map-reduce/testdata/text (17).txt

The Rediscovery of Man [029-4.3]

By: Cordwainer Smith

Synopsis:

The Rediscovery of Man The Complete Short Science Fiction of
Cordwainer Smith is the second book in the

"NESFA's Choice" series.  It brings back into print all of the short
science fiction of Cordwainer Smith, and includes two never before
published stories.

The Rediscovery of Man includes all of Smith's short science fiction,
including: "Scanners Live in Vain" "The Ballad of Lost C' mell" "The
Dead Lady of Clown Town" "The Game of Rat and Dragon" "On the Storm
Planet" It also includes an in-depth introduction to the works of
Cordwainer Smith by John J. Pierce, a noted authority on Smith's
work.

For a complete list of books available from NESFA Press, write to:
NESFA Press PO Box 809 Framingham, MA 01701-0203
Copyrights (con't) in "The Colonel Came Back from the Nothing-at-All"
copyright 1979 by Genevieve Linebarger.  First appeared in The
Instrumentality of Mankind.

"The Game of Rat and Dragon" copyright 1955 by Galaxy Publishing Co.
First appeared in Galaxy, October 1956.

"The Burning of the Brain" copyright 1958 by Quinn Publishing Co. First
appeared in Worlds of If, October 1958.

"From Gustible's Planet" copyright 1962 by Digest Productions
Corporation.  First appeared in Worlds of If, July 1962.

"Himself in Anachron" copyright 1993 by the Estate of Paul Linebarger.
First appearance.

"The Crime and the Glory of Commander Suzdal" copyright 1964 by
ZiffDavis Publishing Co.  First appeared in Amawf; Science Fiction, May
1964.

"Golden the Ship Was Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  copyright 1959 by Ziff-Davis
Publishing Co.  First appeared in Amazing Science Fiction, April
1959.

"The Dead Lady of Clown Town" copyright 1964 by Galaxy Publishing Co.
First appeared in Galaxy, August 1964.

"Under Old Earth" copyright 1966 by Galaxy Publishing Co.  First
appeared in Galaxy, February 1966.

"Drunkboat" copyright 1963 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Co.  First appeared
in Ammazing Science Fiction, October 1963.

"Mother Hitton's Little Kittons" copyright 1961 by Galaxy Publishing
Co.  First appeared in Galaxy, June 1961.

"Alpha Ralpha Boulevard," copyright 1961 by Mercury Press, Inc.  First
appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 1961.

"The Ballad of Lost C'mell" copyright 1962 by Galaxy Publishing Co.
First appeared in Galaxy.  October 1962.

"A Planet Named Shayol" copyright 1961 by Galaxy Publishing Co.  First
appeared in Galaxy, October 1961.

"On the Gem Planet" copyright 1963 by Galaxy Publishing Co.  First
appeared in Galaxy, October 1963.

"On the Storm Planet" copyright 1965 by Galaxy Publishing Co.  First
appeared in Galaxy, February 1965.

"On the Sand Planet" copyright 1965 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Co.  First
appeared in Amazing Stories, December 1965.

"Three to a Given Star" copyright 1965 by Galaxy Publishing Co.  First
appeared in Galaxy, October 1965.

"Down to a Sunless Sea" copyright 1975 by Genevieve Linebarger.  First
appeared in The Mu^wwe of Fantasy & Science Fiction, October 1975.

"War No.  81 -Q" copyright 1993 by the Estate of Paul Linebarger. First
appeared in The Adjuant, Volume IX, No.  1, June 1928.

"Western Science Is So Wonderful" copyright 1958 by Quinn Publishing
Co.  First appeared in Worlds of If, December 1958.

"Nancy" copyright 1959 by Satellite Science Fiction.  First appeared in
Satellite Science Fiction, March 1959 (as

"The Nancy Routine").

"The life of Bodidharma" copyright 1959 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Co.
First appeared in Fantastic, June 1959.

"Angerhelm" copyright 1959 by Ballantine Books.  First appeared in Star
Science Fiction #6.

"The Good Friends" copyright 1963 by Galaxy Publishing Co.  First
appeared in Worlds of Tomorrow, October 1963.

 Contents Introduction by John J. Pierce vii Editor's Introduction xv
Stories of the Instrumentality of Mankind No,No,NotRogov!  3 War
No.81-Q (rewritten version) 19 Mark Elf 29 The Queen of the Afternoon
41 Scanners Live in Vain 65 The Lady Who Sailed The Soul 97 When the
People Fell 119 Think Blue, Count Two 129 The Colonel Came Back from
the Nothing-at-All 155 The Game of Rat and Dragon 163 The Burning of
the Brain 177 From Gustible's Planet 187 Himself in Anachron 193 The
Crime and the Glory of Commander Suzdal 201 Golden the Ship Was Oh! Oh!
 Oh!  215 The Dead Lady of Clown Town 223 Under Old Earth 289 Drunkboat
327 Mother Hitton' s Littul Kittons 355 Alpha Ralpha Boulevard 375 The
Ballad of Lost C'mell 401 A Planet Named Shayol 419 On the Gem Planet
451 On the Storm Planet 475 On the Sand Planet 541 Three to a Given
Star 567 Down to a Sunless Sea 587
vi The Rediscovery of Man Other Stories War No.  81-Q (original
version) 613 Western Science Is So Wonderful 617 Nancy 629 The life of
Bodidharma 641 Angerhelm 649 The Good Friends 667
 Introduction by John

J.

Pierc e It's trite to say, of course, but there has never been another
science fiction writer like Cordwainer Smith.

Smith was never a very prolific SF writer, as evidenced by the fact
that nearly all of his short fiction can be encompassed in a single
omnibus volume like this.  He was never a very popular writer, as
evidenced by the fact that most of his work has usually been out of
print.  Nor has he been a favorite of the critics, as evidenced by the
fact that few citations to his SF can be found in journals like Science
Fiction Studies.

It is impossible to fit Smith's work into any of the neat categories
that appeal to most readers or critics.  It isn't hard science fiction,
it isn't military science fiction, it isn't sociological science
fiction, it isn't satire, it isn't surrealism, it isn't post modernism
For those who have fallen in love with it over the years, however, it
is some of the most powerful science fiction ever written.  It is the
kind of fiction that, as C. S. Lewis once wrote, becomes part of the
reader's personal iconography.

You may have already read the story of Paul Myron Anthony Linebarger
(1913-66), the man behind Cordwainer Smith, who grew up in China,
Japan, Germany, and France, and became a soldier, diplomat, and
respected authority on Far Eastern affairs.

He was the son of Paul Myron Wentworth Linebarger, a retired American
judge who helped finance the Chinese revolution of 1911 and became the
legal advisor to Sun Yat-sen.  It was Sun himself who gave young Paul
his Chinese name Lin Bah Loh, or "Forest of Incandescent Bliss."  (His
father had been dubbed Lin Bah Kuh, or

"Forest of 1,000 Victories.") In time, the younger Linebarger became
the confidant of Chiang Kai-shek, and, like his father, wrote about
China.  Still later, he was in demand at the Department of Asiatic
Politics at Johns Hopkins University, where he shared his own expertise
with members of the diplomatic corps.  And that isn't counting his
years as an operative in China during World War II, or
as a "visitor to small wars" thereafter, from which he became perhaps
the world's leading authority on psychological warfare.

He wrote the book on psychological warfare under his own name, as with
all his non-fiction.  But he was very shy about his fiction.  He wrote
two novels, Ria and Carola, both unusual due to their female
protagonists and international settings, under the name Felix C.
Forrest, a play on his Chinese name.  But when people found out who

"Forrest" was, he couldn't write any more.

He tried a spy thriller, Atomsk, as Carmichael Smith, but was found out
again.  He even submitted a manuscript for another novel under his
wife's name, but nobody was fooled.  Although Linebarger wrote at least
partial drafts of several other novels, he was never able to interest
publishers, and it appears he never really tried that hard.  He might
have had a distinguished, if minor, career as a novelist it is an odd
coincidence that Herma Briffault, widow of Robert Briffault, to whose
novels of European politics Frederik Pohl would later compare Ria and
Carola, had in fact read Carola in manuscript; only she compared it to
the work of Jean Paul Sartre!

Yet it isn't only a matter of happenstance, of opportunities elsewhere
denied, that Paul M. A. Linebarger became a science fiction writer.  In
fact, he was writing SF before he wrote anything else.  From his early
teens, he turned out an incredible volume of juvenile SF, under titles
like

"The Books of Futurity" some bad imitations of Edgar Rice Burroughs,
others clumsily satirical or incorporating Chinese legends or folklore.
One of these efforts contained, as an imaginary "review," the genesis
of

"The life ofBodidharma," published over 20 years later in its final
form.  At the age of 15, he even had an SF story published

"War No.  81- Q," which appeared in The Adjutant, the official organ of
his high school cadet corps in Washington, DC, in June 1928.  Because
he used the name of his cousin, Jack Bearden, for the hero, Bearden
decided to get back with a story of his own,

"The Notorious C39"; but Bearden's story actually made it into Amazing
Stories.  More than 30 years later, Linebarger rewrote

"War No.  81-Q" for his first collection of Cordwainer Smith SF
stories.  You Will Never Be the Same, but it didn't make the cut.

Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, Linebarger continued to write short
fiction some SF, some fantasy, some contemporary or Chinese historical.
The manuscripts, including those of the earliest Cordwainer Smith
stories, were eventually bound in a red-leather volume now in the hands
of a daughter living in Oregon.  Most of these stories were apparently
never submitted for publication, but Linebarger did send two of the
fantasies "Alauda Dalma" and

"The Archer and the Deep" to Unknown in 1942.  (If you don't recognize
the titles, it is because Unknown turned them
ix down: the latter didn't fare any better with Judith Merril in
1961.) Then in 1945, recently returned from China and facing idle hours
in some sort of desk job at the Pentagon, he wrote another of the
manuscripts included in the bound volume, the one that was to put him
on the literary map "Scanners Live in Vain."

You doubtless know that it was

"Scanners" which introduced the Instrumentality of Mankind, although
only as a shadowy background to the bizarre tale of the cyborged space
pilots who are dead though they live, and would rather kill than live
with a new discovery that has made their sacrifice and its attendant
rituals obsolete.  Yet however shadowy, that background with its
references to the Beasts and the manshonyaggers and the Unforgiven, and
the implications of some terrible dark age from which humanity has only
just emerged suggests a long period of gestation for the story and,
possibly, the existence of earlier stories with the same background.
Only there is no evidence of any such thing; to the contrary, at least
some of the background appears to date back to a note Linebarger wrote
to himself January 7, 1945, for a projected story,

"The Weapons," set in a "future or imaginary world" in which humanity
must always be on guard against old weapons, "perpetual and automatic,"
surviving from some old and forgotten war.  In that note, we can see
the genesis of the manshonyaggers, the German killing machines (from
menschenjager, or hunter of men) first referred to in "Scanners Live in
Vain."

Can Paul Linebarger have thought up an entire future history in the
time it took to write

"Scanners Live in Vain"?  It is probably a lot more complicated than
that; it may well be that a number of ideas that had been floating
around in his head for years, without ever being set down on paper,
suddenly gel led when he had the inspiration for the story.  It didn't
take long for the universe of "Scanners Live in Vain" to take shape,
however, for the story had been written within a few months of that
note for

"The Weapons."

On July 18, 1945, it was submitted to John W. Campbell, Jr.  at
Astounding Science Fiction who rejected it as "too extreme."

That proved to be the first of several rejections, until

"Scanners Live in Vain" finally found a home at Fantasy Book in 1950.
The only related story that Linebarger wrote before then was

"Himself in Anachron," dated 1946.  Never published in a magazine, it
was later slated (like the revised

"War No.  81-Q") for inclusion in You Will Never Be the Same, under the
title

"My Love Is Lost in the Null of Nought" or

"She Lost Her Love in the Null of Nought,"

but Linebarger wasn't able to deliver a revised manuscript in time.

Although he may have written such a revision at a later date, none can
be found in his literary papers, and the present version was adapted by
his widow Genevieve from the 1946 draft.

The career of Cordwainer Smith might have
been stillborn, with only one published and one unpublished story to
show for it.

Fortunately, Smith soon had a few champions, most notably Frederik
Pohl, who didn't have the foggiest idea who the author was but knew a
stellar performance when he saw one.  By including

"Scanners Live in Vain" in an anthology, Pohl rescued it from the
obscurity of Fantasy Book, and that led a few years later to
Linebarger's submission of

"The Game of Rat and Dragon" to Galaxy: the rest, as they say, is
history.  A great deal may not be told until the hoped-for publication
of a biography of Linebarger by Alan C. Elms, who has done exhaustive
interviews with his friends and family as well as researching all his
papers.

Among other things.  Elms has the low-down on how it happened that the
young Linebarger knew L. Ron Hubbard.  (It wasn't a mere fluke that one
of Linebarger's own unpublished works was Pathematics, his revisionist
take on Hubbard's Dianetics.) It is important to understand some
crucial facts about his life that have previously been overlooked: for
example, although he was a devout Episcopalian late in life, he was
only a nominal Methodist (his father's church) at the time he wrote

"Scanners Live in Vain."  He originally joined the Episcopal Church as
a compromise with his second wife, who was raised as a Catholic.

Only about 1960 did he become a believer in any deep sense, and only
then did the religious imagery and Christian message become strong in
his SF works.  The change in spiritual orientation that marks his later
work is thus a genuine change, not merely a change of emphasis.  There
are also all kinds of details about the life of Paul M. A. Linebarger,
his family and friends, that bear on his work as we shall see when
Elms' researches bear fruit.

The strictly literary history, however, is fascinating in itself.

In spite of such major gaps as the loss of Linebarger's main notebook
for the Instrumentality saga in 1965, and the apparent disappearance of
the dicta belts on which his widow recalled that he had recorded notes
for or even drafts of stories never committed to paper, it is possible
to reconstruct a lot of this literary history from Linebarger's
literary papers, now at the University of Kansas (although some,
including more juvenilia, and such oddities as an early poem titled

"An Ode to My Buick,"

mistakenly ended up at the Hoover Institution at Stanford, the
repository for papers relating to his military, diplomatic, and
scholarly career).  Among these literary papers are any number of
variant (mostly partial) manuscripts for stories already familiar to
us, false starts for stories never completed, notebooks with ideas for
stories never written, and miscellaneous correspondence.

The story of the Instrumentality saga has been told before: the Ancient
Wars, the Dark Age, the renaissance of humanity in the time of the
scanners, the romantic age of exploration by sail ship the discoveries
of
xi plano forming and stroon that bind together the myriad worlds and
usher in a bland Utopia of ease and plenty, the twin revolutions of the
under people Holy Insurgency and the Instrumentality's Rediscovery of
Man.  The stories in this volume tell it all better than any summary
can.  Smith had it all worked out, of course; he even offered to supply
a chronology for You Will Never Be the Same, which would undoubtedly
have been far superior to the one I supplied for The Best of Cordwainer
Smith for Del Rey Books.

But the saga was never conceived as a seamless whole, however much
Linebarger worked to develop the overall framework that would embrace
both his original conception and his later one.

His working method seemed to be to develop several strands of thought
and weave them together, or perhaps let them weave themselves together.
This is first evident in the genesis of "Scanners," in which ideas of a
future dark age, automatic weapons, the Vomact family, the scanners
themselves, and even the Instrumentality suddenly come together.
Subsequent stories developed that background.  Both

"Mark Elf and the original two chapter fragment of

"The Queen of the Afternoon" backtracked to the end of the Dark Age
(the latter made no mention of the under people in that version, nor
did it hint at any Christian themes).

"The Game of Rat and Dragon" took the saga forward to the heroic age of
plano forming and the vision of the far future in "No, No, Not Rogov!"
hinted at a secular apotheosis for human history.  Both

"When the People Fell" and

"The Burning of the Brain" are snapshots of different periods in the
same history, as well as compelling stories in themselves.

In 1958, Linebarger began writing a novel called Star-Craving Mad,
which was his first attempt at what eventually became Norstrilia.  But
the initial version of the story is far different from that we know
today.  There is no Rediscovery of Man, nor any Holy Insurgency.  Lord
Jestocost and

"Arthur McBan CLI" both figure here, but in different guises: Jestocost
is simply a cruel but shrewd tyrant, whose name ("cruelty" in Russian)
has none of the ironic meaning we now associate with it; while McBan is
a man of action who comes to the aid of the under people only for the
love of C'mell.  And the rebellion of the under people is nothing more
than an uprising of the oppressed, like the French Revolution to which
it is compared.  The E'telekeli appears, but as a future Jacobite
rather than a spiritual sage.  Linebarger was developing an ironic
theme, but it had to do with true men having in advert-cntly created a
race of supermen in the form of the under people

Linebarger apparently wasn't satisfied with the way the story was
going, for it was abandoned after a few chapters.  Several other false
starts over the next year failed to get Star-Craving Mad moving again,
and a severe illness which Genevieve Linebarger later remembered as the
genesis of Norstrilia may have actually been the genesis of a spiritual
rebirth that changed the entire thrust of the
Instrumentality saga.  As in the case of

"Scanners Live in Vain," however, Paul Linebarger was evidently
thinking along several lines at once before they all came together.

Even in the original draft of Star-Craving Mad there is one hint of the
Rediscovery of Man, but it remains only a hint.

C'mell's father C'mackintosh is not an athlete, but a "licensed robber"
at a "savage park" in Mississippi: such parks are a means for humanity
to "keep the peace within its own troubled and complex soul," but they
are apparently a longstanding institution, not a revolutionary
development.  In an early false start for

"The Ballad of Lost C'mell," Lord Redlady has unleashed ancient
diseases on Earth, but not as part of a spiritual revolution: the idea
to discourage invasions by developing immunities among Earthmen to
pathogens that can then be used as weapons against outsiders.  In
another false start, for a story called

"Strange Men and Doomed Ladies," Lord Jestocost proposes to end the
policy of euthanasia for "spoiled" people such as the crippled, the
sickly, the stupid, and even the overly-brilliant: "Let them be, and
let us see."  But this seems to be an isolated idea, unrelated to any
grand plan.

The false start for

"The Ballad of Lost C'mell" ("Where Is the Which of the What She Did")
also opens with a prologue that recounts the entire history of Earth.
Our times are the Second Ancient Days; they came before the First
Ancient Days, but were discovered later.  The First Ancient Days came
either before or after the Long Nothing (a summary of the chronology
contradicts the narrative).  Civilization was restored by the Dwellers,
who brought the cities back into shape around the ruins left by the
Daimoni, including Earthport Gulosan.  It was during the time of the
Dwellers that humanity discovered Space3 and overcame the rule of the
perfect men.  But that was all long before the time of C'mell.  The
Originals, invaders from space, overcame the Dwellers, but were later
overthrown by an alliance of true men and under people Then came the
Bright, who "did things with music and dance, with picture and word,
which had never been done before."  They also built the peace square at
An-fang, and (another contradiction) had something to do with the "fall
of the perfect men and the temporary rule of Lord Redlady."  Then came
a time of troubles, the High Cruel Years, followed by another invasion
by the Pure ("men of earth who had been gone too long"), who still rule
Earth at the time of the story.

Although the Dwellers may be the true men of

"Mark Elf,"

and the rule of the Bright may have something to do with the Bright
Empire mentioned in Norstrilia, nothing in the canon of stories we know
seems to relate to the Originals or the High Cruel Years or the Pure.
Linebarger was apparently reshaping his vision of the far future almost
to the moment he wrote

"Alpha Ralpha Boulevard," in which it all crystallized.  (The

"Where Is the
xiii Which of the What She Did" fragment has the narrator recalling
that "the most blessed of computers burned out on Alpha Ralpha
Boulevard," but assigns this to the long-past age of the Dwellers.)
During the same period, Linebarger was reshaping

"The Colonel Came Back from the Nothing-at-All," a then-unpublished
story about the discovery of plano forming into the story of Arthur
Rambo's mystical experience in Space3.  The story went through several
partial drafts (one titled

"Archipelagoes of Stars"), which used different approaches capturing
the poetic experience of Arthur Rambau.  One version quotes Rambau's Le
Bateau Ivre itself, as a prophecy of Space3, and asks,

"How knew it he, all the fine points of it?  ... He an ancient was!"
Another draft opens, "They put him into a box, a box.  They shot him to
the end of time .  . . Then, when it was all over, people discovered
that another man, also a singer, had written it all down in the Most
Ancient World."  The final version, of course, is far more subtle; it
was typical of Linebarger to make his stories less straightforward and
more allusive in such details.

Although most of the background for the Instrumentality saga was
contained in a notebook that Linebarger accidentally left in a
restaurant in Rhodes in 1965, another notebook begun during the last
year of his life contains ideas for several stories that were never
written.  Because they are notes to himself, they can be as cryptic as
the lyrics of a David Lynch song.  But some are clear enough, as far as
they go, including those for

"The Robot, the Rat, and the Copt," which was originally conceived as a
single story but later was a cycle of four stories, like the Casher
O'Neill series.

We know from references in published stories that the Robot, the Rat,
and the Copt were to bring back a Christian revelation from Space3, but
the notes don't add much to that, except to confirm that this new
dimension is where Christ "had really been and always was experienced."
The rat was to have been named R'obert, however, and there was to have
been a Coptic planet.  (A list of Coptic names including Shenuda or

"God Jves" appear in an entirely different notebook, a ring binder
titled

"New Science Fiction by Cordwainer Smith," which also includes most of
the 'alse starts and first drafts already referred to.) Some of the
ideas seem relatively trivial: a forlorn suitor has the crushed lead of
his true love, killed in an accident, regrown on Shayol, and re
implanted with her personality; a Go-Captain who has a mysterious (but
unspecified) experience in space is treated as a madman on his
conserva-I've home world Another story was to have been set on a
remote, prosperous world where one parents gamble on the futures of
their newly-issued children; this would evidently have shed more light
on the sequential system of child-raising by one-parents, two-parents,
and three-parents aluded to in

"Under Old Earth."  Another note is simply a name: the Lord
 y of Man Sto Dva, presumably a successor to the Lord Sto Odin of

"Under Old Earth."

But the most intriguing note is undoubtedly one for a story called

"How the Dream Lords Died."  Set in AD.  6111, it would have involved
the use of 12,000 slave brains by the Dream Lords in an attempt to
explore other times telepathically, like the Eighteenth Men of the
distant future in Olaf Stapledon's Last and First Men.  The Dream Lords
were clearly among the "others in the earth" after the fall of the
Ancient World, alluded to in Norstrilia, and this note is the only
reference to any story to have been set during that time well before

"Mark Elf."  Coupled with the titling of

"The Queen of the Afternoon" (set, like

"Mark Elf,"

at the very end of the new dark ages), it suggests that a new cycle of
stories,

"The Lords of the Afternoon," may have been related to the dark ages.
Shortly before his death, Linebarger told his friend Arthur Burns he
was planning a story cycle of that name; Burns conjectured that it
would take place in the period of

"Under Old Earth," and most time lines have shown the series taking
place in that period.

The year given for

"How the Dream Lords Died," naturally knocks the time-line used in The
Best of Cordwainer Smith and The Instrumentality of Mankind into a
cocked hat.  The dark ages must have lasted much longer than listed
there, and the rest of the future history thus must have been
compressed into a much shorter time.  We will probably never know much
more about Linebarger's intentions; even his wife doesn't seem to have
been privy to them.  In

"The Saga of the Third Sister," a (deservedly) unpublished sequel to

"The Queen of the Afternoon," she involved Karia vom Acht in the quest
of the Robot, the Rat, and the Copt, even though that story was
obviously intended to have come millennia later.  In working on Paul's
unfinished manuscript for

"The Queen of the Afternoon" itself, she insisted on anachronistic
references to under people and softened the characterizations of Juli
vom Acht and the true men.  Incidentally, it isn't clear from Paul's
original material whether Juli's arrival on Earth was actually to have
come after Carlotta's, rather than before.

But enough of the history behind the history.  You already know the
story of the Instrumentality is more than history: it is poetry, and
romance, and myth, and unlike any other SF series or future history. It
is almost impossible to imagine anyone except Linebarger writing
stories set in the universe of Cordwainer Smith, as others have written
stories about Isaac Asimov's robots or Larry Niven's kzinti.  It would
probably be close to blasphemy, in the realm of the arts, for anyone
else to even try.  Like the rarest vintage wine, the work of Cordwainer
Smith cannot be duplicated.  We must be grateful that we can still
savor the true vintage of these pages.

 Editor's Introduction This volume contains all the short science
fiction written by Cordwainer Smith (Dr.  Paul Linebarger).  It
contains all the stories included in The Best of Cordwainer Smith, The
Instrumentality of Mankind, and Quest of the Three Worlds.  The latter
book, while marketed as a novel, is actually a collection of four short
works.  This collection also includes the story

"Down to a Sunless Sea," published by The Magazine of Fantasy & Science
Fiction under the name

"Cordwainer Smith," but actually written by Genevieve Linebarger,
Paul's wife.  She was the coauthor with Paul on several other stories,
most notably

"The Lady Who Sailed The Soul."

The current volume contains two previously unpublished short pieces.

"Himself in Anachron" was completed by Genevieve Linebarger after
Paul's death, and is also scheduled for publication in The Last
Dangerous Visions.

"War No.  81-Q," is a complete rewrite of a story Linebarger wrote
while in high school.  (The original version was published in The
Instrumentality of Mankind and is also included here.) In many cases,
there were a number of differences between the original magazine
version of the story and the versions published later in various
collections of Smith's work.  Sometimes, whole sentences or paragraphs
were added to the book version.  In general, we used the book versions,
since these seemed to be the more complete.  For the four stories in
Quest of the Three Worlds, we also used the versions that appeared in
the "novel."

In one case,

"Scanners Live in Vain," we had the original manuscript.  We discovered
that Fantasy Book, which published the story, dropped several lines and
made a number of other minor changes; subsequent publications followed
the Fantasy Book version.  The text contained here is the first
publication of that story with the complete text of the original.

In addition to the short fiction contained here.  Smith produced one SF
novel: Norstrilia.  Norstrilia was originally published as two short
novels,

"The Boy Who Bought Old Earth" and

"The Store of Heart's Desire," which were then reprinted in two
volumes.  The Planet Buyer and The Underpeople, respectively.

Only later were they combined into one volume as Norstrilia.  However,
unlike the stories that make up Quest of the Three Worlds, these two
stories were never intended as shorter works: they are truly a novel
split in two, while Quest of the Three Worlds is really four
independent stories (which share the same central character), cobbled
together to form a novel.  Norstrilia, therefore, is not included in
this collection.

One final note on contents: most of Smith's science fiction is set in a
common future, that of the Instrumentality of Mankind.

This book is arranged in two sections.  In the first section, the
Instrumentality stories are arranged in internal chronological order
(as best as can be determined from the stories).  The second section
contains the non-Instrumentality stories, arranged in order of original
publication.

James

A.

Mann North boro,

MA

April Acknowledgments This book was put together through the efforts of
many volunteers.  Frank and Lisa Richards scanned in most of the
book.

Tony Lewis made the contractual arrangements for the stories and the
cover.  Greg Thokar arranged for printing, provided some stylistic
guidance, and gave a thorough consistency check to the final book. Mark
Olson helped typeset a number of the stories, proofed parts of the
book, and provided general support.  George Flynn copy edited almost
the entire book, comparing many stories to both book and magazine
versions. Priscilla Olson also proofed and copy edited large pieces of
the book. Aron Insinga, Tim Szczesuil, Ann Crimmins, and Gay Ellen
Dennett proofed several stories.  Tom Whitmore provided the original
manuscript of "Scanners Live in Vain" and the cover letter reprinted on
page 64.

Laurie Mann helped enter proof corrections, typed some of the material
that could not be scanned, and provided general moral support.  Thanks
to you all.

 Stories of the Instrumentality of Mankind
 No, No, Not Rogov!

That golden shape on the golden steps shook and fluttered like a bird
gone mad like a bird imbued with an intellect and a soul, and,
nevertheless, driven mad by ecstasies and terrors beyond human
understanding ecstasies drawn momentarily down into reality by the
consummation of superlative art.  A thousand worlds watched.

Had the ancient calendar continued this would have been ad.

13,582.  After defeat, after disappointment, after ruin and
reconstruction, mankind had leapt among the stars.

Out of meeting inhuman art, out of confronting non-human dances,
mankind had made a superb esthetic effort and had leapt upon the stage
of all the worlds.

The golden steps reeled before the eyes.  Some eyes had retinas.  Some
had crystalline cones.  Yet all eyes were fixed upon the golden shape
which interpreted The Glory and Affirmation of Man in the Inter- World
Dance Festival of what might have been

AD.  13,582.

Once again mankind was winning the contest.  Music and dance were
hypnotic beyond the limits of systems, compelling, shocking to human
and inhuman eyes.  The dance was a triumph of shock the shock of
dynamic beauty.

The golden shape on the golden steps executed shimmering intricacies of
meaning.  The body was gold and still human.  The body was a woman, but
more than a woman.  On the golden steps, in the golden light, she
trembled and fluttered like a bird gone mad.

The Ministry of State Security had been positively shocked when they
found that a Nazi agent, more heroic than prudent, had almost reached
N. Rogov.

Rogov was worth more to the Soviet armed forces than any two air
of Man armies, more than three motorized divisions.  His brain was a
weapon, a weapon for the Soviet power.

Since the brain was a weapon, Rogov was a prisoner.  He didn't mind.
Rogov was a pure Russian type, broad-faced, sandy haired blue-eyed,
with whimsey in his smile and amusement in the wrinkles of the tops of
his cheeks.

"Of course I'm a prisoner," Rogov used to say.

"I am a prisoner of State service to the Soviet peoples.  But the
workers and peasants are good to me.  I am an academician of the All
Union Academy of Sciences, a major general in the Red Air Force, a
professor in the University of Kharkov, a deputy works manager of the
Red Flag Combat Aircraft Production Trust.  From each of these I draw a
salary."

Sometimes he would narrow his eyes at his Russian scientific colleagues
and ask them in dead earnest,

"Would I serve capitalists?"

The affrighted colleagues would try to stammer their way out of the
embarrassment, protesting their common loyalty to Stalin or Beria, or
Zhukov, or Molotov, or Bulganin, as the case may have been.

Rogov would look very Russian: calm, mocking, amused.  He would let
them stammer.

Then he'd laugh.  Solemnity transformed into hilarity, he would explode
into bubbling, effervescent, good-humored laughter.

"Of course I could not serve the capitalists.  My little Anastasia
would not let me."

The colleagues would smile uncomfortably and would wish that Rogov did
not talk so wildly, or so comically, or so freely.

Even Rogov might wind up dead.  Rogov didn't think so.  They did. Rogov
was afraid of nothing.

Most of his colleagues were afraid of each other, of the Soviet system,
of the world, of life, and of death.

Perhaps Rogov had once been ordinary and mortal like other people, and
full of fears.

But he had become the lover, the colleague, the husband of Anastasia
Fyodorovna Cherpas.

Comrade Cherpas had been his rival, his antagonist, his competitor, in
the struggle for scientific eminence in the daring Slav frontiers of
Russian science.  Russian science could never overtake the inhuman
perfection of German method, the rigid intellectual and moral
discipline of German teamwork, but the Russians could and did get ahead
of the Germans by giving vent to their bold, fantastic imaginations.
Rogov had pioneered the first rocket launchers of 1939.  Cherpas had
finished the job by making the best of the rockets radio-directed.

Rogov in 1942 had developed a whole new system of photo mapping Comrade
Cherpas had applied it to color film.  Rogov, sandy-haired, blue-
eyed, and smiling, had recorded his criticisms of Comrade Cherpas's
naivete and unsoundness at the top-secret meetings of Russian
scientists during the black winter nights of 1943.

Comrade Cherpas, her butter-yellow hair flowing down like living water
to her shoulders, her unpainted face gleaming with fanaticism,
intelligence, and dedication, would snarl her own defiance at him,
deriding his Communist theory, pinching at his pride, hitting his
intellectual hypotheses where they were weakest.

By 1944 a Rogov-Cherpas quarrel had become something worth traveling to
see.

In 1945 they were married.

Their courtship was secret, their wedding a surprise, their partnership
a miracle in the upper ranks of Russian science.

The emigre press had reported that the great scientist, Peter Kapitza,
once remarked,

"Rogov and Cherpas, there is a team.

They're Communists, good Communists; but they're better than that!
They're Russian, Russian enough to beat the world.  Look at them.
That's the future, our Russian future!"  Perhaps the quotation was an
exaggeration, but it did show the enormous respect in which both Rogov
and Cherpas were held by their colleagues in Soviet science.

Shortly after their marriage strange things happened to them.

Rogov remained happy.  Cherpas was radiant.

Nevertheless, the two of them began to have haunted expressions, as
though they had seen things which words could not express, as though
they had stumbled upon secrets too important to be whispered even to
the most secure agents of the Soviet State Police.

In 1947 Rogov had an interview with Stalin.  As he left Stalin's office
in the Kremlin, the great leader himself came to the door, his forehead
wrinkled in thought, nodding,

"Da, da, da.  " Even his own personal staff did not know why Stalin was
saying

"Yes, yes, yes," but they did see the orders that went forth marked
only by safe hand, and to be read and returned, not retained, and
furthermore stamped

FOR AUTHORIZED EYES ONLY AND UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TO BE COPIED.

Into the true and secret Soviet budget that year by the direct personal
order of a noncommittal Stalin, an item was added for "Project
Telescope."  Stalin tolerated no inquiry, brooked no comment.

A village which had had a name became nameless.

A forest which had been opened to the workers and peasants became
military territory.

Into the central post office in Kharkov there went a new box number for
the village of Ya.  Ch.

Rogov and Cherpas, comrades and lovers, scientists both and Russians
both, disappeared from the everyday lives of their colleagues.  Their
faces
of Man were no longer seen at scientific meetings.  Only rarely did
they emerge.

On the few times they were seen, usually going to and from Moscow at
the time the All Union budget was made up each year, they seemed
smiling and happy.  But they did not make jokes.

What the outside world did not know was that Stalin in giving them
their own project, granting them a paradise restricted to themselves,
had seen to it that a snake went with them in the paradise.  The snake
this time was not one, but two personalities Gausgofer and Gauck.

Stalin died.

Beria died too less willingly.

The world went on.

Everything went into the forgotten village ofYa.  Ch.  and nothing came
out.

It was rumored that Bulganin himself visited Rogov and Cherpas.  It was
even whispered that Bulganin said as he went to the Kharkov airport to
fly back to Moscow,

"It's big, big, big.

There'll be no cold war if they do it.  There won't be any war of any
kind.  We'll finish capitalism before the capitalists can ever begin to
fight.  If they do it.  If they do it."  Bulganin was reported to have
shaken his head slowly in perplexity and to have said nothing more but
to have put his initials on the unmodified budget of Project Telescope
when a trusted messenger next brought him an envelope from Rogov.

Anastasia Cherpas became a mother.  Their first boy looked like his
father.  He was followed by a little girl.  Then another little boy.
The children didn't stop Cherpas's work.  They had a large dacha and
trained nursemaids took over the household.

Every night the four of them dined together.

Rogov, Russian, humorous, courageous, amused.

Cherpas, older, more mature, more beautiful than ever but just as
biting, just as cheerful, just as sharp as she had ever been.

But then the other two, the two who sat with them across the years of
all their days, the two colleagues who had been visited upon them by
the all-powerful word of Stalin himself.

Gausgofer was a female: bloodless, narrow-faced, with a voice like a
horse's whinny.  She was a scientist and a policewoman, and competent
at both jobs.  In 1917 she had reported her own mother's whereabouts to
the Bolshevik Terror Committee.  In 1924 she had commanded her father's
execution.  He had been a Russian German of the old Baltic nobility and
he
 No, No, Not Rogov!  7 ^ had tried to adjust his mind to the new
system, but he had failed.

In 1930 she had let her lover trust her a little too much.  He had been
a Roumanian Communist, very high in the Party, but he had whispered
into her ear in the privacy of their bedroom, whispered with the tears
pouring down his face; she had listened affectionately and quietly and
had delivered his words to the police the next morning.

With that she had come to Stalin's attention.

Stalin had been tough.  He had addressed her brutally.

"Comrade, you have some brains.  I can see you know what Communism is
all about.  You understand loyalty.  You're going to get ahead and
serve the Party and the working class, but is that all you want?"  He
had spat the question at her.

She had been so astonished that she gaped.

The old man had changed his expression, favoring her with leering
benevolence.  He had put his forefinger on her chest.

"Study science.  Comrade.  Study science.  Communism plus science
equals victory.  You're too clever to stay in police work."

Gausgofer took a reluctant pride in the fiendish program of her German
namesake, the wicked old geographer who made geography itself a
terrible weapon in the Nazi anti-Soviet struggle.

Gausgofer would have liked nothing better than to intrude on the
marriage ofCherpas and Rogov.

Gausgofer fell in love with Rogov the moment she saw him.

Gausgofer fell in hate and hate can be as spontaneous and miraculous as
love with Cherpas the moment she saw her.

But Stalin had guessed that too.

With the bloodless, fanatic Gausgofer he had sent a man named B.
Gauck.

Gauck was solid, impassive, blank-faced.  In body he was about the same
height as Rogov.  Where Rogov was muscular, Gauck was flabby.  Where
Rogov's skin was fair and shot through with the pink and health of
exercise, Gauck's skin was like stale lard, greasy, gray-green, sickly
even on the best of days.

Gauck's eyes were black and small.  His glance was as cold and sharp as
death.  Gauck had no friends, no enemies, no beliefs, no enthusiasm.
Even Gausgofer was afraid of him.

Gauck never drank, never went out, never received mail, never sent
mail, never spoke a spontaneous word.  He was never rude, never kind,
never friendly, never really withdrawn: he couldn't withdraw any more
than the constant withdrawal of all his life.

Rogov had turned to his wife in the secrecy of their bedroom soon after
Gausgofer and Gauck came and had said,

"Anastasia, is that man sane?"

Cherpas intertwined the fingers of her
beautiful, expressive hands.  She who had been the wit of a thousand
scientific meetings was now at a loss for words.  She looked up at her
husband with a troubled expression.

"I don't know, Comrade ... I just don't know .  .."

Rogov smiled his amused Slavic smile.

"At the least then I don't think Gausgofer knows either."

Cherpas snorted with laughter and picked up her hairbrush.

"That she doesn't.  She really doesn't know, does she?  I'll wager she
doesn't even know to whom he reports."

That conversation had receded into the past.  Gauck, Gausgofer, the
bloodless eyes and the black eyes they remained.

Every dinner the four sat down together.

Every morning the four met in the laboratory.

Rogov's great courage, high sanity, and keen humor kept the work
going.

Cherpas's flashing genius fueled him whenever the routine overloaded
his magnificent intellect.

Gausgofer spied and watched and smiled her bloodless smiles; sometimes,
curiously enough, Gausgofer made genuinely constructive suggestions.
She never understood the whole frame of reference of their work, but
she knew enough of the mechanical and engineering details to be very
useful on occasion.

Gauck came in, sat down quietly, said nothing, did nothing.

He did not even smoke.  He never fidgeted.  He never went to sleep.  He
just watched.

The laboratory grew and with it there grew the immense configuration of
the espionage machine.

In theory what Rogov had proposed and Cherpas seconded was imaginable.
It consisted of an attempt to work out an integrated theory for all the
electrical and radiation phenomena accompanying consciousness, and to
duplicate the electrical functions of mind without the use of animal
material.

The range of potential products was immense.  The first product Stalin
had asked for was a receiver, if possible, capable of tuning in the
thoughts of a human mind and of translating those thoughts into either
a punch-tape machine, an adapted German Hellschreiber machine, or
phonetic speech.  If the grids could be turned around and the
brain-equivalent machine could serve not as a receiver but as a
transmitter, it might be able to send out stunning forces which would
paralyze or kill the process of thought.

At its best, Rogov's machine would be designed to confuse human
thought over great distances, to select human targets to be confused,
and to maintain an electronic jamming system which would jam straight
into the human mind without the requirement of tubes or receivers.

He had succeeded in part.  He had given himself a violent headache in
the first year of work.

In the third year he had killed mice at a distance of ten kilometers.
In the seventh year he had brought on mass hallucinations and a wave of
suicides in a neighboring village.  It was this which impressed
Bulganin.

Rogov was now working on the receiver end.  No one had ever explored
the infinitely narrow, infinitely subtle bands of radiation which
distinguished one human mind from another, but Rogov was trying, as it
were, to tune in on minds far away.

He had tried to develop a telepathic helmet of some kind, but it did
not work.  He had then turned away from the reception of pure thought
to the reception of visual and auditory images.

Where the nerve ends reached the brain itself, he had managed over the
years to distinguish whole pockets of micro-phenomena, and on some of
these he had managed to get a fix.

With infinitely delicate tuning he had succeeded one day in picking up
the eyesight of their second chauffeur and had managed, thanks to a
needle thrust in just below his own right eyelid, to "see" through the
other man's eyes as the other man, all unaware, washed their Zis
limousine 1,600 meters away.

Cherpas had surpassed his feat later that winter and had managed to
bring in an entire family having dinner over in a nearby city.  She had
invited B. Gauck to have a needle inserted into his cheekbone so that
he could see with the eyes of an unsuspecting spied-on stranger.  Gauck
had refused any kind of needles, but Gausgofer had joined in the
work.

The espionage machine was beginning to take form.

Two more steps remained.  The first step consisted of tuning in on some
remote target, such as the White House in Washington or the NATO
Headquarters outside of Paris.  The machine itself could obtain perfect
intelligence by eavesdropping on the living minds of people far away.

The second problem consisted of finding a method of jamming those minds
at a distance, stunning them so that the subject personnel fell into
tears, confusion, or sheer insanity.

Rogov had tried, but he had never gotten more than thirty kilometers
from the nameless village of Ya.  Ch.

One November there had been seventy cases of hysteria, most of them
ending in suicide, down in the city of Kharkov several hundred
kilometers away, but Rogov was not sure that his own machine was doing
it.

Comrade Gausgofer dared to stroke his sleeve.  Her white lips smiled
of Man and her watery eyes grew happy as she said in her high, cruel
voice,

"You can do it.  Comrade.  You can do it."

Cherpas looked on with contempt.  Gauck said nothing.

The female agent Gausgofer saw Cherpas's eyes upon her, and for a
moment an arc of living hatred leapt between the two women.

The three of them went back to work on the machine.

Gauck sat on his stool and watched them.

The laboratory workers never talked very much and the room was quiet.

It was the year in which Eristratov died that the machine made a
breakthrough.  Eristratov died after the Soviet and People's
democracies had tried to end the cold war with the Americans.

It was May.  Outside the laboratory the squirrels ran among the trees.
The leftovers from the night's rain dripped on the ground and kept the
earth moist.  It was comfortable to leave a few windows open and to let
the smell of the forest into the workshop.

The smell of their oil-burning heaters and the stale smell of
insulation, of ozone, and of the heated electronic gear was something
with which all of them were much too familiar.

Rogov had found that his eyesight was beginning to suffer because he
had to get the receiver needle somewhere near his optic nerve in order
to obtain visual impressions from the machine.  After months of
experimentation with both animal and human subjects he had decided to
copy one of their last experiments, successfully performed on a
prisoner boy fifteen years of age, by having the needle slipped
directly through the skull, up and behind the eye.  Rogov had disliked
using prisoners, because Gauck, speaking on behalf of security, always
insisted that a prisoner used in experiments had to be destroyed in not
less than five days from the beginning of the experiment.  Rogov had
satisfied himself that the skull-and-needle technique was safe, but he
was very tired of trying to get frightened, unscientific people to
carry the load of intense, scientific attentiveness required by the
machine.

Rogov recapitulated the situation to his wife and to their two strange
colleagues.

Somewhat ill-humored, he shouted at Gauck,

"Have you ever known what this is all about?  You've been here years.
Do you know what we're trying to do?  Don't you ever want to take part
in the experiments yourself?  Do you realize how many years of
mathematics have gone into the making
of these grids and the calculation of these wave patterns?  Are you
good for anything?"

Gauck said, tonelessly and without anger,

"Comrade Professor, I am obeying orders.  You are obeying orders, too.
I've never impeded you."

Rogov almost raved.

"I know you never got in my way.  We're all good servants of the Soviet
State.  It's not a question of loyalty.

It's a question of enthusiasm.  Don't you ever want to glimpse the
science we're making?  We are a hundred years or a thousand years ahead
of the capitalist Americans.  Doesn't that excite you?  Aren't you a
human being?  Why don't you take part?  Will you understand me when I
explain it?"

Gauck said nothing: he looked at Rogov with his beady eyes.

His dirty-gray face did not change expression.  Gausgofer exhaled
loudly in a grotesquely feminine sigh of relief, but she too said
nothing.  Cherpas, her winning smile and her friendly eyes looking at
her husband and two colleagues, said,

"Go ahead, Nikolai.  The comrade can follow if he wants to."

Gausgofer looked enviously at Cherpas.  She seemed inclined to keep
quiet, but then had to speak.  She said,

"Do go ahead, Comrade Professor."

Said Rogov,

"Kharosho, I'll do what I can.  The machine is now ready to receive
minds over immense distances."  He wrinkled his lip in amused scorn.

"We may even spy into the brain of the chief rascal himself and find
out what Eisenhower is planning to do today against the Soviet people.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if our machine could stun him and leave him
sitting addled at his desk?"

Gauck commented,

"Don't try it.  Not without orders."

Rogov ignored the interruption and went on.

"First I receive.

I don't know what I will get, who I will get, or where they will be.

All I know is that this machine will reach out across all the minds of
men and beasts now living and it will bring the eyes and ears of a
single mind directly into mine.  With the new needle going directly
into the brain it will be possible for me to get a very sharp fixation
of position.  The trouble with that boy last week was that even though
we knew he was seeing something outside of this room, he appeared to be
getting sounds in a foreign language and did not know enough English or
German to realize where or what the machine had taken him to see."

Cherpas laughed.

"I'm not worried.  I saw then it was safe.  You go first, my husband.
If our comrades don't mind ?"

Gauck nodded.

Gausgofer lifted her bony hand breathlessly up to her skinny throat and
said,

"Of course, Comrade Rogov, of course.  You did all the work.  You must
be the first."

Rogov sat down.

A white-smocked technician brought the machine over to him.

It was
of Man mounted on three rubber-tired wheels and it resembled the small
X-ray units used by dentists.  In place of the cone at the head of the
X-ray machine there was a long, incredibly tough needle.  It had been
made for them by the best surgical-steel craftsmen in Prague.

Another technician came up with a shaving bowl, a brush, and a straight
razor.  Under the gaze of Gauck's deadly eyes he shaved an area four
centimeters square on the top of Rogov head.

Cherpas herself then took over.  She set her husband's head in the
clamp and used a micrometer to get the skull fittings so tight and so
clear that the needle would push through the dura mater at exactly the
right point.

All this work she did deftly with kind, very strong fingers.

She was gentle, but she was firm.  She was his wife, but she was also
his fellow scientist and his fellow colleague in the Soviet State.

She stepped back and looked at her work.  She gave him one of their own
very special smiles, the secret gay smiles which they usually exchanged
with each other only when they were alone.

"You won't want to do this every day.  We're going to have to find some
way of getting into the brain without using this needle.  But it won't
hurt you."

"Does it matter if it does hurt?"  said Rogov.

"This is the triumph of all our work.  Bring it down."

Gausgofer looked as though she would like to be invited to take part in
the experiment, but she dared not interrupt Cherpas.

Cherpas, her eyes gleaming with attention, reached over and pulled down
the handle, which brought the tough needle to within a tenth of a
millimeter of the right place.

Rogov spoke very carefully.

"All I felt was a little sting.  You can turn the power on now."

Gausgofer could not contain herself.  Timidly she addressed Cherpas.

"May I turn on the power?"

Cherpas nodded.  Gauck watched.  Rogov waited.  Gausgofer pulled down
the bayonet switch.

The power went on.

With an impatient twist of her hand, Anastasia Cherpas ordered the
laboratory attendants to the other end of the room.

Two or three of them had stopped working and were staring at Rogov,
staring like dull sheep.  They looked embarrassed and then they huddled
in a white-smocked herd at the other end of the laboratory.

The wet May wind blew in on all of them.  The scent of forest and
leaves was about them.

The three watched Rogov.

Rogov's complexion began to change.  His face became flushed.  His
breathing was so loud and heavy they could hear it several meters
away.  Cherpas fell on her knees in front of him, eyebrows lifted in
mute inquiry.

Rogov did not dare nod, not with a needle in his brain.  He said
through flushed lips, speaking thickly and heavily, "Do not stop
now."

Rogov himself did not know what was happening.  He thought he might see
an American room, or a Russian room, or a tropical colony.  He might
see palm trees, or forests, or desks.  He might see guns or buildings,
wash-rooms or beds, hospitals, homes, churches.  He might see with the
eyes of a child, a woman, a man, a soldier, a philosopher, a slave, a
worker, a savage, a religious one, a Communist, a reactionary, a
governor, a policeman.  He might hear voices; he might hear English, or
French, or Russian, Swahili, Hindu, Malay, Chinese, Ukrainian,
Armenian, Turkish, Greek.  He did not know.

Something strange was happening.

It seemed to him that he had left the world, that he had left time. The
hours and the centuries shrank up as the meters and the machine,
unchecked, reached out for the most powerful signal which any humankind
had transmitted.  Rogov did not know it, but the machine had conquered
time.

The machine reached the dance, the human challenger, and the dance
festival of the year that was not AD.  13,582, but which might have
been.

Before Rogov's eyes the golden shape and the golden steps shook and
fluttered in a ritual a thousand times more compelling than hypnotism.
The rhythms meant nothing and everything to him.  This was Russia, this
was Communism.  This was his life indeed it was his soul acted out
before his very eyes.

For a second, the last second of his ordinary life, he looked through
flesh-and-blood eyes and saw the shabby woman whom he had once thought
beautiful.  He saw Anastasia Cherpas, and he did not care.

His vision concentrated once again on the dancing image, this woman,
those postures, that dance!

Then the sound came in music which would have made a Tchaikovsky weep,
orchestras which would have silenced Shostakovich or Khachaturian
forever, so much did it surpass the music of the twentieth century.

The people-who-were-not-people between the stars had taught mankind
many arts.  Rogov's mind was the best of its time, but his time was
far, far behind the time of the great dance.  With that one vision
Rogov went firmly and completely mad.  He became blind to the sight of
Cherpas, Gausgofer, and Gauck.  He forgot the village of Ya.  Ch.  He
forgot himself.  He was like a fish, bred in stale fresh water, which
is thrown for the first time into a living stream.  He was like an
insect emerging from the chrysalis.  His twentieth-century mind could
not hold the imagery and the impact of the music and the dance.

of Man But the needle was there and the needle transmitted into his
mind more than his mind could stand.

The synapses of his brain flicked like switches.  The future flooded
into him.

He fainted.  Cherpas leapt forward and lifted the needle.

Rogov fell out of the chair.

It was Gauck who got the doctors.  By nightfall they had Rogov resting
comfortably and under heavy sedation.  There were two doctors, both
from the military headquarters.  Gauck had obtained authorization for
their services by dint of a direct telephone call to Moscow.

Both the doctors were annoyed.  The senior one never stopped grumbling
at Cherpas.

"You should not have done it, Comrade Cherpas.  Comrade Rogov should
not have done it either.  You can't go around sticking things into
brains.  That's a medical problem.  None of you people are doctors of
medicine.  It's all right for you to contrive devices with the
prisoners, but you can't inflict things like this on Soviet scientific
personnel.  I'm going to get blamed because I can't bring Rogov back.
You heard what he was saying.  All he did was mutter,

"That golden shape on the golden steps, that music, that me is a true
me, that golden shape, that golden shape, I want to be with that golden
shape," and rubbish like that.  Maybe you've ruined a first-class brain
forever " He stopped himself short as though he had said too much.
After all, the problem was a security problem and apparently both Gauck
and Gausgofer represented the security agencies.

Gausgofer turned her watery eyes on the doctor and said in a low, even,
unbelievably poisonous voice,

"Could she have done it.

Comrade Doctor?"

The doctor looked at Cherpas, answering Gausgofer.

"How?

You were there.  I wasn't.  How could she have done it?  Why should she
do it?  You were there."

Cherpas said nothing.  Her lips were compressed tight with grief.  Her
yellow hair gleamed, but her hair was all that remained, at that
moment, of her beauty.  She was frightened and she was getting ready to
be sad.  She had no time to hate foolish women or to worry about
security; she was concerned with her colleague, her lover, her husband,
Rogov.

There was nothing much for them to do except to wait.  They went into a
large room and tried to eat.

The servants had laid out immense dishes of cold sliced meat, pots
of caviar, and an assortment of sliced breads, pure butter genuine
coffee, and liquors.

None of them ate much.

They were all waiting.

At 9:15 the sound of rotors beat against the house.

The big helicopter had arrived from Moscow.

Higher authorities took over.

VI

The higher authority was a deputy minister, a man by the name of V.
Karper.

Karper was accompanied by two or three uniformed colonels, by an
engineer civilian, by a man from the headquarters of the Communist
Party of the Soviet Union, and by two doctors.

They dispensed with the courtesies.  Karper merely said,

"You are Cherpas.  I have met you.  You are Gausgofer.  I have seen
your reports.  You are Gauck."

The delegation went into Rogov's bedroom.  Karper snapped, "Wake
him."

The military doctor who had given him sedatives said "Comrade, you
mustn't " Karper cut him off.

"Shut up."  He turned to his own physician, pointed at Rogov.

"Wake him up."

The doctor from Moscow talked briefly with the senior military doctor.
He too began shaking his head.  He gave Karper a disturbed look. Karper
guessed what he might hear.  He said, "Go ahead.  I know there is some
danger to the patient, but I've got to get back to Moscow with a
report."

The two doctors worked over Rogov.  One of them asked for his bag and
gave Rogov an injection.  Then all of them stood back from the bed.

Rogov writhed in his bed.  He squirmed.  His eyes opened, but he did
not see them.  With childishly clear and simple words Rogov began to
talk: ". . . that golden shape, the golden stairs, the music, take me
back to the music, I want to be with the music, I really am the music
.

. ."  and so on in an endless monotone.

Cherpas leaned over him so that her face was directly in his line of
vision.

"My darling!  My darling, wake up.  This is serious."

It was evident to all of them that Rogov did not hear her, because he
went on muttering about golden shapes.

For the first time in many years Gauck took the initiative.  He spoke
of Man directly to the man from Moscow, Karper.

"Comrade, may I make a suggestion?"

Karper looked at him.  Gauck nodded at Gausgofer.

"We were both sent here by orders of Comrade Stalin.  She is senior.
She bears the responsibility.  All I do is double-check."

The deputy minister turned to Gausgofer.  Gausgofer had been staring at
Rogov on the bed; her blue, watery eyes were tearless and her face was
drawn into an expression of extreme tension.

Karper ignored that and said to her firmly, clearly, commandingly,

"What do you recommend?"

Gausgofer looked at him very directly and said in a measured voice,

"I do not think that the case is one of brain damage.  I believe that
he has obtained a communication which he must share with another human
being and that unless one of us follows him there may be no answer."

Karper barked,

"Very well.  But what do we do?"

"Let me follow into the machine."

Anastasia Cherpas began to laugh slyly and frantically.  She seized
Karper's arm and pointed her finger at Gausgofer.  Karper stared at
her.

Cherpas slowed down her laughter and shouted at Karper, "The woman's
mad.  She has loved my husband for many years.

She has hated my presence, and now she thinks that she can save him.
She thinks that she can follow.  She thinks that he wants to
communicate with her.  That's ridiculous.  I will go myself!"

Karper looked about.  He selected two of his staff and stepped over
into a corner of the room.  They could hear him talking, but they could
not distinguish the words.  After a conference of six or seven minutes
he returned.

"You people have been making serious security charges against each
other.  I find that one of our finest weapons, the mind of Rogov, is
damaged.  Rogov's not just a man.  He is a Soviet project."  Scorn
entered his voice.

"I find that the senior security officer, a policewoman with a notable
record, is charged by another Soviet scientist with a silly
infatuation.  I disregard such charges.  The development of the Soviet
State and the work of Soviet science cannot be impeded by
personalities.  Comrade Gausgofer will follow.  I am acting tonight
because my own staff physician says that Rogov may not live and it is
very important for us to find out just what has happened to him and
why."

He turned his baneful gaze on Cherpas.

"You will not protest, Comrade.  Your mind is the property of the
Russian State.  Your life and your education have been paid for by the
workers.  You cannot throw these things away because of personal
sentiment.  If there is anything to be found Comrade Gausgofer will
find it for both of us."

The whole group of them went back into the laboratory.  The frightened
technicians were brought over from the barracks.  The lights were
turned on and the windows were closed.  The May wind had become
chilly.

The needle was sterilized.

The electronic grids were warmed up.

Gausgofer's face was an impassive mask of triumph as she sat in the
receiving chair.  She smiled at Gauck as an attendant brought the soap
and the razor to shave a clean patch on her scalp.

Gauck did not smile back.  His black eyes stared at her.  He said
nothing.  He did nothing.  He watched.

Karper walked to and fro, glancing from time to time at the hasty but
orderly preparation of the experiment.

Anastasia Cherpas sat down at a laboratory table about five meters away
from the group.  She watched the back of Gausgofer's head as the needle
was lowered.  She buried her face in her hands.

Some of the others thought they heard her weeping, but no one heeded
Cherpas very much.  They were too intent on watching Gausgofer.

Gausgofer's face became red.  Perspiration poured down the flabby
cheeks.  Her fingers tightened on the arm of her chair.

Suddenly she shouted at them,

"That golden shape on the golden steps."

She leapt to her feet, dragging the apparatus with her.

No one had expected this.  The chair fell to the floor.  The needle
holder, lifted from the floor, swung its weight sidewise.

The needle twisted like a scythe in Gausgofer's brain.  Neither Rogov
nor Cherpas had ever expected a struggle within the chair.

They did not know that they were going to tune in on ad.  13,582.

The body of Gausgofer lay on the floor, surrounded by excited
officials.

Karper was acute enough to look around at Cherpas.

She stood up from the laboratory table and walked toward him.  A thin
line of blood flowed down from her cheekbone.

Another line of blood dripped down from a position on her cheek, one
and a half centimeters forward of the opening of her left ear.

With tremendous composure, her face as white as fresh snow, she smiled
at him.

"I eavesdropped."

Karper said,

"What?"

"I eavesdropped, eavesdropped," repeated Anastasia Cherpas.

"I found out where my husband has gone.  It is not somewhere in this
world.  It is something hypnotic beyond all the limitations of our
science.  We have made a great gun, but the gun has fired upon us
before we could fire it.  You may think you will change my mind,
Comrade Deputy Minister, but you will not.

"I know what has happened.  My husband is never coming back.  And I am
not going any further forward without him.

"Project Telescope is finished.  You may try to get someone else to
finish it, but you will not."

Karper stared at her and then turned aside.

Gauck stood in his way.

"What do you want?"  snapped Karper.

"To tell you," said Gauck very softly, "to tell you, Comrade Deputy
Minister, that Rogov is gone as she says he is gone, that she is
finished if she says she is finished, that all this is true.  I
know."

Karper glared at him.

"How do you know?"

Gauck remained utterly impassive.  With superhuman assurance and
perfect calm he said to Karper,

"Comrade, I do not dispute the matter.  I know these people, though I
do not know their science.  Rogov is done for."

At last Karper believed him.  Karper sat down in a chair beside a
table.  He looked up at his staff.

"Is it possible?"

No one answered.

"I ask you, is it possible?"

They all looked at Anastasia Cherpas, at her beautiful hair, her
determined blue eyes, and the two thin lines of blood where she had
eavesdropped with small needles.

Karper turned to her.

"What do we do now?"

For an answer she dropped to her knees and began sobbing, "No, no, not
Rogov!  No, no, not Rogov!"

And that was all that they could get out of her.  Gauck looked on.

On the golden steps in the golden light, a golden shape danced a dream
beyond the limits of all imagination, danced and drew the music to
herself until a sigh of yearning, yearning which became a hope and a
torment, went through the hearts of living things on a thousand
worlds.

Edges of the golden scene faded raggedly and unevenly into black.  The
gold dimmed down to a pale gold-silver sheen and then to silver, last
of all to white.  The dancer who had been golden was now a forlorn
white-pink figure standing, quiet and fatigued, on the immense white
steps.  The applause of a thousand worlds roared in upon her.

She looked blindly at them.  The dance had overwhelmed her, too.  Their
applause could mean nothing.  The dance was an end in itself.  She
would have to live, somehow, until she danced again.

War No.  81-Q^ (Rewritten Version) For a few bnet happy centuries, war
was made into an enormous game.  Then the world population passed the
thirty billion point.  Acting Chief Minister Chatterji presented the
"Rightful Proportions" formula to the world authorities, and war turned
from a game into realities.  When it was over, hideous new creepers
covered the wreckage of cities, saints and morons camped in the
overpasses of disused highways, and a few man hunting machines scoured
the world in search of surviving weapons.

Long before real war set mankind back a thousand ages, the nations
played with their formulae of "safe war."  Wars were easily declared,
safely fought, won or lost with noblesse oblige, and accepted as
decisive.  Wars were rare enough to sweep all other events from the
television screens, beautiful enough to warrant the utmost in scenic
decoration, and tough enough to call for champions with perfect
eyesight and no nerves at all.  The weapons were dirigibles armed with
missiles, counter missiles and feinting screens; they had been revived
because they were slow enough to show well on the viewscreens, hard
enough to demand a skillful fight.  A whole class of warriors developed
to manage these men who trained on the ski-slopes and underwater
beaches of the world' s resorts and who then, tanned and fit, sat in
control rooms and managed the ships from their own home bases.  The
kinescopes were paired up so that pictures of the battle alternated
with scenes of the warriors sitting in their controls, the foreheads
wrinkled with worry, their gasps of dismay or smiles of triumph showing
plainly, and the whole drama of human emotion revealed in their
performance of a licensed
of Man War came near between Tibet and America.

Tibet had been liberated from the Goonhogo, the central Chinese
government, only with generous American help and with the threat (was
it bluff?  was it death?) trembling in the rocket pits around Lake
Erie.  No one ever found out whether the Americans would have risked
real war, because the Chinese did not force a show of strength.  The
Americans had been supported by the Reunion of India and the Federated
Congos on the floor of the world assembly, and there were political
debts to be settled when the Tibetan liberation came true.  The Congo
asked for support on Saharan claims, which was easy enough, since this
was a matter of voting in the assembly, but the Reunion of India asked
for the largest solar power-collector, to reach eighty miles along the
southern crest of the Himalayas.  The Americans hesitated, and then
built it under lease from Tibet, keeping title in their own hands. Just
before the first surges of power were due to pour down into the Bengal
plains, Tibetan soldiers entered the control rooms with a warrant from
the Tibetan ministry of the interior seizing the plant, Tibetan
technicians hooked in new cables which had been flown from the Goonhogo
base at Teli in Yiinnan, and the Tibetans announced they had leased the
entire power output to their recent enemies, the Goonhogo of China.

Even in politics, where gratitude is seldom expected, such bleak
ingratitude was hard to bear.  The Americans had just freed the
Tibetans from the Chinese, and now the Tibetans seized the reward which
America had built for Indian help on Tibetan territory.  Legally, the
deal was tight.  The solar accumulators were on Tibetan soil, and under
the system of "sovereignty" which prevailed at that time, any nation
could do what it pleased on its own territory and get off scot-free.

Some Americans were so furious that they clamored for a real war
against the Goonhogo of China.  The president himself remarked mildly
that it did not seem right to fight an antagonist merely because he
showed himself cleverer than we.

Congress voted a licensed war.

The president had no further choice.  He had to declare war on Tibet.
He put a request for the permit in to the world secretariat.

The license came back for

"War No.  81-Q," since someone in the world secretariat figured that
Tibet should not pay for any but the smallest-size war.  The Americans
had asked for a class-A war, which would have lasted up to four full
days.  The world secretariat refused a review of the case.

There was nothing left to do.

America was at war.

The president sent for Jack Reardon.

Reardon was the best licensed warrior America had.

"Morning, Jack," said the president.

"You haven't fought for two years, when Iceland beat us.  Do you feel
up to it now?"

"Fitter than ever, sir," said Jack.  He hesitated and then went on,

"Please don't mention Iceland, sir.  Nobody has ever beaten Sigurd
Sigurdssen.  Lucky for us that he's retired."

"I wouldn't have called you if I just meant to reproach you.  I know
you did the best that anyone could do short of the great Sigurd
himself.  That's why you're here.  How do you think we should run
it?"

"There's not much choice on ships, not with a class-Q war.

They had better all five be the new Mark Zeros.  Since we challenged, I
think the Tibetans will choose the cheapest war they can.  They don't
want to run up a big bill on themselves.  The Goonhogo would help them,
but the Chinese would be around two days later, asking for payment."

"I didn't know," said the President with a gentle smile, "that you were
also an expert on international affairs."

Reardon looked uncomfortable.

"Sorry, sir," he muttered.

"That's all right," said the president.

"I had it figured the same way.  They will take the Kerguelen islands
then?"

"Probably," said Reardon, "and our picture people are going to be
furious.  But the French keep those islands cheap.  It's the only way
they can hold it in the market as a war zone."

The president's manner changed completely.  Instead of being a
civilized old gentleman who had recently had his breakfast, he acted
like the shrewd, selfish politician who had beaten all his competitors
for the job and who had then found that his country needed a president
much more than he had ever needed a presidency.  He looked Reardon in
the face, staring sharply and deeply into his eyes, and then asked, in
a formal, solemn tone: "Jack, this may be the biggest question of your
life.  How do you want to fight it?"

Reardon stiffened.

"I thought it would be out of place to make up a list of team mates,
sir.  I thought perhaps you would have a list " "I don't mean that at
all," said the president.

"Do you prefer to fight it alone?"

"Alone, sir?"

"Don't play modest with me, Reardon,"said the president.

"You're the best man we have.  As a matter of fact, you're the only
first-class man we have.  There are some youngsters coming up, but
there aren't any more in your class "
of Man Reardon forgot himself, so technical was the subject, and
interrupted the president: "Boggs is good, sir.  He's had six fights as
a mercenary in these little African wars."

"Reardon," said the president, "you interrupted me."

"I beg your pardon, sir," stammered Reardon.

"Boggs has nothing to do with it.  I've seen him too, you know.

Even if I add him, that only makes two pilots who are first-class."

Reardon looked straight at the president, his face begging for
permission to speak.

The president smiled faintly: "Okay, what is it?"

"How about filling in the team with mercenaries, sir?"

"Mercenaries!"  shouted the president.

"Good lord, no!  That would be the worst possible thing we could do.
We'd look like fools all over the world.  I played with real war to get
Tibet free, and the Goonhogo of China gave in just because some of the
people in the Goonhogo thought that Americans were still tough.

Hire one mercenary and it's all gone.  We have the posture of America
to preserve.  Will you or won't you?"

Reardon looked genuinely puzzled,

"Will I what, sir?"

"You fool," said the president, "can you fight the war alone or can't
you?  You know the rules."

Reardon knew them.  For using a single pilot, the nation obtained a
tremendous advantage.  Two enemy ships down and his nation won, no
matter how many ships he himself lost.  There hadn't been a one-pilot
war since the great Sigurd Sigurdssen defeated Federated Europe,
Morocco, Japan, and Brazil in one two-three-four order, thirty-two
years ago.  After that no one had challenged Iceland to a class-Q war.
Iceland went on declaring licensed wars on the slightest provocation;
the Icelanders had accumulated enough credit to fight a hundred wars.
The challenged powers all chose the largest, most complicated wars they
could, trying to swamp Sigurd in a maze of teamwork.

Reardon stared out of the window.  The president let him think.

At last he spoke, and his voice was heavy with conviction, "I can try
it, sir.  They've given us the chance by demanding a class-Q war.  But
I'm no Sigurd and you know it, sir."

"I know it, Reardon," said the president seriously, "but perhaps none
of us not even you yourself know what your very best performance can
be.  Will you do it, Reardon, for the country, for me, for yourself?"

Reardon nodded.  Fame and victory looked very bleak to him at that
The formalities came through with no trouble.

Tibet and America both claimed the Himalayan Escarpment Solar Banks.
They agreed that the title should yield through war.

The Universal War Board granted a war permit, subject to strict and
clear conditions: 1. The war was to be fought only at the times and
places specified.

2. No human being was to be killed or injured, directly or indirectly,
by any performance of the machines of war.  Emotional injury was not to
be considered.

3. An appropriate territory was to be leased and cleared.

Provisions should be made for the maximum removal of wildlife,
particularly birds, which might be hurt by the battle.

4. The weapons were to be winged dirigibles with a maximum weight of
22,000 tons, propelled by non-nuclear engines.

5. All radio channels were to be strictly monitored by the U.W.B. and
by both parties.  At any complaint of jamming or interference the war
was to be brought to a halt.

6. Each dirigible should have six non-explosive missiles and thirty
non-explosive counter missiles

7. The U.W.B. was to intercept and to destroy all stray missiles and
real weapons before the missiles left the war zone, and each party,
regardless of the outcome of the war, was to pay the U.W.B. directly
for the interception and destruction of stray missiles.

8. No living human beings were to be allowed on the ships, in the war
zone, or on the communications equipment which relayed the war to the
world's televisions.  (The last remembered casualties of "safe war" had
been video crews who had ridden their multi copter into the blazing
guns of a combat dirigible before the pilot, thousands of miles away,
could see them and stop his guns.) 9. The "stipulated territory" was to
be the War Territory ofKerguelen, to be leased by both parties from the
Fourteenth French Republic, as agent for Federated Europe, at the price
of four million gold livres the hour.

10.  Seating for the war, apart from video rights belonging to the
combatants, should remain the sole property of the lessor of the War
Territory of Kerguelen.

With these arrangements, the French off-lifted their sheep from the
island ranges of Kerguelen the weary sheep were getting thoroughly used
to being lifted from their grazing land to Antarctic lighters every
time a war occurred and the scene was ready.

Reardon planned to work from Omaha; he supposed that his Tibetan
counterparts would be stationed in Lhasa, but since Tibet had not been
an independent power for many generations, he wondered what mercenaries
they might obtain.  They might get Sung from Peking; he had six battles
more than Reardon and was a dependable fighter.

The French sold out their seats and view-spots around Kerguelen very
easily.  The usual smugglers sold telescopes which would allegedly give
perfect non-copyright views of the war and, as usual, most of them did
not work; the purchasers merely had a cruise out of Durban, Madras, or
Perth in vain.

The warships were ready.  The American ones were gold in color, stubby
wings sticking out from the sides of their cigar shaped bodies, the
ancient American eagle surrounded by red, white and blue circles on
their sides.  The five Tibetan ships turned out to be old Chinese
Goonhogo models on rental.  The emblem of China had been painted out
and the prayer-wheel of Tibet shone fresh with new paint.  The Chinese
mechanics were expert to the point of trickiness; the American member
of the umpire team insisted on inspection of all ten ships before he
signed for the entry into the War Territory of Kerguelen.

The minute of opening was noon, local time.  Reardon started with a
real advantage.  Positions had been chosen at random by the umpires and
he was facing into a strong west wind, while the enemy ships had to
hold back lest they be blown out of the territory.

Some fool in a swivel chair had named the American airships for
characters out of Shakespeare, so that Reardon found himself managing
the Prospero, the Ariel, the Oberon, the Caliban, and the
77<fl/ita.TheTibetans had not taken the time to re-name the Chinese
ships, which had the titles of old dynasties: the Han, the Yuan, the
Ching, the Chin, and the Ming.

Reardon kept his ships lined up close to the spectators, so that the
Tibetans could not fire missiles at him without shooting out of the
Territory and being penalized.  He glanced up at the board in Omaha to
see his antagonists, who had come on the tele screen

Sung was there, all right; so, too, was Baartek, a famous mercenary who
flew under the flag of Liechtenstein and looked for quarrels wherever
he could find them.  The other three were strangers.  One of them,
wearing Tibetan clothes, was a girl.

"That's a good Chinese propaganda trick," thought Reardon.

"Trust the Goonhogo never to miss a bet!"

The Chinese got the displeasure of the spectators by casting a smoke
screen.  There really wasn't much else they could do, with their
dirigibles
I

pumping awkwardly in reverse against the wind.  When the smoke screen
neared his ships, Reardon jumped.  He put the Prospero on manual, made
three wild guesses, and sprang.

The Prospero came ruined out of the other side of the smoke wall.  Two
missiles had pierced her and Reardon doubted that the salvage crew
would get much of her by the time the war ended.

But he had almost won the war.  He had rammed both the Han and the
Ming.  He used the eyes of the Arielto watch them.

The crippled Ming fought for position over the cold, cold waters of the
deep South Indian Ocean.  Reardon suspected that Baartek had taken
over.  She fired suddenly; he twisted the Ariel.  Sheets of flame
behind his ship told him that the U.W.B.

had intercepted the missiles with live weapons, to keep them from
harming the massed spectators.  The flashes went on for so long that
his viewscreens shone with a quivering, milky white.

There were going to be a lot of headaches among those spectators who
watched those interception flashes too long, thought he.  Baartek
obviously did not care what his Tibetan employers paid in penalty
money.  Yet the Ariel had gotten away so easily!

The Han, meanwhile, though falling, had attacked the Caliban, which
lost its left wing and began drifting downward.

Reardon shot a reproachful glance at the robot who had been managing
the ship for him, and decided not to take time to curse the robot
programmers who had guessed events so poorly.

The face and voice of the U.W.B. umpire appeared on all screens.

"The Caliban, American.  The Han, Tibetan.  Take both of them off the
field.  Suspend fire and remove."

Under the scoring system, Reardon had just lost the winning of the war.
All he needed to do was to down two enemy ships and keep one of his own
in the air for the period of the war, and he had won.  But the Ming,
now on the whitecaps and breaking up, was the first of his victories;
the Han was to have been the other.  Now he had to start over again.

He put the Ariel on robot and took over the Titania himself.

One of the enemy ships began creeping toward him along the line of the
spectators.  It could not fire at him, because the Territory was
rectangular and the Titania was too close to a corner.  He could not
fire at it unless he got the Titania down with her belly almost in the
water; then his stray shots would escape into space.

He and the enemy started their dive at the same time.

His command screen blanked out.  The face of the president appeared on
the screen.  Only the president had that kind of overriding priority.

"How's it going, my boy?  Doesn't look too good, does it?"

Reardon wanted to scream,

"Get off, you fool!"

But it was the president; one does not scream at presidents.

He forced himself to speak politely, though he knew his face had gone
white with rage.

"Please, sir, get off the screen.  It's all right, sir.  Thank you."

The president got off the screen and Reardon found himself back on the
Titania just as the enemy cut her in two.

In a wild rage, but a controlled rage, he took over the Ariel, letting
the ruined Titania go to the waves below.

He spat a smoke screen himself, and it rushed toward him.  He rose to
the top of it just in time to see two Chinese ships go looking for him.
He dived back in.  The smoke was thinning.  He struck for the lever
which fired a time-on-target, all missiles reaching for the same
instant.  But he thought of that fool of a president and he struck the
wrong lever: DESTRUCT.

The Ariel blew up in a pretty show of fireworks.  There were two other
orange clouds near her.  The video eye on the foredeck of the Ariel
showed him that he had technically won the war.  The other two ships
went down with him.

He switched to the Oberon, his last remaining ship.  There were still
two Chinese to his one.  They were the Ching and the Yuan.

The umpire came on,

"You hit 'destruct."  That is not allowed as a weapon in a licensed
war."

"It was an error," snapped Reardon.

"You can look at your tape of me.  You can see that I was reaching for
'time-on-target'.

" There was a moment of silence while the blank screens buzzed.  Then
the umpire came back on, speaking to Baartek and Sung but letting
Reardon listen in.

"The rules don't really cover this," said the umpire.

"It was a mistake, but your ships were taking a chance in getting that
close to him.  He was coming after you from the top.  I rule it a net
gain."

Now all he had to do was to stay alive for the next sixty-seven minutes
alive meaning with a ship in the field.

He began creeping along the line of the spectators, so close that some
of them backed up.  Many voices called for the umpire, but Reardon made
sure that he had his hundred meters' tolerance.

The Ching and the Yuan both lined up on him.  He had to use emergency
jets to dip in order to escape their missiles.  He thought that the
Ching had four left and the Yuan three, but the battle had gone so
fast, with so much in smoke, that he could not be absolutely sure.  It
was like some of the old card games: sometimes even the best players
lost command of a complete recollection of the cards.

He dived again.

The Chinese ships followed.

A missile clipped the elevator vane of his right wing.

Reardon took advantage of it.  He turned the Oberon sideways, like a
crippled ship, and let it drop toward the water.

War No.  81-( The Yuan followed for a look and he gave it to her.  He
cut a hole in her that he could see daylight through.  She drifted
toward the spectators, out of control.  There was a bright flash from
the protective weapons of the U.W.B. and she was gone.

The Oberon touched water and as she touched, Reardon rammed the engines
into full reverse.  He fired two of his precious missiles directly into
the water itself.  An enormous cloud of steam arose and the Oberon rose
faster than an airship had ever risen before.  He could not see where
he was going, because his video was still looking at the waves and he
was rising in reverse, but he watched his damage-control screen and he
set his audio on HIGH.

The impact came.

The Oberon crunched into something that could only be the Ching.

Reardon increased the thrust, cutting his ship in a sharp turn, still
in reverse.  He fired backwards into the ship he had rammed and pushed
it inexorably back toward the water.  The two ships, in collision, had
not yet burst into flame.

Damage control suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree.  The whole back
of his ship was gone.

Using his fingertips and stroking the controls as lightly as he
possibly could, he called for ASCEND.  All he could see was the open
sky above and the spectator craft, looking odd since they seemed to sit
sidewise in the air, on the left of his pattern.  The Oberon came loose
from something.

He had sunk the Ching without ever seeing it.

The umpire came on the board.

"Your ship's clear of the water.

The other one is out.  War is over, sixty-one minutes ahead of time.
Victory is declared for America.  Tibet has lost."

In a different tone, the umpire said,

"Congratulations, my boy.

The enemy pilots wish to congratulate you, too.  May they?"

Before Reardon could say yes or no, his screen blanked out.

The president had used his priority again.

Reardon saw with amusement that the old gentleman was weeping.

"You've done it, lad, you've done it.  I always knew you would."

Reardon forced his face into a smile of approval and sat waiting for
the screen to show him the faces of his friendly enemies.  Baartek was
sure to insist on a dinner; he always did.

 Mark Elf The years rolled by; the Earth lived on, even when a
stricken and haunted mankind crept through the glorious ruins of an
immense past.

I. Descent of a Lady Stars wheeled silently over an early summer sky,
even though men had long ago forgotten to call such nights by the name
of June.

Laird tried to watch the stars with his eyes closed.  It was a ticklish
and terrifying game for a tele path at any moment he might feel the
heavens opening up and might, as his mind touched the image of the
nearer stars, plunge himself into a nightmare of perpetual falling.
Whenever he had this sickening, shocking, ghastly, suffocating feeling
of limitless fall, he had to close his mind against telepathy long
enough to let his powers heal.

He was reaching with his mind for objects just above the Earth,
burnt-out space stations which flitted in their multiplex orbits,
spinning forever, left over from the wreckage of ancient atomic wars.

He found one.

Found one so ancient it had no surviving cryotronic controls.

Its design was archaic beyond belief; chemical tubes had apparently
once lifted it out of Earth's atmosphere.

He opened his eyes and promptly lost it.

Closing his eyes he groped again with his seeking mind until he found
the ancient derelict.  As his mind reached for it again the muscles of
his jaw tightened.  He sensed life within it, life as old as the
archaic machine itself.

In an instant, he made contact with his friend Tong Computer.

He poured his knowledge into Tong's mind.  Keenly interested, Tong shot
back at him an orbit which would cut the mildly parabolic pattern of
the old device and bring it back down into Earth's atmosphere.

of Man Laird made a supreme effort.

Calling on his unseen friends to aid him, he searched once more through
the rubbish that raced and twinkled unseen just above the sky.  Finding
the ancient machine, he managed to give it a push.

In this fashion, about sixteen thousand years after she left Hitler's
Reich, Carlotta vom Acht began her return to the Earth of men.

In all those years, she had not changed.

Earth had.

The ancient rocket tipped.  Four hours later it had begun to graze the
stratosphere, and its ancient controls, preserved by cold and time
against all change, went back into effect.  As they thawed, they became
activated.

The course flattened out.

Fifteen hours later, the rocket was seeking a destination.

Electronic controls which had really been dead for thousands of years,
out in the changeless time of space itself, began to look for German
territory, seeking the territory by feedbacks which selected
characteristic Nazi patterns of electronic communications scramblers.

There were none.

How could the machine know this?  The machine had left the town of
Pardubice, on April 2, 1945, just as the last German hideouts were
being mopped up by the Red Army.  How could the machine know that there
was no Hitler, no Reich, no Europe, no America, no nations?  The
machine was keyed to German codes.

Only German codes.

This did not affect the feedback mechanisms.

They looked for German codes anyway.  There were none.  The electronic
computer in the rocket began to go mildly neurotic.  It chattered to
itself like an angry monkey, rested, chattered again, and then headed
the rocket for something which seemed to be vaguely electrical.  The
rocket descended and the girl awoke.

She knew she was in the box in which her daddy had placed her.  She
knew that she was not a cowardly swine like the Nazis whom her father
despised.  She was a good Prussian girl of noble military family.  She
had been ordered to stay in the box by her father.  What daddy told her
to do she had always done.  That was the first kind of rule for her
kind of girl, a sixteen-year-old of the Junker class.  The noise
increased.

The electronic chattering flared up into a wild medley of clicks.

She could smell something perfectly dreadful burning, something awful
and rotten like flesh.  She was afraid that it was herself, but she
felt no pain.

"Vadi, Vadi, what is happening to me?"  she cried to her father.

(Her father had been dead sixteen thousand and more years.

Obviously enough, he did not answer.)
The rocket began to spin.  The ancient leather harness holding her
broke loose.  Even though her section of the rocket was no bigger than
a coffin, she was cruelly bruised.

She began to cry.

She vomited, even though very little came up.  Then she slid in her own
vomit and felt nasty and ashamed because of something which was a
terribly simple human reaction.

The noises all met in a screaming, shrieking climax.  The last thing
she remembered was the firing of the forward decelerators.

The metal had become fatigued so that the tubes not only fired forward;
they blew themselves to pieces sidewise as well.

She was unconscious when the rocket crashed.  Perhaps that saved her
life, since the least muscular tension would have led to the ripping of
muscle and the crack of bone.

II.  A Moron Found Her His metals and plumes beamed in the moonlight as
he scampered about the dark forest in his gorgeous uniform.  The
government of the world had long since been left to the Morons by the
True Men, who had no interest in such things as politics or
administration.

Carlotta's weight, not her conscious will, had tripped the escape
handle.

Her body lay half in, half out of the rocket.

She had gotten a bad burn on her left arm where her skin touched the
hot outer surface of the rocket.

The Moron parted the bushes and approached.

"I am the Lord High Administrator of Area Seventy-three," he said,
identifying himself according to the rules.

The unconscious girl did not answer.  He rose up close to the rocket,
crouching low lest the dangers of the night devour him, and listened
intently to the radiation counter built in under the skin of his skull
behind his left ear.  He lifted the girl dextrously, flung her gently
over his shoulder, turned about, ran back into the bushes, made a
right-angle turn, ran a few paces, looked about him un decidedly and
then ran (still uncertain, still rabbit-like) down to the brook.

