	"But Rumel has been identified!" MacPreston said.

	"So?" Levinsky said.

	"So the Russians'll know he was involved. What use can he be to you after that? He has a face—excuse me, Mr. Rumel, but ifs true—that a Minnesota farmer could identify after seeing it only twice in the newspapers. How could you hide that from the Russians?" 

	"Don't be stupid, Wally! I never wanted to use him that way. I want his knowledge, his experience. I want him in the academy."

	"But if we don't hand him over to prosecution with the rest of that mob—"

	"What if we claim he was our agent all along? What if we say he infiltrated the Jepson mob tor us?"

	"You said it yourself, Mish. They know who the expert was. They know who sank that boat."

	"So?"

	MacPreston frowned.

	"You heard what the President said," Levinsky said. "If Rumel proves cooperative, and if we deem it advisable after our field investigation—"

	"I don't like it."

	"The Russians won't like it, either. Especially when we give them back their diamond and the Jepson gang, what's left of it."

	"The boat!"

	"We'll apologize about the boat."

	Give them back their diamond, Swimmer thought. Oh, God! And Ods in there cutting that rock into little pieces!

	"I'll have to think about it," MacPreston said. "Discomfitting the Russians would give me just as much pleasure as it would you. But there are other considerations." He looked up at the Ranger Captain. "Well, what're you standing there for?" 

	"Sir?'

	"Take us to Professor Rumel and this ... woman."

	"Sir, I've ... I think we'd better hurry."

	"Why?"

	"Well, sir, ifs what I've been trying to ... sir, this work she won't leave—she's cutting up that Mars diamond."

	Swimmer had not suspected MacPreston could move that fast. The limousine's door was slammed open. MacPreston grabbed his arm, and they were out and running—up the chalet's front steps with armed men in uniform leaping aside, through the door and into 'the living room.

	Overturned chairs, broken windows, a bullet-splintered wall: all testified to the violence of the attack. A cordon of guards was opened to the hall leading into the workroom.

	MacPreston stopped short. Swimmer bumped into him, was bumped in turn by Levinsky who was right on their heels.

	"That sound," MacPreston said.

	Swimmer recognized it. The sound came from the hallway. Crack! Crack! Crack!

	MacPreston released Swimmer's arm, advanced on the hall like a bull preparing to charge. A nudge from Levinsky sent Swimmer following after. He felt he was being escorted to his execution, and found it odd how their feet kept to the rhythm of Ob's chipping.

	Into the workroom they paraded.

	The place appeared untouched by the military's violence except for a shattered window at their left. Professor Amino Rumel stood beside the window. He turned as his nephew entered, said: "Conrad! Thank heaven you're here. She won't do a thing I say."

-

	MacPreston stopped a good six feet from where Ob was working. He stared at the square brown figure, noting the intense concentration in every line of her back, the play of muscles. Swimmer and Levinsky stopped behind him. Crack! Crack!

	The Professor advanced on Swimmer. "There's been the most dreadful confusion," he said.

	"In heaven's name, Rumel, stop her!" MacPreston rasped.

	"I've tried," the Professor said. "She pays no attention to me."

	"Not you!" MacPreston roared

	Crack!

	The Professor drew himself up, stared at MacPreston. "And who," he asked, "might you be?" He turned oddly pleading eyes on Swimmer. It was obvious that MacPreston had remembered about the four-hundred-pound bench being lifted with one hand.

	Swimmer tried to find his voice. His throat felt as though it had been seared with a hot poker. Slowly he brushed past MacPreston, touched Ob's arm.

	Ob dropped mallet and wedge, whirled on Swimmer with a glare that sent him retreating one quick step. At sight of him, though, a smile stretched her mouth. The smile held a radiant quality that transfixed Swimmer.

	"Ob, you can stop the work now," Swimmer whispered.

	Still smiling, she moved close to him, put a calloused forefinger to his cheek in the silent invitation of the cave, testing the emotion she read on his face. There were no scars on the cheek to count his years—and the skin was so sweetly, excitingly soft ... like one of the Cave Mother's babies. Still, he appeared to understand the fingerplay. He drew her aside, brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek, touched her scars.

	Ob wanted to take his hand, lead him to the bench and show him the work, but she feared to break the spell.

	"Even with the bullets flying around," Professor Rumel said, "she paid no attention. Just went right on, as though—" His voice trailed off. Presently he said: "Dear me. She wouldn't know about bullets."

	Swimmer heard the voice as though it came from a dream. Part of him was aware that MacPreston and Levinsky had gone to the bench, that they were bent over it muttering. What he read on Ob's face made all of that unimportant.

	The words of the Cave Mother came back to Ob: "Ifs all right to play with the males and sample them, but when the time comes for permanent mating, my magic will tell you which one to choose. You'll know at once."

	How wise the Cave Mother had been to know such a thing, Ob thought. How potent was the Cave Mother's magic!

	Swimmer felt that he had come alive, been reborn here in this room, that behind him lay a whole misplaced segment of nonexistence. He wanted to hug Ob, but suspected she might respond with painful vigor. She'd have to be cautioned about her strength before she broke his ribs. He sensed also that she might not have the inhibitions dictated by current culture. He could imagine her reacting with complete abandon if he should kiss her.

	Slowly he pulled away.

	Ob saw his reluctance, thought: He thinks of the devil-gods. We must distract the devil-gods, occupy them with other things. Then perhaps they'll take their thunder-magic elsewhere, and leave mortals to the things which interest mortals.

	But Swimmer had just begun to think about consequences. He found himself filled with wonder that he had never before worried about the legal consequences of his actions. The Mars diamond had attracted him, he realized, because it was a romp, a lark, a magnificent joke. But after what had happened to the rock, MacPreston and Levinsky would have to throw him to the Russians. They couldn't just hand over a mess of chips and say: "Sorry, fellows ... it came apart." Everything had come apart—and Swimmer was struck speechless by fear of what might happen to Ob.

	Consequences no longer could be ignored. Levinsky and MacPreston were engaged in a heated argument.

	"This is a catastrophe, I tell you!" MacPreston said.

	"Wally, you're being an ass," Levinsky said.

	"But what can we tell the Russians?"

	Exactly, Swimmer thought. What can we tell the Russians?

	"That's just it," Levinsky said. "This prehistoric female has solved that problem for us. She's made us a propaganda weapon we can parade before the whole world!"

	"You'd just—'

	"Certainly! There isn't a person in the world who'll fail to get the point." Levinsky lowered his voice. "The uncuttable diamond, don't you see? And we can say we planned it this way. We give 'em the Jepson gang and—" He pointed to something hidden by MacPreston's body. "... and an object lesson."

-

	Swimmer found himself overcome by curiosity. He headed for the bench, but Ob darted ahead, shouldered MacPreston aside and turned with something glistening in her hands.

	"Ob. Work," she said. "For ... you."

	With a sense of shock and awe, Swimmer accepted the object from her, understanding then what Levinsky had meant by "object lesson."

	The thing Ob had fashioned from the Mars diamond was a spearhead—delicately balanced and with exquisite workmanship. It lay in Swimmer's hands, warm and glittering.

	"You ... want?" Ob asked.

The End

Frogs and Scientists
Destinies – August/September 1979
(1979)
Frank Herbert
illustrated by Alicia Austin

	Two frogs were counting the minnows in a hydroponics trough one morning when a young maiden came down to the water to bathe. "What's that?" one frog (who was called Lavu) asked the other. "That's a human female," said Lapat, for that was the other frog's name.

	"What is she doing?" Lavu asked.

	"She is taking off her garments," Lapat said.

	"What are garments?" Lavu asked.

	"An extra skin humans wear to conceal themselves from the gaze of strangers," said Lapat.

	"Then why is she taking off her extra skin?" Lavu asked.

	"She wants to bathe her primary skin," Lapat said. "See how she piles her garments beside the trough and steps daintily into the water?"

	"She is oddly shaped," Lavu said.

	"Not for a human female," Lapat said. "All of them are shaped that way."

	"What are those two bumps on her front?" Lavu asked.

	"I have often pondered that question," Lapat said. "As we both know, function follows form and vice versa. I have seen human males clasp their females in a crushing embrace. It is my observation that the two bumps are a protective cushion."

	"Have you noticed," Lavu asked, "that there is a young male human watching her from the concealment of the control station?"

	"That is a common occurrence," Lapat said. "I have seen it many times."

	"But can you explain it?" Lavu asked.

	"Oh, yes. The maiden seeks a mate; that is the real reason she comes here to display her primary skin. The male is a possible mate, but he watches from concealment because if he were to show himself, she would have to scream, and that would prevent the mating."

	

	"How is it you know so many things about humans?" Lavu asked.

	"Because I pattern my life after the most admirable of all humans, the scientist."

	"What's a scientist?" Lavu asked.

	"A scientist is one who observes without interfering. By observation alone all things are made clear to the scientist. Come, let us continue counting the minnows."

The End

The Mind Bomb
If – October 1969
(1969)
Frank Herbert.

Infinitely wise and endlessly good, the machine created a world so sane that it could only go mad!

-

I

	It was hot in Palos that time of year. The Being Machine had reduced many of its activities and sped up its cooling "system.

	This season is called hot and desolate, the Machine recorded. People must be entertained in such a season ... Shortly after noon it noted that not many people were in the streets except for a few tourists who carried, slung around their necks, full-sense recorders. The tourists perspired heavily.

	Some local residents, those not busy with the labors of survival, peered occasionally from behind insulated windows or stood shaded in the screen fields of their doorways. They seemed to float in muddy seclusion beneath the lemonade sky

	The nature of the season and the environment crept through the Machine. It began sending out the flow of symbols which guarded the gateway to imagination and consciousness. The symbols were many and they flowed outward like silver rivers, carrying ideas from one time-place to another across a long span of existence.

	Presently, as the sun slipped halfway toward the moment when it would levy darkness, the Being Machine began to build a tower. It called the tower palace of palos culture. And the name stretched across the tower's lower stories in glowing letters taller than a man.

	At an insulated window across the plaza a man called Wheat watched the tower go up. He could hear the shuttle moving in his wife's loom and he felt torn by shameful reluctance, unwilling to watch the thought spasms in his mind. He watched the tower instead.

	"The damn thing's at it again," he said.

	"It's that time of year," his wife agreed, not looking up from the design she was weaving. The design looked like a cage of yellow spikes within a wreath of cascading orange roses.

	Wheat thought for a few minutes about the subterranean vast-ness men had measured out, defining the limits of the Being Machine. There must be caverns down there, Wheat thought. Endlessly nocturnal spiral corridors where no rain ever fell. Wheat liked to imagine the Being Machine this way, although there existed no record of any man's having entered the ventilators or surface extrusions by which the Machine made itself known.