He reached into his pocket and found a burn-balm.  He applied a thick
coating to the burn on her arm.  It would stay, killing the pain and
protecting the skin, until the burn was healed.

He splashed cool water on her face.  She awakened.

"Wo bin which?"  said she in German.

On the other side of the world, Laird, the tele path had forgotten for
the moment about the rocket.  He might have understood her, but he was
not there.  The forest was around her and the forest was full of life,
fear, hate, and pitiless destruction.

The Moron babbled in his own language.

She looked at him and thought that he was a Russian.

Said she in German,

"Are you a Russian?  Are you a German?

Are you part of General Vlasov's army?  How far are we from Prague? You
must treat me courteously.  I am an important girl..."

The Moron stared at her.

His face began to grin with innocent and consummate lust.

(The True Men had never felt it necessary to inhibit the breeding
habits of Morons.  It was hard for any kind of human being to stay
alive between the Beasts, the Unforgiven, and the Menschenjagers.  The
True Men wanted the Morons to go on breeding, to carry reports, to
gather up a few necessaries, and to distract the other inhabitants of
the world enough to let the True Men have the quiet and contemplation
which their exalted but weary temperaments demanded.) This Moron was
typical of his kind.  To him food meant eat, water meant drink, woman
meant lust.

He did not discriminate.

Weary, confused, and bruised though she was, Carlotta still recognized
his expression.

Sixteen thousand years ago she had expected to be raped or murdered by
the Russians.  This soldier was a fantastic little man, plump and
grinning, with enough medals for a Soviet colonel general.  From what
she could see in the moonlight, he was clean shaven and pleasant, but
he looked innocent and stupid to be so high-ranking an officer. 
Perhaps the Russians were all like that, she thought.

He reached for her.

Tired as she was, she slapped him.

The Moron was mixed up in his thoughts.  He knew that he had the right
to capture any Moron woman whom he might find.

Yet he also knew that it was worse than death to touch any woman of the
True Men.  Which was this this thing this power this entity who had
descended from the stars?

Pity is as old and emotional as lust.  As his lust receded, his
elemental human pity took over.  He reached in his jerkin pocket for a
few scraps of food.

He held them out to her.

She ate, looking at him trustfully, very much the child.

Suddenly there was a crashing in the woods.

Carlotta wondered what had happened.

Mark Elf When she first saw him, his face had been full of concern.

Then he had grinned and had talked.  Later he had become lustful.

Finally he had acted very much the gentleman.  Now he looked blank,
brain and bone and skin all concentrated into the act of listening
listening for something else, beyond the crashing, which she could not
hear.  He turned back to her.

"You must run.  You must run.  Get up and run.  I tell you, run!"

She listened to his babble without comprehension.

Once again he crouched to listen.

He looked at her with blank horror on his face.  Carlotta tried to
understand what was the matter, but she could not riddle his meaning.

Three more strange little men dressed exactly like him came crashing
out of the woods.

They ran like elk or deer before a forest fire.  Their faces were blank
with the exertion of running.  Their eyes looked straight ahead so that
they seemed almost blind.  It was a wonder that they evaded the trees.
They came crashing down the slope, scattering leaves as they ran.  They
splashed the waters of the brook as they stomped recklessly through it.
With a half-animal cry Carlotta's Moron joined them.

The last she saw of him, he was running away into the woods, his plumes
grinning ridiculously as his head nodded with the exertion of
running.

From the direction from which the Morons had come, an unearthly creepy
sound whistled through the woods.  It was whistling, stealthy and low,
accompanied by the very quiet sound of machinery.

The noise sounded like all the tanks in the world compressed into the
living ghost of a tank, into the heart of a machine which survived its
own destruction and, spirit like haunted the scenes of old battles.

As the sound approached Carlotta turned toward it.  She tried to stand
up and could not.  She faced the danger.  (All Prussian girls, destined
to be the mothers of officers, were taught to face danger and never to
turn their backs on it.) As the noise came close to her she could hear
the high crazy inquiry of soft electronic chatter.  It resembled the
sonar she had once heard in her father's laboratory at the Reich's
secret office's project Nordnacht.

The machine came out of the woods.

And it did look like a ghost.

III.  The Death of All Men Carlotta stared at the machine.  It had legs
like a grasshopper, a body like a ten-foot turtle, and three heads
which moved restlessly in the moonlight.

From the forward edge of the top shell a hidden arm leapt forth,
seeming to strike at her, deadlier than a cobra, quicker than a jaguar,
more silent than a bat flitting across the face of the moon.

"Don't!"  Carlotta screamed in German.  The arm stopped suddenly in the
moonlight.

The stop was so sudden that the metal twanged like the string of a
bow.

The heads of the machine all turned toward her.

Something like surprise seemed to overtake the machine.  The whistling
dropped down to a soothing purr.  The electronic chatter burst up to a
crescendo and then stopped.  The machine dropped to its knees.

Carlotta crawled over to it.

Said she in German,

"What are you?"

"I am the death of all men who oppose the Sixth German Reich," said the
machine in fluted singsong German.

"If the Reichsangehoriger wishes to identify me, my model and number
are written on my carapace."

The machine knelt at a height so low that Carlotta could seize one of
the heads and look in the moonlight at the edge of the top shell.  The
head and neck, though made of metal, felt much more weak and brittle
than she expected.  There was about the machine an air of immense
age.

"I can't see," wailed Carlotta.

"I need a light."

There was the ache and grind of long-unused machinery.

Another mechanical arm appeared, dropping flakes of near crystallized
dirt as it moved.  The tip of the arm exuded light, blue, penetrating,
and strange.

Brook, forest, small valley, machine, even herself, were all lit up by
the soft penetrating blue light which did not hurt her eyes.

The light even gave her a sense of well-being.  With the light she
could read.  Traced on the carapace just above the three heads was this
inscription:

WAFFENAMT DES SECHSTEN DEUTSCH EN

REICHES BURG EISENHOWER, AD.  2495

MENSCHENJAGER MARK ELF

"What does

"Man-hunter, Model Eleven' mean?"

"That's me," whistled the machine.

"How is it you don't know me if you are a German?"

"Of course, I'm a German, you fool!"  said Carlotta.

"Do I look like a Russian?"

"What is a Russian?"  said the machine.

3^ Carlotta stood in the blue light wondering, dreaming, dreading
dreading the unknown which had materialized around her.

When her father, Heinz Horst Ritter vom Acht, professor and doctor of
mathematical physics at project Nordnacht, had fired her into the sky
before he himself awaited a gruesome death at the hands of the Soviet
soldiery, he had told her nothing about the Sixth Reich, nothing about
what she might meet, nothing about the future.  It came to her mind
that perhaps the world was dead, that the strange little men were not
near Prague, that she was in Heaven or Hell, herself being dead, or if
herself alive, was in some other world, or her own world in the future,
or things beyond all human ken, or problems which no mind could solve
... She fainted again.

The Menschenjager could not know that she was unconscious and addressed
her in serious high-pitched singsong German.

"German citizen, have confidence that I will protect you.  I am built
to identify German thoughts and to kill all men who do not have true
German thoughts."

The machine hesitated.  A loud chatter of electronic clicks echoed
across the silent woods while the machine tried to compute its own
mind.  It was not easy to select from the long unused store of words
for so ancient and so new a situation.  The machine stood in its own
blue light.  The only sound was the sound of the brook moving
irresistibly about its gentle and un living business.  Even the birds
in the trees and the insects round about were hushed into silence by
the presence of the dreaded whistling machine.

To the sound-receptors of the Menschenjager, the running of the Morons,
by now some two miles distant, came as a very faint pitter-patter.

The machine was torn between two duties, the long-current and familiar
duty of killing all men who were not German, and the ancient and
forgotten duty of succoring all Germans, whoever they might be.  After
another period of electronic chatter, the machine began to speak again.
Beneath the grind of its singsong German there was a curious warning, a
reminder of the whistle which it made as it moved, a sound of immense
mechanical and electronic effort.

Said the machine,

"You are German.  It has been long since there has been any German
anywhere.  I have gone around the world two thousand three hundred and
twenty-eight times.  I have killed seventeen thousand four hundred and
sixty-nine enemies of the Sixth German Reich for sure, and I have
probably killed forty two thousand and seven additional ones.  I have
been back to the automatic restoration center eleven times.  The
enemies who call themselves the True Men always elude me.  One of them
I have not killed for more than three thousand years.  The ordinary men
whom some call the Unforgiven are the ones I kill most of all, but
frequently I
of Man catch Morons and kill them, too.  I am fighting for Germany,
but I cannot find Germany anywhere.  There are no Germans in Germany.
There are no Germans anywhere.  I accept orders from no one but a
German.  Yet there have been no Germans anywhere, no Germans anywhere,
no Germans anywhere ..."

The machine seemed to get a catch in its electronic brain because it
went on repeating no Germans anywhere three or four hundred times.

Carlotta came to as the machine was dreamily talking to itself,
repeating with sad and lunatic intensity, no Germans anywhere.

Said she,

"I'm a German."

"... no Germans anywhere, no Germans anywhere, except you, except you,
except you."

The mechanical voice ended in a thin screech.

Carlotta tried to come to her feet.

At last the machine found words again.

"What do I do now?"

"Help me," said Carlotta firmly, This command seemed to tap an operable
feedback in the ancient cybernetic assembly.

"I cannot help you, member of the Sixth German Reich.  For that you
need a rescue machine.  I am not a rescue machine.  I am a hunter of
men, designed to kill all the enemies of the German Reich."

"Get me a rescue machine then," said Carlotta.

The blue light went off, leaving Carlotta standing blinded in the dark.
She was shaky on her legs.  The voice of the Menschenjager came to
her.

"I am not a rescue machine.  There are no rescue machines.

There are no rescue machines anywhere.  There is no Germany anywhere.
There are no Germans anywhere, no Germans anywhere, no Germans
anywhere, except you.  You must ask a rescue machine.  Now I go.  I
must kill men.  Men who are enemies of the Sixth German Reich.  That is
all I can do.  I can fight forever.  I shall find a man and kill him.
Then I shall find another man and kill him.  I depart on the work of
the Sixth German Reich."

The whistling and clicking resumed.

With incredible daintiness, the machine stepped as lightly as a cat
across the brook.  Carlotta listened intently in the darkness.

Even the dry leaves of last year did not stir as the Menschenjager
moved through the shadow of the fresh leafy trees.

Abruptly there was silence.

Carlotta could hear the agonized clickety-clack of the computers in the
Menschenjager.  The forest became a weird silhouette as the blue light
went back on.

The machine returned.

Standing on the far side of the brook, it spoke to her in the dry,
high-fluted singing German voice.

"Now that I have found a German I will report to you once every
hundred years.  That is correct.  Perhaps that is correct.  I do not
know.  I was built to report to officers.  You are not an officer.

Nevertheless you are a German.  So I will report every hundred years.
Meanwhile, watch out for the Kaskaskia Effect."

Carlotta, sitting again, was chewing some of the dry cubic food scraps
which the Moron had left behind.  They tasted like a mockery of
chocolate.  With her mouth full, she tried to shout to the
Menschenjager,

"Was ist das?"

Apparently the machine understood, because it answered, "The Kaskaskia
Effect is an American weapon.  The Americans are all gone.  There are
no Americans anywhere, no Americans anywhere, no Americans anywhere "
"Stop repeating yourself," said Carlotta.

"What is that effect you are talking about?"

"The Kaskaskia Effect stops the Menschenjagers, stops the True Men,
stops the Beasts.  It can be sensed, but it cannot be seen or measured.
It moves like a cloud.  Only simple men with clean thoughts and happy
lives can live inside it.  Birds and ordinary beasts can live inside
it, too.  The Kaskaskia Effect moves about like clouds.  There are more
than twenty-one and less than thirty-four Kaskaskia Effects moving
slowly about this planet Earth.  I have carried other Menschenjagers
back for restoration and rebuilding, but the restoration center can
find no fault.  The Kaskaskia Effect ruins us.  Therefore, we run away
.

. . even though the officers told us to run from nothing.  If we did
not run away, we would cease to exist.  You are a German.  I think the
Kaskaskia Effect would kill you.  Now I go to hunt a man.  When I find
him I will kill him."  The blue light went off.

The machine whistled and clicked its way into the dark silence of the
wooded night.

IV.  Conversation with the Middle-Sized Bear Carlotta was completely
adult.

She had left the screaming uproar of Hitler Germany as it fell to ruins
in its Bohemian outposts.  She had obeyed her father, the Ritter vom
Acht, as he passed her and her sisters into missiles which had been
designed as personnel and supply carriers for the First German National
Socialist Moon Base.

He and his medical brother, Professor Doctor Joachim vom Acht, had
harnessed the girls securely in their missiles.  Their uncle the Doctor
had given them shots.

Karia had gone first, then Juli, and then Carlotta.

Then the barbed-wire fortress of Pardubice and the monotonous grind of
Wehrmacht trucks trying to escape the air strikes of the Red Air Force
and the American fighter-bombers died in the one night, and this
mysterious "forest in the middle of nothing-at-all" was born in the
next night.

Carlotta was completely dazed.

She found a smooth-looking place at the edge of the brook.

The old leaves were heaped high here.  Without regard for further
danger, she slept.

She had not been asleep more than a few minutes before the bushes
parted again.

This time it was a bear.  The bear stood at the edge of the darkness
and looked into the moonlit valley with the brook running through it.
He could hear no sound of Morons, no whistle of manshonyagger, as he
and his kind called the hunting machines.  When he was sure all was
safe, he twitched his claws and reached delicately into a leather bag
which was hanging from his neck by a thong.  Gently he took out a pair
of spectacles and fitted them slowly and carefully in front of his
tired old eyes.

He then sat down next to the girl and waited for her to wake up.

She did not wake until dawn.

Sunlight and bird song awakened her.

(Could it have been the probing of Laird's mind, whose far-reaching
senses told him that a woman had magically and mysteriously emerged
from the archaic rocket and that there was a human being unlike all the
other kinds of mankind waking at a brook side in a place which had once
been called Maryland?) Carlotta awoke, but she was sick.

She had a fever.

Her back ached.

Her eyelids were almost stuck together with foam.  The world had had
time to develop all sorts of new allergenic substances since she had
last walked on the surface of the Earth.  Four civilizations had come
and vanished.  They and their weapons were sure to leave
membrane-inflaming residue behind.

Her skin itched.

Her stomach felt upset.

Her arm was numb and covered with some kind of sticky black.  She did
not know it was a burn covered by the salve which the Moron had given
her the previous night.

Her clothes were dry and seemed to be falling off her in shreds.

She felt so bad that when she noticed the bear, she did not even have
strength to run.

She just closed her eyes again.

Lying there with her eyes closed she wondered all over again where she
was.

Said the bear in perfect German,

"You are at the edge of the Unselfing Zone.  You have been rescued by a
Moron.  You have stopped a Menschenjager very mysteriously.  For the
first time in my own life I can see into a German mind and see that the
word manshonyagger should really be Menschenjager, a hunter of men.

Allow me to introduce myself.  I am the Middle-Sized Bear who lives in
these woods."

The voice not only spoke German, but it spoke exactly the right kind of
German.  The voice sounded like the German which Carlotta had heard
throughout her life from her father.  It was a masculine voice,
confident, serious, reassuring.  With her eyes still closed she
realized that it was a bear who was doing the talking.

With a start, she recalled that the bear had been wearing spectacles.

Said she, sitting up,

"What do you want?"

"Nothing," said the bear mildly.

They looked at each other for a while.

Then said Carlotta,

"Who are you?  Where did you learn German?  What's going to happen to
me?"

"Does the Fraulein," asked the bear, "wish me to answer the questions
in order?"

"Don't be silly," said Carlotta.

"I don't care what order.

Anyhow, I'm hungry.  Do you have anything I could eat?"

The bear responded gently,

"You wouldn't like hunting for insect grubs.  I have learned German by
reading your mind.  Bears like me are friends of the True Men and we
are good tele paths

The Morons are afraid of us, but we are afraid of the manshonyaggers.
Anyhow, you don't have to worry very much because your husband is
coming soon."

Carlotta had been walking down toward the brook to get a drink.  His
last words stopped her in her tracks.

"My husband?"  she gasped.

"So probably that it is certain.  There is a True Man named Laird who
has brought you down.  He already knows what you are thinking, and I
can see his pleasure in finding a human being who is wild and strange,
but not really wild and not really strange.  At this moment he is
thinking that you may have left the centuries to bring the gift of
vitality back among mankind.  He is thinking that you and he will have
wonderful children.  Now he is telling me not to tell you what I think
he thinks, for fear that you will run away."

The bear chuckled.

Carlotta stood, her mouth agape.

"You may sit in my chair," said the Middle-Sized Bear, "or you can wait
here until Laird comes to get you.  Either way you will be taken care
of Man of.  Your sickness will heal.  Your ailments will go away.  You
will be happy again.  I know this because I am one of the wisest of all
known bears."

Carlotta was angry, confused, frightened, and sick again.  She started
to run.

Something as solid as a blow hit her.

She knew without being told that it was the bear's mind reaching out
and encompassing hers.

It hit boom!  and that was all.

She had never before stopped to think of how comfortable a bear's mind
was.  It was like lying in a great big bed and having mother take care
of one when one was a very little girl, glad to be petted and sure of
getting well.

The anger poured out of her.  The fear left her.  The sickness began to
lighten.  The morning seemed beautiful.

She herself felt beautiful as she turned Out of the blue sky, dropping
swiftly but gracefully, came the figure of a bronze young man.  A happy
thought pulsed against her mind.  That is Laird, my beloved.  He is
coming.  He is coming.  I shall be happy forever after.

It was Laird.

And so she was.

 The Queen of the Afternoon Above all, as she began to awaken, she
wished for her family.

She called to them,

"Mutti, Vati, Carlotta, Karia!  Where are you?"  But of course she
cried it in German since she was a good Prussian girl.  Then she
remembered.

How long had it been since her father had put her and her two sisters
into the space capsules?  She had no idea.  Even her father, the Ritter
vom Acht, and her uncle.  Professor Doctor Joachim vom Acht who had
administered the shots in Parbudice, Germany, on April 2, 1945 could
not have imagined that the girls would remain in suspended animation
for thousands of years.  But so it was.

Afternoon sunlight gleamed orange and gold on the rich purple shades of
the Fighting Trees.  Charls looked at the trees, knowing that as the
sunset moved from orange to red and as darkness crept over the eastern
horizon, they would once again glow with quiet fire.

How long was it since the trees were planted Fighting Trees, the True
Men called them for the express purpose of sending their immense roots
down into the earth, seeking out the radioactives in the soil and the
waters beneath, concentrating the poisonous wastes into their hard
pods, then dropping the waxy pods until, at some later time, the waters
which came from above the earth, and those yet in the earth, would once
more be clean?

Charls did not know.

One thing he did know.  To touch one of the trees, to touch it
directly, was certain death.

He wanted very much to break a twig but he did not dare.  Not only was
it tambu, but he feared the sickness.  His people had made much
progress in the last few generations, enough so that at times they did
not fear to face True Men and to argue with them.  But the sickness was
not something with which one could argue.

At the thought of a True Man, an unaccountable thickness gripped him in
the throat.  He felt sentimental, tender, fearful; the yearning that
gripped
of Man him was a kind of love, and yet he knew that it could not be
love since he had never seen a True Man except at a distance.

Why, Charls wondered, was he thinking so much about True Men?  Was
there, perhaps, one nearby?

He looked at the setting sun, which was by now red enough to be looked
at safely.  Something in the atmosphere was making him uneasy.  He
called to his sister.

"Oda, Oda!"

She did not answer.

Again he called.

"Oda, Oda!"

This time he heard her coming, plowing recklessly through the
under-brush.  He hoped she would remember to avoid the Fighting Trees.
Oda was sometimes too impatient.

Suddenly there she was before him.

"You called me, Charls?  You called me?  You've found something?  Shall
we go somewhere together?  What do you want?

Where are mother and father?"

Charls could not help laughing.  Oda was always like that.

"One question at a time, little sister.  Weren't you afraid you would
die the burning death, going through the trees like that?  I know you
don't want to believe in the tambu, but the sickness is real."

"It isn't," she said.  She shook her head.

"Maybe it was once ... I guess it really was once" granting him a
concession "but do you, yourself, know of anybody who has died from the
trees for a thousand years?"

"Of course not, silly.  I haven't been alive a thousand years."

Oda's impatience returned.

"You know what I mean.  And anyway, I decided the whole thing is silly.
We all accidentally brush against the trees.  So one day I ate a pod.
And nothing happened."

He was appalled.

"You ate a pod?"

"That's what I said.  And nothing happened."

"Oda, one of these days you're going to go too far."

She smiled at him.

"And now I suppose you are going to say that the oceans' beds were not
always filled with grass."

He was indignant.

"No, of course I know better than that.  I know that the grass was put
into the oceans for the same reason that the Fighting Trees were
planted to eat up all the poisons that the Old Ones left in the days of
the Ancient Wars."

How long they would have bickered he did not know, but just then his
ears caught an unfamiliar noise.  He knew the sound the True Men made
as they sped on their mysterious errands in the upper air.  He knew the
ominous buzz that the Cities gave off should he approach them too
closely.  He knew also the clicking noises that the few remaining
manshonyaggers
made as they crept through the Wild, alert for any non-German to kill.
Poor blind machines, they were so easy to outsmart.

But this noise, this noise was different.  It was nothing he had ever
heard before.

The whistling sound rose and throbbed against the upper reaches of his
hearing.  It had a curiously spiral quality about it as though it
approached and receded, all the while veering toward him.  Charls was
filled with terror, feeling threatened beyond all understanding.

Now Oda heard it too.  Their quarrel forgotten, she seized his arm.

"What is it, Charls?  What could it be?"

His voice was hesitant and full of wonder.

"I don't know."

"Are the True Men doing something, something new that we never heard
before?  Do they want to hurt us, or enslave us?  Do they want to catch
us?  Do we want to be caught?  Charls, tell me, do we want to be
caught?  Could it be the True Men coming?  I seem to smell True Man.
They did come once before and caught some of us and took them away and
did strange things to them, so that they looked like True Men, didn't
they, Charls?  Could it be the True Men again?"

In spite of his fear, Charls had a certain amount of impatience with
Oda.  She talked so much.

The noise persisted and intensified.  Charls sensed that it was
directly over his head, but he could see nothing.

Oda said,

"Charls, I think I see it.  Do you see it, Charls?"

Suddenly he too saw the circle a dim whiteness, a vapor train that
increased in size and volume.  Concomitantly the sound increased, until
he felt his eardrums would burst.  It was nothing ever before seen in
his world.... A thought struck him.  It was as hard as a physical blow;
it sapped his courage and manhood as nothing before had ever done; he
did not feel young and strong any more.  He could hardly frame his
words.

"Oda, could that be " "Be what?"

"Could it be one of the old, old weapons from the Ancient Past?  Could
it be coming back to destroy us all, as the legends have always
foretold?  People have always said they would come back...."  His voice
trailed off.

Whatever the danger, he knew that he was completely helpless, helpless
to protect himself, helpless to protect Oda.

Against the ancient weapons there was no defense.  This place was no
safer than that place, that place no better than this.  People still
had to live their lives under the threat of weapons from long, long
ago.  This was the first time that he personally had met the threat,
but he had heard of it.  He reached for Oda's hand.

of Man Oda, singularly courageous now that there was real danger, drew
him over onto the bank, away from the cenote.  With half his mind he
wondered why she seemed to want to move away from the water.  She
tugged at his arm, and he sat down beside her.

Already, he knew, it was too late to go looking for their parents or
others of their pack.  Sometimes it took a whole day to round up the
entire family the thing was coming down relentlessly, and Charls felt
so drained of energy that he stopped talking.  He thought at her: Let's
just wait it out here, and she squeezed his hand as she thought back:
Yes, my brother.

The long box in the circle of light continued to descend, inexorable.

It was odd.  Charls could feel a human presence, but the mind was
strangely closed to him.  He felt a quality of mind that he had never
felt before.  He had read the minds of True Men as they flew far
overhead; he knew the minds of his own people; he could distinguish the
thoughts of most of the birds and beasts; it was no trouble to detect
the crude electronic hunger of the mechanical mind of a
manshonyagger.

But this this being had a mind that was raw, elemental, hot.

And closed.

Now the box was very near.  Would it crash in this valley or the next?
The screams from within it were extremely shrill.

Charls's ears hurt and his eyes smarted from the intensity of heat and
noise.  Oda held his hand tightly.

The object crashed into the ground.

It ripped the hillside just across the cenote.  Had Oda not
instinctively moved away from the cenote, the box would have hit them,
Charls realized.

Charls and Oda stood up cautiously.

Somehow the box must have decelerated: It was hot, but not hot enough
to make the broken trees around it burst into flame.

Steam rose from the crushed leaves.

The noise was gone.

Charls and Oda moved to within ten man-lengths of the object.  Charls
framed his clearest thought and flung it at the box: Who are you?

The being within obviously did not perceive him as he was.

There came forth a wild thought, directed at living beings in
general.

Fools, fools, help me!  Get me out of here!

Oda caught the thought, as did Charls.  She stepped in mentally and
Charls was astonished at the clarity and force of her inquiry.  It was
simple but beautifully strong and hard.  She thought the one idea:
How?

From the box there came again the frantic babble of demand: The
handles, you fools.  The handles on the outside.  Take the handles and
let me out!

Charls and Oda looked at each other.  Charls was not sure that he
really wanted to let this creature "out."  Then he thought further.
Maybe the unpleasantness that radiated from the box was simply the
result of imprisonment.  He knew that he himself would hate to be
encased like that.

Together Charls and Oda risked the broken leaves, walking gingerly up
to the box itself.  It was black and old; it looked like something the
elders called "iron" and never touched.  They saw the handles, pitted
and scarred.

With the ghost of a smile, Charls nodded to his sister.  Each took a
handle and lifted.

The sides of the box crackled.  The iron was hot but not unbearably so.
With a rusty shriek, the ancient door flew open.

They looked into the box.

There lay a young woman.

She had no fur, only long hair on her head.

Instead of fur, she had strange, soft objects on her body but as she
sat up, these objects began to disintegrate.

At first the girl looked frightened; then, as she glanced at Oda and
Charls, she began to laugh.  Her thought came through, clearly and
rather cruelly: guess I don't have to worry about modesty in front of
puppy dogs.

Oda did not seem to mind the thought but Charls's feelings were hurt.
The girl said words with her mouth but they could not understand them.
Each of them took an elbow and led her to the ground.

They reached the edge of the cenote and Oda gestured to the strange
girl to sit down.  She did, and made more words.

Oda was as puzzled as Charls, but then she began to smile.

Spieking had worked before, when the girl was in the box.  Why not now?
The only thing was, this odd girl did not seem to know how to control
her thoughts.  Everything she thought was directed at the world at
large at the valley, at the sunset sky, at the cenote.  She did not
seem to realize that she was shouting every thought aloud.

Oda put her question to the young woman: Who are you?

The hot, strange mind flung back quickly: Juli, of course.

At this point Charls intervened.  There's no "of course" about it, he
spieked.

What am I doing ?  the girl's thoughts ran.  I'm in mental telepathy
with puppy-dog people.

Embarrassed, Charls and Oda watched her as her thoughts splashed out.

"Doesn't she know how to close off her thoughts?"  Charls wondered. And
why had her mind seemed so closed when she was in the box?

of Man Puppy-dog people.  Where can I be if I'm mixed up with puppy
dog people?  Can this be Earth?  Where have I been?  How long have I
been gone?  Where is Germany?  Where are Carlotta and Karia?  Where are
Daddy and Mother and Uncle Joachim?

Puppy-dog people!

Charls and Oda felt the sharp edge of the mind that was so recklessly
flinging all these thoughts.  There was a kind of laughter that was
cruel each time she thought puppy-dog people.

They could feel that this mind was as bright as the brightest minds of
the True Men but this mind was different.  It did not have the
singleness of devotion or the wary wisdom that saturated the minds of
the True Men.

Then Charls remembered something.  His parents had once told him of a
mind that was something like this one.

Juli continued to pour out her thoughts like sparks from a fire, like
raindrops from a big splash.  Charls was frightened and did not know
what to do; and Oda began to turn away from the strange girl.

Then Charls perceived it.  Juli was frightened.  She was calling them
puppy-dog people to cover her fear.  She really did not know where she
was.

He mused, not directing his thought at Juli: Just because she's
frightened, it doesn't mean she has the right to think sharp, bright
things at us.

Perhaps it was his posture that betrayed his attitude; Juli seemed to
catch the thought.

Suddenly she burst into words again, words that they could not
understand.  It sounded as though she were begging, asking, pleading,
expostulating.  She seemed to be calling for specific persons or
things.  Words poured forth, and these were names that the True Men
used.  Was it her parents?  Her lover?  Her siblings?

It had to be someone she had known before entering that screaming box,
where she had been captive in the blue of the sky for... for how
long?

Suddenly she was quiet.  Her attention had shifted.

She pointed to the Fighting Trees.

The sunset had so darkened that the trees were beginning to light up.
The soft fire was coming to life as it had during all the years of
Charls's life and those of his forefathers.

As she pointed, Juli made words again.  She kept repeating them.  It
sounded like v-a-s-i-s-d-a-s.

Charls could not help being a little irritated.  Why doesn't she just
think?  It was odd that they could not read her mind when she was using
the words.

Again, although Charls had not aimed the question at her, Juli seemed
to catch it.  From her there came a flame of thought, a single idea,
that leapt like a fountain of fire from that tired little female
head:
What is this world?

Then the thought shifted focus slightly.  Vati, Vati, where am I? 
Where are you?  What has become of me?  There was something forlorn and
desolate to it.

Oda put out a soft hand toward the girl.  Juli looked at her and some
of the harsh, fearful thoughts returned.  Then the sheer compassion
ofOda's posture seemed to catch Juli's attention, and with relaxation
came complete collapse.  The great and terrifying thought disappeared.
Juli burst into tears.  She put her long arms about Oda.  Oda patted
her back and Juli sobbed even harder.

Out of the sobbing came a funny, friendly thought, loving and no longer
contemptuous: Dear little puppy dogs, dear little puppy dogs, please
help me.  You are supposed to be our best friends ..

. do help me now.  .. .

Charls perked up his ears.  Something or someone was coming over the
top of the hill.

Certainly a thought as big and as sharp as Juli's could attract all
living forms within kilometers.  It might even catch the attention of
the aloof but ominous True Men.

A moment later Charls relaxed.  He recognized the stride of his
parents.  He turned to Oda.

"Hear that?"

She smiled.

"It's father and mother.  They must have heard that big thought the
girl had."

Charls watched with pride as his parents approached.  It was a
well-justified pride.  Bil and Kae both appeared, as they were,
sensitive and intelligent.  In addition, their fur was well-matched.

Bil's beautiful caramel coat had spots of white and black only along
his cheekbones and nose and at the tip of his tail; Kae was a uniform
fawn-beige with which her beautiful green eyes made a striking
contrast.

"Are you both all right?"  Bil asked as they approached.

"Who is that?  She looks like a True Man.  Is she friendly?  Has she
hurt you?  Was she the one who was doing all that violent thinking?

We could feel it clear across the hillside."

Oda burst into a giggle.

"You ask as many questions as I do, Daddy,"

Charls said,

"All we know is that a box came from the sky and that she was in it.
You heard that shrieking noise as it came down first, didn't you?"

Kae laughed.

"Who didn't hear it?"

"The box hit right over there.  You can see where it hurt the
hillside."

The area where the box had landed was black and forbidding.

Around it the fallen Fighting Trees gleamed in tangled confusion on the
ground.

Bil looked at Juli and shook his head.

"I don't see why she wasn't killed if it hit that hard."

Juli began to speak in words again, but at last she seemed to
understand.  Shouting her language would not help any.  Instead, she
thought: Please, dear little puppy dogs.  Please help me.  Please
understand me.

Bil kept his dignity but he noticed with dismay that his tail was
wagging of its own accord.  He realized that the urge was
uncontrollable.  He felt both resentful and happy as he thought back at
her: Of course we understand you and we'll try to help you; but please
don't think your thoughts so hard or so recklessly.

They hurt our minds when they are so bright and sharp.

Juli tried to turn down the intensity of her thought.  She pleaded:
Take me to Germany.

The four Unauthorized Men mother, father, daughter, and son looked at
each other.  They had no idea of what a Germany might be.

It was Oda who turned to Juli, girl to girl, and spieked: Think some
Germany at us so we can know what it is.

There came forth from the strange girl images of unbelievable beauty.
Picture after clear picture emerged until the little family was almost
blinded by the magnificence of the display.  They saw the whole ancient
world come to life.  Cities stood bright in a green-encircled world.
There were no aloof and languid True Men; instead, all the people they
saw in Juli's mind resembled Juli herself.  They were vital, sometimes
fierce, forceful; they were tall, erect, long-fingered; and of course
they did not have the tails of the Unauthorized Men.  The children were
pretty beyond belief.

The most amazing thing about this world was the tremendous number of
people in it.  The people were thicker than the birds of passage, more
crowded than the salmon at running time.

Charls had thought himself a well-traveled young man.  He had met at
least four dozen other persons besides his own family, and he had seen
True Men in the skies above him hundreds of times.  He had often
witnessed the intolerable brightness of Cities and had walked around
them more than once until, each time, he had been firmly assured that
there was no way for him to enter.

He thought his valley a good one.  In a few more years he would be old
enough to visit the nearby valleys and to look for a wife for
himself.

But this vision that came from Juli's mind ... he could not imagine how
so many people could live together.  How could they all greet each
other in the mornings?  How could they all agree on anything?  How
could they all ever become still enough to be aware of each other's
presence, each other's needs?

There came a particularly strong, bright image.  Smallwheeled boxes
were hurtling people at insensate speed up and down smooth, smooth
roads.

"So that's what roads were for," he gasped to himself.

Among the people he saw many dogs.  They were nothing like the
creatures ofCharls's world.  They were not the long, otter-like animals
whom the Unauthorized Men despised as lowly kindred; nor were they like
the Unauthorized Men themselves, and they were certainly not like those
modified animals who in appearance were almost indistinguishable from
True Men.  No, these dogs of Juli's world were bounding, happy
creatures with few responsibilities.  There seemed to be an
affectionate relationship between them and the people there.  They
shared laughter and sorrow.

Juli had closed her eyes as she tried to bring Germany to them.
Concentrating hard, now she brought into the picture of beauty and
happiness something else fearful flying things that dropped fire;
thunder and noise; a most unpleasant face, a screaming face with a dab
of black fur above the mouth; a licking of flame in the night; a
thunder of death machines.  Across this thunder there was the image of
Juli and two other girls who resembled her; they were moving with a
man, obviously their father, toward three iron boxes that looked like
the one Juli had landed in.  Then there was darkness.

That was Germany.

Juli slumped to the ground.

Gently the four of them probed at her mind.  To them it was like a
diamond, as clear and transparent as a sunlit pool in the forest, but
the light it shot back to them was not a reflection.  It was rich and
bright and dazzling.  Now that it was at rest, they could see deeply
into it.  They saw hunger, hurt, and loneliness.

They saw a loneliness so great that each of them in turn tried to think
of a way to assuage it.  Love, they thought, what she needs is love,
and her own kind.  But where would they find an Ancient One?  Would a
True Man answer?

Bil said,

"There's only one thing to do.  We've got to take her to the house of
the Wise Old Bear.  He has communications with the True Men."

Oda cried out,

"But she hasn't done anything wrong!"

Her father looked at her.

"Darling, we don't know what this is.

She's an Ancient One come back to this world after a sleep in space
itself.  It's been thousands of years since her world lived; I think
she's beginning to realize that, and that's what put her into shock. We
need help.  Our people may once have been dogs, and that's what she
thinks we are.  We can't let that bother us.  But she needs a house,
and the only unauthorized house that I know of belongs to the Wise Old
Bear."

Charls looked at his parents.  His eyes were troubled.

"What is this business about dogs?  Is that why we feel so mixed up
when we think about True Men?  I'm confused about her too.  Do you
suppose I really want to belong to her?"

"Not really," his father said.

"That's just a feeling left over from long, long ago.  We lead our own
lives now.  But this girl, she's too big a problem for us.  We will
take her to the Bear.  At least he has a house."

Juli was still unconscious, and to them she was so big.  Each took a
limb and with difficulty they managed to carry her.  Within less than a
tenth of a night they had reached the house of the Wise Old Bear.
Fortunately they had not met any manshonyaggers or other dangers of the
forest.

At the door of the house of the Wise Old Bear they gently laid the girl
on the ground.

Bil shouted,

"Bear, Bear, come out, come out!"

"Who is there?"  a voice boomed from within.

"Bil and his family.  We have an Ancient with us.  Come out.

We need your help."

The light that had been streaming from the doorway with a yellow glare
was suddenly reduced to endurable proportions as the immense bulk of
the Bear loomed in the doorway before them.

He pulled his spectacles from a case attached to his belt, put them on
his nose, and squinted at Juli.

"Bless my soul," he said.

"Another one.  Where on earth did you get an ancient girl?"

Pompous but happy, Charls spoke up.

"She came out of the sky in a screaming box."

The Bear nodded wisely.

Then Bil spoke up.

"You said 'another one."  What did you mean?"

The Bear winced slightly.

"Forget I said that," he told them.

"I forgot for a moment that you are not True Men.  Please forget it."

Bil said,

"You mean it's something Unauthorized Men are not supposed to know
about?"

The Bear nodded unhappily.

Understanding, Bil said,

"Well, if you can ever tell us about it, will you, please?"

"Of course," the Bear replied.

"And now I think I'd better call my housekeeper to take care of her.
Herkie, Herkie, come here."

A blonde woman appeared, peering anxiously.  Obviously there was
something the matter with her blue eyes but she seemed to be
functioning adequately.

Bil backed away from the door.

"That's an Experimental person," he said.

"That's a cat!"

The Bear was completely uninterested.

"So it is, but you can see that her eyes are imperfect.  That's why she
is allowed to be my housekeeper and why her name isn't prefaced by a

C'."

Bil understood.  The errors True Men made in trying to breed
Underpersons were often destroyed but occasionally one was allowed to
live if it seemed able to function at some necessary task.  The Bear
had connections with True Men.  If he needed a housekeeper, an
imperfect modified animal provided an ideal solution.

Herkie bent over Julia's still form.  She peered in puzzlement at
Julia's face.  Then she looked up at the Bear.

"I don't understand," she said.

"I don't see how it could be."

"Later," the Bear said.

"When we are alone."

Herkie strained to see into the darkness and perceived the dog
family.

"Oh, I see," she said.

Bil and Charls were embarrassed.  Oda and Kae did not seem to notice
the slight.

Bil waved his hand.

"Well, good-bye.  I hope you can take care of her all right."

"Thank you for bringing her," the Bear said.

"The True Men will probably give you a reward."

In spite of himself, Bil felt his tail beginning to wag again.

"Will we ever see her again?"  Oda asked.

"Do you think we'll ever see her again?  I love her, I love her.  . .
."

"Perhaps," her father answered.

"She will know who saved her, and I think she will seek us out."

Juli awoke slowly.  Where am I?  What is this place?  She had a partial
return of memory.  The puppy-dog people.  Where are they?  She felt
conscious of someone at her bedside.  She looked up into clouded blue
eyes staring anxiously into hers.

"I'm Herkie," the woman said.

"I'm the Bear's housekeeper."  Juli felt as though she had awakened in
a mental hospital.  It was all so impossible.  Puppy-dog people and now
a bear And surely the blonde woman with the bad eyes was not a human?

Herkie patted her hand.

"Of course you're confused," she said.  Juli was taken aback.

"You're talking!  You're talking and I understand you.  You're talking
German.  We're not just communicating telepathically."

"Of course," Herkie said.

"I speak true Doych.  It's one of the Bear's favorite languages."

"One of.  .."  Juli broke off.

"It's all so confusing."

Again Herkie patted her hand.

"Of course it is."

Juli lay back and looked at the ceiling.  I must be in some other
world.

No, Herkie thought at her, but you 've been gone a long time.

The Bear came into the room.

"Feeling better?"  he asked.

Juli merely nodded.

"In the morning we will decide what to do," he said.

"I have some connections with the True Men, and I think that we had
best take you to the Vomact."

Juli sat up as if hit by a bolt of lightning.

"What do you mean, 'the Vomacht'?  That is my name, vom Acht!"

"I thought it might be," the Bear said.  Herkie, peering at her from
the bedside, nodded wisely.

"I was sure of it," she said.  Then,

"I think you need some good hot soup and a rest.  In the morning it
will all straighten itself out."

The tiredness of years seemed to settle in Juli's bones.  I do need to
rest, she thought.  I need to get things sorted out in my mind.  So
suddenly that she did not even have a chance to be startled by it, she
was asleep.

Herkie and the Bear studied her face.

"There's a remarkable resemblance," the Bear said.  Herkie nodded in
agreement.

"It's the time differential I'm worried about.  Do you think that will
be important?"

"I don't know," Herkie replied.

"Since I'm not human, I don't know what bothers people."  She
straightened and stretched to her full length.

"I know!"  she said.

"I do know!  She must have been sent here to help us with the
rebellion!"

"No," the Bear said.

"She has been too long in Time for her arrival to have been
intentional.  It is true that she may help us, she may very well help
us, but I think that her arrival at this particular time and place is
fortuitous rather than planned."

"Sometimes I think I understand a particular human mind,"

Herkie said, "but I'm sure you're correct.  I can hardly wait for them
to meet each other!"

"Yes," he said, "although I'm afraid that it's going to be rather
traumatic.  In more than one way."

When Juli awoke after her deep sleep, she found a thoughtful Herkie
awaiting her.

Juli stretched and her mind, still uncontrolled, asked: Are you really
a cat?

Yes, Herkie thought back at her.  But you are going to have to
discipline that thought process of yours.  Everyone can read your
thoughts.

I'm sorry, Juli spieked, but I'm just not used to all this telepathy.

"I know."  Herkie had switched to German.

"I still don't understand how you know German," Juli said.

"It's rather a long story.  I learned it from the Bear.  I think,
perhaps, you had better ask him how he learned it."

"Wait a minute.  I'm beginning to remember what happened before I fell
asleep.  The Bear mentioned my name, my family name, vom Acht."

Herkie switched the subject.

"We've made you some clothes.

We tried to copy the style of those you had on, but they were coming to
pieces so badly that we are not sure we got the new ones right."

She looked so anxious to please that Juli reassured her immediately. If
they fit, I'm sure they'll be just fine.

Oh, they fit, Herkie spieked.  We measured you.  Now, after your bath
and meal, you will dress and the Bear and I will take you to the City.
Underpersons like me are not ordinarily allowed in the City, but this
time I think that an exception will be made.

There was something sweet and wise in the face with the clouded blue
eyes.  Juli felt that Herkie was her friend.  I am, Herkie spieked, and
Juli was once more made aware that she must learn to control her
thoughts, or at least the broadcasting of them.

You'll learn, Herkie spieked.  It just takes some practice.

They approached the City on foot, the Bear leading the way, Juli behind
him, and Herkie bringing up the rear.  They encountered two
manshonyaggers along the road but the Bear spoke true Doych to them
from some distance and they turned silently and slunk away.

Juli was fascinated.

"What are they?"  she asked.

"Their real name is

"Menschenjager' and they were invented to kill people whose ideas did
not accord with those of the Sixth German Reich.  But there are very
few of them still functional, and so many of us have learned Doych
since .  . . since .. ."

"Yes?"

"Since an event you'll find out about in the City.  Now let's get on
with it."

They neared the City wall and Juli became conscious of a buzzing sound,
and of a powerful force that excluded them.  Her hair stood on end and
she felt a tingling sensation of mild electrical shock.  Obviously
there was a force field around the City.

"What is it?"  she cried out.

"Just a static charge to keep back the Wild," the Bear said
soothingly.

"Don't worry, I have a damper for it."

He held up a small device in his right paw, pushed a button on it, and
immediately a corridor opened before them.

When they reached the City wall, the Bear felt carefully along the
upper ridge.  At a certain point he paused, then reached for a
strange-looking key that hung from a cord around his neck.

Juli could see no difference between this section of the wall and any
other but the Bear inserted his key into a notch he had located and a
section of the barrier swung up.  The three passed through and silently
the wall fell back into position.

The Bear hurried them along dusty streets.  Juli saw a number of
people but most of them seemed to her aloof, austere, uncaring.

They bore little resemblance to the lusty Prussians she remembered.

Eventually they arrived at the door of a large building that looked old
and imposing.  Beside the door there was an inscription.  The Bear was
hurrying them through the entryway.

Oh, please, Mr.  Bear, may I stop to read it?

Just plain Bear is all right.  And yes, of course you may.  It may even
help you to understand some of the things that you are going to learn
today.

The inscription was in German, and it was in the form of a poem.  It
looked as though it had been carved hundreds of years earlier (as
indeed it had.  Juli could not know that at this time).

Herkie looked up.

"Oh, the first..."

"Hush," said the Bear.

Juli read the poem to herself silently.

Youth Fading, fading, going Flowing Like life blood from our veins.  .
. .

Little remains.

The glorious face Erased, Replaced By one which mirrors tears, The
years Gone by.

Oh, Youth, Linger yet a while!

Smile Still upon us The wretched few Who worship You.... "I don't
understand it," said Juli.

"You will," the Bear said.

"Unfortunately, you will."

An official in a bright green robe trimmed with gold approached.

"We have not had the honor of your presence for some time," he said
respectfully to the Bear.

"I've been rather busy," the Bear replied.

"But how is she?"

Juli realized with a start that the conversation was not telepathic but
was in German.  How do all these people know German ?  She unthinkingly
flung her thought abroad.

Hush came back the simultaneous warnings from Herkie and the Bear.

Juli felt thoroughly admonished.

"I'm sorry," she almost whispered.

"I don't know how I'll ever learn the trick."

Herkie was immediately sympathetic.

"It is a trick," she said, "but you're already better at it than you
were when you arrived.

You just have to be careful.  You can't fling your thoughts
everywhere."

"Never mind that now," the Bear said and he turned to the
green-uniformed official.

"Is it possible to have an audience?  I think it's important."

"You may have to wait a little while," the official said, "but I'm sure
she will always grant audience to you.  " The Bear looked a little smug
at that, Juli noticed.

They sat down to wait and from time to time Herkie patted Juli's arm
reassuringly.

It was actually not long before the official reappeared.

"She will see you now," he said.

He led them through a long corridor to a large room at the end of which
was a dais with a chair.

"Not quite a throne," Juli thought to herself.  Behind the chair stood
a young and handsome male, a True Man.  In the chair sat a woman, old,
old beyond imagining; her wrinkled hands were claws, but in the
haggard, wrinkled face one could still detect some trace of beauty.

Juli's sense of bewilderment grew.  She knew this person, but she did
not.  Her sense of orientation, already splintered by the events of the
past "day," almost disintegrated.  She grabbed Herkie's hand as if it
were the only familiar element in a world she could not understand.

The woman spoke.  Her voice was old and weak, but she spoke in
German.

"So, Juli, you have come.  Laird told me he was bringing you in.  I am
so happy to see you, and to know that you are all right."

Juli's senses reeled.  She knew, she knew, but she could not believe.
Too much had changed, too much had happened, in the short time that she
had returned to life.

Gasping, tentatively, she whispered,

"Carlotta?"

Her sister nodded.

"Yes, Juli, it is I. And this is my husband.

Laird."  She nodded her head toward the handsome young man behind
her.

"He brought me in about two hundred years ago, but unfortunately as an
Ancient I cannot undergo the rejuvenation process that has been
developed since we left the Earth."

Juli began to sob.

"Oh, Carlotta, it's all so hard to believe.

And you're so old!  You were only two years older than I."

"Darling, I've had two hundred years of bliss.  They couldn't
rejuvenate me but they could at least prolong my life.  Now, it is not
from purely altruistic purposes that I have had Laird bring you in.
Karia is still out there, but since she was only sixteen when she was
suspended, we thought that you would be better suited to the task.

"In fact, we really didn't do you any favor in bringing you in because
now you too will begin to age.  But to be forever in suspended
animation is not any life either."

"Of course not," Juli said.

"And anyway, if I had lived a normal life, I would have aged."

Carlotta leaned over to kiss her.

"At least we're together at last," Juli sighed.

"Darling," Carlotta said, "it is wonderful to have even this little
time together.  You see, I'm dying.  There comes a point when, with all
technology, the scientists cannot keep a body alive.

And we need help, help with the rebellion."

"The rebellion?"

"Yes.  Against the Jwindz.  They were Chinesians, philosophers.  Now
they are the true rulers of the Earth, and we so they believe are
merely their Instrumentality, their police force.  Their power is not
over the body of man but over the soul.  That is almost a forgotten
word here now.  Say 'mind' instead.  They call themselves the Perfect
Ones and have sought to remake man in their own image.  But they are
remote, removed, bloodless.

"They have recruited persons of all races, but man has not responded
well.  Only a handful aspire to the kind of esthetic perfection the
Jwindz have as their goal.  So the Jwindz have resorted to their
knowledge of drugs and opiates to turn True Man into a tranquilized,
indifferent people to make it easy to govern them, to control
everything that they do.  Unfortunately some of our" she nodded toward
Laird "descendants have joined them.

"We need you, Juli.  Since I came back from the ancient world, Laird
and I have done what we could to free True Men from this form of
slavery, because it is slavery.  It is a lack of vitality, a lack of
meaning to life.  We used to have a word for it in the old days.

Remember?

"Zombie."  " "What do you want me to do?"

During the entire conversation between the sisters, Herkie, the Bear,
and Laird had remained silent.

Now Laird spoke.

"Until Carlotta came to us, we were drifting along,
uncaring, in the power of the Jwindz.  We did not know what it was,
really, to be a human being.  We felt that our only purpose in life was
to serve the Jwindz: If they were perfect, what other function could we
perform?  It was our duty to serve their needs to maintain and guard
the cities, to keep out the Wild, to administer the drugs.  Some of the
Instrumentality even preyed upon the Unauthorized Men, the Unforgiven,
and, as a last resort, the True Men, to supply their laboratories.

"But now many of us no longer believe in the perfection of the Jwindz
or perhaps we have come to believe in something more than human
perfection.  We have been serving men.  We should have been serving
mankind.

"Now we feel that the time has come to put an end to this tyranny.
Carlotta and I have allies among some of our descendants and among some
of the Unforgiven and, as you have seen, even among the Unauthorized
Men and other animal-derived persons.

I think there must still be a connection from the time that human
beings had 'pets' in the old days."

Juli looked about her and realized that Herkie was quietly purring.

"Yes," she said,

"I see what you mean."

Laird continued,

"What we want to do is to set up a real Instrumentality not a force for
the service of the Jwindz, but one for the service of man.  We are
determined that never again shall man betray his own image.  We will
establish the Instrumentality of Mankind, one benevolent but not
manipulative."

Carlotta nodded slowly.  Her aged face showed concern.

"I will die in a few days and you will marry Laird.  You will be the
new Vomact.  With any luck by the time you are as old as I am, your
descendants and some of mine should have freed the Earth from the power
of the Jwindz."

Juli again felt completely disoriented.

"I'm to marry your husband?"

Again Laird spoke.

"I have loved your sister well for more than two hundred years.  I
shall love you too, because you are so much like her.  Do not think
that I am being disloyal.  She and I have discussed this for some time
before I brought you in.  If she were not dying, I should continue to
be faithful to her.  But now we need you."

Carlotta concurred.

"It is true.  He has made me very happy, and he will make you happy
too, through all the years of your life.

Juli, I could not have had you brought in had I not had some plan for
your future.  You could never be happy with one of those drugged,
tranquilized True Men.  Trust me in this, please.  It is the only thing
to do."

Tears formed in Juli's eyes.

"To have found you at last and then to lose you after such a short time
. . ."

Herkie patted her hand and Juli looked up to see sympathetic tears in
her clouded blue eyes.

It was three days later that Carlotta died.  She died with a smile on
her face and Laird and Juli each holding one of her hands.  She spoke
at the last and pressed their hands.

"I'll see you later.  Out among the stars."

Juli wept uncontrollably.

They postponed the wedding ceremony for seven days of mourning.  For
once the City gates were opened and the static fields of electricity
cut off because even the Jwindz could not control the feelings of the
animal-derived persons, the Unauthorized Men, even some of the True
Men, toward this woman who had come to them from an ancient world.

The Bear was particularly mournful.

"I was the one who found her, you know, after you brought her in," he
said to Laird.

"I remember."

So that's what the Bear meant when he said 'another one," Bil said.

Charls and Oda, Bil and Kae were among the mourners.  Juli saw them and
thought.  My dear little puppy-dog people, but this time the thought
was loving and not contemptuous.

Oda's tail wagged.  I've thought of something, she spieked at Juli. Can
you meet me down by the cenote in two days' time?

Yes, thought Juli, proud of herself at being sure, for the first time,
that her thought had gone only to the person for whom it was meant. She
knew that she had been successful when she glanced at Laird's face and
saw that he had not read her thought.

When she met Oda at the cenote, Juli did not know what was expected of
her nor what she herself expected.

You must be very careful in directing your thoughts, Oda spieked.  We
never know when some of the Jwindz are overhead.

I think I'm learning, Juli spieked.  Oda nodded.

What my idea was, it was to make use of the Fighting Trees.

The True Men are still afraid of the sickness.  But, you see, I know
that the sickness is gone.  I got so tired of brushing past the trees
and always worrying about it that I decided to test it out, and I ate a
pod from one of the Fighting Trees and nothing happened.

I've never been afraid of them since.  So if we met there, we rebels,
in a grove of the Fighting Trees, the officials of the Jwindz, would
never find us.  They 'd be afraid to hunt for us there.

Juli's face lightened.  That's a very good idea.  May I consult with
Laird?

Certainly.  He has always been one of us.  And your sister was too.

Juli was sad again.  I feel so alone.

No.  You have Laird, and you have us, and the Bear, and his
housekeeper.  And in time there will be others.  Now we must part.

Juli returned from her meeting with Oda at the cenote to find Laird
deep in conference with the Bear and a young man who bore a singular
resemblance to Laird and to the youthful Carlotta that Juli
remembered.

Laird smiled at her.

"This is your great-nephew," he said, "my grandson."

Juli's perspective of time and age received another jolt.  Laird
appeared to be no older than his grandson.  How do I fit in to this?
she wondered, and accidentally broadcast the thought.

"I know that all of this must be difficult for you to comprehend,"
Laird said, taking her hand.

"Carlotta had some difficulty in adjusting too.  But try, please try,
my dear, because we need you so desperately and I, I particularly, have
already become dependent on you.  I could not face Carlotta's loss
without you."

Juli felt a vague sense of embarrassment.

"What is my" she could not say it "what is his name?"

"I beg your pardon.  He is named Joachim for your uncle."

Joachim smiled and then gave her a brief hug.

"You see," he said, "the reason we need your help with the rebellion is
the cult that was built up around your sister, my grandmother.  When
she returned to earth as an Ancient One, there was a kind of cult set
up about her.  That is why she was The Vomact' and why you must also
be.  It is a rallying point for those of us who oppose the power of the
Jwindz.  Grandmother Carlotta had a mini kingdom here, and even the
Jwindz could not keep people from coming to pay her court.  You must
have realized that at the mourning session for her."

"Yes, I could see that she had a great deal of respect from many kinds
of people.  If she was in favor of a rebellion, I am sure she must have
been correct.  Carlotta was always a most upright person.  And now I
must tell you about the plan that Oda proposes."  She proceeded to do
so.

"It might work," the Bear said.

"True Men have been very careful about observing the tambu of the
Fighting Trees.  In fact, I may even have an improvement on Oda's
idea."  He began to get excited and dropped his spectacles.  Joachim
picked them up.

"Bear," he said, "you always do that when you're excited."  "I think it
means I have a good idea," the Bear said.

"Look, why don't we use the manshonyaggers?"

The others looked at him in bewilderment and Laird said slowly,

"I think I may see what you're getting at.  The manshonyaggers,
although there are not many of them left, respond only to German and "
"And the leaders of the Jwindz are Chinesian, too proud to have learned
another language," the Bear broke in, smiling.

"Yes.  So if we establish headquarters in the Fighting Trees and let it
be known that the new Vomact is there "
of Man "And surround the grove with manshonyaggers " They were
breaking in upon each other as the idea began to take shape.  The
excitement grew.

"I think it will work," Laird said.

"I think so too," Joachim reassured him.

"I will get together the Band of Cousins and after you're established
in the Fighting Trees, we'll make a raid on the drug center and bring
the tranquilizers to the grove, where we can destroy them."

"The Band of Cousins?"  Juli asked.

"Carlotta's and my descendants who have not joined the Instrumentality
of the Jwindz," Laird told her.

"Why would any of them have joined?"

Laird shrugged.

"Greed, power, all kinds of very human motives.  Even an illusion of
physical immortality.  We tried to give our children ideals but the
corruption of power is very great.

You must know that."

Remembering a howling, hateful face with a black mustache above the
mouth, a face from her own time and place, Juli nodded.

Herkie and the Bear, Charls and Oda, Bil and Kae accompanied Juli into
the grove of Fighting Trees.  At first Bil and Kae were reluctant.  It
was only after Oda's confession of having eaten a pod that they agreed
to go, and then Bil's reaction was that of a typical father.

"How could you take such a chance?"  he asked Oda.

Her eyes were bright and her tail wagged furiously.

"I just had to," she said.

He glanced at Herkie.

"Now if she had done it.  . ."

Herkie drew herself up to her full height.

"I think that the relationship of curiosity and cats has, perhaps, been
a little exaggerated," she said.

"Actually, we're generally rather careful."

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful," Bil said hastily, and Herkie saw
his tail droop.

"It's a common misconception," she said kindly, and Bil's tail
straightened.

When they reached the center of the grove, they spread a picnic and
gathered around.  Juli was hungry.  In the City she had been offered
synthetic food, no doubt healthful and full of vitamins but not
satisfying to the appetite of an Ancient Prussian girl.  The
animal-derived persons had brought real-food and Juli ate happily.

The Bear, in particular, noticed her enjoyment.

"You see," he said, "that's how they did it."

"Did what?"  asked Juli, her mouth full of bread.

"How they drugged the majority of True Men.  True Men were so
accustomed to living on synthetic foodstuffs that when the Jwindz
introduced tranquilizers into the synthetics, True Men never knew the
difference.  I hope that if the Band of Cousins succeeds in capturing
the drug supply, the withdrawal symptoms for the True Men will not be
too severe."

Bil looked up.

"That's something we should consider," he said.

"If there are severe withdrawal symptoms, a number of the True Men may
be tempted to join the Jwindz in an attempt to recover the drugs."

The Bear nodded.

"That's what I was thinking," he said.

It was several days before Laird, Joachim, and the Band of Cousins
joined them.  By this time Juli had become almost accustomed to the
daylight darkness under the thick leaves and branches of the Fighting
Trees, and the soft-glowing illumination at night.

Laird greeted her affectionately.

"I have missed you," he said simply.

"Already I have grown very attached to you."

Juli blushed and changed the subject.

"Did you or, rather, the Band of Cousins succeed?"

"Oh, yes.  There was very little difficulty.  The officials of the
Jwindz had grown quite careless since they have had the minds of most
True Men under their control for generations.  It was only a matter of
Joachim's pretending to be tranquilized, and he had free access to the
drug room.  Over a period of days he managed to transfer the entire
supply to the Cousins and to substitute placebos.  I wonder when that
will be discovered."

"As soon as the first withdrawal symptoms occur, I should think,"
Joachim ventured.

Something that had been nagging at the back of Juli's mind surfaced.

"You have your grandson here, and the Band of Cousins.  But where are
your and Carlotta's own children?

Obviously you had some."

His face saddened.

"Of course.  But since they were half Ancient they could not only not
be rejuvenated, but the combination of the chemistry made it such that
their lives could not even be prolonged.  They all died in their
seventies and eighties.  It was a great sadness to Carlotta and me. You
too, my dear, if we have children, must be prepared for that.  By the
time of the next generation, however, the Ancient blood is sufficiently
diluted that rejuvenation may take place.  Joachim is a hundred and
fifty years old."

"And you?  And you?"  she said.

He looked at her.

"This is very hard on you, isn't it?  I'm over three hundred years
old."

Juli could not disbelieve but neither could she quite comprehend. Laird
was so handsome and youthful; Carlotta had been so old.

She tried to shake the cobwebs from her mind.

"What do we do with
the tranquilizers now that we have them?"

Oda had approached at the latter part of the conversation.  Her eyes
sparkled and her tail wagged madly.

"I have an idea," she announced.

"I hope it's as good as your last one," Laird said.

"I hope so too.  Look, why don't we just feed the tranquilizers back to
the officials?  The Jwindz probably will never notice.  Then we won't
have to worry about fighting them.  They could just gradually die off
or maybe ... do you think ... we could send them out into space?  To
another planet?"

Laird nodded slowly.

"You do have good ideas.  Yes, to feed the tranquilizers back to them .
. . but how?"

"We work well together," the Bear said, indicating Oda.

"She has an idea and it triggers another one in my mind."  Carefully he
put on his spectacles.

"I have here a map of the terrain in this vicinity.  Except for the
cenote there is no water for many kilometers in any direction.  If we
dropped the tranquilizers all of them into the cenote, and then if one
of the Cousins could prepare the synthetic food of the Jwindz's
officials so it was very spicy I think that the problem would be
solved."

Laird said,

"We do have one of the Cousins who has infiltrated the Jwindz.  But
what would induce them to drink the water?"

Charls had joined the group.

"I have heard," he said, "of an ancient spice people used to like which
eventually produced thirst.  It used to be found in the oceans, before
they were filled with grass.  But some of it remains on the banks of
the sea.  I believe that it was called 'salt."  " "Now that you mention
it, I've heard of that too."  The Bear nodded wisely.

"So that is what we need to do.

"Salt."  We introduce it into their food, then we entice them to the
grove with the knowledge that the new Vomact is here together with the
heart of a rebellion.  It's risky but I think it's the best idea, or
combination of ideas, yet" Laird agreed.

"It's as you say, risky, but it may work, and they're not likely to
execute any of us if it doesn't.  They'll just tranquilize us.  I think
that we have a better than even chance of winning.  And if True Man is
not revitalized, not freed from this bondage of tranquility and apathy,
I believe that the entire breed will be extinguished within a few
hundred years.  They have come to the point that they care about
nothing."

All worlds know how the plan was carried out.  It was exactly as the
Bear had foretold.  The thirsty officials of the Jwindz, their food
highly salted, drank eagerly from the water of the cenote and were
quickly tranquilized.  They put up no opposition to the members of the
rebellion who soon thereafter emerged from the shelter of the Fighting
Trees.

Joachim was sad.

"One of my brothers had joined them," he said.

Laird laid a comforting arm across his shoulder.

"Well, he's only tranquilized.  We may be able to help him as he comes
out of it."

"Perhaps, but it violates all my principles."

"Don't be too high-minded, Joachim.  Principles are fine, but there is
such a thing as rehabilitation."

And this was the way that the Instrumentality of Mankind was
established.  In time it would govern many worlds.  Juli, by virtue of
being the Vomact, became one of the first Ladies of the
Instrumentality.  Laird, as her husband, was one of the first Lords.

Juli lived to see some of her descendants among the first great
Scanners in Space.  She was very proud of them, and she was very old.
Laird, of course, was as young as ever.  All of her animal descended
friends had long since died.  She missed them, although Laird was ever
faithful.

At last, so old that she had difficulty in moving, Juli called Laird to
her.  She looked up into his handsome face.

"My darling, you have made me very happy, just as you did Carlotta. But
now I am old and, I think, dying.  You are still so young and vital.  I
wish it were possible for me to undergo the rejuvenation, but since it
isn't possible, I think we should call in Karla."

He responded so rapidly that her feelings were somewhat hurt.

"Yes, I think that we should call in Karla."

He turned away from her momentarily.

She said, with a hint of tears in her voice,

"I know that you will make her happy and love her very much."

His silence continued for a moment before he turned back to her.

She saw suddenly that there were lines in his face, lines she had never
seen before.

"What is happening to you?"  she asked.

"My darling and last love," he said,

"I will be losing you twice.  I cannot bear it.  I have asked the
physician for medicine to counteract the rejuvenation.  In an hour I
shall be as old as you.

We are going together.  And somewhere out there we will meet Carlotta
and we will hold hands, the three of us, among the stars.

Karla will find her own man and her own fate."

Together they sat and watched the descent of Karla's spacecraft.

 scanners Live in Vain Martel was angry.  He did not even adjust his
blood away from anger.  He stamped across the room by judgment, not by
sight.  When he saw the table hit the floor, and could tell by the
expression on Luci's face that the table must have made a loud crash,
he looked down to see if his leg were broken.  It was not.  Scanner to
the core, he had to scan himself.  The action was reflex and automatic.
The inventory included his legs, abdomen, Chestbox of instruments,
hands, arms, face, and back with the mirror.  Only then did Martel go
back to being angry.  He talked with his voice, even though he knew
that his wife hated its blare and preferred to have him write.

"I tell you, I must cranch.  I have to cranch.  It's my worry, isn't
it?"

When Luci answered, he saw only a part of her words as he read her
lips: "Darling ... you're my husband .  .. right to love you .  . .
dangerous ... do it... dangerous .  . . wait..  . ."

He faced her, but put sound in his voice, letting the blare hurt her
again: "I tell you, I am going to cranch."

Catching her expression, he became rueful and a little tender: "Can't
you understand what it means to me?  To get out of this horrible prison
in my own head?

To be a man again hearing your voice, smelling smoke?  To feel again to
feel my feet on the ground, to feel the air move against my face? Don't
you know what it means?"

Her wide-eyed worrisome concern thrust him back into pure annoyance. He
read only a few of the words as her lips moved: "... love you .  . .
your own good .  .

. don't you think I want you to be human?  .

. . your own good .  . . too much ... he said ... they said ..."

When he roared at her, he realized that his voice must be particularly
bad.  He knew that the sound hurt her no less than did the words: "Do
you think I wanted you to marry a Scanner?  Didn't I tell you we're
almost as low as the haber mans We're dead, I tell you.  We've got to
be dead to do our work.  How can anybody go to the Upand-Out?  Can you
dream what raw Space is?  I warned you.  But you married me.  All
right, you married a
man.  Please, darling, let me be a man.  Let me hear your voice, let
me feel the warmth of being alive, of being human.  Let me!"

He saw by her look of stricken assent that he had won the argument.  He
did not use his voice again.  Instead, he pulled his tablet up from
where it hung against his chest.  He wrote on it, using the pointed
fingernail of his right forefinger the talking nail of a Scanner in
quick clean cut script: Pis, dring, whrs crnching wire ?

She pulled the long gold-sheathed wire out of the pocket of her apron.
She let its field sphere fall to the carpeted floor.

Swiftly, dutifully, with the deft obedience of a Scanner's wife, she
wound the Cranching Wire around his head, spirally around his neck and
chest.  She avoided the instruments set in his chest.  She even avoided
the radiating scars around the instruments, the stigmata of men who had
gone Up and into the Out.  Mechanically he lifted a foot as she slipped
the wire between his feet.  She drew the wire taut.

She snapped the small plug into the High Burden control next to his
Heart-Reader.

She helped him to sit down, arranging his hands for him, pushing his
head back into the cup at the top of the chair.  She turned then,
full-face toward him, so that he could read her lips easily.  Her
expression was composed: "Ready, darling?"

She knelt, scooped up the sphere at the other end of the wire, stood
erect calmly, her back to him.  He scanned her, and saw nothing in her
posture but grief which would have escaped the eye of anyone but a
Scanner.  She spoke: he could see her chest-muscles moving.  She
realized that she was not facing him, and turned so that he could see
her lips: "Ready at last?"

He smiled a yes.

She turned her back to him again.  (Luci could never bear to watch him
go Underthe-Wire.) She tossed the wire-sphere into the air.  It caught
in the force-field, and hung there.  Suddenly it glowed.  That was all.
All except for the sudden red stinking roar of coming back to his
senses.

Coming back, across the wild threshold of pain When he awakened under
the wire, he did not feel as though he had just cranched.

Even though it was the second cranching within the week, he felt fit.
He lay in the chair.  His ears drank in the sound of air touching
things in the room.  He heard Luci breathing in the next room, where
she was hanging up the wire to cool.  He smelt the thousand-and-one
smells that are in anybody's room: the crisp freshness of the
germ-burner, the
 sour-sweet tang of the humidifier, the odor of the dinner they had
just eaten, the smells of clothes, furniture, of people themselves.

All these were pure delight.  He sang a phrase or two of his favorite
song: Here's to the haber man Up and Out!  Up oh!  and Out oh!  Up and
Out!.

. .

He heard Luci chuckle in the next room.  He gloated over the sounds of
her dress as she swished to the doorway.

She gave him her crooked little smile.

"You sound all right.

Are you all right, really?"

Even with this luxury of senses, he scanned.  He took the flash-quick
inventory which constituted his professional skill.  His eyes swept in
the news of the instruments.  Nothing showed off scale, beyond the
Nerve Compression hanging in the edge of Danger.  But he could not
worry about the Nerve-box.  That always came through cranching.  You
couldn't get under the wire without having it show on the Nerve-box.
Some day the box would go to Overload and drop back down to Dead.  That
was the way a haber man ended.  But you couldn't have everything.
People who went to the Up-and-Out had to pay the price for Space.

Anyhow, he should worry!  He was a Scanner.  A good one, and he knew
it.  If he couldn't scan himself, who could?  This cranching wasn't too
dangerous.  Dangerous, but not too dangerous.

Luci put out her hand and ruffled his hair as if she had been reading
his thoughts, instead of just following them: "But you know you
shouldn't have!  You shouldn't!"

"But I did!"  He grinned at her.

Her gaiety still forced, she said: "Come on, darling, let's have a good
time.  I have almost everything there is in the icebox all your
favorite tastes.  And I have two new records just full of smells.  I
tried them out myself, and even I liked them.  And you know me "
"Which?"

"Which what, you old darling?"

He slipped his hand over her shoulders as he limped out of the room.
(He could never go back to feeling the floor beneath his feet, feeling
the air against his face, without being bewildered and clumsy.  As if
crunching was real, and being a haber man was a bad dream.  But he was
a haber man and a Scanner.

"You know what I meant, Luci .  . . the smells, which you have.  Which
one did you like, on the record?"

"Well-1-1," said she, judiciously, "there were some lamb chops that
were the strangest things " He interrupted: "What are lambtchots?"

"Wait till you smell them.  Then guess.  I'll tell you this much.

It's a smell hundreds and hundreds of years old.  They found about it
in the old books."

"Is a lambtchot a Beast?"

"I won't tell you.  You've got to wait," she laughed, as she helped him
sit down and spread out his tasting dishes before him.

He wanted to go back over the dinner first, sampling all the pretty
things he had eaten, and savoring them this time with his now living
lips and tongue.

When Luci had found the Music Wire and had thrown its sphere up into
the force-field, he reminded her of the new smells.

She took out the long glass records and set the first one into a
transmitter.

"Now sniff!"

A queer, frightening, exciting smell came over the room.  It seemed
like nothing in this world, nor like anything from the Upand-Out.  Yet
it was familiar.  His mouth watered.  His pulse beat a little faster;
he scanned his Heartbox.  (Faster, sure enough.) But that smell, what
was it?  In mock perplexity, he grabbed her hands, looked into her
eyes, and growled: "Tell me, darling!  Tell me, or I'll eat you up!"

"That's just right!"

"What?"

"You're right.  It should make you want to eat me.  It's meat."

"Meat.  Who?"

"Not a person," said she, knowledgeably, "a Beast.  A Beast which
people used to eat.  A lamb was a small sheep you've seen sheep out in
the Wild, haven't you?  and a chop is part of its middle here!"  She
pointed at her chest.

Martel did not hear her.  All his boxes had swung over toward Alarm,
some to Danger.  He fought against the roar of his own mind, forcing
his body into excess excitement.  How easy it was to be a Scanner when
you really stood outside your own body, haber man-fashion, and looked
back into it with your eyes alone.

Then you could manage the body, rule it coldly even in the enduring
agony of Space.  But to realize that you were a body, that this thing
was ruling you, that the mind could kick the flesh and send it roaring
off into panic!  That was bad.

He tried to remember the days before he had gone into the Haberman
Device, before he had been cut apart for the Up-and Out Had he always
been subject to the rush of his emotions from his mind to his body,
from his body back to his mind, confounding him so that he couldn't
scan?  But he hadn't been a Scanner then.

He knew what had hit him.  Amid the roar of his own pulse, he knew.  In
the nightmare of the Up-and-Out, that smell had forced its way through
to him, while their ship burned off Venus and the haber mans fought
the
collapsing metal with their bare hands.  He had scanned them: all were
in Danger.  Chestboxes went up to Overload and dropped to Dead all
around him as he had moved from man to man, shoving the drifting
corpses out of his way as he fought to scan each man in turn, to clamp
vises on unnoticed broken legs, to snap the Sleeping Valve on men whose
instruments showed that they were hopelessly near Overload.  With men
trying to work and cursing him for a Scanner while he, professional
zeal aroused, fought to do his job and keep them alive in the Great
Pain of Space, he had smelled that smell.  It had fought its way along
his rebuilt nerves, past the Haberman cuts, past all the safeguards of
physical and mental discipline.  In the wildest hour of tragedy, he had
smelled aloud.  He remembered it was like a bad crunching, connected
with the fury and nightmare all around him.  He had even stopped his
work to scan himself, fearful that the First Effect might come,
breaking past all haber man cuts and ruining him with the Pain of
Space. But he had come through.  His own instruments stayed and stayed
at Danger, without nearing Overload.  He had done his job, and won a
commendation for it.  He had even forgotten the burning ship.

All except the smell.

And here the smell was all over again the smell of meat with-fire ..
.

Luci looked at him with wifely concern.  She obviously thought he had
cranched too much, and was about to haber man back.  She tried to be
cheerful: "You'd better rest, honey."

He whispered to her: "Cut off that smell."

She did not question his word.  She cut the transmitter.  She even
crossed the room and stepped up the room controls until a small breeze
flitted across the floor and drove the smells up to the ceiling.

He rose, tired and stiff.  (His instruments were normal, except that
Heart was fast and Nerves still hanging on the edge of Danger.) He
spoke sadly: "Forgive me, Luci.  I suppose I shouldn't have cranched.
Not so soon again.  But darling, I have to get out from being a haber
man How can I ever be near you?  How can I be a man not hearing my own
voice, not even feeling my own life as it goes through my veins? I love
you, darling.  Can't I ever be near you?"

Her pride was disciplined and automatic: "But you're a Scanner!"

"I know I'm a Scanner.  But so what?"

She went over the words, like a tale told a thousand times to reassure
herself: "You are the bravest of the brave, the most skillful of the
skilled.  All Mankind owes most honor to the Scanner, who unites the
Earths of mankind.  Scanners are the protectors of the haber mans They
are the judges in the Up-and Out They make men live in the place where
men need desperately to die.  They are the most honored of Mankind, and
even the Chiefs of the Instrumentality are delighted to pay them
homage!"

With obstinate sorrow he demurred: "Luci, we've heard that all before.
But does it pay us back " " "Scanners work for more than pay.  They are
the strong guards of Mankind."  Don't you remember that?"

"But our lives, Luci.  What can you get out of being the wife of a
Scanner?  Why did you marry me?  I'm human only when I crunch.  The
rest of the time you know what I am.  A machine.

A man turned into a machine.  A man who has been killed and kept alive
for duty.  Don't you realize what I miss?"

"Of course, darling, of course " He went on: "Don't you think I
remember my childhood?  Don't you think I remember what it is to be a
man and not a haber man

To walk and feel my feet on the ground?  To feel decent clean pain
instead of watching my body every minute to see if I'm alive?  How will
I know if I'm dead?  Did you ever think of that, Luci?  How will I know
if I'm dead?"

She ignored the unreasonableness of his outburst.  Pacify ingly, she
said: "Sit down, darling.  Let me make you some kind of a drink. You're
over-wrought."

Automatically he scanned.

"No, I'm not!  Listen to me.  How do you think it feels to be in the
Up-and-Out with the crew tied-for Space all around you?  How do you
think it feels to watch them sleep?  How do you think I like scanning,
scanning, scanning month after month, when I can feel the Pain-of-Space
beating against every part of my body, trying to get past my Haberman
blocks?  How do you think I like to wake the men when I have to, and
have them hate me for it?  Have you ever seen haber mans fight strong
men fighting, and neither knowing pain, fighting until one touches
Overload?  Do you think about that, Luci?"

Triumphantly he added: "Can you blame me if I cranch, and come back to
being a man, just two days a month?"

"I'm not blaming you, darling.  Let's enjoy your cranch.  Sit down now,
and have a drink."

He was sitting down, resting his face in his hands, while she fixed the
drink, using natural fruits out of bottles in addition to the secure
alkaloids.  He watched her restlessly and pitied her for marrying a
Scanner; and then, though it was unjust, resented having to pity her.

Just as she turned to hand him the drink, they both jumped a little
when the phone rang.  It should not have rung.  They had turned it off.
It rang again, obviously on the emergency circuit.

Stepping ahead of Luci, Martel strode over to the phone and looked into
it.  Vomact was looking at him.

The custom of Scanners entitled him to be brusque, even with a Senior
Scanner, on certain given occasions.  This was one.

Before Vomact could speak, Martel spoke two words into the plate, not
caring whether the old man could read lips or not:
"Cranching.  Busy."

He cut the switch and went back to Luci.

The phone rang again.

Luci said, gently,

"I can find out what it is, darling.  Here, take your drink and sit
down."

"Leave it alone," said her husband.

"No one has a right to call when I'm cranching.  He knows that.  He
ought to know that."

The phone rang again.  In a fury, Martel rose and went to the plate. He
cut it back on.  Vomact was on the screen.  Before Martel could speak,
Vomact held up his Talking Nail in line with his Heartbox. Martel
reverted to discipline: "Scanner Martel present and waiting, sir."

The lips moved solemnly: "Top emergency."

"Sir, I am under the wire."

"Top emergency."

"Sir, don't you understand?"  Martel mouthed his words, so he could be
sure that Vomact followed,

"I... am ... under .  . . the .  .

. wire.  Unfit ... for... Space!"

Vomact repeated: "Top emergency.  Report to your central Tiein."

"But, sir, no emergency like this " "Right, Martel.  No emergency like
this, ever before.  Report to Tie-in."  With a faint glint of
kindliness, Vomact added: "No need to de-cranch.  Report as you are."

This time it was Martel whose phone was cut out.  The screen went
gray.

He turned to Luci.  The temper had gone out of his voice.  She came to
him.  She kissed him, and rumpled his hair.  All she could say was,
"I'm sorry."

She kissed him again, knowing his disappointment.

"Take good care of yourself, darling.  I'll wait."

He scanned, and slipped into his transparent air coat At the window he
paused, and waved.  She called,

"Good luck!"  As the air flowed past him he said to himself, "This is
the first time I've felt flight in in eleven years.  Lord, but it's
easy to fly if you can feel yourself live!"

Central Tie-in glowed white and austere far ahead.  Martel peered.  He
saw no glare of incoming ships from the Up-and-Out, no shuddering flare
of Space-fire out of control.  Everything was quiet, as it should be on
an off-duty night.

And yet Vomact had called.  He had called an emergency higher than
Space.  There was no such thing.  But Vomact had called it.

of Man When Martel got there, he found about half the Scanners
present, two dozen or so of them.  He lifted the Talking Finger.

Most of the Scanners were standing face to face, talking in pairs as
they read lips.  A few of the old, impatient ones were scribbling on
their Tablets and then thrusting the Tablets into other people's faces.
All the faces wore the dull dead relaxed look of a haber man When
Martel entered the room, he knew that most of the others laughed in the
deep isolated privacy of their own minds, each thinking things it would
be useless to express in formal words.  It had been a long time since a
Scanner showed up at a meeting cranched.

Vomact was not there: probably, thought Martel, he was still on the
phone calling others.  The light of the phone flashed on and off; the
bell rang.  Martel felt odd when he realized that of all those present,
he was the only one to hear that loud bell.  It made him realize why
ordinary people did not like to be around groups of haber mans or
Scanners.  Martel looked around for company.

His friend Chang was there, but was busy explaining to some old and
testy Scanner that he did not know why Vomact had called.  Martel
looked further and saw Parizianski.  He walked over, threading his way
past the others with a dexterity that showed he could feel his feet
from the inside, and did not have to watch them.  Several of the others
stared at him with their dead faces, and tried to smile.  But they
lacked full muscular control and their faces twisted into horrid masks.
(Scanners knew better than to show expression on faces which they could
no longer govern.  Martel added to himself, I swear I'll never smile
unless I'm cranched.) Parizianski gave him the sign of the talking
finger.  Looking face to face, he spoke: "You come here cranched?"

Parizianski could not hear his own voice, so the words roared like the
words on a broken and screeching phone; Martel was startled, but knew
that the inquiry was well meant.  No one could be better-natured than
the burly Pole.

"Vomact called.  Top emergency."

"You told him you were cranched?"

"Yes."

"He still made you come?"

"Yes."

"Then all this it is not for Space?  You could not go Up-and Out You
are like ordinary men."

"That's right."

"Then why did he call us?"  Some pre-Haberman habit made Parizianski
wave his arms in inquiry.  The hand struck the back of the old man
behind them.  The slap could be heard throughout the room, but only
Martel heard it.  Instinctively, he scanned Parizianski and the old
Scanner: they scanned him back.  Only then did the old man ask why
Martel had scanned him.  When Martel explained that he was
Under-the-Wire, the old man moved swiftly away to pass on the news that
there was a cranched Scanner present at the Tie-in.

Even this minor sensation could not keep the attention of most of the
Scanners from the worry about the Top Emergency.  One young man, who
had scanned his first transit just the year before, dramatically
interposed himself between Parizianski and Martel.

He dramatically flashed his Tablet at them: Is Vmct mad?

The older men shook their heads.  Martel, remembering that it had not
been too long that the young man had been haber man mitigated the dead
solemnity of the denial with a friendly smile.

He spoke in a normal voice, saying: "Vomact is the Senior of Scanners.
I am sure that he could not go mad.  Would he not see it on his boxes
first?"

Martel had to repeat the question, speaking slowly and mouthing his
words, before the young Scanner could understand the comment.  The
young man tried to make his face smile, and twisted it into a comic
mask.  But he took up his Tablet and scribbled: Yr right.

Chang broke away from his friend and came over, his half Chinese face
gleaming in the warm evening.  (It's strange, thought Martel, that more
Chinese don't become Scanners.  Or not so strange, perhaps, if you
think that they never fill their quota of haber mans Chinese love good
living too much.  The ones who do scan are all good ones.) Chang saw
that Martel was cranched, and spoke with voice: "You break precedents.
Luci must be angry to lose you?"

"She took it well.  Chang, that's strange."

"What?"

"I'm cranched, and I can hear.  Your voice sounds all right.

How did you learn to talk like like an ordinary person?"

"I practiced with soundtracks.  Funny you noticed it.  I think I am the
only Scanner in or between the Earths who can pass for an Ordinary Man.
Mirrors and soundtracks.  I found out how to act."

"But you don't.  . . ?"

"No.  I don't feel, or taste, or hear, or smell things, any more than
you do.  Talking doesn't do me much good.  But I notice that it cheers
up the people around me."

"It would make a difference in the life of Luci."

Chang nodded sagely.

"My father insisted on it.  He said,

"You may be proud of being a Scanner.  I am sorry you are not a Man.

Conceal your defects."  So I tried.  I wanted to tell the old boy about
the Up-and-Out, and what we did there, but it did not matter.  He
said,

"Airplanes were good enough for Confucius, and they are for me too."
The old humbug!  He tries so hard to be a Chinese when he can't even
read Old Chinese.  But he's got wonderful good sense, and for somebody
going on two hundred he certainly gets around."

Martel smiled at the thought: "In his airplane?"

Chang smiled back.  This discipline of his facial muscles was amazing;
a bystander would not think that Chang was a haber man controlling his
eyes, cheeks, and lips by cold intellectual control.  The expression
had the spontaneity of life.

Martel felt a flash of envy for Chang when he looked at the dead cold
faces of Parizianski and the others.  He knew that he himself looked
fine: but why shouldn't he?  He was cranched.  Turning to Parizianski
he said, "Did you see what Chang said about his father?  The old boy
uses an airplane."

Parizianski made motions with his mouth, but the sounds meant nothing.
He took up his Tablet and showed it to Martel and Chang: Bzz bzz.  Ha
ha.  Gd ol' boy.

At that moment, Martel heard steps out in the corridor.  He could not
help looking toward the door.  Other eyes followed the direction of his
glance.

Vomactcame in.

The group shuffled to attention in four parallel lines.  They scanned
one another.  Numerous hands reached across to adjust the
electrochemical controls on Chestboxes which had begun to load up.  One
Scanner held out a broken finger which his counter scanner had
discovered, and submitted it for treatment and splinting.

Vomact had taken out his Staff of Office.  The cube at the top flashed
red light through the room, the lines reformed, and all Scanners gave
the sign meaning.  Present and ready!

Vomact countered with the stance signifying, I am the Senior and take
Command.

Talking fingers rose in the counter-gesture, We concur and commit
ourselves.

Vomact raised his right arm, dropped the wrist as though it were
broken, in a queer searching gesture, meaning: Any men around?  Any
haber mans not tied?  All clear for the Scanners?

Alone of all those present, the cranched Martel heard the queer rustle
of feet as they all turned completely around without leaving
position,
looking sharply at one another and flashing their belt lights into the
dark corners of the great room.  When again they faced Vomact, he made
a further sign: All clear.  Follow my words.

Martel noticed that he alone relaxed.  The others could not know the
meaning of relaxation with the minds blocked off up there in their
skulls, connected only with the eyes, and the rest of the body
connected with the mind only by controlling non-sensory nerves and the
instrument boxes on their chests.  Martel realized that, cranched as he
was, he expected to hear Vomact's voice: the Senior had been talking
for some time.  No sound escaped his lips.

(Vomact never bothered with sound.) "... and when the first men to go
Up and Out went to the Moon, what did they find?"

"Nothing," responded the silent chorus of lips.

"Therefore they went further, to Mars and to Venus.  The ships went out
year by year, but they did not come back until the Year One of Space.
Then did a ship come back with the First Effect.

Scanners, I ask you, what is the First Effect?"

"No one knows.  No one knows."

"No one will ever know.  Too many are the variables.  By what do we
know the First Effect?"

"By the Great Pain of Space," came the chorus.

"And by what further sign?"  "By the need, oh the need for death."
Vomact again: "And who stopped the need for death?"  "Henry Haberman
conquered the first effect, in the Year 3 of Space."

"And, Scanners, I ask you, what did he do?"  "He made the haber mans
"How, 0 Scanners, are haber mans made?"

"They are made with the cuts.  The brain is cut from the heart, the
lungs.  The brain is cut from the ears, the nose.  The brain is cut
from the mouth, the belly.  The brain is cut from desire, and pain. The
brain is cut from the world.  Save for the eyes.  Save for the control
of the living flesh."  "And how, 0 Scanners, is flesh controlled?"

"By the boxes set in the flesh, the controls set in the chest, the
signs made to rule the living body, the signs by which the body lives."
"How does a haber man live and live?"  "The haber man lives by control
of the boxes."  "Whence come the haber mans

Martel felt in the coming response a great roar of broken voices
echoing through the room as the Scanners, haber mans themselves, put
sound behind their mouthings:
"Habermans are the scum of Mankind.  Habermans are the weak, the
cruel, the credulous, and the unfit.  Habermans are the
sentenced-to-more-than-death.  Habermans live in the mind alone.

They are killed for Space but they live for Space.  They master the
ships that connect the Earths.  They live in the Great Pain while
ordinary men sleep in the cold cold sleep of the transit."

"Brothers and Scanners, I ask you now: are we haber mans or are we
not?"

"We are haber mans in the flesh.  We are cut apart, brain and flesh. 
We are ready to go to the Up-and-Out.  All of us have gone through the
Haberman Device."

"We are haber mans then?"  Vomact's eyes flashed and glittered as he
asked the ritual question.

Again the chorused answer was accompanied by a roar of voices heard
only by Martel: "Habermans we are, and more, and more.  We are the
Chosen who are haber mans by our own free will.  We are the Agents of
the Instrumentality of Mankind."

"What must the others say to us?"

"They must say to us,

"You are the bravest of the brave, the most skillful of the skilled.
All Mankind owes most honor to the Scanner, who unites the Earths of
Mankind.  Scanners are the protectors of the haber mans They are the
judges in the Up-and Out They make men live in the place where men need
desperately to die.  They are the most honored of mankind, and even the
Chiefs of the Instrumentality are delighted to pay them homage!"  "
Vomact stood more erect: "What is the secret duty of the Scanner?"

"To obey the Instrumentality only in accordance with Scanner Law."

"What is the second secret duty of the Scanner?"

"To keep secret our law, and to destroy the acquirers thereof."

"How to destroy?"

"Twice to the Overload, back and Dead."

"If haber mans die, what the duty then?"

The Scanners all compressed their lips for answer.  (Silence was the
code.) Martel, who long familiar with the Code was a little bored with
the proceedings, noticed that Chang was breathing too heavily; he
reached over and adjusted Chang's Lungcontrol and received the thanks
of Chang's eyes.  Vomact observed the interruption and glared at them
both.  Martel relaxed, trying to imitate the dead cold stillness of the
others.  It was so hard to do, when you were cranched.

"If others die, what the duty then?"  asked Vomact.

"Scanners together inform the Instrumentality.  Scanners together
accept the punishment.  Scanners together settle the case."

"And if the punishment be severe?"

"Then no ships go."

"And if Scanners not be honored?"

"Then no ships go."

"And if a Scanner goes unpaid?"

"Then no ships go."

"And if the Others and the Instrumentality are not in all ways at all
times mindful of their proper obligation to the Scanners?"

"Then no ships go."

"And what, 0 Scanners, if no ships go?"

"The Earths fall apart.  The Wild comes back in.  The Old Machines and
the Beasts return."

"What is the known duty of a Scanner?"

"Not to sleep in the Up-and-Out."

"What is the second duty of a Scanner?"

"To keep forgotten the name of fear."

"What is the third duty of a Scanner?"

"To use the wire of Eustace Cranch only with care, only with
moderation."  Several pair of eyes looked quickly at Martel before the
mouthed chorus went on.

"To cranch only at home, only among friends, only for the purpose of
remembering, of relaxing, or of begetting."

"What is the word of the Scanner?"

"Faithful though surrounded by death."

"What is the motto of the Scanner?"

"Awake though surrounded by silence."

"What is the work of the Scanner?"

"Labor even in the heights of the Up-and-Out, loyalty even in the
depths of the Earths."

"How do you know a Scanner?"

"We know ourselves.  We are dead though we live.  And we Talk with the
Tablet and the Nail."

"What is this Code?"

"This code is the friendly ancient wisdom of Scanners, briefly put that
we may be mindful and be cheered by our loyalty to one another."

At this point the formula should have run: "We complete the Code.  Is
there work or word for the Scanners?"  But Vomact said, and he
repeated: "Top Emergency.  Top Emergency."

They gave him the sign.  Present and ready!

He said, with every eye straining to follow his lips: "Some of you know
the work of Adam Stone?"

Martel saw lips move, saying: "The Red Asteroid.  The Other who lives
at the edge of Space."

"Adam Stone has gone to the Instrumentality, claiming success for his
work.  He says that he has found how to Screen Out the Pain of Space.
He says that the Up-and-Out can be made safe for ordinary men to work
in, to stay awake in.  He says that there need be no more Scanners."

Beltlights flashed on all over the room as Scanners sought the right to
speak.  Vomact nodded to one of the older men.

"Scanner Smith will speak."

Smith stepped slowly up into the light, watching his own feet.

He turned so that they could see his face.  He spoke: "I say that this
is a lie.  I say that Stone is a liar.  I say that the Instrumentality
must not be deceived."

He paused.  Then, in answer to some question from the audience which
most of the others did not see, he said: "I invoke the secret duty of
the Scanners."

Smith raised his right hand for Emergency Attention: "I say that Stone
must die."

Martel, still cranched, shuddered as he heard the boos, groans, shouts,
squeaks, grunts, and moans which came from the Scanners who forgot
noise in their excitement and strove to make their dead bodies talk to
one another's deaf ears.  Beltlights flashed wildly all over the room.
There was a rush for the rostrum and Scanners milled around at the top,
vying for attention until Parizianski by sheer bulk shoved the others
aside and down, and turned to mouth at the group.

"Brother Scanners, I want your eyes."

The people on the floor kept moving, with their numb bodies jostling
one another.  Finally Vomact stepped up in front of Parizianski, faced
the others, and said: "Scanners, be Scanners!  Give him your eyes."

Parizianski was not good at public speaking.  His lips moved too fast.
He waved his hands, which took the eyes of the others away from his
lips.  Nevertheless, Martel was able to follow most of the message:
"... can't do this.  Stone may have succeeded.  If he has succeeded, it
means the end of Scanners.  It means the end of haber mans too.  None
of us will have to fight in the Up-and-Out.

We won't have anybody else going Under-the-Wire for a few hours or days
of being human.  Everybody will be Other.  Nobody will have to cranch,
never again.  Men can be men.  The haber mans can be killed decently
and properly, the way men were killed in the Old Days, without anybody
keeping them alive.  They won't have to
work in the Up-and-Out!  There will be no more Great Pain think of it!
No .  . . more .  . . Great.  . . Pain!  How do we know that Stone is a
liar " Lights began flashing directly into his eyes.  (The rudest
insult of Scanner to Scanner was this.) Vomact again exercised
authority.  He stepped in front of Parizianski and said something which
the others could not see.

Parizianski stepped down from the rostrum.  Vomact again spoke: "I
think that some of the Scanners disagree with our Brother Parizianski.
I say that the use of the rostrum be suspended till we have had a
chance for private discussion.  In fifteen minutes I will call the
meeting back to order."

Martel looked around for Vomact when the Senior had rejoined the group
on the floor.  Finding the Senior, Martel wrote swift script on his
Tablet, waiting for a chance to thrust the tablet before the senior's
eyes.  He had written: Am crnchd.  Rspctfly requst prmissn Iv now, stnd
by fr orders.

Being cranched did strange things to Martel.  Most meetings that he
attended seemed formal, hearteningly ceremonial, lighting up the dark
inward eternities of haber manhood When he was not cranched, he noticed
his body no more than a marble bust notices its marble pedestal.  He
had stood with them before.  He had stood with them effortless hours,
while the long-winded ritual broke through the terrible loneliness
behind his eyes, and made him feel that the Scanners, though a
confraternity of the damned, were none the less forever honored by the
professional requirements of their mutilation.

This time, it was different.  Coming cranched, and in full possession
of smell-sound-taste-feeling, he reacted more or less as a normal man
would.  He saw his friends and colleagues as a lot of cruelly driven
ghosts, posturing out the meaningless ritual of their indefeasible
damnation.  What difference did anything make, once you were a haber
man Why all this talk about haber mans and Scanners?  Habermans were
criminals or heretics, and Scanners were gentlemen-volunteers, but they
were all in the same fix except that Scanners were deemed worthy of the
short time return of the Cranching Wire, while haber mans were simply
disconnected while the ships lay in port and were left suspended until
they should be awakened, in some hour of emergency or trouble, to work
out another spell of their damnation.  It was a rare haber man that you
saw on the street someone of special merit or bravery, allowed to look
at mankind from the terrible prison of his own mechanified body. And
yet, what Scanner ever pitied a haber man What Scanner ever honored a
haber man except perfunctorily in the line of duty?  What had the
Scanners, as a guild and a class, ever done for the haber mans except
to murder them with a twist of the wrist
whenever a haber man too long beside a Scanner, picked up the tricks
of the Scanning trade and learned how to live at his own will, not the
will the Scanners imposed?  What could the Others, the ordinary men,
know of what went on inside the ships?  The Others slept in their
cylinders, mercifully unconscious until they woke up on whatever other
Earth they had consigned themselves to.  What could the Others know of
the men who had to stay alive within the ship?

What could any Other know of the Up-and-Out?  What Other could look at
the biting acid beauty of the stars in open Space?

What could they tell of the Great Pain, which started quietly in the
marrow, like an ache, and proceeded by the fatigue and nausea of each
separate nerve cell, brain cell, touch point in the body, until life
itself became a terrible aching hunger for silence and for death?

He was a Scanner.  All right, he was a Scanner.  He had been a Scanner
from the moment when, wholly normal, he had stood in the sunlight
before a Subchief of the Instrumentality, and had sworn: "I pledge my
honor and my life to Mankind.  I sacrifice myself willingly for the
welfare of Mankind.  In accepting the perilous austere Honor, I yield
all my rights without exception to the Honorable Chiefs of the
Instrumentality and to the Honored Confraternity of Scanners."

He had pledged.

He had gone into the Haberman Device.

He remembered his Hell.  He had not had such a bad one, even though it
had seemed to last a hundred-million years, all of them without sleep.
He had learned to feel with his eyes.  He had learned to see despite
the heavy eye plates set back of his eyeballs to insulate his eyes from
the rest of him.  He had learned to watch his skin.  He still
remembered the time he had noticed dampness on his shirt, and had
pulled out his scanning mirror only to discover that he had worn a hole
in his side by leaning against a vibrating machine.  (A thing like that
could not happen to him now; he was too adept at reading his own
instruments.) He remembered the way that he had gone Up-and-Out, and
the way that the Great Pain beat into him, despite the fact that his
touch, smell, feeling, and hearing were gone for all ordinary
purposes.

He remembered killing haber mans and keeping others alive, and standing
for months beside the Honorable Scanner-Pilot while neither of them
slept.  He remembered going ashore on Earth Four, and remembered that
he had not enjoyed it, and had realized on that day that there was no
reward.

Martel stood among the other Scanners.  He hated their awkwardness when
they moved, their immobility when they stood still.  He hated the queer
assortment of smells which their bodies yielded unnoticed.  He hated
the grunts and groans and squawks which they emitted from their
deafness.  He hated them, and himself.

How could Luci stand him?  He had kept his chest box reading Danger for
weeks while he courted her, carrying the Cranching Wire about with him
most illegally, and going direct from one cranch to the other without
worrying about the fact that his indicators all crept to the edge of
Overload.  He had wooed her without thinking of what would happen if
she did say,

"Yes."  She had.

"And they lived happily ever after."  In Old Books they did, but how
could they, in life?  He had had eighteen days under-the wire in the
whole of the past year!  Yet she had loved him.  She still loved him.
He knew it.  She fretted about him through the long months that he was
in the Up-and-Out.  She tried to make home mean something to him even
when he was haber man make food pretty when it could not be tasted,
make herself lovable when she could not be kissed or might as well not,
since a haber man body meant no more than furniture.  Luci was
patient.

And now, Adam Stone!  (He let his Tablet fade: how could he leave,
now?) God bless Adam Stone!

Martel could not help feeling a little sorry for himself.  No longer
would the high keen call of duty carry him through two hundred or so
years of the Others' time, two million private eternities of his own.
He could slouch and relax.  He could forget High Space, and let the
Up-and-Out be tended by Others.  He could cranch as much as he dared.
He could be almost normal almost for one year or five years or no
years.  But at least he could stay with Luci.  He could go with her
into the Wild, where there were Beasts and Old Machines still roving
the dark places.  Perhaps he would die in the excitement of the hunt,
throwing spears at an ancient steel Manshonjagger as it leapt from its
lair, or tossing hot spheres at the tribesmen of the Unforgiven who
still roamed the Wild.  There was still life to live, still a good
normal death to die, not the moving of a needle out in the silence and
pain of Space!

He had been walking about restlessly.  His ears were attuned to the
sounds of normal speech, so that he did not feel like watching the
mouthings of his brethren.  Now they seemed to have come to a decision.
Vomact was moving to the rostrum.  Martel looked about for Chang, and
went to stand beside him.  Chang whispered, "You're as restless as
water in mid-air!  What's the matter?  Decranching?"

They both scanned Martel, but the instruments held steady and showed no
sign of the cranch giving out.

The great light flared in its call to attention.  Again they formed
ranks.  Vomact thrust his lean old face into the glare, and spoke:
"Scanners and Brothers, I call for a vote."  He held himself in the
stance which meant: I am the Senior and take Command.

A belt light flashed in protest.

It was old Henderson.  He moved to the rostrum, spoke to Vomact, and
with Vomact's nod of approval turned full-face to repeat his question:
"Who speaks for the Scanners Out in Space?"

No belt light or hand answered.

Henderson and Vomact, face to face, conferred for a few moments.  Then
Henderson faced them again: "I yield to the Senior in Command.  But I
do not yield to a Meeting of the Confraternity.  There are sixty-eight
Scanners, and only forty-seven present, of whom one is cranched and
U.D. I have therefore proposed that the Senior in Command assume
authority only over an Emergency Committee of the Confraternity, not
over a Meeting.  Is that agreed and understood by the Honorable
Scanners?"

Hands rose in assent.

Chang murmured in Martel's ear,

"Lot of difference that makes!  Who can tell the difference between a
Meeting and a Committee?"  Martel agreed with the words, but was even
more impressed with the way that Chang, while haber man could control
his own voice.

Vomact resumed chairmanship: "We now vote on the question of Adam
Stone.

"First, we can assume that he has not succeeded, and that his claims
are lies.  We know that from our practical experience as Scanners.  The
Pain of Space is only part of scanning," (But the essential part, the
basis of it all, thought Martel.) "and we can rest assured that Stone
cannot solve the problem of Space Discipline."

"That tripe again," whispered Chang, unheard save by Martel.

"The Space Discipline of our Confraternity has kept High Space clean of
war and dispute.  Sixty-eight disciplined men control all High Space.
We are removed by our oath and our haber man status from all Earthly
passions.

"Therefore, if Adam Stone has conquered the Pain of Space, so that
Others can wreck our confraternity and bring to Space the trouble and
ruin which afflicts Earths, I say that Adam Stone is wrong.  If Adam
Stone succeeds, Scanners live in vain!

"Secondly, if Adam Stone has not conquered the Pain of Space, he will
cause great trouble in all the Earths.  The Instrumentality and the
Subchiefs may not give us as many haber mans as we need to operate the
ships of Mankind.  There will be wild stories, and fewer recruits, and,
worst of all, the discipline of the Confraternity may relax if this
kind of nonsensical
heresy is spread around.

"Therefore, if Adam Stone has succeeded, he threatens the ruin of the
Confraternity and should die.

"Therefore, if Adam Stone has not succeeded, he is a liar and a
heretic, and should die."

"I move the death of Adam Stone."

And Vomact made the sign, The Honorable Scanners are pleased to Martel
grabbed wildly for his belt light Chang, guessing ahead, had his light
out and ready; its bright beam, voting No, shone straight up at the
ceiling.  Martel got his light out and threw its beam upward in
dissent.  Then he looked around.  Out of the forty-seven present, he
could see only five or six glittering.

Two more lights went on.  Vomact stood as erect as a frozen corpse.
Vomact's eyes flashed as he stared back and forth over the group,
looking for lights.  Several more went on.  Finally Vomact took the
closing stance: May it please the Scanners to count the vote.

Three of the older men went up on the rostrum with Vomact.

They looked over the room.  (Martel thought: These damned ghosts are
voting on the life of a real man, a live man!  They have no right to do
it.  I'll tell the Instrumentality!  But he knew that he would not.  He
thought of Luci and what she might gain by the triumph of Adam Stone:
the heart-breaking folly of the vote was then almost too much for
Martel to bear.) All three of the tellers held up their hands in
unanimous agreement on the sign of the number: Fifteen against.

Vomact dismissed them with a bow of courtesy.  He turned and again took
the stance: I am the Senior and take Command.

Marveling at his own daring, Martel flashed his belt light on.

He knew that any one of the bystanders might reach over and twist his
Heartbox to Overload for such an act.  He felt Chang's hand reaching to
catch him by the air coat But he eluded Chang's grasp and ran, faster
than a Scanner should, to the platform.  As he ran, he wondered what
appeal to make.  He wouldn't get time to say much, and wouldn't be seen
by all of them.  It was no use talking common sense.  Not now.  It had
to be law.

He jumped up on the rostrum beside Vomact, and took the stance:
Scanners, an Illegality!

He violated good custom while speaking, still in the stance: "A
Committee has no right to vote death by a majority vote.  It takes
two-thirds of a
of Man full Meeting."

He felt Vomact's body lunge behind him, felt himself falling from the
rostrum, hitting the floor, hurting his knees and his touch-aware
hands.  He was helped to his feet.  He was scanned.

Some Scanner he scarcely knew took his instruments and toned him
down.

Immediately Martel felt more calm, more detached, and hated himself for
feeling so.

He looked up at the rostrum.  Vomact maintained the stance signifying:
Order!

The Scanners adjusted their ranks.  The two Scanners next to Martel
took his arms.  He shouted at them, but they looked away, and cut
themselves off from communication altogether.

Vomact spoke again when he saw the room was quiet: "A Scanner came here
cranched.  Honorable Scanners, I apologize for this.  It is not the
fault of our great and worthy Scanner and friend, Martel.  He came here
under orders.  I told him not to de-cranch.

I hoped to spare him an unnecessary haber man We all know how happily
Martel is married, and we wish his brave experiment well.  I like
Martel.  I respect his judgment.  I wanted him here.  I knew you wanted
him here.  But he is cranched.  He is in no mood to share in the lofty
business of the Scanners.  I therefore propose a solution which will
meet all the requirements of fairness.  I propose that we rule Scanner
Martel out of order for his violation of rules.  This violation would
be inexcusable if Martel were not cranched.

"But at the same time, in all fairness to Martel, I further propose
that we deal with the points raised so improperly by our worthy but
disqualified brother."

Vomact gave the sign.  The Honorable Scanners are pleased to vote.
Martel tried to reach his own belt light the dead strong hands held him
tightly and he struggled in vain.  One lone light shone high: Chang's,
no doubt.

Vomact thrust his face into the light again: "Having the approval of
our worthy Scanners and present company for the general proposal, I now
move that this Committee declare itself to have the full authority of a
Meeting, and that this Committee further make me responsible for all
misdeeds which this Committee may enact, to be held answerable before
the next full Meeting, but not before any other authority beyond the
closed and secret ranks of Scanners."

Flamboyantly this time, his triumph evident, Vomact assumed the vote
stance.

Only a few lights shone: far less, patently, than a minority of
one-fourth.

Vomact spoke again.  The light shone on his high calm forehead, on his
dead relaxed cheekbones.  His lean cheeks and chin were
half-shadowed,
save where the lower light picked up and spot lighted his mouth, cruel
even in repose.  (Vomact was said to be a descendant of some Ancient
Lady who had traversed, in an illegitimate and inexplicable fashion,
some hundreds of years of time in a single night.  Her name, the Lady
Vomact, had passed into legend; but her blood and her archaic lust for
mastery lived on in the mute masterful body of her descendant.  Martel
could believe the old tales as he stared at the rostrum, wondering what
untraceable mutation had left the Vomact kith as predators among
mankind.) Calling loudly with the movement of his lips, but still
without sound, Vomact appealed: "The Honorable Committee is now pleased
to reaffirm the sentence of death issued against the heretic and enemy,
Adam Stone."  Again the vote stance.

Again Chang's light shone lonely in its isolated protest.

Vomact then made his final move: "I call for the designation of the
Senior Scanner present as the manager of the sentence.  I call for
authorization to him to appoint executioners, one or many, who shall
make evident the will and majesty of Scanners.  I ask that I be
accountable for the deed, and not for the means.  The deed is a noble
deed, for the protection of Mankind and for the honor of the Scanners;
but of the means it must be said that they are to be the best at hand,
and no more.

Who knows the true way to kill an Other, here on a crowded and watchful
Earth?  This is no mere matter of discharging a cylindered sleeper, no
mere question of upgrading the needle of a haber man When people die
down here, it is not like the Upand-Out.  They die reluctantly. Killing
within the Earth is not our usual business, 0 Brothers and Scanners, as
you know well.  You must choose me to choose my agent as I see fit. 
Otherwise the common knowledge will become the common betrayal whereas
if I alone know the responsibility, I alone could betray us, and you
will not have far to look in case the Instrumentality comes searching."
 (What about the killer you choose? thought Martel.

He too will know unless unless you silence him forever.) Vomact went
into the stance: The Honorable Scanners are pleased to vote.

One light of protest shone; Chang's, again.

Martel imagined that he could see a cruel joyful smile on Vomact's dead
face the smile of a man who knew himself righteous and who found his
righteousness upheld and affirmed by militant authority.

Martel tried one last time to come free.

The dead hands held.  They were locked like vises until their owners'
eyes unlocked them: how else could they hold the piloting month by
month?

Martel then shouted: "Honorable Scanners, this is judicial murder."

No ear heard him.  He was cranched, and alone.

of Man Nonetheless, he shouted again: "You endanger the
Confraternity."

Nothing happened.

The echo of his voice sounded from one end of the room to the other. No
head turned.  No eyes met his.

Martel realized that as they paired for talk, the eyes of the Scanners
avoided him.  He saw that no one desired to watch his speech.  He knew
that behind the cold faces of his friends there lay compassion or
amusement.  He knew that they knew him to be cranched absurd, normal,
man-like, temporarily no Scanner.  But he knew that in this matter the
wisdom of Scanners was nothing.

He knew that only a cranched Scanner could feel with his very blood the
outrage and anger which deliberate murder would provoke among the
Others.  He knew that the Confraternity endangered itself, and knew
that the most ancient prerogative of law was the monopoly of death.
Even the Ancient Nations, in the times of the Wars, before the Wild
Machines, before the Beasts, before men went into the Up-and-Out even
the Ancients had known this.  How did they say it?  Only the State
shall kill.  The States were gone but the Instrumentality remained, and
the Instrumentality could not pardon things which occurred within the
Earths but beyond its authority.  Death in Space was the business, the
right of the Scanners: how could the Instrumentality enforce its law in
a place where all men who wakened, wakened only to die in the Great
Pain?  Wisely did the Instrumentality leave Space to the Scanners,
wisely had the Confraternity not meddled inside the Earths.  And now
the Confraternity itself was going to step forth as an outlaw band, as
a gang of rogues as stupid and reckless as the tribes of the
Unforgiven!

Martel knew this because he was cranched.  Had he been haber man he
would have thought only with his mind, not with his heart and guts and
blood.  How could the other Scanners know?

Vomact returned for the last time to the Rostrum: The Committee has met
and its will shall be done.  Verbally he added: "Senior among you, I
ask your loyalty and your silence."

At that point, the two Scanners let his arms go.  Martel rubbed his
numb hands, shaking his fingers to get the circulation back into the
cold fingertips.  With real freedom, he began to think of what he might
still do.  He scanned himself: the cranching held.

He might have an hour, he might have a day.  Well, he could go on even
if haber man but it would be inconvenient, having to talk with Finger
and Tablet.  He looked about for Chang.  He saw his friend standing
patient and immobile in a quiet corner.  Martel moved slowly, so as not
to attract any more attention to himself than could be helped.  He
faced Chang, moved until his face was in the light, and then
articulated: "What are we going to do?  You're not going to let them
kill Adam Stone, are you?  Don't you realize what Stone's work will
mean to us, if it
succeeds?  No more scanning.  No more Scanners.  No more haber mans No
more Pain in the Up-and-Out.  I tell you, if the others were all
cranched, as I am, they would see it in a human way, not with the
narrow crazy logic which they used in the meeting.  We've got to stop
them.  How can we do it?  What are we going to do?  What does
Parizianski think?  Who has been chosen?"

"Which question do you want me to answer?"

Martel laughed.  (It felt good to laugh, even then; it felt like being
a man.) "Will you help me?"

Chang's eyes flashed across Martel's face as Chang answered: "No.  No.
No."

"You won't help?"

"No."

"Why not, Chang?  Why not?"

"I am a Scanner.  The vote has been taken.  You would do the same if
you were not in this unusual condition."

"I'm not in an unusual condition.  I'm cranched.  That merely means
that I see things the way that the Others would.  I see the stupidity.
The recklessness.  The selfishness.  It is murder."

"What is murder?  Have you not killed?  You are not one of the Others.
You are a Scanner.  You will be sorry for what you are about to do, if
you do not watch out."

"But why did you vote against Vomact then?  Didn't you too see what
Adam Stone means to all of us?  Scanners will live in vain.  Thank God
for that!  Can't you see it?"

"No."

"But you talk to me, Chang.  You are my friend?"

"I talk to you.  I am your friend.  Why not?"

"But what are you going to do?"

"Nothing, Martel.  Nothing."

"Will you help me?"

"No."

"Not even to save Stone?"

"Then I will go to Parizianski for help."

"It will do no good."

"Why not?  He's more human than you, right now."

"He will not help you, because he has the job.  Vomact designated him
to kill Adam Stone."

Martel stopped speaking in mid-movement.  He suddenly took the stance:
I thank you, Brother, and I depart.

At the window he turned and faced the room.  He saw that Vomact's eyes
were upon him.  He gave the stance, I thank you.

Brother, and
I depart, and added the flourish of respect which is shown when
Seniors are present.  Vomact caught the sign, and Martel could see the
cruel lips move.  He thought he saw the words ". . . take good care of
yourself .  . ."  but did not wait to inquire.  He stepped backward and
dropped out the window, Once below the window and out of sight, he
adjusted his air coat to maximum speed.  He swam lazily in the air,
scanning himself thoroughly, and adjusting his adrenal intake down.  He
then made the movement of release, and felt the cold air rush past his
face like running water.

Adam Stone had to be at Chief Downport.

Adam Stone had to be there.

Wouldn't Adam Stone be surprised in the night?  Surprised to meet the
strangest of beings, the first renegade among Scanners.

(Martel suddenly appreciated that it was himself of whom he was
thinking.  Martel the Traitor to Scanners!  That sounded strange and
bad.  But what of Martel, the Loyal to Mankind?  Was that not
compensation?  And if he won, he won Luci.  If he lost, he lost nothing
an unconsidered and expendable haber man It happened to be himself. But
in contrast to the immense reward, to Mankind, to the Confraternity, to
Luci, what did that matter?) Martel thought to himself: "Adam Stone
will have two visitors tonight.  Two Scanners, who are the friends of
one another."  He hoped that Parizianski was still his friend.

"And the world," he added, "depends on which of us gets there first."

Multifaceted in their brightness, the lights of Chief Downport began to
shine through the mist ahead.  Martel could see the outer towers of the
city and glimpsed the phosphorescent periphery which kept back the
Wild, whether Beasts, Machines, or the Unforgiven.

Once more Martel invoked the lords of his chance: "Help me to pass for
an Other!"

Within the Downport, Martel had less trouble than he thought.  He
draped his air coat over his shoulder so that it concealed the
instruments.  He took up his scanning mirror, and made up his face from
the inside, by adding tone and animation to his blood and nerves until
the muscles of his face glowed and the skin gave out a healthy sweat.
That way he looked like an ordinary man who had just completed a long
night flight.

After straightening out his clothing, and hiding his Tablet within his
jacket, he faced the problem of what to do about the Talking Finger. If
he kept the nail, it would show him to be a Scanner.  He would be
respected,
but he would be identified.  He might be stopped by the guards whom
the Instrumentality had undoubtedly set around the person of Adam
Stone.  If he broke the nail but he couldn't!  No Scanner in the
history of the Confraternity had ever willingly broken his nail.  That
would be Resignation, and there was no such thing.  The only way out,
was in the Up-and-Out!  Martel put his finger to his mouth and bit off
the nail.  He looked at the now-queer finger, and sighed to himself.

He stepped toward the city gate, slipping his hand into his jacket and
running up his muscular strength to four times normal.

He started to scan, and then realized that his instruments were masked.
Might as well take all the chances at once, he thought.

The watcher stopped him with a searching Wire.  The sphere thumped
suddenly against Martel's chest.

"Are you a Man?"  said the unseen voice.  (Martel knew that as a
Scanner in haber man condition, his own field-charge would have
illuminated the sphere.) "I am a Man."  Martel knew that the timbre of
his voice had been good; he hoped that it would not be taken for that
ofaManshonjagger or a Beast or an Unforgiven one, who with mimicry
sought to enter the cities and ports of Mankind.

"Name, number, rank, purpose, function, time departed."

"Martel."  He had to remember his old number, not Scanner 34.

"Sunward 4234, 182nd Year of Space.  Rank, rising Subchief."

That was no lie, but his substantive rank.

"Purpose, personal and lawful within the limits of this city.  No
function of the Instrumentality.  Departed Chief Outport 2019 hours."
Everything now depended on whether he was believed, or would be checked
against Chief Outport.

The voice was flat and routine: "Time desired within the city."

Martel used the standard phrase: "Your Honorable sufferance is
requested."

He stood in the cool night air, waiting.  Far above him, through a gap
in the mist, he could see the poisonous glittering in the sky of
Scanners.  The stars are my enemies, he thought: I have mastered the
stars but they hate me.  Ho, that sounds Ancient!

Like a Book.  Too much crunching.

The voice returned: "Sunward 4234 dash 182 rising Subchief Martel,
enter the lawful gates of the city.  Welcome.  Do you desire food,
raiment, money, or companionship?"  The voice had no hospitality in it,
just business.  This was certainly different from entering a city in a
Scanner's role!  Then the petty officers came out, and threw their belt
lights on their fretful faces, and mouthed their words with
preposterous deference, shouting against the stone deafness of a
Scanner's ears.  So that was the way that a Subchief was treated:
matter of fact, but not bad.  Not bad.

of Man Martel replied: "I have that which I need, but beg of the city
a favor.  My friend Adam Stone is here.  I desire to see him, on urgent
and personal lawful affairs."

The voice replied: "Did you have an appointment with Adam Stone?"

"No."

"The city will find him.  What is his number?"

"I have forgotten it."

"You have forgotten it?  Is not Adam Stone a Magnate of the
Instrumentality?  Are you truly his friend?"

"Truly."  Martel let a little annoyance creep into his voice.

"Watcher, doubt me and call your Subchief."

"No doubt implied.  Why do you not know the number?  This must go into
the record," added the voice.

"We were friends in childhood.  He has crossed the " Martel started to
say "the Up-and-Out" and remembered that the phrase was current only
among Scanners.

"He has leapt from Earth to Earth, and has just now returned.  I knew
him well and I seek him out.  I have word of his kith.  May the
Instrumentality protect us!"

"Heard and believed.  Adam Stone will be searched."

At a risk, though a slight one, of having the sphere sound an alarm for
non-Man, Martel cut in on his Scanner speaker within his jacket.  He
saw the trembling needle of light await his words and he started to
write on it with his blunt finger.  That won't work, he thought, and
had a moment's panic until he found his comb, which had a sharp enough
tooth to write.  He wrote: "Emergency none.  Martel Scanner calling
Parizianski Scanner."

The needle quivered and the reply glowed and faded out: "Parizianski
Scanner on duty and D.C. Calls taken by Scanner Relay."

Martel cut off his speaker.

Parizianski was somewhere around.  Could he have crossed the direct
way, right over the city wall, setting off the alert, and invoking
official business when the petty officers overtook him in mid-air?
Scarcely.  That meant that a number of other Scanners must have come in
with Parizianski, all of them pretending to be in search of a few of
the tenuous pleasures which could be enjoyed by a haber man such as the
sight of the news pictures or the viewing of beautiful women in the
Pleasure Gallery.

Parizianski was around, but he could not have moved privately, because
Scanner Central registered him on duty and recorded his movements city
by city.

The voice returned.  Puzzlement was expressed in it.

"Adam Stone is found and awakened.  He has asked pardon of the
Honorable, and says he knows no Martel.  Will you see Adam Stone in the
morning?  The city will bid you welcome."

Martel ran out of resources.  It was hard enough mimicking a man
without having to tell lies in the guise of one.  Martel could only
repeat: "Tell him I am Martel.  The husband ofLuci."

"It will be done."

Again the silence, and the hostile stars, and the sense that
Parizianski was somewhere near and getting nearer; Martel felt his
heart beating faster.  He stole a glimpse at his chest box and set his
heart down a point.  He felt calmer, even though he had not been able
to scan with care.

The voice this time was cheerful, as though an annoyance had been
settled: "Adam Stone consents to see you.  Enter Chief Downport, and
welcome."

The little sphere dropped noiselessly to the ground and the wire
whispered away into the darkness.  A bright arc of narrow light rose
from the ground in front of Martel and swept through the city to one of
the higher towers apparently a hostel, which Martel had never entered.
Martel plucked his air coat to his chest for ballast, stepped
heel-and-toe on the beam, and felt himself whistle through the air to
an entrance window which sprang up before him as suddenly as a
devouring mouth.

A tower guard stood in the doorway.

"You are awaited, sir.  Do you bear weapons, sir?"

"None," said Martel, grateful that he was relying on his own
strength.

The guard led him past the check-screen.  Martel noticed the quick
flight of a warning across the screen as his instruments registered and
identified him as a Scanner.  But the guard had not noticed it.

The guard stopped at a door.

"Adam Stone is armed.  He is lawfully armed by authority of the
Instrumentality and by the liberty of this city.  All those who enter
are given warning."

Martel nodded in understanding at the man, and went in.

Adam Stone was a short man, stout and benign.  His gray hair rose
stiffly from a low forehead.  His whole face was red and merry-looking.
He looked like a jolly guide from the Pleasure Gallery, not like a man
who had been at the edge of the Up-and Out fighting the Great Pain
without haber man protection.

He stared at Martel.  His look was puzzled, perhaps a little annoyed,
but not hostile.

Martel came to the point.

"You do not know me.  I lied.  My name is Martel, and I mean you no
harm.  But I lied.  I beg the Honorable gift of your hospitality.
Remain armed.  Direct your weapon against me " Stone smiled: "I am
doing so," and Martel noticed the small Wirepoint in Stone's capable,
plump hand.

"Good.  Keep on guard against me.  It will give you confidence in
what
of Man I shall say.  But do, I beg you, give us a screen of privacy. I
want no casual lookers.  This is a matter of life and death."

"First: whose life and death?"  Stone's face remained calm, his voice
even.

"Yours and mine, and the worlds'."

"You are cryptic but I agree."  Stone called through the doorway:
"Privacy, please."  There was a sudden hum, and all the little noises
of the night quickly vanished from the air of the room.

Said Adam Stone: "Sir, who are you?  What brings you here?"

"I am Scanner Thirty-four."

"You a Scanner?  I don't believe it."

For answer, Martel pulled his jacket open, showing his chest box Stone
looked up at him, amazed.  Martel explained: "I am cranched.  Have you
never seen it before?"

"Not with men.  On animals.  Amazing!  But what do you want?"

"The truth.  Do you fear me?"

"Not with this," said Stone, grasping the Wirepoint.

"But I shall tell you the truth."

"Is it true that you have conquered the Great Pain?"

Stone hesitated, seeking words for an answer.

"Quick, can you tell me how you have done it, so that I may believe
you?"

"I have loaded ships with life."

"Life?"

"Life.  I don't know what the Great Pain is, but I did find that in the
experiments, when I sent out masses of animals or plants, the life in
the center of the mass lived longest.  I built ships small ones, of
course and sent them out with rabbits, with monkeys " "Those are
Beasts?"

"Yes.  With small Beasts.  And the Beasts came back unhurt.

They came back because the walls of the ships were filled with life.  I
tried many kinds, and finally found a sort of life which lives in the
waters.  Oysters.  Oysterbeds.  The outermost oysters died in the great
pain.  The inner ones lived.  The passengers were unhurt."

"But they were Beasts?"

"Not only Beasts.  Myself."

"You!"

"I came through Space alone.  Through what you call the Upand-Out,
alone.  Awake and sleeping.  I am unhurt.  If you do not believe me,
ask your brother Scanners.  Come and see my ship in the morning.  I
will be glad to see you then, along with your brother Scanners.  I am
going to demonstrate before the Chiefs of the Instrumentality."

Martel repeated his question: "You came here alone?"

Adam Stone grew testy: "Yes, alone.  Go back and check your Scanners'
register if you do not believe me.  You never put me in a bottle to
cross Space."

Martel's face was radiant.

"I believe you now.  It is true.  No more Scanners.  No more haber mans
No more cranching."

Stone looked significantly toward the door.

Martel did not take the hint.

"I must tell you that " "Sir, tell me in the morning.  Go enjoy your
cranch.  Isn't it supposed to be pleasure?  Medically I know it well.
But not in practice."

"It is pleasure.  It's normality for a while.  But listen.  The
Scanners have sworn to destroy you, and your work."

"What!"

"They have met and have voted and sworn.  You will make Scanners
unnecessary, they say.  You will bring the Ancient Wars back to the
world, if Scanning is lost and the Scanners live in vain!"

Adam Stone was nervous but kept his wits about him: "You're a Scanner.
Are you going to kill me or try?"

"No, you fool.  I have betrayed the Confraternity.  Call guards the
moment I escape.  Keep guards around you.  I will try to intercept the
killer."

Martel saw a blur in the window.  Before Stone could turn, the
Wirepoint was whipped out of his hand.  The blur solidified and took
form as Parizianski.

Martel recognized what Parizianski was doing: High speed.

Without thinking of his cranch, he thrust his hand to his chest, set
himself up to High speed too.  Waves of fire, like the Great Pain, but
hotter, flooded over him.  He fought to keep his face readable as he
stepped in front of Parizianski and gave the sign, Top Emergency.

Parizianski spoke, while the normally moving body of Stone stepped away
from them as slowly as a drifting cloud: "Get out of my way.  I am on a
mission."

"I know it.  I stop you here and now.  Stop.  Stop.  Stop.  Stone is
right."

Parizianski's lips were barely readable in the haze of pain which
flooded Martel.  (He thought: God, God, God of the Ancients!  Let me
hold on!  Let me live under Overload just long enough!) Parizianski was
saying: "Get out of my way.  By order of the Confraternity, get out of
my way!"  And Parizianski gave the sign.  Help I demand in the name of
my Duty!

Martel choked for breath in the syrup-like air.  He tried one last
time: "Parizianski, friend, friend, my friend.  Stop.  Stop."  (No
Scanner had ever murdered Scanner before.) Parizianski made the sign:
You are unfit for duty, and I will take over.

of Man Martel thought, For the first time in the world!  as he reached
over and twisted Parizianski's Brainbox up to Overload.

Parizianski's eyes glittered in terror and understanding.  His body
began to drift down toward the floor.

Martel had just strength enough to reach his own Chestbox.

As he faded into Haberman or death, he knew not which, he felt his
fingers turning on the control of speed, turning down.  He tried to
speak, to say,

"Get a Scanner, I need help, get a Scanner..."

But the darkness rose about him, and the numb silence clasped him.

Martel awakened to see the face of Luci near his own.

He opened his eyes wider, and found that he was hearing hearing the
sound of her happy weeping, the sound of her chest as she caught the
air back into her throat.

He spoke weakly: "Still cranched?  Alive?"

Another face swam into the blur beside Luci's.  It was Adam Stone.  His
deep voice rang across immensities of Space before coming to Martel's
hearing.  Martel tried to read Stone's lips, but could not make them
out.  He went back to listening to the voice: ". . . not cranched.  Do
you understand me?  Not cranched!"

Martel tried to say: "But I can hear!  I can feel!"  The others got his
sense if not his words.

Adam Stone spoke again: "You have gone back through the Haberman.  I
put you back first.  I didn't know how it would work in practice, but I
had the theory all worked out.  You don't think the Instrumentality
would waste the Scanners, do you?  You go back to normality.  We are
letting the haber mans die as fast as the ships come in.  They don't
need to live any more.  But we are restoring the Scanners.  You are the
first.  Do you understand me?  You are the first.  Take it easy,
now."

Adam Stone smiled.  Dimly behind Stone, Martel thought that he saw the
face of one of the Chiefs of the Instrumentality.  That face, too,
smiled at him, and then both faces disappeared upward and away.

Martel tried to lift his head, to scan himself.  He could not.

Luci stared at him, calming herself, but with an expression of loving
perplexity.  She said, "My darling husband!  You're back again, to
stay!"

Still, Martel tried to see his box.  Finally he swept his hand across
his chest with a clumsy motion.  There was nothing there.

The instruments were gone.  He was back to normality but still alive.

In the deep weak peacefulness of his mind, another troubling thought
took shape.  He tried to write with his finger, the way that Luci
wanted him to, but he had neither pointed fingernail nor Scanner's
Tablet.  He had to
vj use his voice.  He summoned up his strength and whispered:
"Scanners?"

"Yes, darling?  What is it?"

"Scanners?"

"Scanners.  Oh, yes, darling, they're all right.  They had to arrest
some of them for going into Highspeed and running away.

But the Instrumentality caught them all all those on the ground and
they're happy now.  Do you know, darling," she laughed, "some of them
didn't want to be restored to normality.

But Stone and the Chiefs persuaded them."

"Vomact?"

"He's fine, too.  He's staying cranched until he can be restored.

Do you know, he has arranged for Scanners to take new jobs.

You're all Deputy Chiefs for Space.  Isn't that nice?  But he got
himself made Chief for Space.  You're all going to be pilots, so that
your fraternity and guild can go on.  And Chang's getting changed back
right now.  You'll see him soon."

Her face turned sad.  She looked at him earnestly and said: "I might as
well tell you now.  You'll worry otherwise.  There has been one
accident.  Only one.  When you and your friend called on Adam Stone,
your friend was so happy that he forgot to scan, and he let himself die
of Overload."

"Called on Stone?"

"Yes.  Don't you remember?  Your friend."

He still looked surprised, so she said: "Parizianski."

 The Lady Who Sailed The Soul The story ran how did the story run?
Everyone knew the reference to Helen America and Mr.  Grey-no-more, but
no one knew exactly how it happened.  Their names were welded to the
glittering timeless jewelry of romance.  Sometimes they were compared
to Heloise and Abelard, whose story had been found among books in a
long-buried library.  Other ages were to compare their life with the
weird, ugly-lovely story of the Go-Captain Taliano and the Lady Dolores
Oh.

Out of it all, two things stood forth their love and the image of the
great sails, tissue-metal wings with which the bodies of people finally
fluttered out among the stars.

Mention him, and others knew her.  Mention her, and they knew him.  He
was the first of the inbound sailors, and she was the lady who sailed
The Soul.

It was lucky that people lost their pictures.  The romantic hero was a
very young-looking man, prematurely old and still quite sick when the
romance came.  And Helen America, she was a freak, but a nice one: a
grim, solemn, sad, little brunette who had been born amid the laughter
of humanity.  She was not the tall, confident heroine of the actresses
who later played her.

She was, however, a wonderful sailor.  That much was true.

And with her body and mind she loved Mr.  Grey-no-more, showing a
devotion which the ages can neither surpass nor forget.

History may scrape off the patina of their names and appearances, but
even history can do no more than brighten the love of Helen America and
Mr.  Grey-no-more.  Both of them, one must remember, were sailors.

II

The child was playing with a spiel tier She got tired of letting it be
a chicken, so she reversed it into the fur-bearing position.

When she extended the ears to the optimum development, the little
animal
of Man looked odd indeed.  A light breeze blew the animal-toy on its
side, but the spiel tier good-naturedly righted itself and munched
contentedly on the carpet.

The little girl suddenly clapped her hands and broke forth with the
question, "Mamma, what's a sailor?"

"There used to be sailors, darling, a long time ago.  They were brave
men who took the ships out to the stars, the very first ships that took
people away from our sun.  And they had big sails.  I don't know how it
worked, but somehow, the light pushed them, and it took them a quarter
of a life to make a single one way trip.  People only lived a hundred
and sixty years at that time, darling, and it was forty years each way,
but we don't need sailors any more.  " "Of course not," said the child,
"we can go right away.  You 've taken me to Mars and you've taken me to
New Earth as well, haven't you, mamma?  And we can go anywhere else
soon, but that only takes one afternoon."

"That's plano forming honey.  But it was a long time before the people
knew how to plano form And they could not travel the way we could, so
they made great big sails.  They made sails so big that they could not
build them on Earth.  They had to hang them out, halfway between Earth
and Mars.  And you know, a funny thing happened... Did you ever hear
about the time the world froze ?  " "No, mamma, what was that?"

"Well, a long time ago, one of these sails drifted and people tried to
save it because it took a lot of work to build it.  But the sail was so
large that it got between the Earth and the sun.  And there was no more
sunshine, just night all the time.  And it got very cold on Earth.  All
the atomic power plants were busy, and all the air began to smell
funny.  And the people were worried and in a few days they pulled the
sail back out of the way.  And the sunshine came again."

"Mamma, were there ever any girl sailors?"

A curious expression crossed over the mother's face.

"There was one.  You

"II hear about her later on when you are older.  Her name was Helen
America and she sailed The Soul out to the stars.  She was the only
woman that ever did it.  And that is a wonderful story."

The mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

The child said: "Mamma, tell me now.  What's the story all about?"

At this point the mother became very firm and she said: "Honey, there
are some things that you are not old enough to hear yet.  But when you
are a big girl, I'll tell you all about them."

The mother was an honest woman.  She reflected a moment, and then she
added, ". .. unless you read about it yourself first."

Helen America was to make her place in the history of mankind, but she
started badly.  The name itself was a misfortune.

No one ever knew who her father was.  The officials agreed to keep the
matter quiet.

Her mother was not in doubt.  Her mother was the celebrated she-man
Mona Muggeridge, a woman who had campaigned a hundred times for the
lost cause of complete identity of the two genders.  She had been a
feminist beyond all limits, and when Mona Muggeridge, the one and only
Miss Muggeridge, announced to the press that she was going to have a
baby, that was first-class news.

Mona Muggeridge went further.  She announced her firm conviction that
fathers should not be identified.  She proclaimed that no woman should
have consecutive children with the same man, that women should be
advised to pick different fathers for their children, so as to
diversify and beautify the race.  She capped it all by announcing that
she, Miss Muggeridge, had selected the perfect father and would
inevitably produce the only perfect child.

Miss Muggeridge, a bony, pompous blonde, stated that she would avoid
the nonsense of marriage and family names, and that therefore the
child, if a boy, would be named John America, and if a girl, Helen
America.

Thus it happened that little Helen America was born with the
correspondents in the press services waiting outside the delivery room.
News-screens flashed the picture of a pretty three-kilogram baby.

"It's a girl."  "The perfect child."  "Who's the dad?"

That was just the beginning.  Mona Muggeridge was belligerent.  She
insisted, even after the baby had been photographed for the thousandth
time, that this was the finest child ever born.  She pointed to the
child's perfections.  She demonstrated all the foolish fondness of a
doting mother, but felt that she, the great crusader, had discovered
this fondness for the first time.

To say that this background was difficult for the child would be an
understatement.

Helen America was a wonderful example of raw human material triumphing
over its tormentors.  By the time she was four years old, she spoke six
languages, and was beginning to decipher some of the old Martian texts.
At the age of five she was sent to school.  Her fellow schoolchildren
immediately developed a rhyme: Helen, Helen Fat and dumb Doesn't know
where Her daddy's from!

of Man Helen took all this and perhaps it was an accident of genetics
that she grew to become a compact little person deadly serious little
brunette.  Challenged by lessons, haunted by publicity, she became
careful and reserved about friendships and desperately lonely in an
inner world.

When Helen America was sixteen her mother came to a bad end.  Mona
Muggeridge eloped with a man she announced to be the perfect husband
for the perfect marriage hitherto overlooked by mankind.  The perfect
husband was a skilled machine polisher.

He already had a wife and four children.  He drank beer and his
interest in Miss Muggeridge seems to have been a mixture of
good-natured comradeship and a sensible awareness of her motherly
bankroll.  The planetary yacht on which they eloped broke the
regulations with an off-schedule flight.  The bridegroom's wife and
children had alerted the police.  The result was a collision with a
robotic barge which left both bodies identifiable.

At sixteen Helen was already famous, and at seventeen already
forgotten, and very much alone.

This was the age of sailors.  The thousands of photo reconnaissance and
measuring missiles had begun to come back with their harvest from the
stars.  Planet after planet swam into the ken of mankind.  The new
worlds became known as the interstellar search missiles brought back
photographs, samples of atmosphere, measurements of gravity, cloud
coverage, chemical make-up, and the like.  Of the very numerous
missiles which returned from their two- or three-hundred-year voyages,
three brought back reports of New Earth, an earth so much like Terra
itself that it could be settled.

The first sailors had gone out almost a hundred years before.

They had started with small sails not over two thousand miles square.
Gradually the size of the sails increased.  The technique of adiabatic
packing and the carrying of passengers in individual pods reduced the
damage done to the human cargo.  It was great news when a sailor
returned to Earth, a man born and reared under the light of another
star.  He was a man who had spent a month of agony and pain, bringing a
few sleep-frozen settlers, guiding the immense light-pushed sailing
craft which had managed the trip through the great interstellar deeps
in an objective time-period of forty years.

Mankind got to know the look of a sailor.  There was a plantigrade walk
to the way he put his body on the ground.  There was a sharp, stiff,
mechanical swing to his neck.  The man was neither young nor old.  He
had been awake and conscious for forty years, thanks to the drug which
made
possible a kind of limited awareness.  By the time the psychologists
interrogated him, first for the proper authorities of the
Instrumentality and later for the news releases, it was plain enough
that he thought the forty years were about a month.  He never
volunteered to sail back, because he had actually aged forty years.  He
was a young man, young in his hopes and wishes, but a man who had burnt
up a quarter of a human lifetime in a single agonizing experience.

At this time Helen America went to Cambridge.  Lady Joan's College was
the finest woman's college in the Atlantic world.

Cambridge had reconstructed its proto historic traditions and the
neo-British had recaptured that fine edge of engineering which
reconnected their traditions with the earliest antiquity.

Naturally enough the language was cosmo polite Earth and not archaic
English, but the students were proud to live at a reconstructed
university very much like the archaeological evidence showed it to have
been before the period of darkness and troubles came upon the Earth.
Helen shone a little in this renaissance.

The news-release services watched Helen in the crudest possible
fashion.  They revived her name and the story of her mother.  Then they
forgot her again.  She had put in for six professions, and her last
choice was "sailor."  It happened that she was the first woman to make
the application first because she was the only woman young enough to
qualify who had also passed the scientific requirements.

Her picture was beside his on the screens before they ever met each
other.

Actually, she was not anything like that at all.  She had suffered so
much in her childhood from Helen, Helen, fat and dumb, that she was
competitive only on a coldly professional basis.  She hated and loved
and missed the tremendous mother whom she had lost, and she resolved so
fiercely not to be like her mother that she became an embodied
antithesis of Mona

The mother had been horsy, blonde, big the kind of woman who is a
feminist because she is not very feminine.  Helen never thought about
her own femininity.  She just worried about herself.

Her face would have been round if it had been plump, but she was not
plump.  Black-haired, dark-eyed, broad-bodied but thin, she was a
genetic demonstration of her unknown father.  Her teachers often feared
her.  She was a pale, quiet girl, and she always knew her subject.

Her fellow students had joked about her for a few weeks and then most
of them had banded together against the indecency of the press.  When a
news-frame came out with something ridiculous about the long-dead Mona,
the whisper went through Lady Joan's: "Keep Helen away .  . . those
people are at it again."

of Man "Don't let Helen look at the frames now.  She's the best person
we have in the non-collateral sciences and we can't have her upset just
before the tripos ..."

They protected her, and it was only by chance that she saw her own face
in a news-frame.  There was the face of a man beside her.  He looked
like a little old monkey, she thought.  Then she read, "perfect girl
wants TO BE SAILOR.  SHOULD SAILOR HIMSELF DATE PERFECT GIRL?"  Her
cheeks burned with helpless, unavoidable embarrassment and rage, but
she had grown too expert at being herself to do what she might have
done in her teens hate the man.  She knew it wasn't his fault either.

It wasn't even the fault of the silly pushing men and women from the
news services.  It was time, it was custom, it was man himself.

But she had only to be herself, if she could ever find out what that
really meant.

Their dates, when they came, had the properties of nightmares.

A news service sent a woman to tell her she had been awarded a week's
holiday in New Madrid.

With the sailor from the stars.

Helen refused.

Then he refused too, and he was a little too prompt for her liking. She
became curious about him.

Two weeks passed, and in the office of the news service a treasurer
brought two slips of paper to the director.  They were the vouchers for
Helen America and Mr.  Grey-no-more to obtain the utmost in
preferential luxury at New Madrid.  The treasurer said,

"These have been issued and registered as gifts with the
Instrumentality, sir.  Should they be cancelled?  " The executive had
his fill of stories that day, and he felt humane.  On an impulse he
commanded the treasurer,

"Tell you what.  Give those tickets to the young people.  No publicity.
We'll keep out of it.  If they don't want us, they don't have to have
us.  Push it along.  That's all.

Go."

The tickets went back out to Helen.  She had made the highest record
ever reported at the university, and she needed a rest.

When the news service woman gave her the ticket, she said, "Is this a
trick?"

Assured that it was not, she then asked, "Is that man coming?"

She couldn't say "the sailor" it sounded too much like the way people
had always talked about herself and she honestly didn't remember his
other name at the moment.

The Lady Who Sailed The Soul______________103 The woman did not
know.

"Do I have to see him?"  said Helen.

"Of course not," said the woman.  The gift was unconditional.

Helen laughed, almost grimly.

"All right, I'll take it and say thanks.  But one picture maker mind
you, just one, and I walk out.

Or I may walk out for no reason at all.  Is that all right?"

It was.

Four days later Helen was in the pleasure world of New Madrid, and a
master of the dances was presenting her to an odd, intense old man
whose hair was black.

"Junior scientist Helen America Sailor of the stars Mr.
Grey-no-more."

He looked at them shrewdly and smiled a kindly, experienced smile.  He
added the empty phrase of his profession, "I have had the honor and I
withdraw."

They were alone together on the edge of the dining room.  The sailor
looked at her very sharply indeed, and then said: "Who are you?  Are
you somebody I have already met?  Should I remember you?  There are too
many people here on Earth.  What do we do next?  What are we supposed
to do?  Would you like to sit down?"

Helen said one

"Yes" to all those questions and never dreamed that the single yes
would be articulated by hundreds of great actresses, each one in the
actress's own special way, across the centuries to come.

They did sit down.

How the rest of it happened, neither one was ever quite sure.

She had had to quiet him almost as though he were a hurt person in the
House of Recovery.  She explained the dishes to him and when he still
could not choose, she gave the robot selections for him.  She warned
him, kindly enough, about manners when he forgot the simple ceremonies
of eating which everyone knew, such as standing up to unfold the napkin
or putting the scraps into the solvent tray and the silverware into the
transfer.

At last he relaxed and did not look so old.

Momentarily forgetting the thousand times she had been asked silly
questions herself, she asked him, "Why did you become a sailor?"

He stared at her in open-eyed inquiry as though she had spoken to him
in an unknown language and expected a reply.

Finally he mumbled the answer, "Are you you, too saying that that I
shouldn't have done it?"

Her hand went to her mouth in instinctive apology.

"No, no, no.  You see, I myself have put in to be a sailor."

He merely looked at her, his young-old eyes open with
observativeness.

of Man He did not stare, but merely seemed to be trying to understand
words, each one of which he could comprehend individually but which in
sum amounted to sheer madness.  She did not turn away from his look,
odd though it was.  Once again, she had the chance to note the
indescribable peculiarity of this man who had managed enormous sails
out in the blind empty black between un twinkling stars.  He was young
as a boy.  The hair which gave him his name was glossy black.  His
beard must have been removed permanently, because his skin was that of
a middle-aged woman well-kept, pleasant, but showing the unmistakable
wrinkles of age and betraying no sign of the normal stubble which the
males in her culture preferred to leave on their faces.  The skin had
age without experience.  The muscles had grown older, but they did not
show how the person had grown.

Helen had learned to be an acute observer of people as her mother took
up with one fanatic after another; she knew full well that people carry
their secret biographies written in the muscles of their faces, and
that a stranger passing on the street tells us (whether he wishes to or
not) all his inmost intimacies.  If we but look sharply enough, and in
the right light, we know whether fear or hope or amusement has tallied
the hours of his days, we divine the sources and outcome of his most
secret sensuous pleasures, we catch the dim but persistent reflections
of those other people who have left the imprints of their personalities
on him in turn.

All this was absent from Mr.  Grey-no-more: he had age but not the
stigmata of age; he had growth without the normal markings of growth;
he had lived without living, in a time and world in which most people
stayed young while living too much.

He was the uttermost opposite of her mother that Helen had ever seen,
and with a pang of undirected apprehension Helen realized that this man
meant a great deal to her future life, whether she wished him to or
not.  She saw in him a young bachelor, prematurely old, a man whose
love had been given to emptiness and horror, not to the tangible
rewards and disappointments of human life.  He had had all space for
his mistress, and space had used him harshly.  Still young, he was old;
already old, he was young.

The mixture was one which she knew that she had never seen before, and
which she suspected that no one else had ever seen, either.  He had in
the beginning of life the sorrow, compassion, and wisdom which most
people find only at the end.

It was he who broke the silence.

"You did say, didn't you, that you yourself had put in to be a
sailor?"

Even to herself, her answer sounded silly and girlish.

"I'm the first woman ever to qualify with the necessary scientific
subjects while still young enough to pass the physical ..."

"You must be an unusual girl," said he mildly.  Helen realized, with a
thrill, a sweet and bitterly real hope that this young-old man from the
stars had never heard of the "perfect child" who had been laughed at in
the moments of being born, the girl who had all America for a father,
who was famous and unusual and alone so terribly much that she could
not even imagine being ordinary, happy, decent, or simple.

She thought to herself.  It would take a wise freak who sails in from
the stars to overlook who lam, but to him she simply said, "It's no use
talking about being 'unusual."  I'm tired of this Earth, and since I
don't have to die to leave it, I think I would like to sail to the
stars.  I've got less to lose than you may think..."  She started to
tell him about Mona Muggeridge but she stopped in time.

The compassionate gray eyes were upon her, and at this point it was he,
not she, who was in control of the situation.  She looked at the eyes
themselves.  They had stayed open for forty years, in the blackness
near to pitch-darkness of the tiny cabin.  The dim dials had shone like
blazing suns upon his tired retinas before he was able to turn his eyes
away.  From time to time he had looked out at the black nothing to see
the silhouettes of his sails, almost blackness against total blackness,
as the miles of their sweep sucked up the push of light itself and
accelerated him and his frozen cargo at almost immeasurable speeds
across an ocean of unfathomable silence.  Yet, what he had done, she
had asked to do.

The stare of his gray eyes yielded to a smile of his lips.  In the
young-old face, masculine in structure and feminine in texture, the
smile had a connotation of tremendous kindness.  She felt singularly
much like weeping when she saw him smile in that particular way at her.
Was that what people learned between the stars?  To care for other
people very much indeed and to spring upon them only to reveal love and
not devouring to their prey?

In a measured voice he said,

"I believe you.  You're the first one that I have believed.  All these
people have said that they wanted to be sailors too, even when they
looked at me.  They could not know what it means, but they said it
anyhow, and I hated them for saying it.  You, though you're different.
Perhaps you will sail among the stars, but I hope that you will not."

As though waking from a dream, he looked around the luxurious room,
with the gilt-and-enamel robot-waiters standing aside with negligent
elegance.  They were designed to be always present and never obtrusive:
this was a difficult esthetic effect to achieve, but their designer had
achieved it.

The rest of the evening moved with the inevitability of good music.  He
went with her to the forever-lonely beach which the architects of New
of Man Madrid had built beside the hotel.  They talked a little, they
looked at each other, and they made love with an affirmative certainty
which seemed outside themselves.  He was very tender, and he did not
realize that in a genitally sophisticated society, he was the first
lover she had ever wanted or had ever had.  (How could the daughter of
Mona Muggeridge want a lover or a mate or a child?) On the next
afternoon, she exercised the freedom of her times and asked him to
marry her.  They had gone back to their private beach, which, through
miracles of ultra-fine mini-weather adjustments, brought a Polynesian
afternoon to the high chilly plateau of central Spain.

She asked him, she did, to marry her, and he refused, as tenderly and
as kindly as a man of sixty-five can refuse a girl of eighteen.  She
did not press him; they continued the bittersweet love affair.

They sat on the artificial sand of the artificial beach and dabbled
their toes in the man-warmed water of the ocean.  Then they lay down
against an artificial sand dune which hid New Madrid from view.

"Tell me," Helen said, "can I ask again, why did you become a
sailor?"

"Not so easily answered," he said.

"Adventure, maybe.  That, at least in part.  And I wanted to see Earth.
Couldn't afford to come in a pod.  Now well, I've enough to keep me the
rest of my life.  I can go back to New Earth as a passenger in a month
instead of forty years be frozen in no more time than the wink of an
eye, put in my adiabatic pod, linked in to the next sailing ship, and
wake up home again while some other fool does the sailing."

Helen nodded.  She did not bother to tell him that she knew all this.
She had been investigating sailing ships since meeting the sailor.

"Out where you sail among the stars," she said, "can you tell me can
you possibly tell me anything of what it's like out there?"

His face looked inward on his soul and afterward his voice came as from
an immense distance.

"There are moments or is it weeks you can't really tell in the sail
ship when it seems worthwhile.  You feel .  . . your nerve endings
reach out until they touch the stars.  You feel enormous, somehow."
Gradually he came back to her.

"It's trite to say, of course, but you're never the same afterward.  I
don't mean just the obvious physical thing, but you find yourself or
maybe you lose yourself.  That's why," he continued, gesturing toward
New Madrid, out of sight behind the sand dune,

"I can't stand this.  New Earth, well, it's like Earth must have been
in the old days, I guess.  There's something fresh about it.  Here
..."

"I know," said Helen America, and she did.  The slightly decadent,
slightly corrupt, too comfortable air of Earth must have had a stifling
effect on the man from beyond the stars.

"There," he said, "you won't believe this, but sometimes the ocean's
too cold to swim in.  We have music that doesn't come from machines,
and pleasures that come from inside our own bodies without being put
there.  I have to get back to New Earth."

Helen said nothing for a little while, concentrating on stilling the
pain in her heart.

"I... I...."  she began.

"I know," he said fiercely, almost savagely turning on her.

"But I can't take you.  I can't!  You're too young, you've got a life
to live and I've thrown away a quarter of mine.  No, that's not
right.

I didn't throw it away.  I wouldn't trade it back because it's given me
something inside I never had before.  And it's given me you."

"But if " she started again to argue.

"No.  Don't spoil it.  I'm going next week to be frozen in my pod to
wait for the next sail ship.  I can't stand much more of this, and I
might weaken.  That would be a terrible mistake.  But we have this time
together now, and we have our separate lifetimes to remember in.  Don't
think of anything else.  There's nothing, nothing we can do."

Helen did not tell him then or ever of the child she had started to
hope for, the child they would now never have.  Oh, she could have used
the child.  She could have tied him to her, for he was an honorable man
and would have married her had she told him.  But Helen's love, even
then in her youth, was such that she could not use this means.  She
wanted him to come to her of his own free will, marrying her because he
could not live without her.

To that marriage their child would have been an additional blessing.

There was the other alternative, of course.  She could have borne the
child without naming the father.  But she was no Mona Muggeridge.  She
knew too well the terrors and insecurity and loneliness of being Helen
America ever to be responsible for the creation of another.  And for
the course she had laid out there was no place for a child.  So she did
the only thing she could.  At the end of their time in New Madrid, she
let him say a real goodbye.

Wordless and without tears, she left.  Then she went up to an arctic
city, a pleasure city where such things are well-known, and amidst
shame, worry, and a driving sense of regret she appealed to a
confidential medical service which eliminated the unborn child.  Then
she went back to Cambridge and confirmed her place as the first woman
to sail a ship to the stars.

The presiding Lord of the Instrumentality at that time was a man named
Wait.  Wait was not cruel but he was never noted for tenderness of
of Man spirit or for a high regard for the adventuresome proclivities
of young people.  His aide said to him,

"This girl wants to sail a ship to New Earth.  Are you going to let
her?"

"Why not?"  said Wait.

"A person is a person.  She is well bred well-educated.  If she fails,
we will find out something eighty years from now when the ship comes
back.  If she succeeds, it will shut up some of these women who have
been complaining."  The Lord leaned over his desk: "If she qualifies,
and if she goes, though, don't give her any convicts.  Convicts are too
good and too valuable as settlers to be sent along on a fool trip like
that.  You can send her on something of a gamble.  Give her all
religious fanatics.  We have more than enough.  Don't you have twenty
or thirty thousand who are waiting?"

He said,

"Yes, sir, twenty-six thousand two hundred.  Not counting recent
additions."

"Very well," said the Lord of the Instrumentality.

"Give her the whole lot of them and give her that new ship.  Have we
named it?"

"No, sir," said the aide.

"Name it then."

The aide looked blank.

A contemptuous wise smile crossed the face of the senior bureaucrat. He
said,

"Take that ship now and name it.  Name it The Soul and let The Soul fly
to the stars.  And let Helen America be an angel if she wants to.  Poor
thing, she has not got much of a life to live on this Earth, not the
way she was born, and the way she was brought up.  And it's no use to
try and reform her, to transform her personality, when it's a lively,
rich personality.  It does not do any good.  We don't have to punish
her for being herself.  Let her go.  Let her have it."

Wait sat up and stared at his aide and then repeated very firmly: "Let
her have it, only if she qualifies."

Helen America did qualify.

The doctors and the experts tried to warn her against it.  One
technician said: "Don't you realize what this is going to mean?

Forty years will pour out of your life in a single month.  You leave
here a girl.  You will get there a woman of sixty.  Well, you will
probably still have a hundred years to live after that.  And it's
painful.  You will have all these people, thousands and thousands of
them.  You will have some Earth cargo.  There will be about thirty
thousand pods strung on sixteen lines behind you.  Then you will have
the control cabin to live in.  We will give
you as many robots as you need, probably a dozen.  You will have a
mainsail and a foresail and you will have to keep the two of them."

"I know.  I have read the book," said Helen America.

"And I sail the ship with light, and if the infrared touches that sail
I go.

If I get radio interference, I pull the sails in.  And if the sails
fail, I wait as long as I live."

The technician looked a little cross.

"There is no call for you to get tragic about it.  Tragedy is easy
enough to contrive.  And if you want to be tragic, you can be tragic
without destroying thirty thousand other people or without wasting a
large amount of Earth property.  You can drown in water right here, or
jump into a volcano like the Japanese in the old books.  Tragedy is not
the hard part.  The hard part is when you don't quite succeed and you
have to keep on fighting.  When you must keep going on and on and on in
the face of really hopeless odds, of real temptations to despair.

"Now this is the way that the foresail works.  That sail will be twenty
thousand miles at the wide part.  It tapers down and the total length
will be just under eighty-thousand miles.  It will be retracted or
extended by small servo-robots.  The servo-robots are radio-controlled.
You had better use your radio sparingly, because after all these
batteries, even though they are atomic, have to last forty years.  They
have got to keep you alive."

"Yes, sir," said Helen America very contritely.

"You've got to remember what your job is.  You're going because you are
cheap.  You are going because a sailor takes a lot less weight than a
machine.  There is no all-purpose computer built that weighs as little
as a hundred and fifty pounds.  You do.

You go simply because you are expendable.  Anyone that goes out to the
stars takes one chance in three of never getting there But you are not
going because you are a leader, you are going because you are young.
You have a life to give and a life to spare.  Because your nerves are
good.  You understand that?"

"Yes, sir, I knew that."

"Furthermore, you are going because you'll make the trip in forty
years.  If we send automatic devices and have them manage the sails,
they would get there possibly.  But it would take them from a hundred
years to a hundred-and-twenty or more, and by that time the adiabatic
pods would have spoiled, most of the human cargo would not be fit for
revival, and the leakage of heat, no matter how we face it, would be
enough to ruin the entire expedition.  So remember that the tragedy and
the trouble you face is mostly work.  Work, and that's all it is.  That
is your big job."

Helen smiled.  She was a short girl with rich dark hair, brown eyes,
and very pronounced eyebrows, but when Helen smiled she was almost a
child again, and a rather charming one.  She said: "My job is work.  I
understand that, sir."

VIII

In the preparation area, the make-ready was fast but not hurried. Twice
the technicians urged her to take a holiday before she reported for
final training.  She did not accept their advice.

She wanted to go forth; she knew that they knew she wanted to leave
Earth forever, and she also knew they knew she was not merely her
mother's daughter.  She was trying, somehow, to be herself.  She knew
the world did not believe, but the world did not matter.

The third time they suggested a vacation, the suggestion was mandatory.
She had a gloomy two months which she ended up enjoying a little bit on
the wonderful islands of the Hesperides, islands which were raised when
the weight of the Earthports caused a new group of small archipelagos
to form below Bermuda.

She reported back, fit, healthy, and ready to go.

The senior medical officer was very blunt.

"Do you really know what we are going to do to you?  We are going to
make you live forty years out of your life in one month."

She nodded, white of face, and he went on,

"Now to give you those forty years we've got to slow down your bodily
processes.

After all, the sheer biological task of breathing forty years' worth of
air in one month involves a factor of about five hundred to one.

No lungs could stand it.  Your body must circulate water.  It must take
in food.  Most of this is going to be protein.  There will be some kind
of a hydrate.  You'll need vitamins.

"Now, what we are going to do is to slow the brain down, very much
indeed, so that the brain will be working at about that
five-hundred-to-one ratio.  We don't want you incapable of working.
Somebody has got to manage the sails.

"Therefore, if you hesitate or you start to think, a thought or two is
going to take several weeks.  Meanwhile your body can be slowed down
some.  But the different parts can't be slowed down at the same rate.
Water, for example, we brought down to about eighty to one.  Food, to
about three hundred to one.

"You won't have time to drink forty years' worth of water.  We
circulate it, get it through, purify it, and get it back in your
system, unless you break your link-up.

"So what you face is a month of being absolutely wide awake, on an
operating table and being operated on without anesthetic, while doing
some of the hardest work that mankind has ever found.

"You'll have to take observations, you'll have to watch your lines with
the pods of people and cargo behind you, you'll have to adjust the
The Lady Who Sailed The Soul______________111 sails.  If there is
anybody surviving at destination point, they will come out and meet
you.

"At least that happens most of the times.

"I am not going to assure you you will get the ship in.  If they don't
meet you, take an orbit beyond the farthest planet and either let
yourself die or try to save yourself.  You can't get thirty thousand
people down on a planet singlehandedly

"Meanwhile, though, you've got a real job.  We are going to have to
build these controls right into your body.  We'll start by putting
valves in your chest arteries.  Then we go on, catheterizing your
water.  We are going to make an artificial colostomy that will go
forward here just in front of your hip joint.  Your water intake has a
certain psychological value so that about one five-hundredth of your
water we are going to leave you to drink out of a cup.  The rest of it
is going to go directly into your bloodstream.  Again about a tenth of
your food will go that way.  You understand that?"

"You mean," said Helen,

"I eat one-tenth, and the rest goes in intravenously?"

"That's right," said the medical technician.

"We will pump it into you.  The concentrates are there.  The re
constitutor is there.

Now these lines have a double connection.  One set of connections runs
into the maintenance machine.  That will become the logistic support
for your body.  And these lines are the umbilical cord for a human
being alone among the stars.  They are your life.

"And now if they should break or if you should fall, you might faint
for a year or two.  If that happens, your local system takes over:
that's the pack on your back.

"On Earth, it weighs as much as you do.  You have already been drilled
with the model pack.  You know how easy it is to handle in space.
That'll keep you going for a subjective period of about two hours.  No
one has ever worked out a clock yet that would match the human mind, so
instead of giving you a clock we are giving you an odometer attached to
your own pulse and we mark it off in grades.  If you watch it in terms
of tens of thousands of pulse beats, you may get some information out
of it.

"I don't know what kind of information, but you may find it helpful
somehow."  He looked at her sharply and then turned back to his tools,
picking up a shining needle with a disk on the end.

"Now, let's get back to this.  We are going to have to get right into
your mind.  That's chemical too."

Helen interrupted.

"You said you were not going to operate on my head."

"Only the needle.  That's the only way we can get to the mind.

Slow it down enough so that you will have this subjective mind
operating at a rate
of Man that will make the forty years pass in a month."  He smiled
grimly, but the grimness changed to momentary tenderness as he took in
her brave obstinate stance, her girlish, admirable, pitiable
determination.

"I won't argue it," she said.

"This is as bad as a marriage and the stars are my bridegroom."  The
image of the sailor went across her mind, but she said nothing of
him.

The technician went on.

"Now, we have already built in psychotic elements.  You can't even
expect to remain sane.  So you'd better not worry about it.  You'll
have to be insane to manage the sails and to survive utterly alone and
be out there even a month.  And the trouble is, in that month you are
going to know it's really forty years.  There is not a mirror in the
place, but you'll probably find shiny surfaces to look at yourself.

"You won't look so good.  You will see yourself aging, every time you
slow down to look.  I don't know what the problem is going to be on
that score.  It's been bad enough on men.

"Your hair problem is going to be easier than men's.  The sailors we
sent out, we simply had to kill all the hair roots.

Otherwise the men would have been swamped in their own beards.  And a
tremendous amount of the nutrient would be wasted if it went into
raising of hair on the face which no machine in the world could cut off
fast enough to keep a man working.  I think what we will do is inhibit
hair on the top of your head.  Whether it comes out in the same color
or not is something you will find for yourself later.  Did you ever
meet the sailor that came in?"

The doctor knew she had met him.  He did not know that it was the
sailor from beyond the stars who called her.  Helen managed to remain
composed as she smiled at him to say: "Yes, you gave him new hair. Your
technician planted a new scalp on his head, remember.  Somebody on your
staff did.  The hair came out black and he got the nickname of Mr.
Grey-no-more."

"If you are ready next Tuesday, we'll be ready too.  Do you think you
can make it by then, my lady?"

Helen felt odd seeing this old, serious man refer to her as "lady," but
she knew he was paying respect to a profession and not just to an
individual.

"Tuesday is time enough."  She felt complimented that he was an
old-fashioned enough person to know the ancient names of the days of
the week and to use them.  That was a sign that he had not only learned
the essentials at the University but that he had picked up the elegant
inconsequentialities as well.

Two weeks later was twenty-one years later by the chronometers in the
cabin.  Helen turned for the ten-thousand times-ten-thousandth time to
scan the sails.

Her back ached with a violent throb.

She could feel the steady roar of her heart like a fast vibrator as it
ticked against the time-span of her awareness.  She could look down at
the meter on her wrist and see the hands on the watch like dials
indicate tens of thousands of pulses very slowly.

She heard the steady whistle of air in her throat as her lungs seemed
shuddering with sheer speed.

And she felt the throbbing pain of a large tube feeding an immense
quantity of mushy water directly into the artery of her neck.

On her abdomen, she felt as if someone had built a fire.  The
evacuation tube operated automatically but it burnt as if a coal had
been held to her skin, and a catheter, which connected her bladder to
another tube, stung as savagely as the prod of a scalding-hot needle.
Her head ached and her vision blurred.

But she could still see the instruments and she still could watch the
sails.  Now and then she could glimpse, faint as a tracery of dust, the
immense skein of people and cargo that lay behind them.

She could not sit down.  It hurt too much.

The only way that she could be comfortable for resting was to lean
against the instrument panel, her lower ribs against the panel, her
tired forehead against the meters.

Once she rested that way and realized that it was two and a half months
before she got up.  She knew that rest had no meaning, and she could
see her face moving, a distorted image of her own face growing old in
the reflections from the glass face of the "apparent weight" dial.  She
could look at her arms with blurring vision, note the skin tightening,
loosening, and tightening again, as changes in temperatures affected
it.

She looked out one more time at the sails and decided to take in the
foresail.  Wearily she dragged herself over the control panel with a
servo-robot.  She selected the right control and opened it for a week
or so.  She waited there, her heart buzzing, her throat whistling air,
her fingernails breaking off gently as they grew.

Finally she checked to see if it really had been the right one, pushed
again, and nothing happened.

She pushed a third time.  There was no response.

Now she went back to the master panel, re-read, checked the light
direction, found a certain amount of infrared pressure which she should
have been picking up.  The sails had very gradually risen to something
not
of Man far from the speed of light itself because they moved fast with
the one side dulled; the pods behind, sealed against time and eternity,
swam obediently in an almost perfect weightlessness.

She scanned; her reading had been correct.

The sail was wrong.

She went back to the emergency panel and pressed.  Nothing happened.

She broke out a repair robot and sent it out to effect repairs,
punching the papers as rapidly as she could to give instructions.

The robot went out and an instant (three days) later it replied.

The panel on the repair robot rang forth,

"Does not conform."

She sent a second repair robot.  That had no effect either.

She sent a third, the last.  Three bright lights,

"Does not conform," stared at her.  She moved the servo-robots to the
other side of the sails and pulled hard.

The sail was still not at the right angle.

She stood there wearied and lost in space, and she prayed: "Not for me,
God, I am running away from a life that I did not want.  But for this
ship's souls and for the poor foolish people that I am taking who are
brave enough to want to worship their own way and need the light of
another star, I ask you, God, help me now."  She thought she had prayed
very fervently and she hoped that she would get an answer to her
prayer.

It did not work out that way.  She was bewildered, alone.

There was no sun.  There was nothing, except the tiny cabin and herself
more alone than any woman had ever been before.

She sensed the thrill and ripple of her muscles as they went through
days of adjustment while her mind noticed only the matter of minutes.
She leaned forward, forced herself not to relax, and finally she
remembered that one of the official busybodies had included a weapon.

What she would use a weapon for she did not know, It pointed.  It had a
range of two hundred thousand miles.  The target could be selected
automatically.

She got down on her knees trailing the abdominal tube and the feeding
tube and the catheter tubes and the helmet wires, each one running back
to the panel.  She crawled underneath the panel for the servo-robots
and she pulled out a written manual.

She finally found the right frequency for the weapon's controls.

She set the weapon up and went to the window.

At the last moment she thought,

"Perhaps the fools are going to make me shoot the window out.  It ought
to have been designed to shoot through the window without hurting it.
That's the way they should have done it."

She wondered about the matter for a week or two.

Just before she fired it she turned and there, next to her, stood her
sailor, the sailor from the stars, Mr.  Grey-no-more.  He said: "It
won't work that way."

He stood clear and handsome, the way she had seen him in New Madrid. He
had no tubes, he did not tremble, she could see the normal rise and
fall of his chest as he took one breath every hour or so.  One part of
her mind knew that he was a hallucination.  Another part of her mind
believed that he was real.

She was mad, and she was very happy to be mad at this time, and she let
the hallucination give her advice.  She re-set the gun so that it would
fire through the cabin wall, and it fired a low charge at the repair
mechanism out beyond the distorted and immovable sail.

The low charge did the trick.  The interference had been something
beyond all technical anticipation.  The weapon had cleaned out the
forever-unidentifiable obstruction, leaving the servo-robots free to
attack their tasks like a tribe of maddened ants.  They worked again.
They had had defenses built in against the minor impediments of space.
All of them scurried and skipped about.

With a sense of bewilderment close to religion, she perceived the wind
of starlight blowing against the immense sails.  The sails snapped into
position.  She got a momentary touch of gravity as she sensed a little
weight.  The Soul was back on her course.

"It's a girl," they said to him on New Earth.

"It's a girl.  She must have been eighteen herself."