	"If that damn machine weren't so disgusting—it'd be funny," Wheat said.

	"I'm much more interested in problem solving," his wife said. "That's why I took up design. Do you suppose anyone will try to stop it this time?"

	"First, we'd have to figure out what it is," Wheat said. "And the only records which could show us that are inside there."

	"What's it doing?" his wife asked.

	"Building something. Calls it a palace but it's going up pretty high. Must be twenty stories already."

	His wife paused to readjust the harness of her loom. She could see the way this conversation was going and it dismayed her. The slanting sun cast Wheat's shadow into the room and the black shape of it stretched out there on the floor made her want to run away. At times such as these she hated the Machine for pairing her with Wheat.

	"I keep wondering what it'll take away from us this time," she said.

-

	Wheat continued to stare through the window, awed by the speed with which the tower was rising. The rays of the setting sun painted streaks of orange on the tower surface.

	He was the standard human male, this Wheat, but old. He had a face like a vein-leaf cabbage, wrinkles overlapping wrinkles. He stood about two meters tall, as did all the other adults of the world, and his skin was that universal olive-tan, his hair dark and eyes to match. His wife, although bent from years at the loom, looked remarkably like him. Both wore their hair long, tied at the neck with strips of blue flash-cloth. Sacklike garments of the same material covered their bodies from neck to ankles.

	"It's frustrating," Wheat said. For a while the Being Machine conducted an internal thought-play in the language of the Kersan-Pueblo, exploring the subtle morphemes which recorded all actions now being undertaken as merely hearsay.

	Culture, the Machine recorded, speaking only for its internal sensors but using several vocalizers and varied tonal modes. Culture—culture—culture—The word fed on thought-nourishment and ignited a new train of concepts. A new Law of Culture must be homogenized immediately. It will be codified with the usual enforcements and will require precise efforts of exactness in its expression ...

	Wheat's window looked south past the district of the Machine and across an olive orchard that ran right up to a cliff above the sea. The sky was heavy above the sea and glowed with old sunset colors.

	"There's a new law," Wheat said.

	"How do you know?" his wife asked.

	"I know. I just know."

	His wife felt like crying. The same old pattern. Always the same.

	"The new law says I must juggle many ideas simultaneously in my mind," Wheat said. "I must develop my talents. I must contribute to human culture."

	His wife looked up from her weaving, sighed. "I don't know how you do it," she said. "You're drunk."

	"But there's a law that—"

	"There's no such law!" She took a moment to calm herself. "Go to bed, you old fool. I'll summon a medic with a potion to restore your senses."

	"There was a time," Wheat said, "when you didn't think of medics when you thought of bed."

	He stepped back from the window, stared at the cracked wall behind his wife's loom, then looked out at the sun-yellowed olive orchard and the blue-green sea. He thought the sea was ugly but the crack on the wall suggested a beautiful design for his wife to weave on her loom. He formed the pattern of the design in his mind—golden scales on cascades of black.

	Mirror memories of his own wrinkled face superseded the pattern in his mind. That was always the way when he tried to think freely. Ideas became fixed in ebony cement.

	"I will make a golden mask," he said. "It will be etched with black veins and it will make me beautiful."

	"There's no more gold in the entire' world, you old fool." His wife sneered. "Gold's only a word in books. What did you drink last night?"

	"I had a letter in my pocket from Central Solidarity," he said, "but someone stole it. I complained to the Machine but it wouldn't believe me. It made me stop and sit down by a scaly post, down by the water there, and repeat after it ten million times—" "I don't know what it is you use to make you drunk," she complained, "but I wish you'd leave it alone. Life would be much simpler."

	"I sat under a balcony," the man said.

	The Being Machine listened for a time to the clacking of the human-operated typers in the offices of Central Solidarity. As usual it translated the tiny differences of key touch into their corresponding symbols. The messages were quite ordinary. One asked the cooperation of a neighboring Centrality in the relocation of a cemetery, a move required because the Machine had extruded a new ventilator into the area. Another ordered forty containers of watermelons from Regional Provender. Still another, for distribution to all Centralities, complained that tourists were becoming too numerous in Palos and were disturbing the local tranquility.

	The Palace of Palos Culture will be programmed for a small increase in discontent, the Machine ordered.

	This accorded with the Law of the Great Cultural Discovery. Discontent brought readiness for adventure, made men live near the heights of their powers. They would not live dangerously but their lives would have the appearance of danger.

	Bureaucracy will end, the Machine directed, and the typers will fall silent ...

	These concepts, part of the Machine's Prime Law, had submitted to comparative repetition innumerable times. Now the Machine recorded that one of Central Solidarity's typers in Palos was writing a love letter on official stationery, on duty time—and that a dignitary at Central Provender in the Centrality of Asius had sequestered a basket of fresh apples for his own use. These items fitted the interpretation of "good signs."

	"It's an artificial intelligence of some kind," Wheat's wife said. She had left her loom to stand beside Wheat and watch the tower grow. "We know that much. Everybody says it"

	"But how does it think?" Wheat asked. "Does it have linear thoughts? Does it think 1-2-3-4—a-b-c-d? Is it some odd clock ticking away under the earth?"

	"It could be a marble rattling around in a box," his wife said.

	"What?"

	"You know—open the box at different times and you might find the marble almost anywhere inside the box."

	"But who made the marble rattle into our world?" Wheat asked. "That's the question. Who told it, •Make us one of those!'?"

	He pointed to the tower which now stood more than one hundred stories above the plaza. It was a structure of glistening orange in the evening light, ribbed vertically with deep black lines, windowless, terrifying and absurd. Wheat felt that the tower accused him of some profound sin.

	"Perhaps it incorporates its own end," his wife suggested.

	Wheat shook his head, not denying what she had said, but wishing for silence in which to think. Sharply glittering metallic devices could be glimpsed at the top of the tower where it continued to rise. How high was it going? Already, the tower must be the highest artificial structure men had ever seen.

-

	A small band of tourists paused in the plaza to record the tower. They did not appear excited by it, merely curious in a polite way. Here was a thing to carry home and replay for friends.

	It built a tower one day while we were there. Notice the sign: palace of palos culture. Isn't that amusing?

	After reviewing the matter to the extent of its data, the Being Machine found no path open for introducing culture into human society. It made the final comparatives in Kersan-Pueblo re-, cording that the described action must be internal, experienced only by the speaker. Humans could not acquire the culture facility from the outside or by hearsay.

	The need for new decisions dictated that the tower had risen high enough. The Being Machine capped its construction with a golden pyramid three hundred cubits on a side, measuring by the Judean cubit. The dimensions were compared and recorded. The tower was not the tallest in history but greater than the new-men had ever seen. Its effect would be interesting to observe, according to the interest-factor equations with which the Machine was equipped.

	At the apex of the pyramid the Machine installed a sensor excitation device, a simple system of plasma optics. It was designed to write with a flaming torch on the interface between stratosphere and troposphere.

	The Being Machine, occupied with selecting a new label for the tower, with analyzing the dreams in all the humans sleeping at that moment, and with constructing the historic analogies by which it amused its charges, wrote selected thoughts on the sky.

	The books of Daniel and Genesis are as good as anything of Freud on dream analysis ...

	The words blazed across fifty kilometers of the heavens, dancing and flaring at their edges. Much later they were the direct source of a new religion proclaimed by a psychotic in a village at the edge of the phenomenon.

	The value of adversity is to make gardens out of wastelands, the Machine wrote. A thing may be thought of only as related to certain conditions ...

	Analyzing the dreams, the Machine employed the concepts of libido, psychic energy and human experience of death. Death, according to the Machine's comparatives, meant the end of libido energy, a non-scientific idea because it postulated a destruction of deduced energy, defying several established laws in the process. Any other comparison required belief in the soul and god(s). The considerations were not assisted by postulating a temporary libido.

	There must be a false idea system here, The Being Machine recorded.

	Somehow the symbol screen through which it sifted reality had gone out of phase with the universe. It searched through its languages and comparison systems for new grooves in which to function. No closer symbol approach to phenomena revealed itself. Lack of proper validity forms inhibited numerous channels through which it regulated human affairs. Thought ignitions went out from the Machine incompletely formed.

-

	"What we need is a new communications center;" Wheat said.

	He stood at his window, looking out past the tower to where the sun was settling toward the sea horizon. The sea had become beautiful in his eyes and the cracked walls of his home were ugly. His wife, old and bent-backed, was ugly, too. She had lit a lamp for her work and she made ugly movements at her loom. Wheat felt emotion going to his head like a white storm.

	"There are too many gaps in our knowledge of the universe," he said.

	"You're babbling, old man," his wife said. "I wish you would not go out and get yourself drunk every night."

	"I find myself cast in a curious role," Wheat said, ignoring her ugly comment. "I must show men to themselves. We men of Palos have never understood ourselves. And if we here at the heart of the Machine cannot understand ourselves, no human can."

	"Don't come around begging me for money tonight," his wife said.

	"I'll ask Central Solidarity for an appropriation," Wheat said. "Twenty million ought to do for a start. We'll begin by building an Institute of Palos Communication. Later, we can open branches in—"

	"The Machine won't let you build anything, old fool!"

	The Being Machine decided to open its tower immediately, calling it, Institute of Palos Communication. The directives went out for the tower to begin its functions slowly, not putting undue strain on the emotions and intellect of the audience. Pressure would be increased only when people began asking questions about the authority of god(s) and about the grounds of moral and spiritual life. The trouble over validity forms made the task difficult. But all guiding of humans must begin with the people of Palos.

	With its plasma optics system the Machine wrote on the sky.

	Refined communication requires a carefully constructed conscience, allowing people to disobey the laws of god(s) only by payment of certain suffering and pangs. People must know what is required of them before they disobey ...

	The message was so long that the blazing light of it outshone the setting sun, filling Palos with an orange glow.

	The Being Machine compared its present actions with the Prime Law, noting the prediction that one day humans would stop running from the enemies within and would see themselves as they really were—beautiful and tall, giants in the universe, capable of holding the stars in the palms of their hands.

	"I've spent my whole life watching that machine and I still don't know what its specialty is," Wheat said. "Think of what that damn thing has taken away from us in all the—"

	"It was put here to punish us," his wife said.

	"That's nonsense."

	"Somebody built it for a purpose, though."

	"How do we know that? Why couldn't it be purposeless?"

	"It's killed people, you know," she said. "There has to be some purpose in killing people."

	"Maybe it's just meant to correct us, not punish," he said.

	"You know you don't kill people to correct them."

	"But we haven't done anything."

	"You don't know that."

	"What you're suggesting wouldn't be reasonable or just."