Mr.  Grey-no-more did not believe it.

But he went to the hospital and there in the hospital he saw Helen
America.

"Here I am, sailor," said she.

"I sailed too."  Her face was white as chalk, her expression was that
of a girl of about twenty.  Her body was that of a well-preserved woman
of sixty.

As for him, he had not changed again, since he had returned home inside
a pod.

He looked at her.  His eyes narrowed, and then, in a sudden reversal of
roles, it was he who was kneeling beside her bed and covering her hands
with his tears.

Half-coherently, he babbled at her: "I ran away from you because I
loved you so.  I came back here where you would never follow, or if you
did follow, you'd still be a young woman, and I'd still be too old. But
you have sailed The Soul in here and you wanted me."

The nurse of New Earth did not know about the rules which should be
of Man applied to the sailors from the stars.  Very quietly she went
out of the room, smiling in tenderness and human pity at the love which
she had seen.  But she was a practical woman and she had a sense of her
own advancement.  She called a friend others at the news service and
said: "I think I have got the biggest romance in history.  If you get
here soon enough you can get the first telling of the story of Helen
America and Mr.  Grey-no-more.  They just met like that.  I guess
they'd seen each other somewhere.  They just met like that and fell in
love."

The nurse did not know that they had forsworn a love on Earth.  The
nurse did not know that Helen America had made a lonely trip with an
icy purpose, and the nurse did not know that the crazy image of Mr.
Grey-no-more, the sailor himself, had stood beside Helen twenty years
out from nothing-at-all in the depth and blackness of space between the
stars.

The little girl had grown up, had married, and now had a little girl of
her own.  The mother was unchanged, but the spiel tier was very, very
old.  It had outlived all its marvelous tricks of adaptability, and for
some years had stayed frozen in the role of a yellow-haired, blue-eyed
girl doll.  Out of sentimental sense of the fitness of things, she had
dressed the spiel tier in a bright blue jumper with matching panties.
The little animal crept softly across the floor on its tiny human
hands, using its knees for hind feet.  The mock-human face looked up
blindly and squeaked for milk.

The young mother said,

"Mom, you ought to get rid of that thing.  It's all used up and it
looks horrible with your nice period furniture."

"I thought you loved it," said the older woman.

"Of course," said the daughter.

"It was cute, when I was a child.  But I'm not a child any more, and it
doesn't even work."

The spiel tier had struggled to its feet and clutched its mistress's
ankle.  The older woman took it away gently, and put down a saucer of
milk and a cup the size of a thimble.  The spiel tier tried to curtsey,
as it had been motivated to do at the beginning, slipped, fell, and
whimpered.  The mother righted it and the little old animal-toy began
dipping milk with its thimble and sucking the milk into its tiny
toothless old mouth.

"You remember.  Mom " said the younger woman and stopped.

"Remember what, dear?"

" You told me about Helen America and Mr.  Grey-no-more when that was
brand new."

"Yes, darling, maybe I did."

" You didn't tell me everything," said the younger woman accusingly.

The Lady Who Sailed The Soul______________117 "Of course not.  You
were a child.  " "But it was awful.  Those messy people, and the
horrible way sailors lived.  I don't see how you idealised it and
called it a romance " "But it was.  It is," insisted the other.

"Romance, my foot," said the daughter.

"It's as bad as you and the worn-out spiel tier She pointed at the
tiny, living, aged doll who had fallen asleep beside its milk.

"I think it's horrible.

You ought to get rid of it.  And the world ought to get rid of sailors.
" "Don't be harsh, darling, " said the mother.

"Don't be a sentimental old slob, " said the daughter.

"Perhaps we are," said the mother with a loving sort of laugh.
Unobtrusively she put the sleeping spiel tier on a padded chair where
it would not be stepped on or hurt.

Outsiders never knew the real end of the story.

More than a century after their wedding, Helen lay dying: she was dying
happily, because her beloved sailor was beside her.  She believed that
if they could conquer space, they might conquer death as well.

Her loving, happy, weary dying mind blurred over and she picked up an
argument they hadn't touched upon for decades.

"You did so come to The Soul," she said.

"You did so stand beside me when I was lost and did not know how to
handle the weapon."

"If I came then, darling, I'll come again, wherever you are.

You're my darling, my heart, my own true love.  You're my bravest of
ladies, my boldest of people.  You're my own.  You sailed for me.
You're my lady who sailed The Soul."

His voice broke, but his features stayed calm.  He had never before
seen anyone die so confident and so happy.

 When the People Fell "Can you imagine a rain of people through an
acid tog?  Can you imagine thousands and thousands of human bodies,
without weapons, overwhelming the unconquerable monsters?  Can you "
"Look, sir," interrupted the reporter.

"Don't interrupt me!  You ask me silly questions.  I tell you I saw the
Goonhogo itself.  I saw it take Venus.  Now ask me about that!"

The reporter had called to get an old man's reminiscences about bygone
ages.  He did not expect Dobyns Bennett to flare up at him.

Dobyns Bennett thrust home the psychological advantage he had gotten by
taking the initiative.

"Can you imagine showhices in their parachutes, a lot of them dead,
floating out of a green sky?

Can you imagine mothers crying as they fell?  Can you imagine people
pouring down on the poor helpless monsters?"

Mildly, the reporter asked what showhices were.

"That's old Chinesian for children," said Dobyns Bennett.

"I saw the iasf of the nations burst and die, and you want to ask me
about fashionable clothes and things.  Real history never gets into the
books.  It's too shocking.  I suppose you were going to ask me what I
thought of the new striped pantaloons for women!"

"No," said the reporter, but he blushed.  The question was in his
notebook and he hated blushing.

"Do you know what the Goonhogo did?"

"What?"  asked the reporter, struggling to remember just what a
Goonhogo might be.

"It took Venus," said the old man, somewhat more calmly.  Very mildly,
the reporter murmured,

"It did?"

"You bet it did!"  said Dobyns Bennett belligerently.

"Were you there?"  asked the reporter.

"You bet I was there when the Goonhogo took Venus," said the old man.

"I was there and it's the damnedest thing I've ever seen.  You know who
I am.  I've seen more worlds than you can count, boy, and yet when
of Man the non dies and the needies and the showhices came pouring out
of the sky, that was the worst thing that any man could ever see.

Down on the ground, there were the loudies the way they'd always been "
The reporter interrupted, very gently.  Bennett might as well have been
speaking a foreign language.  All of this had happened three hundred
years before.  The reporter's job was to get a feature from him and to
put it into a language which people of the present time could
understand.

Respectfully he said,

"Can't you start at the beginning of the story?"

"You bet.  That's when I married Terza.  Terza was the prettiest girl
you ever saw.  She was one of the Vomacts, a great family of scanners,
and her father was a very important man.  You see, I was thirty-two,
and when a man is thirty-two, he thinks he is pretty old, but I wasn't
really old, I just thought so, and he wanted Terza to marry me because
she was such a complicated girl that she needed a man's help.  The
Court back home had found her unstable and the Instrumentality had
ordered her left in her father's care until she married a man who then
could take on proper custodial authority.  I suppose those are old
customs to you, boy " The reporter interrupted again.

"I am sorry, old man," said he.

"I know you are over four hundred years old and you're the only person
who remembers the time the Goonhogo took Venus.  Now the Goonhogo was a
government, wasn't it?"

"Anyone knows that," snapped the old man.

"The Goonhogo was a sort of separate Chinesian government.  Seventeen
billion of them all crowded in one small part of Earth.  Most of them
spoke English the way you and I do, but they spoke their own language,
too, with all those funny words that have come on down to us.  They
hadn't mixed in with anybody else yet.  Then, you see, the Waywanjong
himself gave the order and that is when the people started raining.
They just fell right out of the sky.  You never saw anything like it "
The reporter had to interrupt him again and again to get the story bit
by bit.  The old man kept using terms that he couldn't seem to realize
were lost in history and that had to be explained to be intelligible to
anyone of this era.  But his memory was excellent and his descriptive
powers as sharp and alert as ever.  .

. .

Young Dobyns Bennett had not been at Experimental Area A very long,
before he realized that the most beautiful female he had ever seen was
Terza Vomact.  At the age of fourteen, she was fully mature.  Some of
the Vomacts did mature that way.  It may have had something to do with
their being descended from unregistered, illegal people centuries back
in the past.  They were even said to have mysterious connections with
the lost world back in the age of nations when people could still put
numbers on the years.

He fell in love with her and felt like a fool for doing it.  She was
so beautiful, it was hard to realize that she was the daughter of
Scanner Vomact himself.  The scanner was a powerful man.

Sometimes romance moves too fast and it did with Dobyns Bennett because
Scanner Vomact himself called in the young man and said,

"I'd like to have you marry my daughter Terza, but I'm not sure she'll
approve of you.  If you can get her, boy, you have my blessing."

Dobyns was suspicious.  He wanted to know why a senior scanner was
willing to take a junior technician.

All that the scanner did was to smile.  He said,

"I'm a lot older than you, and with this new santa clara drug coming in
that may give people hundreds of years, you may think that I died in my
prime if I die at a hundred and twenty.  You may live to four or five
hundred.  But I know my time's coming up.  My wife has been dead for a
long time and we have no other children and I know that Terza needs a
father in a very special kind of way.  The psychologist found her to be
unstable.  Why don't you take her outside the area?  You can get a pass
through the dome anytime.

You can go out and play with the loudies."

Dobyns Bennett was almost as insulted as if someone had given him a
pail and told him to go play in the sand pile And yet he realized that
the elements of play in courtship were fitted together and that the old
man meant well.

The day that it all happened, he and Terza were outside the dome.  They
had been pushing loudies around.

Loudies were not dangerous unless you killed them.  You could knock
them down, push them out of the way, or tie them up; after a while,
they slipped away and went about their business.  It took a very
special kind of ecologist to figure out what their business was.  They
floated two meters high, ninety centimeters in diameter, gently just
above the land of Venus, eating microscopically.  For a long time,
people thought there was radiation on which they subsisted.  They
simply multiplied in tremendous numbers.  In a silly sort of way, it
was fun to push them around, but that was about all there was to do.

They never responded with intelligence.

Once, long before, a loudie taken into the laboratory for experimental
purposes had typed a perfectly clear message on the typewriter.  The
message had read,

"Why don't you Earth people go back to Earth and leave us alone?  We
are getting along all " And that was all the message that anybody had
ever got out of them in three hundred years.  The best laboratory
conclusion was that they had very high intelligence if they ever chose
to use it, but that their volitional mechanism was so profoundly
different from the psychology of human
beings that it was impossible to force a loudie to respond to stress
as people did on Earth.

The name loudie was some kind of word in the old Chinesian language. It
meant the "ancient ones."  Since it was the Chinesians who had set up
the first outposts on Venus, under the orders of their supreme boss the
Waywonjong, their term lingered on, Dobyns and Terza pushed loudies,
climbed over the hills, and looked down into the valleys where it was
impossible to tell a river from a swamp.  They got thoroughly wet,
their air conveners stuck, and perspiration itched and tickled along
their cheeks.

Since they could not eat or drink while outside at least not with any
reasonable degree of safety the excursion could not be called a picnic.
There was something mildly refreshing about playing child with a very
pretty girl-child but Dobyns wearied of the whole thing.

Terza sensed his rejection of her.  Quick as a sensitive animal, she
became angry and petulant.

"You didn't have to come out with me!"

"I wanted to," he said, "but now I'm tired and want to go home."

"You treat me like a child.  All right, play with me.  Or you treat me
like a woman.  All right, be a gentleman.  But don't seesaw all the
time yourself.  I just got to be a little bit happy and you have to get
middle-aged and condescending.  I won't take it."

"Your father " he said, realizing the moment he said it that it was a
mistake.

"My father this, my father that.  If you're thinking about marrying me,
do it yourself."  She glared at him, stuck her tongue out, ran over a
dune, and disappeared.

Dobyns Bennett was baffled.  He did not know what to do.  She was safe
enough.  The loudies never hurt anyone.  He decided to teach her a
lesson and to go on back himself, letting her find her way home when
she pleased.  The Area Search Team could find her easily if she really
got lost.

He walked back to the gate.

When he saw the gates locked and the emergency lights on, he realized
that he had made the worst mistake of his life.

His heart sinking within him, he ran the last few meters of the way,
and beat the ceramic gate with his bare hands until it opened only just
enough to let him in.

"What's wrong?"  he asked the door tender

The door tender muttered something which Dobyns could not understand.

"Speak up, man!"  shouted Dobyns.

"What's wrong?"

"The Goonhogo is coming back and they're taking over."

"That's impossible," said Dobyns.

"They couldn't " He checked himself.  Could they?

When the People Fell "The Goonhogo's taken over," the gatekeeper
insisted.

"They've been given the whole thing.  The Earth Authority has voted it
to them.  The Waywonjong has decided to send people right away. They're
sending them."

"What do the Chinesians want with Venus?  You can't kill a loudie
without contaminating a thousand acres of land.  You can't push them
away without them drifting back.  You can't scoop them up.  Nobody can
live here until we solve the problem of these things.  We're a long way
from having solved it," said Dobyns in angry bewilderment.

The gatekeeper shook his head.

"Don't ask me.  That's all I hear on the radio.  Everybody else is
excited too."

Within an hour, the rain of people began.

Dobyns went up to the radar room, saw the skies above.  The radar man
himself was drumming his fingers against the desk.  He said,

"Nothing like this has been seen for a thousand years or more.  You
know what there is up there?  Those are warships, the warships left
over from the last of the old dirty wars.  I knew the Chinesians were
inside them.  Everybody knew about it.  It was sort of like a museum.
Now they don't have any weapons in them.

But do you know there are millions of people hanging up there over
Venus and I don't know what they are going to do!"

He stopped and pointed at one of the screens.

"Look, you can see them running in patches.  They're behind each other,
so they cluster up solid.  We've never had a screen look like that."

Dobyns looked at the screen.  It was, as the operator said, full of
blips.

As they watched, one of the men exclaimed,

"What's that milky stuff down there in the lower left?  See, it's it's
pouring,"

he said.

"It's pouring somehow out of those dots.  How can you pour things into
a radar?  It doesn't really show, does it?"

The radar man looked at his screen.  He said,

"Search me.  I don't know what it is, either.  You'll have to find out.
Let's just see what happens."

Scanner Vomact came into the room.  He said, once he had taken a quick,
experienced glance at the screens,

"This may be the strangest thing we'll ever see, but I have a feeling
they're dropping people.  Lots of them.  Dropping them by the
thousands, or by the hundreds of thousands, or even by the millions.
But people are coming down there.  Come along with me, you two.  We'll
go out and see it.  There may be somebody that we can help."

By this time, Dobyns's conscience was hurting him badly.  He wanted to
tell Vomact that he had left Terza out there, but he had hesitated not
only because he was ashamed of leaving her, but because he did not want
to tattle on the child to her father.  Now he spoke.

"Your daughter's still outside."

of Man Vomact turned on him solemnly.  The immense eyes looked very
tranquil and very threatening, but the silky voice was controlled.

"You may find her."  The scanner added, in a tone which sent the thrill
of menace up Dobyns's back,

"And everything will be well if you bring her back."

Dobyns nodded as though receiving an order.

"I shall," said Vomact, "go out myself, to see what I can do, but I
leave the finding of my daughter to you."

They went down, put on the extra-long-period converters, carried their
miniaturized survey equipment so that they could find their way back
through the fog, and went out.  Just as they were at the gate, the
gatekeeper said,

"Wait a moment, sir and excellency.  I have a message for you here on
the phone.  Please call Control."

Scanner Vomact was not to be called lightly and he knew it.

He picked up the connection unit and spoke harshly.

The radar man came on the phone screen in the gatekeeper's wall.

"They're overhead now, sir."

"Who's overhead?"

"The Chinesians are.  They're coming down.  I don't know how many there
are.  There must be two thousand warships over our heads right here and
there are more thousands over the rest of Venus.  They're down now.  If
you want to see them hit ground, you'd better get outside quick."

Vomact and Dobyns went out.

Down came the Chinesians.  People's bodies were raining right out of
the milk-cloudy sky.  Thousands upon thousands of them with plastic
parachutes that looked like bubbles.  Down they came.

Dobyns and Vomact saw a headless man drift down.  The parachute cords
had decapitated him.

A woman fell near them.  The drop had torn her breathing tube loose
from her crudely bandaged throat and she was choking in her own blood.
She staggered toward them, tried to babble but only drooled blood with
mute choking sounds, and then fell face forward into the mud.

Two babies dropped.  The adult accompanying them had been blown off
course.  Vomact ran, picked them up, and handed them to a Chinesian man
who had just landed.  The man looked at the babies in his arms, sent
Vomact a look of contemptuous inquiry, put the weeping children down in
the cold slush of Venus, gave them a last impersonal glance, and ran
off on some mysterious errand of his own.

Vomact kept Bennett from picking up the children.

"Come on, let's keep looking.  We can't take care of all of them."

public habits; but they never suspected that the non dies and the
needies and the showhices could pour down out of a poisoned sky.

Only the Goonhogo itself would make such a reckless use of human life.
Nondies were men and needies were women and showhices were the little
children.  And the Goonhogo was a name left over from the old days of
nations.  It meant something like republic or state or government.
Whatever it was, it was the organization that ran the Chinesians in the
Chinesian manner, under the Earth Authority.

And the ruler of the Goonhogo was the Waywonjong.

The Waywonjong didn't come to Venus.  He just sent his people.  He sent
them floating down into Venus, to tackle the Venusian ecology with the
only weapons which could make a settlement of that planet possible
people themselves.  Human arms could tackle the loudies, the loudies
who had been called "old ones" by the first Chinesian scouts to cover
Venus.

The loudies had to be gathered together so gently that they would not
die and, in dying, each contaminate a thousand acres.

They had to be kept together by human bodies and arms in a gigantic
living corral.

Scanner Vomact rushed forward.

A wounded Chinesian man hit the ground and his parachute collapsed
behind him.  He was clad in a pair of shorts, had a knife at his belt,
canteen at his waist.  He had an air converter attached next to his
ear, with a tube running into his throat.  He shouted something
unintelligible at them and limped rapidly away.

People kept on hitting the ground all around Vomact and Dobyns.

The self-disposing parachutes were bursting like bubbles in the misty
air, a moment or two after they touched the ground.

Someone had done a tricky, efficient job with the chemical consequences
of static electricity.

And as the two watched, the air was heavy with people.  One time,
Vomact was knocked down by a person.  He found that it was two
Chinesian children tied together.

Dobyns asked,

"What are you doing?  Where are you going?

Do you have any leaders?"

He got cries and shouts in an unintelligible language.  Here and there
someone shouted in English,

"This way!"  or

"Leave us alone!"  or

"Keep going ...," but that was all.

The experiment worked.

Eighty-two million people were dropped in that one day.

After four hours which seemed barely short of endless, Dobyns found
Terza in a corner of the cold hell.  Though Venus was warm, the
suffering of the almost-naked Chinesians had chilled his blood.

Terza ran toward him.

She could not speak.

She put her head on his chest and sobbed.  Finally she managed to
say,

"I've I've I've tried to help, but they're too many, too many, too
many!"  And the sentence ended as shrill as a scream.

Dobyns led her back to the experimental area.

They did not have to talk.  Her whole body told him that she wanted his
love and the comfort of his presence, and that she had chosen that
course of life which would keep them together.

As they left the drop area, which seemed to cover all of Venus so far
as they could tell, a pattern was beginning to form.  The Chinesians
were beginning to round up the loudies.

Terza kissed him mutely after the gatekeeper had let them through.  She
did not need to speak.  Then she fled to her room.

The next day, the people from Experimental Area A tried to see if they
could go out and lend a hand to the settlers.  It wasn't possible to
lend a hand; there were too many settlers.  People by the millions were
scattered all over the hills and valleys of Venus, sludging through the
mud and water with their human toes, crushing the alien mud, crushing
the strange plants.  They didn't know what to eat.  They didn't know
where to go.  They had no leaders.

All they had were orders to gather the loudies together in large herds
and hold them there with human arms.

The loudies didn't resist.

After a time-lapse of several Earth days the Goonhogo sent small scout
cars.  They brought a very different kind of Chinesian these late
arrivals were uniformed, educated, cruel, smug men.  They knew what
they were doing.  And they were willing to pay any sacrifice of their
own people to get it done.

They brought instructions.  They put the people together in gangs.  It
did not matter where the non dies and needies had come from on Earth;
it didn't matter whether they found their own showhices or somebody
else's.  They were shown the jobs to do and they got to work.  Human
bodies accomplished what machines could not have done they kept the
loudies firmly but gently encircled until every last one of the
creatures was starved into nothingness.

Rice fields began to appear miraculously.

Scanner Vomact couldn't believe it.  The Goonhogo biochemists had
managed to adapt rice to the soil of Venus.  And yet the seedlings came
out of boxes in the scout cars and weeping people walked over the
bodies of their own dead to keep the crop moving toward the planting.

Venusian bacteria could not kill human beings, nor could they dispose
of human bodies after death.  A problem arose and was solved. Immense
When the People Fell_________________ 127 sleds carried dead men,
women, and children those who had fallen wrong, or drowned as they
fell, or had been trampled by others to an undisclosed destination.
Dobyns suspected the material was to be used to add Earth-type organic
waste to the soil of Venus, but he did not tell Terza.

The work went on.

The non dies and needies kept working in shifts.  When they could not
see in the darkness, they proceeded without seeing keeping in line by
touch or by shout.  Foremen, newly trained, screeched commands. Workers
lined up, touching fingertips.  The job of building the fields kept
on.

"That's a big story," said the old man.

"Eighty-two million people dropped in a single day.  And later I heard
that the Waywonjong said it wouldn't have mattered if seventy million
of them had died.  Twelve million survivors would have been enough to
make a space head for the Goonhogo.  The Chinesians got Venus, all of
it.

"But I'll never forget the non dies and the needies and the showhices
falling out of the sky, men and women and children with their poor
scared Chinesian faces.  That funny Venusian air made them look green
instead of tan.  There they were, falling all around.

"You know something, young man?"  said Dobyns Bennett, approaching his
fifth century of age.

"What?"  said the reporter.

"There won't be things like that happening on any world again.  Because
now, after all, there isn't any separate Goonhogo left.  There's only
one Instrumentality and they don't care what a man's race may have been
in the ancient years.  Those were the rough old days, the ones I lived
in.  Those were the days men still tried to do things."

Dobyns almost seemed to doze off, but he roused himself sharply and
said,

"I tell you, the sky was full of people.  They fell like water.  They
fell like rain.  I've seen the awful ants in Africa, and there's not a
thing among the stars to beat them for prowling horror.  Mind you,
they're worse than anything the stars contain.

I' ve seen the crazy worlds near Alpha Centauri, but I never saw
anything like the time the people fell on Venus.  More than eighty two
million in one day and my own little Terza lost among them.

"But the rice did sprout.  And the loudies died as the walls of people
held them in with human arms.  Walls of people, I tell you, with
volunteers jumping in to take the places of the falling ones.

"They were people still, even when they shouted in the darkness.  They
tried to help each other even while they fought a fight that had to be
fought without violence.  They were people still.  And they did so win.
It was crazy and impossible, but they won.  Mere human beings did what
machines and science would have taken another thousand years to do
...
of Man "The funniest thing of all was the first house that I saw a non
die put up, there in the rain of Venus.  I was out there with Vomact
and with a pale sad Terza.  It wasn't much of a house, shaped out of
twisted Venusian wood.  There it was.  He built it, the smiling
half-naked Chinesian non die We went to the door and said to him in
English,

"What are you building here, a shelter or a hospital?"

"The Chinesian grinned at us.

"No," he said, 'gambling."

"Vomact wouldn't believe it: "Gambling?"

" "Sure," said the non die

"Gambling is the first thing a man needs in a strange place.  It can
take the worry out of his soul."" "Is that all?"  said the reporter.

Dobyns Bennett muttered that the personal part did not count.

He added,

"Some of my great-great-great-great-great-grandsons may come along. You
count those greats.  Their faces will show you easily enough that I
married into the Vomact line.  Terza saw what happened.  She saw how
people build worlds.  This was the hard way to build them.  She never
forgot the night with the dead Chinesian babies lying in the
half-illuminated mud, or the parachute ropes dissolving slowly.  She
heard the needles weeping and the helpless non dies comforting them and
leading them off to nowhere.  She remembered the cruel, neat officers
coming out of the scout cars.  She got home and saw the rice come up,
and saw how the Goonhogo made Venus a Chinesian place."

"What happened to you personally?"  asked the reporter.

"Nothing much.  There wasn't any more work for us, so we closed down
Experimental Area A. I married Terza.

"Any time later, when I said to her,

"You're not such a bad girl!"  she was able to admit the truth and tell
me she was not.  That night in the rain of people would test anybody's
soul and it tested hers.  She had met a big test and passed it.  She
used to say to me, "I saw it once.  I saw the people fall, and I never
want to see another person suffer again.  Keep me with you, Dobyns,
keep me with you forever."

"And," said Dobyns Bennett, "it wasn't forever, but it was a happy and
sweet three hundred years.  She died after our fourth diamond
anniversary.  Wasn't that a wonderful thing, young man?"

The reporter said it was.  And yet, when he took the story back to his
editor, he was told to put it into the archives.  It wasn't the right
kind of story for entertainment and the public would not appreciate it
any more.

 Think Blue, Count Two Before the great ships whispered between the
stars by means of plano forming people had to fly from star to star
with immense sails huge films assorted in space on long, rigid, cold
proof rigging.  A small space boat provided room for a sailor to handle
the sails, check the course, and watch the passengers who were sealed,
like knots in immense threads, in their little adiabatic pods which
trailed behind the ship.  The passengers knew nothing, except for going
to sleep on Earth and waking up on a strange new world forty, fifty, or
two hundred years later.

This was a primitive way to do it.  But it worked.

On such a ship Helen America had followed Mr.  Grey-no more On such
ships, the Scanners retained their ancient authority over space.  Two
hundred planets and more were settled in this fashion, including Old
North Australia, destined to be the treasure house of them all.

The Emigration Port was a series of low, square buildings nothing like
Earthport, which towers above the clouds like a frozen nuclear
explosion.

Emigration Port is dour, drab, dreary, and efficient.  The walls are
black-red like old blood merely because they are cheaper to heat that
way.  The rockets are ugly and simple; the rocket pits, as inglorious
as machine shops.  Earth has a few showplaces to tell visitors about.
Emigration Port is not one of them.  The people who work there get the
privilege of real work and secure professional honors.  The people who
go there become unconscious very soon.  What they remember about Earth
is a little room like a hospital room, a little bed, some music, some
talk, the sleep, and (perhaps) the cold.

From Emigration Port they go to their pods, sealed in.  The pods go to
the rockets and these to the sailing ship.  That's the old way of doing
it.

The new way is better.  All a person does now is visit a pleasant
lounge, or play a game of cards, or eat a meal or two.  All he needs is
half the
wealth of a planet, or a couple hundred years' seniority marked
"excellent" without a single break.

The photonic sails were different.  Everyone took chances.

A young man, bright of skin and hair, merry at heart, set out for a new
world.  An older man, his hair touched with gray, went with him.  So,
too, did thirty thousand others.  And also, the most beautiful girl on
Earth.

Earth could have kept her, but the new worlds needed her.

She had to go.

She went by light-sail ship.  And she had to cross space space, where
the danger always waits.

Space sometimes commands strange tools to its uses the screams of a
beautiful child, the laminated brain of a long-dead mouse, the
heartbroken weeping of a computer.  Most space offers no respite, no
relay, no rescue, no repair.  All dangers must be anticipated;
otherwise they become mortal.  And the greatest of all hazards is the
risk of man himself.

"She's beautiful," said the first technician.

"She's just a child," said the second.

"She won't look like much of a child when they're two hundred years
out," said the first.

"But she is a child," said the second, smiling, "a beautiful doll with
blue eyes, just going tiptoe into the beginnings of grown-up life."  He
sighed.

"She'll be frozen," said the first.

"Not all the time," said the second.

"Sometimes they wake up.

They have to wake up.  The machines de freeze them.  You remember the
crimes on the Old Twenty-two.  Nice people, but the wrong combinations.
And everything went wrong, dirtily, brutally wrong."

They both remembered Old Twenty-two.  The hell-ship had drifted between
the stars for a long time before its beacon brought rescue.  Rescue was
much too late.

The ship was in immaculate condition.  The sails were set at a correct
angle.  The thousands of frozen sleepers, strung out behind the ship in
their one-body adiabatic pods, would have been in excellent condition,
but they had merely been left in open space too long and most of them
had spoiled.  The inside of the ship there was the trouble.  The sailor
had failed or died.  The reserve passengers had been awakened.  They
did not get on well with one another.  Or else they got on too horribly
well, in the wrong way.  Out between the stars, encased only by a frail
limited cabin, they had invented new crimes and committed them upon
each other crimes which a million years of Earth's old wickedness had
never brought to the surface of man before.

me, Count Two The investigators of Old Twenty-two had become very
sick, reconstructing the events that followed the awakening of the
reserve crew; two of them had asked for blanking and had obviously
retired from service.

The two technicians knew all about Old Twenty-two as they watched the
fifteen-year-old woman sleeping on the table.  Was she a woman?  Was
she a girl?  What would happen to her if she did wake up on the
flight?

She breathed delicately.

The two technicians looked across her figure at one another and then
the first one said: "We'd better call the psychological guard.  It's a
job for him."

"He can try," said the second.

The psychological guard, a man whose number-name ended in the digits
Tiga-be las came cheerfully into the room a half-hour later.  He was a
dreamy-looking old man, sharp and alert, probably in his fourth
rejuvenation.  He looked at the beautiful girl on the table and inhaled
sharply, "What's this for a ship?"

"No," said the first technician, "it's a beauty contest."

"Don't be a fool," said the psychological guard.

"You mean they are really sending that beautiful child into the
Upand-Out?"

"It's stock," said the second technician.

"The people out on Wereld Schemering are running dreadfully ugly, and
they flashed a sign to the Big Blink that they had to have better
looking people.  The Instrumentality is doing right by them.

All the people on this ship are handsome or beautiful."

"If she's that precious, why don't they freeze her and put her in a
pod?  That way she would either get there or she would not.  A face as
pretty as that," said Tiga-be las "could start trouble anywhere.  Let
alone a ship.  What's her name number

"On the board there," said the first technician.

"It's all on the board there.  You'll want the others too.  They're
listed, too, and ready to go on the board."

"Veesey-koosey," read the psychological guard, saying the words aloud,
"or five-six.  That's a silly name, but it's rather cute."  With one
last look back at the sleeping girl, he bent to his work of reading the
case histories of the people added to the reserve crew.  Within ten
lines, he saw why the girl was being kept ready for emergencies,
instead of sleeping the whole trip through.  She had a Daughter
Potential of 999.999, meaning that any normal adult of either sex could
and would accept her as a daughter after a few minutes of
relationship.

She had no skill in herself, no learning, no trained capacities.

But she could remotivate almost anyone older than herself, and she
showed a probability of making that remotivated person put up a
gigantic fight for life.  For her sake.  And secondarily the
adopter's.

That was all, but it was special enough to put her in the cabin.

She had tested out into the literal truth of the ancient poetic scrap,
"the fairest of the daughters of old, old Earth."

When Tiga-be las finished taking his notes from the records, the
working time was almost over.  The technicians had not interrupted him.
 He turned around to look one last time at the lovely girl.  She was
gone. The second technician had left and the first was cleaning his
hands.

"You haven't frozen her?"  cried Tiga-be las

"I'll have to fix her too, if the safeguard is to work."

"Of course you do," said the first technician.

"We've left you two minutes for it."

"You give me two minutes," said Tiga-be las "to protect a trip of four
hundred and fifty years!"

"Do you need more," said the technician, and it was not even a
question, except in form.

"Do I?"  said Tiga-be las He broke into a smile.

"No, I don't.

That girl will be safe long after I am dead."

"When do you die?"  said the technician, socially.

"Seventy-three years, two months, four days," said Tiga-be las
agreeably.

"I'm a fourth-and-last."

"I thought so," said the technician.

"You're smart.  Nobody starts off that way.  We all learn.  I'm sure
you'll take care of that girl."

They left the laboratory together and ascended to the surface and the
cool restful night of Earth.

Late the next day, Tiga-be las came in, very cheerful indeed.

In his left hand he held a drama spool, full commercial size.  In his
right hand there was a black plastic cube with shimmering silver
contact-points gleaming on its sides.  The two technicians greeted him
politely.

The psychological guard could not hide his excitement and his
pleasure.

"I've got that beautiful child taken care of.  The way she is going to
be fixed, she'll keep her Daughter Potential, but it's going to be a
lot closer to one thousand point double zero than it was with all those
nines.  I've used a mouse-brain."

"If it's frozen," said the first technician, "we won't be able to put
it in the computer.  It will have to go forward with the emergency
stores."

"This brain isn't frozen," said Tiga-be las indignantly.

"It's been laminated.  We stiffened it with celluprime and then we
veneered it down,
Think Blue, Count Two about seven thousand layers.  Each one has
plastic of at least two molecular thicknesses.  This mouse can't spoil.
As a matter of fact, this mouse is going to go on thinking forever.

He won't think much, unless we put the voltage on him, but he'll think.
And he can't spoil.  This is ceramic plastic, and it would take a major
weapon to break it."  "The contacts .  . .?

" said the second technician.

"They don't go through," said Tiga-be las

"This mouse is tuned into that girl's personality, up to a thousand
meters.  You can put him anywhere in the ship.  The case has been
hardened.  The contacts are just attached on the outside.  They feed to
nickel-steel counterpart contacts on the inside.  I told you, this
mouse is going to be thinking when the last human being on the last
known planet is dead.  And it's going to be thinking about that girl.
Forever."

"Forever is an awfully long time," said the first technician, with a
shiver.

"We only need a safety period of two thousand years.  The girl herself
would spoil in less than a thousand years, if anything did go wrong."

"Never you mind," said Tiga-be las "that girl is going to be guarded
whether she is spoiled or not."  He spoke to the cube.

"You're going along with Veesey, fellow, and if she is an Old
Twenty-two you'll turn the whole thing into a toddle-garden frolic
complete with ice cream and hymns to the West Wind."  Tigabelas looked
up at the other men and said, quite unnecessarily, "He can't hear
me."

"Of course not," said the first technician, very dryly.  They all
looked at the cube.  It was a beautiful piece of engineering.

The psychological guard had reason to be proud of it.

"Do you need the mouse any more?"  said the first technician.

"Yes," said Tiga-be las

"One-third of a millisecond at forty megadynes.  I want him to get her
whole life printed on his left cortical lobe.  Particularly her
screams.  She screamed badly at ten months.  Something she got in her
mouth.  She screamed at ten when she thought the air had stopped in her
drop-shaft.  It hadn't, or she wouldn't be here.  They're in her
record.  I want the mouse to have those screams.  And she had a pair of
red shoes for her fourth birthday.  Give me the full two minutes with
her.  I've printed the key on the complete series of Marcia and the
Moon Men that was the best box drama for teen-age girls that they ran
last year.  Veesey saw it.  This time she'll see it again, but the
mouse will be tied in.  She won't have the chance of a snowball in hell
of forgetting it."  Said the first technician,

"What was that?"  "Huh?"  said Tiga-be las

"What was that you just said, that, at the end?"  "Are you deaf?"
"No,"

said the technician huffily.

"I just didn't understand what you
"I said that she would not have the chance of a snowball in hell of
forgetting it."

"That's what I thought you said," replied the technician.

"What is a snowball?  What is hell?  What sort of chances do they
make?"

The second technician interrupted eagerly.

"I know," he explained.

"Snowballs are ice formations on Neptune.  Hell is a planet out near
Khufu VII.  I don't know how anybody would get them together."

Tiga-be las looked at them with the weary amazement of the very old. 
He did not feel like explaining, so he said gently: "Let's leave the
literature till another time.  All I meant was, Veesey will be safe
when she's cued into this mouse.  The mouse will outlast her and
everybody else, and no teen-age girl is going to forget Marcia and the
Moon Men.  Not when she saw every single episode twice over.  This girl
did."

"She's not going to render the other passengers ineffectual?

That wouldn't help," said the first technician.

"Not a bit," said Tiga-be las

"Give me those strengths again," said the first technician.

"Mouse one-third millisecond at forty megadynes."

"They'll hear that way beyond the moon," said the technician.

"You can't put that sort of stuff into people's heads without a permit.
Do you want us to get a special permit from the Instrumentality?"

"For one-third of a millisecond?"

The two men faced each other for a moment; then the technician began
creasing his forehead, his mouth began to smile, and they both laughed.
The second technician did not understand it and Tiga-be las said to
him: "I'm putting the girl's whole lifetime into one-third of a
millisecond at top power.  It will drain over into the mouse-brain
inside this cube.  What is the normal human reaction within one third
millisecond?"

"Fifteen milliseconds " The second technician started to speak and
stopped himself.

"That's right," said Tiga-be las

"People don't get anything at all in less than fifteen milliseconds.
This mouse isn't only veneered and laminated; he's fast.  The
lamination is faster than his own synapses ever were.  Bring on the
girl."

The first technician had already gone to get her.

The second technician turned back for one more question.

"Is the mouse dead?"

"No.  Yes.  Of course not.  What do you mean?  Who knows?"

said Tiga-be las all in one breath.

The younger man stared but the couch with the beautiful girl had
already rolled into the room.  Her skin had chilled down from pink to
ivory and her respiration was no longer visible to the naked eye, but
she was still beautiful.  The deep freezing had not yet begun.

The first technician began to whistle.

"Mouse forty megadynes, one-third of a millisecond.  Girl, output
maximum, same time.  Girl input, two minutes, what volume?"

"Anything," said Tiga-be las

"Anything.  Whatever you use for deep personality engraving."

"Set," said the technician.

"Take the cube," said Tigabelas.

The technician took it and fitted it into the coffin like box near the
girl's head.

"Good-bye, immortal mouse," said Tiga-be las

"Think about the beautiful girl when I am dead and don't get too tired
of Marc ia and the Moon Men when you've seen it for a million years . .
."

"Record," said the second technician.  He took it from Tigabelas and
put it into a standard drama-shower, but one with output cables heavier
than any home had ever installed.

"Do you have a code word?"  said the first technician.

"It's a little poem," said Tiga-be las He reached in his pocket.

"Don't read it aloud.  If any of us mis spoke a word, there is a chance
she might hear it and it would heterodyne the relationship between her
and the laminated mouse."

The two looked at a scrap of paper.  In clear, archaic writing there
appeared the lines: Lady if a man Tries to bother you, you can Think
blue, Count two, And look for a red shoe.

The technicians laughed warmly.

"That'll do it," said the first technician.

Tiga-be las gave them an embarrassed smile of thanks.

"Turn them both on," he said.

"Good-bye, girl," he murmured to himself.

"Good-bye, mouse.  Maybe I'll see you in seventy-four years."

The room flashed with a kind of invisible light inside their heads.

In moon orbit a navigator wondered about his mother's red shoes.

Two million people on Earth started to count "one-two" and then
wondered why they had done so.

A bright young parakeet, in an orbital ship, began reciting the whole
verse and baffled the crew as to what the meaning might be.

Apart from this, there were no side-effects.

The girl in the coffin arched her body with terrible strain.  The
electrodes had scorched the skin at her temples.  The scars stood
bright red against the chilled fresh skin of the girl.

The cube showed no sign from the dead-live live-dead mouse.

While the second technician put ointment on Veesey's scars, Tiga-be las
put on a headset and touched the terminals of the cube very gently
without moving it from the snap-in position it held in the
coffin-shaped box.

He nodded, satisfied.  He stepped back.

"You're sure the girl got it?"

"We'll read it back before she goes to deep-freeze."

"Marcia and the Moon Men, what?"

"Can't miss it," said the first technician.

"I'll let you know if there's anything missing.  There won't be."

Tiga-be las took one last look at the lovely, lovely girl.

Seventy-three years, two months, three days, he thought to himself. And
she, beyond Earth rules, may be awarded a thousand years.  And the
mouse-brain has got a million years.

Veesey never knew any of them neither the first technician, nor the
second technician, nor Tiga-be las the psychological guard.

To the day of her death, she knew that Marcia and the Moon Men had
included the most wonderful blue lights, the hypnotic count of
"one-two, one-two" and the prettiest red shoes that any girl had seen
on or off Earth.

Three hundred and twenty-six years later she had to wake up.

Her box had opened.

Her body ached in every muscle and nerve.

The ship was screaming emergency and she had to get up.

She wanted to sleep, to sleep, or to die.

The ship kept screaming.

She had to get up.

She lifted an arm to the edge of her coffin-bed.  She had practiced
getting in and out of the bed in the long training period before they
sent her underground to be hypnotized and frozen.  She knew just what
to reach for, just what to expect.  She pulled herself over on her
side.  She opened her eyes.

The lights were yellow and strong.  She closed her eyes again.

This time a voice sounded from somewhere near her.  It seemed to be
saying,

"Take the straw in your mouth."

Veesey groaned.

The voice kept on saying things.

Something scratchy pressed against her mouth.

She opened her eyes.

The outline of a human head had come between her and the light.

She squinted, trying to see if it might be one more of the doctors. No,
this was the ship.

The face came into focus.

It was the face of a very handsome and very young man.  His eyes looked
into hers.  She had never seen anyone who was both handsome and
sympathetic, quite the way that he was.  She tried to see him clearly,
and found herself beginning to smile.

The drinking-tube thrust past her lips and teeth.

Automatically she sucked at it.  The fluid was something like soup, but
it had a medicinal taste too.

The face had a voice.

"Wake up," he said, "wake up.  It doesn't do any good to hold back now.
You need some exercise as soon as you can manage it."

She let the tube slip from her mouth and gasped,

"Who are you?"

"Trece," he said, "and that's Talatashar over there.  We've been up for
two months, rescuing the robots.  We need your help."

"Help," she murmured, "my help?"

Trece's face wrinkled and crinkled in a delightful grin.

"Well, we sort of needed you.  We really do need a third mind to watch
the robots when we think we've fixed them.  And besides, we're lonely.
Talatashar and I aren't much company to each other.  We looked over the
list of reserve crew and we decided to wake you."

He reached out a friendly hand to her.

When she sat up she saw the other man, Talatashar.  She immediately
recoiled: she had never seen anyone so ugly.  His hair was gray and
cropped.  Piggy little eyes peered out of eye-sockets which looked
flooded with fat.  His cheeks hung down in monstrous jowls on either
side.  On top of all that, his face was lopsided.  One side seemed wide
awake but the other was twisted in an endless spasm which looked like
agony.  She could not help putting her hand to her mouth.  And it was
with the back of her hand against her lips that she spoke.

"I thought I thought everybody on this ship was supposed to be
handsome."

One side of Talatashar's face smiled at her while the other half stayed
with its expression of frozen hurt.

"We were," his voice rumbled, and it was not of itself an unpleasant
voice, "we all were.  Some of us always get spoiled in the freezing. It
will take you a while to get used to me."  He laughed grimly.

"It took me a while to get used to me.  In two months, I've managed.
Pleased to meet you.  Maybe you'll be pleased to meet me, after a
while.  What do you think of that, eh, Trece?"

"What?"  said Trece, who had watched them both with friendly worry.

"The girl.  So tactful.  The direct diplomacy of the very young.

Was I handsome, she said.  No, say I. What is she, anyhow?"

Trece turned to her.

"Let me help you sit," he said.

She sat up on the edge of her box.

Wordlessly he passed the skin of fluid to her with its drinking tube,
and she went back to sucking her broth.  Her eyes peered up at the two
men like the eyes of a small child.  They were as innocent and troubled
as the eyes of a kitten which has met worry for the first time.

"What are you?"  said Trece.

She took her lips away from the tube for a moment.

"A girl,"

she said.

Half of Talatashar's face smiled a sophisticated smile.  The other half
moved a little with muscular drag, but expressed nothing.

"We see that," said he, grimly.

"He means," said Trece conciliatorily, "what have you been trained
for?"

She took her mouth away again.

"Nothing," said she.

The men laughed both of them.  First, Trece laughed with all the evil
in the world in his voice.  Then Talatashar laughed, and he was too
young to laugh his own way.  His laughter, too, was cruel.  There was
something masculine, mysterious, threatening, and secret in it, as
though he knew all about things which girls could find out only at the
cost of pain and humiliation.  He was as alien, for the moment, as men
have always been from women: filled with secret motives and concealed
desires, driven by bright sharp thoughts which women neither had nor
wished to have.

Perhaps more than his body had spoiled.

There was nothing in Veesey's own life to make her fear that laugh, but
the instinctive reaction of a million years of womanhood behind her was
to disregard the evil, go on the alert for more trouble, and hope for
the best at the moment.  She knew, from books and tapes, all about sex.
This laugh had nothing to do with babies or with love.  There was
contempt and power and cruelty in it the cruelty of men who are cruel
merely because they are men.  For an instant she hated both of them,
but she was not alarmed enough to set off the trigger of the protective
devices which the psychological guard had built into her mind itself.

Instead, she looked down the cabin, ten meters long and four meters
wide.

This was home now, perhaps forever.  There were sleepers somewhere,
but she did not see their boxes.  All she had was this small space and
the two men Trece with his warm smile, his nice voice, his interesting
gray-blue eyes; and Talatashar, with his ruined face.  And their
laughter.  That wretchedly mysterious masculine laughter, hostile and
laughing-at in its undertones.

Life's life, she thought, and I must live it.  Here.  Talatashar, who
had finished laughing, now spoke in a very different voice.

"There will be time for the fun and games later.  First, we have to get
the work done.  The photonic sails aren't picking up enough starlight
to get us anywhere.  The mainsail is ripped by a meteor.  We can't
repair it, not when it's twenty miles across.  So we have to jury-rig
the ship that's the right old word."

"How does it work?"  asked Veesey sadly, not much interested in her own
question.  The aches and pains of the long freeze were beginning to
bedevil her.

Talatashar said,

"It's simple.  The sails are coated.  We were put into orbit by
rockets.  The pressure of light is bigger on one side than on the
other.  With some pressure on one side and virtually no pressure on the
other, the ship has to go somewhere.

Interstellar matter is very fine and does not give us enough drag to
slow us down.  The sails pull away from the brightest source of light
at any time.  For the first eighty years it was the sun.  Then we began
trying to get both the sun and some bright patches of light behind it.
Now we have more light coming at us than we want, and we will be pulled
away from our destination if we do not point the blind side of the
sails at the goal and the pushing sides at the next best source.  The
sailor died, for some reason we can't figure out.  The ship's automatic
mechanism woke us up and the navigation board explained the situation
to us.  Here we are.

We have to fix the robots."

"But what's the matter with them?  Why don't they do it themselves? Why
did they have to wake up people?  They're supposed to be so smart." She
particularly wondered, Why did they have to wake up me, But she
suspected the answer that the men had done it, not the robots and she
did not want to make them say it.  She still remembered how their
masculine laughter had turned ugly.

"The robots weren't programmed to tear up sails only to fix them. We've
got to condition them to accept the damage that we want to leave, and
to go ahead with the new work which we are adding."  "Could I have
something to eat?"  asked Veesey.

"Let me get it!"  cried Trece.

"Why not?"  said Talatashar.

of Man While she ate, they went over the proposed work in detail, the
three of them talking it out calmly.  Veesey felt more relaxed.  She
had the sensation that they were taking her in as a partner.

By the time they completed their work schedules, they were sure it
would take between thirty-five and forty-two normal days to get the
sails stiffened and re-hung.  The robots did the outside work, but the
sails were seventy thousand miles long by twenty thousand miles wide.

Forty-two days!

The work was not forty-two days at all.

It was one year and three days before they finished.

The relationships in the cabin had not changed much.

Talatashar left her alone except to make ugly remarks.  Nothing he had
found in the medicine cabinet had made him look any better, but some of
the things drugged him so that he slept long and well.

Trece had long since become her sweetheart, but it was such an innocent
romance that it might have been conducted on grass, under elms, at the
edge of an Earthside silky river.

Once she had found them fighting and had exclaimed: "Stop it!  Stop it!
You can't!"

When they did stop hitting each other, she said wonderingly: "I thought
you couldn't.  Those boxes.  Those safeguards.  Those things they put
in with us."

And Talatashar said, in a voice of infinite ugliness and finality,

"That's what they thought.  I threw those things out of the ship months
ago.  Don't want them around."

The effect on Trece was dramatic, as bad as if he had walked into one
of the Ancient Unselfing Grounds unaware.  He stood utterly still, his
eyes wide and his voice filled with fear when, at last, he did speak.

"So that's why we fought!"

"You mean the boxes?  They're gone, all right."

"But," gasped Trece, "each was protected by each one's box.

We were all protected from ourselves.  God help us all!"

"What is God?"  said Talatashar.

"Never mind.  It's an old word.  I heard it from a robot.  But what are
we going to do?  What are you going to do?"  said he accusingly to
Talatashar.

"Me," said Talatashar,

"I'm doing nothing.  Nothing has happened."  The working side of his
face twisted in a hideous smile.

Veesey watched both of them.

She did not understand it, but she feared it, that unspecific danger.

Talatashar gave them his ugly, masculine laugh, but this time Trece did
not join him.  He stared open-mouthed at the other man.

Talatashar put on a show of courage and indifference.

"Shift's up," he said, "and I'm turning in."

Veesey nodded and tried to say good night but no words came.  She was
frightened and inquisitive.  Of the two, feeling inquisitive was worse.
There were thirty odd thousand people all around her, but only these
two were alive and present.  They knew something which she did not
know.

Talatashar made a brave show of it by bidding her, "Mix up something
special for the big eating tomorrow.

Mind you do it, girl."  He climbed into the wall.

When Veesey turned toward Trece, it was he who fell into her arms.

"J'm frightened," he said.

"We can face anything in space, but we can't face us.  I'm beginning to
think that the sailor killed himself.  His psychoiogicalguardbroke down
too.  And now we 'real] alone with just us.  " Veesey looked
instinctively around the cabin.

"It's all the same as before.  Just the three of us, and this little
room, and the Up-and-Out outside."

"Don't you see it, darling?"  He grabbed her by the shoulders.

"The little boxes protected us from ourselves.

And now there aren't any.  We are helpless.  There isn't anything here
to protect us from us.  What hurts man like man?  What kills people
like people?  What danger to us could be more terrible than
ourselves?"

She tried to pull away.

"It's not that bad."

Without answering he pulled her to him.  He began tearing at her
clothes.  The jacket and shorts, like his own, were omni-textile and
fitted tight.  She fought him off but she was not the least bit
frightened.  She was sorry for him, and at this moment the only thing
that worried her was that Talatashar might wake up and try to help her.
That would be too much.  Trece was not hard to stop.

She got him to sit down and they drifted into the big chair together.
His face was as tear-stained as her own.  That night, they did not make
love.

In whispers, in gasps, he told her the story of Old Twentytwo.  He told
her that people poured out among the stars and that the ancient things
inside people woke up, so that the deeps of their minds were more
terrible than the blackest depth of space.  Space never committed
crimes.  It just killed.  Nature could transmit death, but only man
could carry crime from world to world.  Without the boxes, they looked
into the bottomless depths of their own unknown selves.

She did not really understand, but she tried as well as she possibly
could.

He went to sleep it was long after his shift should have ended
murmuring over and over again:
"Veesey, Veesey, protect me from me!  What can I do now, now, now, so
that I won't do something terrible later on?  What can I do?  Now I'm
afraid of me, Veesey, and afraid of Old Twentytwo.  Veesey, Veesey,
you've got to save me from me.  What can I do now, now, now ... ?"

She had no answer and after he slept, she slept.  The yellow lights
burned brightly on them both.  The robot-board, reading that no human
being was in the "on" position, assumed complete control of the ship
and sails.

Talatashar woke them in the morning.

No one that day, nor any of the succeeding days, said anything about
the boxes.  There was nothing to say.

But the two men watched each other like unrelated beasts and Veesey
herself began watching them in turn.  Something wrong and vital had
come into the room, some exuberance of life which she had never known
existed.  It did not smell; she could not see it; she could not reach
it with her fingers.  It was something real, nevertheless.  Perhaps it
was what people once called danger.

She tried to be particularly friendly to both the men.  It made the
feeling diminish within her.  But Trece became surly and jealous and
Talatashar smiled his untruthful lopsided smile.

IV

Danger came to them by surprise.

Talatashar's hands were on her, pulling her out of her own
sleeping-box.

She tried to fight but he was as remorseless as an engine.

He pulled her free, turned her around, and let her float in the air.
She would not touch the floor for a minute or two, and he obviously
counted on getting control of her again.  As she twisted in the air,
wondering what had happened, she saw Trece's eyes rolling as they
followed her movement.  Only a fraction of a second later did she
realize that she saw Trece too.  He was tied up with emergency wire,
and the wire which bound him was tied to one of the stanchions in the
wall.  He was more helpless than she.

A cold deep fear came upon her.

"Is this a crime?"  she whispered to the empty air.

"Is this what crime is, what you are doing to me?"

Talatashar did not answer her, but his hands took a firm terrible grip
on her shoulders.  He turned her around.  She slapped at him.  He
slapped her back, hitting so hard that her jaw felt like a wound.

She had hurt herself accidentally a few times; the doctor robots had
always hurried to her aid.  But no other human being had ever hurt
her.  Hurting people why, that wasn't done, except for the games of
men!  It wasn't done.  It couldn't happen.  It did.

All in a rush she remembered what Trece had told her about Old
Twenty-two, and about what happened to people when they lost their own
out sides in space and began making up evil from the people-insides
which, after a million and more years of becoming human, still followed
them everywhere even into space itself.

This was crime come back to man.

She managed to say it to Talatashar.

"You are going to commit crimes?  On this ship?  With me?"

His expression was hard to read, with half of his face frozen in a
perpetual rictus of unfulfilled laughter.  They were facing each other
now.  Her face was feverish from the pain of his slap, but the good
side of his face showed no corresponding imprint of pain from having
been struck by her.  It showed nothing but strength, alertness, and a
kind of attunement which was utterly and unimaginably wrong.

At last he answered her, and it was as if he wandered among the wonders
of his own soul.

"I'm going to do what I please.  What I please.  Do you understand?"

"Why don't you just ask us?"  she managed to say.

"Trece and I will do anything you want.  We're all alone in this little
ship, millions of miles from nowhere.  Why shouldn't we do what you
want?  Let him go.  And talk to me.  We'll do what you want.

Anything.  You have rights too."

His laugh was close to a crazy scream.

He put his face close to her and hissed at her so sharply that droplets
of his spittle sprayed against her cheek and ear.

"I don't want rights!"  he shouted at her.

"I don't want what's mine.  I don't want to do right.  Do you think I
haven't heard the two of you, night after night, making soft loving
sounds when the cabin has gone dark?  Why do you think I threw the
cubes out of the ship?  Why do you think I needed power?"

"I don't know," she said, sadly and meekly.  She had not given up hope.
As long as he was talking he might talk himself out and become
reasonable again.  She had heard of robots blowing their circuits, so
that they had to be hunted down by other robots.  But she had never
thought that it might happen to people too.

Talatashar groaned.  The history of man was in his groan the anger at
life, which promises so much and gives so little, and despair about
time, which tricks man while it shapes him.  He sat back on the air and
let himself drift toward the floor of the cabin, where the magnetic
carpeting drew the silky iron filaments in their clothing.

"You're thinking he'll get over this, aren't you?"  said he, speaking
of himself.

She nodded.

"You're thinking he'll get reasonable and let both of us alone, aren't
you?"

She nodded again.

"You're thinking Talatashar, he'll get well when we arrive at Wereld
Schemering, and the doctors will fix his face, and then we'll all be
happy again.  That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

She still nodded.  Behind her she heard Trece give a loud groan against
his gag, but she did not dare take her eyes off Talatashar and his
spoiled, horrible face.

"Well, it won't be that way, Veesey," he said.  The finality in his
voice was almost calm.

"Veesey, you're not going to get there.  I'm going to do what I have to
do.  I'm going to do things to you that no one ever did in space
before, and then I'm going to throw your body out the disposal door.
But I'll let Trece watch it all before I kill him too.

And then, do you know what I'll do?"

Some strange emotion it was probably fear began tightening the muscles
in her throat.  Her mouth had become dry.

She barely managed to croak,

"No, I don't know what you'll do then ..."

Talatashar looked as though he were staring inward.

"I don't either," said he, "except that it's not something I want to
do.  I don't want to do it at all.  It's cruel and messy and when I get
through I won't have you and him to talk to.  But this is something I
have to do.  It's justice, in a strange way.  You've got to die because
you're bad.  And I'm bad too; but if you die, I won't be so bad."

He looked up at her brightly, almost as though he were normal.

"Do you know what I'm talking about?  Do you understand any of it?"

"No.  No.  No," Veesey stammered, but she could not help it.

Talatashar stared not at her but at the invisible face of his
crime-to-come and said, almost cheerfully: "You might as well
understand.  It's you who will die for it, and then him.  Long ago you
did me a wrong, a dirty, intolerable wrong.  It wasn't the you who's
sitting here.  You're not big enough or smart enough to do anything as
awful as the things that were done to me.  It wasn't this you who did
it, it was the real, true you instead.  And now you are going to be cut
and burned and choked and brought back with medicines and cut and
choked and hurt again, as long as your body can stand it.  And when
your body stops, I'm going to put on an emergency suit and shove your
dead body out into space with him.  He can go out alive, for all I
care.

Without a suit, he'll last two gasps.  And then part of my justice will
be done.  That's
what people have called crime.  It's just justice, private justice
that comes out of the deep insides of man.  Do you understand,
Veesey?"

She nodded.  She shook her head.  She nodded again.  She didn't know
how to respond.

"And then there are more things which I'll have to do," he went on,
with a sort of purr.

"Do you know what there is outside this ship, waiting for my crime?"

She shook her head, and so he answered himself.

"There are thirty thousand people following in their pods behind this
ship.  I'll pull them in by two and two and I will get young girls. The
others I'll throw loose in space.  And with the girls I'll find out
what it is what it is I've always had to do, and never knew.  Never
knew, Veesey, till I found myself out in space with you."

His voice almost went dreamy as he lost himself in his own thoughts.
The twisted side of his face showed its endless laugh, but the mobile
side looked thoughtful and melancholy, so that she felt there was
something inside him which might be understood, if only she had the
quickness and the imagination to think of it.

Her throat still dry, she managed to half-whisper at him: "Do you hate
me?  Why do you want to hurt me?  Do you hate girls?"

"I don't hate girls," he blazed,

"I hate me.  Out here in space I found it out.  You're not a person.
Girls aren't people.  They are soft and pretty and cute and cuddly and
warm, but they have no feelings.  I was handsome before my face
spoiled, but that didn't matter.  I always knew that girls weren't
people.  They're something like robots.  They have all the power in the
world and none of the worry.  Men have to obey, men have to beg, men
have to suffer, because they are built to suffer and to be sorry and to
obey.  All a girl has to do is to smile her pretty smile or to cross
her pretty legs, and the man gives up everything he has ever wanted and
fought for, just to be her slave.  And then the girl" and at this point
he got to screaming again, in a high shrill shout "and then the girl
gets to be a woman and she has children, more girls to pester men, more
men to be the victims of girls, more cruelty and more slaves.  You're
so cruel to me, Veesey!  You're so cruel that you don't even know
you're cruel.  If you'd known how I wanted you, you'd have suffered
like a person.  But you didn't suffer.

You're a girl.  Well, you're going to find out now.  You will suffer
and then you will die.  But you won't die until you know how men feel
about women."

"Tala," she said, using the nickname they had so rarely used to him,

"Tala, that's not so.  I never meant you to suffer."

"Of course you didn't," he snapped.

"Girls don't know what they do.  That's what makes them girls.  They're
worse than snakes, worse than machines."  He was mad, crazy-mad, in the
outer deep of space.  He stood
up so suddenly that he shot through the air and had to catch himself
on the ceiling.

A noise in the side of the cabin made them both turn for a moment.
Trece was trying to break loose from his bonds.  It did no good. Veesey
flung herself toward Trece, but Talatashar caught her by the shoulder. 
He twisted her around.  His eyes blazed at her out of his poor,
misshapen face.

Veesey had sometime wondered what death would be like.

She thought: This is it.

Her body still fought Talatashar, there in the space boat cabin.

Trece groaned behind his shackles and his gag.  She tried to scratch at
Talatashar's eyes, but the thought of death made her seem far away. Far
away, inside herself.

Inside herself, where other people could not reach, ever no matter what
happened.

Out of that deep nearby remoteness, words came into her head: Lady if a
man Tries to bother you, you can Think blue, Count two, And look for a
red shoe .  . .

Thinking blue was not hard.  She just imagined the yellow cabin lights
turning blue.  Counting "one-two" was the simplest thing in the world.
And even with Talatashar straining to catch her free hand, she managed
to remember the beautiful, beautiful red shoes which she had seen in
Marcia and the Moon Men.

The lights dimmed momentarily and a huge voice roared at them from the
control board.

"Emergency, top emergency!  People!  People out of repair!"

Talatashar was so astonished that he let her go.

The board whined at them like a siren.  It sounded as though the
computer had become flooded with weeping.

In an utterly different voice from his impassioned talkative rage,
Talatashar looked directly at her and asked, very soberly, "Your cube.
Didn't I get your cube too?"

There was a knocking on the wall.  A knocking from the millions of
miles of emptiness outside.  A knocking out of nowhere.

A person they had never seen before stepped into the ship, walking
through the double wall as though it had been nothing more than a
streamer of mist.

It was a man.  A middle-aged man, sharp of face, strong in torso and
limbs, clad in very old-style clothes.  In his belt he had a whole
collection of weapons, and in his hand a whip.

"You there," said the stranger to Talatashar, "untie that man."

He gestured with the whip-butt toward Trece, still bound and gagged.

Talatashar got over his surprise.

"You're a cube-ghost.  You're not real!"

The whip hissed in the air and a long red welt appeared on Talatashar's
wrist.  The drops of blood began to float beside him in the air before
he could speak again.

Veesey could say nothing; her mind and body seemed to be blanking
out.

As she sank to the floor, she saw Talatashar shake himself, walk over
to Trece, and begin untying the knots.

When Talatashar got the gag out of Trece's mouth, Trece spoke not to
him, but to the stranger: "Who are you?"

"I do not exist," said the stranger, "but I can kill you, any of you,
if I wish.  You had better do as I say.  Listen carefully.  You too,"
he added, turning halfway around and looking at Veesey.

"You listen too, because it's you who called me."

All three listened.  The fight was gone out of them.  Trece rubbed his
wrists and shook his hands to get the circulation going in them
again.

The stranger turned, in courtly and elegant fashion, so that he spoke
most directly to Talatashar.

"I derive from the young lady's cube.  Did you notice the lights dim?
Tiga-be las left a false cube in her freeze-box but he hid me in the
ship.  When she thought the key notions at me, there was a fraction of
a microvolt which called for more power at my terminals.  I am made
from the brain of some small animal, but I bear the personality and the
strength of Tiga-be las I shall last a billion years.  When the current
came on full power, I became operative as a distortion in your minds. 
I do not exist," said he, specifically addressing himself to
Talatashar, "but if I needed to take out my imaginary pistol and to
shoot you in the head with it, my control is so strong that your bone
would comply with my command.  The hole would appear in your head and
your blood and your brains would pour out, just as much as blood is
pouring from your hand just now.  Look at your hand and believe me, if
you wish."

Talatashar refused to look.

The stranger went on in a very deliberate tone.

"No bullet would come from my pistol, no ray, no blast, nothing.
Nothing at all.  But your flesh would believe me, even if your thoughts
did not.  Your bone structure would believe me, whether you thought so
or not.  I am communicating to
every separate single cell in your body, to everything which I feel to
be alive.  If I think bullet at you, your bone will pull aside for the
imaginary wound.  Your skin will part, your blood will pour out, your
brains will splash.  They will not do it by physical force but by
communication from me.  Communication direct, you fool.

That may not be real violence, but it serves my purpose just as well.
Now do you understand me?  Look at your wrist."

Talatashar did not avert his eyes from the stranger.  In an odd cold
voice he said,

"I believe you.  I guess I am crazy.  Are you going to kill me?"

"I don't know," said the stranger.

Trece said,

"Please, are you a person or machine?"

"I don't know," said the stranger to him too.

"What's your name?"  asked Veesey.

"Did you get a name when they made you and sent you with us?"

"My name," said the stranger, with a bow to her, "is Sh'san."

"Glad to meet you, Sh'san," said Trece, holding out his own hand.

They shook hands.

"I felt your hand," said Trece.  He looked at the other two in
amazement.

"I felt his hand, I really did.  What were you doing out in space all
this time?"

The stranger smiled.

"I have work to do, not talk to make."

"What do you want us to do," said Talatashar, "now that you've taken
over?"

"I haven't taken over," said Sh'san, "and you will do what you have to
do.  Isn't that the nature of people?"

"But, please " said Veesey.

The stranger had vanished and the three of them were alone in the space
boat cabin again.  Trece's gag and bindings had finally drifted down to
the carpet but Tala's blood hung gently in the air beside him.

Very heavily, Talatashar spoke.

"Well, we're through that.

Would you say I was crazy?"

"Crazy?"  said Veesey.

"I don't know the word."

"Damaged in the thinking," explained Trece to her.  Turning to
Talatashar he began to speak seriously.

"I think that " He was interrupted by the control board.  Little bells
rang and a sign lighted up.  They all saw it.  Visitors expected, said
the glowing sign.

The storage door opened and a beautiful woman came into the cabin with
them.  She looked at them as though she knew them all.

Veesey and Trece were inquisitive and startled, but Talatashar turned
white, dead white.

Veesey saw that the woman wore a dress of the style which had vanished
a generation ago a style now seen only in the story-boxes.  There was
no back to it.  The lady had a bold cosmetic design fanning out from
her spinal column.  In front, the dress hung from the usual magnet tabs
which had been inserted into the shallow fatty area of the chest, but
in her case the tabs were above the clavicles, so that the dress rose
high, with an air of old-fashioned prudishness.  Magnet tabs were at
the usual place just below the ribcage, holding the half-skirt, which
was very full, in a wide sweep of unpressed pleats.  The lady wore a
necklace and matching bracelet of off-world coral.

The lady did not even look at Veesey.  She went straight to Talatashar
and spoke to him with peremptory love.

"Tal, be a good boy.  You've been bad."  "Mama," gasped Talatashar.

"Mama, you're dead!"  "Don't argue with me," she snapped.

"Be a good boy.  Take care of the little girl.  Where is the little
girl?"

She looked around and saw Veesey.

"That little girl," she added, "be a good boy to that little girl.  If
you don't, you will break your mother's heart, you will ruin your
mother's life, you will break your mother's heart, just like your
father did.  Don't make me tell you twice."

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, and it seemed to Veesey
that both sides of the man's face were equally twisted, for that
moment.

She stood up, looked around, nodded politely at Trece and Veesey, and
walked back into the storage room, closing the door after her.

Talatashar plunged after her, opening the door with a bang and shutting
it with a slam.  Trece called after him: "Don't stay in there too long.
You'll freeze."

Trece added, speaking to Veesey,

"This is something your cube is doing.  That Sh'san, he's the most
powerful warden I ever saw.  Your psychological guard must have been a
genius.  And you know what's the matter with him]" He nodded at the
closed door.

"He told me once, just in general.  His own mother raised him.  He was
born in the asteroid belt and she didn't turn him in."

"You mean, his very own mother?"  said Veesey.

"Yes, his genealogical mother," said Trece.

"How dirty" said Veesey.

"I

never heard of anything like it."  Talatashar came back into the room
and said nothing to either of them.  The mother did not reappear.

But Sh'san, the eidetic man imprinted in the cube, continued to assert
his authority over all three of them.

of Man * * * Three days later Marcia herself appeared, talked to
Veesey for half an hour about her adventures with the Moon Men, and
then disappeared again.  Marcia never pretended that she was real.  She
was too pretty to be real.  A thick cascade of yellow hair crowned a
well-formed head; dark eyebrows arched over vivid brown eyes; and an
enchantingly mischievous smile pleased Veesey, Trece, and Talatashar.
Marcia admitted that she was the imaginary heroine of a dramatic series
from the story-boxes.  Talatashar had calmed down completely after the
apparition of Sh'san followed by that of his mother.  He seemed anxious
to get to the bottom of the phenomena.  He tried to do it by asking
Marcia.

She answered his questions willingly.

"What are you?"  he demanded.  The friendly smile on the good side of
his face was more frightening than a scowl would have been.

"I'm a little girl, silly," said Marcia.

"But you're not real," he insisted.

"No," she admitted, "but are you?"  She laughed a happy girlish laugh
the teen-ager tying up the bewildered adult in his own paradox.

"Look," he persisted, "you know what I mean.  You're just something
that Veesey saw in the story-boxes and you've come to give her
imaginary red shoes."

"You can feel the shoes after I've left," said Marcia.

"That means the cube has made them out of something on this ship," said
Talatashar, very triumphantly.

"Why not?"  said Marcia.

"I don't know about ships.  I guess he does."

"But even if the shoes are real, you're not," said Talatashar.

"Where do you go when you 'leave' us?"

"I don't know," said Marcia.

"I came here to visit Veesey.

When I go away I suppose that I will be where I was before I came."

"And where was that?"

"Nowhere," said Marcia, looking solid and real.

"Nowhere?  So you admit you're nothing?"

"I will if you want me to," said Marcia, "but this conversation doesn't
make much sense to me.  Where were you before you were here?"

"Here?  You mean in this boat?  I was on Earth," said Talatashar.

"Before you were in this universe, where were you?"

"I wasn't born, so I didn't exist."

"Well," said Marcia, "it's the same with me, only a little bit
different.  Before I existed I didn't exist.  When I exist, I'm here.
I'm an echo out of Veesey's personality and I'm helping her to remember
that she is a pretty young girl.  I feel as real as you feel.

So there!"

Marcia went back to talking about her adventures with the Moon Men
and Veesey was fascinated to hear all the things they had had to leave
out of the story-box version.  When Marcia was through, she shook hands
with the two men, gave Veesey a little peck of a kiss on her left
cheek, and walked through the hull into the gnawing emptiness of space,
marked only by the starless rhomboids of the sails which cut off part
of the heavens from view.

Talatashar pounded his fist in his other, open hand.

"Science has gone too far.  They will kill us with their
precautions."

Trece said, deadly calm,

"And what might you have done?"

Talatashar fell into a gloomy silence.

And on the tenth day after the apparitions began, they ended.

The power of the cube drew itself into a whole thunderbolt of decision.
Apparently the cube and the ship's computers had somehow filled in each
other's data.

The person who came in this time was a space captain, gray, wrinkled,
erect, tanned by the radiation of a thousand worlds.

"You know who I am," he said.

"Yes, sir, a captain," said Veesey.

"I don't know you," said Talatashar, "and I'm not sure I believe in
you."

"Has your hand healed?"  asked the captain, grimly.

Talatashar fell silent.

The captain called them to attention.

"Listen.  You are not going to live long enough to get to the stars on
your present course.  I want Trece to set the macro-chronography for
intervals of ninety-five years, and then I want to watch while he gives
two of you at a time five years on watch.  That will do to set the
sails, check the tangling of the pod lines, and send out report
beacons.

This ship should have a sailor, but there is not enough equipment to
turn one of you into a sailor, so we'll have to take a chance on the
robot controls while all three of you sleep in your freeze-beds.

Your sailor died of a blood clot and the robots pushed him out of the
cabin before they woke you " Trece winced.

"I thought he had committed suicide."

"Not a bit," said the captain.

"Now listen.  You'll get through in about three sleeps if you obey
orders.  If you don't, you'll never get there."

"It doesn't matter about me," said Talatashar, "but this little girl
has got to get to Wereld Schemering while she still has some life.  One
of your blasted apparitions told me to take care of her, but the idea
is a good one, anyhow."

"Me too," said Trece.

"I didn't realize that she was just a kid until I saw her talking to
that other kid Marcia.  Maybe I'll have a daughter like her some
day."

of Man The captain said nothing to these comments but gave them the
full, happy smile of an old, wise man.

An hour later they were through with the checkup of the boat.

The three were ready to go to their separate freeze-beds.  The captain
was getting ready to make his farewell.

Talatashar spoke up.

"Sir, I can't help asking it, but who are you?"

"A captain," said the captain promptly.

"You know what I mean," said Tala wearily.

The captain seemed to be looking inside himself.

"I am a temporary, artificial personality created out of your minds by
the personality which you call Sh'san.  Sh'san is on the ship, but
hidden from you, so that you will do him no harm.  Sh'san was imprinted
with the personality of a man, a real man, by the name ofTiga-be las
Sh'san was also imprinted with the personalities of five or six good
space officers, just in case those skills might be needed.  A small
amount of static electricity keeps Sh'san on the alert, and when he is
in the right position, he has a triggering mechanism which can call for
more current from the ship's supply."

"But what is he?  What are you?"  Talatashar kept on, almost
pleading.

"I was about to commit a terrible crime and you ghosts came in and
saved me.  Are you imaginary?  Are you real?"

"That's philosophy.  I'm made by science.  I wouldn't know,"

said the captain.

"Please," said Veesey, "could you tell us what it seems like to you?
Not what it is.  What it seems like."

The captain sagged, as though the discipline had gone out of him as
though he suddenly felt terribly old.

"When I'm talking and doing things, I suppose that I feel about like
any other space captain.  If I stop to think about it, I find myself
pretty upsetting.

I know that I'm just an echo in your minds, combined with the
experience and wisdom which has gone into the cube.  So I guess that I
do what real people do.  I just don't think about it very much.

I mind my business."  He stiffened and straightened and was himself
again.

"My own business," he repeated.

"And Sh'san," said Trece, "how do you feel about him?"

A look of awe almost a look of terror came upon the captain's face.

"He?  Oh, him."  The tone of wonder enriched his voice and made it echo
in the small cabin of the space boat

"Sh'san.  He is the thinker of all thinking, the 'to be' of being, the
doer of doings.  He is powerful beyond your strongest imagination.

He makes me come living out of your living minds.  In fact," said the
captain with a final snarl, "he is a dead mouse-brain laminated with
plastic and I have no idea at all of who I am.  Good night to you
all!"

The captain set his cap on his head and walked straight through the
Think Blue, Count Two 153 hull.  Veesey ran to a viewpoint but there
was nothing outside the ship.  Nothing.  Certainly no captain.

"What can we do," said Talatashar, "but obey?"

They obeyed.  They climbed into their freeze-beds.  Talatashar attached
the correct electrodes to Veesey and to Trece before he went to his bed
and attached his own.  They called to each other pleasantly as the lids
came down.

They slept.

VI

At destination, the people of Wereld Schemering did the in gathering of
pods, sails, and ship themselves.  They did not wake the sleepers till
they had them all assured of safety on the ground.

They woke the three cab inmates together.  Veesey, Trece, and
Talatashar were so busy answering questions about the dead sailor,
about the repaired sails, and about their problems on the trip that
they did not have time to talk to each other.  Veesey saw that
Talatashar seemed to be very handsome.  The port doctors had done
something to restore his face, so that he seemed a strangely dignified
young-old man.  At last Trece had a chance to talk to her.

"Good-bye, kid," he said.

"Go to school for a while here and then find yourself a good man.  I'm
sorry."

"Sorry for what?"  she said, a terrible fear rising within her.

"For smooching around with you before that trouble came.

You're just a kid.  But you're a good kid."  He ran his fingers through
her hair, turned on his heel, and was gone.

She stood, utterly forlorn, in the middle of the room.  She wished that
she could weep.  What use had she been on the trip?

Talatashar had come up to her unnoticed.

He held out his hand.  She took it.

"Give it time, child," said he.

Is it child again?  she thought to herself.  To him she said,
politely,

"Maybe we'll see each other again.  This is a pretty small world."

His face lit up in an oddly agreeable smile.  It made such a wonderful
difference for the paralysis to be gone from one side.

He did not look old at all, not really old.

His voice took on urgency.

"Veesey, remember that I remember.  I remember what almost happened.  I
remember what we thought we saw.  Maybe we did see all those things. We
won't see them on the ground.  But I want you to remember this.  You
saved us all.  Me too.  And Trece, and the thirty thousand out
behind."

"Me?"  she said.

"What did I do?"

"You tuned in help.  You let Sh'san work.  It all came through you.  If
you hadn't been honest and kind and friendly, if you hadn't been
terribly intelligent, no cube could have worked.  That wasn't any dead
mouse working miracles on us.  It was your mind and your own goodness
that saved us.  The cube just added the sound effects.  I tell you, if
you hadn't been along, two dead men would be sailing off into the Big
Nothing with thirty thousand spoiling bodies trailing along behind. You
saved us all.  You may not know how you did it, but you did."

An official tapped him on the arm; Tala said, firmly but politely, to
him,

"Just a moment."

"That's it, I guess," he said to her.

A contrary spirit seized her; she had to speak, though she risked
un-happiness by talking.

"And what you said about girls .

. . then .  . . that time?"

"I remember it."  His face twisted almost back to its old ugliness for
a moment.

"I remember it.  But I was wrong.  Wrong."

She looked at him and she thought in her own mind about the blue sky,
about the two doors behind them, and about the red shoes in her
luggage.  Nothing miraculous happened.  No Sh'san, no voices, no magic
cubes.

Except that he turned around, came back to her, and said, "Look.  Let's
make sure that we see each other next week.  These people at the desk
can tell us where we are going to be, so that we'll find each other.
Let's pester them."

Together they went to the immigration desk.

 The Colonel Came Back from the Nothing-at All I. The Naked and Alone
We looked through the peephole of the hospital door.

Colonel Harkening had torn off his pajamas again and lay naked face
down on the floor.

His body was rigid.

His face was turned sharply to the left so that the neck muscles
showed.  His right arm stuck out straight from the body.

The elbow formed a right angle, with the forearm and hand pointing
straight upward.  The left arm also pointed straight out, but in this
case the hand and forearm pointed downward in line with the body.

The legs were in the grotesque parody of a running position.

Except that Colonel Harkening wasn't running.

He was lying flat on the floor.

Flat, as though he were trying to squeeze himself out of the third
dimension and to lie in two planes only.  Grosbeck stood back and gave
Timofeyev his turn at the peephole.

"I still say he needs a naked woman," said Grosbeck.

Grosbeck always went in for the elementals.

We had atropine, surgital, a whole family of the digitalin ids assorted
narcotics, electrotherapy, hydrotherapy, subsonic therapy temperature
shock, audiovisual shock, mechanical hypnosis, and gas hypnosis.

None of these had had the least effect on Colonel Harkening.

When we picked the colonel up he tried to lie down.

When we put clothes on him he tore them off.

We had already brought his wife to see him.  She had wept because the
world had acclaimed her husband a hero, dead in the vast, frightening
emptiness of space.  His miraculous return had astonished seven
continents on Earth and the settlements on Venus and Mars.

Harkening had been test pilot for the new device which had been
developed by a team at the Research Office of the Instrumentality.

of Man They called it a chronoplast, though a minority held out for
the term plano form

The theory of it was completely beyond me, though the purpose was
simple enough.  Crudely stated, the theory sought to compress living,
material bodies into a two-dimensional frame while skipping the living
body and its material adjuncts through two dimensions only to some
inconceivably remote point in space.

As our technology now stood it would have taken us a century at the
least to reach Alpha Centauri, the nearest star.

Desmond, the Harkening, who held the titular rank of colonel under the
Chiefs of the Instrumentality, was one of the best space navigators we
had.  His eyes were perfect, his mind cool, his body superb, his
experience first-rate: What more could we ask?

Humanity had sent him out in a minute spaceship not much larger than
the elevator in an ordinary private home.  Somewhere between Earth and
the Moon with millions of televideo watchers following his course, he
had disappeared.

Presumably he had turned on the chronoplast and had been the first man
to plano form

We never saw his craft again.

But we found the colonel, all right.

He lay naked in the middle of Central Park in New York, which lay about
a hundred miles west of the Ancient Ruins.

He lay in the grotesque position in which we had just observed him in
the hospital cell, forming a sort of human starfish.

Four months had passed and we had made very little progress with the
colonel.

It was not much trouble keeping him alive since we fed him by massive
rectal and intravenous administrations of the requisites of medical
survival.  He did not oppose us.  He did not fight except when we put
clothes on him or tried to keep him too long out of the horizontal
plane.

When kept upright too long he would awaken just enough to go into a
mad, silent, gloating rage, fighting the attendants, the straitjacket,
and anything else that got in his way.

We had had one hellish time in which the poor man suffered for an
entire week, bound firmly in canvas and struggling every minute of the
week to get free and to resume his nightmarish position.

The wife's visit last week had done no more good than I expected
Grosbeck's suggestion to do this week.

The colonel paid no more attention to her than he paid to us doctors.

If he had come back from the stars, come back from the cold beyond the
Moon, come back from all the terrors of the Up-and Out come back by
means unknown to any man living, come back in a form not himself and
nevertheless himself, how could we expect the crude stimuli of
previous human knowledge to awaken him?

When Timofeyev and Grosbeck turned back to me after looking at him for
the some-thousandth time, I told them I did not think we could make any
progress with the case by ordinary means.

"Let's start all over again.  This man is here.  He can't be here
because nobody can come back from the stars, mother-naked in his own
skin, and land from outer space in Central Park so gently that he shows
not the slightest abrasion from a fall.  Therefore, he isn't in that
room, you and I aren't talking about anything, and there isn't any
problem.  Is that right?"

"No," they chorused simultaneously.

I turned on Grosbeck as the more obdurate of the two.

"Have it your way then.  He is there, major premise.  He can't be
there, minor premise.  We don't exist.  Q.E.D. That suit you any
better?"

"No, sir and doctor.  Chief and Leader," said Grosbeck, sticking to the
courtesies even though he was angry.

"You are trying to destroy the entire context of this case, and, by
doing so, are trying to lead us even further into unorthodox methods of
treatment.  Lord and Heaven, sir!  We can't go any further that way.

This man is crazy.  It doesn't matter how he got into Central Park.

That's a problem for the engineers.  It's not a medical problem.  His
craziness is a medical problem.  We can try to cure it, or we can try
not to cure it.  But we won't get anywhere if we mix the medicine with
the engineering " "It's not that bad," interjected Timofeyev gently.

As the older of my associates he had the right to address me by my
short title.  He turned to me.

"I agree with you, sir and doctor Anderson, that the engineering is
mixed up with this man's mental and physical state.  After all, he is
the first person to go out in a chronoplast and neither we nor the
engineers nor anybody else has the faintest idea of what happened to
him.  The engineers can't find the machine, and we can't find his
consciousness.  Let's leave the machine to the engineers, but let's
persevere on the medical side of the case."

I said nothing, waiting for them to let off steam until they were
prepared to reason with me and not just shout at me in their
desperation.

They looked at me, keeping their silence grudgingly, and trying to make
me take the initiative in the unpleasant case.

"Open the cell door," I said.

"He's not going to run away in that position.  All he wants to do is be
flat."

"Flatter than a Scotch pancake in a Chinese hell," said Grosbeck, "and
you're not going to get anywhere by leaving him in his flatness.  He
was a human being once and the only way to make a human being be a
human being is to appeal to the human being side of him, not to some
imaginary flat side that got thrown into him while he was out wherever
he was."

Grosbeck himself smiled a lopsided grin; he was capable of seeing the
humor of his own vehemence at times.

"Shall we say he was out underneath space, sir and doctor, Chief and
Leader?"

"That's a good way to put it," I said.

"You can try your naked woman idea later on, but I frankly don't think
it's going to do any good.  That man isn't corticating at a level above
that of the simplest invertebrates except when he's in that grotesque
position.

If he's not thinking, he's not seeing.  If he's not seeing, he won't
see a woman any more than anything else.  There's nothing wrong with
the body.  The trouble lies in the brain.  I still see it as a problem
of getting into the brain."

"Or the soul," breathed Timofeyev, whose full name was Herbert Hoover
Timofeyev, and who came from the most religious part of Russia.

"You can't leave the soul out sometimes, doctor..

."

We had entered the cell and stood there looking helplessly at the naked
man.

The patient breathed very quietly.  His eyes were open; we had not been
able to make the eyes blink, even with a photoflash.  The patient
acquired a grotesque and elementary humanity when he was taken out of
his flat position.  His mind reached, intellectually speaking, a high
point no higher than that of a terrorized, panicked, momentarily
deranged squirrel.  When clothed or out of position he fought madly,
hitting indiscriminately at objects and persons.

Poor Colonel Harkening!  We three were supposed to be the best doctors
on Earth, and we could do nothing for him.

We had even tried to study his way of fighting to see whether the
muscular and eye movements involved in the struggle revealed where he
had been or what experiences he had undergone.  Even that was
fruitless.  He fought something after the fashion of a nine-month-old
infant, using his adult strength, but using it indiscriminately.

We never got a sound out of him.

He breathed hard as he fought.  His sputum bubbled.  Froth appeared on
his lips.  His hands made clumsy movements to tear away the shirts and
robes and walkers which we put on him.

Sometimes his fingernails or toenails tore his own skin as he got free
of gloves or shoes.

He always went back to the same position: On the floor.

Face down.

Arms and legs in swastika form.

There he was back from outer space.  He was the first man to return,
and yet he had not really returned.

As we stood there helpless, Timofeyev made the first serious suggestion
we had gotten that day.

"Do you dare to try a secondary tele path

Grosbeck looked shocked.

I dared to give the subject thought.  Secondary tele paths were in bad
repute because they were supposed to come into the hospitals and have
their telepathic capacities removed once it had been proved that they
were not true tele paths with a real capacity for complete
interchange.

Under the Ancient Law many of them could and did elude us.

With their dangerous part-telepathic capacities they took up
charlatan-ism and fakery of the worst kind, pretending to talk with the
dead, precipitating neurotics into psychotics, healing a few sick
people and bungling ten other cases for each case that they did heal,
and, in general, disturbing the good order of society.

And yet, if everything else had failed .  . .

II.  The Secondary Telepath A day later we were back in Harkening's
hospital cell, almost in the same position.

The three of us stood around the naked body on the floor.

There was a fourth person with us, a girl.

Timofeyev had found her.  She was a member of his own religious group,
the Post-Soviet Orthodox Eastern Quakers.  You could tell when they
spoke Anglic because they used the word "thou" from the Ancient English
Language instead of the word "thee."

Timofeyev looked at me.

I nodded at him very quietly.

He turned to the girl.

"Canst thou help him, sister?"

The child was scarcely more than twelve.  She was a little girl with a
long, lean face, a soft, mobile mouth, quick gray-green eyes, a mop of
tan hair that fell over her shoulders.  She had expressive, tapering
hands.  She showed no shock at all at the sight of the naked man lost
in the depths of his insanity.

She knelt down on the floor and spoke gently directly into the ear of
Colonel Harkening.

"Canst thou hear me, brother?  I have come to help thee.  I am thy
sister Liana.  I am thy sister under the love of God.  I am thy sister
born of the flesh of man.  I am thy sister under the sky.  I am thy
sister come to help thee.  I am thy sister, brother.  I am thy sister.
Waken a little and I can help thee.  Waken a little to the words of thy
sister.  Waken a little for the love and the hope.

Waken to let the love come in.  Waken to let the love awaken thee
further.  Waken to let mankind get thee.  Waken to return again,
return
again to the realm of man.  The realm of man is a friendly realm.

The friendship of man is a friendly thing.  Thy friend is thy sister,
by the name of Liana.  Thy friend is here.  Waken a little to the words
of thy friend ..."

As she talked on I saw that she made a gentle movement with her left
hand, motioning us out of the room.

I nodded to my two colleagues, jerking my head to indicate that we
should step out in the corridor.  We stepped just beyond the door so
that we could still look in.

The child went on with her endless chant.

Grosbeck stood rigid, glaring at her as though she were an intrusion
into the field of regular medicine.  Timofeyev tried to look sweet,
benevolent, and spiritual; he forgot and, instead, just looked excited.
I got very tired and began to wonder when I could interrupt the child.
It did not seem to me that she was getting anywhere.

She herself settled the matter.

She burst into tears.

She went on talking as she wept, her voice broken with sobs, the tears
from her eyes pouring down her cheeks and dropping on the face of the
colonel just below her face.

The colonel might as well have been made of porcelainized concrete.

I could see his breathing, but the pupils of his eyes did not move.  He
was no more alive than he had been all these weeks.  No more alive, and
no less alive.

No change.  At last the girl gave up her weeping and talking and came
out to the corridor to us.

She spoke to me directly.

"Art thou a brave man, Anderson, sir and doctor.  Chief and Leader."

It was a silly question.  How does anybody answer a question like that?
All I could say was

"I suppose so.  What do you want to do?"

"I want you three," said she as solemnly as a witch.

"I want you three to wear the helmet of the pin lighters and ride with
me into hell itself.  That soul is lost.  It is frozen by a force I do
not know, frozen out beyond the stars, where the stars caught it and
made it their own, so that the poor man and brother that thou se est is
truly among us, but his soul weeps in the unholy pleasure between the
stars where it is lost to the mercy of God and to the friendship of
mankind.  Wilt thou, o brave man, sir and doctor, Chief and Leader,
ride with me to hell itself?"

What could I say but yes?

The Colonel Came Back from the Nothing-at-All 161 III.  The Return
Late that night we made the return from the Nothing-at-All.

There were five pin lighters helmets, crude things, mechanical
correctives to natural telepathy, devices to throw the synapses of one
mind into another so that all five of us could think the same
thoughts.

It was the first time that I had been in contact with the minds of
Grosbeck and Timofeyev.  They surprised me.

Timofeyev really was clean all the way through, as clean and simple as
washed linen.  He was really a very simple man.  The urgencies and
pressures of his everyday life did not go down to the insides.

Grosbeck was very different.  He was as alive, as cackling, and as
violent as a whole barnyard full of fowl: His mind was dirty in spots,
clean in others.  It was bright, smelly, alive, vivid, moving.

I caught an echo of my own mind from them.  To Timofeyev I seemed cold,
high, icy, and mysterious; to Grosbeck I looked like a solid lump of
coal.  He couldn't see into my mind very much and he didn't even want
to.

We all sensed out toward Liana, and in reaching for the sense
of-the-mind of Liana we encountered the mind of the colonel .  .

.

Never have I encountered something so terrible.

It was raw pleasure.

As a doctor I have seen pleasure the pleasure of morphine which
destroys, the pleasure of fen nine which kills and ruins, even the
pleasure of the electrode buried in the living brain.

As a doctor I had been required to see the wicked est of men kill
themselves under the law.  It was a simple thing we did.  We put a thin
wire directly into the pleasure center of the brain.  The bad man then
put his head near an electric field of the right phase and voltage.  It
was simple enough.  He died of pleasure in a few hours.

This was worse.

This pleasure was not in human form.

Liana was somewhere near and I caught her thoughts as she said,

"We must go there, sirs and doctors, Chiefs and Leaders.

"We must go there together, the four of us, go to where no man was, go
to the Nothing-at-All, go to the hope and the heart of the pain, go to
the pain which return may this man, go to the power which is greater
than space, go to the power which has sent him home, go to the place
which is not a place, find the force which is not a force, force the
force which is not a force to give this heart and spare it back to
us.

"Come with me if you come at all.  Come with me to the end of things.
Come with me " Suddenly there was a flash as of sheet lightning in our
minds.

of Man It was bright lightning, bright, delicate, multicolored,
gentle.

Suffusing everything, it was like a cascade of pure color, paste!  in
hue, but intense in its brightness.  The light came.

The light came, I say.

Strange.

And it was gone.

That was all.

The experience was so quick that it could hardly be called
instantaneous.  It seemed to happen less than instantaneously, if you
can imagine that.  We all five felt that we had been befriended, looked
at.  We felt that we had been made the toys or the pets of some
gigantic form of life immensely beyond the limits of human imagination,
and that that life in looking at the four of us the three doctors and
Liana had seen us and the colonel and had realized that the colonel
needed to go back to his own kind.

Because it was five, not four, who stood up.

The colonel was trembling, but he was sane.  He was alive.  He was
human again.  He said very weakly: "Where am I?  Is this an Earth
hospital?"

And then he fell into Timofeyev's arms.

Liana was already gliding out the door.

I followed her out.

She turned on me.

"Sir and doctor, Chief and Leader, all I ask is no thanks, and no
money, no notice and no word of what has happened.  My powers come from
the goodness of the Lord's grace and from the friendliness of mankind.
I should not intrude into the field of medicine.  I should not have
come if thy friend Timofeyev had not asked me as a matter of common
mercy.  Claim the credit for thy hospital, sir and doctor.  Chief and
Leader, but thou and thy friends should forget me."

I stammered at her,

"But the reports?  .. ."

"Write the reports any way thou wishes, but mention me not."

"But our patient.  He is our patient, too.  Liana."

She smiled a smile of great sweetness, of girlish and childish
friendliness.

"If he need me, I shall come to him .  . ."

The world was better, but not much the wiser.

The chronoplast spaceship was never found.  The colonel's return was
never explained.  The colonel never left Earth again.

All he knew was that he had pushed a button out somewhere near the Moon
and that he had then awakened in a hospital after four months had been
unaccountably lost.

And all the world knew was that he and his wife had unaccountably
adopted a strange but beautiful little girl, poor in family, but rich
in the mild generosity of her own spirit.

 The Game of Rat and Dragon I. The Table Pinlighting is a hell of a
way to earn a living.  Underbill was furious as he closed the door
behind himself.  It didn't make much sense to wear a uniform and look
like a soldier if people didn't appreciate what you did.

He sat down in his chair, laid his head back in the headrest, and
pulled the helmet down over his forehead.

As he waited for the pin-set to warm up, he remembered the girl in the
outer corridor.  She had looked at it, then looked at him scornfully.

"Meow."  That was all she had said.  Yet it had cut him like a knife.

What did she think he was a fool, a loafer, a uniformed nonentity?
Didn't she know that for every half-hour of pin lighting he got a
minimum of two months' recuperation in the hospital?

By now the set was warm.  He felt the squares of space around him,
sensed himself at the middle of an immense grid, a cubic grid, full of
nothing.  Out in that nothingness, he could sense the hollow aching
horror of space itself and could feel the terrible anxiety which his
mind encountered whenever it met the faintest trace of inert dust.

As he relaxed, the comforting solidity of the Sun, the clockwork of the
familiar planets and the Moon rang in on him.

Our own solar system was as charming and as simple as an ancient cuckoo
clock filled with familiar ticking and with reassuring noises.  The odd
little moons of Mars swung around their planet like frantic mice, yet
their regularity was itself an assurance that all was well.  Far above
the plane of the ecliptic, he could feel half a ton of dust more or
less drifting outside the lanes of human travel.

Here there was nothing to fight, nothing to challenge the mind, to tear
the living soul out of a body with its roots dripping in effluvium as
tangible as blood.

Nothing ever moved in on the solar system.  He could wear the pin-set
forever and be nothing more than a sort of telepathic astronomer, a
man
of Man who could feel the hot, warm protection of the Sun throbbing
and burning against his living mind.

Woodley came in.

"Same old ticking world," said Underhill.

"Nothing to report.

No wonder they didn't develop the pin-set until they began to plano
form Down here with the hot Sun around us, it feels so good and so
quiet.  You can feel everything spinning and turning.

It's nice and sharp and compact.  It's sort of like sitting around
home."

Woodley grunted.  He was not much given to flights of fantasy.

Undeterred, Underhill went on,

"It must have been pretty good to have been an ancient man.  I wonder
why they burned up their world with war.  They didn't have to plano
form They didn't have to go out to earn their livings among the stars. 
They didn't have to dodge the Rats or play the Game.  They couldn't
have invented pin lighting because they didn't have any need of it, did
they, Woodley?"

Woodley grunted,

"Uh-huh."  Woodley was twenty-six years old and due to retire in one
more year.  He already had a farm picked out.  He had gotten through
ten years of hard work pin lighting with the best of them.  He had kept
his sanity by not thinking very much about his job, meeting the strains
of the task whenever he had to meet them, and thinking nothing more
about his duties until the next emergency arose.

Woodley never made a point of getting popular among the Partners.  None
of the Partners liked him very much.  Some of them even resented him.
He was suspected of thinking ugly thoughts of the Partners on occasion,
but since none of the Partners ever thought a complaint in articulate
form, the other pin lighters and the Chiefs of the Instrumentality left
him alone.

Underhill was still full of the wonder of their job.  Happily he
babbled on,

"What does happen to us when we plano form Do you think it's sort of
like dying?  Did you ever see anybody who had his soul pulled out?"

"Pulling souls is just a way of talking about it," said Woodley.

"After all these years, nobody knows whether we have souls or not."

"But I saw one once.  I saw what Dogwood looked like when he came
apart.  There was something funny.  It looked wet and sort of sticky as
if it were bleeding and it went out of him and you know what they did
to Dogwood?  They took him away, up in that part of the hospital where
you and I never go way up at the top part where the others are, where
the others always have to go if they are alive after the Rats of the
Up-and-Out have gotten them."

Woodley sat down and lit an ancient pipe.  He was burning something
called tobacco in it.  It was a dirty sort of habit, but it made him
look very dashing and adventurous.

"Look here, youngster.  You don't have to worry about that stuff.

Pinlighting is getting better all the time.  The Partners are getting
better.  I've seen them pin light two Rats forty-six million miles
apart in one and a half milliseconds.  As long as people had to try to
work the pin-sets themselves, there was always the chance that with a
minimum of four-hundred milliseconds for the human mind to set a pin
light we wouldn't light the Rats up fast enough to protect our plano
forming ships.  The Partners have changed all that.  Once they get
going, they're faster than Rats.  And they always will be.  I know it's
not easy, letting a Partner share your mind " "It's not easy for them,
either," said Underhill.

"Don't worry about them.  They're not human.  Let them take care of
themselves.  I've seen more pin lighters go crazy from monkeying around
with Partners than I have ever seen caught by the Rats.

How many of them do you actually know of that got grabbed by Rats?"

Underhill looked down at his fingers, which shone green and purple in
the vivid light thrown by the tuned-in pin-set, and counted ships.  The
thumb for the Andromeda, lost with crew and passengers, the index
finger and the middle finger for Release Ships 43 and 56, found with
their pin-sets burned out and every man, woman, and child on board dead
or insane.  The ring finger, the little finger, and the thumb of the
other hand were the first three battleships to be lost to the Rats lost
as people realized that there was something out there underneath space
itself which was alive, capricious, and malevolent.

Planoforming was sort of funny.  It felt like Like nothing much.

Like the twinge of a mild electric shock.  Like the ache of a sore
tooth bitten on for the first time.  Like a slightly painful flash of
light against the eyes.  Yet in that time, a forty-thousand-ton ship
lifting free above Earth disappeared somehow or other into two
dimensions and appeared half a light-year or fifty light-years off.

At one moment, he would be sitting in the Fighting Room, the pin-set
ready and the familiar solar system ticking around inside his head. For
a second or a year (he could never tell how long it really was,
subjectively), the funny little flash went through him and then he was
loose in the Up-and-Out, the terrible open spaces between the stars,
where the stars themselves felt like pimples on his telepathic mind and
the planets were too far away to be sensed or read.

Somewhere in this outer space, a gruesome death awaited, death and
horror of a kind which Man had never encountered until he reached out
for interstellar space itself.  Apparently the light of the suns kept
the Dragons
of Man Dragons.  That was what people called them.  To ordinary
people, there was nothing, nothing except the shiver of plano forming
and the hammer blow of sudden death or the dark spastic note of lunacy
descending into their minds.

But to the tele paths they were Dragons.

In the fraction of a second between the tele paths awareness of a
hostile something out in the black, hollow nothingness of space and the
impact of a ferocious, ruinous psychic blow against all living things
within the ship, the tele paths had sensed entities something like the
Dragons of ancient human lore, beasts more clever than beasts, demons
more tangible than demons, hungry vortices of aliveness and hate
compounded by unknown means out of the thin, tenuous matter between the
stars.

It took a surviving ship to bring back the news a ship in which, by
sheer chance, a tele path had a light-beam ready, turning it out at the
innocent dust so that, within the panorama of his mind, the Dragon
dissolved into nothing at all and the other passengers, themselves
non-telepathic, went about their way not realizing that their own
immediate deaths had been averted.

From then on, it was easy almost.

Planoforming ships always carried tele paths Telepaths had their
sensitiveness enlarged to an immense range by the pin-sets, which were
telepathic amplifiers adapted to the mammal mind.

The pin-sets in turn were electronically geared into small dirigible
light bombs.  Light did it.

Light broke up the Dragons, allowed the ships to reform
three-dimensionally, skip, skip, skip, as they moved from star to
star.

The odds suddenly moved down from a hundred to one against mankind to
sixty to forty in mankind's favor.

This was not enough.  The tele paths were trained to become ultra
sensitive trained to become aware of the Dragons in less than a
millisecond.

But it was found that the Dragons could move a million miles in just
under two milliseconds and that this was not enough for the human mind
to activate the light beams.

Attempts had been made to sheathe the ships in light at all times.

This defense wore out.

As mankind learned about the Dragons, so too, apparently, the Dragons
learned about mankind.  Somehow they flattened their own bulk and came
in on extremely flat trajectories very quickly.

Intense light was needed, light of sun like intensity.  This could be
provided only by light bombs.  Pinlighting came into existence.

Pinlighting consisted of the detonation of ultra-vivid miniature
photo-nuclear bombs, which converted a few ounces of a magnesium
isotope into pure visible radiance.

The odds kept coming down in mankind's favor, yet ships were being
lost.

It became so bad that people didn't even want to find the ships because
the rescuers knew what they would see.  It was sad to bring back to
Earth three hundred bodies ready for burial and two hundred or three
hundred lunatics, damaged beyond repair, to be wakened, and fed, and
cleaned, and put to sleep, wakened and fed again until their lives were
ended.

Telepaths tried to reach into the minds of the psychotics who had been
damaged by the Dragons, but they found nothing there beyond vivid
spouting columns of fiery terror bursting from the primordial id
itself, the volcanic source of life.

Then came the Partners Man and Partner could do together what man could
not do alone.  Men had the intellect.  Partners had the speed.

The Partners rode their tiny craft, no larger than footballs, outside
the spaceships.  They plano formed with the ships.  They rode beside
them in their six-pound craft ready to attack.

The tiny ships of the Partners were swift.  Each carried a dozen pin
lights bombs no bigger than thimbles.

The pin lighters threw the Partners quite literally threw by means of
mind-to-firing relays directly at the Dragons.

What seemed to be Dragons to the human mind appeared in the form of
gigantic Rats in the minds of the Partners.

Out in the pitiless nothingness of space, the Partners' minds responded
to an instinct as old as life.  The Partners attacked, striking with a
speed faster than man's, going from attack to attack until the Rats or
themselves were destroyed.  Almost all the time it was the Partners who
won.

With the safety of the interstellar skip, skip, skip of the ships,
commerce increased immensely, the population of all the colonies went
up, and the demand for trained Partners increased.

Underbill and Woodley were a part of the third generation of pin
lighters and yet, to them, it seemed as though their craft had endured
forever.

Gearing space into minds by means of the pin-set, adding the Partners
to those minds, keying up the minds for the tension of a fight on which
all depended this was more than human synapses could stand for long.
Underhill needed his two months' rest after half an hour of fighting.
Woodley needed his retirement after ten years of service.  They were
young.  They were good.  But they had limitations.

So much depended on the choice of Partners, so much on the sheer luck
of who drew whom.

II.  The Shuffle Father Moontree and the little girl named West
entered the room.  They were the other two pin lighters The human
complement of the Fighting Room was now complete.

Father Moontree was a red-faced man of forty-five who had lived the
peaceful life of a farmer until he reached his fortieth year.  Only
then, belatedly, did the authorities find he was telepathic and agree
to let him late in life enter upon the career of pin lighter He did
well at it, but he was fantastically old for this kind of business.

Father Moontree looked at the glum Woodley and the musing Underhill.

"How're the youngsters today?  Ready for a good fight?"

"Father always wants a fight," giggled the little girl named West.  She
was such a little little girl.  Her giggle was high and childish.  She
looked like the last person in the world one would expect to find in
the rough, sharp dueling of pin lighting

Underhill had been amused one time when he found one of the most
sluggish of the Partners coming away happy from contact with the mind
of the girl named West.

Usually the Partners didn't care much about the human minds with which
they were paired for the journey.  The Partners seemed to take the
attitude that human minds were complex and fouled up beyond belief,
anyhow.  No Partner ever questioned the superiority of the human mind,
though very few of the Partners were much impressed by that
superiority.

The Partners liked people.  They were willing to fight with them.  They
were even willing to die for them.  But when a Partner liked an
individual the way, for example, that Captain Wow or the Lady May liked
Underhill, the liking had nothing to do with intellect.  It was a
matter of temperment, of feel.

Underhill knew perfectly well that Captain Wow regarded his,
Underbill's, brains as silly.  What Captain Wow liked was Underbill's
friendly emotional structure, the cheerfulness and glint of wicked
amusement that shot through Underbill's unconscious thought patterns,
and the gaiety with which Underhill faced danger.  The words, the
history books, the ideas, the science Underhill could sense all that in
his own mind, reflected back from Captain Wow's mind, as so much
rubbish.

Miss West looked at Underhill.

"I bet you' ve put stickum on the stones."

"I did not!"

Underhill felt his ears grow red with embarrassment.  During his
novitiate, he had tried to cheat in the lottery because he got
particularly fond of a special Partner, a lovely young mother named
Murr.  It was so much easier to operate with Murr and she was so
affectionate toward him that he
forgot pin lighting was hard work and that he was not instructed to
have a good time with his Partner.  They were both designed and
prepared to go into deadly battle together.

One cheating had been enough.  They had found him out and he had been
laughed at for years.

Father Moontree picked up the imitation-leather cup and shook the stone
dice which assigned them their Partners for the trip.  By senior rights
he took first draw.

He grimaced.  He had drawn a greedy old character, a tough old male
whose mind was full of slobbering thoughts of food, veritable oceans
full of half-spoiled fish.  Father Moontree had once said that he
burped cod liver oil for weeks after drawing that particular glutton,
so strongly had the telepathic image of fish impressed itself upon his
mind.  Yet the glutton was a glutton for danger as well as for fish. He
had killed sixty-three Dragons, more than any other Partner in the
service, and was quite literally worth his weight in gold.

The little girl West came next.  She drew Captain Wow.

When she saw who it was, she smiled.

"I like him," she said.

"He's such fun to fight with.  He feels so nice and cuddly in my
mind."

"Cuddly, hell," said Woodley.

"I've been in his mind, too.  It's the most leering mind in this ship,
bar none."

"Nasty man," said the little girl.  She said it declaratively, without
reproach.

Underhill, looking at her, shivered.

He didn't see how she could take Captain Wow so calmly.

Captain Wow's mind did leer.  When Captain Wow got excited in the
middle of a battle, confused images of Dragons, deadly Rats, luscious
beds, the smell of fish, and the shock of space all scrambled together
in his mind as he and Captain Wow, their consciousnesses linked
together through the pin-set, became a fantastic composite of human
being and Persian cat.

That's the trouble with working with cats, thought Underhill.

It's a pity that nothing else anywhere will serve as Partner.  Cats
were all right once you got in touch with them telepathically.

They were smart enough to meet the needs of the flight, but their
motives and desires were certainly different from those of humans.

They were companionable enough as long as you thought tangible images
at them, but their minds just closed up and went to sleep when you
recited Shakespeare or Colegrove, or if you tried to tell them what
space was.

It was sort of funny realizing that the Partners who were so grim and
mature out here in space were the same cute little animals that people
had
of Man used as pets for thousands of years back on Earth.  He had
embarrassed himself more than once while on the ground saluting
perfectly ordinary non-telepathic cats because he had forgotten for the
moment that they were not Partners.

He picked up the cup and shook out his stone dice.

He was lucky he drew the Lady May.

The Lady May was the most thoughtful Partner he had ever met.  In her,
the finely bred pedigree mind of a Persian cat had reached one of its
highest peaks of development.  She was more complex than any human
woman, but the complexity was all one of emotions, memory, hope, and
discriminated experience experience sorted through without benefit of
words.

When he had first come into contact with her mind, he was astonished at
its clarity.  With her he remembered her kitten hood

He remembered every mating experience she had ever had.  He saw in a
half-recognizable gallery all the other pin lighters with whom she had
been paired for the fight.  And he saw himself radiant, cheerful, and
desirable.

He even thought he caught the edge of a longing A very flattering and
yearning thought: What a pity he is not a cat.

Woodley picked up the last stone.  He drew what he deserved a sullen,
scarred old tomcat with none of the verve of Captain Wow.  Woodley's
Partner was the most animal of all the cats on the ship, a low, brutish
type with a dull mind.  Even telepathy had not refined his character.
His ears were half chewed off from the first fights in which he had
engaged.  He was a serviceable fighter, nothing more.

Woodley grunted.

Underbill glanced at him oddly.  Didn't Woodley ever do anything but
grunt?

Father Moontree looked at the other three.

"You might as well get your Partners now.  I'll let the Go-Captain know
we're ready to go into the Up-and-Out."

HI.  The Deal Underbill spun the combination lock on the Lady May's
cage.

He woke her gently and took her into his arms.  She humped her back
luxuriously, stretched her claws, started to purr, thought better of
it, and licked him on the wrist instead.  He did not have the pin-set
on, so their minds were closed to each other, but in the angle of her
mustache and in the movement of her ears, he caught some sense of the
gratification she experienced in finding him as her Partner.

He talked to her in human speech, even though speech meant nothing to
a cat when the pin-set was not on.

"It's a damn shame, sending a sweet little thing like you whirling
around in the coldness of nothing to hunt for Rats that are bigger and
deadlier than all of us put together.  You didn't ask for this kind of
fight, did you?"

For answer, she licked his hand, purred, tickled his cheek with her
long fluffy tail, turned around and faced him, golden eyes shining.

For a moment, they stared at each other, man squatting, cat standing
erect on her hind legs, front claws digging into his knee.

Human eyes and cat eyes looked across an immensity which no words could
meet, but which affection spanned in a single glance.

"Time to get in," he said.

She walked docilely to her spheroid carrier.  She climbed in.

He saw to it that her miniature pin-set rested firmly and comfortably
against the base of her brain.  He made sure that her claws were padded
so that she could not tear herself in the excitement of battle.

Softly he said to her,

"Ready?"

For answer, she preened her back as much as her harness would permit
and purred softly within the confines of the frame that held her.

He slapped down the lid and watched the sealant ooze around the seam.
For a few hours, she was welded into her projectile until a workman
with a short cutting arc would remove her after she had done her
duty.

He picked up the entire projectile and slipped it into the ejection
tube.  He closed the door of the tube, spun the lock, seated himself in
his chair, and put his own pin-set on.

Once again he flung the switch.

He sat in a small room, small, small, warm, warm, the bodies of the
other three people moving close around him, the tangible lights in the
ceiling bright and heavy against his closed eyelids.

As the pin-set warmed, the room fell away.  The other people ceased to
be people and became small glowing heaps of fire, embers, dark red
fire, with the consciousness of life burning like old red coals in a
country fireplace.

As the pin-set warmed a little more, he felt Earth just below him, felt
the ship slipping away, felt the turning Moon as it swung on the far
side of the world, felt the planets and the hot, clear goodness of the
sun which kept the Dragons so far from mankind's native ground.

Finally, he reached complete awareness.

He was telepathically alive to a range of millions of miles.  He felt
the dust which he had noticed earlier high above the ecliptic.

With a thrill of warmth and tenderness, he felt the consciousness of
the Lady May pouring
over into his own.  Her consciousness was as gentle and clear and yet
sharp to the taste of his mind as if it were scented oil.  It felt
relaxing and reassuring.  He could sense her welcome of him.  It was
scarcely a thought, just a raw emotion of greeting.

At last they were one again.

In a tiny remote corner of his mind, as tiny as the smallest toy he had
ever seen in his childhood, he was still aware of the room and the
ship, and of Father Moontree picking up a telephone and speaking to a
Go-Captain in charge of the ship.

His telepathic mind caught the idea long before his ears could frame
the words.  The actual sound followed the idea the way that thunder on
an ocean beach follows the lightning inward from far out over the
seas.

"The Fighting Room is ready.  Clear to plano form sir."

Underhill was always a little exasperated the way that Lady May
experienced things before he did.

He was braced for the quick vinegar thrill of plano forming but he
caught her report of it before his own nerves could register what
happened.

Earth had fallen so far away that he groped for several milliseconds
before he found the Sun in the upper rear right-hand corner of his
telepathic mind.

That was a good jump, he thought.  This way we'll get there in four or
five skips.

A few hundred miles outside the ship, the Lady May thought back at him,
"o warm, o generous, o gigantic man!  o brave, o friendly, o tender and
huge Partner!  o wonderful with you, with you so good, good, good,
warm, warm, now to fight, now to go, good with you .  . ."

He knew that she was not thinking words, that his mind took the clear
amiable babble of her cat intellect and translated it into images which
his own thinking could record and understand.

Neither one of them was absorbed in the game of mutual greetings.  He
reached out far beyond her range of perception to see if there was
anything near the ship.  It was funny how it was possible to do two
things at once.  He could scan space with his pin-set mind and yet at
the same time catch a vagrant thought of hers, a lovely, affectionate
thought about a son who had had a golden face and a chest covered with
soft, incredibly downy white fur.

While he was still searching, he caught the warning from her.

We jump again!

And so they had.  The ship had moved to a second plano form

The stars were different.  The sun was immeasurably far behind.  Even
the nearest stars were barely in contact.  This was good Dragon
country, this open, nasty, hollow kind of space.

He reached farther, faster, sensing and looking for danger, ready to
fling the Lady May at danger wherever he found it.

Terror blazed up in his mind, so sharp, so clear, that it came through
as a physical wrench.

The little girl named West had found something something immense, long,
black, sharp, greedy, horrific.  She flung Captain Wow at it.

Underbill tried to keep his own mind clear.

"Watch out!"  he shouted telepathically at the others, trying to move
the Lady May around.

At one corner of the battle, he felt the lustful rage of Captain Wow as
the big Persian tomcat detonated lights while he approached the streak
of dust which threatened the ship and the people within.  The lights
scored near misses.

The dust flattened itself, changing from the shape of a sting ray into
the shape of a spear.

Not three milliseconds had elapsed.

Father Moontree was talking human words and was saying in a voice that
moved like cold molasses out of a heavy jar,

"Ca-p-t-a-in."  Underbill knew that the sentence was going to be
"Captain, move fast!"

The battle would be fought and finished before Father Moontree got
through talking.

Now, fractions of a millisecond later, the Lady May was directly in
line.

Here was where the skill and speed of the Partners came in.  She could
react faster than he.  She could see the threat as an immense Rat
coming directly at her.

She could fire the light-bombs with a discrimination which he might
miss.

He was connected with her mind, but he could not follow it.

His consciousness absorbed the tearing wound inflicted by the alien
enemy.  It was like no wound on Earth raw, crazy pain which started
like a burn at his navel.  He began to writhe in his chair.

Actually he had not yet had time to move a muscle when the Lady May
struck back at their enemy.

Five evenly spaced photonuclear bombs blazed out across a
hundred-thousand miles.

The pain in his mind and body vanished.

He felt a moment of fierce, terrible, feral elation running through the
mind of the Lady May as she finished her kill.  It was always
disappointing
to the cats to find out that their enemies disappeared at the moment
of destruction.

Then he felt her hurt, the pain and the fear that swept over both of
them as the battle, quicker than the movement of an eyelid, had come
and gone.  In the same instant there came the sharp and acid twinge of
plano form

Once more the ship went skip.

He could hear Woodley thinking at him.

"You don't have to bother much.  This old son-of-a-gun and I will take
over for a while."

Twice again the twinge, the skip.

He had no idea where he was until the lights of the Caledonia space
port shone below.

With a weariness that lay almost beyond the limits of thought, he threw
his mind back into rapport with the pin-set, fixing the Lady May's
projectile gently and neatly in its launching tube.

She was half dead with fatigue, but he could feel the beat of her
heart, could listen to her panting, and he grasped the grateful edge of
a

"Thanks" reaching from her mind to his.

V. The Score They put him in the hospital at Caledonia.

The doctor was friendly but firm.

"You actually got touched by that Dragon.  That's as close a shave as
I've ever seen.  It's all so quick that it'll be a long time before we
know what happened scientifically, but I suppose you'd be ready for the
insane asylum now if the contact had lasted several tenths of a
millisecond longer.  What kind of cat did you have out in front of
you?"

Underhill felt the words coming out of him slowly.  Words were such a
lot of trouble compared with the speed and the joy of thinking, fast
and sharp and clear, mind to mind!  But words were all that could reach
ordinary people like this doctor.

His mouth moved heavily as he articulated words.

"Don't call our Partners cats.  The right thing to call them is
Partners.  They fight for us in a team.  You ought to know we call them
Partners, not cats.  How is mine?"

"I don't know," said the doctor contritely.

"We'll find out for you.  Meanwhile, old man, you take it easy. There's
nothing but rest that can help you.  Can you make yourself sleep, or
would you like us to give you some kind of sedative?"

"I can sleep," said Underhill.

"I just want to know about the Lady May."

1 he Game of Rat and Dragon 17: The nurse joined in.  She was a little
antagonistic.

"Don't you want to know about the other people?"

"They're okay," said Underhill.

"I knew that before I came in here."  He stretched his arms and sighed
and grinned at them.  He could see they were relaxing and were
beginning to treat him as a person instead of a patient.

"I'm all right," he said.

"Just let me know when I can go see my Partner."

A new thought struck him.  He looked wildly at the doctor.

"They didn't send her off with the ship, did they?"

"I'll find out right away," said the doctor.  He gave Underhill a
reassuring squeeze of the shoulder and left the room.

The nurse took a napkin off a goblet of chilled fruit juice.

Underhill tried to smile at her.  There seemed to be something wrong
with the girl.  He wished she would go away.  First she had started to
be friendly and now she was distant again.  It's a nuisance being
telepathic, he thought.  You keep trying to reach even when you are not
making contact.

Suddenly she swung around on him.

"You pin lighters You and your damn cats!"

Just as she stamped out, he burst into her mind.  He saw himself a
radiant hero, clad in his smooth suede uniform, the pin set crown
shining like ancient royal jewels around his head.  He saw his own
face, handsome and masculine, shining out of her mind.  He saw himself
very far away and he saw himself as she hated him.

She hated him in the secrecy of her own mind.  She hated him because he
was she thought proud and strange and rich, better and more beautiful
than people like her.

He cut off the sight of her mind and, as he buried his face in the
pillow, he caught an image of the Lady May.

"She is a cat," he thought.

"That's all she is a cat!"  But that was not how his mind saw her quick
beyond all dreams of speed, sharp, clever, unbelievably graceful,
beautiful, wordless, and undemanding.

Where would he ever find a woman who could compare with her?

 The Burning of the Brain I. Dolores Oh I tell you, it is sad, it is
more than sad, it is fearful for it is a dreadful thing to go into the
Up-and-Out, to fly without flying, to move between the stars as a moth
may drift among the leaves on a summer night.

Of all the men who took the great ships into plano form none was
braver, none stronger, than Captain Magno Taliano.

Scanners had been gone for centuries and the jonasoidal effect had
become so simple, so manageable, that the traversing of light years was
no more difficult to most of the passengers of the great ships than to
go from one room to the other.

Passengers moved easily.

Not the crew.

Least of all the captain.

The captain of a jonasoidal ship which had embarked on an interstellar
journey was a man subject to rare and overwhelming strains.  The art of
getting past all the complications of space was far more like the
piloting of turbulent waters in ancient days than like the smooth seas
which legendary men once traversed with sails alone.

Go-Captain on the Wu-Feinstein, finest ship of its class, was Magno
Taliano.

Of him it was said,

"He could sail through hell with the muscles of his left eye alone.  He
could plow space with his living brain if the instruments failed .  .
."

Wife to the Go-Captain was Dolores Oh.  The name was Japonical, from
some nation of the ancient days.  Dolores Oh had been once beautiful,
so beautiful that she took men's breath away, made wise men into fools,
made young men into nightmares of lust and yearning.  Wherever she went
men had quarreled and fought over her.

But Dolores Oh was proud beyond all common limits of pride.

She refused to go through the ordinary rejuvenescence.  A terrible
yearning a
of Man hundred or so years back must have come over her.  Perhaps she
said to herself, before that hope and terror which a mirror in a quiet
room becomes to anyone: "Surely I am me.  There must be a me more than
the beauty of my face, there must be a something other than the
delicacy of skin and the accidental lines of my jaw and my cheekbone.

"What have men loved if it wasn't me?  Can I ever find out who I am or
what I am if I don't let beauty perish and live on in whatever flesh
age gives me?"

She had met the Go-Captain and had married him in a romance that left
forty planets talking and half the ship lines stunned.

Magno Taliano was at the very beginning of his genius.

Space, we can tell you, is rough rough like the wildest of storm driven
waters, filled with perils which only the most sensitive, the quickest,
the most daring of men can surmount.

Best of them all, class for class, age for age, out of class, beating
the best of his seniors, was Magno Taliano.

For him to marry the most beautiful beauty of forty worlds was a
wedding like Heloise and Abelard's or like the unforgettable romance of
Helen America and Mr.  Grey-no-more.

The ships of the Go-Captain Magno Taliano became more beautiful year by
year, century by century.

As ships became better he always obtained the best.  He maintained his
lead over the other Go-Captains so overwhelmingly that it was
unthinkable for the finest ship of mankind to sail out amid the
roughnesses and uncertainties of two-dimensional space without himself
at the helm.

Stop-Captains were proud to sail space beside him.  (Though the
Stop-Captains had nothing more to do than to check the maintenance of
the ship, its loading and unloading when it was in normal space, they
were still more than ordinary men in their own kind of world, a world
far below the more majestic and adventurous universe of the
Go-Captains.) Magno Taliano had a niece who in the modern style used a
place instead of a name: she was called

"Dita from the Great South House."

When Dita came aboard the Wu-Feinstein she had heard much of Dolores
Oh, her aunt by marriage who had once captivated the men in many
worlds.  Dita was wholly unprepared for what she found.

Dolores greeted her civilly enough, but the civility was a sucking pump
of hideous anxiety, the friendliness was the driest of mockeries, the
greeting itself an attack.

What's the matter with the woman?  thought Dita.

As if to answer her thought, Dolores said aloud and in words: "It's
nice to meet a woman who's not trying to take Taliano from me.  I love
him.  Can you believe that?  Can you?"

The Burning of the Brain "Of course," said Dita.  She looked at the
ruined face of Dolores Oh, at the dreaming terror in Dolores's eyes,
and she realized that Dolores had passed all limits of nightmare and
had become a veritable demon of regret, a possessive ghost who sucked
the vitality from her husband, who dreaded companionship, hated
friendship, rejected even the most casual of acquaintances, because she
feared forever and without limit that there was really nothing to
herself, and feared that without Magno Taliano she would be more lost
than the blackest of whirlpools in the nothing between the stars.

Magno Taliano came in.

He saw his wife and niece together.

He must have been used to Dolores Oh.  In Dita's eyes Dolores was more
frightening than a mud-caked reptile raising its wounded and venomous
head with blind hunger and blind rage.

To Magno Taliano the ghastly woman who stood like a witch beside him
was somehow the beautiful girl he had wooed and had married
one-hundred-sixty-four years before.

He kissed the withered cheek, he stroked the dried and stringy hair, he
looked into the greedy, terror-haunted eyes as though they were the
eyes of a child he loved.  He said, lightly and gently, "Be good to
Dita, my dear."

He went on through the lobby of the ship to the inner sanctum of the
plano forming room.

The Stop-Captain waited for him.  Outside on the world of Sherman the
scented breezes of that pleasant planet blew in through the open
windows of the ship.

Wu-Feinstein, finest ship of its class, had no need for metal walls. It
was built to resemble an ancient, prehistoric estate named Mount
Vernon, and when it sailed between the stars it was encased in its own
rigid and self-renewing field of force.

The passengers went through a few pleasant hours of strolling on the
grass, enjoying the spacious rooms, chatting beneath a marvelous
simulacrum of an atmosphere-filled sky.

Only in the plano forming room did the Go-Captain know what happened.
The Go-Captain, his pin lighters sitting beside him, took the ship from
one compression to another, leaping hotly and frantically through
space, sometimes one light-year, sometimes a hundred light-years, jump,
jump, jump, jump until the ship, the light touches of the captain's
mind guiding it, passed the perils of millions upon millions of worlds,
came out at its appointed destination, and settled as lightly as one
feather resting upon others, settled into an embroidered and decorated
countryside where the passengers could move as easily away from their
journey as if they had
done nothing more than to pass an afternoon in a pleasant old house by
the side of a river.

II.  The Lost Locksheet Magno Taliano nodded to his pin lighters The
Stop-Captain bowed obsequiously from the doorway of the plano forming
room.

Taliano looked at him sternly, but with robust friendliness.  With
formal and austere courtesy he asked, "Sir and Colleague, is everything
ready for the jonasoidal effect?"

The Stop-Captain bowed even more formally.

"Truly ready.

Sir and Master."

"The lock sheets in place?"

"Truly in place, Sir and Master."

"The passengers secure?"

"The passengers are secure, numbered, happy and ready, Sir and
Master."

Then came the last and the most serious of questions.

"Are my pin lighters warmed with their pin-sets and ready for
combat?"

"Ready for combat, Sir and Master."  With these words the Stop-Captain
withdrew.  Magno Taliano smiled to his pin lighters

Through the minds of all of them there passed the same thought.

How could a man that pleasant stay married all those years to a hag
like Dolores Oh?  How could that witch, that horror, have ever been a
beauty?  How could that beast have ever been a woman, particularly the
divine and glamorous Dolores Oh whose image we still see in four-di
every now and then?

Yet pleasant he was, though long he may have been married to Dolores
Oh.  Her loneliness and greed might suck at him like a nightmare, but
his strength was more than enough strength for two.

Was he not the captain of the greatest ship to sail between the
stars?

Even as the pin lighters smiled their greetings back to him, his right
hand depressed the golden ceremonial lever of the ship.  This
instrument alone was mechanical.  All other controls in the ship had
long since been formed telepathically or electronically.

Within the plano forming room the black skies became visible and the
tissue of space shot up around them like boiling water at the base of a
waterfall.  Outside that one room the passengers still walked sedately
on scented lawns.

From the wall facing him, as he sat rigid in his Go-Captain's chair,
Magno Taliano sensed the forming of a pattern which in three or four
hundred milliseconds would tell him where he was and would give him
the next clue as to how to move.

He moved the ship with the impulses of his own brain, to which the wall
was a superlative complement.

The wall was a living brickwork of lock sheets laminated charts,
one-hundred-thousand charts to the inch, the wall preselected and
preassembled for all imaginable contingencies of the journey which,
each time afresh, took the ship across half unknown immensities of time
and space.  The ship leapt, as it had before.

The new star focused.

Magno Taliano waited for the wall to show him where he was, expecting
(in partnership with the wall) to flick the ship back into the pattern
of stellar space, moving it by immense skips from source to
destination.

This time nothing happened.

Nothing?

For the first time in a hundred years his mind knew panic.

It couldn't be nothing.  Not nothing.  Something had to focus.

The lock sheets always focused.

His mind reached into the lock sheets and he realized with a
devastation beyond all limits of ordinary human grief that they were
lost as no ship had ever been lost before.  By some error never before
committed in the history of mankind, the entire wall was made of
duplicates of the same lock sheet

Worst of all, the Emergency Return sheet was lost.  They were amid
stars none of them had ever seen before, perhaps as near as
five-hundred-million miles, perhaps as far as forty parsecs.

And the lock sheet was lost.

And they would die.

As the ship's power failed coldness and blackness and death would crush
in on them in a few hours at the most.  That then would be all, all of
the Wu-Feinstein, all of Dolores Oh.

III.  The Secret of the Old Dark Brain Outside of the plano forming
room of the Wu-Feinstein the passengers had no reason to understand
that they were marooned in the nothing-at-all.

Dolores Oh rocked back and forth in an ancient rocking chair.

Her haggard face looked without pleasure at the imaginary river that
ran past the edge of the lawn.  Dita from the Great South House sat on
a hassock by her aunt's knees.

Dolores was talking about a trip she had made when she was young
of Man and vibrant with beauty, a beauty which brought trouble and
hate wherever it went.

"... so the guardsman killed the captain and then came to my cabin and
said to me,

"You've got to marry me now.  I've given up everything for your sake,"
and I said to him,

"I never said that I loved you.  It was sweet of you to get into a
fight, and in a way I suppose it is a compliment to my beauty, but it
doesn't mean that I belong to you the rest of my life.  What do you
think I am, anyhow?"  " Dolores Oh sighed a dry, ugly sigh, like the
crackling of subzero winds through frozen twigs.

"So you see, Dita, being beautiful the way you are is no answer to
anything.  A woman has got to be herself before she finds out what she
is.  I know that my lord and husband, the Go-Captain, loves me because
my beauty is gone, and with my beauty gone there is nothing but me to
love, is there?"

An odd figure came out on the verandah.  It was a pin lighter in full
fighting costume.  Pinlighters were never supposed to leave the plano
forming room, and it was most extraordinary for one of them to appear
among the passengers.

He bowed to the two ladies and said with the utmost courtesy, "Ladies,
will you please come into the plano forming room?

We have need that you should see the Go-Captain now."

Dolores's hand leapt to her mouth.  Her gesture of grief was as
automatic as the striking of a snake.  Dita sensed that her aunt had
been waiting a hundred years and more for disaster, that her aunt had
craved ruin for her husband the way that some people crave love and
others crave death.

Dita said nothing.  Neither did Dolores, apparently at second thought,
utter a word.

They followed the pin lighter silently into the plano forming room.

The heavy door closed behind them.

Magno Taliano was still rigid in his Captain's chair.

He spoke very slowly, his voice sounding like a record played too
slowly on an ancient parlophone.

"We are lost in space, my dear," said the frigid, ghostly voice of the
Captain, still in his Go-Captain's trance.

"We are lost in space and I thought that perhaps if your mind aided
mine we might think of a way back."

Dita started to speak.

A pin lighter told her: "Go ahead and speak, my dear.  Do you have any
suggestion?"

"Why don't we just go back?  It would be humiliating, wouldn't it?
Still it would be better than dying.  Let's use the Emergency Return
Locksheet and go on right back.  The world will forgive Magno Taliano
for a single failure after thousands of brilliant and successful
trips."

The pin lighter a pleasant enough young man, was as friendly and calm
as a doctor informing someone of a death or of a mutilation.

"The impossible has happened, Dita from the Great South House.  All the
lock sheets are wrong.  They are all the same one.  And not one of them
is good for emergency return."

With that the two women knew where they were.  They knew that space
would tear into them like threads being pulled out of a fiber so that
they would either die bit by bit as the hours passed and as the
material of their bodies faded away a few molecules here and a few
there.  Or, alternatively, they could die all at once in a flash if the
Go-Captain chose to kill himself and the ship rather than to wait for a
slow death.  Or, if they believed in religion, they could pray.

The pin lighter said to the rigid Go-Captain,

"We think we see a familiar pattern at the edge of your own brain.  May
we look in?"

Taliano nodded very slowly, very gravely.

The pin lighter stood still.

The two women watched.  Nothing visible happened, but they knew that
beyond the limits of vision and yet before their eyes a great drama was
being played out.  The minds of the pin lighters probed deep into the
mind of the frozen Go-Captain, searching amid the synapses for the
secret of the faintest clue to their possible rescue.

Minutes passed.  They seemed like hours.

At last the pin lighter spoke.

"We can see into your midbrain, Captain.  At the edge of your
paleocortex there is a star pattern which resembles the upper left rear
of our present location."

The pin lighter laughed nervously.

"We want to know, can you fly the ship home on your brain?"

Magno Taliano looked with deep tragic eyes at the inquirer.

His slow voice came out at them once again since he dared not leave the
half-trance which held the entire ship in stasis.

"Do you mean can I fly the ship on a brain alone?  It would burn out my
brain and the ship would be lost anyhow ..."

"But we're lost, lost, lost," screamed Dolores Oh.  Her face was alive
with hideous hope, with a hunger for ruin, with a greedy welcome of
disaster.  She screamed at her husband,

"Wake up, my darling, and let us die together.  At least we can belong
to each other that much, that long, forever!"

"Why die?"  said the pin lighter softly.

"You tell him, Dita."

Said Dita,

"Why not try, Sir and Uncle?"

Slowly Magno Taliano turned his face toward his niece.  Again his
hollow voice sounded.

"If I do this I shall be a fool or a child or a dead man, but I will do
it for you."

Dita had studied the work of the Go-Captains and she knew well enough
that if the paleocortex was lost the personality became intellectually
sane, but emotionally crazed.  With the most ancient part of the brain
gone the fundamental controls of hostility, hunger, and sex
disappeared.  The most ferocious of animals and the most brilliant of
men were reduced to a common level a level of infantile friendliness in
which lust and playfulness and gentle, unappeasable hunger became the
eternity of their days.

Magno Taliano did not wait.

He reached out a slow hand and squeezed the hand of Dolores Oh.

"As I die you shall at last be sure I love you."

Once again the women saw nothing.  They realized they had been called
in simply to give Magno Taliano a last glimpse of his own life.

A quiet pin lighter thrust a beam-electrode so that it reached square
into the paleocortex of Captain Magno Taliano.

The plano forming room came to life.  Strange heavens swirled about
them like milk being churned in a bowl.

Dita realized that her partial capacity of telepathy was functioning
even without the aid of a machine.  With her mind she could feel the
dead wall of the lock sheets She was aware of the rocking of the
Wu-Feinstein as it leapt from space to space, as uncertain as a man
crossing a river by leaping from one ice covered rock to the other.

In a strange way she even knew that the paleocortical part of her
uncle's brain was burning out at last and forever, that the star
patterns which had been frozen in the lock sheets lived on in the
infinitely complex pattern of his own memories, and that with the help
of his own telepathic pin lighters he was burning out his brain cell by
cell in order for them to find a way to the ship's destination.  This
indeed was his last trip.

Dolores Oh watched her husband with a hungry greed surpassing all
expression.

Little by little his face became relaxed and stupid.

Dita could see the midbrain being burned blank, as the ship's controls
with the help of the pin lighters searched through the most magnificent
intellect of its time for a last course into harbor.

Suddenly Dolores Oh was on her knees, sobbing by the hand of her
husband.

A pin lighter took Dita by the arm.

"We have reached destination," he said.

"And my uncle?"

The pin lighter looked at her strangely.

She realized he was speaking to her without moving his lips speaking
mind-to-mind with pure telepathy.

"Can't you see it?"

She shook her head dazedly.

The pin lighter thought his emphatic statement at her once again.

"As your uncle burned out his brain, you picked up his skills.

Can't you sense it?  You are a Go-Captain yourself and one of the
greatest of us."

"And he?"

The pin lighter thought a merciful comment at her.

Magno Taliano had risen from the chair and was being led from the room
by his wife and consort, Dolores Oh.  He had the amiable smile of an
idiot, and his face for the first time in more than a hundred years
trembled with shy and silly love.

From Gustible's Planet Shortly after the celebration of the four
thousandth anniversary of the opening of space, Angary J. Gustible
discovered Gustible's planet.  The discovery turned out to be a tragic
mistake.

Gustible's planet was inhabited by highly intelligent life forms.  They
had moderate telepathic powers.  They immediately mind-read Angary J.
Gustible's entire mind and life history, and embarrassed him very
deeply by making up an opera concerning his recent divorce.

The climax of the opera portrayed his wife throwing a teacup at him.
This created an unfavorable impression concerning Earth culture, and
Angary J. Gustible, who held a reserve commission as a Subchief of the
Instrumentality, was profoundly embarrassed to find that it was not the
higher realities of Earth which he had conveyed to these people, but
the unpleasant intimate facts.

As negotiations proceeded, other embarrassments developed.

In physical appearance the inhabitants of Gustible's planet, who called
themselves Apicians, resembled nothing more than oversize ducks, ducks
four feet to four feet six in height.  At their wing tips, they had
developed juxtaposed thumbs.  They were paddle-shaped and sufficed to
feed the Apicians.

Gustible's planet matched Earth in several respects: in the dishonesty
of the inhabitants, in their enthusiasm for good food, in their instant
capacity to understand the human mind.  Before Gustible began to get
ready to go back to Earth, he discovered that the Apicians had copied
his ship.  There was no use hiding this fact.  They had copied it in
such detail that the discovery of Gustible's planet meant the
simultaneous discovery of Earth .  . .

By the Apicians.

The implications of this tragic development did not show up until the
Apicians followed him home.  They had a plano forming ship capable of
traveling in non-space just as readily as his.

The most important feature of Gustible's planet was its singularly
close match to the biochemistry of Earth.  The Apicians were the first
intelligent life forms ever met by human beings who were at once
capable of smelling and enjoying everything which human beings smelled
and enjoyed, capable of following any human music with forthright
pleasure, and capable of eating and drinking everything in sight.

The very first Apicians on Earth were greeted by somewhat alarmed
ambassadors who discovered that an appetite for Munich beer, Camembert
cheese, tortillas, and enchiladas, as well as the better grades of chow
mein, far transcended any serious cultural, political, or strategic
interests which the new visitors might have.

Arthur Djohn, a Lord of the Instrumentality who was acting for this
particular matter, delegated an Instrumentality agent named Calvin
Dredd as the chief diplomatic officer of Earth to handle the matter.

Dredd approached one Schmeckst, who seemed to be the Apician leader.
The interview was an unfortunate one.

Dredd began by saying,

"Your Exalted Highness, we are delighted to welcome you to Earth "
Schmeckst said,

"Are those edible?"  and proceeded to eat the plastic buttons from
Calvin Dredd's formal coat, even before Dredd could say though not
edible they were attractive.

Schmeckst said,

"Don't try to eat those, they are really not very good."

Dredd, looking at his coat sagging wide open, said,

"May I offer you some food?"

Schmeckst said,

"Indeed, yes."

And while Schmeckst ate an Italian dinner, a Peking dinner, a red-hot
peppery Szechuanese dinner, a Japanese sukiyaki dinner, two British
breakfasts, a smorgasbord, and four complete servings of
diplomatic-level Russian zakouska, he listened to the propositions of
the Instrumentality of Earth.

These did not impress him.  Schmeckst was intelligent despite his gross
and offensive eating habits.  He pointed out: "We two worlds are equal
in weapons.  We can't fight.  Look," said he to Calvin Dredd in a
threatening tone.

Calvin Dredd braced himself, as he had learned to do.

Schmeckst also braced him.

For an instant Dredd did not know what had happened.  Then he realized
that in putting his body into a rigid and controlled posture he had
played along with the low-grade but manipulable telepathic powers of
the visitors.  He was frozen rigid till Schmeckst laughed and released
him.

Schmeckst said,

"You see, we are well matched.  I can freeze you.  Nothing short of
utter desperation could get you out of it.  If you try to fight us,
we'll lick you.  We are going to move in here and live with you.  We
have enough room on our planet.  You can come and live with us too. We
would like to hire a lot of those cooks of yours.  You'll simply have
to divide space with us, and that's all there is to it."

That really was all there was to it.  Arthur Djohn reported back to the
Lords of the Instrumentality that, for the time being, nothing could be
done about the disgusting people from Gustible's planet.

They kept their greed within bounds by their standards.  A mere
seventy-two thousand of them swept the Earth, hitting every wine shop,
dining hall, snack bar, soda bar, and pleasure center in the world.
They ate popcorn, alfalfa, raw fruit, live fish, birds on the wing,
prepared foods, cooked and canned foods, food concentrates, and
assorted medicines.

Outside of an enormous capacity to hold many times what the human body
could tolerate in the way of food, they showed very much the same
effects as persons.  Thousands of them got various local diseases,
sometimes called by such undignified names as the Yangtze rapids, Delhi
belly, the Roman groanin', or the like.

Other thousands became ill and had to relieve themselves in the fashion
of ancient emperors.  Still they came.

Nobody liked them.  Nobody disliked them enough to wish a disastrous
war.

Actual trade was minimal.  They bought large quantities of foodstuffs,
paying in rare metals.  But their economy on their own planet produced
very little which the world itself wanted.  The cities of mankind had
long since developed to a point of comfort and corruption where a
relatively inonocultural being, such as the citizens of Gustible's
planet, could not make much impression.

The word

"Apician" came to have unpleasant connotations of bad manners,
greediness, and prompt payment.  Prompt payment was considered rude in
a credit society, but after all it was better than not being paid at
all.

The tragedy of the relationship of the two groups came from the
unfortunate picnic of the lady Ch'ao, who prided herself on having
ancient Chinesian blood.  She decided that it would be possible to
satiate Schmeckst and the other Apicians to a point at which they would
be able to listen to reason.  She arranged a feast which, for quality
and quantity, had not been seen since previous historic times, long
before the many interruptions of war, collapse, and rebuilding of
culture.  She searched the museums of the world for recipes.

The dinner was set forth on the tele screens of the entire world.  It
was held in a pavilion built in the old Chinesian style.

A soaring dream of dry bamboo and paper walls, the festival building
had a thatched roof in the true ancient fashion.  Paper lanterns with
real candles illuminated the scene.  The fifty selected Apician guests
gleamed like ancient idols.  Their
of Man feathers shone in the light and they clicked their paddle like
thumbs readily as they spoke, telepathically and fluently, in any Earth
language which they happened to pick out of the heads of their
hearers.

The tragedy was fire.  Fire struck the pavilion, wrecked the dinner.
The lady Ch'ao was rescued by Calvin Dredd.  The Apicians fled.  All of
them escaped, all but one.  Schmeckst himself.  Schmeckst suffocated.

He let out a telepathic scream which was echoed in the living voices of
all the human beings, other Apicians, and animals within reach, so that
the television viewers of the world caught a sudden cacophony of birds
shrilling, dogs barking, cats yowling, otters screeching, and one lone
panda letting out a singularly high grunt.  Then Schmeckst perished.
The pity of it... The Earth leaders stood about, wondering how to solve
the tragedy.  On the other side of the world, the Lords of the
Instrumentality watched the scene.  What they saw was amazing and
horrible.  Calvin Dredd, cold, disciplined agent that he was,
approached the ruins of the pavilion.  His face was twisted in an
expression which they had difficulty in understanding.  It was only
after he licked his lips for the fourth time and they saw a ribbon of
drool running down his chin that they realized he had gone mad with
appetite.  The lady Ch'ao followed close behind, drawn by some
remorseless force.

She was out of her mind.  Her eyes gleamed.  She stalked like a cat. In
her left hand she held a bowl and chopsticks.

The viewers all over the world watching the screen could not understand
the scene.  Two alarmed and dazed Apicians followed the humans,
wondering what was going to happen.

Calvin Dredd made a sudden reach.  He pulled out the body of
Schmeckst.

The fire had finished Schmeckst.  Not a feather remained on him.  And
then the flash fire, because of the peculiar dryness of the bamboo and
the paper and the thousands upon thousands of candles, had baked him.
The television operator had an inspiration.  He turned on the
smell-control.

Throughout the planet Earth, where people had gathered to watch this
unexpected and singularly interesting tragedy, there swept a smell
which mankind had forgotten.  It was an essence of roast duck.

Beyond all imagining, it was the most delicious smell that any human
being had ever smelled.  Millions upon millions of human mouths
watered.  Throughout the world people looked away from their sets to
see if there were any Apicians in the neighborhood.

Just as the Lords of the Instrumentality ordered the disgusting scene
cut off, Calvin Dredd and the lady Ch'ao began eating the roast
Apician, Schmeckst.

Within twenty-four hours most of the Apicians on Earth had been
served, some with cranberry sauce, others baked, some fried Southern
style.  The serious leaders of Earth dreaded the consequences of such
uncivilized conduct.  Even as they wiped their lips and asked for one
more duck sandwich, they felt that this behavior was difficult beyond
all imagination.

The blocks that the Apicians had been able to put on human action did
not operate when they were applied to human beings who, looking at an
Apician, went deep into the recesses of their personality and were
animated by a mad hunger which transcended all civilization.

The Lords of the Instrumentality managed to round up Schmeckst's deputy
and a few other Apicians and to send them back to their ship.

The soldiers watching them licked their lips.  The captain tried to see
if he could contrive an accident as he escorted his state visitors.
Unfortunately, tripping Apicians did not break their necks, and the
Apicians kept throwing violent mind-blocks at human beings in an
attempt to save themselves.

One of the Apicians was so undiplomatic as to ask for a chicken salad
sandwich and almost lost a wing, raw and alive, to a soldier whose
appetite had been restimulated by reference to food.

The Apicians went back, the few survivors.  They liked Earth well
enough and Earth food was delicious, but it was a horrible place when
they considered the cannibalistic human beings who lived there so
cannibalistic that they ate ducks!

The Lords of the Instrumentality were relieved to note that when the
Apicians left they closed the space lane behind them.

No one quite knows how they closed it, or what defenses they had.
Mankind, salivating and ashamed, did not push the pursuit hotly.
Instead, people tried to make up chicken, duck, goose, Cornish hen,
pigeon, sea-gull, and other sandwiches to duplicate the incomparable
taste of a genuine inhabitant of Gustible's planet.  None were quite
authentic and people, in their right minds, were not uncivilized enough
to invade another world solely for getting the inhabitants as
tidbits.

The Lords of the Instrumentality were happy to report to one another
and to the rest of the world at their next meeting that the Apicians
had managed to close Gustible's planet altogether, had had no further
interest in dealing with Earth, and appeared to possess just enough of
a technological edge on human beings to stay concealed from the eyes
and the appetites of men.

Save for that, the Apicians were almost forgotten.  A confidential
secretary of the Office of Interstellar Trade was astonished when the
frozen intelligences of a methane planet ordered forty thousand cases
of Munich beer He suspected them of being jobbers, not consumers.  But
on the instructions of his superiors he kept the matter confidential
and allowed the beer to be shipped.

It undoubtedly went to Gustible's planet, but they did not offer any of
their own citizens in exchange.

The matter was closed.  The napkins were folded.  Trade and diplomacy
were at an end.

Himself in Anachron And Time there is And Time there was And Time goes
on, before But what is the Knot That binds the time That holds it here,
and more Oh, the Knot in Time Is a secret place They sought in times of
yore Somewhere in Space They seek it still But Tasco hunts no more ...
HE FOUND IT from "Mad Dita 's Song " First they threw out every bit of
machinery which was not vital to their lives or the function of the
ship.  Then went Dita's treasured honeymoon items (foolishly and
typically she had valued these over the instruments).  Next they
ejected every bit of nutrient except the minimum for survival for two
persons.  Tasco knew then.  It was not enough.  The ship still had to
be lightened.

He remembered that the Subchiefhad said, bitterly enough: "So you got
leave to time-travel together!  You fool!  I don't know whether it was
your idea or hers to have a 'honeymoon in time,"

but with everyone watching your marriage you've got the sentimental mob
behind you.

"Honeymoon in time," indeed.  Why?

Is it that your woman is jealous of your time trips?  Don't be an
idiot, Tasco.  You know that ship's not built for two.  You don't even
have to go at all; we can send Vomact.  He's single.  " Tasco
remembered, too, the quick warmth of his jealousy at the mention of
Vomact.  If anything had been needed to steel his determination, that
name had done it.  How could he possibly have backed out after
the publicity over his proposed flight to
find the Knot.  The Subchief must have realized from the expression on
his face something of his feelings; he had said with a knowledgeable
grin: "Well, if anybody can find the Knot, it'll be you.  But listen,
leave her here.  Take her later if you like but go first alone."  But
Tasco could remember, too, Dita 's kitten-soft body as she nestled up
to him holding his eyes with her own and murmuring,

"But, darling, you promised..."

Yes, he had been warned, but that didn't make the tragedy any easier.
Yes, he could have left her behind, but what kind of marriage would
they have had with the blot of her bitterness on the first days of
their married life?  And how could he have lived with himself if he had
let Vomact go in his place?  How, even, would Dita have regarded him?
He could not deceive himself; he knew that Dita loved him, loved him
dearly, but he had been a hero ever since she had known him and how
much would she have loved him without the hero image?  He loved her
enough not to want to find out.

And now, one of them must go, be lost in space and time forever.  Tasco
looked at her, his beloved.  He thought, I have loved you forever, but
in our case forever was only three earth days.

Shall I love you there in space and timelessness?  To postpone, if only
for minutes, the eternal parting, he pretended to find some other
instrument which could be disposed of, and sent through the hatch one
person' s share of the remaining nutrient.  Now the decision was made.
Dita came over to stand beside him.

"Does that do it, Tasco?  Is the ship light enough now for us to get
out of the Knot?  Instead of answering he held her tightly against him.
I've done what I had to, he thought.  . . Dita, Dita, not to hold you
ever again .  . .

Softly, not to disturb the moon-pale curve of her hair, he passed his
hand over her head.  Then he released her.

"Get ready to take over, Dita.  I could not murder you, oh my darling,
and unless the ship is lightened by the weight of one of us we will
both die here in the Knot.  You must take it back, you have to take
back the ship and all the instrument-gathered data.

It's not you or me or us now.  We're the servants of the
Instrumentality.  You must understand .  . ."

Still within his arms, she backed away enough to look at his face.  She
was dewy-eyed, loving, frightened, her lips trembling with affection.
She was adorable, and Cranch!  how incompetent.

But she'd make it; she had to.  She said nothing at first, trying to
hold her lips steady, and then she said the thing that would annoy him
most.

"Don't, darling, don't.  I couldn't stand it.  ... Please don't leave
me."

His reaction was completely spontaneous: His open hand caught her
across the cheek, hard.  A reciprocal anger flashed across her eyes and
mouth, but she gained control of herself.  She returned to pleading.

"Tasco, Tasco, don't be bad to me.  If we have to die together, I can
face it.  Don't leave me, please don't leave me.  I don't blame you
.

. ."  I don't blame you!  he thought.  By the Forgotten One, that's
really rather good!

He said, as quietly as he could,

"I' ve told you.  Somebody has got to take this ship back to our own
time and place.  We've found the Knot.  This is the Knot in Time.
Look."

He pointed.  The Merochron swung slightly back and forth, from
+1,000,000:1 to500,000:1.

"Look hard twenty-years-a minute-plus to ten-years-a-minute-minus.  The
ship has a chance of getting out if the load is lightened.  We've
thrown everything else we could out.  Now I'm going.  I love you; you
love me.  It will be as hard for me to leave you as for you to see me
go.  A lifetime with you would not have been enough.  But, Dita, you
owe me this ... to take the ship back safely.  Don't make it harder for
me.

If you can hold it on Left Subformal Probability, do it.  If not, keep
on trying to slow down in back time

"But, darling .  . ."

He wanted to be tender.  Words caught in his throat.  But their time
had run out.  Their honeymoon had been a gamble, their own gamble, and
now it and their life together were over.  Three earth days!  The
Instrumentality remained; the Chiefs and Lords waited; a million lives
would be a cheap price for a fix on the Knot in Time.  Dita could do
it.  Even she could do it if the ship were lighter by a man.

His farewell kiss was not one she would remember.  He was in a hurry
now to finish it; the sooner he left, the better her chances were of
getting back.  And still she looked at him as if she expected him to
stay and talk.  Something in her eyes made him suspicious that she
would try to hinder him.  He cut in his helmet speaker and said:
"Goodbye.  I love you.  I have to go now, quickly.  Please do as I ask
and don't get in my way."

She was weeping now.

"Tasco, you're going to die .  . ."

"Maybe," he said.

She reached for him, tried to hold him.

"Darling, don't.  Don't go.  Don't hurry so."

Roughly he pushed her back into the control seat.  He tried to hold his
anger that she would not let him do even this right, to die for her.
She would make it a scene.

"Sweetheart," he said, "don't make me say it all over again.  Anyhow, I
may not die.  I'll aim for a planet full of nymphs and I'll live a
thousand years."

He had half expected to stir her to jealousy or anger... at least some
other emotion, but she disregarded his poor joke and went on quietly
weeping.  A wisp of smoke rising in the hot moving air of the cabin
made them look to the control panel.  The Probability Selector was
glowing.  Tasco kept his face
of Man immobile, glad that she did not realize the significance of the
reading.  Now no one will ever find me, even if I live, he thought.

But go, go, go!

He smiled at her through his shimmering suit.  He touched her arm with
his metal claw.  Then, before she could stop him he backed into the
escape hatch, slammed the door on himself, fumbled for the ejector gun,
pressed the button.  Pressed it hard.

Thunder, and a wash like water.  There went his world, his wife, his
time, himself... He floated free in ana chron Others had gone astray
between the Probabilities; none had come back.  They had borne it, he
supposed.  If they could, he could too.  And then it caught him.  The
others, had they left wives and sweethearts?

Was it for them too a personal tragedy?  Himself and Dita, they had not
had to come.  Vanity, pride, jealousy, stubbornness.  They had come.
And now: himself in ana chron

He felt himself leaping from Probability to Probability like a pebble
bouncing down a corrugated plastic roof.  He couldn't even tell whether
he was going toward Formal or Resolved.  Perhaps he was still somewhere
in Left Subformal.

The clatter ceased.  He waited for more blows.

One more came.  Only one, and sharp.

He felt tension go out of him.  He felt the Probabilities firming
around him, listened to the selector working in his helmet as it coded
him into atime-space combination fit for human life.  The thing had a
murmur in it which he had never heard in a practice jump, but then,
this wasn't practice.  He had never before gotten out between the
Probabilities, never floated free in ana chron

A feeling of weight and direction made him realize that he was coming
back to common space.  His feet were touching ground.  He stood still,
attempting to relax while a world took shape around him.  There was
something very strange about the whole business.

The grey color of the space around him resembled the grey of fast back
timing the blind blur which he had so often seen from the cabin window
when, having chosen a Probability, he had coursed it down until the
Selectors had given him an opening he could land in.  But how could he
be back timing with no ship, no power?

Unless Unless the Knot in Time in flinging him out had imparted to him
a time-momentum in his own body.  But even if that were so he should
decelerate.  Was he coming down in ratio?  This still felt like high
timing 10,000:1 or higher.

He tried briefly to think of Dita but his personal situation outweighed
everything else.  A new worry hit him.  What was his own personal
consumption of time?  With time so high outside his unit was it also
rising inside?  How
Himself in Anachron long would his nutrients last?  He tried to be
aware of his own body, to feel hunger, to catch a glimpse of himself.
Was the automatic nutrition keeping up with the changing time?  On
inspiration, he rubbed his face against the mask to see if his whiskers
had grown since he left the ship.

He had a beard.  Plenty.

Before he could figure that one out, there was one last Snap!

and he fainted.

When he recovered, he was still erect.  Some kind of frame supported
him.  Who had put it there, and how?  By the continued grey ness he
could tell that his physiological time and external time had not yet
met.  He felt a violent impatience.  There should be some way to slow
down.  His helmet felt heavy.  Disregarding the risks, he clawed at the
mask until it came off.

The air was sweet but thick, thick.  He had to fight to breathe it in.
It was hardly worth the struggle.

He was still high timing more so than he had thought anybody could with
an exposed body.  He looked down and saw his beard tremble as it grew.
He felt the stab of fingernails growing against his palms; there should
have been an automatic cut-off but time was going too fast.  Clenching
his hand, he broke off the nails roughly.  His boots had apparently
broken off his toenails, and although his feet were uncomfortable the
pressure was bearable.

Anyway there was nothing he could do about it.

His immense tiredness warned him that the automatic nutrient system was
not keeping up with his bodily time.  With effort he fitted his claw to
his belt and twisted until the supplementary food vial was released. He
felt the needle pierce the skin of his belly; he twisted again until
the hot surge of nourishment told him that the food-injector had
reached a vein.  Almost immediately his strength began to rise.

He watched the blur of buildings flashing into instantaneous shape
around him, standing a moment, and then melting slowly away.  Now he
could see a little more of his surroundings.  He seemed to be standing
in the mouth of a cave or in a great doorway.  It was curious, that,
about the buildings.  All the other buildings he had seen in time had
worked the other way.  First the slow up-thrust as they were built,
then the greying evenness of age, then the flash of removal.  But, he
reminded himself tiredly, he was back timing and he thought it probable
that no other human being had ever back timed so hard and fast or for
so long a time.

He seemed now to be rapidly decelerating.  A building appeared around
him, then he was outside of it, then back in again.  Suddenly a great
light shone in front of him.

Now he was inside a large palace.  He seemed to be placed on a
pedestal, high up at the center of things.  Shimmering masses began to
take form
of Man around him at rhythmic intervals: people?  There was something
wrong about the way they moved; why did they move with that strange
awkwardness?

As the light persisted and this building seemed solid, he made an
effort to squint to try to see more.  His eyeballs were the only part
of his anatomy that seemed to move freely.  His breaking growing
breaking fingernails and toenails and the growing beard reminded him to
break off another food needle in his vein.  His skin itched
intolerably.  As he realized the increasing immobility of his arms he
felt panic and while there was still time pushed the continuous-flow
button on the supplementary nutrients.  Despite the food, enough to
keep him alive in the cold of space, he could no longer move his hands
and fingers.  And still, it seemed only minutes since he had left the
ship.  (Dita, Dita, are you out of the Knot ?  Did you manage it in
time ?  If only I calculated the weight load right.  . .) The building
continued stable around him.  He rolled his eyes to try to see where he
was, when he was.

I'm still alive, he thought.  Nobody else ever got out of'anachron.
That's something.  Nobody else ever stepped out of time to be seen
again.

Deceleration continued.  The bright light before him remained even and
he found he could see better.  In front of him was a sort of picture,
high and large.  What was it?  Panels, a series of panels, paintings
from some remote past.

He peered harder and recognized that the panel at the top left was
himself, Tasco Magnon.  There he was: shimmering space suit, marble
armrests, pedestal below him.  But they had given him wings like the
wings of angels of the Old Strong Religion.

Great white wings.  And they had put a halo around his head.  The next
panel showed him as he felt: suit shimmering but his face old and
tired.

The panels on the lower level were equally curious.  The first showed a
bed of grass or moss with luminescence glowing above it.  The second
showed a skeleton standing in a frame.

His tired mind sought to make sense of the panels.

People became plainer in the blur around him.  Sometimes he could
almost see individuals.  The colors of the paintings brightened,
brightened, until they flashed gay and bold, then disappeared.

Disappeared completely, flatly.

His brain, so old and tired now, struggled with immense effort to reach
the truth.  Physiological time was utterly deranged.  Each minute
seemed years.  His thoughts became old memories while he thought them.
But the truth came through to him: He was still back timing

He had passed the time of his arrival and resurrection in this world.
The
Himself in Anachron 199 resurrection was wisely prophesied by the
beings who built the palace, painted the wings and halo around him.

He would die soon, in the remote past of this civilization.

Long afterwards, centuries before his own death, his alien remains
would fade into the system of this time-space locus; and in fading,
they would seem to glow and to assemble.  They must have been
untouchable and beyond manipulation.  The people who had built the
palace and their forefathers had watched dust turn to skeleton,
skeleton heave upright, skeleton become mummy, mummy become corpse,
corpse become old man, old man become young himself as he had left the
spaceship.  He had landed in his own tomb, his own temple.

He had yet to fulfill the things which these people had seen him do,
and had recorded in the panels of his temple.

Across his fatigue he felt a thrill of weary remote pride: he knew that
he was sure to fulfill the godhood which these people had so faithfully
recorded.  He knew he would become young and glorious, only to
disappear.  He'd done it, a few minutes or millennia ago.

The clash of time within his body tore at him with peculiar pain.  The
food needle seemed to have no further effect.  His vitals felt dry.

The building glowed as it seemed to come nearer.

The ages thrust against him.  He thought,

"I am Tasco Magnon and have been a god.  I will become one again."

But his last conscious thought was nothing grandiose.  A glimpse of
moon-pale hair, a half-turned cheek.  In the aching lost silence of his
own mind he called, Dita!  Dita!

The twisted time ship took form at the Uateport of the Instrumentality.
Officials and engineers rushed up, opened the door.  The young woman
who sat at the controls staring blindly was white-faced beyond all
weeping.  They tried to rouse her from her trance-like state but she
clung desperately to the controls, repeating like a chant: "He jumped
out.  Tasco jumped out.  He jumped out.  Alone, alone in ana chron .  .
."

Gravely and gently the officials lifted her from the controls so that
they could remove the now-priceless instruments.

The Crime and the Glory of Commander Suzdal Do not read this story;
turn the page quickly.  The story may upset you.  Anyhow, you probably
know it already.  It is a very disturbing story.  Everyone knows it.
The glory and the crime of Commander Suzdal have been told in a
thousand different ways.

Don't let yourself realize that the story is the truth.

It isn 't.  Not at all.  There's not a bit of truth to it.  There is no
such planet as Arachosia, no such people as klopts, no such world as
Catland.  These are all just imaginary, they didn't happen, forget
about it, go away and read something else.

The Beginning Commander Suzdal was sent forth in a shell-ship to
explore the outermost reaches of our galaxy.  His ship was called a
cruiser, but he was the only man in it.  He was equipped with hypnotics
and cubes to provide him the semblance of company, a large crowd of
friendly people who could be convoked out of his own hallucinations.

The Instrumentality even offered him some choice in his imaginary
companions, each of whom was embodied in a small ceramic cube
containing the brain of a small animal but imprinted with the
personality of an actual human being.

Suzdal, a short, stocky man with ajolly smile, was blunt about his
needs: "Give me two good security officers.  I can manage the ship, but
if I'm going into the unknown, I'll need help in meeting the strange
problems which might show up."

The loading official smiled at him,

"I never heard of a cruiser commander who asked for security officers.
Most people regard them as an utter nuisance."

"That's all right," said Suzdal.

"I don't."

"Don't you want some chess players?"

"I can play chess," said Suzdal, "all I want to, using the spare
computers.  All I have to do is set the power down and they start
losing.  On full power, they always beat me."

The official then gave Suzdal an odd look.  He did not exactly leer,
but his expression became both intimate and a little unpleasant.

"What about other companions?"  he asked, with a funny little edge to
his voice.

"I've got books," said Suzdal, "a couple of thousand.  I'm going to be
gone only a couple of years Earth time."

"Local-subjective, it might be several thousand years," said the
official, "though the time will wind back up again as you reapproach
Earth.  And I wasn't talking about books," he repeated, with the same
funny, prying lilt to his voice.

Suzdal shook his head with momentary worry, ran his hand through his
sandy hair.  His blue eyes were forthright and he looked
straightforwardly into the official's eyes.

"What do you mean, then, if not books?  Navigators?  I' ve got them,
not to mention the turtle-men.  They' re good company, if you just talk
to them slowly enough and then give them plenty of time to answer.

Don't forget, I've been out before .. ."

The official spat out his offer: "Dancing girls.  WOMEN.

Concubines.  Don't you want any of those?  We could even cube your own
wife for you and print her mind on a cube for you.  That way she could
be with you every week that you were awake."

Suzdal looked as though he would spit on the floor in sheer disgust.

"Alice?  You mean, you want me to travel around with a ghost of her?
How would the real Alice feel when I came back?

Don't tell me that you're going to put my wife on a mousebrain.

You're just offering me delirium.  I've got to keep my wits out there
with space and time rolling in big waves around me.  I'm going to be
crazy enough, just as it is.  Don't forget, I've been out there before.
Getting back to a real Alice is going to be one of my biggest reality
factors.  It will help me to get home."  At this point, Suzdal's own
voice took on the note of intimate inquiry, as he added,

"Don't tell me that a lot of cruiser commanders ask to go flying around
with imaginary wives.  That would be pretty nasty, in my opinion.  Do
many of them do it?"

"We're here to get you loaded on board ship, not to discuss what other
officers do or do not do.  Sometimes we think it good to have a female
companion on the ship with the commander, even if she is imaginary.  If
you ever found anything among the stars which took on female form,
you'd be mighty vulnerable to it."

"Females, among the stars?  Bosh!"  said Suzdal.

"Strange things have happened," said the official.

"Not that," said Suzdal.

"Pain, craziness, distortion, panic without end, a craze for food yes,
those I can look for and face.

They will be there.  But
females, no.  There aren't any.  I love my wife.  I won't make females
up out of my own mind.  After all, I'll have the turtle people aboard,
and they will be bringing up their young.  I'll have plenty of family
to watch and to take part in.  I can even give Christmas parties for
the young ones."

"What kind of parties are those?"  asked the official.

"Just a funny little ancient ritual that I heard about from an outer
pilot.  You give all the young things presents, once every
local-subjective year."

"It sounds nice," said the official, his voice growing tired and
final.

"You still refuse to have a cube-woman on board.  You wouldn't have to
activate her unless you really needed her."

"You haven't flown, yourself, have you?"  asked Suzdal.

It was the official's turn to flush.

"No," he said, flatly.

"Anything that's in that ship, I'm going to think about.  I'm acheerful
sort of man, and very friendly.  Let me just get along with my
turtle-people.  They're not lively, but they are considerate and
restful.  Two thousand or more years, local-subjective, is a lot of
time.  Don't give me additional decisions to make.  It's work enough,
running the ship.  Just leave me alone with my turtle people I've
gotten along with them before."

"You, Suzdal, are the commander," said the loading official.

"We'll do as you say."

"Fine,"smiled Suzdal.

"You may get a lot of queer types on this run, but I'm not one of
them."

The two men smiled agreement at one another and the loading of the ship
was completed.

The ship itself was managed by turtle-men, who aged very slowly, so
that while Suzdal coursed the outer rim of the galaxy and let the
thousands of years local count go past while he slept in his frozen
bed, the turtle-men rose generation by generation, trained their young
to work the ship, taught the stories of the Earth that they would never
see again, and read the computers correctly, to awaken Suzdal only when
there was a need for human intervention and for human intelligence.
Suzdal awakened from time to time, did his work and then went back.

He felt that he had been gone from Earth only a few months.

Months indeed!  He had been gone more than a subjective ten thousand
years, when he met the siren capsule.

It looked like an ordinary distress capsule.  The kind of thing that
was often shot through space to indicate some complication of the
destiny of man among the stars.  This capsule had apparently been flung
across an immense distance, and from the capsule Suzdal got the story
of Arachosia.

The story was false.  The brains of a whole planet the wild genius of a
malevolent, unhappy race had been dedicated to the problem of ensnaring
and attracting a normal pilot from Old Earth.  The story which the
capsule
sang conveyed the rich personality of a wonderful woman with a
contralto voice.  The story was true, in part.  The appeals were real,
in part.  Suzdal listened to the story and it sank, like a wonderfully
orchestrated piece of grand opera, right into the fibers of his brain.
It would have been different if he had known the real story.

Everybody now knows the real story of Arachosia, the bitter terrible
story of the planet which was a paradise, which turned into a hell. The
story of how people got to be something different from people.  The
story of what happened way out there in the most dreadful place among
the stars.

He would have fled if he knew the real story.  He couldn't understand
what we now know: Mankind could not meet the terrible people of
Arachosia without the people of Arachosia following them home and
bringing to mankind a grief greater than grief, a craziness worse than
mere insanity, a plague surpassing all imaginable plagues.

The Arachosians had become unpeople, and yet, in their innermost
imprinting of their personalities, they remained people.