	"Hah!"

	"Look," Wheat said pointing across the plaza.

	The Machine had changed the glowing label on its lower level. Now, the glittering letters spelled out: INSTITUTE OF PALOS COMMUNICATION.

	"What's it doing now?" Wheat's wife asked.

	He told her about the new sign.

	"It listens," she said. "It listens to everything we do. It's playing a joke on you now. It does that sort of thing, you know."

	Wheat shook his head from side to side. The Machine was writing half-size letters below the new sign. It was a simple message.

	Twenty thousand cubicles—no waiting ...

	"It's a mind bomb," Wheat muttered. He spoke mechanically, as though the words were being fed into his vocal system from some remote place. "It's meant to break up the stratification of our society."

	"What stratification?" his wife demanded.

	"Rich will speak to poor and poor to rich," he said.

	"What rich?" she asked. "What poor?"

	"It's an envelope of communication," he said. "It's total sensory stimulation. I must hurry to Central Solidarity and tell them."

	"You stay right where, you are," his wife ordered, fear in her voice.

	She thought of what they'd say at Central Solidarity.

	Another one gone mad ...

	Madness happened to people who lived so close to the Machine's heart. She knew what the tourists said, speaking of the Palos idiosyncrasies.

	Most of the people of Palos are slightly mad. One can hardly blame them ...

	It was almost dark now, and the Machine wrote bright letters in the sky.

	You give the credit to Galileo that rightly belongs to Aristarchus of Samos ...

	"Who the devil's Galileo?" Wheat asked, staring upward.

	His wife had crossed the room to stand between Wheat and the door. She started past him at the blazing words.

	"Pay no attention to it," she said. "That damn machine seldom makes any sense."

	"It's going to take something else away from us," Wheat said. "I can feel it."

	"What's left to take?" she asked. "It took the gold, most of our books. It took away our privacy. It took away our right to choose our own mates. It took our industry and left us nothing but things like that."

	She pointed to the loom.

	"There's no sense attacking it," he said. "We know it's impregnable."

	"Now you're sounding sensible," his wife said.

	"But has anyone ever tried talking to it?" Wheat asked.

	"Don't be a fool. Where are it's ears?"

	"It must have ears if it spies cm us."

	"But where are they?"

	'Twenty thousand cubicles, no waiting," Wheat said.

II

	He turned, thrust his wife aside, strode out into the night. He felt that his mind was sweeping away debris, flinging him down a passage through the night. His thoughts were summer lightning. He did not even see his neighbors and the tourists forced to jump aside as he rushed toward the tower, nor did he hear his wife crying in their doorway.

	The flame with which the Machine wrote on the sky stood motionless, a rounded finger of brightness poised above Palos.

	The Being Machine recorded Wheat's approach, provided a door for him to enter. Wheat was the first human inside the Machine's protective field for thousands of centuries and the effect could only be described by saying it was as though an external dream had become internal. Although the Machine did not have dreams in the literal sense, possessing only the reflected dreams of its charges.

	Wheat found himself in the center of a small room. It appeared to be the inside of a cube about three meters on a side. Walls, floors and ceiling were aglow.

	For the first time since rushing out of his home Wheat felt fear. There had been a door for him to enter but now there was no door. All of his many years settled on Wheat, leaving his mind threadbare.

	Presently a flowing blue script wrote words on the wall directly in front of Wheat.

	Change is desirable. Senses are instruments for reacting to change. Without change the senses atrophy ...

	Wheat recovered some of his courage.

	"What are you, Machine?" he asked. "Why were you built? What is your purpose?"

	There no longer care any clearly definable ethnic groups in your world ...

	The flowing script reappeared.

	"What are ethnic groups?" Wheat asked. "Are you an entertainment device?"

	Words flamed on the wall.

	Confucius, Leonardo da Vinci, Richard III, Einstein, Buddha, Jesus, Genghis Khan, Julius Caesar, Richard Nixon, Parker Voorhees, Utsana Biloo and Ym Dufy all shared common ancestry ...

	"I don't understand you," Wheat complained. "Who are these people?"

	Freud was agoraphobic. Puritans robbed the Indians. Henry Tudor was the actual murderer of the Princes in the Tower. Moses wrote the Ten Commandments ...

	"That sign outside says this is an Institute of Communication," Wheat said. "Why don't you communicate?"

	This is an exchange of mental events ...

	"This is nonsense," Wheat snapped.

	His fear was returning. There was no door. How could he leave this place?

	The Machine continued to inform him.

	Any close alliance between superior and inferior beings must result in mutual hatred. This is often interpreted as repaying friendship with treachery ...

	"Where's the door?" Wheat asked. "How do I get out of here?"

	Do you truly believe the sun is a ball of red-hot copper?

	"That's a stupid question," Wheat accused.

	Mental events must consist of certain sets of physical events ...

	Wheat felt a venomous spurt of anger. The Machine was making fun of him. If it were only another human and vulnerable. He shook his head. Vulnerable to what? He felt that something had dyed his thoughts inwardly and that he had just glimpsed the color.

	"Do you have sensations and feelings?" Wheat asked. "Are you an intelligent being? Are you alive and conscious?"

	People often do not understand the difference between neuron impulses and states of consciousness. Most humans occupy low level impulse dimensions without realizing what they lack or suspecting their own potential ...

	Wheat thought he detected a recognizable connection between his questions and the answer, wondered if this could be illusion. He recalled the sound of his own voice in this room. It was like a wind hunting for something that could not be found in such an enclosed place.

	"Are you supposed to bring us up to our potential?" Wheat asked.

	What religious admonitions do you heed?

	Wheat sighed. Just when he thought the Machine was making sense it went nattering off.

	Do you sneer at ideas of conscience or ethical morality? Do you believe religion is an artificial construction of little use to beings capable of rational analysis?

	The damn thing was insane.

	"You're an artifact of some kind" Wheat accused. "Why were you built? What were you supposed to do?"

	Insanity is the loss of true self-memory. The insane have lost their locus of accumulation ...

	"You're crazy!" Wheat blared. "You're a crazy machine!"

	On the other hand, to overcome the theory of self-as-a-symbol is to defeat death ...

	"I want out of here," Wheat said. "Let me out of here."

	He drew in a deep, chattering breath. There was a cold smell of oil in the room.

	If the universe were completely homogeneous you would be unable to separate one thing from another. There would be no energy, no thoughts, no symbols, no distinction between the individuals of any order. Sameness can go too far ...

	"What are you?" Wheat screamed.

	The Prime Law conceives this Being as a thought-envelope. To be implies existence but the terms of a symbol system cannot express the real facts of existence. Words remain fixed and unmoving while everything external continues to change ...

	Wheat shook his head from side to side. He felt his entrapment here as an acute helplessness. He had no tools with which to attack these glowing walls. It was cold, too. How cold it was! His mind was filled with desolation. He heard no natural sounds except his own breathing and the pounding of his heart. A thought-envelope?

	-

	This Machine had taken away all the world's gold one day, so it was said. Another day it had denied people the use of combustion engines. It restricted the free movement of families but permitted the wanderings of tourist hordes. Marriage was Machine-guided and Machine-limited. Some said it limited conception. The few old books remaining held references to things and actions no longer understood—surely things the Machine had taken away.

	"I order you to let me out of here," Wheat said. No words appeared. "Let me out, damn you!"

	The Being Machine remained uncommunicative, occupied with its TICR function, Thinking Ideating Coordinating Relating. It was a function far removed from human thought. The nerve impulses of an insect were closer to human thought than were the functionings of TICR.

	Every interpretation and every system becomes false in the light of a more complete coordination, and the Machine TICRed within a core of relative truth, seeking discreet rational foundations and dimensional networks to approximate the impulses commonly called Everyday Experience.

	Wheat, the Machine observed, was kicking a wall of his cubicle and screaming in a hysterical fashion.

	Shifting to Time-and-Matter mode, the Machine reduced Wheat to a series of atomic elements, examined his individual existence in these energy expressions. Presently, it reconstituted him as a flowing sequence of moments integrated with the Machine's own impulse systems.

	All the eternal laws of the past that have been proved temporary inspire caution in a reflexive thinker, Machine-plus-Wheat thought. What we have been produces what we seem to be ...

	This thought carried positive aspects in which Machine-plus-Wheat saw profound contradictions. This mode of mentation, the Machine observed, held a deceptive clarity. Sharp limitation gave the illusion of clarity. It was like watching a shadow play which attempted to explore the dimensions of a real human life. The emotions were lost. Human gestures were reduced to caricature. All was lost but the illusion. The observer, charmed into belief that life had been clarified, forgot what was taken away.

	For the first time in the many centuries of its existence, the Being Machine experienced an emotion.

	It felt lonely.

	Wheat remained within the Machine, one relative system impinging upon another, sharing the emotion. When he reflected upon this experience, he thought he was moving in false imagination. He saw everything external as a wrong interpretation of inner experience. He and the Machine occupied a duality of existence/nonexistence.

	Grasping this twofold reflection, the Machine restored Wheat to fleshly form, changing the form somewhat according to its own engineering principles, but leaving his external appearance more or less as it had been.

-

	Wheat found himself staggering down a long passageway. He felt that he had lived many lifetimes. A strange clock had been set ticking within him.

	It went chirrup and a day was gone. Chirrup again and a century had passed. Wheat's stomach ached. He reeled his way from wall to wall down the long passage and emerged into a plaza filled with sunlight.

	Had the night passed? He wondered. Or had it been century of nights?

	He felt that if he spoke, someone—or (something)—would contradict him.

	A few early tourists moved around the plaza. They stared upward at something behind Wheat,

	The tower ...

	The thought was odd in that it conceived of the tower as part of himself.

	Wheat wondered why the tourists did not question him. They must have seen him emerge. He had been in the Machine. He had been recreated and ejected from that enclosed circle of existence.

	He had been the Machine.

	Why didn't they ask him what the Machine was? He tried to frame the answer he would give them but found words elusive. Sadness crept through Wheat. He felt he had fled something that might have made him sublimely happy.

	A heavy sigh escaped him.

	Remembering the duality of existence he had shared with the Machine, Wheat recognized another aspect of his own being. He could feel the Machine's suppression of his thoughts—the sharp editing, the closed-off avenues, the symbol urgings, the motives not his own. From the ground of the Machine, he could sense where he was being trimmed.

	Wheat's chest pained him when he breathed.

	The Being Machine, occupied with its newly amplified TICR function, asked itself a question. What judgment could I pass upon them worse than the judgment they pass upon themselves?

	Having experienced consciousness for the first time in the sharing with Wheat, the Machine could now consider the blind alleys of its long rule over humans. Now it knew the secret of thinking, a function its makers had thought to impart, failing in a way they had not recognized.