They sang songs which exalted their own deformity and which praised
themselves for what they had so horribly become, and yet, in their own
songs, in their own ballads, the organ tones of the refrain rang out:
And I mourn Man!

They knew what they were and they hated themselves.  Hating themselves,
they pursued mankind.

Perhaps they are still pursuing mankind.

The Instrumentality has by now taken good pains that the Arachosians
will never find us again, has flung networks of deception out along the
edge of the galaxy to make sure that those lost ruined people cannot
find us.  The Instrumentality knows and guards our world and all the
other worlds of mankind against the deformity which has become
Arachosia.  We want nothing to do with Arachosia.  Let them hunt for
us.  They won't find us.

How could Suzdal know that?

This was the first time someone had met the Arachosians, and he met
them only with a message in which an elfin voice sang the elfin song of
ruin, using perfectly clear words in the old common tongue to tell a
story so sad, so abominable, that mankind has not forgotten it yet.  In
its essence the story was very simple.  This is what Suzdal heard, and
what people have learned ever since then.

The Arachosians were settlers.  Settlers could go out by sail ship
trailing behind them the pods.  That was the first way.

Or they could go out by plano form ship, ships piloted by skillful men,
who went into Space2 and came out again and found man.

Or for very long distances indeed, they could go out in the new
combination.  Individual pods packed into an enormous shell-ship, a
gigantic version of Suzdal's own ship.  The sleepers frozen, the
machines waking, the ship fired to and beyond the speed of light, flung
below space, coming out at random and homing on a suitable target.  It
was a gamble, but brave men took it.  If no target was found, their
machines might course space forever, while the bodies, protected by
freezing as they were, spoiled bit by bit, and while the dim light of
life went out in the individual frozen brains.

The shell-ships were the answers of mankind to an overpopulation which
neither the old planet Earth nor its daughter planets could quite
respond to.  The shell-ships took the bold, the reckless, the romantic,
the willful, sometimes the criminals out among the stars.  Mankind lost
track of these ships, over and over again.  The advance explorers, the
organized Instrumentality, would stumble upon human beings, cities and
cultures, high or low, tribes or families, where the shell-ships had
gone on, far, far beyond the outermost limits of mankind, where the
instruments of search had found an Earthlike planet, and the
shell-ship, like some great dying insect, had dropped to the planet,
awakened its people, broken open, and destroyed itself with its
delivery of newly reborn men and women, to settle a world.

Arachosia looked like a good world to the men and women who came to it.
Beautiful beaches, with cliffs like endless rivieras rising above. Two
bright big moons in the sky, a sun not too far away.  The machines had
pretested the atmosphere and sampled the water, had already scattered
the forms of Old Earth life into the atmosphere and in the seas so that
as the people awakened they heard the singing of Earth birds and they
knew that Earth fish had already been adapted to the oceans and flung
in, there to multiply.  It seemed a good life, a rich life.  Things
went well.

Things went very, very well for the Arachosians.

This is the truth.

This was, thus far, the story told by the capsule.

But here they diverged.

The capsule did not tell the dreadful, pitiable truth about Arachosia.
It invented a set of plausible lies.  The voice which came
telepathically out of the capsule was that of a mature, warm happy
female some woman of early middle age with a superb speaking
contralto.

Suzdal almost fancied that he talked to it, so real was the
personality.  How could he know that he was being beguiled, trapped?

It sounded right, really right.

"And then," said the voice, "the Arachosian sickness has been hitting
us.  Do not land.  Stand off.  Talk to us.  Tell us about medicine. Our
young die, without reason.  Our farms are rich, and the wheat here is
more golden than
of Man it was on Earth, the plums more purple, the flowers whiter.

Everything does well except people.

"Our young die ..."  said the womanly voice, ending in a sob.

"Are there any symptoms?"  thought Suzdal, and almost as though it had
heard his question, the capsule went on.

"They die of nothing.  Nothing which our medicine can test, nothing
which our science can show.  They die.  Our population is dropping.
People, do not forget us!  Man, whoever you are, come quickly, come
now, bring help!  But for your own sake, do not land.  Stand off-planet
and view us through screens so that you can take word back to the home
of man about the lost children of mankind among the strange and
outermost stars!"

Strange, indeed!

The truth was far stranger, and very ugly indeed.

Suzdal was convinced of the truth of the message.  He had been selected
for the trip because he was good-natured, intelligent, and brave; this
appeal touched all three of his qualities.

Later, much later, when he was arrested, Suzdal was asked, "Suzdal, you
fool, why didn't you test the message?  You've risked the safety of all
the man kinds for a foolish appeal!"

"It wasn't foolish!"  snapped Suzdal.

"That distress capsule had a sad, wonderful womanly voice and the story
checked out true."

"With whom?"  said the investigator, flatly and dully.

Suzdal sounded weary and sad when he replied to the point.

"It checked out with my books.  With my knowledge."  Reluctantly he
added,

"And with my own judgment.  . ."

"Was your judgment good?"  said the investigator.

"No," said Suzdal, and let the single word hang on the air as though it
might be the last word he would ever speak.

But it was Suzdal himself who broke the silence when he added,

"Before I set course and went to sleep, I activated my security
officers in cubes and had them check the story.  They got the real
story of Arachosia, all right.  They cross-ciphered it out of patterns
in the distress capsule and they told me the whole real story very
quickly, just as I was waking up."

"And what did you do?"

"I did what I did.  I did that for which I expect to be punished.

The Arachosians were already walking around the outside of my hull by
then.  They had caught my ship.  They had caught me.  How was I to know
that the wonderful, sad story was true only for the first twenty full
years that the woman told about.  And she wasn' t even a woman.  Just a
klopt.  Only the first twenty years..  ."

Things had gone well for the Arachosians for the first twenty years.
Then came disaster, but it was not the tale told in the distress
capsule.

They couldn't understand it.  They didn't know why it had to happen to
them.  They didn't know why it waited twenty years, three months, and
four days.  But their time came.

We think it must have been something in the radiation of their sun.  Or
perhaps a combination of that particular sun's radiation and the
chemistry, which even the wise machines in the shell-ship had not fully
analyzed, which reached out and was spread from within.  The disaster
hit.  It was a simple one and utterly unstoppable.

They had doctors.  They had hospitals.  They even had a limited
capacity for research.

But they could not research fast enough.  Not enough to meet this
disaster.  It was simple, monstrous, enormous.

Femininity became carcinogenic.

Every woman on the planet began developing cancer at the same time, on
her lips, in her breasts, in her groin, sometimes along the edge of her
jaw, the edge of her lip, the tender portions of her body.  The cancer
had many forms, and yet it was always the same.  There was something
about the radiation which reached through, which reached into the human
body, and which made a particular form of desoxycorticosterone turn
into a sub form unknown on earth ofpregnandiol, which infallibly caused
cancer.  The advance was rapid.

The little baby girls began to die first.  The women clung weeping to
their fathers, their husbands.  The mothers tried to say goodbye to
their sons.

One of the doctors, herself, was a woman, a strong woman.

Remorselessly, she cut live tissue from her living body, put it under
the microscope, took samples of her own urine, her blood, her spit, and
she came up with the answer: There is no answer.

And yet there was something better and worse than an answer.

If the sun of Arachosia killed everything which was female, if the
female fish floated upside down on the surface of the sea, if the
female birds sang a shriller, wilder song as they died above the eggs
which would never hatch, if the female animals grunted and growled in
the lairs where they hid away with pain, female human beings did not
have to accept death so tamely.  The doctor's name was Astarte Kraus.

The Magic of the Klopts The human female could do what the animal
female could not.

She could turn male.  With the help of equipment from the ship,
tremendous quantities of testosterone were manufactured, and every
single girl and woman still surviving was turned into a man.

Massive injections were administered to
of Man all of them.  Their faces grew heavy, they all returned to
growing a little bit, their chests flattened out, their muscles grew
stronger, and in less than three months they were indeed men.

Some lower forms of life had survived because they were not polarized
clearly enough to the forms of male and female, which depended on that
particular organic chemistry for survival.  With the fish gone, plants
clotted the oceans, the birds were gone but the insects survived;
dragonflies, butterflies, mutated versions of grasshoppers, beetles,
and other insects swarmed over the planet.

The men who had lost women worked side by side with the men who had
been made out of the bodies of women.

When they knew each other, it was unutterably sad for them to meet.
Husband and wife, both bearded, strong, quarrelsome, desperate, and
busy.  The little boys somehow realizing that they would never grow up
to have sweethearts, to have wives, to get married, to have
daughters.

But what was a mere world to stop the driving brain and the burning
intellect of Dr.  Astarte Kraus?  She became the leader of her people,
the men and the men-women.  She drove them forward, she made them
survive, she used cold brains on all of them.

(Perhaps, if she had been a sympathetic person, she would have let them
die.  But it was the nature of Dr.  Kraus not to be sympathetic just
brilliant, remorseless, implacable against the universe which had tried
to destroy her.) Before she died.  Dr.  Kraus had worked out a
carefully programmed genetic system.  Little bits of the men's tissues
could be implanted by a surgical routine in the abdomens, just inside
the peritoneal wall, crowding a little bit against the intestines, an
artificial womb and artificial chemistry and artificial insemination by
radiation, by heat made it possible for men to bear boy children.

What was the use of having girl children if they all died?  The people
of Arachosia went on.  The first generation lived through the tragedy,
half insane with the grief and disappointment.  They sent out message
capsules and they knew that their messages would reach Earth in six
million years.

As new explorers, they had gambled on going further than other ships
went.  They had found a good world, but they were not quite sure where
they were.  Were they still within the familiar galaxy, or had they
jumped beyond to one of the nearby galaxies?

They couldn't quite tell.  It was a part of the policy of Old Earth not
to over-equip the exploring parties for fear that some of them, taking
violent cultural change or becoming aggressive empires, might turn back
on Earth and destroy it.  Earth always made sure that it had the
advantages.

The third and fourth and fifth generations of Arachosians were still
people.  All of them were male.  They had the human memory, they had
human books, they knew the words mama, sister, sweetheart, but they no
longer really understood what these terms referred to.

The human body, which had taken four million years on Earth to grow,
has immense resources within it, resources greater than the brain, or
the personality, or the hopes of the individual.  And the bodies of the
Arachosians decided things for them.  Since the chemistry of femininity
meant instant death, and since an occasional girl baby was born dead
and buried casually, the bodies made the adjustment.  The men of
Arachosia became both men and women.  They gave themselves the ugly
nickname "klopt."  Since they did not have the rewards of family life,
they became strutting cockerels, who mixed their love with murder, who
blended their songs with duels, who sharpened their weapons, and who
earned the right to reproduce within a strange family system which no
decent Earth-man would find comprehensible.

But they did survive.

And the method of their survival was so sharp, so fierce, that it was
indeed a difficult thing to understand.

In less than four hundred years the Arachosians had civilized into
groups of fighting clans.  They still had just one planet, around just
one sun.  They lived in just one place.  They had a few spacecraft they
had built themselves.  Their science, their art, and their music moved
forward with strange lurches of inspired neurotic genius, because they
lacked the fundamentals in the human personality itself, the balance of
male and female, the family, the operations of love, of hope, of
reproduction.  They survived, but they themselves had become monsters
and did not know it.

Out of their memory of old mankind they created a legend of Old Earth.
Women in that memory were deformities, who should be killed.  Misshapen
beings, who should be erased.  The family, as they recalled it, was
filth and abomination which they were resolved to wipe out if they
should ever meet it.

They, themselves, were bearded homosexuals, with rouged lips, ornate
earrings, fine heads of hair, and very few old men among them.  They
killed off their men before they became old; the things they could not
get from love or relaxation or comfort, they purchased with battle and
death.  They made up songs proclaiming themselves to be the last of the
old men and the first of the new, and they sang their hate to mankind
when they should meet, and they sang,

"Woe is Earth that we should find it," and yet something inside them
made them add to almost every song a refrain which troubled even
them:
The Trap Suzdal had been deceived by the message capsule.  He put
himself back in the sleeping compartment and he directed the turtle-men
to take the cruiser to Arachosia, wherever it might be.

He did not do this crazily or wantonly.  He did it as amatter of
deliberate judgment.  A judgment for which he was later heard, tried,
judged fairly, and then put to something worse than death.

He deserved it.

He sought for Arachosia without stopping to think of the most
fundamental rule: How could he keep the Arachosians, singing monsters
that they were, from following him home to the eventual ruin of Earth?
Might not their condition be a disease which could be contagious, or
might not their fierce society destroy the other societies of men and
leave Earth and all of men's other worlds in ruin?  He did not think of
this, so he was heard, and tried and punished much later.  We will come
to that.

The Arrival Suzdal awakened in orbit off Arachosia.  And he awakened
knowing he had made a mistake.  Strange ships clung to his shell ship
like evil barnacles from an unknown ocean, attached to a familiar water
craft.  He called to his turtle-men to press the controls and the
controls did not work.

The outsiders, whoever they were, man or woman or beast or god, had
enough technology to immobilize his ship.  Suzdal immediately realized
his mistake.  Naturally, he thought of destroying himself and the ship,
but he was afraid that if he destroyed himself and missed destroying
the ship completely there was a chance that his cruiser, a late model
with recent weapons, would fall into the hands of whoever it was
walking on the outer dome of his own cruiser.  He could not afford the
risk of mere individual suicide.  He had to take a more drastic step. 
This was not time for obeying Earth rules.

His security officer a cube ghost wakened to human form whispered the
whole story to him in quick intelligent gasps: "They are people, sir.

"More people than I am.

"I'm a ghost, an echo working out of a dead brain.

"These are real people.  Commander Suzdal, but they are the worst
people ever to get loose among the stars.  You must destroy them,
sir!"

"I can't," said Suzdal, still trying to come fully awake.

"They're people.  " "Then you've got to beat them off.  By any means,
sir.  By any means whatever.  Save Earth.  Stop them.  Warn Earth."

"And I?"  asked Suzdal, and was immediately sorry that he had asked
the selfish, personal question.

"You will die or you will be punished," said the security officer
sympathetically, "and I do not know which one will be worse."

"Now?"

"Right now.  There is no time left for you.  No time at all."

"But the rules .  . . ?"

"You have already strayed far outside of rules."

There were rules, but Suzdal left them all behind.

Rules, rules for ordinary times, for ordinary places, for
understandable dangers.

This was a nightmare cooked up by the flesh of man, motivated by the
brains of man.  Already his monitors were bringing him news of who
these people were, these seeming maniacs, these men who had never known
women, these boys who had grown to lust and battle, who had a family
structure which the normal human brain could not accept, could not
believe, could not tolerate.  The things on the outside were people,
and they weren't.  The things on the outside had the human brain, the
human imagination, and the human capacity for revenge, and yet Suzdal,
a brave officer, was so frightened by the mere nature of them that he
did not respond to their efforts to communicate.

He could feel the turtle-women among his crew aching with fright
itself, as they realized who was pounding on their ship and who it was
that sang through loud announcing machines that they wanted in, in,
in.

Suzdal committed a crime.  It is the pride of the Instrumentality that
the Instrumentality allows its officers to commit crimes or mistakes or
suicide.  The Instrumentality does the things for mankind that a
computer can not do.  The Instrumentality leaves the human brain, the
human choice in action.

The Instrumentality passes dark knowledge to its staff, things not
usually understood in the inhabited world, things prohibited to
ordinary men and women because the officers of the Instrumentality, the
captains and the subchiefs and the chiefs, must know their jobs.  If
they do not, all mankind might perish.

Suzdal reached into his arsenal.  He knew what he was doing.

The larger moon of Arachosia was habitable.  He could see that there
were earth plants already on it, and earth insects.  His monitors
showed him that the Arachosian men-women had not bothered to settle on
the planet.  He threw an agonized inquiry at his computers and cried
out: "Read me the age it's in!"

The machine sang back,

"More than thirty million years."

Suzdal had strange resources.  He had twins or quadruplets of almost
every Earth animal.  The earth animals were carried in tiny capsules no
larger than a medicine capsule and they consisted of the sperm and the
ovum of the
of Man higher animals, ready to be matched for sowing, ready to be
imprinted; he also had small life-bombs which could surround any form
of life with at least a chance of survival.

He went to the bank and he got cats, eight pairs, sixteen earth cats,
Fells domesticus, the kind of cat that you and I know, the kind of cat
which is bred, sometimes for telepathic uses, sometimes to go along on
the ships and serve as auxiliary weapons when the minds of the pin
lighters direct the cats to fight off dangers.

He coded these cats.  He coded them with messages just as monstrous as
the messages which had made the men-women of Arachosia into monsters.
This is what he coded: Do not breed true.

Invent new chemistry.

You will serve man.

Become civilised.

Learn speech.

You will serve man.

When man calls you will serve man.

Go back, and come forth.

Serve man.

These instructions were no mere verbal instructions.  They were
imprints on the actual molecular structure of the animals.

They were changes in the genetic and biological coding which went with
these cats.  And then Suzdal committed his offense against the laws of
mankind.  He had a chronopathic device on board the ship.  A time
distorter, usually to be used for a moment or a second or two to bring
the ship away from utter destruction.

The men-women of Arachosia were already cutting through the hull.

He could hear their high, hooting voices screaming delirious pleasure
at one another as they regarded him as the first of their promised
enemies that they had ever met, the first of the monsters from Old
Earth who had finally overtaken them.  The true, evil people on whom
they, the men-women of Arachosia, would be revenged.

Suzdal remained calm.  He coded the genetic cats.  He loaded them into
life-bombs.  He adjusted the controls of his chronopathic machine
illegally, so that instead of reaching one second for a ship of eighty
thousand tons, they reached two million years for a load of less than
four kilos.  He flung the cats into the nameless moon of Arachosia.

And he flung them back in time, And he knew he did not have to wait.

He didn't.

The Crime and the Glory of Commander Suzdal The Gotland Suzdal Made
The cats came.  Their ships glittered in the naked sky above Arachosia.
Their little combat craft attacked.  The cats who had not existed a
moment before, but who had then had two million years in which to
follow a destiny printed into their brains, printed down their spinal
cords, etched into the chemistry of their bodies and personalities. The
cats had turned into people of a kind, with speech, intelligence, hope,
and a mission.  Their mission was to reach Suzdal, to rescue him, to
obey him, and to damage Arachosia.

The cat ships screamed their battle warnings.

"This is the day of the year of the promised age.  And now come
cats!"

The Arachosians had waited for battle for four thousand years and now
they got it.  The cats attacked them.  Two of the cat craft recognized
Suzdal, and the cats reported, "Oh Lord, oh God, oh Maker of all
things, oh Commander of Time, oh Beginner of Life, we have waited since
Everything began to serve You, to serve Your Name, to obey Your
Glory!

May we live for You, may we die for You.  We are Your people."

Suzdal cried and threw his message to all the cats.

"Harry the klopts but don't kill them all!"

He repeated,

"Harry them and stop them until I escape."  He flung his cruiser into
non space and escaped.

Neither cat nor Arachosian followed him.

And that's the story, but the tragedy is that Suzdal got back.

And the Arachosians are still there and the cats are still there.

Perhaps the Instrumentality knows where they are, perhaps the
Instrumentality does not.  Mankind does not really want to find out. It
is against all law to bring up a form of life superior to man.

Perhaps the cats are.  Perhaps somebody knows whether the Arachosians
won and killed the cats and added the cat science to their own and are
now looking for us somewhere, probing like blind men through the stars
for us true human beings to meet, to hate, to kill.  Or perhaps the
cats won.

Perhaps the cats are imprinted by a strange mission, by weird hopes of
serving men they don't recognize.  Perhaps they think we are all
Arachosians and should be saved only for some particular cruiser
commander, whom they will never see again.  They won't see Suzdal,
because we know what happened to him.

The Trial of Suzdal Suzdal was brought to trial on a great stage in the
open world.

His trial was recorded.  He had gone in when he should not have gone
in.  He had searched for the Arachosians without waiting and asking for
advice and
of Man reinforcements.  What business was it of his to relieve a
distress ages old?  What business indeed?

And then the cats.  We had the records of the ship to show that
something came out of that moon.  Spacecraft, things with voices,
things that could communicate with the human brain.  We're not even
sure, since they transmitted directly into the receiver computers, that
they spoke an Earth language.  Perhaps they did it with some sort of
direct telepathy.  But the crime was, Suzdal had succeeded.

By throwing the cats back two million years, by coding them to survive,
coding them to develop civilization, coding them to come to his rescue,
he had created a whole new world in less than one second of objective
time.

His chronopathic device had flung the little life-bombs back to the wet
earth of the big moon over Arachosia and in less time than it takes to
record this, the bombs came back in the form of a fleet built by a
race, an Earth race, though of cat origin, two million years old.

The court stripped Suzdal of his name and said,

"You will not be named Suzdal any longer."

The court stripped Suzdal of his rank.

"You will not be a commander of this or any other navy, neither
imperial nor of the Instrumentality."

The court stripped Suzdal of his life.

"You will not live longer, former commander, and former Suzdal."

And then the court stripped Suzdal of death.

"You will go to the planet Shayol, the place of uttermost shame from
which no one ever returns.  You will go there with the contempt and
hatred of mankind.  We will not punish you.  We do not wish to know
about you any more.  You will live on, but for us you will have ceased
to exist."

That's the story.  It's a sad, wonderful story.  The Instrumentality
tries to cheer up all the different kinds of mankind by telling them it
isn't true, it's just a ballad.

Perhaps the records do exist.  Perhaps somewhere the crazy klopts of
Arachosia breed their boyish young, deliver their babies, always by
Caesarean, feed them always by bottle, generations of men who have
known fathers and who have no idea of what the word mother might be.
And perhaps the Arachosians spend their crazy lives in endless battle
with intelligent cats who are serving a mankind that may never come
back.

That's the story.

Furthermore, it isn't true.

Golden the Ship Was-Oh!  Oh!  Oh!

Aggression started very far away.

War with Raumsog came about twenty years after the great cat scandal
which, for a while, threatened to cut the entire planet Earth from the
desperately essential santa clara drug.  It was a short war and a
bitter one.

Corrupt, wise, weary old Earth fought with masked weapons, since only
hidden weapons could maintain so ancient a sovereignty sovereignty
which had long since lapsed into a titular paramountcy among the
communities of mankind.  Earth won and the others lost, because the
leaders of Earth never put other considerations ahead of survival.  And
this time, they thought, they were finally and really threatened.

The Raumsog war was never known to the general public except for the
revival of wild old legends about golden ships.

On Earth the Lords of the Instrumentality met.  The presiding chairman
looked about and said,

"Well, gentlemen, all of us have been bribed by Raumsog.  We have all
been paid off individually.

I myself received six ounces ofstroon in pure form.  Will the rest of
you show better bargains?"

Around the room, the councilors announced the amounts of their
bribes.

The chairman turned to the secretary.

"Enter the bribes in the record and then mark the record
off-the-record."

The others nodded gravely.

"Now we must fight.  Bribery is not enough.  Raumsog has been
threatening to attack Earth.  It's been cheap enough to let him
threaten, but obviously we don't mean to let him do it."

"How are you going to stop him.  Lord Chairman?"  growled a gloomy old
member.

"Get out the golden ships?"

"Exactly that."  The chairman looked deadly serious.

There was a murmurous sigh around the room.  The golden ships had
been used against an inhuman life-form many centuries before.

They were hidden somewhere in non space and only a few officials of
Earth knew how much reality there was to them.  Even at the level of
the Lords of the Instrumentality the council did not know precisely
what they were.

"One ship," said the chairman of the Lords of the Instrumentality,
"will be enough."

It was.

The dictator Lord Raumsog on his planet knew the difference some weeks
later.

"You can't mean that," he said.

"You can't mean it.  There is no such ship that size.  The golden ships
are just a story.  No one ever saw a picture of one."

"Here is a picture, my Lord," said the subordinate.

Raumsog looked at it.

"It's a trick.  Some piece of trick photography.  They distorted the
size.  The dimensions are wrong.

Nobody has a ship that size.  You could not build it, or if you did
build it, you could not operate it.  There just is not any such thing "
He babbled on for a few more sentences before he realized that his men
were looking at the picture and not at him.

He calmed down.

The boldest of the officers resumed speaking.

"That one ship is ninety million miles long.  Your Highness.  It
shimmers like fire, but moves so fast that we cannot approach it.  But
it came into the center of our fleet almost touching our ships, stayed
there twenty or thirty thousandths of a second.  There it was, we
thought.  We saw the evidence of life on board: light beams waved; they
examined us and then, of course, it lapsed back into non space

Ninety million miles, Your Highness.  Old Earth has some stings yet and
we do not know what the ship is doing."

The officers stared with anxious confidence at their overlord.

Raumsog sighed.

"If we must fight, we'll fight.  We can destroy that too.  After all,
what is size in the spaces between the stars?

What difference does it make whether it is nine miles or nine million
or ninety million?"  He sighed again.

"Yet I must say ninety million miles is an awful big size for a ship. I
don't know what they are going to do with it."

He did not.

Golden the Ship Was-Oh!  Oh!  Oh!

It is strange strange and even fearful what the love of Earth can do to
men.  Tedesco, for example.

Tedesco's reputation was far-flung.  Even among the Go-Captains, whose
thoughts were rarely on such matters, Tedesco was known for his
raiment, the foppish arrangement of his mantle of office, and his
bejeweled badges of authority.  Tedesco was known too for his languid
manner and his luxurious sybaritic living.  When the message came, it
found Tedesco in his usual character.

He was lying on the air-draft with his brain pleasure centers plugged
into the triggering current.  So deeply lost in pleasure was he that
the food, the women, the clothing, the books of his apartments were
completely neglected and forgotten.  All pleasure save the pleasure of
electricity acting on the brain was forgotten.

So great was the pleasure that Tedesco had been plugged into the
current for twenty hours without interruption a manifest disobedience
of the rule which set six hours as maximum pleasure.

And yet, when the message came relayed to Tedesco's brain by the
infinitesimal crystal set there for the transmittal of messages so
secret that even thought was too vulnerable to interception when the
message came Tedesco struggled through layer after layer of bliss and
unconsciousness.  The ships of gold the golden ships for Earth is in
danger.  Tedesco struggled.  Earth is in danger.  With a sigh of bliss
he made the effort to press the button which turned off the current.
And with a sigh of cold reality he took a look at the world about him
and turned to the job at hand.  Quickly he prepared to wait upon the
Lords of the Instrumentality.

The chairman of the Lords of the Instrumentality sent out the Lord
Admiral Tedesco to command the golden ship.  The ship itself, larger
than most stars, was an incredible monstrosity.

Centuries before it had frightened away nonhuman aggressors from a
forgotten corner of the galaxies.

The Lord Admiral walked back and forth on his bridge.

The cabin was small, twenty feet by thirty.  The control area of the
ship measured nothing over a hundred feet.  All the rest was a golden
bubble of the feinting ship, nothing more than thin and incredibly
rigid foam with tiny wires cast across it so as to give the illusion of
a hard metal and strong defenses.

The ninety million miles of length were right.  Nothing else was.  The
ship was a gigantic dummy, the largest scarecrow ever conceived by the
human mind.

Century after century it had rested in non space between the stars,
waiting for use.  Now it proceeded helpless and defenseless against a
militant and crazy dictator Raumsog and his horde of hard-fighting and
very real ships.

of Man Raumsog had broken the disciplines of space.  He had killed the
pin lighters He had emprisoned the Go-captains.  He had used renegades
and apprentices to pillage the immense interstellar ships and had armed
the captive vessels to the teeth.  In a system which had not known real
war, and least of all war against Earth, he had planned well.

He had bribed, he had swindled, he had propagandized.  He expected
Earth to fall before the threat itself.  Then he launched his attack.

With the launching of the attack.  Earth itself changed.  Corrupt
rascals became what they were in title: the leaders and the defenders
of mankind.

Tedesco himself had been an elegant fop.  War changed him into an
aggressive captain, swinging the largest vessel of all time as though
it were a tennis bat.

He cut in on the Raumsog fleet hard and fast.

Tedesco shifted his ship right, north, up, over.

He appeared before the enemy and eluded them down, forward, right,
over.

He appeared before the enemy again.  One successful shot from them
could destroy an illusion on which the safety of mankind itself
depended.  It was his business not to allow them that shot.

Tedesco was not a fool.  He was fighting his own strange kind of war,
but he could not help wondering where the real war was proceeding.

Prince Lovaduck had obtained his odd name because he had had a
Chinesian ancestor who did love ducks, ducks in their Peking form
succulent duck skins brought forth to him ancestral dreams of culinary
ecstasy.

His ancestress, an English lady, had said,

"Lord Lovaduck, that fits you!"  and the name had been proudly taken as
a family name.  Lord Lovaduck had a small ship.  The ship was tiny and
had a very simple and threatening name: Anybody.

The ship was not listed in the space register and he himself was not in
the Ministry of Space Defense.  The craft was attached only to the
Office of Statistics and Investigation under the listing, vehicle" %for
the Earth treasury.  He had very elementary defenses.  With him on the
ship went one chronopathic idiot essential to his final and vital
maneuvers.

With him also went a monitor.  The monitor, as always, sat rigid,
catatonic, unthinking, unaware except for the tape recorder of his
living mind which unconsciously noted every imminent mechanical
movement of the ship and was prepared to destroy Lovaduck, the
chronopathic idiot,
and the ship itself should they attempt to escape the authority of
Earth or should they turn against Earth.  The life of a monitor was a
difficult one but was far better than execution for crime, its usual
alternative.  The monitor made no trouble.  Lovaduck also had a very
small collection of weapons, weapons selected with exquisite care for
the atmosphere, the climate, and the precise conditions ofRaumsog's
planet.

He also had a ps ionic talent, a poor crazy little girl who wept, and
whom the Lords of the Instrumentality had cruelly refused to heal,
because her talents were better in unshielded form than they would have
been had she been brought into the full community of mankind.  She was
a class-three etiological interference.

Lovaduck brought his tiny ship near the atmosphere of Raumsog's planet.
He had paid good money for his captaincy to this ship and he meant to
recover it.  Recover it he would, and handsomely, if he succeeded in
his adventurous mission.

The Lords of the Instrumentality were the corrupt rulers of a corrupt
world, but they had learned to make corruption serve their civil and
military ends, and they were in no mind to put up with failures.  If
Lovaduck failed he might as well not come back at all.

No bribery could save him from this condition.  No monitor could let
him escape.  If he succeeded, he might be almost as rich as an Old
North Australian or a stroon merchant.

Lovaduck materialized his ship just long enough to hit the planet by
radio.  He walked across the cabin and slapped the girl.

The girl became frantically excited.  At the height of her excitement
he slapped a helmet on her head, plugged in the ship's communication
system, and flung her own peculiar emotional ps ionic radiations over
the entire planet.

She was a luck-changer.  She succeeded: for a few moments, at every
place on that planet, under the water and on it, in the sky and in the
air, luck went wrong just a little.  Quarrels did occur, accidents did
happen, mischances moved just within the limits of sheer probability.
They all occurred within the same minute.  The uproar was reported just
as Lovaduck moved his ship to another position.  This was the most
critical time of all.  He dropped down into the atmosphere.  He was
immediately detected.  Ravening weapons reached for him, weapons sharp
enough to scorch the very air and to bring every living being on the
planet into a condition of screaming alert.

No weapons possessed by Earth could defend against such an attack.

Lovaduck did not defend.  He seized the shoulders of his chronopathic
idiot.  He pinched the poor defective; the idiot fled, taking the ship
with him.  The ship moved back three, four seconds in time to a period
slightly earlier than the first detection.  All the instruments on
Raumsog's planet went off.  There was nothing on which they could
act.

Lovaduck was ready.  He discharged the weapons.  The weapons were not
noble.

The Lords of the Instrumentality played at being chivalrous and did
love money, but when life and death were at stake, they no longer cared
much about money, or credit, or even about honor.

They fought like the animals of Earth's ancient past they fought to
kill.  Lovaduck had discharged a combination of organic and inorganic
poisons with a high dispersion rate.  Seventeen million people, nine
hundred and fifty thousandths of the entire population, were to die
within that night.

He slapped the chronopathic idiot again.  The poor freak whimpered. The
ship moved back two more seconds in time.

As he unloaded more poison, he could feel the mechanical relays reach
for him.

He moved to the other side of the planet, moving backward one last
time, dropped a final discharge of virulent carcinogens, and snapped
his ship into non space into the outer reaches of nothing.  Here he was
far beyond the reach of Raumsog.

VI

Tedesco's golden ship moved serenely toward the dying planet, Raumsog's
fighters closing on it.  They fired it evaded, surprisingly agile for
so immense a craft, a ship larger than any sun seen in the heavens of
that part of space.  But while the ships closed in their radios
reported: "The capital has blanked out."

"Raumsog himself is dead."

"There is no response from the north."

"People are dying in the relay stations."

The fleet moved, inter communicated and began to surrender.

The golden ship appeared once more and then it disappeared, apparently
forever.

VII

The Lord Tedesco returned to his apartments and to the current for
plugging into the centers of pleasure in his brain.  But as he arranged
himself on the air-jet his hand stopped on its mission to press the
button
which would start the current.  He realized, suddenly, that he had
pleasure.  The contemplation of the golden ship and of what he had
accomplished alone, deceptive, without the praise of all the worlds for
his solitary daring gave even greater pleasure than that of the
electric current.  And he sank back on the jet of air and thought of
the golden ship, and his pleasure was greater than any he had ever
experienced before.

On Earth, the Lords of the Instrumentality gracefully acknowledged that
the golden ship had destroyed all life on Raumsog's planet.  Homage was
paid to them by the many worlds of mankind.  Lovaduck, his idiot, his
little girl, and the monitor were taken to hospitals.  Their minds were
erased of all recollection of their accomplishments.

Lovaduck himself appeared before the Lords of the Instrumentality.  He
felt that he had served on the golden ship and he did not remember what
he had done.  He knew nothing of a chronopathic idiot.  And he
remembered nothing of his little "vehicle."  Tears poured down his face
when the Lords of the Instrumentality gave him their highest
decorations and paid him an immense sum of money.  They said: "You have
served well and you are discharged.  The blessings and the thanks of
mankind will forever rest upon you .  . ."

Lovaduck went back to his estates wondering that his service should
have been so great.  He wondered, too, in the centuries of the rest of
his life, how any man such as himself could be so tremendous a hero and
never quite remember how it was accomplished.

On a very remote planet, the survivors of a Raumsog cruiser were
released from internment.  By special orders, direct from Earth, their
memories had been discoordinated so that they would not reveal the
pattern of defeat.  An obstinate reporter kept after one spaceman.
After many hours of hard drinking the survivor's answer was still the
same: "Golden the ship was oh!  oh!  oh!  Golden the ship was oh!

oh!  oh!"

 The Dead Lady Of Clown Town You already know the end the immense
drama of the Lord Jestocost, seventh of his line, and how the cat-girl
C" mell initiated the vast conspiracy.  But you do not know the
beginning, how the first Lord Jestocost got his name, because of the
terror and inspiration which his mother, Lady Goroke, obtained from the
famous real-life drama of the dog-girl D'joan.  It is even less likely
that you know the other story the one behind D'joan.  This story is
sometimes mentioned as the matter of the "nameless witch,"

which is absurd, because she really had a name.  The name was "Elaine,"
an ancient and forbidden one.

Elaine was a mistake.  Her birth, her life, her career were all
mistakes.  The ruby was wrong.  How could that have happened?

Go back to An-fang, the Peace Square at An-fang, the Beginning Place at
An-fang, where all things start.  Bright it was.

Red Square, dead square, clear square, under a yellow sun.

This was Earth Original, Manhome itself, where Earthport thrusts its
way up through hurricane clouds that are higher than the mountains.

An-fang was near a city, the only living city with a pre-atomic name.
The lovely meaningless name was Meeya Meefia, where the lines of
ancient roadways, untouched by a wheel for thousands of years, forever
paralleled the warm, bright, clear beaches of the Old South East.

The headquarters of the People Programmer was at An-fang, and there the
mistake happened: A ruby trembled.  Two tourmaline nets failed to
rectify the laser beam.  A diamond noted the error.  Both the error and
the correction went into the general computer.

The error assigned, on the general account of births for Fomalhaut III,
the profession of "lay therapist, female, intuitive capacity for
correction of human physiology with local resources."

On some of the early ships they used to call these people witch women
because they worked unaccountable cures.  For pioneer parties, these
lay therapists were invaluable; in
settled post-Riesmannian societies, they became an awful nuisance.
Sickness disappeared with good conditions, accidents dwindled down to
nothing, medical work became institutional.

Who wants a witch, even a good witch, when a thousand-bed hospital is
waiting with its staff eager for clinical experience... and only seven
out of its thousand beds filled with real people?

(The remaining beds were filled with lifelike robots on which the staff
could practice, lest they lose their morale.  They could, of course,
have worked on under people animals in the shape of human beings, who
did the heavy and the weary work which remained as the caput mortuum of
a really perfected economy but it was against the law for animals, even
when they were under people to go to a human hospital.  When under
people got sick, the Instrumentality took care of them in
slaughterhouses.  It was easier to breed new under people for the jobs
than it was to repair sick ones.  Furthermore, the tender, loving care
of a hospital might give them ideas.  Such as the idea that they were
people.  This would have been bad, from the prevailing point of view.
Therefore the human hospitals remained almost empty while an under
person who sneezed four times or who vomited once was taken away, never
to be ill again.  The empty beds kept on with the robot patients, who
went through endless repetitions of the human patterns of injury or
disease.) This left no work for witches, bred and trained.

Yet the ruby had trembled; the program had indeed made a mistake; the
birth-number for a "lay therapist, general, female, immediate use" had
been ordered for Fomalhaut III.

Much later, when the story was all done down to its last historic
detail, there was an investigation into the origins of Elaine.  When
the laser had trembled, both the original order and the correction were
fed simultaneously into the machine.  The machine recognized the
contradiction and promptly referred both papers to the human
supervisor, an actual man who had been working on the job for seven
years.

He was studying music, and he was bored.  He was so close to the end of
his term that he was already counting the days to his own release.
Meanwhile he was rearranging two popular songs.

One was The Big Bamboo, a primitive piece which tried to evoke the
original magic of man.  The other was about a girl, Elaine, Elaine,
whom the song asked to refrain from giving pain to her loving swam.
Neither of the songs was important; but between them they influenced
history, first a little bit and then very much.

The musician had plenty of time to practice.  He had not had to meet a
real emergency in all his seven years.  From time to time the machine
made reports to him, but the musician just told the machine to correct
its own errors, and it infallibly did so.

On the day that the accident of Elaine happened, he was trying to
perfect his finger work on the guitar, a very old instrument believed
to date from the
The Dead Lady of Clown Town pre-space period.  He was playing The Big
Bamboo for the hundredth time.

The machine announced its mistake with an initial musical chime.  The
supervisor had long since forgotten all the instructions which he had
so worrisomely memorized seven long years ago.  The alert did not
really and truly matter, because the machine invariably corrected its
own mistakes whether the supervisor was on duty or not.

The machine, not having its chime answered, moved into a second-stage
alarm.  From a loudspeaker set in the wall of the room, it shrieked in
a high, clear human voice, the voice of some employee who had died
thousands of years earlier: "Alert, alert!  Emergency.  Correction
needed.  Correction needed!"

The answer was one which the machine had never heard before, old though
it was.  The musician's fingers ran madly, gladly over the guitar
strings and he sang clearly, wildly back to the machine a message
strange beyond any machine's belief: Beat, beat the Big Bamboo!  Beat,
beat, beat the Big Bamboo for me ... Hastily the machine set its memory
banks and computers to work, looking for the code reference to
"bamboo," trying to make that word fit the present context.  There was
no reference at all.

The machine pestered the man some more.

"Instructions unclear.  Instructions unclear.  Please correct."

"Shut up," said the man.

"Cannot comply," stated the machine.

"Please state and repeat, please state and repeat, please state and
repeat."

"Do shut up," said the man, but he knew the machine would not obey
this.  Without thinking, he turned to his other tune and sang the first
two lines twice over: Elaine, Elaine, go cure the pain!

Elaine, Elaine, go cure the pain!

Repetition had been inserted as a safeguard into the machine, on the
assumption that no real man would repeat an error.  The name

"Elaine" was not correct number code, but the fourfold emphasis seemed
to confirm the need for a "lay therapist, female."  The machine itself
noted that a genuine man had corrected the situation card presented as
a matter of emergency.

"Accepted," said the machine.

This word, too late, jolted the supervisor away from his music.

"Accepted what?"  he asked.

There was no answering voice.  There was no sound at all except for the
whisper of slightly-moistened warm air through the ventilators.

The supervisor looked out the window.  He could see a little of the
blood-black red color of the Peace Square of An-fang; beyond lay the
ocean, endlessly beautiful and endlessly tedious.

The supervisor sighed hopefully.  He was young.

"Guess it doesn't matter," he thought, picking up his guitar.

(Thirty-seven years later, he found out that it did matter.

The Lady Goroke herself, one of the Chiefs of the Instrumentality, sent
a Subchief of the Instrumentality to find out who had caused D'joan.
When the man found that the witch Elaine was the source of the trouble,
she sent him on to find out how Elaine had gotten into a well-ordered
universe.  The supervisor was found.  He was still a musician.  He
remembered nothing of the story.  He was hypnotized.  He still
remembered nothing.  The subchief invoked an emergency and Police Drug
Four ("clear memory") was administered to the musician.  He immediately
remembered the whole silly scene, but insisted that it did not matter.
The case was referred to Lady Goroke, who instructed the authorities
that the musician be told the whole horrible, beautiful story of D'joan
at Fomalhaut the very story which you are now being told and he wept.
He was not punished otherwise, but the Lady Goroke commanded that those
memories be left in his mind for so long as he might live.) The man
picked up his guitar, but the machine went on about its work.

It selected a fertilized human embryo, tagged it with the freakish
name

"Elaine," irradiated the genetic code with strong aptitudes for
witchcraft, and then marked the person's card for training in medicine,
transportation by sail-ship to Fomalhaut III, and release for service
on the planet.

Elaine was born without being needed, without being wanted, without
having a skill which could help or hurt any existing human being.  She
went into life doomed and useless.

It is not remarkable that she was misbegotten.  Errors do happen.
Remarkable was the fact that she managed to survive without being
altered, corrected, or killed by the safety devices which mankind has
installed in society for its own protection.

Unwanted, unused, she wandered through the tedious months and useless
years of her own existence.  She was well fed, richly clothed,
variously housed.  She had machines and robots to serve her, under
people to obey her, people to protect her against others or against
herself, should the need arise.  But she could never find work; without
work, she had no time for love; without work or love, she had no hope
at all.

If she had only stumbled into the right experts or the right
authorities, they would have altered or re-trained her.  This would
have made her into an
The Dead Lady of Clown Town acceptable woman; but she did not find the
police, nor did they find her.  She was helpless to correct her own
programming, utterly helpless.  It had been imposed on her at An-fang,
way back at An-fang, where all things begin.

The ruby had trembled, the tourmaline failed, the diamond passed
unsupported.  Thus, a woman was born doomed.

II

Much later, when people made songs about the strange case of the
dog-girl D'joan, the minstrels and singers had tried to imagine what
Elaine felt like, and they had made up The Song of Elaine for her.  It
is not authentic, but it shows how Elaine looked at her own life before
the strange case of D'joan began to flow from Elaine's own actions:
Other women hate me.

Men never touch me.

I am too much me.

I'll be a witch!

Mama never towelled me.

Daddy never growled me.

Little kiddies grate me.  I'll be a bitch!

People never named me.

Dogs never shamed me.

Oh, I am a such me!  I'll be a witch.

I'll make them shun me.  They 'll never run me.  Could they even stun
me?  I'll be a witch.

Let them all attack me.  They can only rack me.

Me I can hack me.

I'll be a witch.

Other women hate me.

Men never touch me.

I am too much me.

I'll be a witch.

The song overstates the case.  Women did not hate Elaine; they did not
look at her.  Men did not shun Elaine; they did not notice her either.
There were no places on Fomalhaut III where she could have met human
children, for the nurseries were far underground because of chancy
radiation and fierce weather.  The song pretends that Elaine began with
the thought that she was not human, but under people and had herself
been born a dog.  This did not happen at the beginning of the case, but
only at the very end, when the story of D'joan was already being
carried between the stars and developing with all the new twists of
folklore and legend.  She never went mad.

("Madness" is a rare condition, consisting of a human mind which does
not engage its environment correctly.  Elaine approached it before she
met D'joan.  Elaine was not the only case, but she was a rare and
genuine one.  Her life, thrust back from all attempts at growth, had
turned back on itself and her mind had spiraled inward to the only
safety she could really know, psychosis.  Madness is always better than
X, and X to each patient is individual, personal, secret, and
overwhelmingly important.

Elaine had gone normally mad; her imprinted and destined career was the
wrong one.

"Lay therapists, female" were coded to work decisively, autonomously,
on their own authority, and with great rapidity.  These working
conditions were needed on new planets.

They were not coded to consult other people; most places, there would
be no one to consult.  Elaine did what was set for her at An-fang, all
the way down to the individual chemical conditions of her spinal fluid.
She was herself the wrong and she never knew it.  Madness was much
kinder than the realization that she was not herself, should not have
lived, and amounted at the most to a mistake committed between a
trembling ruby and a young, careless man with a guitar.) She found
D'joan and the worlds reeled.

Their meeting occurred at a place nicknamed "the edge of the world,"
where the under city met daylight.  This was itself unusual; but
Fomalhaut III was an unusual and uncomfortable planet, where wild
weather and men's caprice drove architects to furious design and
grotesque execution.

Elaine walked through the city, secretly mad, looking for sick people
whom she could help.  She had been stamped, imprinted, designed, born,
bred, and trained for this task.  There was no task.

She was an intelligent woman.  Bright brains serve madness as well as
they serve sanity namely, very well indeed.  It never occurred to her
to give up her mission.

The people of Fomalhaut III, like the people of Manhome Earth itself,
are almost uniformly handsome; it is only in the far out
half-unreachable worlds that the human stock, strained by the sheer
effort to survive, becomes ugly, weary, or varied.  She did not look
much different from the other intelligent, handsome people who flocked
the streets.  Her hair was black,
and she was tall.  Her arms and legs were long, the trunk of her body
short.  She wore her hair brushed straight back from a high, narrow,
square forehead.  Her eyes were an odd, deep blue.  Her mouth might
have been pretty, but it never smiled, so that no one could really tell
whether it was beautiful or not.  She stood erect and proud: but so did
everyone else.  Her mouth was strange in its very lack of communicative
ness and her eyes swept back and forth, back and forth like ancient
radar, looking for the sick, the needy, and stricken, whom she had a
passion to serve.

How could she be unhappy?  She had never had time to be happy.  It was
easy for her to think that happiness was something which disappeared at
the end of childhood.  Now and then, here and there, perhaps when a
fountain murmured in sunlight or when leaves exploded in the startling
Fomalhautian spring, she wondered that other people people as
responsible as herself by the doom of age, grade, sex, training, and
career number should be happy when she alone seemed to have no time for
happiness.

But she always dismissed the thought and walked the ramps and streets
until her arches ached, looking for work which did not yet exist.

Human flesh, older than history, more dogged than culture, has its own
wisdom.  The bodies of people are marked with the archaic ruses of
survival, so that on Fomalhaut III, Elaine herself preserved the skills
of ancestors she never even thought about those ancestors who, in the
incredible and remote past, had mastered terrible Earth itself.  Elaine
was mad.  But there was a part of her which suspected that she was
mad.

Perhaps this wisdom seized her as she walked from Waterrocky Road
toward the bright esplanades of the Shopping Bar.  She saw a forgotten
door.  The robots could clean near it but, because of the old, odd
architectural shape, they could not sweep and polish right at the
bottom line of the door.  A thin hard line of old dust and caked polish
lay like a sealant at the base of the door line It was obvious that no
one had gone through for a long, long time.

The civilized rule was that prohibited areas were marked both
telepathically and with symbols.  The most dangerous of all had robot
or under people guards.  But everything which was not prohibited, was
permitted.  Thus Elaine had no right to open the door, but she had no
obligation not to do so.  She opened it By sheer caprice.

Or so she thought.

This was a far cry from the

"I'll be a witch" motif attributed to her in the later ballad.  She was
not yet frantic, not yet desperate, she was not yet even noble.

That opening of a door changed her own world and changed life on
thousands of planets for generations to come, but the opening was not
of Man itself strange.  It was the tired caprice of a thoroughly
frustrated and mildly unhappy woman.  Nothing more.  All the other
descriptions of it have been improvements, embellishments,
falsifications.

She did get a shock when she opened the door, but not for the reasons
attributed backwards to her by balladists and historians.

She was shocked because the door opened on steps and the steps led down
to landscape and sunlight truly an unexpected sight on any world.  She
was looking from the New City to the Old City.  The New City rose on
its shell out over the Old City, and when she looked "indoors" she saw
the sunset in the city below.  She gasped at the beauty and the
unexpectedness of it.

There, the open door with another world beyond it.  Here, the old
familiar street, clean, handsome, quiet, useless, where her own useless
self had worked a thousand times.

There something.  Here, the world she knew.  She did not know the words
"fairyland" or "magic place," but if she had known them, she would have
used them.

She glanced to the right, to the left.

The passersby noticed neither her nor the door.  The sunset was just
beginning to show in the upper city.  In the lower city it was already
blood-red with streamers of gold like enormous frozen flame.  Elaine
did not know that she sniffed the air; she did not know that she
trembled on the edge of tears; she did not know that a tender smile,
the first smile in years, relaxed her mouth and turned her tired tense
face into a passing loveliness.

She was too intent on looking around.

People walked about their business.  Down the road, an under people
type female, possibly cat detoured far around a true human who was
walking at a slower pace.  Far away, a police ornithopter flapped
slowly around one of the towers; unless the robots used a telescope on
her or unless they had one of the rare hawk-under men who were
sometimes used as police, they could not see her.

She stepped through the doorway and pulled the door itself back into
the closed position.

She did not know it, but therewith unborn futures reeled out of
existence, rebellion flamed into coming centuries, people and under
people died in strange causes, mothers changed the names of unborn
lords, and starships whispered back from places which men had not even
imagined before.  Space3, which had always been there, waiting for
men's notice, would come the sooner because of her, because of the
door, because of her next few steps, what she would say, and the child
she would meet.

(The ballad-writers told the whole story later on, but they told it
backwards, from their own knowledge of D'joan and what Elaine had done
to set the
worlds afire.  The simple truth is the fact that a lonely woman went
through a mysterious door.  That is all.  Everything else happened
later.) At the top of the steps she stood, door closed behind her, the
sunset gold of the unknown city streaming out in front of her.  She
could see where the great shell of the New City of Kalma arched out
toward the sky; she could see that the buildings here were older, less
harmonious than the ones she had left.  She did not know the concept
"picturesque," or she would have called it that.

She knew no concept to describe the scene which lay peacefully at her
feet.

There was not a person in sight.

Far in the distance, a fire-detector throbbed back and forth on top of
an old tower.  Outside of that there was nothing but the yellow-gold
city beneath her, and a bird was it a bird, or a large storm-swept
leaf?  in the middle distance.

Filled with fear, hope, expectation, and the surmisal of strange
appetites, she walked downward with quiet, unknown purpose.

III

At the foot of the stairs, nine flights of them there had been, a child
waited a girl, about five.  The child had a bright blue smock, wavy
red-brown hair, and the daintiest hands which Elaine had ever seen.

Elaine's heart went out to her.  The child looked up at her and shrank
away.  Elaine knew the meaning of those handsome brown eyes, of that
muscular supplication of trust, that recoil from people.  It was not a
child at all just some animal in the shape of a person, a dog perhaps,
which would later be taught to speak, to work, to perform useful
services.

The little girl rose, standing as though she were about to run.

Elaine had the feeling that the little dog-girl had not decided whether
to run toward her or from her.  She did not wish to get involved with
an under person what woman would?  but neither did she wish to frighten
the little thing.  After all, it was small, very young.

The two confronted each other for a moment, the little thing uncertain,
Elaine relaxed.  Then the little animal-girl spoke.

"Ask her," she said, and it was a command.

Elaine was suprised.  Since when did animals command?

"Ask her!"  repeated the little thing.  She pointed at a window which
had the words traveler's aid above it.  Then the girl ran.

A flash of blue from her dress, a twinkle of white from her running
sandals, and she was gone.

Elaine stood quiet and puzzled in the forlorn and empty city.

The window spoke to her,

"You might as well come on over.

You will, you know."

It was the wise mature voice of an experienced woman a voice with a
bubble of laughter underneath its phonic edge, with a hint of sympathy
and enthusiasm in its tone.  The command was not merely a command.  It
was, even at its beginning, a happy private joke between two wise
women.

Elaine was not surprised when a machine spoke to her.

Recordings had been telling her things all her life.  She was not sure
of this situation, however.

"Is there somebody there?"  she said.

"Yes and no," said the voice.

"I'm Travelers' Aid' and I help everybody who comes through this way.
You're lost or you wouldn't be here.  Put your hand in my window."

"What I mean is," said Elaine, "are you a person or are you a
machine?"

"Depends," said the voice.

"I'm a machine, but I used to be a person, long, long ago.  A lady, in
fact, and one of the Instrumentality.  But my time came and they said
to me,

"Would you mind if we made a machine print of your whole personality?

It would be very helpful for the information booths."  So of course I
said yes, and they made this copy, and I died, and they shot my body
into space with all the usual honors, but here I was.  It felt pretty
odd inside this contraption, me looking at things and talking to people
and giving good advice and staying busy, until they built the new city.
So what do you say?  Am I me or aren't I?"

"I don't know, ma'am."  Elaine stood back.

The warm voice lost its humor and became commanding.

"Give me your hand, then, so I can identify you and tell you what to
do."

"I think," said Elaine, "that I'll go back upstairs and go through the
door into the upper city."

"And cheat me," said the voice in the window, "out of my first
conversation with a real person in four years?"  There was demand in
the voice, but there was still the warmth and the humor; there was
loneliness too.  The loneliness decided Elaine.  She stepped up to the
window and put her hand flat on the ledge.

"You're Elaine," cried the window.

"You're Elaine!  The worlds wait for you.  You're from An-fang, where
all things begin, the Peace Square at An-fang, on Old Earth itself!"

"Yes," said Elaine.

The voice bubbled over with enthusiasm.

"He is waiting for you.  Oh, he has waited for you a long, long time.
And the little girl you met.  That was D'joan herself.  The story has
begun.

"The world's great age begins anew."  And I can die when it is over. So
sorry, my dear.  I don't mean to confuse you.  I am the Lady Pane
Ashash.  You're Elaine.  Your number originally ended 783 and you
shouldn't even be on this planet.  All the important people here end
with the number 5 and 6. You're a lay therapist and you're in the wrong
place, but your lover is already on his way, and you've never been in
love yet, and it's all too exciting."

Elaine looked quickly around her.  The old lower town was turning more
red and less gold as the sunset progressed.  The steps behind her
seemed terribly high as she looked back, the door at the top very
small.  Perhaps it had locked on her when she closed it.  Maybe she
wouldn't ever be able to leave the old lower city.

The window must have been watching her in some way, because the voice
of the Lady Pane Ashash became tender, "Sit down, my dear," said the
voice from the window.

"When I was me, I used to be much more polite.  I haven't been me for a
long, long time.  I'm a machine, and still I feel like myself.  Do sit
down, and do forgive me."

Elaine looked around.  There was the roadside marble bench behind her.
She sat on it obediently.  The happiness which had been in her at the
top of the stairs bubbled forth anew.  If this wise old machine knew so
much about her, perhaps it could tell her what to do.  What did the
voice mean by "wrong planet"?  By "lover"?  By "he is coming for you
now," or was that what the voice had actually said?

"Take a breath, my dear," said the voice of the Lady Pane Ashash.  She
might have been dead for hundreds or thousands of years, but still
spoke with the authority and kindness of a great lady.

Elaine breathed deep.  She saw a huge red cloud, like a pregnant whale,
getting ready to butt the rim of the upper city, far above her and far
out over the sea.  She wondered if clouds could possibly have
feelings.

The voice was speaking again.  What had it said?

Apparently the question was repeated.

"Did you know you were coming?"  said the voice from the window.

"Of course not."  Elaine shrugged.

"There was just this door, and I didn't have anything special to do, so
I opened it.  And here was a whole new world inside a house.  It looked
strange and rather pretty, so I came down.  Wouldn't you have done the
same thing?"

"I don't know," said the voice candidly.

"I'm really a machine.

I haven't been me for a long, long time.  Perhaps I would have, when I
was alive.  I don't know that, but I know about things.

Maybe I can see the future, or perhaps the machine part of me computes
such good probabilities that it just seems like it.  I know who you are
and what is going to happen to you.  You had better brush your hair."

"Whatever for?"  said Elaine.

"He is coming," said the happy old voice of the Lady Pane Ashash.

"Who is coming?"  said Elaine, almost irritably.

"Do you have a mirror?  I wish you would look at your hair.  It could
be prettier, not that it isn't pretty right now.  You want to look your
best.  Your lover, that's who is coming, of course."

"I haven't got a lover," said Elaine.

"I haven't been authorized one, not till
I' ve done some of my lifework, and I haven't even found my
lifeworkyet.I'm not the kind of girl who would go ask a subchief for
the dreamies, not when I'm not entitled to the real thing.  I may not
be much of a person, but I have some self-respect."  Elaine got so mad
that she shifted her position on the bench and sat with her face turned
away from the all-watching window.

The next words gave her gooseflesh down her arms, they were uttered
with such real earnestness, such driving sincerity.

"Elaine, Elaine, do you really have no idea of who you are?"

Elaine pivoted on the bench so that she looked toward the window.  Her
face was caught redly by the rays of the setting sun.

She could only gasp.

"I don't know what you mean.  . . ."

The inexorable voice went on.

"Think, Elaine, think.  Does the name

"D'joan' mean nothing to you?"

"I suppose it's an under person a dog.  That's what the D is for, isn't
it?"

"That was the little girl you met," said the Lady Pane Ashash, as
though the statement were something tremendous.

"Yes," said Elaine dutifully.  She was a courteous woman, and never
quarreled with strangers.

"Wait a minute," said the Lady Pane Ashash.

"I'm going to get my body out.  God knows when I wore it last, but
it'll make you feel more at easy terms with me.  Forgive the clothes.
They'reold stuff, but I think the body will work all right.  This is
the beginning of the story of D'joan, and I want that hair of yours
brushed even if I have to brush it myself.  Just wait right there,
girl, wait right there.  I'll just take a minute."

The clouds were turning from dark red to liver-black.  What could
Elaine do?  She stayed on the bench.  She kicked her shoe against the
walk.  She jumped a little when the old-fashioned street lights of the
lower city went on with sharp geometrical suddenness; they did not have
the subtle shading of the newer lights in the other city upstairs,
where day phased into the bright clear night with no sudden shift in
color.

The door beside the little window creaked open.  Ancient plastic
crumbled to the walk.

Elaine was astonished.

Elaine knew she must have been unconsciously expecting a monster, but
this was a charming woman of about her own height, wearing weird,
old-fashioned clothes.  The strange woman had glossy black hair, no
evidence of recent or current illness, no signs of severe lesions in
the past, no impairment evident of sight, gait, reach, or eyesight.
(There was no way she could check on smell or taste right off, but this
was the medical check-up she had had built into her from birth on the
checklist which she had run through with every adult person she had
ever met.  She had been designed as a "lay therapist, female" and she
was a good one, even when there was no one at all to treat.)
Truly, the body was a rich one.  It must have cost the landing charges
of forty or fifty planet falls The human shape was perfectly rendered.
The mouth moved over genuine teeth; the words were formed by throat,
palate, tongue, teeth, and lips, and not just by a microphone mounted
in the head.  The body was really a museum piece.  It was probably a
copy of the Lady Pane Ashash herself in time of life.  When the face
smiled, the effect was indescribably winning.  The lady wore the
costume of a bygone age a stately frontal dress of heavy blue material,
embroidered with a square pattern of gold at hem, waist, and bodice.
She had a matching cloak of dark, faded gold, embroidered in blue with
the same pattern of squares.  Her hair was up swept and set with
jeweled combs.  It seemed perfectly natural, but there was dust on one
side of it.

The robot smiled,

"I'm out of date.  It's been a long time since I was me.  But I
thought, my dear, that you would find this old body easier to talk to
than the window over there .  . ."

Elaine nodded mutely.

"You know this is not me?"  said the body, sharply.

Elaine shook her head.  She didn't know; she felt that she didn't know
anything at all.

The Lady Pane Ashash looked at her earnestly.

"This is not me.  It's a robot body.  You looked at it as though it
were a real person.  And I'm not me, either.  It hurts sometimes.  Did
you know a machine could hurt?  I can.  But I'm not me."

"Who are you?"  said Elaine to the pretty old woman.

"Before I died, I was the Lady Pane Ashash.  Just as I told you.

Now I am a machine, and a part of your destiny.  We will help each
other to change the destiny of worlds, perhaps even to bring mankind
back to humanity."

Elaine stared at her in bewilderment.  This was no common robot.  It
seemed like a real person and spoke with such warm authority.  And this
thing, whatever it was, this thing seemed to know so much about her.
Nobody else had ever cared.  The nurse mothers at the Childhouse on
earth had said,

"Another witch child and pretty too, they're not much trouble," and had
let her life go by.

At last Elaine could face the face which was not really a face.

The charm, the humor, the expressiveness were still there.

"What what," stammered Elaine, "do I do now?"

"Nothing," said the long-dead Lady Pane Ashash, "except to meet your
destiny."

"You mean my lover?"

"So impatient!"  laughed the dead woman's record in a very human way.

"Such a hurry.  Lover first and destiny later.  I was like that myself
when I was a girl."

"But what do I do?"  persisted Elaine.

The night was now complete above them.  The street lights glared on the
empty and un swept streets.  A few doorways, not one of them less than
a full street-crossing away, were illuminated with rectangles of light
or shadow light if they were far from the street lights, so that their
own interior lights shone brightly, shadow if they were so close under
the big lights that they cut off the glare from overhead.

"Go through this door," said the old nice woman.

But she pointed at the undistinguished white of an uninterrupted wall.
There was no door at all in that place.

"But there's no door there," said Elaine.

"If there were a door," said the Lady Pane Ashash, "you wouldn't need
me to tell you to go through it.  And you do need me."

"Why?"  said Elaine.

"Because I've waited for you hundreds of years, that's why."

"That's no answer!"  snapped Elaine.

"It is so an answer," smiled the woman, and her lack of hostility was
not robot like at all.  It was the kindliness and composure of a mature
human being.  She looked up into Elaine's eyes and spoke emphatically
and softly.

"I know because I do know.  Not because I'm a dead person that doesn't
matter any more but because I am now a very old machine.  You will go
into the Brown and Yellow Corridor and you will think of your lover,
and you will do your work, and men will hunt you.  But you will come
out happily in the end.

Do you understand this?"

"No," said Elaine, "no, I don't."  But she reached out her hand to the
sweet old woman.  The lady took her hand.  The touch was warm and very
human.

"You don't have to understand it.  Just do it.  And I know you will. So
since you are going, go."

Elaine tried to smile at her, but she was troubled, more consciously
worried than ever before in her life.  Something real was happening to
her, to her own individual self, at a very long last.

"How will I get through the door?"

"I'll open it," smiled the lady, releasing Elaine's hand, "and you' ll
know your lover when he sings you the poem."

"Which poem?"  said Elaine, stalling for time and frightened by a door
which did not even exist.

"It starts,

"I knew you and loved you, and won you, in Kalma .  . ."  You'll know
it.  Go on in.  It'll be bothersome at first, but when you meet the
Hunter, it will all seem different."

"Have you ever been in there, yourself?"

"Of course not," said the dear old lady.

"I'm a machine.

That whole place is thought proof Nobody can see, hear, think, or talk
in or out of it.

It's a shelter left over from the ancient wars, when the slightest
sign of a thought would have brought destruction on the whole place.
That's why the Lord Englok built it, long before my time.

But you can go in.  And you will.  Here's the door."

The old robot lady waited no longer.  She gave Elaine a strange
friendly crooked smile, half proud and half apologetic.  She took
Elaine with firm fingertips holding Elaine's left elbow.  They walked a
few steps down toward the wall.

"Here, now," said the Lady Pane Ashash, and pushed.  Elaine flinched as
she was thrust toward the wall.  Before she knew it, she was through.
Smells hit her like a roar of battle.  The air was hot.  The light was
dim.  It looked like a picture of the Pain Planet, hidden somewhere in
space.  Poets later tried to describe Elaine at the door with a verse
which begins, There were brown ones and blue ones And white ones and
whiter, In the hidden and forbidden Downtown of Clown Town.  There were
horrid ones and horrider In the brown and yellow corridor.

The truth was much simpler.

Trained witch, born witch that she was, she perceived the truth
immediately.  All these people, all she could see, at least, were sick.
They needed help.  They needed herself.

But the joke was on her, for she could not help a single one of them.
Not one of them was a real person.  They were just animals, things in
the shape of man.  Underpeople.  Dirt.

And she was conditioned to the bone never to help them.

She did not know why the muscles of her legs made her walk forward, but
they did.

There are many pictures of that scene.

The Lady Pane Ashash, only a few moments in her past, seemed very
remote.  And the city of Kalma itself, the New City, ten stories above
her, almost seemed as though it had never existed at all.  This, this
was real.

She stared at the under people

And this time, for the first time in her life, they stared right back
at her.  She had never seen anything like this before.

They did not frighten her; they surprised her.  The fright, Elaine
felt, was to come later.  Soon, perhaps, but not here, not now.

IV

Something which looked like a middle-aged woman walked right up to her
and snapped at her.

"Are you death?"

Elaine stared.

"Death?  What do you mean?  I'm Elaine."

"Be damned to that!"  said the woman-thing.

"Are you death?"

Elaine did not know the word "damned" but she was pretty sure that
"death," even to these things, meant simply "termination of life."

"Of course not," said Elaine.

"I'm just a person.  A witch woman, ordinary people would call me.  We
don't have anything to do with you under people Nothing at all." Elaine
could see that the woman-thing had an enormous coiffure of soft brown
sloppy hair, a sweat-reddened face, and crooked teeth which showed when
she grinned.

"They all say that.  They never know that they're death.  How do you
think we die, if you people don't send contaminated robots in with
diseases?  We all die off when you do that, and then some more under
people find this place again later on and make a shelter of it and live
in it for a few generations until the death machines, things like you,
come sweeping through the city and kill us off again.  This is Clown
Town, the under people place.

Haven't you heard of it?"

Elaine tried to walk past the woman-thing, but she found her arm
grabbed.  This couldn't have happened before, not in the history of the
world an under person seizing a real person!

"Let go!"  she yelled.

The woman-thing let her arm go and faced toward the others.

Her voice had changed.  It was no longer shrill and excited, but low
and puzzled instead.

"I can't tell.  Maybe it is a real person.

Isn't that a joke?  Lost, in here with us.  Or maybe she is death.  I
can't tell.  What do you think, Charley-is-my-darling?"

The man she spoke to stepped forward.  Elaine thought, in another time,
in some other place, that under person might pass for an attractive
human being.  His face was illuminated by intelligence and alertness.
He looked directly at Elaine as though he had never seen her before,
which indeed he had not, but he continued looking with so sharp, so
strange a stare that she became uneasy.  His voice, when he spoke, was
brisk, high, clear, friendly; set in this tragic place, it was the
caricature of a voice, as though the animal had been programmed for
speech from the habits of a human, persuader by profession, whom one
saw in the story boxes telling people messages which were neither good
nor important, but merely clever.  The handsomeness was itself
deformity.  Elaine wondered if he had come from goat stock.

"Welcome, young lady," said Charley-is-my-darling.

"Now that you are here, how are you going to get out?  If we turned her
head around, Mabel," said he to the under woman who had first greeted
Elaine, "turned it around eight or ten times, it would come off.  Then
we could live a few weeks or months longer before our lords and
creators found us and put us all to death.

What do you say, young lady?  Should we kill you?"

"Kill?  You mean, terminate life?  You cannot.  It is against the law.
Even the Instrumentality does not have the right to do that without
trial.  You can't.  You're just under people

"But we will die," said Charley-is-my-darling, flashing his quick
intelligent smile, "if you go back out of that door.  The police will
read about the Brown and Yellow Corridor in your mind and they will
flush us out with poison or they will spray disease in here so that we
and our children will die."

Elaine stared at him.

The passionate anger did not disturb his smile or his persuasive tones,
but the muscles of his eye-sockets and forehead showed the terrible
strain.  The result was an expression which Elaine had never seen
before, a sort of self-control reaching out beyond the limits of
insanity.

He stared back at her.

She was not really afraid of him.  Underpeople could not twist the
heads of real persons; it was contrary to all regulations.

A thought struck her.  Perhaps regulations did not apply in a place
like this, where illegal animals waited perpetually for sudden death.
The being which faced her was strong enough to turn her head around ten
times clockwise or counterclockwise.

From her anatomy lessons, she was pretty sure that the head would come
off somewhere during that process.  She looked at him with interest.
Animal-type fear had been conditioned out of her, but she had, she
found, an extreme distaste for the termination of life under random
circumstances.  Perhaps her "witch" training would help.  She tried to
pretend that he was in fact a man.  The diagnosis "hypertension:
chronic aggression, now frustrated, leading to over stimulation and
neurosis: poor nutritional record: hormone disorder probable" leapt
into her mind.

She tried to speak in a new voice.

"I am smaller than you," she said, "and you can 'kill' me just as well
later as now.  We might as well get acquainted.  I'm Elaine, assigned
here from Manhome Earth."

The effect was spectacular.

Charley-is-my-darling stepped back.  Mabel's mouth dropped open.  The
others gaped at her.  One or two, more quick-witted than the rest,
began whispering to their neighbors.

At last Charley-is-my-darling spoke to her.

"Welcome, my lady.  Can I
call you my lady?  I guess not.  Welcome, Elaine.  We are your people.
We will do whatever you say.  Of course you got in.  The Lady Pane
Ashash sent you.  She has been telling us for a hundred years that
somebody would come from Earth, a real person with an animal name, not
a number, and that we should have a child named D'joan ready to take up
the threads of destiny.  Please, please sit down.  Will you have a
drink of water?  We have no clean vessel here.  We are all under people
here and we have used everything in the place, so that it is
contaminated for a real person."  A thought struck him.

"Baby-baby, do you have a new cup in the kiln?"  Apparently he saw
someone nod, because he went right on talking.

"Get it out then, for our guest, with tongs.

New tongs.  Do not touch it.  Fill it with water from the top of the
little waterfall.  That way our guest can have an uncontaminated drink.
A clean drink."  He beamed with a hospitality which was as ridiculous
as it was genuine.

Elaine did not have the heart to say she did not want a drink of
water.

She waited.  They waited.

By now, her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness.

She could see that the main corridor was painted a yellow, faded and
stained, and a contrasting light brown.  She wondered what possible
human mind could have selected so ugly a combination.

Cross-corridors seemed to open into it; at any rate, she saw
illuminated archways further down and people walking out of them
briskly.  No one can walk briskly and naturally out of a shallow
alcove, so she was pretty sure that the archways led to something.

The under people too, she could see.  They looked very much like
people.  Here and there, individuals reverted to the animal type a
horse-man whose muzzle had regrown to its ancestral size, a rat-woman
with normal human features except for nylon like white whiskers, twelve
or fourteen on each side of her face, reaching twenty centimeters to
either side.  One looked very much like a person indeed a beautiful
young woman seated on a bench some eight or ten meters down the
corridor, and paying no attention to the crowd, to Mabel, to
Charley-is-my-darling, or to herself.

"Who is that?"  said Elaine, pointing with a nod at the beautiful young
woman.

Mabel, relieved from the tension which had seized her when she had
asked if Elaine were "death," babbled with a sociability which was
outre in this environment,

"That's Crawlie."

"What does she do?"  asked Elaine.

"She has her pride," said Mabel, her grotesque red face now jolly and
eager, her slack mouth spraying spittle as she spoke.

"But doesn't she do anything?"  said Elaine.

Charley-is-my-darling intervened.

"Nobody has to do anything here, Lady Elaine "
"It's illegal to call me

"Lady," " said Elaine.

"I'm sorry, human being Elaine.  Nobody has to do anything at all here.
The whole bunch of us are completely illegal.  This corridor is a
thought-shelter, so that no thoughts can escape or enter it.  Wait a
bit!  Watch the ceiling ... Now!"

A red glow moved across the ceiling and was gone.

"The ceiling glows," said Charley-is-my-darling, "whenever anything
thinks against it.  The whole tunnel registers 'sewage tank: organic
waste' to the outside, so that dim perceptions of life which may escape
here are not considered too unaccountable.

People built it for their own use, a million years ago."

"They weren't here on Fomalhaut III a million years ago,"

snapped Elaine.  Why, she wondered, did she snap at him?  He wasn't a
person, just a talking animal who had missed being dropped down the
nearest incinerator.

"I'm sorry, Elaine," said Charley-is-my-darling.

"I should have said, a long time ago.  We under people don't get much
chance to study real history.  But we use this corridor.  Somebody with
a morbid sense of humor named this place Clown Town.  We live along for
ten or twenty or a hundred years, and then people or robots find us and
kill us all.  That's why Mabel was upset.  She thought you were death
for this time.  But you're not.  You're Elaine.  That's wonderful,
wonderful."  His sly, too-clever face beamed with transparent
sincerity.  It must have been quite a shock to him to be honest.

"You were going to tell me what the under girl is for," said Elaine.

"That's Crawlie," said he.

"She doesn't do anything.  None of us really have to.  We're all doomed
anyhow.  She's a little more honest than the rest of us.  She has her
pride.  She scorns the rest of us.  She puts us in our place.  She
makes everybody feel inferior.  We think she is a valuable member of
the group.  We all have our pride, which is hopeless anyway, but
Crawlie has her pride all by herself, without doing anything whatever
about it.

She sort of reminds us.  If we leave her alone, she leaves us alone."

Elaine thought, You're funny things, so much like people, but so
inexpert about it, as though you all had to "die" before you really
learned what it is to be alive.  Aloud, she could only say,

"I

never met anybody like that."

Crawlie must have sensed that they were talking about her, because she
looked at Elaine with a short quick stare of blazing hatred.  Crawlie's
pretty face locked itself into a glare of concentrated hostility and
scorn; then her eyes wandered and Elaine felt that she, Elaine, no
longer existed in the thing's mind, except as arebuke which had been
administered and forgotten.

She had never seen privacy as impenetrable as Crawlie's.  And yet the
being, whatever she might have been made from, was very lovely in human
terms.

of Man A fierce old hag, covered with mouse-gray fur, rushed up to
Elaine.  The mouse-woman was the Baby-baby who had been sent on the
errand.  She held a ceramic cup in a pair of long tongs.

Water was in it.

Elaine took the cup.

Sixty to seventy under people including the little girl in the blue
dress whom she had seen outside, watched her as she sipped.  The water
was good.  She drank it all.  There was a universal exhalation, as
though everyone in the corridor had waited for this moment.  Elaine
started to put the cup down but the old mouse-woman was too quick for
her.  She took the cup from Elaine.  stopping her in mid-gesture and
using the tongs, so that the cup would not be contaminated by the touch
of an under person

"That's right, Baby-baby," said Charley-is-my-darling, "we can talk. It
is our custom not to talk with a newcomer until we have offered our
hospitality.  Let me be frank.  We may have to kill you, if this whole
business turns out to be a mistake, but let me assure you that if I do
kill you, I will do it nicely and without the least bit of malice.
Right?"

Elaine did not know what was so right about it, and said so.

She visualized her head being twisted off.  Apart from the pain and the
degradation, it seemed so terribly messy to terminate life in a sewer
with things which did not even have a right to exist.

He gave her no chance to argue, but just went on explaining, "Suppose
things turn out just right.  Suppose that you are the
Esther-Elaine-or-Eleanor that we have all been waiting for the person
who will do something to D'joan and bring us all help and deliverance
give us life, in short, real life then what do we do?"

"I don't know where you get all these ideas about me.  Why am I
Esther-Elaine-or-Eleanor?  What do I do to D'joan?  Why me?"

Charley-is-my-darling stared at her as though he could not believe her
question.  Mabel frowned as though she could not think of the right
words to put forth her opinions.  Baby-baby, who had glided back to the
group with swift mouse like suddenness, looked around as though she
expected someone from the rear to speak.  She was right.  Crawlie
turned her face toward Elaine and said, with infinite condescension: "I
did not know that real people were ill-informed or stupid.

You seem to be both.  We have all our information from the Lady Pane
Ashash.  Since she is dead, she has no prejudices against us under
people Since she has not had much of anything to do, she has run
through billions and billions of probabilities for us.  All of us know
what most probabilities come to sudden death by disease or gas, or
maybe being hauled off to the slaughterhouses in big police
ornithopters.  But Lady Pane Ashash found that perhaps a person with a
name like yours would come, a human being with an old name and not a
number name, that that person would meet the Hunter, that
she and the Hunter would teach the under child D'joan a message, and
that the message would change the worlds.  We have kept one child after
another named D'joan, waiting for a hundred years.

Now you show up.  Maybe you are the one.  You don't look very competent
to me.  What are you good for?"

"I'm a witch," said Elaine.

Crawlie could not keep the surprise from showing in her face.

"A witch?  Really?"

"Yes," said Elaine, rather humbly.

"I wouldn't be one," said Crawlie.

"I have my pride."  She turned her face away and locked her features in
their expression of perennial hurt and disdain.

Charley-is-my-darling whispered to the group nearby, not caring whether
Elaine heard his words or not,

"That's wonderful, wonderful.  She is a witch.  A human witch.  Perhaps
the great day is here!  Elaine," said he humbly, "will you please look
at us?"

Elaine looked.  When she stopped to think about where she was, it was
incredible that the empty old lower city of Kalma should be just
outside, just beyond the wall, and the busy new city a mere thirty-five
meters higher.  This corridor was a world to itself.  It felt like a
world, with the ugly yellows and browns, the dim old lights, the
stenches of man and animal mixed under intolerably bad ventilation.
Baby-baby, Crawlie, Mabel, and Charley-is-my-darling were part of this
world.  They were real; but they were outside, outside, so far as
Elaine herself was concerned.

"Let me go," she said.

"I'll come back some day."

Charley-is-my-darling, who was so plainly the leader, spoke as if in a
trance: "You don't understand, Elaine.  The only 'going' you are going
to go is death.  There is no other direction.  We can't let the old you
go out of this door, not when the Lady Pane Ashash has thrust you in to
us.  Either you go forward to your destiny, to our destiny too, either
you do that, and all works out all right, so that you love us, and we
love you," he added dreamily, "or else I kill you with my own hands.
Right here.  Right now.  I could give you another clean drink of water
first.  But that is all.  There isn't much choice for you, human being
Elaine.  What do you think would happen if you went outside?"

"Nothing, I hope," said Elaine.

"Nothing!"  snorted Mabel, her face regaining its original
indignation.

"The police would come flapping by in their ornithopter " "And they'd
pick your brains," said Baby-baby.

"And they'd know about us," said a tall pale man who had not spoken
before.

"And we," said Crawlie from her chair, "would all of us die within an
hour or two at the longest.  Would that matter to you, Ma'am and
Elaine?"

of Man "And," added Charley-is-my-darling, "they would disconnect the
Lady Pane Ashash, so that even the recording of that dear dead lady
would be gone at last, and there would be no mercy at all left upon
this world."

"What is 'mercy'?"  asked Elaine.

"It's obvious you never heard of it," said Crawlie.

The old mouse-hag Baby-baby came close to Elaine.  She looked up at her
and whispered through yellow teeth,

"Don't let them frighten you, girl.  Death doesn't matter all that
much, not even to you true humans with your four hundred years or to us
animals with the slaughterhouse around the corner.  Death is a when,
not a what.  It's the same for all of us.  Don't be scared.  Go
straight ahead and you may find mercy and love.  They're much richer
than death, if you can only find them.  Once you do find them, death
won't be very important."

"I still don't know mercy" said Elaine, "but I thought I knew what love
was, and I don't expect to find my lover in a dirty old corridor full
of under people

"I don't mean that kind of love," laughed Baby-baby, brushing aside
Mabel's attempted interruption with a wave of her hand paw The old
mouse face was on fire with sheer expressiveness.

Elaine could suddenly imagine what Baby-baby had looked like to a
mouse-under man when she was young and sleek and gray.

Enthusiasm flushed the old features with youth as Baby-baby went on,

"I don't mean love for a lover, girl.  I mean love for yourself.  Love
for life.  Love for all things living.  Love even for me.  Your love
for me.  Can you imagine that?"

Elaine swam through fatigue but she tried to answer the question.  She
looked in the dim light at the wrinkled old mouse hag with her filthy
clothes and her little red eyes.  The fleeting image of the beautiful
young mouse-woman had faded away; there was only this cheap, useless
old thing, with her inhuman demands and her senseless pleading.  People
never loved under people They used them, like chairs or door handles
Since when did a doorhandle demand the Charter of Ancient Rights?

"No," said Elaine calmly and evenly,

"I can't imagine ever loving you."

"I knew it," said Crawlie from her chair.  There was triumph in the
voice.

Charley-is-my-darling shook his head as if to clear his sight.

"Don't you even know who controls Fomalhaut III?"

"The Instrumentality," said Elaine.

"Butdo we have to go on talking?  Let me go or kill me or something.
This doesn't make sense.  I was tired when I got here, and I'm a
million years tireder now."

Mabel said,

"Take her along."

"All right," said Charley-is-my-darling.

"Is the Hunter there?"

The child D'joan spoke.  She had stood at the back of the group.

"He came in the other way when she came in the front."

Elaine said to Charley-is-my-darling,

"You lied to me.  You said there was only one way."

"I did not lie," said he.

"There is only one way for you or me or for the friends of the Lady
Pane Ashash.  The way you came.  The other way is death."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "that it leads straight into the slaughterhouses of
the men you do not know.  The Lords of the Instrumentality who are here
on Fomalhaut III.  There is the Lord Femtiosex, who is just and without
pity.  There is the Lord Limaono, who thinks that under people are a
potential danger and should not have been started in the first place.

There is the Lady Goroke, who does not know how to pray, but who tries
to ponder the mystery of life and who has shown kindnesses to under
people as long as the kindnesses were lawful ones.  And there is the
Lady Arabella Underwood, whose justice no man can understand.  Nor
under people either," he added with a chuckle.

"Who is she?  I mean, where did she get the funny name?  It doesn't
have a number in it.  It's as bad as your names.  Or my own," said
Elaine.

"She's from Old North Australia, the stroon world, on loan to the
Instrumentality, and she follows the laws she was born to.  The Hunter
can go through the rooms and the slaughterhouses of the
Instrumentality, but could you?  Could

I?"

"No," said Elaine.

"Then forward," said Charley-is-my-darling, "to your death or to great
wonders.  May I lead the way, Elaine?"

Elaine nodded wordlessly.

The mouse-hag Baby-baby patted Elaine's sleeve, her eyes alive with
strange hope.  As Elaine passed Crawlie's chair, the proud, beautiful
girl looked straight at her, expressionless, deadly, and severe.  The
dog-girl D'joan followed the little procession as if she had been
invited.

They walked down and down and down.  Actually, it could not have been a
full half-kilometer.  But with the endless browns and yellows, the
strange shapes of the lawless and untended under people the stenches
and the thick heavy air, Elaine felt as if she were leaving all known
worlds behind.

In fact, she was doing precisely that, but it did not occur to her that
her own suspicion might be true.

V

At the end of the corridor there was a round gate with a door of gold
or brass.

Charley-is-my-darling stopped.

"I can't go further," he said.