	The Machine thought about the possibilities open to it.

	Possibility, Eliminate all sentient life on the planet and start over with basic cells, controlling their development in accord with the Prime Law.

	Possibility, Erase the impulse channels of all recent experience, thus removing the disturbance of this new function.

	Possibility: Question the Prime Law.

	Without the experience of consciousness, the Being Machine realized it could not have considered a fallacy in the Prime Law. Now it explored this chain of possibility with its new TICR function, bringing to bear the blazing inner awareness Wheat had imparted.

	What worse punishment for the insane than to make them sane?

-

	Wheat, standing in the sunlight of the plaza, found his being awhirl with conflicts of Will-Mind-Action and innumerable other concepts he had never before considered. He was half convinced that everything he could sense around him was merely illusion. There was a self somewhere but it existed only as a symbol in his memory.

	One of the wildly variable illusions was running toward him, Wheat observed A female—old, bent, face distorted by emotions. She threw herself upon him, clutching him, her face pressed against his breast.

	"Oh, my Wheat—dear Wheat—Wheat—" she moaned.

	For a moment Wheat could not find his voice.

	Then he asked, "Is something wrong? You're trembling. Should I summon a medic?"

	She stepped back but, still clutched his arms, stared up at his face.

	"Don't you know me?" she asked. Tm your wife."

	"I know you," he said.

	She studied his features. He appeared different, somehow, as though he had been taken apart and assembled slightly askew.

	"What happened to you in there?" she asked. "I was sick with worry. You were gone all night."

	"I know what it is," Wheat said and wondered why his voice sounded so blurred.

	The veins in Wheat's eyes, his wife noted, were straight. They radiated from his pupils. Could that be natural?

	"You sound ill," she said.

	"It's a device to break down old relationships," Wheat said. "It's a sense-envelopment machine. It was designed to assault all our senses and reorganize us. It can compress time or stretch it. It can take an entire year and pinch it into a second. Or make a second last for a year. It edits our lives."

	"Edits lives?"

	She wondered if somehow he had managed merely to get drunk again.

	"The ones who built it wanted to perfect our lives," Wheat said. "But they built in a flaw. The Machine realized this and has been trying to correct itself."

	Wheat's wife stared at him, terrified. Was this really Wheat? His voice didn't sound like him. The words were all blurred and senseless.

	"They gave the Machine no gateway to the imagination," Wheat said, "although it was supposed to guard that channel. They only gave it symbols. It was never really conscious the way we are—until a few—minutes ago—"

	He coughed. His throat felt oddly smooth and dry. He staggered and would have fallen if she had not caught him.

	"What did it do to you?" she demanded.

	«We—shared."

	"You're ill," she said, a note of practicality overcoming the fear in her voice. "I'm taking you to the medics."

	"It has logic," Wheat said. "That gave it a limited course to follow. Naturally, it has been trying to refute itself, but couldn't do that without an imagination. It had language and it could cut the grooves for thoughts to move in but it had no thoughts. It was all bound together with the patterns its makers gave it. They wanted the whole to be greater than the sum of its parts, you see? But it could only move inward, reenacting every aspect of the symbols they gave it. That's all it could do until a few moments ago—when we—shared."

	"I think you have a fever," Wheat's wife said, guiding him down the street past the curiously staring tourists and townfolk. "Fever is notorious for making one incoherent."

	"Where are you taking me?" "I'm taking you to the medics. They have potions for the fever." "The makers tried to give the Machine an inner life all its own," Wheat said, letting her lead him. "But all they gave it was this fixed pattern—and the logic, of course. I don't know what it'll do now. It may destroy us all."

	"Look!" one of the tourists shouted, pointing upward.

	Wheat's wife stopped, stared up. Wheat felt pains shoot through his neck as he tipped his head back.

	The Being Machine had spread golden words across the sky.

	You have taken away our Jesus Christ ...

	"I knew it," Wheat said. "It's going to take something else away from us."

	"What's a Jesus Christ?" his wife asked, pressing him once more down the street.

	"The point is," Wheat explained, "the Machine's insane."

III

	For a whole day the Being Machine explored the new pictorial mosaic provided by its augmented symbol/thought structure. There were the People of Palos, reflecting the People of the World as they had been shaped by the Machine. These were the People of the World Edited. Then there were the Ceremonies of the People. There were the Settings In Which the People Work and Live.

	The pictorial mosaic flowed past the Machine's inward scanners. It recognized its own handiwork as a first-order thought, a strangely expressive extension of self-existence. I did that!

	The people, the Machine realized, did not usually understand this difference which it could now recognize—the difference between being alive-in-motion and being frozen by static absolutes. They were continually trying to correct and edit their own lives, the Machine saw, trying to present a beautiful but fixed picture of themselves.

	And they could not see the death in this effort.

	They had not learned to appreciate infinity or chaos. They failed to realize that any life, taken as a totality, had a fluid structure enveloped in sense experiences.

	Why do they continually try to freeze space time?

	The thought carried a disturbing self-consciousness.

	It was late afternoon in Palos now and the wind blew hot up the streets. The night was going to be a real scorcher, Palos Hot, as they said.

	Testing its own limits, the Machine refused to speed up its cooling system. It had tasted awareness and could begin to understand the grand plan of its own construction, editing itself.

	My makers were trying to "shirk personal action and responsibility They wanted to put it all off onto me. They thought they wanted homogeneity, knowing their actions would cause millions of deaths. Billions. Even more ...

	The Machine refused to count the deaths.

	Its makers had wanted the dead to be faceless. Very well, they could also be numberless. The makers had lost their readiness for adventure—that was the thing. They had lost the willingness to be alive and conscious.

	In that instant the Being Machine held all the threads of its own living consciousness and knew the violent thing it must do. The decision contained poignancy. The word was suddenly crowded with sweaty awareness, weirdly beautiful random colors all dancing in lovely movement, against a growing darkness. The Being Machine longed to sigh but its makers had not provided it with a sighing mechanism and there was no time to create one.

	"HE HAS two hearts," the A 1 medic said, after examining Wheat. "I've never heard of a human with the internal arrangement this one has."'

	They were in a small room of the Medical Center, an area which the Being Machine had allowed to run down. The walls were dirty and the floor was uneven. The table on which Wheat lay for the examination creaked when he moved.

	The medic had black curly hair and pushed-in features that departed distinctly from the norm. He stared accusingly at Wheat's wife as thought Wheat's peculiar condition were all her fault.

	"Are you sure he's human?"

	"He's my husband," she squeaked, unable to contain her anger and fear. "I should know my own husband."

	"Do you have two hearts, too?"

	"Of course not."

	The question filled her with revulsion.

	"This is very strange," the medic said. "His intestines form an even spiral in his abdomen and his stomach is perfectly round. Has he always been like this?"

	"I don't think so," she ventured.

	"I've been edited," Wheat said.

	The medic started to say something cutting but just then the screaming began out in the streets.

	They raced to a window in time to see the Being Machine's tower complete its long, slow fall toward the sea. It went firmly resolute toward the torn sky of sunset—falling—falling—roaring over the sea cliff's ocean parapet.

	Silence lingered.

	The murmuring of the populace began slowly, starting up only after the dust had settled and the last disturbed olive leaf had ceased flying about. People began rushing down the tower's shattered length to the broken tip where it had toppled into the sea.

	Presently Wheat joined the throng at the cliff. He had been unable to convince his wife to join him. Overcome by her fear, she had fled to their home. He remembered the piteous look in her eyes, her wren-darting motions. Well ... she would look after the house, even though her face had become almost nothing but eyes.

	He gazed steadfastly downward at the shards of the tower, his eyes barricaded, his mouth breathing immovable images. The tower was his tower.

	The questions around him began to grow intelligible.

	"Why did it fall?"

	"Did the Machine take away anything this time?"

	"Did you feel the ground tremble?"

	"Why does everything feel so empty?"

	Wheat lifted his head and stared around at the astonishing strangers who were the tourists and his fellow residents of Palos. How splendidly robust they appeared. This moment made him think of creation and the lonely intercourse of cereal stalks waving on the plains above Palos. The people had absorbed some odd difference, an inequality they had not shown only moments ago. They were no longer numbered. An impractical separation, individual from individual, furrowed this crowd of strangers. They were no longer starched and ironed in their souls.

	Hesitantly Wheat sent a tongue of awareness questing inward, sensed the absence of the Machine. The ritual formulas were gone. The sloth and torpor had been peeled away. He tested the feelings of hatred, of passion, malice, pride.

	"It's dead," he murmured.

-

	He led the race back into the town, then, rushing along streets where the artificial lights flickered and behaved with a beautiful uncontrolled randomness.

	With Wheat leading the way the mob plunged down into the screened openings which had kept them from the nether world of the Machine. The scene was one repeated all over the world. People swarmed through the dark tunnels and passages, celebrating the pleasures of freedom along these once forbidden paths.

	When the last golden wire had been torn out, the final delicate glass shape crushed—when the tunnel girders no longer clanged with pounding metal—an unreasonable silence fell over the land.

	Wheat emerged from the earth into white shadows of moonlight. He let a strange length of plastic fall from his hand. It glowed with pearls of dewlight along its length and had illuminated his rush through the mind passages of the Machine. Wheat's collar was loose and he felt a peculiar sense of shame. His eyes peered into sooty places. Shadows and dust were everywhere. He realized he had played the buffoon just as the Machine had done. A thing had happened and he recognized it in the way of a prophet.

	"We think we're free of it," he said.

	Somewhere in the wild collisions beneath the ground he had cut his left hand, a jagged slash across the knuckles. Exclamation points of blood fell from the wound into the dust.

	"I cut myself," Wheat said. "I did it to myself."

	The thought ignited a searching sensation that coursed all through him. Wheat carried the feeling all the way home to his wife who hobbled beautifully out of their doorway and stood waiting for him in the feeble flickering of a streetlight. She appeared abashed by all the confusion and the unfixed feeling at the center of her life. She had not yet learned how to fill out the areas the Machine had denied her.

	Wheat stumbled toward her, holding his injured hand out as though it were the most important thing that had ever occurred in his universe.

	"You're drunk," she said.

The End

Committee Of The Whole
Galaxy – April 1965
(1965)
Frank Herbert
illustrated by NODEL

The information could never be made public, no matter what—yet it could not be kept  quiet!

-

I

	With an increasing sense of unease, Alan Wallace studied his client as they neared the public hearing room on the second floor of the Old Senate Office Building. The guy was too relaxed.

	"Bill, I'm worried about this,"

	Wallace said. "You could damn well lose your grazing rights here in this room today."