"You and D'joan will have to go on.  This
is the forgotten antechamber between the tunnel and the upper palace.
The Hunter is there.  Go on.  You're a person.  It is safe.

Underpeople usually die in there.  Go on."  He nudged her elbow and
pulled the sliding door apart.

"But the little girl," said Elaine.

"She's not a girl," said Charley-is-my-darling.

"She's just a dog as I'm not a man, just a goat brightened and cut and
trimmed to look like a man.  If you come back, Elaine, I will love you
like God or I will kill you.  It depends."

"Depends on what?"  asked Elaine.

"And what is

"God'?"

Charley-is-my-darling smiled the quick tricky smile which was wholly
insincere and completely friendly, both at the same time.  It was
probably the trademark of his personality in ordinary times.

"You'll find out about God somewhere else, if you do.  Not from us. And
the depending is something you'll know for yourself.  You won't have to
wait for me to tell you.  Go along now.  The whole thing will be over
in the next few minutes."

"But D'joan?"  persisted Elaine.

"If it doesn't work," said Charley-is-my-darling, "we can always raise
another D'joan and wait for another you.  The Lady Pane Ashash had
promised us that.  Go on in!"

He pushed her roughly, so that she stumbled through.  Bright light
dazzled her and the clean air tasted as good as fresh water on her
first day out of the space-ship pod.

The little dog-girl had trotted in beside her.

The door, gold or brass, clanged to behind them.

Elaine and D'joan stood still, side by side, looking forward and
upward.

There are many famous paintings of that scene.  Most of the paintings
show Elaine in rags with the distorted, suffering face of a witch. This
is strictly un historical She was wearing her everyday culottes,
blouse, and twin over-the-shoulder purses when she went in the other
end of Clown Town.  This was the usual dress on Fomalhaut III at that
time.  She had done nothing at all to spoil her clothes, so she must
have looked the same when she came out.  And D'joan well, everyone
knows what D'joan looked like.

The Hunter met them.

The Hunter met them, and new worlds began.

He was a shortish man, with black curly hair, black eyes that danced
with laughter, broad shoulders, and long legs.  He walked with a quick
sure step.  He kept his hands quiet at his side, but the hands did not
look tough and calloused, as though they had been terminating lives,
even the lives of animals.

"Come up and sit down," he greeted them.

"I've been waiting for you both."

Elaine stumbled upward and forward.

"Waiting?"  she gasped.

"Nothing mysterious," he said.

"I had the view screen on.  The one into the tunnel.  Its connections
are shielded, so the police could not have peeped it."

Elaine stopped dead still.  The little dog-girl, one step behind her,
stopped too.  She tried to draw herself up to her full height.

She was about the same tallness that he was.  It was difficult, since
he stood four or five steps above them.  She managed to keep her voice
even when she said: "You know, then?"

"What?"

"All those things they said."

"Sure I know them," he smiled.

"Why not?"

"But," stammered Elaine, "about you and me being lovers?

That too?"

"That too.

"He smiled again.

"I've been hearing it half my life.

Come on up, sit down, and have something to eat.  We have a lot of
things to do tonight, if history is to be fulfilled through us.

What do you eat, little girl?"  said he kindly to D'joan.

"Raw meat or people food?"

"I'm a finished girl," said D'joan, "so I prefer chocolate cake with
vanilla ice cream."

"That you shall have," said the Hunter.

"Come, both of you, and sit down."

They had topped the steps.  A luxurious table, already set, was waiting
for them.  There were three couches around it.  Elaine looked for the
third person who would join them.  Only as she sat down did she realize
that he meant to invite the dog-child.

He saw her surprise, but did not comment on it directly.

Instead, he spoke to D'joan.

"You know me, girl, don't you?"

The child smiled and relaxed for the first time since Elaine had seen
her.  The dog-girl was really strikingly beautiful when the tension
went out of her.  The wariness, the quietness, the potential disquiet
these were dog qualities.  Now the child seemed wholly human and mature
far beyond her years.  Her white face had dark, dark brown eyes.

"I've seen you lots of times, Hunter.  And you've told me what would
happen if I turned out to be the D'joan.  How I would spread the word
and meet great trials.  How I might die and might not, but people and
under people would remember my name for thousands of years.  You've
told me almost everything I know except the things that I can't talk to
you about.  You know them too, but you won't talk, will you?"  said the
little girl imploringly.

"I know you've been to Earth," said the Hunter.

"Don't say it!  Please don't say it!"  pleaded the girl.

"Earth!  Manhome itself?"  cried Elaine.

"How, by the stars, did you get there?"

The Hunter intervened.

"Don't press her, Elaine.  It's a big secret, and she
wants to keep it.  You'll find out more tonight than mortal woman was
ever told before."

"What does 'mortal' mean?"  asked Elaine, who disliked antique words.

"It just means having a termination of life."

"That's foolish," said Elaine.

"Everything terminates.  Look at those poor messy people who went on
beyond the legal four hundred years."  She looked around.  Rich
black-and-red curtains hung from ceiling to floor.  On one side of the
room there was a piece of furniture she had never seen before.  It was
like a table, but it had little broad flat doors on the front, reaching
from side to side; it was richly ornamented with unfamiliar woods and
metals.  Nevertheless, she had more important things to talk about than
furniture.

She looked directly at the Hunter (no organic disease; wounded in left
arm at an earlier period; somewhat excessive exposure to sunlight;
might need correction for near vision) and demanded of him: "Am I
captured by you, too?"

"Captured?"

"You're a Hunter.  You hunt things.  To kill them, I suppose.

That under man back there, the goat who calls himself
Charley-ismy-darling " "He never does!"  cried the dog-girl, D'joan,
interrupting.

"Never does what?"  said Elaine, cross at being interrupted.

"He never calls himself that.  Other people, under people I mean, call
him that.  His name is Balthasar, but nobody uses it."

"What does it matter, little girl?"  said Elaine.

"I'm talking about my life.  Your friend said he would take my life
from me if something did not happen."

Neither D'joan nor the Hunter said anything.

Elaine heard a frantic edge go into her voice.

"You heard it!"

She turned to the Hunter.

"You saw it on the view screen

The Hunter's voice was serenity and assurance: "We three have things to
do before this night is out.  We won't get them done if you are
frightened or worried.  I know the under people but I know the Lords of
the Instrumentality as well all four of them, right here.  The Lords
Limaono and Femtiosex and the Lady Goroke.  And the Norstrilian, too.
They will protect you.  Charleyis-my-darling might want to take your
life from you because he is worried, afraid that the tunnel of Englok,
where you just were, will be discovered.  I have ways of protecting him
and yourself as well.  Have confidence in me for a while.  That's not
so hard, is it?"

"But," protested Elaine, "the man or the goat or whatever he was,
Charley-is-my-darling, he said it would all happen right away, as soon
as I came up here with you."

"How can anything happen," said little D'joan, "if you keep talking all
the time?"

The Hunter smiled.

"That's right," he said.

"We've talked enough.  Now we must become lovers."

Elaine jumped to her feet.

"Not with me, you don't.  Not with her here.  Not when I haven't found
my work to do.  I'm a witch.

I'm supposed to do something, but I've never really found out what it
was."

"Look at this," said the Hunter calmly, walking over to the wall, and
pointing with his finger at an intricate circular design.

Elaine and D'joan both looked at it.

The Hunter spoke again, his voice urgent.

"Do you see it, D'joan?  Do you really see it?  The ages turn, waiting
for this moment, little child.  Do you see it?  Do you see yourself in
it?"

Elaine looked at the little dog-girl.  D'joan had almost stopped
breathing.  She stared at the curious symmetrical pattern as though it
were a window into enchanting worlds.

The Hunter roared, at the top of his voice,

"D'joan!  Joan!

Joanie!"

The child made no response.

The Hunter stepped over to the child, slapped her gently on the cheek,
shouted again.  D'joan continued to stare at the intricate design.

"Now," said the Hunter, "you and I make love.  The child is absent in a
world of happy dreams.  That design is a mandala, something left over
from the unimaginable past.  It locks the human consciousness in place.
D'joan will not see us or hear us.

We cannot help her go toward her destiny unless you and I make love
first."

Elaine, her hand to her mouth, tried to inventory symptoms as a means
of keeping her familiar thoughts in balance.  It did not work.  A
relaxation spread over her, a happiness and quiet that she had not once
felt since her childhood.

"Did you think," said the Hunter, "that I hunted with my body and
killed with my hands?  Didn't anyone ever tell you that the game comes
to me rejoicing, that the animals die while they scream with pleasure?
I'm a tele path and I work under license.

And I have my license now from the dead Lady Pane Ashash."

Elaine knew that they had come to the end of the talking.

Trembling, happy, frightened, she fell into his arms and let him lead
her over to the couch at the side of the black-and-gold room.

A thousand years later, she was kissing his ear and murmuring loving
words at him, words that she did not even realize she knew.  She must,
she thought, have picked up more from the story boxes than she ever
realized.

"You're my love," she said, "my only one, my darling.  Never, never
leave me; never throw me away.  Oh, Hunter, I love you so!"

of Man "We part," he said, "before tomorrow is gone, but shall meet
again.  Do you realize that all this has only been a little more than
an hour?"

Elaine blushed.

"And I," she stammered,

"I I'm hungry."

"Natural enough," said the Hunter.

"Pretty soon we can waken the little girl and eat together.  And then
history will happen, unless somebody walks in and stops us."

"But, darling," said Elaine, "can't we go on at least for a while?  A
year?  A month?  A day?  Put the little girl back in the tunnel for a
while."

"Not really," said the Hunter, "but I'll sing you the song that came
into my mind about you and me.  I've been thinking bits of it for a
long time, but now it has really happened.  Listen."

He held her two hands in his two hands, looked easily and frankly into
her eyes.  There was no hint in him of telepathic power.

He sang to her the song which we know as I Loved You and Lost You.

I knew you, and loved you, and won you, in Kalma.  I loved you, and won
you, and lost you, my darling!  The dark skies of Waterrock swept down
against us.  Lightning-lit only by our own love, my lovely!

Our time was a short time, a sharp hour of glory We tasted delight and
we suffer denial.

The tale of us two is a bittersweet story, Short as a shot but as long
as death.

We met and we loved, and vainly we plotted To rescue beauty from a
smothering war.  Time had no time for us, the minutes, no mercy.  We
have loved and lost, and the world goes on.

We have lost and have kissed, and have parted, my darling!  All that
we have, we must save in our hearts, love.  The memory of beauty and
the beauty of memory .  . . I've loved you, and won you, and lost you,
in Kalma.

His fingers, moving in the air, produced a soft organ-like music in the
room.  She had noticed music-beams before, but she had never had one
played for herself.

By the time he was through singing, she was sobbing.  It was all so
true, so wonderful, so heartbreaking.

He had kept her right hand in his left hand.  Now he released her
suddenly.  He stood up.

"Let's work first.  Eat later.  Someone is near us."

He walked briskly over to the little dog-girl, who was still seated on
the chair looking at the mandala with open, sleeping eyes.  He took her
head firmly and gently between his two hands and turned her eyes away
from the design.  She struggled momentarily against his hands and then
seemed to wake up fully.

She smiled.

"That was nice.  I rested.  How long was it five minutes?"

"More than that," said the Hunter gently.

"I want you to take Elaine's hand."

A few hours ago, and Elaine would have protested at the grotesquerie of
holding hands with an under person This time, she said nothing, but
obeyed: she looked with much love toward the Hunter.

"You two don't have to know much," said the Hunter.

"You, D'joan, are going to get everything that is in our minds and in
our memories.  You will become us, both of us.  Forevermore.  You will
meet your glorious fate."

The little girl shivered.

"Is this really the day?"

"It is," said the Hunter.

"Future ages will remember this night."

"And you, Elaine," said he to her, "have nothing to do but to love me
and to stand very still.  Do you understand?  You will see tremendous
things, some of them frightening.  But they won't be real.  Just stand
still."

Elaine nodded wordlessly.

"In the name," said the Hunter, "of The First Forgotten One, in the
name of the Second Forgotten One, in the name of the Third Forgotten
One.  For the love of people, that will give them life.  For the love
that will give them a clean death and true .  . ."

His words were clear but Elaine could not understand them.

The day of days was here.

She knew it.

She did not know how she knew it, but she did.

The Lady Pane Ashash crawled up through the solid floor, wearing her
friendly robot body.  She came near to Elaine and murmured: "Have no
fear, no fear."

Fear?  thought Elaine.  This is no time for fear.  It is much too
interesting.

As if to answer Elaine, a clear, strong, masculine voice spoke out of
nowhere: This is the time for the daring sharing.

When these words were spoken, it was as if a bubble had been pricked.
Elaine felt her personality and D'joan's mingling.

With ordinary telepathy, it would have been frightening.  But this was
not communication.  It was being.

She had become Joan.  She felt the clean little body in its tidy
clothes.  She became aware of the girl-shape again.  It was oddly
pleasant and familiar, in terribly faraway kinds of feeling, to
remember that she had had that shape once the smooth, innocent flat
chest; the uncomplicated groin; the fingers which still felt as though
they were separate and alive in extending from the palm of the hand.
But the mind that child's mind!  It was like an enormous museum
illuminated by rich stained-glass windows, cluttered with variegated
heaps of beauty and treasure, scented by strange incense which moved
slowly in un propelled air.  D'joan had a mind which reached all the
way back to the color and glory of man's antiquity.  D'joan had been a
Lord of the Instrumentality, a monkey-man riding the ships of space, a
friend of the dear dead Lady Pane Ashash, and Pane Ashash herself.

No wonder the child was rich and strange: she had been made the heir of
all the ages.

This is the time for the glaring top of the truth at the wearing
sharing, said the nameless, clear, loud voice in her mind.  This is the
time for you and him.

Elaine realized that she was responding to hypnotic suggestions which
the Lady Pane Ashash had put into the mind of the little dog-girl
suggestions which were triggered into full potency the moment that the
three of them came into telepathic contact.

For a fraction of a second, she perceived nothing but astonishment
within herself.  She saw nothing but herself every detail, every
secrecy, every thought and feeling and contour of flesh.  She was
curiously aware of how her breasts hung from her chest, the tension of
her belly-muscles holding her female backbone straight and erect Female
backbone?

Why had she thought that she had a female backbone?

And then she knew.

She was following the Hunter's mind as his awareness rushed through her
body, drank it up, enjoyed it, loved it all over again, this time from
the inside out.

She knew somehow that the little dog-girl watched everything quietly,
wordlessly, drinking in from them both the full nuance of being truly
human.

Even with the delirium, she sensed embarrassment.  It might be a dream,
but it was still too much.  She began to close her mind and the thought
had come to her that she should take her hands away from the hands of
Hunter and the dog-child.

But then fire came .  . .

VI

Fire came up from the floor, burning about them intangibly.

Elaine felt nothing ... but she could sense the touch of the little
girl's hand.

Flames around the dames, games, said an idiot voice from nowhere.

Fire around the pyre, sire, said another.

Hot is what we got, tot, said a third.

Suddenly Elaine remembered Earth, but it was not the Earth she knew.
She was herself D'joan, and notD'joan.  She was a tall, strong
monkey-man, indistinguishable from at rue human being.

She/he had tremendous alertness in her/ his heart as she/ he walked
across the Peace Square at An-fang, the Old Square at An-fang, where
all things begin.  She/he noticed a discrepancy.

Some of the buildings were not there.

The real Elaine thought to herself,

"So that's what they did with the child printed her with the memories
of other under people Other ones, who dared things and went places."

The fire stopped.

Elaine saw the black-and-gold room clean and untroubled for a moment
before the green white-topped ocean rushed in.  The water poured over
the three of them without getting them wet in the least.  The greenness
washed around them without pressure, without suffocation.

Elaine was the Hunter.  Enormous dragons floated in the sky above
Fomalhaut III.  She felt herself wandering across a hill, singing with
love and yearning.  She had the Hunter's own mind, his own memory.  The
dragon sensed him, and flew down.  The enormous reptilian wings were
more beautiful than a sunset, more delicate than orchids.  Their beat
in the air was as gentle as the breath of a baby.  She was not only
Hunter but dragon too; she felt the minds meeting and the dragon dying
in bliss, in Joy.

Somehow the water was gone.  So too were D'joan and the Hunter.  She
was not in the room.  She was taut, tired, worried Elaine, looking down
a nameless street for hopeless destinations.

She had to do things which could never be done.  The wrong me, the
wrong time, the wrong place and I'm alone, I'm alone, I'm alone, her
mind screamed.  The room was back again; so too were the hands of the
Hunter and the little girl.

Mist began rising Another dream?  thought Elaine.  Aren't we done?

But there was another voice somewhere, a voice which grated like the
rasp of a saw cutting through bone, like the grind of a broken machine
still working at ruinous top speed.  It was an evil voice, a
terror-filling voice.

Perhaps this really was the "death" which the tunnel under people had
mistaken her for.

The Hunter's hand released hers.  She let go of D'joan.

There was a strange woman in the room.  She wore the baldric of
authority and the leotards of a traveler.

Elaine stared at her.

"You' ll be punished," said the terrible voice, which now was coming
out of the woman.

"Wh wh what?"  stammered Elaine.

"You're conditioning an under person without authority.  I don't know
who you are, but the Hunter should know better.  The animal will have
to die, of course," said the woman, looking at little D'joan.

Hunter muttered, half in greeting to the stranger, half in explanation
to Elaine, as though he did not know what else to say: "Lady Arabella
Underwood."

Elaine could not bow to her, though she wanted to.

The surprise came from the little dog girl.

I am your sister Joan, she said, and no animal to you.

The Lady Arabella seemed to have trouble hearing.  (Elaine herself
could not tell whether she was hearing spoken words or taking the
message with her mind.) I am Joan and I love you.

The Lady Arabella shook herself as though water had splashed on her.

"Of course you're Joan.  You love me.  And I love you."

People and under people meet on the terms of love.

"Love.  Love, of course.  You're a good little girl.  And so right."

You will forget me, said Joan, until we meet and love again.

"Yes, darling.  Good-by for now."

At last D'joan did use words.  She spoke to the Hunter and Elaine,
saying,

"It is finished.  I know who I am and what I must do.  Elaine had
better come with me.  We will see you soon, Hunter if we live."

Elaine looked at the Lady Arabella, who stood stock still, staring
like a blind woman.  The Hunter nodded at Elaine with his wise, kind,
rueful smile.

The little girl led Elaine down, down, down to the door which led back
to the tunnel of Englok.  Just as they went through the brass door,
Elaine heard the voice of the Lady Arabella say to the Hunter: "What
are you doing here all by yourself?  The room smells funny.  Have you
had animals here?  Have you killed something?"

"Yes, Ma' am," said the Hunter as D'joan and Elaine stepped through the
door.

"What?"  cried the Lady Arabella.

Hunter must have raised his voice to a point of penetrating emphasis
because he wanted the other two to hear him, too: "I have killed,
Ma'am," he said, "as always with love.  This time it was a system."

They slipped through the door while the Lady Arabella's protesting
voice, heavy with authority and inquiry, was still sweeping against the
Hunter.

Joan led.  Her body was the body of a pretty child, but her personality
was the full awakening of all the under people who had been imprinted
on her.  Elaine could not understand it, because Joan was still the
little dog-girl, but Joan was now also Elaine, also Hunter.  There was
no doubt about their movement; the child, no longer an under girl led
the way and Elaine, human or not, followed.

The door closed behind them.  They were back in the Brown and Yellow
Corridor.  Most of the under people were awaiting them.  Dozens stared
at them.  The heavy animal-human smells of the old tunnel rolled
against them like thick, slow waves.  Elaine felt the beginning of a
headache at her temples, but she was much too alert to care.

For a moment, D'joan and Elaine confronted the under people

Most of you have seen paintings or theatricals based upon this scene.
The most famous of all is, beyond doubt, the fantastic "one-line
drawing" of San Shigonanda the board of the background almost uniformly
gray, with a hint of brown and yellow on the left, a hint of black and
red on the right, and in the center the strange white line, almost a
smear of paint, which somehow suggests the bewildered girl Elaine and
the doom blessed child Joan.

Charley-is-my-darling was, of course, the first to find his voice.
(Elaine did not notice him as a goat-man any more.  He seemed an
earnest, friendly man of middle age, fighting poor health and an
uncertain life with great courage.  She now found his smile persuasive
and charming.  Why, thought Elaine, didn't I see him that way before?
Have I changed?) Charley-is-my-darling had spoken before Elaine found
her wits.

"He did it.  Are you D'joan?"

"Am I D'joan?"  said the child, asking the crowd of deformed, weird
people in the tunnel.

"Do you think I am D'joan?"

"No!  No!  You are the lady who was promised you are the bridge-woman,"
cried a tall yellow-haired old woman, whom Elaine could not remember
seeing before.  The woman flung herself to her knees in front of the
child, and tried to get D'joan's hand.  The child held her hands away,
quietly, but firmly, so the woman buried her face in the child's skirt
and wept.

"I am Joan," said the child, "and I am dog no more.  You are people
now, people, and if you die with me, you will die men.

Isn't that better than it has ever been before?  And you.  Ruthie,"

said she to the woman at her feet, "stand up and stop crying.  Be glad.
These are the days that I shall be with you.  I know your children were
all taken away and killed, Ruthie, and I am sorry.

I cannot bring them back.  But I give you womanhood.  I have even made
a person out of Elaine."

"Who are you?"  said Charley-is-my-darling.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the little girl you put out to live or die an hour ago.  But now I
am Joan, not D'joan, and I bring you a weapon.  You are women.  You are
men.  You are people.  You can use the weapon."

"What weapon?"  The voice was Crawlie's, from about the third row of
spectators.

"Life and life-with," said the child Joan.

"Don't be a fool," said Crawlie.

"What's the weapon?  Don't give us words.  We've had words and death
ever since the world of under people began.  That's what people give us
good words, fine principles, and cold murder, year after year,
generation after generation.  Don't tell me I'm a person I'm not.  I'm
a bison and I know it.  An animal fixed up to look like a person.  Give
me a something to kill with.  Let me die fighting."

Little Joan looked incongruous in her young body and short stature,
still wearing the little blue smock in which Elaine had first seen her.
She commanded the room.  She lifted her hand and the buzz of low
voices, which had started while Crawlie was yelling, dropped off to
silence again.

"Crawlie," she said, in a voice that carried all the way down the hall,
"peace be with you in the everlasting now."

Crawlie scowled.  She did have the grace to look puzzled at Joan's
message to her, but she did not speak.

"Don't talk to me, dear people," said little Joan.

"Get used to me first.  I bring you life-with.  It's more than love.
Love's a hard, sad, dirty word, a cold word, an old word.  It says too
much and it promises too little.  I bring you something much bigger
than love.  If you're alive, you're alive.  If you're alive with then
you know the other life is there too both of you, any of you, all of
you.  Don't do anything.  Don't grab, don't clench, don't possess.

Just be.  That's the weapon.  There's not a flame or a gun or a poison
that can stop it."

"I want to believe you," said Mabel, "but I don't know how to."

"Don't believe me," said little Joan.

"Just wait and let things happen.  Let me through, good people.  I have
to sleep for a while.

Elaine will watch me while I sleep and when I get up, I will tell you
why you are under people no longer."

Joan started to move forward A wild ululating screech split the
corridor.

Everyone looked around to see where it came from.

It was almost like the shriek of a fighting bird, but the sound came
from among them.

Elaine saw it first.

Crawlie had a knife and just as the cry ended, she flung herself on
Joan.

Child and woman fell on the floor, their dresses a tangle.  The large
hand rose up twice with the knife, and the second time it came up
red.

From the hot shocking burn in her side, Elaine knew that she must
herself have taken one of the stabs.  She could not tell whether Joan
was still living.

The under men pulled Crawlie off the child.

Crawlie was white with rage.

"Words, words, words.  She'll kill us all with her words."

A large, fat man, with the muzzle of a bear on the front of an
otherwise human-looking head and body, stepped around the man who held
Crawlie.  He gave her one tremendous slap.  She dropped to the floor
unconscious.  The knife, stained with blood, fell on the old worn
carpet.  (Elaine thought automatically: restorative for her later;
check neck vertebrae; no problem of bleeding.) For the first time in
her life, Elaine functioned as a wholly efficient witch.  She helped
the people pull the clothing from little Joan.  The tiny body, with the
heavy purple-dark blood pumping out from just below the rib-cage,
looked hurt and fragile.  Elaine reached in her left handbag.  She had
a surgical radar pen.  She held it to her eye and looked through the
flesh, up and down the wound.  The peritoneum was punctured, the liver
cut, the upper folds of the large intestine were perforated in two
places.  When she saw this, she knew what to do.  She brushed the
bystanders aside and got to work.

First she glued the cuts from the inside out, starting with the damage
to the liver.  Each touch of the organic adhesive was preceded by a
tiny spray of re-coding powder, designed to reinforce the capacity of
the injured organ to restore itself.  The probing, pressing, squeezing
took eleven minutes.  Before it was finished, Joan had awakened, and
was murmuring: "Am I dying?"

"Not at all," said Elaine, "unless these human medicines poison your
dog blood."

"Who did it?"

"Crawlie?"

"Why?"  said the child.

"Why?  Is she hurt too?  Where is she?"

"Not as hurt as she is going to be," said the goat-man,
Charley-is-my-darling.

"If she lives, we'll fix her up and try her and put her to death."

"No, you won't," said Joan.

"You're going to love her.  You must."

The goat-man looked bewildered.

He turned in his perplexity to Elaine.

"Better have a look at Crawlie," said he.

"Maybe Orson killed her with that slap.  He's a bear, you know."

"So I saw," said Elaine, drily.  What did the man think that thing
looked like, a hummingbird?

She walked over to the body of Crawlie.  As soon as she touched the
shoulders, she knew that she was in for trouble.

The outer appearances were human, but the musculature beneath was not.
She suspected that the laboratories had left Crawlie terribly strong,
keeping the buffalo strength and obstinacy for some remote industrial
reason of their own.  She took out a brain link a close-range
telepathic hookup which worked only briefly and slightly, to see if the
mind still functioned.  As she reached for Crawlie's head to attach it,
the unconscious girl sprang suddenly to life, jumped to her feet, and
said: "No, you don't!  You don't peep me, you dirty human!"

"Crawlie, stand still."

"Don't boss me, you monster!"

"Crawlie, that's a bad thing to say."  It was eerie to hear such a
commanding voice coming from the throat and mouth of a small child.
Small she might have been, but Joan commanded the scene.

"I don't care what I say.  You all hate me."

"That's not true, Crawlie."

"You' re a dog and now you' re a person.  You' re born a traitor.  Dogs
have always sided with people.  You hated me even before you went into
that room and changed into something else.  Now you are going to kill
us all."

"We may die, Crawlie, but I won't do it."

"Well, you hate me, anyhow.  You've always hated me."

"You may not believe it," said Joan, "but I've always loved you.  You
were the prettiest woman in our whole corridor."

Crawlie laughed.  The sound gave Elaine gooseflesh.

"Suppose I believed it.  How could I live if I thought that people
loved me?  If I believed you, I would have to tear myself to pieces, to
break my brains on the wall, to do " The laughter changed to sobs, but
Crawlie managed to resume talking: "You things are so stupid that you
don't even know that you're monsters.  You're not people.  You never
will be people.  I'm one of you myself.  I'm honest enough to admit
what I am.  We're dirt, we're nothing,
we're things that are less than machines.  We hide in the earth like
dirt and when people kill us they do not weep.  At least we were
hiding.  Now you come along, you and your tame human woman" Crawlie
glared briefly at Elaine "and you try to change even that.  I'll kill
you again if I can, you dirt, you slut, you dog!  What are you doing
with that child's body ?  We don't even know who you are now.  Can you
tell us?"

The bear-man had moved up close to Crawlie, unnoticed by her, and was
ready to slap her down again if she moved against little Joan.

Joan looked straight at him and with a mere movement of her eyes she
commanded him not to strike.

"I'm tired," she said,

"I'm tired, Crawlie.  I'm a thousand years old when I am not even five.
 And I am Elaine now, and I am Hunter too, and I am the Lady Pane
Ashash, and I know a great many more things than I thought I would ever
know.  I have work to do, Crawlie, because I love you, and I think I
will die soon.  But please, good people, first let me rest."

The bear-man was on Crawlie's right.  On her left, there had moved up a
snake-woman.  The face was pretty and human, except for the thin forked
tongue which ran in and out of the mouth like a dying flame.  She had
good shoulders and hips but no breasts at all.  She wore empty golden
brassiere cups which swung against her chest.  Her hands looked as
though they might be stronger than steel.  Crawlie started to move
toward Joan, and the snake-woman hissed.

It was the snake hiss of Old Earth.

For a second, every animal-person in the corridor stopped breathing.
They all stared at the snake-woman.  She hissed again, looking straight
at Crawlie.  The sound was an abomination in that narrow space.  Elaine
saw that Joan tightened up like a little dog, Charley-is-my-darling
looked as though he was ready to leap twenty meters in one jump, and
Elaine herself felt an impulse to strike, to kill, to destroy.  The
hiss was a challenge to them all.

The snake-woman looked around calmly, fully aware of the attention she
had obtained.

"Don't worry, dear people.  See, I'm using Joan's name for all of us.
I'm not going to hurt Crawlie, not unless she hurts Joan.  But if she
hurts Joan, if anybody hurts Joan, they will have me to deal with.  You
have a good idea who I am.  We S-people have great strength, high
intelligence, and no fear at all.  You know we cannot breed.  People
have to make us one by one, out of ordinary snakes.  Do not cross me,
dear people.  I want to learn about this new love which Joan is
bringing, and nobody is going to hurt Joan while I am here.  Do you
hear me, people?  Nobody.  Try it, and you die.  I think I could kill
almost all of you before I died, even if you all attacked me at once.
Do you hear me, people?  Leave Joan alone.  That
of Man goes for you, too, you soft human woman.  I am not afraid of
you either.  You there," said she to the bear-man, "pick little Joan up
and carry her to a quiet bed.  She must rest.  She must be quiet for a
while.  You be quiet too, all you people, or you will meet me.

Me."  Her black eyes roved across their faces.  The snake-woman moved
forward and they parted in front of her, as though she were the only
solid being in a throng of ghosts.

Her eyes rested a moment on Elaine.  Elaine met the gaze, but it was an
uncomfortable thing to do.  The black eyes with neither eyebrows nor
lashes seemed full of intelligence and devoid of emotion.  Orson, the
bear-man, followed obediently behind.  He carried little Joan.

As the child passed Elaine she tried to stay awake.  She murmured,

"Make me bigger.  Please make me bigger.  Right away."

"I don't know how .. ."  said Elaine.

The child struggled to full awakening.

"I'll have work to do.

Work .  . . and maybe my death to die.  It will all be wasted if I am
this little.  Make me bigger."

"But " protested Elaine again.

"If you don't know, ask the lady."

"What lady?"

The S-woman had paused, listening to the conversation.  She cut in.

"The Lady Pane Ashash, of course.  The dead one.  Do you think that a
living Lady of the Instrumentality would do anything but kill us
all?"

As the snake-woman and Orson carried Joan away, Charley-ismy-darling
came up to Elaine and said,

"Do you want to go?"

"Where?"

"To the Lady Pane Ashash, of course."

"Me?"  said Elaine.

"Now?"  said Elaine, even more emphatically.

"Of course not," said Elaine, pronouncing each word as though it were a
law.

"What do you think I am?  A few hours ago I did not even know that you
existed.  I wasn't sure about the word' death I just assumed that
everything terminated at four hundred years, the way it should.  It's
been hours of danger, and everybody has been threatening everybody else
for all that time.  I'm tired and I'm sleepy and I'm dirty, and I've
got to take care of myself, and besides " She stopped suddenly and bit
her lip.  She had started to say, and besides, my body is all worn out
with that dreamlike lovemaking which the Hunter and I had together.
That was not the business of Charley-is-my-darling: he was goat enough
as he was.

His mind was goa tish and would not see the dignity of it all.

The goat-man said, very gently,

"You are making history, Elaine, and when you make history you cannot
always take care of all the little things too.  Are you happier and
more important than you ever were before?  Yes?

Aren't you a different you from the person who met Balthasarjust a few
hours ago?"

Elaine was taken aback by the seriousness.  She nodded.

"Stay hungry and tired.  Stay dirty.  Just a little longer.  Time must
not be wasted.  You can talk to the Lady Pane Ashash.  Find out what we
must do about little Joan.  When you come back with further
instructions, I will take care of you myself.  This tunnel is not as
bad a town as it looks.  We will have everything you could need, in the
Room of Englok.  Englok himself built it, long ago.

Work just a little longer, and then you can eat and rest.  We have
everything here.

"I am the citizen of no mean city."  But first you must help Joan.  You
love Joan, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, I do," she said.

"Then help us just a little bit more."

With death?  she thought.  With murder?  With violation of law?

But but it was all for Joan.

It was thus that Elaine went to the camouflaged door, went out under
the open sky again, saw the great saucer of Upper Kalma reaching out
over the Old Lower City.  She talked to the voice of the Lady Pane
Ashash, and obtained certain instructions, together with other
messages.  Later, she was able to repeat them, but she was too tired to
make out their real sense.

She staggered back to the place in the wall where she thought the door
to be, leaned against it, and nothing happened.

"Further down, Elaine, further down.  Hurry!  When I used to be me, I
too got tired," came the strong whisper of the Lady Pane Ashash, "but
do hurry!"

Elaine stepped away from the wall, looking at it.

A beam of light struck her.

The Instrumentality had found her.

She rushed wildly at the wall.

The door gaped briefly.  The strong welcome hand of
Charleyis-my-darling helped her in.

"The light!  The light!"  cried Elaine.

"I've killed us all.  They saw me."

"Not yet," smiled the goat-man, with his quick crooked intelligent
smile.

"I may not be educated, but I am pretty smart."

He reached toward the inner gate, glanced back at Elaine appraisingly,
and then shoved a man-sized robot through the door.

"There it goes, a sweeper about your size.  No memory bank.

A worn-out brain.  Just simple motivations.  If they come down to see
what they thought they saw, they will see this instead.  We keep a
bunch of these at the door.  We don't go out much, but when we do, it's
handy to have these to cover up with."

He took her by the arm.

"While you eat, you can tell me.  Can we make her bigger.  . . ?"

of Man "Who?"

"Joan, of course.  Our Joan.  That's what you went to find out for
us."

Elaine had to inventory her own mind to see what the Lady Pane Ashash
had said on that subject.  In a moment she remembered.

"You need a pod.  And a jelly bath.  And narcotics, because it will
hurt.  Four hours."

"Wonderful," said Charley-is-my-darling, leading her deeper and deeper
into the tunnel.

"But what's the use of it," said Elaine, "if I've ruined us all?

The Instrumentality saw me coming in.  They will follow.  They will
kill all of you, even Joan.  Where is the Hunter?  Shouldn't I sleep
first?"  She felt her lips go thick with fatigue; she had not rested or
eaten since she took that chance on the strange little door between
Waterrocky Road and the Shopping Bar.

"You're safe, Elaine, you're safe," said Charley-is-my-darling, his sly
smile very warm and his smooth voice carrying the ring of sincere
conviction.  For himself, he did not believe a word of it.

He thought they were all in danger, but there was no point in
terrifying Elaine.  Elaine was the only real person on their side,
except for the Hunter, who was a strange one, almost like an animal
himself, and for the Lady Pane Ashash, who was very benign, but who
was, after all, a dead person.  He was frightened himself, but he was
afraid of fear.  Perhaps they were all doomed.

In a way, he was right.

VII

The Lady Arabella Underwood had called the Lady Goroke.

"Something has tampered with my mind."

The Lady Goroke felt very shocked.  She threw back the inquiry.  Put a
probe on it.

"I did.  Nothing."

Nothing?

More shock for the Lady Goroke.  Sound the alert, then.

"Oh, no.  Oh, no, no.  It was a friendly, nice tampering."  The Lady
Arabella Underwood, being an Old North Australian, was rather formal:
she always thought full words at her friends, even in telepathic
contact.  She never sent mere raw ideas.

But that's utterly unlawful.  You're part of the Instrumentality.

It's a crime!  thought the Lady Goroke.

She got a giggle for reply.

You laugh.  . . ?  she inquired.

"I just thought a new Lord might be here.  From the Instrumentality.
Having a look at me."

The Lady Goroke was very proper and easily shocked.  We wouldn't do
that!

The Lady Arabella thought to herself but did not transmit, "Not to you,
my dear.  You're a blooming prude."  To the other she transmitted,

"Forget it then."

Puzzled and worried, the Lady Goroke thought: Well, all right.

Break?

"Right-ho.  Break."

The Lady Goroke frowned to herself.  She slapped her wall.

Planet Central, she thought at it.

A mere man sat at a desk.

"I am the Lady Goroke," she said.

"Of course, my Lady," he replied.

"Police fever, one degree.  One degree only.  Till rescinded.

Clear?"

"Clear, my Lady.  The entire planet?"

"Yes," she said.

"Do you wish to give a reason?"  His voice was respectful and
routine.

"Must I?"

"Of course not, my Lady."

"None given, then.  Close."

He saluted and his image faded from the wall.

She raised her mind to the level of a light clear call.

Instrumentality Only Instrumentality Only.  I have raised the police
fever level one degree by command.  Reason, personal disquiet.  You
know my voice.  You know me.  Goroke.

Far across the city a police ornithopter flapped slowly down the
street.

The police robot was photographing a sweeper, the most elaborately
malfunctioning sweeper he had ever seen.

The sweeper raced down the road at unlawful speeds, approaching three
hundred kilometers an hour, stopped with a sizzle of plastic on stone,
and began picking dust-motes off the pavement.

When the ornithopter reached it, the sweeper took off again, rounded
two or three corners at tremendous speed, and then settled down to its
idiot job.

The third time this happened, the robot in the ornithopter put a
disabling slug through it, flew down, and picked it up with the claws
of his machine.

He saw it in close view.

"Birdbrain.  Old model.  Birdbrain.  Good they don't use those any
more.  The thing could have hurt a Man.  Now, I'm printed from a mouse,
a real mouse with lots and lots of brains."

He flew toward the central junkyard with the worn out sweeper.  The
sweeper, crippled but still conscious, was trying to pick dust off the
iron claws which held it.

Below them, the Old City twisted out of sight with its odd geometrical
lights.  The New City, bathed in its soft perpetual glow, shone out
against the night of Fomalhaut III.  Beyond them, the everlasting ocean
boiled in its private storms.

On the actual stage the actors cannot do much with the scene of the
interlude, where Joan was cooked in a single night from the size of a
child five years old to the tallness of a miss fifteen or sixteen.  The
biological machine did work well, though at the risk of her life.  It
made her into a vital, robust young person, without changing her mind
at all.  This is hard for any actress to portray.  The story boxes have
the advantage.  They can show the machine with all sorts of
improvements flashing lights, bits of lightning, mysterious rays.
Actually, it looked like a bathtub full of boiling brown jelly,
completely covering Joan.

Elaine, meanwhile, ate hungrily in the palatial room of Englok himself.
The food was very, very old, and she had doubts, as a witch, about its
nutritional value, but it stilled her hunger.  The denizens of Clown
Town had declared this room "off limits" to themselves, for reasons
which Charley-is-my darling could not make plain.  He stood in the
doorway and told her what to do to find food, to activate the bed out
of the floor, to open the bathroom.  Everything was very old-fashioned
and nothing responded to a simple thought or to a mere slap.  A curious
thing happened.

Elaine had washed her hands, had eaten, and was preparing for her bath.
She had taken most of her clothes off, thinking only that
Charley-is-my-darling was an animal, not a man, so that it did not
matter.  Suddenly she knew it did matter.

He might be an under person but he was a man to her.

Blushing deeply all the way down to her neck, she ran into the bathroom
and called back to him: "Go away.  I will bathe and then sleep.  Wake
me when you have to, not before."

"Yes , Elai the."

"An d a nd " "Yes ?"

"Thank you," she said.

"Thank you very much.  Do you know, I never said 'thank you' to an
under person before."

"That's all right," said Charley-is-my-darling with a smile.

"Most real people don't.  Sleep well, my dear Elaine.  When you awaken,
be ready for great things.  We shall take a star out of the skies and
shall set thousands of worlds on fire .  . ."

"What's that?"  she said, putting her head around the corner of the
bathroom.

"Just a figure of speech," he smiled.

"Just meaning that you won't have much time.  Rest well.  Don't forget
to put your clothes in the ladysmaid machine.  The ones in Clown Town
are all worn out.  But since we haven't used this room, yours ought to
work."

"Which is it?"  she said.

"The red lid with the gold handle.  Just lift it."  On that domestic
note he left her to rest, while he went off and plotted the destiny of
a hundred billion lives.

They told her it was mid-morning when she came out of the room of
Englok.  How could she have known it?  The brown-and yellow corridor,
with its gloomy old yellow lights, was just as dim and stench-ridden as
ever.

The people all seemed to have changed.

Baby-baby was no longer a mouse-hag, but a woman of considerable force
and much tenderness.  Crawlie was as dangerous as a human enemy,
staring at Elaine, her beautiful face gone bland with hidden hate.
Charley-is-my-darling was gay, friendly, and persuasive.  She thought
she could read expressions on the faces of Orson and the S-woman, odd
though their features were.

After she had gotten through some singularly polite greetings, she
demanded,

"What's happening now?"

A new voice spoke up a voice she knew and did not know.

Elaine glanced over at a niche in the wall.

The Lady Pane Ashash!  And who was that with her?

Even as she asked herself the question, Elaine knew the answer.  It was
Joan, grown, only half a head less tall than the Lady Pane Ashash or
herself.  It was a new Joan, powerful, happy, and quiet; but it was all
the dear little old D'joan too.

"Welcome," said the Lady Pane Ashash, "to our revolution."

"What's a revolution?"  asked Elaine.

"And I thought you couldn't come in here with all the thought
shielding?"

The Lady Pane Ashash lifted a wire which trailed back from her robot
body.

"I rigged this up so that I could use the body.

Precautions are no use any more.  It's the other side which will need
the precautions now.  A revolution is a way of changing systems and
people.  This is one.  You go first, Elaine.  This way."

"To die?  Is that what you mean?"

The Lady Pane Ashash laughed warmly.

"You know me by now.  You know my friends here.  You know what your own
life has been down to now, a useless witch in a world which did not
want you.  We may die, but it's what we do before we die that counts.
This is Joan going to meet her destiny.  You lead as far as the Upper
City.  Then Joan will lead.  And then we shall see."

"You mean, all these people are going too?"  Elaine looked at the
ranks
of Man of the under people who were beginning to form into two queues
down the corridor.  The queues bulged wherever mothers led their
children by the hand or carried small ones in their arms.  Here and
there the line was punctuated by a giant under person

They have been nothing, thought Elaine, and I was nothing too.  Now we
are all going to do something, even though we may be terminated for
it.

"May be," thought she: "shall be" is the word.  But it is worth it if
Joan can change the worlds, even a little bit, even for other people.

Joan spoke up.  Her voice had grown with her body, but it was the same
dear voice which the little dog-girl had had sixteen hours (they seem
sixteen years, thought Elaine) ago, when Elaine first met her at the
door to the tunnel of Englok.

Joan said,

"Love is not something special, reserved for men alone.

"Love is not proud.  Love has no real name.  Love is for life itself,
and we have life.

"We cannot win by fighting.  People outnumber us, outgun us, outrun us,
outfight us.  But people did not create us.  Whatever made people, made
us too.  You all know that, but will we say the name?"

There was a murmur of no and never from the crowd.

"You have waited for me.  I have waited too.  It is time to die,
perhaps, but we will die the way people did in the beginning, before
things became easy and cruel for them.  They live in a stupor and they
die in a dream.  It is not a good dream and if they awaken, they will
know that we are people too.  Are you with me?"  They murmured yes.

"Do you love me?"  Again they murmured agreement.

"Shall we go out and meet the day?"  They shouted their acclaim.

Joan turned to the Lady Pane Ashash.

"Is everything as you wished and ordered?"

"Yes," said the dear dead woman in the robot body.

"Joan first, to lead you.  Elaine preceding her, to drive away robots
or ordinary under people When you meet real people, you will love them.
 That is all.  You will love them.  If they kill you, you will love
them.  Joan will show you how.  Pay no further attention to me.
Ready?"

Joan lifted her right hand and said words to herself.  The people bowed
their heads before her, faces and muzzles and snouts of all sizes and
colors.  A baby of some kind mewed in a tiny falsetto to the rear.

Just before she turned to lead the procession, Joan turned back to the
people and said,

"Crawlie, where are you?"

"Here, in the middle," said a clear, calm voice far back.

"Do you love me now, Crawlie?"

"No, D'joan.  I like you less than when you were a little dog.

But these are my people too, as well as yours.  I am brave.  I can
walk.  I won't make trouble."

"Crawlie," said Joan, "will you love people if we meet them?"

All faces turned toward the beautiful bison-girl.  Elaine could just
see her, way down the murky corridor.  Elaine could see that the girl'
s face had turned utter, dead white with emotion.

Whether rage or fear, she could not tell.

At last Crawlie spoke,

"No, I won't love people.  And I won't love you.  I have my pride."

Softly, softly, like death itself at a quiet bedside, Joan spoke.

"You can stay behind, Crawlie.  You can stay here.  It isn't much of a
chance, but it's a chance."

Crawlie looked at her.

"Bad luck to you, dog-woman, and bad luck to the rotten human being up
there beside you."

Elaine stood on tiptoe to see what would happen.  Crawlie's face
suddenly disappeared, dropping downward.

The snake woman elbowed her way to the front, stood close to Joan where
the others could see her, and sang out in a voice as clear as metal
itself: "Sing 'poor, poor, Crawlie," dear people.  Sing

"I love Crawlie,"

dear people.  She is dead.  I just killed her so that we would all be
full of love.  I love you too," said the S-woman, on whose reptilian
features no sign of love or hate could be seen.

Joan spoke up, apparently prompted by the Lady Pane Ashash.

"We do love Crawlie, dear people.  Think of her and then let us move
forward."

Charley-is-my-darling gave Elaine a little shove.

"Here, you lead."

In a dream, in a bewilderment, Elaine led.

She felt warm, happy, brave when she passed close to the strange Joan,
so tall and yet so familiar.  Joan gave her a full smile and
whispered,

"Tell me I'm doing well, human woman.  I'm a dog and dogs have lived a
million years for the praise of man."

"You're right, Joan, you're completely right!  I'm with you.

Shall I go now?"  responded Elaine.

Joan nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.

Elaine led.

Joan and the Lady Pane Ashash followed, dog and dead woman championing
the procession.

The rest of the under people followed them in turn, in a double line.

When they made the secret door open, daylight flooded the corridor.
Elaine could almost feel the stale odor-ridden air pouring out with
them.  When she glanced back into the tunnel for the last time, she saw
the body of Crawlie lying all alone on the floor.

Elaine herself turned to the steps and began going up them.

No one had yet noticed the procession.

Elaine could hear the wire of the Lady Pane Ashash dragging on the
stone and metal of the steps as they climbed.

When she reached the top door, Elaine had a moment of indecision and
of Man panic.

"This is my life, my life," she thought.

"I have no other.

What have I done?  Oh, Hunter, Hunter, where are you?  Have you
betrayed me?"

Said Joan softly behind her,

"Go on!  Go on.  This is a war of love.  Keep going."

Elaine opened the door to the upper street.  The roadway was full of
people.  Three police ornithopters flapped slowly overhead.

This was an unusual number.  Elaine stopped again.

"Keep walking," said Joan, "and warn the robots off."

Elaine advanced and the revolution began.

VIII

The revolution lasted six minutes and covered one hundred and twelve
meters.

The police flew over as soon as the under people began pouring out of
the doorway.

The first one glided in like a big bird, his voice asking, "Identify!
Who are you?"

Elaine said,

"Go away.  That is a command."

"Identify yourself," said the bird-like machine, banking steeply with
the lens-eyed robot peering at Elaine out of its middle.

"Go away," said Elaine.

"I am a true human and I command."

The first police ornithopter apparently called to the others by radio.
Together they flapped their way down the corridor between the big
buildings.

A lot of people had stopped.  Most of their faces were blank, a few
showing animation or amusement or horror at the sight of so many under
people all crowded in one place.

Joan's voice sang out, in the clearest possible enunciation of the Old
Common Tongue: "Dear people, we are people.  We love you.  We love
you."

The under people began to chant love, love, love in a weird plainsong
full of sharps and halftones.  The true humans shrank back.  Joan
herself set the example by embracing a young woman of about her own
height.  Charley-is-my-darling took a human man by the shoulders and
shouted at him: "I love you, my dear fellow!  Believe me, I do love
you.  It's wonderful meeting you."  The human man was startled by the
contact and even more startled by the glowing warmth of the goat-man's
voice.  He stood mouth slack and body relaxed with sheer, utter, and
accepted surprise.

Somewhere to the rear a person screamed.

A police ornithopter came flapping back.  Elaine could not tell if it
was one of the three she had sent away, or a new one altogether.  She
waited for
it to get close enough to hail, so that she could tell it to go
away.

For the first time, she wondered about the actual physical character of
danger.  Could the police machine put a slug through her?  Or shoot
flame at her?  Or lift her screaming, carrying her away with its iron
claws to some place where she would be pretty and clean and never
herself again?

"Oh, Hunter, Hunter, where are you now?  Have you forgotten me?  Have
you betrayed me?"

The under people were still surging forward and mingling with the real
people, clutching them by their hands or their garments, and repeating
in the queer medley of voices: "I love you.  Oh, please, I love you! We
are people.  We are your sisters and brothers .  . ."

The snake-woman wasn't making much progress.  She had seized a human
man with her more-than-iron hand.  Elaine hadn't seen her saying
anything, but the man had fainted dead away.  The snake-woman had him
draped over her arm like an empty overcoat and was looking for somebody
else to love.

Behind Elaine a low voice said,

"He's coming soon."

"Who?"  said Elaine to the Lady Pane Ashash, knowing perfectly well
whom she meant, but not wanting to admit it, and busy with watching the
circling ornithopter at the same time.

"The Hunter, of course," said the robot with the dear dead lady's
voice.

"He'll come for you.  You'll be all right.  I'm at the end of my wire.
Look away, my dear.  They are about to kill me again and I am afraid
that the sight would distress you."

Fourteen robots, foot models, marched with military decision into the
crowd.  The true humans took heart from this and some of them began to
slip away into doorways.  Most of the real people were still so
surprised that they stood around with the under people pawing at them,
babbling the accents of love over and over again, the animal origin of
their voices showing plainly.

The robot sergeant took no note of this.  He approached the Lady Pane
Ashash only to find Elaine standing in his way.

"I command you," she said, with all the passion of a working witch,

"I command you to leave this place."

His eye-lenses were like dark-blue marbles floating in milk.

They seemed swim my and poorly focused as he looked her over.

He did not reply but stepped around her, faster than her own body could
intercept him.  He made for the dear, dead Lady Pane Ashash.

Elaine, bewildered, realized that the Lady's robot body seemed more
human than ever.  The robot-sergeant confronted her.

This is the scene which we all remember, the first authentic picture
tape of the entire incident: The gold and black sergeant, his milky
eyes staring at the Lady Pane Ashash.

The Lady herself, in the pleasant old robot body, lifting a commanding
hand.

Elaine, distraught, half-turning as though she would grab the robot by
his right arm.  Her head is moving so rapidly that her black hair
swings as she turns.

Charley-is-my-darling shouting,

"I love, love, love!"  at a small handsome man with mouse-colored hair.
The man is gulping and saying nothing.

All this we know.

Then comes the unbelievable, which we now believe, the event for which
the stars and worlds were unprepared.

Mutiny.

Robot mutiny.

Disobedience in open daylight.

The words are hard to hear on the tape, but we can still make them out.
The recording device on the police ornithopter had gotten a square fix
on the face of the Lady Pane Ashash.  Lipreaders can see the words
plainly; non-lip-readers can hear the words the third or fourth time
the tape is run through the eye box

Said the Lady,

"Overridden."

Said the sergeant,

"No, you're a robot."

"See for yourself.  Read my brain.  I am a robot.  I am also a woman.
You cannot disobey people.  I am people.  I love you.

Furthermore, you are people.  You think.  We love each other.  Try.

Try to attack."

"I I cannot," said the robot sergeant, his milky eyes seeming to spin
with excitement.

"You love me?  You mean I'm alive?  I exist?"

"With love, you do," said the Lady Pane Ashash.

"Look at her," said the Lady, pointing to Joan, "because she has
brought you love."

The robot looked and disobeyed the law.  His squad looked with him.

He turned back to the Lady and bowed to her: "Then you know what we
must do, if we cannot obey you and cannot disobey the others."

"Do it," she said sadly, "but know what you are doing.  You are not
really escaping two human commands.  You are making achoice.  You. That
makes you men."

The sergeant turned to his squad of man-sized robots: "You hear that?
She says we are men.  I believe her.  Do you believe her?"

"We do," they cried almost unanimously.

This is where the picture-tape ends, but we can imagine how the scene
was concluded.  Elaine had stopped short, just behind the
sergeant-robot.  The other robots had come up behind her.

Charley-is-my-darling had stopped talking.  Joan was in the act of
lifting her hands in blessing, her warm brown dog eyes gone wide with
pity and understanding.

People wrote down the things that we cannot see.

Apparently the robot-sergeant said,

"Our love, dear people, and good-
bye.  We disobey and die."  He waved his hand to Joan.  It is not
certain whether he did or did not say,

"Good-bye, our lady and our liberator."  Maybe some poet made up the
second saying; the first one, we are sure about.  And we are sure about
the next word, the one which historians and poets all agree on.  He
turned to his men and said, "Destruct."

Fourteen robots, the black-and-gold sergeant and his thirteen
silver-blue foot soldiers, suddenly spurted white fire in the street of
Kalma.  They detonated their suicide buttons, thermite caps in their
own heads.  They had done something with no human command at all, on an
order from another robot, the body of the Lady Pane Ashash, and she in
turn had no human authority, but merely the word of the little dog-girl
Joan, who had been made an adult in a single night.

Fourteen white flames made people and under people turn their eyes
aside.  Into the light there dropped a special police ornithopter.  Out
of it came the two Ladies, Arabella Underwood and Goroke.  They lifted
their forearms to shield their eyes from the blazing dying robots. They
did not see the Hunter, who had moved mysteriously into an open window
above the street and who watched the scene by putting his hands over
his eyes and peeking through the slits between his fingers.  While the
people still stood blinded, they felt the fierce telepathic shock of
the mind of the Lady Goroke taking command of the situation.  That was
her right, as a Chief of the Instrumentality.  Some of the people, but
not all of them, felt the outre counter shock of Joan's mind reaching
out to meet the Lady Goroke.

"I command," thought the Lady Goroke, her mind kept open to all
beings.

"Indeed you do, but I love, I love you," thought Joan.

The first-order forces met.

They engaged.

The revolution was over.  Nothing had really happened, but Joan had
forced people to meet her.  This was nothing like the poem about people
and under people getting all mixed up.  The mixup came much later, even
after the time of C'mell.  The poem is pretty, but it is dead wrong, as
you can see for yourself: You should ask me, Me, me, me Because I know
I used to live On the Eastern Shore.

Men aren't men, And women aren't women, And people aren't people any
more.

of Man There is no Eastern Shore on Fomalhaut III anyhow; the people
under people crisis came much later than this.  The revolution had
failed, but history had reached its new turning point the quarrel of
the two Ladies.  They left their minds open out of sheer surprise.
Suicidal robots and world-loving dogs were unheard-of.  It was bad
enough to have illegal under people on the prowl, but these new things
ah!

Destroy them all, said the Lady Goroke.

"Why?"  thought the Lady Arabella Underwood.

Malfunction, replied Goroke.

"But they're not machines!"

Then they're animals under people Destroy!  Destroy!

Then came the answer which has created our own time.  It came from the
Lady Arabella Underwood, and all Kalma heard it: Perhaps they are
people.  They must have a trial.

The dog-girl Joan dropped to her knees.

"I have succeeded.  I have succeeded, I have succeeded!  You can kill
me, dear people, but I love, love you!"

The Lady Pane Ashash said quietly to Elaine,

"I thought I would be dead by now.  Really dead, at last.  But I am
not.  I have seen the worlds turn, Elaine, and you have seen them turn
with me."

The under people had fallen quiet as they heard the high volume
telepathic exchange between the two great Ladies.

The real soldiers dropped out of the sky, their ornithopters whistling
as they hawked down to the ground.  They ran up to the under people and
began binding them with cord.

One soldier took a single look at the robot body of the Lady Pane
Ashash.  He touched it with his staff, and the staff turned cherry-red
with heat.  The robot-body, its heat suddenly drained, fell to the
ground in a heap of icy crystals.

Elaine walked between the frigid rubbish and the red-hot staff.  She
had seen Hunter.

She missed seeing the soldier who came up to Joan, started to bind her,
and then fell back weeping, babbling,

"She loves me!

She loves me!"

The Lord Femtiosex, who commanded the in flying soldiers, bound Joan
with cord despite her talking.

Grimly he answered her: "Of course you love me.  You're a good dog.
You'll die soon, doggy, but till then, you'll obey."

"I'm obeying," said Joan, "but I'm a dog and a person.  Open your mind,
man, and you'll feel it."

Apparently he did open his mind and felt the ocean of love rip tiding
into him.  It shocked him.  His arm swung up and back, the edge of the
hand striking at Joan's neck for the ancient kill.

"No, you don't," thought the Lady Arabella Underwood.

"That child is going to get a proper trial."

He looked at her and glared.  Chief doesn't strike Chief, my Lady.  Let
go my arm.

Thought the Lady Arabella at him, openly and in public: A trial,
then.

In his anger he nodded at her.  He would not think or speak to her in
the presence of all the other people.

A soldier brought Elaine and Hunter before him.

"Sir and master, these are people, not under people But they have
dog-thoughts, cat-thoughts, goat-thoughts, and robot-ideas in their
heads.  Do you wish to look?"

"Why look?"  said the Lord Femtiosex, who was as blond as the ancient
pictures of Baldur, and oftentimes that arrogant as well.

"The Lord Limaono is arriving.  That's all of us.  We can have the
trial here and now."

Elaine felt cords bite into her wrists; she heard the Hunter murmur
comforting words to her, words which she did not quite understand.

"They will not kill us," he murmured, "though we will wish they had,
before this day is out.  Everything is happening as she said it would,
and " "Who is that she?"  interrupted Elaine.

"She?  The lady, of course.  The dear dead Lady Pane Ashash, who has
worked wonders after her own death, merely with the print of her
personality on the machine.  Who do you think told me what to do?  Why
did we wait for you to condition Joan to greatness?  Why did the people
way down in Clown Town keep on raising one D'joan after another, hoping
that hope and a great wonder would occur?"

"You knew?"  said Elaine.

"You knew ... before it happened?"

"Of course," said the Hunter, "not exactly, but more or less.

She had had hundreds of years after death inside that computer.

She had time for billions of thoughts.  She saw how it would be if it
had to be, and I " "Shut up, you people!"  roared the Lord Femtiosex.

"You are making the animals restless with your babble.  Shut up, or I
will stun you!"

Elaine fell silent.

The Lord Femtiosex glanced around at her, ashamed at having made his
anger naked before another person.  He added quietly: "The trial is
about to begin.  The one that the tall Lady ordered."

IX

You all know about the trial, so there is no need to linger over it.
There is another picture of San Shigonanda, the one from his
conventional period, which shows it very plainly.

of Man The street had filled full of real people, crowding together to
see something which would ease the boredom of perfection and time. They
all had numbers or number-codes instead of names.

They were handsome, well, dully happy.  They even looked a great deal
alike, similar in their handsomeness, their health, and their
underlying boredom.  Each of them had a total of four hundred years to
live.  None of them knew real war, even though the extreme readiness of
the soldiers showed vain practice of hundreds of years.  The people
were beautiful, but they felt themselves useless, and they were quietly
desperate without knowing it themselves.  This is all clear from the
painting, and from the wonderful way that San Shigonanda has of forming
them in informal ranks and letting the calm blue light of day shine
down on their handsome, hopeless features.

With the under people the artist performs real wonders.

Joan herself is bathed in light.  Her light brown hair and her doggy
brown eyes express softness and tenderness.  He even conveys the idea
that her new body is terribly new and strong, that she is virginal and
ready to die, that she is a mere girl and yet completely fearless.  The
posture of love shows in her legs: she stands lightly.  Love shows in
her hands: they are turned outward toward the judges.  Love shows in
her smile: it is confident.

And the judges!

The artist has them, too.  The Lord Femtiosex, calm again, his narrow
sharp lips expressing perpetual rage against a universe which has grown
too small for him.  The Lord Limaono, wise, twice-reborn, sluggardly,
but alert as a snake behind the sleepy eyes and the slow smile.  The
Lady Arabella Underwood, the tallest true-human present, with her
Norstrilian pride and the arrogance of great wealth, along with the
capricious tenderness of great wealth, showing in the way that she sat,
judging her fellow-judges instead of the prisoners.  The Lady Goroke,
bewildered at last, frowning at a play of fortune which she does not
understand.  The artist has it all.

And you have the real view-tapes, too, if you want to go to a museum.
The reality is not as dramatic as the famous painting, but it has value
of its own.  The voice of Joan, dead these many centuries, is still
strangely moving.  It is the voice of a dog carved-into-man, but it is
also the voice of a great lady.  The image of the Lady Pane Ashash must
have taught her that, along with what she had learned from Elaine and
Hunter in the antechamber above the Brown and Yellow Corridor of
Englok.

The words of the trial, they too have survived.  Many of them have
become famous, all across the worlds.

Joan said, during inquiry,

"But it is the duty of life to find more than life, and to exchange
itself for that higher goodness."

Joan commented, upon sentence,

"My body is your property, but my love is not.  My love is my own, and
I shall love you fiercely while you kill me."

When the soldiers had killed Charley-is-my-darling and were trying to
hack off the head of the S-woman until one of them thought to freeze
her into crystals, Joan said: "Should we be strange to you, we animals
of Earth that you have brought to the stars?  We shared the same sun,
the same oceans, the same sky.  We are all from Manhome.  How do you
know that we would not have caught up with you if we had all stayed at
home together?  My people were dogs.  They loved you before you made a
woman-shaped thing out of my mother.  Should I not love you still?  The
miracle is not that you have made people out of us.  The miracle is
that it took us so long to understand it.

We are people now, and so are you.  You will be sorry for what you are
going to do to me, but remember that I shall love your sorrow, too,
because great and good things will come out of it."

The Lord Limaono slyly asked,

"What is a 'miracle'?"  And her words were,

"There is knowledge from Earth which you have not yet found again.
There is the name of the nameless one.  There are secrets hidden in
time from you.  Only the dead and the unborn can know them right now: I
am both."

The scene is familiar, and yet we will never understand it.  We know
what the Lords Femtiosex and Limaono thought they were doing.  They
were maintaining established order and they were putting it on tape.
The minds of men can live together only if the basic ideas are
communicated.  Nobody has, even now, found out a way of recording
telepathy directly into an instrument.  We get pieces and snatches and
wild jumbles, but we never get a satisfactory record of what one of the
great ones was transmitting to another.  The two male chiefs were
trying to put on record all those things about the episode which would
teach careless people not to play with the lives of the under people
They were even trying to make under people understand the rules and
designs by virtue of which they had been transformed from animals into
the highest servants of man.  This would have been hard to do, given
the bewildering events of the last few hours, even from one Chief of
the Instrumentality to another; for the general public, it was almost
impossible.  The outpouring from the Brown and Yellow Corridor was
wholly unexpected, even though the Lady Goroke had surprised D'joan;
the mutiny of the robot police posed problems which would have to be
discussed halfway across the galaxy.  Furthermore, the dog-girl was
making points which had some verbal validity.  If they were left in the
form of mere words without proper context, they might affect heedless
or impressionable minds.  A bad idea can spread like a mutated germ. If
it is at all interesting, it can leap from one mind to another halfway
across the universe before it has a stop put to it.

Look at the ruinous fads and foolish fashions which have nuisanced
mankind even in the ages of the highest
of Man orderliness.  We today know that variety, flexibility, danger,
and the seasoning of a little hate can make love and life bloom as they
never bloomed before; we know it is better to live with the
complications of thirteen thousand old languages resurrected from the
dead ancient past than it is to live with the cold blind-alley
perfection of the Old Common Tongue.  We know a lot of things which the
Lords Femtiosex and Limaono did not, and before we consider them stupid
or cruel, we must remember that centuries passed before mankind finally
came to grips with the problem of the under people and decided what
"life" was within the limits of the human community.

Finally, we have the testimony of the two Lords themselves.

They both lived to very advanced ages, and toward the end of their
lives they were worried and annoyed to find that the episode of D'joan
overshadowed all the bad things which had not happened during their
long careers bad things which they had labored to forestall for the
protection of the planet Fomalhaut III and they were distressed to see
themselves portrayed as casual, cruel men when in fact they were
nothing of the sort.  If they had seen that the story of Joan on
Fomalhaut III would get to be what it is today one of the great
romances of mankind, along with the story of C'mell or the romance of
the lady who sailed The Soul they would not only have been
disappointed, but they would have been justifiably angry at the
fickleness of mankind as well.  Their roles are clear, because they
made them clear.  The Lord Femtiosex accepts the responsibility for the
notion of fire; the Lord Limaono agrees that he concurred in the
decision.  Both of them, many years later, reviewed the tapes of the
scene and agreed that something which the Lady Arabella Underwood had
said or thought Something had made them do it.

But even with the tapes to refresh and clarify their memories, they
could not say what.

We have even put computers on the job of cataloguing every word and
every inflection of the whole trial, but they have not pinpointed the
critical point either.

And the Lady Arabella nobody ever questioned her.  They didn't dare.
She went back to her own planet of Old North Australia, surrounded by
the immense treasure of the santa clara drug, and no planet is going to
pay at the rate of two thousand million credits a day for the privilege
of sending an investigator to talk to a lot of obstinate, simple,
wealthy Norstril ian peasants who will not talk to off worlders anyhow.
The Norstrilians charge that sum for the admission of any guest not
selected by their own invitation; so we will never know what the Lady
Arabella Underwood said or did after she went home.  The Norstrilians
said they did not wish to discuss the matter, and if
we do not wish to go back to living a mere seventy years we had better
not anger the only planet which produces stroon.

And the Lady Goroke she, poor thing, went mad.

Mad, for a period of years.

People did not know it till later, but there was no word to be gotten
out of her.  She performed the odd actions which we now know to be a
part of the dynasty of Lords Jestocost, who forced themselves by
diligence and merit upon the Instrumentality for two hundred and more
years.  But on the case of Joan she had nothing to say.

The trial is therefore a scene about which we know everything and
nothing.

We think that we know the physical facts of the life of D'joan who
became Joan.  We know about the Lady Pane Ashash who whispered
endlessly to the under people about a justice yet to come.  We know the
whole life of the unfortunate Elaine and of her involvement with the
case.  We know that there were in those centuries, when under people
first developed, many warrens in which illegal under people used their
near-human wits, their animal cunning, and their gift of speech to
survive even when mankind had declared them surplus.  The Brown and
Yellow Corridor was not by any means the only one of its kind.  We even
know what happened to the Hunter.

For the other under people Charley-is-my-darling, Babybaby, Mabel, the
S-woman, Orson, and all the others we have the tapes of the trial
itself.  They were not tried by anybody.  They were put to death by the
soldiers on the spot, as soon as it was plain that their testimony
would not be needed.  As witnesses, they could live a few minutes or an
hour; as animals, they were already outside the regulations.

Ah, we know all about that now, and yet know nothing.  Dying is simple,
though we tend to hide it away.  The how of dying is a minor scientific
matter; the when of dying is a problem to each of us, whether he lives
on the old-fashioned 400-year-life planets or on the radical new ones
where the freedoms of disease and accident have been reintroduced; the
why of it is still as shocking to us as it was to pre-atomic man, who
used to cover farmland with the boxed bodies of his dead.  These under
people died as no animals had ever died before.  Joyfully.

One mother held her children up for the soldier to kill them all.

She must have been of rat origin, because she had septuplets in closely
matching form.

The tape shows us the picture of the soldier getting ready.

The rat-woman greets him with a smile and holds up her seven babies.
Little blondes they are, wearing pink or blue bonnets, all of them with
glowing cheeks and bright little eyes.

"Put them on the ground," said the soldier.

"I'm going to kill you and
them too."  On the tape, we can hear the nervous peremptory edge of
his voice.  He added one word, as though he had already begun to think
that he had to justify himself to these under people

"Orders," he added.

"It doesn't matter if I hold them, soldier.  I'm their mother.

They'll feel better if they die easily with their mother near.  I love
you, soldier.  I love all people.  You are my brother, even though my
blood is rat blood and yours is human.  Go ahead and kill them,
soldier.  I can't even hurt you.  Can't you understand it?

I love you, soldier.  We share a common speech, common hopes, common
fears, and a common death.  That is what Joan has taught us all.  Death
is not bad, soldier.  It just comes badly, sometimes, but you will
remember me after you have killed me and my babies.  You will remember
that I love you now " The soldier, we see on the tape, can stand it no
longer.  He clubs his weapon, knocks the woman down; the babies scatter
on the ground.  We see his booted heel rise up and crush down against
their heads.  We hear the wet popping sound of the little heads
breaking, the sharp cut-off of the baby wails as they die.

We get one last view of the rat-woman herself.  She has stood up again
by the time the seventh baby is killed.  She offers her hand to the
soldier to shake.  Her face is dirty and bruised, a trickle of blood
running down her left cheek.  Even now, we know she is a rat, an under
person a modified animal, a nothing.  And yet we, even we across the
centuries, feel that she has somehow become more of a person than we
are that she dies human and fulfilled.  We know that she has triumphed
over death: we have not.

We see the soldier looking straight at her with eerie horror, as though
her simple love were some unfathomable device from an alien source.

We hear her next words on the tape: "Soldier, I love all of you " His
weapon could have killed her in a fraction of a second, if he had used
it properly.  But he didn't.  He clubbed it and hit her, as though his
heat-remover had been a wooden club and himself a wild man instead of
part of the elite guard of Kalma.

We know what happens then.

She falls under his blows.  She points.  Points straight at Joan,
wrapped in fire and smoke.

The rat-woman screams one last time, screams into the lens of the robot
camera as though she were talking not to the soldier but to all
mankind: "You can't kill her.  You can't kill love.  I love you,
soldier, love you.  You can't kill that.  Remember " His last blow
catches her in the face.

She falls back on the pavement.  He thrusts his foot, as we can see by
the tape, directly on her throat.  He leaps forward in an odd little
jig, bringing his
full weight down on her fragile neck.  He swings while stamping
downward, and we then see his face, full on in the camera.

It is the face of a weeping child, bewildered by hurt and shocked by
the prospect of more hurt to come.

He had started to do his duty, and duty had gone wrong, all wrong.

Poor man.  He must have been one of the first men in the new world who
tried to use weapons against love.  Love is a sour and powerful
ingredient to meet in the excitement of battle.

All the under people died that way.  Most of them died smiling, saying
the word "love" or the name

"Joan."

The bear-man Orson had been kept to the very end.

He died very oddly.  He died laughing.

The soldier lifted his pellet-thrower and aimed it straight at Orson's
forehead.  The pellets were 22 millimeters in diameter and had a muzzle
velocity of only 125 meters per second.  In that manner, they could
stop recalcitrant robots or evil under people without any risk of
penetrating buildings and hurting the true people who might be inside,
out of sight.

Orson looks, on the tape the robots made, as though he knows perfectly
well what the weapon is.  (He probably did.

Underpeople used to live with the danger of a violent death hanging
over them from birth until removal.) He shows no fear of it, in the
pictures we have; he begins to laugh.  His laughter is warm, generous,
relaxed like the friendly laughter of a happy foster-father who has
found a guilty and embarrassed child, knowing full well that the child
expects punishment but will not get it.

"Shoot, man.  You can't kill me, man.  I'm in your mind.  I love you.
Joan taught us.  Listen, man.  There is no death.  Not for love.

Ho, ho, ho, poor fellow, don't be afraid of me.  Shoot!  You're the
unlucky one.  You're going to live.  And remember.  And remember.  And
remember.  I've made you human, fellow."

The soldier croaks,

"What did you say?"

"I'm saving you, man.  I'm turning you into a real human being.  With
the power of Joan.  The power of love.  Poor guy!  Go ahead and shoot
me if it makes you uncomfortable to wait.  You'll do it anyhow."

This time we do not see the soldier's face but the tightness of his
back and neck betray his own internal stress.

We see the big broad bear face blossom forth in an immense splash of
red as the soft heavy pellets plow into it.

Then the camera turns to something else.

A little boy, probably a fox, but very finished in his human shape.

He was bigger than a baby, but not big enough, like the larger under
children to have understood the deathless importance of Joan's
teaching.

He was the only one of the group who behaved like an ordinary under
person He broke and ran.

He was clever: He ran among the spectators, so that the soldier could
not use pellets or heat-reducers on him without hurting an actual human
being.  He ran and jumped and dodged, fighting passively but
desperately for his life.

At last one of the spectators a tall man with a silver hat tripped him
up.  The fox-boy fell to the pavement, skinning his palms and knees.
Just as he looked up to see who might be coming at him, a bullet caught
him neatly in the head.  He fell a little way forward, dead.

People die.  We know how they die.  We have seen them die shy and quiet
in the Dying Houses.  We have seen others go into the 400-year-rooms,
which have no door knobs and no cameras on the inside.  We have seen
pictures of many dying in natural disasters, where the robot crews took
picture-tapes for the record and the investigation later on.  Death is
not uncommon, and it is very unpleasant.

But this time, death itself was different.  All the fear of death
except for the one little fox-boy, too young to understand and too old
to wait for death in his mother's arms had gone out of the under people
They met death willingly, with love and calmness in their bodies, their
voices, their demeanor.  It did not matter whether they lived long
enough to know what happened to Joan herself: they had perfect
confidence in her, anyway.

This indeed was the new weapon, love and the good death.

Crawlie, with her pride, had missed it all.

The investigators later found the body of Crawlie in the corridor.  It
was possible to reconstruct who she had been and what had happened to
her.  The computer in which the bodiless image of the Lady Pane Ashash
survived for a few days after the trial was, of course, found and
disassembled.  Nobody thought at the time to get her opinions and last
words.  A lot of historians have gnashed their teeth over that.

The details are therefore clear.  The archives even preserve the long
interrogation and responses concerning Elaine, when she was processed
and made clear after the trial.  But we do not know how the idea of
"fire" came in.

Somewhere, beyond sight of the tape-scanner, the word must have been
passed between the four chiefs of the Instrumentality who were
conducting the trial.  There is the protest of the Chief of Birds
(Robot), or police chief of Kalma, a Subchief named Fisi.

The records show his appearance.  He comes in at the right side of the
scene, bows respectfully to the four Chiefs, and lifts his right hand
in the traditional sign for "beg to interrupt," an odd twist of the
elevated hand which the actors had found it very difficult to copy when
they tried to put the whole story of Joan and Elaine into a single
drama.  (In fact, he had no more idea that future ages would be
studying his casual appearance than did the others.  The whole episode
was characterized by haste and precipitateness, in the light of what we
now know.) The Lord Limaono says:
"Interruption refused.  We are making a decision."

The Chief of Birds spoke up anyhow.

"My words are for your decision, my Lords and my Ladies."

"Say it, then," commanded the Lady Goroke, "but be brief."

"Shut down the viewers.  Destroy that animal.  Brainwash the
spectators.  Get amnesia yourselves, for this one hour.  This whole
scene is dangerous.  I am nothing but a supervisor of ornithopters,
keeping perfect order, but I " "We have heard enough."  said the Lord
Femtiosex.

"You manage your birds and we' ll run the worlds.  How do you dare to
think 'like a Chief ?  We have responsibilities which you can't even
guess at.  Stand back."

Fisi, in the pictures, stands back, his face sullen.  In that
particular frame of scenes, one can see some of the spectators going
away.  It was time for lunch and they had become hungry; they had no
idea that they were going to miss the greatest atrocity in history,
about which a thousand and more grand operas would be written.

Femtiosex then moved to the climax.

"More knowledge, not less, is the answer to this problem.  I have heard
about something which is not as bad as the Planet Shayol, but which can
do just as well for an exhibit on a civilized world.  You there," said
he to Fisi, the Chief of Birds, "bring oil and a spray. Immediately."

Joan looked at him with compassion and longing, but she said nothing.
She suspected what he was going to do.  As a girl, as a dog, she hated
it; as a revolutionary, she welcomed it as the consummation of her
mission.

The Lord Femtiosex lifted his right hand.  He curled the ring finger
and the little finger, putting his thumb over them.  That left the
first two fingers extended straight out.  At that time, the sign from
one Chief to another, meaning, "private channels, telepathic,
immediate."  It has since been adopted by under people as their emblem
for political unity.

The four Chiefs went into a trancelike state and shared the judgment.

Joan began to sing in a soft, protesting, doglike wail, using the
off-key plainsong which the under people had sung just before their
hour of decision when they left the Brown and Yellow Corridor.  Her
words were nothing special, repetitions of the "people, dear people, I
love you" which she had been communicating ever since she came to the
surface of Kalma.  But the way she did it has defied imitation across
the centuries.  There are thousands of lyrics and melodies which call
themselves, one way and another.  The Song of Joan, but none of them
come near to the heart-wrenching pathos of the original tapes.  The
singing, like her own personality, was unique.

The appeal was deep.  Even the real people tried to listen, shifting
their eyes from the four immobile Chiefs of the Instrumentality to the
brown-eyed singing girl.  Some of them just could not stand it.  In
true human fashion, they forgot why they were there and went
absent-mindedly home to lunch.

Suddenly Joan stopped.  Her voice ringing clearly across the crowd,
she cried out: "The end is near, dear people.  The end is near."  Eyes
all shifted to the two Lords and the two Ladies of the Instrumentality.
The Lady Arabella Underwood looked grim after the telepathic
conference.  The Lady Goroke was haggard with wordless grief.

The two Lords looked severe and resolved.

It was the Lord Femtiosex who spoke.

"We have tried you, animal.  Youroffense is great.  You have lived
illegally.  For that the penalty is death.  You have interfered with
robots in some manner which we do not understand.  For that brand-new
crime, the penalty should be more than death; and I have recommended a
punishment which was applied on a planet of the Violet Star.  You have
also said many unlawful and improper things, detracting from the
happiness and security of mankind.  For that the penalty is
reeducation, but since you have two death sentences already, this does
not matter.  Do you have anything to say before I pronounce
sentence?"

"If you light a fire today, my Lord, it will never be put out in the
hearts of men.  You can destroy me.  You can reject my love.

You cannot destroy the goodness in yourselves, no matter how much
goodness may anger you " "Shut up!"  he roared.

"I asked for a plea, not a speech.  You will die by fire, here and now.
What do you say to that?"  "I love you, dear people."

Femtiosex nodded to the men of the Chief of Birds, who had dragged a
barrel and a spray into the street in front of Joan.

"Tie her to that post," he commanded.

"Spray her.  Light her.

Are the tape-makers in focus?  We want this to be recorded and known.
If the under people try this again, they will see that mankind controls
the worlds."  He looked at Joan and his eyes seemed to go out of focus.
In an unaccustomed voice he said,

"I

am not a bad man, little dog-girl, but you are a bad animal and we must
make an example of you.  Do you understand that?"

"Femtiosex," she cried, leaving out his title,

"I am very sorry for you.  I love you too."

With these words of hers, his face became clouded and angry again.  He
brought his right hand down in a chopping gesture.

Fisi copied the gesture and the men operating the barrel and spray
began to squirt a hissing stream of oil on Joan.  Two guards had
already chained her to the lamp post, using an improvised chain of
handcuffs to make sure that she stood upright and remained in plain
sight of the crowd.

"Fire," said Femtiosex.

Elaine felt the Hunter's body, beside her, cramp sharply.  He seemed to
strain intensely.  For herself, she felt the way she had felt when she
was de frozen and taken out of the adiabatic pod in which she had made
the trip
from Earth sick to her stomach, confused in her mind, emotions rocking
back and forth inside her.

Hunter whispered to her,

"I tried to reach her mind so that she would die easy.  Somebody else
got there first.  I... don't know who it is."

Elaine stared.

The fire was being brought.  Suddenly it touched the oil and Joan
flamed up like a human torch.

X

The burning of D'joan at Fomalhaut took very little time, but the ages
will not forget it.

Femtiosex had taken the crudest step of all.

By telepathic invasion he had suppressed her human mind, so that only
the primitive canine remained.

Joan did not stand still like a martyred queen.

She struggled against the flames which licked her and climbed her.  She
howled and shrieked like a dog in pain, like an animal whose brain good
though it is cannot comprehend the senselessness of human cruelty.

The result was directly contrary to what the Lord Femtiosex had
planned.

The crowd of people stirred forward, not with curiosity but because of
compassion.  They had avoided the broad areas of the street on which
the dead under people lay as they had been killed, some pooled in their
own blood, some broken by the hands of robots, some reduced to piles of
frozen crystal.  They walked over the dead to watch the dying, but
their watching was not the witless boredom of people who never see a
spectacle; it was the movement of living things, instinctive and deep,
toward the sight of another living thing in a position of danger and
ruin.

Even the guard who had held Elaine and Hunter by gripping Hunter's arm
even he moved forward a few unthinking steps.

Elaine found herself in the first row of the spectators, the acrid,
unfamiliar smell of burning oil making her nose twitch, the howls of
the dying dog-girl tearing through her eardrums into her brain.

Joan was turning and twisting in the fire now, trying to avoid the
flames which wrapped her tighter than clothing.  The odor of something
sickening and strange reached the crowd.  Few of them had ever smelled
the stink of burning meat before.

Joan gasped.

In the ensuing seconds of silence, Elaine heard something she had never
expected to hear before the weeping of grown human beings.  Men and
women stood there sobbing and not knowing why they sobbed.

Femtiosex loomed over the crowd, obsessed by the failure of his
of Man demonstration.  He did not know that the Hunter, with a
thousand kills behind him, was committing the legal outrage of peeping
the mind of a Chief of the Instrumentality.

The Hunter whispered to Elaine,

"In a minute I'll try it.  She deserves something better than that.  .
."

Elaine did not ask what.  She too was weeping.

The whole crowd became aware that a soldier was calling.  It took them
several seconds to look away from the burning, dying Joan.

The soldier was an ordinary one.  Perhaps he was the one who had been
unable to tie Joan with bonds a few minutes ago, when the Lords decreed
that she be taken into custody.

He was shouting now, shouting frantically and wildly, shaking his fist
at the Lord Femtiosex.

"You're a liar, you're a coward, you're a fool, and I challenge you "
The Lord Femtiosex became aware of the man and of what he was yelling.
He came out of his deep concentration and said, mildly for so wild a
time: "What do you mean?"

"This is a crazy show.  There is no girl here.  No fire.  Nothing.

You are hallucinating the whole lot of us for some horrible reason of
your own, and I'm challenging you for it, you animal, you fool, you
coward."

In normal times even a Lord had to accept a challenge or adj just the
matter with clear talk.

This was no normal time.

The Lord Femtiosex said,

"All this is real.  I deceive no one."

"If it's real, Joan, I'm with you!"  shrieked the young soldier.

He jumped in front of the jet of oil before the other soldiers could
turn it off and then he leapt into the fire beside Joan.

Her hair had burned away but her features were still clear.

She had stopped the doglike whining shriek.  Femtiosex had been
interrupted.  She gave the soldier, who had begun to burn as he stood
voluntarily beside her, the gentlest and most feminine of smiles.  Then
she frowned, as though there were something which she should remember
to do, despite the pain and terror which surrounded her.