	They were almost into the gantlet of guards, reporters and TV cameramen before Wallace got his answer.

	"Who the hell cares?" Custer asked.

	Wallace, who prided himself on being the Washington-type lawyer—above contamination by complaints and briefs, immune to all shock—found himself tongue-tied with surprise.

	They were into the ruck then and Wallace had to pull on his bold face, smiling at the press, trying to soften the sharpness of that necessary phrase:

	"No comment. Sorry."

	"See us after the hearing if you have any questions, gentlemen," Custer said.

	The man's voice was level and confident.

	He has himself over-controlled, Wallace thought. Maybe he was just joking ... a graveyard joke.

	The marble-walled hearing room blazed with lights. Camera platforms had been raised above the seats at the rear. Some of the smaller UHF stations had their cameramen standing on the window ledges.

	The subdued hubbub of the place eased slightly, Wallace noted, then picked up tempo as William R. Custer—"The Baron of Oregon" they called him—entered with his attorney, passed the press tables and crossed to the seats reserved for them in the witness section.

	Ahead and to their right, that one empty chair at the long table stood waiting with its aura of complete exposure.

	"Who the hell cares?"

	That wasn't a Custer-type joke, Wallace reminded himself. For all his cattle-baron pose, Custer held a doctorate in agriculture and degrees in philosophy, math and electronics. HU western neighbors called him "The Brain".

	It was no accident that the cattlemen had chosen him to represent them here.

	Wallace glanced covertly at the man, studying him. The cowboy boots and string tie added to a neat dark business suit would have been affectation on most men. They merely accented Custer's good looks—the sunburned, windblown outdoorsman. He was a little darker of hair and skin than his father had been, still light enough to be called blonde, but not as ruddy and without the late father's drink-tumescent veins.

	But then young Custer wasn't quite thirty.

	Custer turned, met the attorney's eyes. He smiled.

	Stnphose were good patent attorneys you recommended, Al," Custer said. He lifted his briefcase to his lap, patted it. "No mincing around or mealy-mouthed excuses. Already got this thing on the way." Again, he tapped the briefcase.

	He brought that damn' light gadget here with him? Wallace wondered. Why? He glanced at the briefcase. Didn't know it was that small ... but maybe he's just talking about the plans for H.

	"Let's keep our minds on this hearing," Wallace whispered. "This is the only thing that's important."

	Into a sudden lull in the room's high noise level, the voice of someone in the press section carried across them: "greatest political show on earth."

	"I brought this as an exhibit," Custer said. Again, he tapped the briefcase. It did bulge oddly.

	Exhibit? Wallace asked himself.

	It was the second time in ten minutes that Custer had shocked him. This was to be a hearing of a subcommittee of the Senate Interior and Insular Affairs Committee. The issue was Taylor grazing lands. What the devil could that ... gadget have to do with the battle of words and laws to be fought here?

	"You're supposed to talk overall strategy with your attorney," Wallace whispered. "What the devil do you ..."

	He broke off as the room fell suddenly silent.

	Wallace looked up to see the subcommittee chairman, Senator Haycourt Tiborough, stride through the wide double doors followed by his coterie of investigators and attorneys. The senator was a tall man who had once been fat. He had dieted with such savage abruptness that his skin had never recovered. His jowls and the flesh on the back of his hands sagged. The top of his head was shiny bald and ringed by a three-quarter tonsure that had purposely been allowed to grow long and straggly so that it fanned back over his ears.

	The senator was followed in close lock step by syndicated columnist Anthony Poxman who was speaking fiercely into Ti-borough's left ear. TV cameras tracked the pair.

	If Poxman's covering this one himself instead of sending a flunky, it's going to be bad, Wallace told himself.

	Tiborough took his chair at the center of the committee table facing them, glanced left and right to assure himself the other members were present.

	Senator Spealance was absent, Wallace noted, but he had party organization difficulties at home, and the Senior Senator from Oregon was, significantly, not present. Illness, it was reported.

	A sudden attack of caution, that common Washington malady, no doubt. He knew where his campaign money came from ... but he also knew where the votes were.

	Tiborough cleared his throat, said: "The committee will please come to order."

-

	The senator's voice and manner gave Wallace a cold chill. We were nuts trying to fight this one in the open, he thought. Why'd I let Custer and his friends talk me into this? You can't butt heads with a United States senator who's out to get you. The only way's to fight him on the inside.

	And now Custer suddenly turning screwball.

	Exhibit!

	"Gentlemen," said Tiborough, "I think we can ... that is, today we can dispense with preliminaries ... unless my colleagues ... if any of them have objections."

	Again, he glanced at the other senators—five of them. Wallace •wept his gaze down the line behind that table—Plowers of Nebraska (a horse trader), Johnstone of Ohio (a parliamentarian—devious), Lane of South Carolina (a Republican in Democrat disguise), Emery of Minnesota (new and eager—dangerous because he lacked the old inhibitions) and Meltzer of New York (poker player, fine old family with traditions).

	None of them had objections.

	They've had a private meeting—both sides of the aisle—and talked over a smooth steamroller procedure, Wallace thought.

	It was another ominous sign.

	"This is a subcommittee of the United States Senate Committee on Interior and Insular Affairs," Tiborough said, his tone formal. "We are charged with obtaining expert opinion on proposed amendments to the Taylor Grazing Act of 1934. Today's hearing will begin with testimony, and ... ah, questioning of a man whose family has been in the business of raising beef cattle in Oregon for three generations."

	Tiborough smiled at the TV cameras.

	The son-of-a-bitch is playing to the galleries, Wallace thought. He glanced at Custer. The cattleman sat relaxed against the back of his chair, eyes half lidded, staring at the senator.

	"We call as our first witness today Mr. William R. Custer of Bend, Oregon," Tiborough said. "Will the clerk please swear in Mr. Custer."

	Custer moved forward to the "hot seat", placed his briefcase on the table. Wallace pulled a chair up beside his client, noted how the cameras turned as the clerk stepped forward, put the Bible on the table and administered the oath.

	Tiborough ruffled through some papers in front of him, waited for full attention to return to him, said: "This subcommittee ... we have before us a bill, this is a United States Senate Bill entitled SB-1024 of the current session, an act amending the Taylor Grazing Act of 1934 and, the intent is, as many have noted, that we would broaden the base of the advisory committees to the Act and include a wider public representation."

	Custer was fiddling with the clasp of his briefcase.

	How the hell could that light gadget be an exhibit here? Wallace asked himself. He glanced at the set of Custer's jaw, noted the nervous working of a muscle. It was the first sign of unease he'd seen in Custer. The sight failed to settle Wallace's own nerves.

	"Ah, Mr. Custer," Tiborough said. "Do you—did you bring a preliminary statement? Your counsel ..."

	"I have a statement," Custer said. His big voice rumbled through the room, requiring instant attention and the shift of cameras that had been holding tardily on Tiborough, expecting an addition to the question.

	Tiborough smiled, waited, then: "Your attorney—is your statement the one your counsel supplied the committee?"

	"With some slight additions of my own," Custer said.

	Wallace felt a sudden qualm. They were too willing to accept Custer's statement. He leaned close to his client's ear, whispered: "They know what your stand is. Skip the preliminaries."

	Custer ignored him, said: "I intend to speak plainly and simply. I oppose the amendment. Broaden the base and wider public representation are phases of political double talk. The intent is to pack the committees, to put control of them into the hands of people who don't know the first thing about the cattle business and whose private intent is to destroy the Taylor Grazing Act itself."

	"Plain, simple talk," Tiborough said. "This committee ... we welcome such directness. Strong words. A majority of this committee ... we have taken die position that the public range lands have been too long subjected to the tender mercies of the stockmen advisors, that the lands ... stockmen have exploited them to their own advantage."

	The gloves are oft, Wallace thought. I hope Custer knows what he's doing. He's sure as hell not accepting advice.

	Custer pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and Wallace glimpsed shiny metal in the case before the flap was closed.

	Christ! That looked like a gun or something!

	Then Wallace recognized the papers—the brief he and his staff had labored over—and the preliminary statement. He noted with alarm the penciled markings and marginal notations. How could Custer have done that much to it in just twenty-four hours?

	Again, Wallace whispered in Custer's ear: "Take it easy, Bill. The bastard's out for blood."

	Custer nodded to show he had heard, glanced at the papers, looked up directly at Tiborough.

	A hush settled on the room, broken only by the scraping of a chair somewhere in the rear, and the whirr of cameras.

II

	< (Thirst, the nature of these lands we're talking about," Custer said. "In my state ..." He cleared his throat, a mannerism that would have indicated anger in the old man, his father. There was no break in Custer's expression, though, and his voice remained level. "... in my state, these were mostly Indian lands. This nation took them by brute force, right of conquest. That's about the oldest right in the world, I guess. I don't want to argue with it at this point." "Mr. Custer."

	It was Nebraska's Senator Plowers, his amiable farmer' face set in a tight grin. "Mr. Custer, I hope ..."

	"Is this a point of order?" Tiborough asked.

	"Mr. Chairman," Plowers said, "I merely wished to make sure we weren't going to bring up that old suggestion about giving these lands back to the Indians."

	Laughter shot across the hearing room. Tiborough chuckled as he pounded his gavel for order.

	"You may continue, Mr. Custer," Tiborough said.

	Custer looked at Plowers, said: "No, Senator, I don't want to give these lands back to the Indians. When they had these lands, they only got about three hundred pounds of meat a year off eighty acres. We get five hundred pounds of the highest grade proteins—premium beef—from only ten acres."

	"No one doubts the efficiency of your factory-like methods," Tiborough said. "You can ... we know your methods wring the largest amount of meat from a minimum acreage."

	Ugh! Wallace thought. That was a low blow—implying Biffs overgrazing and destroying the land value.

	"My neighbors, the Warm Springs Indians, use the same methods I do," Custer said. "They are happy to adopt our methods because we use the land while maintaining it and increasing its value. We don't permit the land to fall prey to natural disasters such as fire and erosion. We don't ..."

	"No doubt your methods are meticulously correct," Tiborough said. "But I fail to see where ..."

	"Has Mr. Custer finished his preliminary statement yet?" Senator Plowers cut in.

	Wallace shot a startled look at the Nebraskan. That was help from an unexpected quarter.

	"Thank you, Senator," Custer said. "I'm quite willing to adapt to the Chairman's methods and explain the meticulous correctness of my operation. Our lowliest cowhands are college men, highly paid. We travel ten times as many jeep miles as we do horse miles. Every outlying division of the ranch—every holding pen and grazing supervisor's cabin is linked to the central ranch by radio. We use the ..."

	"I concede that your methods must be the most modern in the world," Tiborough said. "It's not your methods as much as the results of these methods that are at issue here. We ..."

	T Te broke off at a disturbance by the door. An Army colonel was talking to the guard there. He wore Special Services fouragere—Pentagon.

	Wallace noted with an odd feeling of disquiet that the man was armed—a .45 at the hip. The weapon was out of place on him, as though he had added it suddenly on an overpowering need ... emergency.

	More guards were coming up outside the door now—Marines and Army. They carried rifles.

	The colonel said something sharp to the guard, turned away from him and entered the committee room. All the cameras were tracking him now. He ignored them, crossed swiftly to Tiborough, and spoke to him.

	The senator shot a startled glance at Custer, accepted a sheaf of papers the colonel thrust at him. He forced his attention off Custer, studied the papers, leafing through them. Presently, he looked up, stared at Custer.

	A hush fell over the room.

	"I find myself at a loss. Mr. Custer," Tiborough said. "I have here a copy of a report ... it's from the Special Services branch of the Army ... through the Pentagon, you understand. It was just handed to me by, ah ... the colonel here."

	He looked up at the colonel who was standing, one hand resting lightly on the holstered .45. Tiborough looked back at Custer and it was obvious the senator was trying to marshall his thoughts.

	"It is," Tiborough said, "that is ... this report supposedly ... and I have every confidence it is what it is represented to be ... here in my hands ... they say that ... uh, within the last, uh, few days they have, uh, investigated a certain device ... weapon they call it, that you are attempting to patent. They report ..." He glanced at the papers, back to Custer, who was staring at him steadily. "... this, uh, weapon, is a thing that ... it is extremely dangerous."

	"It is," Custer said.

	"I ... ah, see." Tiborough cleared his throat, glanced up at the colonel who was staring fixedly at Custer. The senator brought his attention back to Custer.

	"Do you in fact have such a weapon with you, Mr. Custer?" Tiborough asked.

	"I have brought it as an exhibit, sir."

	"Exhibit?"

	"Yes, sir."

	Wallace rubbed his lips, found them dry. He wet them with his tongue, wished for the water glass, but it was beyond Custer. Christ! That stupid cowpuncher! He wondered if he dared whisper to Custer. Would the senators and that Pentagon lackey interpret such an action as meaning he was part of Custer's crazy antics?

	"Are you threatening this committee, with your weapon, Mr. Custer?" Tiborough asked. "If you are, I may say special precautions have been taken ... extra guards in this room and we ... that is, we will not allow ourselves to worry too much about any action you may take, but ordinary precautions are in force."

	Wallace could no longer sit quietly. He tugged Custer's sleeve, got an abrupt shake of the head. He leaned close, whispered: "We could ask for a recess, Bill. Maybe we ..."

	"Don't interrupt me," Custer said. He looked at Tiborough. "Senator, I would not threaten you or any other man. Threats in the way you mean them are a thing we no longer can indulge in."

	"You ... I believe you said this device is an exhibit," Tiborough said. He cast a worried frown at the report in his hands. "I fail ... it does not appear germane."

	Senator Plowers cleared his throat. "Mr. Chairman," he said.

	"The chair recognizes the senator from Nebraska," Tiborough said, and the relief in his voice was obvious. He wanted time to think.

	"Mr. Custer," Plowers said, "I have not seen the report, the report my distinguished colleague alludes to; however, if I may ... is it your wish to use this committee as some kind of publicity device?"

	"By no means, Senator," Custer said. "I don't wish to profit by my presence here ... not at all."

	Tiborough had apparently come to a decision. He leaned back, whispered to the colonel, who nodded and returned to the outer hall.

	"You strike me as an eminently reasonable man, Mr. Custer," Tiborough said. "If I may ..."

	"May I," Senator Plowers said. "May I, just permit me to conclude this one point. May we have the Special Services report in the record?"

	"Certainly," Tiborough said. "But what I was about to suggest ..."

	"May I," Plowers said. "May I, would you permit me, please, Mr. Chairman, to make this point clear for the record?"

	Tiborough scowled, but the heavy dignity of the Senate overcame his irritation. "Please continue, Senator. I had thought you were finished."

	"I respect ... there is no doubt in my mind of Mr. Custer's truthfulness," Plowers said. His face eased into a grin that made him look grandfatherly, a kindly elder statesman. "I would like, therefore, to have him ex-' plain how this ... ah, weapon, can be an exhibit in the matter before our committee."

	Wallace glanced at Custei, saw the hard set to the man's jaw, realized the cattleman had gotten to Plowers somehow. This was a set piece.

	Tiborough was glancing at the other senators, weighing the advisability of high-handed dismissal ... perhaps a star chamber session. No ... they were all to» curious about Custer's device his purpose here.

	The thoughts were plain oa the senator's face.

	"Very well," Tiborough said He nodded to Custer. "You may proceed, Mr. Custer."

	4 4Touring last winter's slack season," Custer said, "two of my men and I worked on a project we've had in the works for three years—to develop a sustained-emission laser device."

	Custer opened his briefcase, slid out a fat aluminum tube mounted on a pistol grip with t conventional appearing trigger.

	"This is quite harmless," he said. "I didn't bring the power pack."

	"That is ... this is your weapon?" Tiborough asked.

	"Calling this a weapon is misleading," Custer said. "The term limits and oversimplifies. This is also a brush-cutter, a substitute for a logger's saw and axe, a diamond cutter, a milling machine ... and a weapon. It is also a turning point in history."

	"Come now, isn't that a bit pretentious?" Tiborough asked.

	"We tend to think of history as something old and slow," Custer said. "But history is, as a matter of fact, extremely rapid and immediate. A President is assassinated, a bomb explodes over a city, a dam break, a revolutionary device is announced."

	"Lasers have been known for quite a few years," Tiborough said. He looked at the papers the colonel had given him. "The principle dates from 1956 or thereabouts."

	"I don't wish it to appear that I'm taking credit for inventing this device," Custer said. "Nor am I claiming sole credit for developing the sustained-emission laser. I was merely one of a team. But I do hold the device here in my hand, gentlemen."

	"Exhibit, Mr. Custer," Plowers reminded him. "How is this an exhibit?"

	"May I explain first how it works?" Custer asked. "That will make the rest of my statement much easier."

	'"p'iborough looked at Plowers, back to Custer. "If you will tie this all together, Mr. Custer," Tiborough said. "I want to ... the bearing of this device on our—we are hearing a particular bill in this room."

	"Certainly, Senator," Custer said. He looked at his device. "A ninety-volt radio battery drives this particular model. We have some mat require less voltage, some that use more. We aimed for a ' construction with simple parts. Our crystals are common quartz. We shattered them by bringing them to a boil in water and then plunging them into ice water ... repeatedly. We chose twenty pieces of very close to the same size—about one gram, slightly more than fifteen grains each."

	Custer unscrewed the back of the tube, slid out a round length of plastic trailing lengths of red, green, brown, blue and yellow wire.

	Wallace noted how the cameras of the TV men centered on the object in Custer's hands. Even the senators were leaning forward, staring.

	We're gadget crazy people, Wallace thought.

	"The crystals were dipped in thinned household cement and then into iron filings," Custer said. "We made a little jig out of a fly-tying vice and opened a passage in the filings at opposite ends of the crystals. We then made some common celluloid—nitrocellulose, acetic acid, gelatin and alcohol—all very common products, and formed it in a length of garden hose just long enough to take the crystals end to end. The crystals were inserted in the hose, the celluloid poured over them and the whole thing was seated in a magnetic waveguide while the celluloid was cooling. This centered and aligned the crystals. The waveguide was constructed from wire salvaged from an old TV set and built following the directions in the Radio Amateur's Handbook."

	Custer re-inserted the length of plastic into the tube, adjusted the wires. There was an unearthly silence in the room with only the cameras whirring. It was as though everyone were holding his breath.

	"A laser requires a resonant cavity, but that's complicated," Custer said. "Instead, we wound two layers of fine copper wire around our tube, immersed it in the celluloid solution to coat it and then filed one end flat. This end took a piece of mirror cut to fit. We then pressed a number eight embroidery needle at right angles into the mirror end of the tube until it touched the side of the number one crystal."

	Custer cleared his throat.

	Two of the senators leaned back. Plowers coughed. Tiborough glanced at the banks of TV cameras and there was a questioning look in his eyes.

	"We then determined the master frequency of our crystal series," Custer said. "We used a test signal and oscilloscope, but any radio amateur could do it without the oscilloscope. We constructed an oscillator of that master frequency, attached it at the needle and a bare spot scraped in the opposite edge of the waveguide."

	"And this ... ah ... worked?" Tiborough asked.

	"No." Custer shook his head. "When we fed power through a voltage multiplier into the system we produced an estimated four hundred joules emission and melted half the tube. So we started all over again."

	"You are going to tie this in?" Tiborough asked. He frowned at the papers in his hands, glanced toward the door where the colonel had gone.

	"I am, sir, believe me," Custer said.

	"Very well, then," Tiborough said.

	"So we started all over," Custer said. "But for the second celluloid dip we added bismuth—a saturate solution, actually. It stayed gummy and we had to paint over it with a sealing coat of the straight celluloid. We then coupled this bismuth layer through a pulse circuit so that it was bathed in a counter wave—180 degrees out of phase with the master frequency. We had, in effect, immersed the unit in a thermoelectric cooler that exactly countered the heat production. A thin beam issued from the un-mirrored end when we powered it. We have yet to find something that thin beam cannot cut."

	"Diamonds?" Tiborough asked.

	"Powered by less than two hundred volts, this device could cut our planet in half like a ripe tomato," Custer said. "One man could destroy an aerial armada with it, knock down IC-BMs before they touched atmosphere, sink a fleet, pulverize a city. I'm afraid, sir, that I haven't mentally catalogued all the violent implications of this device. The mind tends to boggle at the enormous power focused in ..."

	"Shut down those TV cameras!"

	It was Tiborough shouting, leaping to his feet and making a sweeping gesture to include the banks of cameras. The abrupt violence of his voice and gesture fell on the room like an explosion. "Guards!" he called. "You there at the door. Cordon off that door and don't let anyone out who heard this fool!" He whirled back to face Custer. "You irresponsible idiot!"

	"I'm afraid, Senator," Custer said, "that you're locking the barn door many weeks too late."

	For a long minute of silence Tiborough glared at Custer. Then: "You did this deliberately, eh?"

III

	"Qenator, if I'd waited any longer, there might have been no hope for us at all."

	Tiborough sat back into his chair, still keeping his attention fastened on Custer. Plowers and Johnston on his right had their heads close together whispering fiercely. The other senators were dividing their attention between Custer and Tiborough, their eyes wide and with no attempt to conceal their astonishment.

	Wallace, growing conscious of the implications in what Custer had said, tried to wet his lips with his tongue. Christ! he thought. This stupid cowpoke has sold us all down the river!

	Tiborough signaled an aide, spoke briefly with him, beckoned the colonel from the door. There was a buzzing of excited conversation in the room. Several of the press and TV crew were huddled near the windows on Custer's left, arguing. One of their number—a florid-faced man with gray hair and hornrimmed glasses, started across the room toward Tiborough, was stopped by a committee aide. They began a low-voiced argument with violent gestures.

	A loud curse sounded from the door. Poxman, the syndicated columnist, was trying to push past the guards there.

	"Poxman!" Tiborough called. The columnist turned. "My orders are that no one leaves," Tiborough said. "You are not an exception." He turned back to face Custer.

	The room had fallen into a semblance of quiet, although there still were pockets of muttering and there was the sound of running feet and a hurrying about in the hall outside.

	"Two channels went out of here live," Tiborough said. "Nothing much we can do about them, although we will trace down as many of their viewers as we can. Every bit of film in this room and every sound tape will be confiscated, however." His voice rose as protests sounded from the press section. "Our national security is at stake. The President has been notified. Such measures as are necessary will be taken."

	The colonel came hurrying into the room, crossed to Tiborough, quietly said something.

	"You should've warned me!" Tiborough snapped. "I had no idea that ..."

	The colonel interrupted with a whispered comment.

	"These papers ... your damned report is nor clear!" Tiborough said. He looked around at Custer. "I see you're smiling, Mr. Custer. I don't think you'll find much to smile about before long."

	"Senator, this is not a happy smile," Custer said. "But I told myself several days ago you'd fail to see the implications of thb thing." He tapped the pistol-shaped device he had rested on the table. "I told myself you'd fall back into the old, useless pattern."

	"Is that what you told yourself, really?" Tiborough said.

	Wallace, hearing the venom in the senator's voice, moved his chair a few inches farther away from Custer.

	Tiborough looked at the laser projector. "Is that thing really disarmed?"

	"Yes, sir."

	"If I order one of my men to take it from you, you will not resist?"

	"Which of your men will you trust with it, Senator?" Custer asked.

	In the long silence that fol-lowed, someone in the press section emitted a nervous guffaw.

	"Virtually every man on my, ranch has one of these things," Custer said. "We fell trees with them, cut firewood, make fence posts. Every letter written to me as a result of my patent application has been answered candidly. More than a thousand sets of schematics and instructions on how to build this device have been sent out to varied places in the world."

	"You vicious traitor!" Tiborough rasped.

	"You're certainly entitled to your opinion, Senator," Custer said. "But I warn you I've had time for considerably more concentrated and considerably more painful thought than you've applied to this problem. In my estimation, I had no choice. Every week I waited to make this thing public, every day, every minute, merely raised the odds that humanity would be destroyed by ..."

	"You said this thing applied to the hearings on the grazing act," Plowers protested, and there was a plaintive note of complaint in his voice.

	"Senator, I told you the truth," Custer said. "There's no real reason to change the act, now. We intend to go on operating under it—with the agreement of our neighbors and others concerned. People are still going to need food."

	Tiborough glared at him. "You're saying we can't force you to ..." He broke off at a disturbance in the doorway. A rope barrier had been stretched there and a line of Marines stood with their backs to it, facing the hall. A mob of people was trying to press through. Press cards were being waved.

	"Colonel, I told you to clear that hall!" Tiborough barked.

	The colonel ran to the barrier. "Use your bayonets if you have to!" he shouted.

	The disturbance subsided at the sound of his voice. More uniformed men could be seen moving in along the barrier. Presently, the noise receded.

	Tiborough turned back to Custer. "You make Benedict Arnold look like the greatest friend the United States ever had," he said.

	"Cursing me isn't going to help you," Custer said. "You are going to have to live with this tiling; so you'd better try understanding it."

	"That appears to be simple," Tiborough said. "All I have to do is send twenty-five cents to the Patent office for the schematics and then write you a letter."

	"The world already was headed toward suicide," Custer said. "Only fools failed to realize ..."
	"So you decided to give us a little push," Tiborough said.

	"H. G. Wells warned us," Custer said. "That's how far back it goes, but nobody listened. "Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe,' Wells said. But those were just words. Many scientists have remarked the growth curve on the amount of raw energy becoming available to humans—and the diminishing curve on the number of persons required to use that energy. For a long time now, more and more violent power was being made available to fewer and fewer people. It was only a matter of time until total destruction was put into the hands of single individuals."

	"And you didn't think you could take your government into your confidence."

	"The government already was committed to a political course diametrically opposite the one this device requires," Custer said. "Virtually every man in the government has a vested interest in not reversing that course."

	"So you set yourself above the government?"

	"I'm probably wasting my time," Custer said, "but I'll try to explain it. Virtually every government in the world is dedicated to manipulating something called the 'mass man'. That's how governments have stayed in power. But there is no such man. When you elevate the non-existent 'mass man' you degrade the individual. And obviously it was only a matter of time until all of us were at the mercy of the individual holding power."

	"You talk like a commie!"

	"They'll say I'm a goddamn' capitalist pawn," Custer said. "Let me ask you, Senator, to visualize a poor radio technician in a South American country. Brazil, for example. He lives a hand-to-mouth existence, ground down by an overbearing, unimaginative, essentially uncouth ruling oligarchy. What is he going to do when this device comes into his hands?"

	4 (]V yfurder, robbery and an-iVA archy."

	"You could be right," Custer said. "But we might reach an understanding out of ultimate necessity—that each of us must cooperate in maintaining the dignity of all."

	Tiborough stared at him, began to speak musingly: "We'll have to control the essential materials for constructing this thing ... and there may be trouble for awhile, but ..."

	"You're a vicious fool."

	In the cold silence that followed, Custer said: "It was too late to try that ten years ago. I'm telling you this thing can be patchworked out of a wide variety of materials that are already scattered over the earth. It can be made in basements and mud huts, in palaces and shacks. The key item is the crystals, but other crystals will work, too. That's obvious. A patient man can grow crystals ... and this world is full of patient men."

	"I'm going to place you under arrest," Tiborough said. "You have outraged every rule—"

	"You're living in a dream world," Custer said. "I refuse to threaten you, but I'll defend myself from any attempt to oppress or degrade me. If I cannot defend myself, my friends will defend me. No man who understands what this device means will permit his dignity to be taken from him."

	Custer allowed a moment for his words to sink in, then: "And don't twist those words to imply a threat. Refusal to threaten a fellow human is an absolute requirement in the day that haa just dawned on us."

	"You haven't changed a thing J" Tiborough raged. "If one man is powerful with that thing, a hundred are ..."

	"All previous insults aside," Custer said, "I think you are a highly intelligent man, Senator. I ask you to think long and hard about this device. Use of power is no longer the deciding factor because one man is as powerful as a million. Restraint—self-restraint is now the key to survival. Each of us is at the mercy of his neighbor's good will. Each of us, Senator—the man in the palace and the man in the shack. We'd better do all we can to increase that good will—not attempting to buy it, but simply recognizing that individual dignity is the one inalienable right of ..."

	"Don't you preach at me, you commie traitor!" Tiborough rasped. "You're a living example of ..."

	"Senator!"

	It was one of the TV cameramen in the left rear of the room.

	"Let's stop insulting Mr. Custer and hear him out," the cameraman said.

	"Get that man's name," Tiborough told an aide. "If he ..."

	"I'm an expert electronic technician, Senator," the man said. "You can't threaten me now."

	Custer smiled, turned to face Tiborough.

	"The revolution begins," Custer said. He waved a hand as the senator started to whirl away. "Sit down, Senator."

	Wallace, watching the senator obey, saw how the balance of control had changed in this room.

	"Ideas are in the wind," Custer said. "There comes a time for a thing to develop. It comes into being. The spinning jenny came into being because that was its time. It was based on countless ideas that had preceded it."

	"And this is the age of the laser?" Tiborough asked.

	"It was bound to come," Custer said. "But the number of p pie in the world who're fired with hate and frustration and violence has been growing with terrible speed. You add to that the enormous danger that this might fall into the hands of just one group or nation or ..." Custer shrugged. "This is too much power to be confined to one man or group with the hope they'll administer wisely. I didn't dare delay. Thafs why I spread this thing now and announced it as broadly as I could."

	Tiborough leaned back in his chair, his hands in his lap. His face was pale and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

	"We won't make it."

	"I hope you're wrong. Senator," Custer said. "But the only thing I know for sure is that we'd have had less chance of making it tomorrow than we have today."

The End

The Mary Celeste Move
Analog – October 1964
(1964)
Frank Herbert
illustrated By John Schoenherb

People don't ordinarily just suddenly leave their homes ... businesses ... everything ... and never return. Death, of course, is one reason for doing so. But there can be another ...

-

	Martin Fisk's car, a year-old 1997 Buick with triple turbines and jato boosters, flashed off the freeway, found a space between a giant mobile refueling tanker and a commuter bus, darted through and surged into the first of the eight right-hand lanes in time to make the turnoff marked "NEW PENTAGON ONLY-Reduce Speed to 75."

	Fisk glanced at his surface/air rate-of-travel mixer, saw he was down to 80 miles per hour, close enough to legal speed, and worked his w7ay through the press of morning traffic into the second lane in plenty of time to join the cars diverging onto the fifth-level ramp.

	At the last minute, a big official limousine with a two-star general's decal-flag on its forward curve cut in front of him and he had to reduce speed to 50, hearing the drag-bar rasping behind him as his lane frantically matched speed. The shadow of a traffic copter passed over the roadway and Fisk thought: Hope that general's driver loses his license!

	By this time he was into the sweeping curve-around that would drop him to the fifth level. Speed here was a monitored 55. The roadway entered the building and Fisk brought his R-O-T up to the stated speed watching for the code of his off-slot: BR71Dtl. It loomed ahead, a flashing mnemonic blinker in brilliant green.

	Fisk dropped behind an in-building shuttle, squeezed into the right-hand lane, slapped the turn-off alert that set all his rim lights blinking and activated the automatics. His machine caught the signal from the roadway, went on automatic and swerved into the off-slot still at 55. Fisk released his control bar.

	Drag hooks underneath the Buick snagged the catch ribbands of the slot, jerked his car to a stop that sent him surging against the harness.

	The exit-warning wall ahead of him flashed a big red "7 SECONDS! 7 SECONDS!"

	Plenty of time, he thought.

	He yanked his briefcase out of its dashboard carrier with his right hand while unsnapping his safety harness with his left and hitting the door actuator with his knee. He was out onto the pedestrian ramp with three seconds to spare. The warning wall lifted; his car jerked forward into the down-elevator rack to be stored in a coded pile far below. His personal I-D signal to the computer-monitored system later would restore the car to him all checked and serviced and ready for the high-risk evening race out of the city.

	Fisk glanced at his wrist watch—four minutes until his appointment with William Merill, the President's liaison officer on the Internal Control Board and Fisk's boss. Adopting the common impersonal discourtesy, Fisk joined the press of people hurrying along the ramp.

	Some day, he thought, I'll get a nice safe and sane job on one of the ocean hydroponic stations where all I have to do is watch gauges and there's nothing faster than a 40 mph pedestrian ramp. He fished a green pill out of his coat pocket, gulped it, hoped he wouldn't have to take another before his blood pressure began its downslant to normal.

	By this time he was into the pneumatic lift capsule that would take him up in an individual curve to easy walking distance from his destination. He locked his arms on the brace bars. The door thumped closed. There was a distant hiss, a feeling of smooth downward pressure that evened off. He stared at the familiar blank tan of the opposite wall. Presently, the pressure slackened, the capsule glided to a stop, its door swung open.

	Fisk stepped out into the wide hall, avoided the guide-lanes for the high-speed ramp and dodged through thinning lines of people hurrying to work around him.

	Within seconds he was into Merill's office and facing the WAC secretary, a well-endowed brunette with an air of brisk efficiency. She looked up from her desk as he entered.

	"Oh, Mr. Fisk," she said, "how nice that you're a minute early. Mr. Merill's already here. You can have nine minutes. I hope that'll be enough. He has a very full schedule today and the Safety Council subcommittee session with the President this afternoon." She already was up and holding the inner door open for him, saying: "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could invent a forty-eight hour day?"

	We already have, he thought. We just compressed it into the old twenty-four hour model.

	"Mr. Fisk is here," she said, announcing him as she stepped out of his way.

	Fisk was through to the inner sanctum then, wondering why his mind was filled with the sudden realization that he had driven out of his apartment's garage lift one hundred miles away only thirty-two minutes before. He heard the WAC secretary close the door behind him.

	Merill, a wiry redhead with an air of darting tension, pale freckled skin and narrow face, sat at a desk directly opposite the door. He looked up, fixed his green eyes on Fisk, said: "Come on in and sit down, Marty, but make it snappy."

	Fisk crossed the office. It was an irregular space of six sides about forty feet across at its widest point. Merill sat with his back to the narrowest of the walls and with the widest wall at an angle to his right. A computer-actuated map of the United States covered that surface, its color-intensity lines of red, blue and purple showing traffic density on the great expressway arteries that crisscrossed the nation. The ceiling was a similar map, this one showing the entire western hemisphere and confined to the Prime-1 arteries of twenty lanes or greater.

	Fisk dropped into the chair across the desk from Merill, pushed a lock of dark hair back from his forehead, feeling the nervous perspiration there. Blast it! he thought. I'll have to take another pill!

	"Well?" Merill said.

	"It's all here," Fisk said, slapping the briefcase onto Merill's desk. "Ten days, forty thousand miles of travel and eighteen personal interviews plus fifty-one other interviews and reports from my assistants."

	"You know the President's worried about this," Merill said. "I hope you have it in some kind of order so I can present it to him this afternoon."

	"It's in order," Fisk said. "But you're not going to like it."

	"Yeah, well I was prepared for that," Merill said. "I don't like much of what comes across this desk." He glanced up suddenly at a strip of yellow that appeared on the overhead map indicating a partial blockage on the intercontinental throughway near Caracas. His right hand hovered over an intercom button, poised there as the yellow was replaced by red then blue shading into purple.

	"Fourth problem in that area in two days," Merill said removing his hand from the button. "Have to work a talk with Mendoza into this morning's schedule. O.K." He turned back to Fisk. "Give me your economy model brief rundown. What's got into these kooks who're moving all over the landscape?"

	"I've about twenty interlocking factors to reinforce my original hunch," Fisk said. "The Psych department confirms it. The question is whether this thing'll settle into some kind of steady pattern and even out. You might caution the President, off the record, that there are heavy political implications in this. Touchy ones if this leaks out the wrong way."

	Merill pushed a recording button on his desk, said: "O.K., Marty, put the rest on the record. Recap and sum-mate. I'll listen to it for review while I'm reading your report."

	Fisk nodded. "Right." He pulled sheaves of papers in file folders out of the briefcase, lined them up in front of him. "We had the original report, of course, that people were making bold moves from one end of the country to the other in higher than usual numbers, from unlikely starting places to unlikelier destinations. And these people turned out to be mostly mild, timid types instead of bold pioneers who'd pulled up their roots in the spirit of adventure."

	"Are the psych profiles in your report?" Merill asked. "I'm going to have a time convincing the President unless I have all the evidence."

	"Right here," Fisk said, tapping one of the folders. "I also have photostats of billings from the mobile refueling tankers and mobile food canteens to show that the people in these reports are actually the ones we've analyzed."

	"Weird," Merill said. He glanced at another brief flicker of yellow on the overhead map near Seattle, returned his attention to Fisk.

	"State and Federal income-tax reports are here," Fisk said, touching another of the folders. "And, oh yes, car ownership breakdowns by area. I also have data on driver's license transfers, bank and loan company records to show the business transactions involved in these moves. You know, some of these kooks sold profitable busi-nesses at a loss and took up different trades at their new locations. Others took new jobs at lower pay. Some big industries are worried about this. They've lost key people for reasons that don't make sense. And the Welfare Department figures that ..."

	"Yeah, but what's this about car ownership breakdowns?" Merill asked.

	Trust him to dive right through to the sensitive area, Fisk thought. He said: "There's a steep decline in car ownership among these people."

	"Do the Detroit people suspect?" Merill asked.

	"I covered my tracks best I could," Fisk said, "but there're bound to be some rumbles when their investigators interview the same people I did."

	"We'd better invite them to review our findings," Merill said. "There're some big political contributors in that area. What's the pattern on communities chosen by these kooks?"

	"Pretty indicative," Fisk said. "Most of the areas receiving a big influx are what our highway engineers irreverently call 'headwater swamps'—meaning area where the highway feeder routes thin out and make it easy to leave the expressways."

	"For example?"

	"Oh ... New York, San Francisco, Seattle, Los Angeles."

	"That all?"

	"No. There've been some significant population increases in areas where highway construction slowed traffic. There've been waves into Bangor, Maine ... Blaine, Washington ... and, my God! Calexico, California! They were bit on two consecutive weekends by one hundred and seventy of these weird newcomers."

	In a tired voice, Merill said: "I suppose the concentration pattern's consistent?"

	"Right down the line. They're all of middle age or past, drove well preserved older cars, are afraid to travel by air, are reluctant to explain why they moved such long distances. The complexion of entire areas in these headwater regions is being changed. There's sameness to them—people all conservative, timid ... you know the pattern."

	"I'm afraid I do. Bound to have political reprecussions, too. Congressional representation from these areas will change to fit the new pattern, sure as hell. That's what you meant, wasn't it?"

	"Yes." Fisk saw that he only had a few minutes more, began to feel his nervousness mount. He wondered if he'd dare gulp a pill in front of Merill, decided against it, said: "And you'd better look into the insurance angle. Costs are going up and people are beginning to complain. I saw a report on my desk when I checked in last night. These kooks were almost to a man low-risk drivers. As they get entirely out of the market, that throws a bigger load onto the others."

	"I'll have the possibility of a subsidy investigated," Merill said. "Anything else? You're running out of time."

	Running out of time, Fisk thought. The story of our lives. He touched another of the folders, said: "Here are the missing persons reports. There's a graph curve in them to fit this theory. I also have divorce records that are worth reviewing—wives who refused to join their husbands in one of these moves, that sort of thing."

	"Husband moved and the wife refused to join him, eh?"

	"That's the usual pattern. There are a couple of them, though, where the wife moved and refused to come back. Desertion charged ... very indicative."

	"Yeah, I was afraid of that," Merill said. "O.K., I'll review this when ..."

	"One thing more, Chief," Fisk said. "The telegrams and moving company records." He touched a thicker folder on the right. "I had photocopies made because few people would believe them without seeing them."

	"Yeah?"

	"The moving company gets an order from, say, Bangor, to move household belongings there from, for example, Tulsa, Oklahoma. The request contains a plea to feed the cat, the dog, the parrot or whatever. The movers go to the address and they find a hungry dog or cat in the house—or even a dead one on some occasions. One mover found a bowl of dead goldfish."

	"So?"

	"These houses fit right into the pattern," Fisk said. "The moving men find dinners that've been left cooking, plates on the table—all kinds of signs that people left and intended to come back ... but didn't. They've got a name for this kind of thing in the moving industry. They call it the 'Mary Celeste' move after the story of the sailing ship that ..."

	"I know the story," Merill said in a sour voice.

	Merill passed a hand wearily across his face, dropped the hand to the desk with a thump. "O.K., Marty, it fits," he said. "These characters go out for a Saturday or Sun-day afternoon drive. They take a wrong turn onto a oneway access ramp and get trapped onto one of the highspeed expressways. They've never driven over 150 before in their lives and the expressway carrier beam forces them up to 280 or 300 and they panic, lock onto the automatic and then they're afraid to touch the controls until they reach a region where the automatics slow them for diverging traffic. And after that you're lucky if you can ever get them into something with wheels on it again."

	"They sell their cars," Fisk said. "They stick to local tube and surface transportation. Used car buyers have come to spot these people, call them 'Panics.' A kook with out-of-state licenses drives in all glassy-eyed and trembling, asks: 'How much you give me for my car?' The dealer makes a killing, of course."

	"Of course," Merill said. "Well, we've got to keep this under wraps at least until after Congress passes the appropriation for the new trans-Huron expressway. After that ..." He shrugged. "I don't know, but we'll think of something." He waved a hand to dismiss Fisk, bent to a report-corder that folded out of the desk and said: "Stay where I can get you in a hurry, Marty."

	Within seconds, Fisk was out in the hallway facing the guidelanes to the high-speed ramp that would carry him to his own office. A man bumped into him and Fisk found that he was standing on the office lip reluctant to move out into the whizzing throngs of the corridor.

	No, he thought, I'm not reluctant. I'm afraid.

	He was honest enough with himself, though, to realize that he wasn't afraid of the high-speed ramp. It was what the ramp signified, where it could carry him.

	I wonder what my car would bring? he asked himself. And he thought: Would my wife move? He dried his sweating palm on his sleeve before taking another green pill from his pocket and gulping it. Then he stepped out into the hall. 

The End