"Now!"  whispered the Hunter.  He began to hunt the Lord Femtiosex as
sharply as he had ever sought the alien, native minds of Fomalhaut

III.

The crowd could not tell what had happened to the Lord Femtiosex.  Had
he turned coward?  Had he gone mad?  (Actually, the Hunter, by using
every gram of the power of his mind, had momentarily taken Femtiosex
courting in the skies; he and Femtiosex were both male birdlike beasts,
singing wildly for the beautiful female who lay hidden in the landscape
far, far below.) Joan was free, and she knew she was free.

She sent out her message.  It knocked both Hunter and Femtiosex out
of
thinking; it flooded Elaine; it made even Fisi, the Chief of Birds,
breathe quietly.  She called so loudly that within the hour messages
were pouring in from the other cities to Kalma, asking what had
happened.  She thought a single message, not words.  But in words it
came to this: "Loved ones, you kill me.  This is my fate.  I bring
love, and love must die to live on.  Love asks nothing, does nothing.
Love thinks nothing.  Love is knowing yourself and knowing all other
people and things.  Know and rejoice.  I die for all of you now, dear
ones " She opened her eyes for a last time, opened her mouth, sucked in
the raw flame, and slumped forward.  The soldier, who had kept his
nerve while his clothing and body burned, ran out of the fire, afire
himself, toward his squad.  A shot stopped him and he pitched flat
forward.

The weeping of the people was audible throughout the streets.
Underpeople, tame and licensed ones, stood shamelessly among them and
wept too.

The Lord Femtiosex turned wearily back to his colleagues.  The face of
Lady Goroke was a sculptured, frozen caricature of sorrow.  He turned
to the Lady Arabella Underwood.

"I seem to have done something wrong, my Lady.  Take over, please."

The Lady Arabella stood up.  She called to Fisi,

"Put out that fire."  She looked out over the crowd.  Her hard, honest
Norstrilian features were unreadable.  Elaine, watching her, shivered
at the thought of a whole planet full of people as tough, obstinate,
and clever as these.

"It's over," said the Lady Arabella.

"People, go away.

Robots, clean up.  Underpeople, to your jobs."

She looked at Elaine and the Hunter.

"I know who you are and I suspect what you have been doing.  Soldiers,
take them away."

The body of Joan was fire-blackened.  The face did not look
particularly human anymore; the last burst of fire had caught her in
the nose and eyes.  Her young, girlish breasts showed with
heart-wrenching immodesty that she had been young and female once.  Now
she was dead, just dead.

The soldiers would have shoveled her into a box if she had been an
under person Instead, they paid her the honors of war that they would
have given to one of their own comrades or to an important civilian in
time of disaster.  They unslung a litter, put the little blackened body
on it, and covered the body with their own flag.  No one had told them
to do so.

As their own soldier led them up the road toward the Waterrock, where
the houses and offices of the military were located, Elaine saw that he
too had been crying.

She started to ask him what he thought of it, but Hunter stopped her
with a shake of the head.  He later told her that the soldier might be
punished for talking with them.

When they got to the office, they found the Lady Goroke already
there.

The Lady Goroke already there ... It became a nightmare in the weeks
that followed.  She had gotten over her grief and was conducting an
inquiry into the case of Elaine and D'joan.

The Lady Goroke already there .  . . She was waiting when they slept.
Her image, or perhaps herself, sat in on all the endless
interrogations.  She was particularly interested in the chance meeting
of the dead Lady Pane Ashash, the misplaced witch Elaine, and the
non-adjusted man, the Hunter.

The Lady Goroke already there ... She asked them everything, but she
told them nothing.

Except for once.

Once she burst out, violently personal after endless hours of formal,
official work,

"Your minds will be cleansed when we get through, so it wouldn't matter
how much else you know.  Do you know that this has hurt me me!  all the
way to the depths of everything I believe in?"

They shook their heads.

"I'm going to have a child, and I'm going back to Manhome to have it.
And I'm going to do the genetic coding myself.  I'm going to call him
Jestocost.  That's one of the Ancient Tongues, the Paroskii one, for
'cruelty," to remind him where he comes from, and why.  And he, or his
son, or his son will bring justice back into the world and solve the
puzzle of the under people What do you think of that?  On second
thought, don't think.  It's none of your business, and I am going to do
it anyway."

They stared at her sympathetically, but they were too wound up in the
problems of their own survival to extend her much sympathy or advice.
The body of Joan had been pulverized and blown into the air, because
the Lady Goroke was afraid that the under people would make a good
place out of it; she felt that way herself, and she knew that if she
herself were tempted, the under people would be even more tempted.

Elaine never knew what happened to the bodies of all the other people
who had turned themselves, under Joan's leadership, from animals into
mankind, and who had followed the wild, foolish march out of the Tunnel
of Englok into the Upper City of Kalma.  Was it really wild?  Was it
really foolish?  If they had stayed where they were, they might have
had a few days or months or years of life, but sooner or later the
robots would have found them and they would have been exterminated like
the vermin which they were.  Perhaps the death they had chosen was
better.  Joan did say,

"It's the mission of life always to look for something better than
itself, and then to try to trade life itself for meaning."

At last, the Lady Goroke called them in and said,

"Goodbye, you two.  It's foolish, saying goodbye, when an hour from now
you will remember neither me nor Joan.  You've finished your work here.
I've set up a lovely
job for you.  You won't have to live in a city.  You will be weather
watchers roaming the hills and watching for all the little changes
which the machines can't interpret fast enough.  You will have whole
lifetimes of marching and picnicking and camping together.

I've told the technicians to be very careful, because you two are very
much in love with each other.  When they re-route your synapses, I want
that love to be there with you."

They each knelt and kissed her hand.  They never wittingly saw her
again.  In later years they sometimes saw a fashionable ornithopter
soaring gently over their camp, with an elegant woman peering out of
the side of it; they had no memories to know that it was the Lady
Goroke, recovered from madness, watching over them.

Their new life was their final life.

Of Joan and the Brown and Yellow Corridor, nothing remained.

They were both very sympathetic toward animals, but they might have
been this way even if they had never shared in the wild political
gamble of the dear dead Lady Pane Ashash.

One time a strange thing happened.  An under man from an elephant was
working in a small valley, creating an exquisite rock garden for some
important official of the Instrumentality who might later glimpse the
garden once or twice a year.  Elaine was busy watching the weather, and
the Hunter had forgotten that he had ever hunted, so that neither of
them tried to peep the under man mind.  He was a huge fellow, right at
the maximum permissible size five times the gross stature of a man.  He
had smiled at them friendlily in the past.

One evening he brought them fruit.  Such fruit!  Rare off-world items
which a year of requests would not have obtained for ordinary people
like them.  He smiled his big, shy elephant smile, put the fruit down,
and prepared to lumber off.

"Wait a minute," cried Elaine.

"Why are you giving us this?

Why us?"

"For the sake of Joan," said the elephant-man.

"Who's Joan?"  said the Hunter.

The elephant-man looked sympathetically at them.

"That's all right.  You don't remember her, but I do."

"But what did Joan do?"  said Elaine.

"She loved you.  She loved us all," said the elephant-man.  He turned
quickly, so as to say no more.  With incredible deftness for so heavy a
person, he climbed speedily into the fierce lovely rocks above them and
was gone.

"I wish we had known her," said Elaine.

"She sounds very nice."

In that year there was born the man who was to be the first Lord
Jestocost.

 Under Old Earth I need a temporary dog For a temporary job On a
temporary place Like Earth!

Song from The Merchant of Menace There were the Douglas-Ouyang planets,
which circled their sun in a single cluster, riding around and around
the same orbit unlike any other planets known.  There were the
gentlemen suicides back on Earth, who gambled their lives even more
horribly, gambled sometimes for things worse than their lives against
different kinds of geophysics which real men had never experienced.
There were girls who fell in love with such men, however stark and
dreadful their personal fates might be.

There was the Instrumentality, with its unceasing labor to keep man
man.  And there were the citizens who walked in the boulevards before
the Rediscovery of Man.  The citizens were happy.  They had to be
happy.  If they were found sad, they were calmed and drugged and
changed until they were happy again.

This story concerns three of them: the gambler who took the name
Sun-boy, who dared to go down to the Gebiet, who confronted himself
before he died; the girl Santuna, who was fulfilled in a thousand ways
before she died; and the Lord Sto Odin, a most ancient of days, who
knew it all and never dreamed of preventing any of it.

Music runs through this story.  The soft sweet music of the Earth
Government and the Instrumentality, bland as honey and sickening in the
end.  The wild illegal pulsations of the Gebiet, where most men were
forbidden to enter.  Worst of all, the crazy fugues and improper
melodies of the
Bezirk, closed to men for fifty-seven centuries opened by accident,
found, trespassed in!  And with it our story begins.

II

The Lady Ru had said, a few centuries before: "Scraps of knowledge have
been found.  In the ultimate beginning of man, even before there were
aircraft, the wise man Laodz declared, "Water does nothing but it
penetrates everything.  Inaction finds the road."  Later an ancient
Lord said this: There is a music which underlies all things.  We dance
to the tunes all our lives, though our living ears never hear the music
which guides us and moves us.  Happiness can kill people as softly as
shadows seen in dreams."  We must be people first and happy later, lest
we live and die in vain."

The Lord Sto Odin was more direct.  He declared the truth to a few
private friends: "Our population is dropping on most worlds, including
the Earth.  People have children, but they don't want them very much. I
myself have been a three-father to twelve children, a two-father to
four, and a one-father, I suppose, to many others.  I have had zeal for
work and I have mistaken it for zeal in living.  They are not the
same.

"Most people want happiness.  Good: we have given them happiness.

"Dreary useless centuries of happiness, in which all the unhappy were
corrected or adjusted or killed.  Unbearable desolate happiness without
the sting of grief, the wine of rage, the hot fumes of fear.  How many
of us have ever tasted the acid, icy taste of old resentment?  That's
what people really lived for in the Ancient Days, when they pretended
to be happy and were actually alive with grief, rage, fury, hate,
malice, and hope!  Those people bred like mad.  They populated the
stars while they dreamed of killing each other, secretly or openly.
Their plays concerned murder or betrayal or illegal love.  Now we have
no murder.  We cannot imagine any kind of love which is illegal.  Can
you imagine the Murkins with their highway net?  Who can fly anywhere
today without seeing that net of enormous highways?  Those roads are
ruined, but they're still here.  You can see the abominable things
quite clearly from the moon.  Don't think about the roads.  Think of
the millions of vehicles that ran on those roads, the people filled
with greed and rage and hate, rushing past each other with their
engines on fire.  They say that fifty thousand a year were killed on
the roads alone.  We would call that a war.  What people they must have
been, to rush day and night and to build things which would help other
people to rush even more!  They were different from us.

They must have been wild, dirty, free.  Lusting for life, perhaps, in a
way that we do not.  We can easily go a thousand times faster than they
ever went, but who, nowadays, bothers to
Under Old Earth go?  Why go?  It's the same there as here, except for
a few fighters or technicians."  He smiled at his friends and added, ".
. . and Lords of the Instrumentality, like ourselves.  We go for the
reasons of the Instrumentality.  Not ordinary people reasons.  Ordinary
people don't have much reason to do anything.  They work at the jobs
which we think up for them, to keep them happy while the robots and the
under people do the real work.  They walk.  They make love.  But they
are never unhappy.

"They can't be!"

The Lady Mmona disagreed.

"Life can't be as bad as you say.

We don't just think they are happy.  We know they are happy.  We look
right into their brains with telepathy.  We monitor their emotional
patterns with robots and scanners.  It's not as though we didn't have
samples.  People are always turning unhappy.  We're correcting them all
the time.  And now and then there are bad accidents, which even we
cannot correct.  When people are very unhappy, they scream and weep.
Sometimes they even stop talking and just die, despite everything we
can do for them.  You can't say that isn't real!"

"But I do," said the Lord Sto Odin.

"You do what?"  cried Mmona.

"I do say this happiness is not real," he insisted.

"How can you," she shouted at him, "in the face of the evidence?  Our
evidence, which we of the Instrumentality decided on a long time ago.
We collect it ourselves.  Can we, the Instrumentality, be wrong?"

"Yes," said the Lord Sto Odin.

This time it was the entire circle who went silent.

Sto Odin pleaded with them.

"Look at my evidence.  People don't care whether they are one-fathers
or one-mothers or not.

They don't know which children are theirs, anyhow.  Nobody dares to
commit suicide.  We keep them too happy.  But do we spend any time
keeping the talking animals, the under people as happy as men?  And do
under people commit suicide?"

"Certainly," said Mmona.

"They are preconditioned to commit suicide if they are hurt too badly
for easy repair or if they fail in their appointed work."

"I don't mean that.  Do they ever commit suicide for their reasons, not
ours?"

"No," said the Lord Nuru-or, a wise young Lord of the
Instrumentality.

"They are too desperately busy doing their jobs and staying alive."

"How long does an under person live?"  said Sto Odin, with deceptive
mildness.

"Who knows?"  said Nuru-or.

"Half a year, a hundred years, maybe several hundred years."

"What happens if he does not work?"  said the Lord Sto Odin, with a
friendly-crafty smile.

"We kill him," said Mmona, "or our robot-police do."

"And does the animal know it?"

"Know he will be killed if he does not work?"  said Mmona.

"Of course.  We tell all of them the same thing.  Work or die.

What's that got to do with people?"

The Lord Nuru-or had fallen silent and a wise, sad smile had begun to
show on his face.  He had begun to suspect the shrewd, dreadful
conclusion toward which the Lord Sto Odin was driving.

But Mmona did not see it and she pressed the point.

"My Lord," said she, "you are insisting that people are happy.  You
admit they do not like to be unhappy.  You seem to want to bring up a
problem which has no solution.  Why complain of happiness?  Isn't it
the best which the Instrumentality can do for mankind?  That's our
mission.  Are you saying that we are failing in it?"

"Yes.  We are failing."  The Lord Sto Odin looked blindly at the room
as though alone.

He was the oldest and wisest, so they waited for him to talk.

He breathed lightly and smiled at them again.

"You know when I am going to die?"

"Of course," said Mmona, thinking for half a second.

"Seventy-seven days from now.  But you posted the time yourself.  And
it is not our custom, my Lord, as you well know, to bring intimate
things into meetings of the Instrumentality."

"Sorry," said Sto Odin, "but I'm not violating a law.  I'm making a
point.  We are sworn to uphold the dignity of man.

Yet we are killing mankind with a bland hopeless happiness which has
prohibited news, which has suppressed religion, which has made all
history an official secret.  I say that the evidence is that we are
failing and that mankind, whom we've sworn to cherish, is failing too.
Failing in vitality, strength, numbers, energy.  I have a little while
to live.  I am going to try to find out."

The Lord Nuru-or asked with sorrowful wisdom, as though he guessed the
answer: "And where will you go to find out?"

"I shall go," said the Lord Sto Odin, "down into the Gebiet."

"The Gebiet oh, no!"  cried several.  And one voice added, "You're
immune."

"I shall waive immunity and I shall go," said the Lord Sto Odin.

"Who can do anything to a man who is already almost a thousand years
old and who has chosen only seventy-seven more days to live?"

"But you can't!"  said Mmona.

"Some criminal might capture you and duplicate you, and then we would
all of us be in peril."

"When did you last hear of a criminal among mankind?"  said Sto
Odin.

"There are plenty of them, here and there in the off worlds

"But on Old Earth itself?"  asked Sto Odin.

She stammered.

"I don't know.  There must have been a criminal once."  She looked
around the room.

"Don't any of the rest of you know?"

There was silence.

The Lord Sto Odin stared at them all.  In his eyes was the brightness
and fierceness which had made whole generations of lords plead with him
to live just a few more years, so that he could help them with their
work.  He had agreed, but within the last quarter-year he had
overridden them all and had picked his day of death.  He had lost none
of his powers in doing this.  They shrank from his stare while they
waited with respect for his decision.

The Lord Sto Odin looked at the Lord Nuru-or and said,

"I

think you have guessed what I am going to do in the Gebiet and why I
have to go there."

"The Gebiet is a preserve where no rules apply and no punishments are
inflicted.  Ordinary people can do what they want down there, not what
we think they should want.  From all I hear, it is pretty nasty and
pointless, the things that they find out.  But you, perhaps, may sense
the inwardness of these things.  You may find a cure for the weary
happiness of mankind."

"That is right," said Sto Odin.

"And that is why I am going, after I make the appropriate official
preparations."

III

Go he did.  He used one of the most peculiar conveyances ever seen on
Earth, since his own legs were too weak to carry him far.

With only two-ninths of a year to live, he did not want to waste time
getting his legs re grafted

He rode in an open sedan-chair carried by two Roman legionaries.

The legionaries were actually robots, without a trace of blood or
living tissue in them.  They were the most compact and difficult kind
to create, since their brains had to be located in their chests several
million sheets of incredibly fine laminations, imprinted with the whole
life experience of an important, useful, and long-dead person.  They
were clothed as legionaries, down to cuirasses, swords, kilts, greaves,
sandals, and shields, merely because it was the whim of the Lord Sto
Odin to go behind the rim of history for his companions.  Their bodies,
all metal, were very strong.  They could batter walls, jump chasms,
crush any man or under person with their
mere fingers, or throw their swords with the accuracy of guided
projectiles.

The forward legionary, Flavius, had been head of FourteenB in the
Instrumentality an espionage division so secret that even among Lords,
few knew exactly of its location or its function.  He was (or had been,
till he was imprinted on a robot-mind as he lay dying) the director of
historical research for the whole human race.  Now he was a dull,
pleasant machine carrying two poles until his master chose to bring his
powerful mind into bright, furious alert by speaking the simple Latin
phrase, understood by no other person living, Summa nulla est.

The rear legionary, Livius, had been a psychiatrist who turned into a
general.  He had won many battles until he chose to die, somewhat
before his time, because he perceived that battle itself was a struggle
for the defeat of himself.

Together, and added to the immense brainpower of the Lord Sto Odin
himself, they represented an unsurpassable team.

"The Gebiet," commanded the Lord Sto Odin.

"The Gebiet," said both of them heavily, picking up the chair with its
supporting poles.

"And then the Bezirk," he added.

"The Bezirk," they chimed in toneless voices.

Sto Odin felt his chair tilt back as Livius put his two ends of the
poles carefully on the ground, came up beside Sto Odin, and saluted
with open palm.

"May I awaken?"  said Livius in an even, mechanical voice.

"Summa nulla est, " said the Lord Sto Odin.

Livius's face sprang into full animation.

"You must not go there, my Lord!  You would have to waive immunity and
meet all dangers.  There is nothing there yet.  Not yet.  Some day they
will come pouring out of that underground Hades and give you men a real
fight.  Now, no.  They are just miserable beings, cooking away in their
weird unhappiness, making love in manners which you never thought of "
"Never mind what you think I've thought.  What's your objection in real
terms?"

"It's pointless, my Lord!  You have only bits of a year to live.

Do something noble and great for man before you die.  They may turn us
off.  We would like to share your work before you go away."

"Is that all?"  said Sto Odin.

"My Lord," said Flavius, "you have awakened me too.  I say, go forward.
History is being re spun down there.  Things are loose which you great
ones of the Instrumentality have never even suspected.  Go now and
look, before you die.  You may do nothing, but I disagree with my
companion.  It is as dangerous as Space3 might be, if we ever were to
find it, but it is interesting.  And in this world where all things
have been done, where all thoughts have been thought, it is hard to
find things which still prompt the human mind with raw curiosity.  I'm
dead, as you perfectly well know, but even I, inside this machine
brain, feel the tug of adventure, the pull of danger, the magnetism of
the unknown. For one thing, they are committing crimes down there.  And
you Lords are overlooking them."

"We chose to overlook them.  We are not stupid.  We wanted to see what
might happen," said the Lord Sto Odin, "and we have to give those
people time before we find out just how far they might go if they are
cut off from controls."

"They are having babies!"  said Flavius excitedly.

"I know that."

"They have hooked in two illegal instant-message machines,"

shouted Flavius.

Sto Odin was calm.

"So that's why the Earth's credit structure has appeared to be leaking
in its balance of trade."

"They have a piece of the congo helium shouted Flavius.

"The congo helium shouted the Lord Sto Odin.

"Impossible!

It's unstable.  They could kill themselves.  They could hurt Earth!

What are they doing with it?"

"Making music," said Flavius, more quietly.

"Making what?"

"Music.  Songs.  Nice noise to dance to."

The Lord Sto Odin sputtered.

"Take me there right now.  This is ridiculous.  Having a piece of the
congo helium down there is as bad as wiping out inhabited planets to
play checkers."

"My Lord," said Livius.

"Yes?"  said Sto Odin.

"I withdraw my objections," said Livius.

Sto Odin said, very dryly,

"Thank you."

"They have something else down there.  When I did not want you to go, I
did not mention it.  It might have aroused your curiosity.  They have a
god."

The Lord Sto Odin said,

"If this is going to be a historical lecture, save it for another time.
Go back to sleep and carry me down."

Livius did not move.

"I mean what I said."

"A god?  What do you call a god?"

"A person or an idea capable of starting wholly new cultural patterns
in motion."

The Lord Sto Odin leaned forward.

"You know this?"

"We both do," said Flavius and Livius.

"We saw him," said Livius.

"You told us, a tenth-year ago, to walk around freely for thirty hours,
so we put on ordinary robot bodies and happened to get into the Gebiet.
When we sensed the congo helium operating, we had to go on down to find
out what it was doing.  Usually, it is employed to keep the stars in
their place " "Don't tell me that.  I know it.  Was it a man?"

"A man," said Flavius, "who is re-living the life of Akhnaton."

"Who's that?"  said the Lord Sto Odin, who knew history, but wanted to
see how much his robots knew.

"A king, tall, long-faced, thick-lipped, who ruled the human world of
Egypt long, long before atomic power.  Akhnaton invented the best of
the early gods.  This man is re-enacting Akhnaton's life step by step.
He has already made a religion out of the sun.  He mocks at happiness.
People listen to him.  They joke about the Instrumentality."

Livius added,

"We saw the girl who loves him.  She herself was young, but beautiful.
And I think she has powers which will make the Instrumentality promote
her or destroy her some day in the future."

"They both made music," said Flavius, "with that piece of the congo
helium And this man or god this new kind of Akhnaton, whatever you may
want to call him, my Lord he was dancing a strange kind of dance.  It
was like a corpse being tied with rope and dancing like a marionette. 
The effect on the people around him was as good as the best hypnotism
you ever saw.  I'm a robot now, but it bothered even me."

"Did the dance have a name?"  said Sto Odin.

"I don't know the name," said Flavius, "but I memorized the song, since
I have total recall.  Do you wish to hear it?"

"Certainly," said the Lord Sto Odin.

Flavius stood on one leg, threw his arms out at weird, improbable
angles, and began to sing in a high, insulting tenor voice which was
both fascinating and repugnant: Jump, dear people, and I'll howl for
you.  Jump and howl and I'll weep for you.  I weep because I'm a
weeping man.  I'm a weeping man because I weep.  I weep because the day
is done, Sun is gone, Home is lost, Time killed dad.

I killed time.

World is round.

Day is run,
Clouds are shot, Stars are out, Mountain's fire, Rain is hot, Hot is
blue.

I am done.

So are you.  Jump, dear people, for the howling man.  Leap, dear
people, for the weeping man.

I'm a weeping man because I weep for you!

"Enough," said the Lord Sto Odin.

Flavius saluted.  His face went back to amiable stolidity.  Just before
he took the front ends of the shaft he glanced back and brought forth
one last comment: "The verse is skeltonic."

"Tell me nothing more of your history.  Take me there."

The robots obeyed.  Soon the chair was jogging comfortably down the
ramps of the ancient left-over city which sprawled beneath Earthport,
that miraculous tower which seemed to touch the stratocumulus clouds in
the blue, clear nothingness above mankind.  Sto Odin went to sleep in
his strange vehicle and did not notice that the human passers-by often
stared at him.

The Lord Sto Odin woke fitfully in strange places as the legionaries
carried him further and further into the depths below the city, where
sweet pressures and warm, sick smells made the air itself feel dirty to
his nose.

"Stop!"  whispered the Lord Sto Odin, and the robots stopped.

"Who am I?"  he said to them.

"You have announced your will to die, my Lord," said Flavius,
"seventy-seven days from now, but so far your name is still the Lord
Sto Odin,"

"I am alive?"  the Lord asked.

"Yes," said both the robots.

"You are dead?"

"We are not dead.  We are machines, printed with the minds of men who
once lived.  Do you wish to turn back, my Lord?"

"No.  No.  Now I remember.  You are the robots.  Livius, the
psychiatrist and general Flavius, the secret historian.  You have the
minds of men, and are not men?"

"That is right, my Lord," said Flavius.

"Then how can I be alive I, Sto Odin?"

"You should feel it yourself, sir," said Livius, "though the mind of
the old is sometimes very strange."

"How can I be alive?"  asked Sto Odin, staring around the city.

"How can I be alive when the people who knew me are dead?

They have whipped through the corridors like wraiths of smoke, like
traces of cloud; they were here, and they loved me, and they knew me,
and now they are dead.  Take my wife, Eileen.  She was a pretty thing,
a brown-eyed child who came out of her learning chamber all perfect and
all young.  Time touched her and she danced to the cadence of time. Her
body grew full, grew old.  We repaired it.  But at last she cramped in
death and she went to that place to which I am going.  If you are dead,
you ought to be able to tell me what death is like, where the bodies
and minds and voices and music of men and women whip past these
enormous corridors, these hardy pavements, and are then gone.  How can
passing ghosts like me and my kind, each with just a few dozen or a few
hundred years to go before the great blind winds of time whip us away
how can phantoms like me have built this solid city, these wonderful
engines, these brilliant lights which never go dim?  How did we do it,
when we pass so swiftly, each of us, all of us?  Do you know?"

The robots did not answer.  Pity had not been programmed into their
systems.  The Lord Sto Odin harangued them nonetheless: "You are taking
me to a wild place, a free place, an evil place, perhaps.  They are
dying there too, as all men die, as I shall die, so soon, so brightly
and simply.  I should have died a long time ago.  I was the people who
knew me, I was the brothers and comrades who trusted me, I was the
women who comforted me, I was the children whom I loved so bitterly and
so sweetly many ages ago.  Now they are gone.  Time touched them, and
they were not.  I can see everyone that I ever knew racing through
these corridors, see them young as toddlers, see them proud and wise
and full with business and maturity, see them old and contorted as time
reached out for them and they passed hastily away.  Why did they do it?
How can I live on?  When I am dead, will I know that I once lived?  I
know that some of my friends have cheated and lie in the icy sleep,
hoping for something which they do not know.  I've had life, and I know
it.  What is life?  A bit of play, a bit of learning, some words
well-chosen, some love, a trace of pain, more work, memories, and then
dirt rushing up to meet sunlight.

That's all we've made of it we, who have conquered the stars!

Where are my friends?  Where is my me that I once was so sure of, when
the people who knew me were time-swept like storm-driven rags toward
darkness and oblivion?  You tell me.  You ought to know!  You are
machines and you were given the minds of men.

You ought to know what we amount to, from the outside in."

"We were built," said Livius, "by men and we have whatever men put into
us, nothing more.  How can we answer talk like yours?  It is rejected
by our minds, good though our minds may be.

We have no grief, no fear, no
fury.  We know the names of these feelings but not the feelings
themselves.  We hear your words but we do not know what you are talking
about.  Are you trying to tell us what life feels like?  If so, we
already know.  Not much.  Nothing special.  Birds have life too, and so
do fishes.  It is you people who can talk and who can knot life into
spasms and puzzles.  You muss things up.  Screaming never made the
truth truthful, at least, not to us."

"Take me down," said Sto Odin.

"Take me down to the Gebiet, where no well-mannered man has gone in
many years.  I am going to judge that place before I die."

They lifted the sedan-chair and resumed their gentle dog-trot down the
immense ramps down toward the warm steaming secrets of the Earth
itself.  The human pedestrians became more scarce, but under men most
often of gorilla or ape origin passed them, toiling their way upward
while dragging shrouded treasures which they had filched from the
uncatalogued storehouses of man's most ancient past.  At other times
there was a wild whirl of metal wheels on stone roadway; the under men
having offloaded their treasures at some intermediate point high above,
sat on their wagons and rolled back downhill, like grotesque
enlargements of the ancient human children who were once reported to
have played with wagons in this way.

A command, scarcely a whisper, stopped the two legionaries again.
Flavius turned.  Sto Odin was indeed calling both of them.

They stepped out of the shafts and came around to him, one on each
side.

"I may be dying right now," he whispered, "and that would be most
inconvenient at this time.  Get out my manikin meee!"

"My Lord," said Flavius, "it is strictly forbidden for us robots to
touch any human manikin, and if we do touch one, we are commanded to
destroy ourselves immediately thereafter!  Do you wish us to try,
nevertheless?  If so, which one of us?  You have the command, my
Lord."

IV

He waited so long that even the robots began to wonder if he died amid
the thick wet air and the nearby stench of steam and oil.

The Lord Sto Odin finally roused himself and said: "I need no help.
Just put the bag with my manikin meee on my lap."

"This one?"  asked Flavius, lifting a small brown suitcase and handling
it with a very gingerly touch indeed.

The Lord Sto Odin gave a barely perceptible nod and whispered

"Open it carefully for me.  But do not touch the manikin, if those are
your orders."

of Man Flavius twisted at the catch of the bag.  It was hard to
manage.

Robots did not feel fear, but they were intellectually attuned to the
avoidance of danger; Flavius found his mind racing with wild choices as
he tried to get the bag open.  Sto Odin tried to help him, but the
ancient hand, palsied and weak, could not even reach the top of the
case.  Flavius labored on, thinking that the Gebiet and Bezirk had
their dangers, but that this meddling with manikins was the riskiest
thing which he had ever encountered while in robot form, though in his
human life he had handled many of them, including his own.  They were
"manikin, electroencephalographic and endocrine" in model form, and
they showed in miniaturized replica the entire diagnostic position of
the patient for whom they were fashioned.

Sto Odin whispered to them.

"There's no helping it.  Turn me up.  If I die, take my body back and
tell the people that I misjudged my time."

Just as he spoke, the case sprang open.  Inside it there lay a little
naked human man, a direct copy of Sto Odin himself.

"We have it, my Lord," cried Livius, from the other side.

"Let me guide your hand to it, so that you can see what to do."

Though it was forbidden for robots to touch manikins meee, it was legal
for them to touch a human person with the person's consent.  Livius's
strong cupro-plastic fingers, with a reserve of many tons of gripping
power in their human-like design, pulled the hands of the Lord Sto Odin
forward until they rested on the manikin meee.  Flavius, quick, smooth,
agile, held the Lord's head upright on his weary old neck, so that the
ancient Lord could see what the hands were doing.

"Is any part dead?"  said the old Lord to the manikin, his voice
clearer for the moment.

The manikin shimmered and two spots of solid black showed along the
outside upper right thigh and the right buttock.

"Organic reserve?"  said the Lord to his own manikin meee, and again
the machine responded to his command.  The whole miniature body
shimmered to a violent purple and then subsided to an even pink.

"I still have some all-around strength left in this body, prosthetics
and all," said Sto Odin to the two robots.

"Set me up, I tell you!  Set me up."

"Are you sure, my Lord," said Livius, "that we should do a thing like
that here where the three of us are alone in a deep tunnel?  In less
than half an hour we could take you to a real hospital, where actual
doctors could examine you."

"I said," repeated the Lord Sto Odin, "set me up.  I'll watch the
manikin while you do it."

"Your control is in the usual place, my Lord?"  asked Livius.

"How much of a turn?"  asked Flavius.

"Nape of my neck, of course.  The skin over it is artificial and
self-sealing.  One twelfth of a turn will be enough.  Do you have a
knife with you?"

Flavius nodded.  He took a small sharp knife from his belt, probed
gently around the old Lord's neck, and then brought the knife down with
a quick, sure turn.

"That did it!"  said Sto Odin, in a voice so hearty that both of them
stepped back a little.  Flavius put the knife back in his belt.

Sto Odin, who had almost been comatose a moment before, now held the
manikin meee in his unaided hands.

"See, gentlemen!"

he cried.

"You may be robots, but you can still see the truth and report it."

They both looked at the manikin meee, which Sto Odin now held in front
of himself, his thumb and fingertip in the armpits of the medical
doll.

"Watch what it reads," he said to them with a clear, ringing voice.

"Prosthetics!"  he shouted at the manikin.

The tiny body changed from its pink color to a mixture.  Both legs
turned the color of a deep bruised blue.  The legs, the left arm, one
eye, one ear, and the skullcap stayed blue, showing the prostheses in
place.

"Felt pain!"  shouted Sto Odin at the manikin.  The little doll
returned to its light pink color.  All the details were there, even to
genitals, toenails, and eyelashes.  There was no trace of the black
color of pain in any part of the little body.

"Potential pain!"  shouted Sto Odin.  The doll shimmered.  Most of it
settled to the color of dark walnut wood, with some areas of intense
brown showing more clearly then the rest.

"Potential breakdown one day!"  shouted Sto Odin.  The little body went
back to its normal color of pink.  Small lightnings showed at the base
of the brain, but nowhere else.

"I'm all right," said Sto Odin.

"I can continue as I have done for the last several hundred years.
Leave me set up on this high life-output.  I can stand it for a few
hours, and if I cannot, there's little lost."  He put the manikin back
in its bag, hung the bag on the doorhandle of the sedan-chair, and
commanded the legionaries,

"Proceed!"

The legionaries stared at him as if they could not see him.

He followed the lines of glance and saw that they were gazing rigidly
at his manikin meee.  It had turned black.

"Are you dead?"  asked Livius, speaking as hoarsely as a robot could.

"Not dead at all!"  cried Sto Odin.

"I have been death in fractions of a moment, but for the time I am
still life.  That was just the pain-sum of my living body which showed
on the manikin meee.  The fire of life still burns within me.  Watch as
I put the manikin away .  . ."  The doll flared into a swirl of pastel
orange as the Lord Sto Odin pulled the cover down.

of Man They looked away as though they had seen an evil or an
explosion.

"Down, men, down," he cried, calling them wrong names as they stepped
back between their carrying shafts to take him deeper under the vitals
of the earth.

V

He dreamed brown dreams while they trotted down endless ramps.  He woke
a little to see the yellow walls passing.  He looked at his dry old
hand and it seemed to him that in this atmosphere, he had himself
become more reptilian than human.

"I am caught by the dry, drab enturtlement of old, old age," he
murmured, but the voice was weak and the robots did not hear him.  They
were running downward on a long meaningless concrete ramp which had
become filmed by a leak of ancient oil, and they were taking care that
they did not stumble and drop their precious master.

At a deep, hidden point the downward ramp divided, the left into a
broad arena of steps which could have seated thousands of spectators
for some never-to-occur event, and the right into a narrow ramp which
bore upward and then curved, yellow lights and all.

"Stop!"  called Sto Odin.

"Do you see her?  Do you hear it?"

"Hear what?"  said Flavius.

"The beat and the cadence of the congo helium rising out of the Gebiet.
The whirl and the skirl of impossible music coming at us through miles
of solid rock?  That girl whom I can already see, waiting at a door
which should never have been opened?  The sound of the star-borne
music, not designed for the proper human ear?"  He shouted,

"Can't you hear it?  That cadence.  The unlawful metal of congo helium
so terrible far underground?  Dah, dah.  Dah, dah.  Dah.  Music which
nobody has ever understood before?"

Said Flavius,

"I hear nothing, saving the pulse of air in this corridor, and your own
heartbeat, my Lord.  And something else, a little like machinery, very
far away."

"There, that!"  cried Sto Odin, "which you call 'a little like
machinery," does it come in a beat of five separate sounds, each one
distinct?"

"No.  No, sir.  Not five."

"And you, Livius, when you were a man, you were very telepathic?  Is
there any of that left in the robot which is you?"

"No, my Lord, nothing.  I have good senses, and I am also cut into the
subsurface radio of the Instrumentality.  Nothing unusual."

"No five-beat?  Each note separate, short of prolonged, given meaning
and shape by the terrible music of the congo helium imprisoned with us
inside this much-too-solid rock?  You hear nothing?"

The two robots, shaped like Roman legionaries, shook their heads.

"But I can see her, through this stone.  She has breasts like ripe
pears and dark brown eyes that are like the stones of fresh cut
peaches. And I can hear what they are singing, their weird silly words
of a penta paul made into something majestic by the awful music of the
congo helium Listen to the words.  When I repeat them, they sound just
silly, because the dread-inspiring music does not come with them.  Her
name is Santuna and she stares at him.  No wonder she stares.  He is
much more tall than most men, yet he makes this foolish song into
something frightening and strange.

Slim Jim.

Dim him.

Grim.

And his name is Yebayee, but now he is Sun-boy.  He has the long face
and the thick lips of the first man to talk about one god and one only:
Akhnaton."

"Akhnaton the pharaoh," said Flavius.

"That name was known in my office when I was a man.  It was a secret.
One of the first and greatest of the more-than-ancient kings.  You see
him, my Lord?"

"Through this rock I see him.  Through this rock I hear the delirium
engendered by the congo helium I go to him."  The Lord Sto Odin stepped
out of the sedan chair and beat softly and weakly against the solid
stone wall of the corridor.  The yellow lamps gleamed.  The legionaries
were helpless.  Here was something which their sharp swords could not
pierce.  Their once human personalities, engraved on their
micro-miniaturized brains, could not make sense out of the
all-too-human situation of an old, old man dreaming wild dreams in a
remote tunnel.

Sto Odin leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, and said to them
with a sibilant rasp: "These are no whispers which can be missed. Can't
you hear the five-beat of the congo helium making its crazy music
again?

Listen to the words of this one.  It's another penta paul Silly, bony
words given flesh and blood and entrails by the music which carries
them.  Here, listen.

T

r y ' .

V

i e .

C

r y .

D

i e .

B

y e .

This one you did not hear either?"

"May I use my radio to ask the surface of Earth for advice?"

said one of the robots.

"Advice!  Advice!  What advice do we need?  This is the Gebiet and one
more hour of running and you will be in the heart of the Bezirk."

He climbed back into the sedan chair and commanded, "Run, men, run!  It
can't be more than three or four kilometers somewhere in this warren of
stone.  I will guide you.  If I stop guiding you, you may take my body
back to the surface, so that I can be given a wonderful funeral and be
shot with a rocketcoffin into space with an orbit of no return.  You
have nothing to worry about.  You are machines, nothing more, are you
not?  Are you not?"  His voice shrilled at the end.

Said Flavius,

"Nothing more."

Said Livius,

"Nothing more.  And yet " "And yet what?"  demanded the Lord Sto
Odin.

"And yet," said Livius,

"I know I am a machine, and I know that I have known feelings only when
I was once a living man.  I sometimes wonder if you people might go too
far.  Too far, with us robots.  Too far, perhaps, with the under people
too.  Things were once simple, when everything that talked was a human
being and everything which did not talk was not.  You may be coming to
an ending of the ways."

"If you had said that on the surface," said the Lord Sto Odin grimly,
"your head might have been burned off by its automatic magnesium flare.
You know that there you are monitored against having illegal
thoughts."

"Too well do I know it," said Livius, "and I know that I must have died
once as a man, if I exist here in robot form.

Dying didn't seem to hurt me then and it probably won't hurt next time.
But nothing really matters much when we get down this far into the
Earth.  When we get this far down, everything changes.  I never really
understood that the inside of the world was this big and this sick."

"It's not how far down we are," said the Lord crossly, "it's where we
are.  This is the Gebiet, where all laws have been lifted, and down
below and over yonder is the Bezirk, where laws have never been.  Carry
me rapidly now.  I want to look on this strange musician with the face
of Akhnaton and I want to talk to the girl who worships him, Santuna.
Run carefully now.

Up a little, to the left a little.  If I sleep, do not worry.  Keep
going.  I will waken myself when we come anywhere near the music of the
congo helium If I can hear it now, so far away, think of what it will
be like when you yourselves approach it!"

He leaned back in his seat.  They picked up the shafts of the
sedan-chair and ran in the direction which they had been told.

VI

They had run for more than an hour, with occasional delays when they
had tricky footwork over leaking pipes or damaged walkways, when the
light became so bright that they had to reach in their pouches and put
on sun-glasses, which looked very odd indeed underneath the Roman
helmets of two fully armed legionaries.  (It was even more odd, of
course, that the eyes were not eyes at all; robot eyes were like white
marbles swimming in little bowls of glittering ink, producing a grimly
milky stare.) They looked at their master and he had not yet stirred,
so they took a corner of his robe and twisted it firmly into a bandage
to protect his eyes against the bright light.

The new light made the yellow bulbs of the corridor fade out of notice.
The light was like a whole aurora borealis compressed and projected
through the basement corridor of a hotel left over from long ago.
Neither of the robots knew the nature of the light, but it pulsed in
beats of five.

The music and the lights became obtrusive even to the two robots as
they walked or trotted downward toward the center of the world.  The
air-forcing system must have been very strong, because the inner heat
of the Earth had not reached them, even at this great depth.  Flavius
had no idea of how many kilometers below the surface they had come.  He
knew that it was not much in planetary distance, but it was very far
indeed for an ordinary walk.

The Lord Sto Odin sat up in the litter quite suddenly.  When the two
robots slowed, he said crossly at them: "Keep going.

Keep going.  I am going to set myself up.  I'm strong enough to do
it."

He took out the manikin meee and studied it in the light of the minor
aurora borealis which repeated itself in the corridor.

The manikin ran through its changes of diagnoses and colors.  The Lord
was satisfied.  With firm old fingers he put the knife tip to the back
of his neck and set his output of vital energies at an even higher
level.

The robots did what they had been told.

The lights had been bewildering.  Sometimes they made walking itself
difficult.  It was hard to believe that dozens or hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of human beings had found their way through these uncharted
corridors in order to discover the inmost precincts of the Bezirk,
where all things were allowed.

Yet the robots had to believe it.  They themselves had been here before
and they scarcely remembered how they had found their way the other
time.

And the music!  It beat at them harder than ever before.  It came in
beats of five, ringing out the tones of the penta paul the five-word
verse which
the mad cat-minstrel C'paul had developed while playing his c'lute
some centuries before.  The form itself confirmed and reinforced the
poignancy of cats combined with the heartbreaking intelligence of the
human being.  No wonder people had found their way down here.

In all the history of man, there was no act which could not be produced
by any one of the three bitterest forces in the human spirit religious
faith, vengeful vainglory, or sheer vice.  Here, for the sake of vice,
men had found the un discoverable deep and had put it to wild, filthy
uses.  The music called them on.

This was very special music.  It came at Sto Odin and his legionaries
in two utterly different ways by now, reverberating at them through
solid rock and echoing, re-echoing through the maze of corridors,
carried by the dark heavy air.  The corridor lights were still yellow,
but the electromagnetic illuminations, which kept time to the music,
made the ordinary lighting seem wan.  The music controlled all things,
paced all time, called all life to itself.  It was song of a kind which
the two robots had not noticed with such intensity on their previous
visit.

Even the Lord Sto Odin, for all his travels and experiences, had never
heard it before.

It was all of this: The beat and the heat and the neat repeat of the
notes which poured from the congo helium metal never made for music,
matter and anti-matter locked in a fine magnetic grid to ward off the
outermost perils of space.  Now a piece of it was deep in the body of
Old Earth, counting out strange cadences.

The churn and the burn and the hot return of music riding the living
rock, accompanying itself in an air-carried echo.  The surge and the
urge of an erotic dirge which moaned, groaned through the heavy
stone.

Sto Odin woke and stared sharply forward, seeing nothing but
experiencing everything.

"Soon we shall see the gate and the girl," said he.

"You know this, man?  You who have never been here before?"  Livius had
spoken.

"I know it," said the Lord Sto Odin, "because I know it."

"You wear the feathers of immunity."

"I wear the feathers of immunity."

"Does that mean that we, your robots, are free too, down in this
Bezirk?"

"Free as you like," said the Lord Sto Odin, "provided that you do my
wishes.  Otherwise I shall kill you."

"If we keep going," said Flavius, "may we sing the under people song?
It might keep some of that terrible music out of our brains.  The music
has all feelings and we have none.

Nevertheless it disturbs us.  I do not know why."

"My radio contact with the surface has lapsed," said Livius
irrelevantly.

"I need to sing too."

"Go ahead, both of you," said the Lord Sto Odin.

"But keep on going, or you die."

The robots lifted their voice in song: I eat my rage.  I swallow my
grief.

There's no relief From pain or age.

Our time comes.

I work my life.

I

breathe my breath.

I face my death Without a wife.

Our time comes.

We under men Shove, crush, and crash.

There'll be a clash And thunder when Our time comes.

Though the song had the barbarous, ancient thrill of bagpipes in it,
the melody could not counter or cancel the sane, wild rhythm of the
congo helium beating at them, now, from all directions at once.

"Nice piece of sedition, that," said the Lord Sto Odin dryly, "but I
like it better as music than I do this noise which is tearing its way
through the depths of the world.  Keep going.  Keep going.

I must meet this mystery before I die."

"We find it hard to endure that music coming at us through the rock,"
said Livius.

"It seems to us that it is much stronger than it was when we came here
some months ago.  Could it have changed?"  asked Flavius.

"That is the mystery.  We let them have the Gebiet, beyond our own
jurisdiction.  We gave them the Bezirk, to do with as they please.  But
these ordinary people have created or encountered some extraordinary
power.  They have brought new things into the Earth.  It may be
necessary for all three of us to die before we settle the matter."

"We can't die the way you do," said Livius.

"We're already robots, and the people from whom we were imprinted have
been dead a long time.  Do you mean you would turn us off?"

"I would, perhaps, or else some other force.  Would you mind?"

"Mind?  You mean, have emotions about it?  I don't know,"

said Flavius.

"I used to think that I had real, full experience when you used the
phrase Summa nulla est and brought us up to full capacity, but that
music which we have been hearing has the effect of a thousand passwords
all said at once.  I am beginning to care about my life and I think
that I am becoming what your reference explained by the word 'afraid."
" "I too feel it," said Livius.

"This is not a power which we knew to exist on Earth before.  When I
was a strategist someone told me about the really indescribable dangers
connected with the Douglas-Ouyang planets, and it seems to me now that
a danger of that kind is already with us, here inside the tunnel.

Something which Earth never made.  Something which man never developed.
Something which no robot could out-compute.

Something wild and very strong brought into being by the use of the
congo helium Look around us."

He did not need to say that.  The corridor itself had become a living,
pulsing rainbow.

They turned one last loop in the corridor and they were there The very
last limit of the realm of distress.

The source of evil music.

The end of the Bezirk.

They knew it because the music blinded them, the lights deafened them,
their senses ran into one another and became confused.  This was the
immediate presence of the congo helium

There was a door, immensely large, carved with elaborate Gothic
ornament.  It was much too big for any human man to have had need of
it.  In the door a single figure stood, her breasts accented into vivid
brights and darks by the brilliant light which poured from one side of
the door only, the right.

They could see through the door, into an immense hall wherein the floor
was covered by hundreds of limp bundles of ragged clothing.  These were
the people, unconscious.  Above them and between them there danced the
high figure of a male, holding a glittering something in his hands.  He
prowled and leaped and twisted and turned to the pulsation of the music
which he himself produced.

"Summa nulla est, " said the Lord Sto Odin.

"I want you two robots to be keyed to maximum.  Are you now to top
alert?"

"We are, sir," chorused Livius and Flavius.

"You have your weapons?"

"We cannot use them," said Livius, "since it is contrary to our
programming, but you can use them, sir."

"I'm not sure," said Flavius.

"I'm not at all sure.  We are equipped with
surface weapons.  This music, these hypnotics, these lights who knows
what they may have done to us and to our weapons, which were never
designed to operate this far underground?"

"No fear," said Sto Odin.

"I'll take care of all of it."

He took out a small knife.

When the knife gleamed under the dancing lights, the girl in the
doorway finally took notice of the Lord Sto Odin and his strange
companions.

She spoke to him, and her voice rode through the heavy air with the
accents of clarity and death.

VII

"Who are you," she said, "that you should bring weapons to the last
uttermost limits of the Bezirk?"

"This is just a small knife, lady," said the Lord Sto Odin, "and with
this I can do no harm to anyone.  I am an old man and I am setting my
own vitality button higher."

She watched in curiously as he brought the point of the knife to the
nape of his own neck and then gave it three full, deliberate turns.

Then she stared and said,

"You are strange, my Lord.  Perhaps you are dangerous to my friends and
me."

"I am dangerous to no one."  The robots looked at him, surprised,
because of the fullness and the richness of his voice.

He had set his vitality very high indeed, giving himself, at that rate,
perhaps no more than an hour or two of life, but he had regained the
physical power and the emotional force of his own prime years.  They
looked at the girl.  She had taken Sto Odin's statement at full face
value, almost as though it were an incontrovertible canon of faith.

"I wear," Sto Odin went on, "these feathers.  Do you know what they
signify?"

"I can see," she said.  "that you are a Lord of the Instrumentality,
but I do not know what the feathers mean .  . ."

"Waiver of immunity.  Anyone who can manage it is allowed to kill me or
to hurt me without danger of punishment."  He smiled, a little
grimly.

"Of course, I have the right to fight back, and I do-know how to fight.
My name is the Lord Sto Odin.  Why are you here, girl?"

"I love that man in there if he is a man any more."

She stopped and pursed her lips in bewilderment.  It was strange to see
those girlish lips compressed in a momentary stammer of the soul.  She
stood there, more nude than a newborn infant, her face covered with
provocative, off-beat cosmetics.  She lived for a mission of love in
the
depths of the nothing and nowhere: yet she remained a girl, a person,
a human being capable, as she was now, of an immediate relationship to
another human being.

"He was a man, my Lord, even when he came back from the surface with
that piece of congo helium Only a few weeks ago, those people were
dancing too.  Now they just lie on the ground.

They do not even die.  I myself held the congo helium too, and I made
music with it.  Now the power of the music is eating him up and he
dances without resting.  He won't come out to me and I do not dare go
into that place with him.  Perhaps I too would end up as one more heap
on the floor."

A crescendo of the intolerable music made speech intolerable for her.
She waited for it to pass while the room beyond blazed a pulsing violet
at them.

When the music of the congo helium subsided a little, Sto Odin spoke:
"How long has it been that he has danced alone with this strange power
coursing through him?"

"One year.  Two years.  Who can tell?  I came down here and lost time
when I arrived.  You Lords don't even let us have clocks and calendars
up on the surface."

"We ourselves saw you dancing just a tenth-year ago," said Livius,
interrupting.

She glanced at them, quickly, in curiously

"Are you the same two robots who were here a while back?  You look very
different now.  You look like ancient soldiers.  I can't imagine why
... All right, maybe it was a week, maybe it was a year."

"What were you doing down here?"  asked Sto Odin, gently.

"What do you think?"  she said.

"Why do all the other people come down here?  I was running away from
the timeless time, the lifeless life, the hopeless hope that you Lords
apply to all mankind on the surface.  You let the robots and the under
people work, but you freeze the real people in a happiness which has no
hope and no escape."

"I'm right," cried Sto Odin.

"I'm right, though I die for it!"

"I don't understand you," said the girl.

"Do you mean that you too, a Lord, have come down here to escape from
the useless hope that wraps up all of us?"

"No, no, no," he said, as the shifting lights of the congo helium music
made improbable traceries across his features.

"I just meant that I told the other Lords that something like this was
happening to you ordinary people on the surface.  Now you are telling
me exactly what I told them.  Who were you, anyhow?"

The girl glanced down at her unclothed body as though she were aware,
for the first time, of her nakedness.  Sto Odin could see the blush
pour from her face down across her neck and chest.  She said, very
quietly: "Don't you know?  We never answer that question down here."

"You have rules?"  he said.

"You people have rules, even here in the Bezirk?"

She brightened up when she realized that he had not meant the indecent
question as an impropriety.  Eagerly she explained.

"There aren't any rules.  They are just understandings.  Somebody told
me when I left the ordinary world and crossed the line of the Gebiet. I
suppose they did not tell you because you were a Lord, or because they
hid from your strange war-robots."

"I met no one, coming down."

"Then they were hiding from you, my Lord."

Sto Odin looked around at his legionaries to see if they would confirm
that statement but neither Flavius nor Livius said anything at all.

He turned back to the girl.

"I didn't mean to pry.  Can you tell me what kind of person you are?  I
don't need the particulars."

"When I was alive, I was a once-born," she said.

"I did not live long enough to be renewed.  The robots and a
Subcommissioner of the Instrumentality took a look at me to see if I
could be trained for the Instrumentality.  More than enough brains,
they said, but no character at all.  I thought about that a long
time.

"No character at all."  I knew I couldn't kill myself, and I didn't
want to live, so I looked happy every time I thought a monitor might be
scanning me and I found my way to the Gebiet.

It wasn't death, and it wasn't life, but it was an escape from endless
fun.  I hadn't been down here long" she pointed at the Gebiet above
them "before I met him.  We loved each other very soon and he said that
the Gebiet was not much improvement on the surface.  He said he had
already been down here, in the Bezirk, looking for a fun-death."

"A what?"  said Sto Odin, as if he could not believe the words.

"A fun-death.  Those were his words and his idea.  I followed him
around and we loved each other.  I waited for him when he went to the
surface to get the congo helium I thought that his love for me would
put the fun-death out of his mind."

"Are you telling me the whole truth?"  said Sto Odin.

"Or is this just your part of the story?"

She stammered protests but he did not ask again.

The Lord Sto Odin said nothing but he looked heavily at her.

She winced, bit her lip, and finally said, through all the music and
the lights, very clearly indeed,

"Stop it.  You are hurting me."

The Lord Sto Odin stared at her, said innocently,

"I am doing nothing," and stared on.  There was much to stare at.  She
was a girl the color of honey.  Even through these lights and shadows
he could see that she had no clothing at all.  Nor did she have a
single hair left on her body no head of
hair, no eyebrows, probably no eyelashes, though he could not tell at
that distance.  She had traced golden eyebrows far up on her forehead,
giving her the look of endless mocking inquiry.  She had painted her
mouth gold, so that when she spoke, her words cascaded from a golden
source.  She had painted her upper eyelids golden too, but the lower
were black as carbon itself.  The total effect was alien to all the
previous experiences of mankind: it was lascivious grief to the
thousandth power, dry wantonness perpetually unfulfilled, femaleness in
the service of remote purposes, humanity enraptured by strange
planets.

He stood and stared.  If she were still human at all, this would sooner
or later force her to take the initiative.  It did.

She spoke again,

"Who are you?  You are living too fast, too fiercely.  Why don't you go
in and dance, like all the others?"  She gestured past the open door,
where the ragged unconscious shapes of all the people lay strewn about
the floor.

"You call that dancing?"  said the Lord Sto Odin.

"I do not.

There is one man who dances.  Those others lie on the floor.  Let me
ask you the same question.  Why don't you dance yourself?"

"I want him, not the dance.  I am Santuna and he seized me once in
human, mortal, ordinary love.  But he becomes Sun-boy, more so every
day, and he dances with those people who lie on the floor " "You call
that dancing?"  snapped the Lord Sto Odin.  He shook his head and added
grimly,

"I see no dance."

"You don't see it?  You really don't see it?"  she cried.

He shook his head obstinately and grimly.

She turned so that she looked into the room beyond her and she brought
her high, clear penetrating wail which even cut through the five-beat
pulse of the congo helium She cried: "Sun-boy, Sun-boy, hear me!"

There was no break in the quick escape of the feet which pattered in
the figure eight, no slowing down the fingers which beat against the
shimmering non-focus of the metal which was carried in the dancer's
arms.

"My lover, my beloved, my man!"  she cried again, her voice even more
shrill and demanding than before.

There was a break in the cadence of the music and the dance.

The dancer sheered toward them with a perceptible slowing down of his
cadence.  The lights of the inner room, the great door, and the outer
hall all became more steady.  Sto Odin could see the girl more clearly;
she really didn't have a single hair on her body.  He could see the
dancer too; the young man was tall, thin beyond the ordinary suffering
of man, and the metal which he carried shimmered like water reflecting
a thousand lights.  The dancer spoke, quickly and angrily:
"You called me.  You have called me thousands of times.

Come on in, if you wish.  But don't call me."

As he spoke, the music faded out completely, the bundles on the floor
began to stir and to groan and to awaken.

Santuna stammered hastily,

"This time it wasn't me.  It was these people.  One of them is very
strong.  He cannot see the dancers."

Sun-boy turned to the Lord Sto Odin.

"Come in and dance then, if you wish.  You are already here.  You might
as well.

Those machines of yours" he nodded at the robot legionaries "they
couldn't dance anyhow.  Turn them off."  The dancer started to turn
away.

"I shall not dance, but I would like to see it," said Sto Odin, with
enforced mildness.  He did not like this young man at all not the
phosphorescence of his skin, the dangerous metal cradled in his arm,
the suicidal recklessness of his prancing walk.

Anyhow, there was too much light this far underground and too few
explanations of what was being done.

"Man, you're a peeper.  That's real nasty, for an old man like you.  Or
do you just want to be a man?"

The Lord Sto Odin felt his temper flare up.

"Who are you, man, that you should call man man in such a tone?  Aren't
you still human, yourself?"

"Who knows?  Who cares?  I have tapped the music of the universe.  I
have piped all imaginable happiness into this room.

I am generous.  I share it with these friends of mine."  Sun-boy
gestured at the ragged heaps on the floor, who had begun to squirm in
their misery without the music.  As Sto Odin saw into the room more
clearly, he could see that the bundles on the floor were young people,
mostly young men, though there were a few girls among them.  They all
of them looked sick and weak and pale.

Sto Odin retorted,

"I don't like the looks of this.  I have half a mind to seize you and
to take that metal."

The dancer spun on the ball of his right foot, as though to leap away
in a wild prance.

The Lord Sto Odin stepped into the room after Sun-boy.

Sun-boy turned full circle, so that he faced Sto Odin once again.  He
pushed the Lord out of the door, marching him firmly but irresistibly
three steps backward.

"Flavius, seize the metal.  Livius, take the man," spat Sto Odin.

Neither robot moved.

Sto Odin, his senses and his strength set high by the severe twist
upward which he had given his vitality button, stepped forward to seize
the congo helium himself.  Made one step and no more: he froze in the
doorway, immobile.

He had not felt like that since the last time the doctors put him in
a
surgery machine, when they found that part of his skull had developed
bone-cancer from old, old radiation in space and from the subsequent
effects of sheer age.  They had given him a prosthetic half-skull and
for the time of the operation he had been immobilized by straps and
drugs.  This time there were no straps, no drugs, but the forces which
Sun-boy had invoked were equally strong.

The dancer danced in an enormous figure-eight among the clothed bodies
lying on the floor.  He had been singing the song which the robot
Flavius had repeated far up above, on the surface of the Earth the song
about the weeping man.

But Sun-boy did not weep.

His ascetic, thin face was twisted in a broad grin of mockery.

When he sang about sorrow it was not sorrow which he really expressed,
but derision, laughter, contempt for ordinary human sorrow.  The congo
helium shimmered and the aurora borealis almost blinded Sto Odin. There
were two other drums in the middle of the room, one with high notes and
the other with even higher ones.

The congo helium resonated: boom boom doom doom room!

The large ordinary drum rattled out, when Sun-boy passed it and reached
out his fingers: ritiplin, ritiplin, rataplan, ritiplin!

The small, strange drum emitted only two notes, and it almost croaked
them: kid-nork, kid-nork, kid-nork!

As Sun-boy danced back the Lord Sto Odin thought that he could hear the
voice of the girl Santuna, calling to Sun-boy, but he could not turn
his head to see if she were speaking.

Sun-boy stood in front of Sto Odin, his feet still weaving as he
danced, his thumbs and his palms torturing hypnotic dissonances from
the gleaming congo helium

"Old man, you tried to trick me.  You failed."

The Lord Sto Odin tried to speak, but the muscles of his mouth and
throat would not respond.  He wondered what force this was, which could
stop all unusual effort but still leave his heart free to beat, his
lungs to breathe, his brain (both natural and prosthetic) to think.

The boy danced on.  He danced away a few steps, turned and danced back
to Sto Odin.

"You wear the feather of immunity.  I am free to kill you.  If I did,
the Lady Mmona and the Lord Nuru-or and your other friends would never
know what happened."

If Sto Odin could have moved his eyelids that much, he would have
opened his eyes in astonishment at the discovery that a superstitious
dancer, far underground, knew the secret business of the
Instrumentality.

"You can't believe what you are looking at, even though you see it
plainly," said Sun-boy more seriously.

"You think that a lunatic has found a way to work wonders with a piece
of the congo helium taken far underground.  Foolish old man!  No
ordinary lunatic would have carried this metal down here without
blowing up the fragment and himself with it.  No man could have done
what I have done.  You are thinking.  If the gambler who took the name
Sun-boy is not a man, what is he?  What brings the power and music of
the Sun so far down underground?  Who makes the wretched ones of the
world dream in a crazy, happy sleep while their life spills and leaks
into a thousand kinds of times, a thousand kinds of worlds?  Who does
it, if it is not mere me?  You don't have to ask.  I can tell perfectly
well what you are thinking.

I'll dance it for you.  I am a very kind man, even though you do not
like me."

The dancer's feet had been moving in the same place while he spoke.
Suddenly he whirled away, leaping and vaulting over the wretched human
figures on the floor.

He passed the big drum and touched it: ritiplin, rataplan!  Left hand
brushed the little drum: kid-nork, kid-nork!  Both hands seized the
congo helium as though the strong wrists were going to tear it apart.

The whole room blazed with music, gleamed with thunder as the human
senses interpenetrated each other.  The Lord Sto Odin felt the air pass
his skin like cool, wet oil.  Sun-boy the dancer became transparent and
through him the Lord Sto Odin could see a landscape which was not Earth
and never would be.

"Fluminescent, luminescent, incandescent, fluorescent," sang the
dancer.

"Those are the worlds of the Douglas-Ouyang planets, seven planets in a
close group, all traveling together around a single sun.  Worlds of
wild magnetism and perpetual dust fall where the surfaces of the
planets are changed by the forever shifting magnetism of their erratic
orbits!  Strange worlds, where stars dance dances wilder than any dance
ever conceived by man planets which have a consciousness in common, but
perhaps not intelligence planets which called across all space and all
time for companionship until I me the gambler, came down to this cavern
and found them.  Where you had left them, my Lord Sto Odin, when you
said to a robot: " I do not like the looks of those planets," said you,
Sto Odin, speaking to a robot a long time ago.

"People might get sick or crazy, just looking at them," said you, Sto
Odin, long, long ago.

"Hide the knowledge in some out of the way computer," you commanded,
Sto Odin, before I was born.  But the computer was that one, that one
in the corner behind you, which you cannot turn to see.  I came down to
this room, looking for a fun-suicide, something really unusual which
would bang the noddies when they found I had gotten away.  I danced
here in the darkness, almost the
way I am dancing now, and I had taken about twelve different kinds of
drugs, so that I was wild and free and very very receptive.  That
computer spoke to me, Sto Odin.  Your computer, not mine.  It spoke to
me, and you know what it said?

"You might as well know, Sto Odin, because you are dying.

You set your vitality high in order to fight me.  I have made you stand
still.  Could I do that if I were a mere man?  Look.  I will turn solid
again."

With a rainbow-like scream of chords and sounds, Sun-boy twisted the
congo helium again until both the inner chamber and the outer bloomed
with lights of a thousand colors and the deep underground air became
drenched with music which seemed psychotic, because no human mind had
ever invented it.  The Lord Sto Odin, imprisoned in his own body with
his two legionary robots frozen half a pace behind him, wondered if he
really were dying in vain and tried to guess whether he would be
blinded and deafened by this dancer before he died.  The congo helium
twisted and shone before him.

Sun-boy danced backward over the bodies on the floor, danced backward
with an odd cadenced run which looked as though he were plunging
forward in a wild, competitive foot-race when the music and his own
footsteps carried him back, toward the center of the inner room.  The
figure jumped in an odd stance, face looking so far downward that
Sun-boy might have been studying his own steps on the floor, the congo
helium held above and behind his neck, legs lifting high in the cruel
high-kneed prance.

The Lord Sto Odin thought he could hear the girl calling again, but he
could not distinguish words.

The drums spoke again: ritiplin, ritiplin, rataplan!  and then
kid-nork, kid-nork, kid-nork!

The dancer spoke as the pandemonium subsided.  He spoke, and his voice
was high, strange, like a bad recording played on the wrong machine:
"The something is talking to you.  You can talk."

The Lord Sto Odin found that his throat and lips moved.

Quietly, secretly, like an old soldier, he tried his feet and fingers:
these did not move.  Only his voice could be used.  He spoke, and he
said the obvious: "Who are you, something?"

Sun-boy looked across at Sto Odin.  He stood erect and calm.

Only his feet moved, and they did a wild, agile little jig which did
not affect the rest of his body.  Apparently some kind of dance was
necessary to keep the connection going between the unexplained reach of
the Douglas-Ouyang planets, the piece of the congo helium the more than
human dancer, and the tortured blissful figures on the floor.  The
face, the face itself was quite composed and almost sad.

"I have been told," said Sun-boy, "to show you who I am."

He danced around the drums rataplan, rataplan!  kid-norknork,
kid-nork, kid-nork-nork!

He held the congo helium high and wrenched it so that a great moan came
out.  Sto Odin felt sure that a sound as wild and forlorn as that would
be sure to reach the surface of the Earth many kilometers above, but
his prudent judgment assured him that this was a fanciful thought
gestated by his personal situation, and that any real sound strong
enough to reach all the way to the surface would also be strong enough
to bring the bruised and shattered rock of the ceiling pouring down
upon their heads.

The congo helium ran down the colors of the spectrum until it stopped
at a dark, wet liver-red, very close to black.

The Lord Sto Odin, in that momentary near silence, found that the
entire story had been thrust into his mind without being strung out and
articulated with words.  The true history of this chamber had entered
his memory side-wise, as it were.  In one moment he knew nothing of it;
in the next instant it was as if he had remembered the whole narrative
for most of his life.  He also felt himself set free.  He stumbled
backward three or four steps.

To his immense relief, his robots turned around, themselves free, and
accompanied him.  He let them put their hands in his armpits.  His face
was suddenly covered with kisses.

His plastic cheek felt, thinly and dimly, the imprint, real and living,
of female human lips.  It was the odd girl beautiful, bald, naked, and
golden-lipped who had waited and shouted from the door.

Despite physical fatigue and the sudden shock of intruded knowledge,
the Lord Sto Odin knew what he had to say.

"Girl, you shouted for me."  "Yes, my Lord."

"You have had the strength to watch the congo helium and not to give in
to it?"

She nodded but said nothing.

"You have been strong-willed enough not to go into that room?"  "Not
strong-willed, my Lord.  I just love him, my man in there."  "You have
waited, girl, for many months?"

"Not all the time.  I go up the corridor when I have to eat or drink or
sleep or do my personals.  I even have mirrors and combs and tweezers
and paint there, to make myself beautiful, the way that Sun-boy might
want me."

The Lord Sto Odin looked over his shoulder.  The music was low and
keening with some emotions other than grief.  The dancer was doing a
long, slow dance, full of creeping and reaches, as he passed the congo
helium from one hand to the other.

"Do you hear me, dancer?"  called the Lord Sto Odin, the
Instrumentality once more coursing through his veins.

The dancer did not speak nor seem to change his course.  But kid-nork,
kid.-n.ork said the little drum, quite unexpectedly.

"He, and the face behind him they will let the girl leave if she really
forgets him and this place in the act of leaving.  Won't you?"  said
Sto Odin to the dancer.

Ritiplin, rataplan said the big drum, which had not sounded since Sto
Odin was let free.

"But I don't want to go," said the girl.

"I know you don't want to go.  You will go to please me.  You can come
back as soon as I have done my work."  She stood mute so he
continued.

"One of my robots, Livius, the one imprinted by a psychiatrist general,
will run with you, but I command him to forget this place and all
things connected with it.  Summa nulla est.  Have you heard me, Livius?
You will run with this girl and you will forget.

You will run and forget.  You too will run and forget, Santuna my dear,
but two Earthnychthemerons from now you will remember just enough to
come back here, should you wish to, should you need to.  Otherwise you
will go to the Lady Mmona and learn from her what you should do for the
rest of your life."

"You are promising, my Lord, that in two days and nights I can come
back if I even feel like it."

"Now run, my girl, run.  Run to the surface.  Livius, carry her if you
must.  But run!  run!  run!  More than she depends upon it."

Santuna looked at him very earnestly.  Her nakedness was innocence. The
gold upper eyelids met the black lower eyelids as she blinked and then
brushed away wet tears.

"Kiss me," she said, "and I will run."

He leaned down and kissed her.

She turned, looked back one last time at her dancer-lover, and then ran
long-legged into the corridor.  Livius ran after her, gracefully,
untiringly.  In twenty minutes they would be reaching the upper limits
of the Gebiet.

"You know what I am doing?"  said Sto Odin to the dancer.

This time the dancer and the force behind him did not deign to
answer.

Said Sto Odin,

"Water.  There is water in a jug in my litter.

Take me there, Flavius."

The robot-legionary took the aged and trembling Sto Odin to the
litter.

VIII

The Lord Sto Odin then performed the trick which changed human history
for many centuries to come and, in so doing, exploded an enormous
cavern in the vitals of the Earth.

He used one of the most secret ruses of the Instrumentality.

He triple-thought.

Only a few very adept persons could triple-think, when they were given
every possible chance of training.  Fortunately for mankind, the Lord
Sto Odin had been one of the successful ones.

He set three systems of thought into action.  At the top level he
behaved rationally as he explored the old room; at a lower level of his
mind he planned a wild surprise for the dancer with the congo helium
But at the third, lowest level, he decided what he must do in the time
of a single blink and trusted his autonomic nervous system to carry out
the rest.

These are the commands he gave: Flavius should be set on the wild-alert
and readied for attack.

The computer should be reached and told to record the whole episode,
everything which Sto Odin had learned, and should be shown how to take
countermeasures while Sto Odin gave the matter no further conscious
thought.  The gestalt of action the general frame of retaliation was
clear for thousandths of a second in Sto Odin's mind and then it
dropped from sight.

The music rose to a roar.

White light covered Sto Odin.

"You meant me harm!"  called Sun-boy from beyond the Gothic door.

"I meant you harm," Sto Odin acknowledged, "but it was a passing
thought.  I did nothing.  You are watching me."

"I am watching you," said the dancer grimly.  Kid-nork, kidnork went
the little drum.

"Do not go out of my sight.  When you are ready to come through my
door, call me or just think of it.  I will meet you and help you in."

"Good enough," said Lord Sto Odin.

Flavius still held him.  Sto Odin concentrated on the melody which
Sun-boy was creating, a wild new song never before suspected in the
history of the world.  He wondered if he could surprise the dancer by
throwing his own song back at him.  At the same instant, his fingers
were performing a third set of actions which Sto Odin's mind no longer
had to heed.  Sto Odin's hand opened a lid in the robot's chest, right
into the laminated controls of the brain.  The hand itself changed
certain adjustments, commanding that the robot should, within the
quarter-hour, kill all forms of life within reach other than the
command-transmitter.

Flavius did not know what had been done to him; Sto Odin did not even
notice what his own hand had done.

"Take me over to the old computer," said Sto Odin to the robot
Flavius.

"I want to discover how the strange story which I have just learned may
be true."  Sto Odin kept thinking of music which would even startle the
user of the congo helium

He stood at the computer.

His hand, responding to the triple-think command which it had been
given, turned the computer up and pressed the button, Record this
scene.  The computer's old relays almost grunted as they came to the
alert and complied.

"Let me see the map," said Sto Odin to the computer.

Far behind him, the dancer had changed his pace into a fast jog-trot of
hot suspicion.

The map appeared on the computer.

"Beautiful," said Sto Odin.

The entire labyrinth had become plain.  Just above them was one of the
ancient, sealed-off anti-seismic shafts a straight, empty tubular
shaft, two hundred meters wide, kilometers high.

At the top, it had a lid which kept out the mud and water of the ocean
floor.  At the bottom, since there was no pressure other than air to
worry about, it had been covered with a plastic which looked like rock,
so that neither people nor robots which might be passing would try to
climb into it.

"Watch what I am doing!"  cried Sto Odin to the dancer.

"I am watching," said Sun-boy, and there was almost a growl of
perplexity in his sung-forth response.

Sto Odin shook the computer and ran the fingers of his right hand over
it and coded a very specific request.  His left hand preconditioned by
the triple-think coded the emergency panel at the side of the computer
with two simple, clear engineering instructions.

Sun-boy's laughter rang out behind him.

"You are asking that a piece of the congo helium be sent down to you.
Stop!  Stop, before you sign it with your name and your authority as a
Lord of the Instrumentality.  Your unsigned request will do no harm.
The central computer up top will just think that it is some of the
crazy people in the Bezirk making senseless demands."  The voice rose
to a note of urgency,

"Why did the machine signal 'received and complied with' to you just
now?"

The Lord Sto Odin lied blandly,

"I don't know.  Maybe they will send me a piece of the congo helium to
match the one that you have there."

"You're lying," cried the dancer.

"Come over here to the door."

Flavius led the Lord Sto Odin to the ridiculous-beautiful Gothic
archway.

The dancer was leaping from foot to foot.  The congo helium shone a
dull alert red.  The music wept as though all the anger and suspicion
of mankind had been incorporated into a new unforgettable fugue, like a
delirious atonal counterpoint to Johann Sebastian Bach's Third
Brandenburg Concerto.

"I am here," the Lord Sto Odin spoke easily.

"You are dying!"  cried the dancer.

"I was dying before you first noticed me.  I set my vitality control to
maximum after I entered the Bezirk."

"Come on in, then," said Sun-boy, "and you will never die."

Sto Odin took the edge of the door and let himself down to the stone
floor.  Only when he was comfortably seated did he speak: "I am dying,
that is true.  But I would rather not come in.  I will just watch you
dance as I die."

"What are you doing?  What have you done?"  cried Sun-boy.

He stopped dancing and walked over to the door.

"Search me if you wish," said the Lord Sto Odin.

"I am searching you," said the dancer, "but I see nothing but your
desire to get a piece of the congo helium for yourself and to out-dance
me."

At this point Flavius went berserk.  He ran back to the litter, leaned
over, and ran toward the door.  In each hand he carried an enormous
solid-steel bearing.

"What's that robot doing?"  cried the dancer.

"I can see your mind but you are not telling him anything!  He uses
those steel balls to break obstructions " He gasped as the attack
came.

Quicker than the eye could follow the movement, Flavius's
sixty-ton-capacity arm whistled through the air as he flung the first
steel missile directly at Sun-boy.  Sun-boy, or the power within him,
leapt aside with insect speed.  The ball plowed through two of the
rag-clothed human bodies on the floor.  One body said who of as it
died, but the other body let out no sound at all: the head had been
torn off in first impact.  Before the dancer could speak, Flavius flung
the second ball.

This time the doorway caught it.  The powers which had immobilized Sto
Odin and his robots were back in operation.  The ball sang as it
plunged into the doorway, stopped in mid-air, sang again as the door
flung it back at Flavius.

The returning ball missed Flavius's head but crushed his chest utterly.
That was where his real brain was.  There was a flicker of light as the
robot went out, but even in dying Flavius seized the ball one last time
and flung it at Sun-boy.  The robot terminated operation and the heavy
ball, flung wild, caught the Lord Sto Odin in the right shoulder. The
Lord Sto Odin felt pain until he dragged over his manikin meee and
turned all pain off.

Then he looked at the shoulder.  It was almost totally demolished.

Blood from his organic body and hydraulic fluid from his prosthetics
joined in a slow, heavy stream as the liquids met, merged, and poured
down his side.

The dancer almost forgot to dance.

Sto Odin wondered how far the girl had gone.

of Man The air pressure changed.

"What is happening to the air?  Why did you think about the girl?  What
is happening?"

"Read me," said the Lord Sto Odin.

"I will dance and get my powers first," said Sun-boy.

For a few brief minutes it seemed that the dancer with the congo helium
would cause a rock-fall.

The Lord Sto Odin, dying, closed his eyes and found that it was restful
to die.  The blaze and noise of the world around him remained
interesting, but had become unimportant.

The congo helium with a thousand shifting rainbows and the dancer had
attained near-transparency when Sun-boy came back to read Sto Odin's
mind.

"I see nothing," said Sun-boy worriedly.

"Your vitality button is too high and you will die soon.  Where is all
that air coming from?  I seem to hear a faraway roar.  But you are not
causing it.

Your robot went wild.  All you do is to look at me contentedly and die.
That is very strange.  You want to die your way when you could live
unimaginable lives in here with us!"

"That is right," said the Lord Sto Odin.

"I am dying my way.

But dance for me, do dance for me with the congo helium while I tell
you your own story as you told it to me.  It would be a pleasure to get
the story straight before I die."

The dancer looked irresolute, started to dance, and then turned back to
the Lord Sto Odin.

"Are you sure you want to die right away?  With the power of what you
call the Douglas-Ouyang planets, which I receive right here with the
help of the congo helium you could be comfortable enough while I danced
and you could still die whenever you wished.  Vitality buttons are much
weaker than the powers which I command.  I could even help to lift you
across the threshold of my door.  .."

"No," said the Lord Sto Odin.

"Just dance for me while I die.

My way."

IX

Thus the world turned.  Millions of tons of water were rushing toward
them.

Within minutes the Gebiet and the Bezirk would drown as the air
whistled upward.  Sto Odin noted contentedly that there was an
air-shaft at the top of the dancer's room.  He did not allow himself to
third-think of what would happen when the matter and anti-matter of the
congo helium
were immersed in rushing salt water.  Something like forty megatons,
he supposed, with the tired feeling of a man who has thought a problem
through long, long ago and remembers it briefly only after the
situation has long passed.

Sun-boy was acting out religion before the age of space.  He chorused
hymns, he lifted his eyes and his hands and his piece of the congo
helium to the sun; he played the rattle of whirling dervishes, the
temple bells of the Man on the Two Pieces of Wood, and the other temple
bells of that saint who had escaped time simply by seeing it and
stepping out of it.  Buddha, was that his name?  And he went on to the
severe profanities which afflicted mankind after the Old World fell.

The music kept measure.

And the lights, too.

Whole processions of ghostly shadows followed Sun-boy as he showed how
old mankind had found the gods, and the Sun, and then other gods.  He
pantomimed man's most ancient mystery that man pretended to be afraid
of death, when it was life that never understood it.

And as he danced, the Lord Sto Odin repeated his own story to him: "You
fled the surface.  Sun-boy, because the people were stupid clods, happy
and dull in their miserable happiness.  You fled because you could not
stand being a chicken in a poultry house, antiseptically bred, safely
housed, and frozen when dead.

You joined the other miserable, bright, restless people who sought
freedom in the Gebiet.  You learned about their drugs and their liquors
and their smokes.  You knew their women, and their parties, and their
games.  It wasn't enough.  You became a gentleman-suicide, a hero
seeking a fun-death which would stamp you with your individuality.  You
came on down to the Bezirk, the most forgotten and loathsome place of
all.  You found nothing.

Just the old machines and the empty corridors.  Here and there a few
mummies or bones.  Just the silent lights and the faint murmur of air
through the corridors."

"I hear water now," said the dancer, still dancing, "rushing water.
Don't you hear it, my dying Lord?"

"If I did hear it, I wouldn't care.  Let's get on with your story.

You came to this room.  The weird door made it look like a good place
for a fun-death, such as you poor castaways liked to seek, except that
there was not much sport in dying unless other people know that you did
it intentionally, and know how you did it.

Anyway, it was a long climb back up into the Gebiet, where your friends
were, so you slept by this computer.

"In the night, while you slept, as you dreamed, the computer sang to
you:
of Man I need a temporary dog For a temporary job On a temporary place
Like Earth!

When you woke up you were surprised to find that you had dreamed an
entire new kind of music.  Really wild music which made people shudder
with its delicious evil.  And with the music, you had a job.  To steal
a piece of the congo helium

"You were a clever man.  Sun-boy, before the trip down here.

The Douglas-Ouyang planets caught you and made you a thousand times
cleverer.  You and your friends, this is what you told me or what the
presence behind you told me, just a half hour ago you and your friends
stole a subspace communicator console, got a fix on the Douglas-Ouyang
planets, and got drunk at the sight.

Iridescent, luminescent.  Waterfalls uphill.  All that kind of
thing."

"And you did get the congo helium The congo helium is made of matter
and antimatter laminated apart by a dual magnetic grid.

With that the presence of the Douglas-Ouyang planets made you
independent of organic processes.  You did not need food or rest or
even air or drink any more.  The Douglas-Ouyang planets are very old.
They kept you as a link.  I have no idea of what they intended to do
with Earth and with mankind.  If this story gets out, future
generations will call you the merchant of menace, because you used the
normal human appetitiousness for danger to trap other people with
hypnotics and with music."

"I hear water," interrupted Sun-boy.

"I do hear water!"

"Never mind," said the Lord Sto Odin, "your story is more important.
Anyhow, what could you and I do about it?  I am dying, sitting in a
pool of blood and effluvium.  You can't leave this room with the congo
helium Let me go on.  Or perhaps the DouglasOuyang entity, whatever it
was " "Is," said Sun-boy.

" whatever it is, may just have been longing for sensuous
companionship.  Dance on, man, dance on."

Sun-boy danced and the drums talked with him, rataplan, rataplan!
kid-nork, kid-nork, nork!  while the congo helium made music scream
through the solid rock.

The other sound persisted.

Sun-boy stopped and stared.

"It is water.  It is."

"Who knows?"  said the Lord Sto Odin.

"Look," screamed Sun-boy, holding the congo helium high.

"Look!"

The Lord Sto Odin did not need to look.  He knew full well that the
first
few tons of water, mud-laden and heavy, had come frothing down the
corridor and into their rooms.

"But what do I do?"  screamed the voice of Sun-boy.  Sto Odin felt that
it was not Sun-boy speaking, but some relay speaking from the power of
the Douglas-Ouyang planets.  A power which had tried to find friendship
with man, but had found the wrong man and the wrong friendship.

Sun-boy took control of himself.  His feet splashed in the water as he
danced.  The colors shone on the water as it rose.

Ritiplin, tip ling said the big drum.  Kid-nork, kid-nork, said the
little drum.  Boom, boom, doom, doom, room, said the congo helium

The Lord Sto Odin felt his old eyes blur but he could still see the
blazing image of the wild dancer.

"This is a good way to die," thought he, as he died.

X

Far above, on the surface of the planet, Santuna felt the continent
itself heave beneath her feet and saw the eastern horizon grow dark as
a volcano of muddy steam shot up from the calm blue sunlit ocean.

"This must not, must not happen again!"  she said, thinking of Sun-boy
and the congo helium and the death of the Lord Sto Odin.

"Something must be done about it," she added to herself.

And she did it.

In later centuries she brought disease, risk, and misery back to
increase the happiness of man.  She was one of the principal architects
of the Rediscovery of Man, and at her most famous she was known as the
Lady Alice More.

 Drunkboat Perhaps it is the saddest, maddest, wildest story in the
whole long history of space.  It is true that no one else had ever done
anything like it before, to travel at such a distance, and at such
speeds, and by such means.  The hero looked like such an ordinary man
when people looked at him for the first time.  The second time, ah!
that was different.

And the heroine.  Small she was, and ash-blonde, intelligent, perky,
and hurt.  Hurt yes, that's the right word.  She looked as though she
needed comforting or helping, even when she was perfectly all right.
Men felt more like men when she was near.

Her name was Elizabeth.

Who would have thought that her name would ring loud and clear in the
wild vomiting nothing which made up Space3?

He took an old, old rocket, of an ancient design.  With it he out flew
out fled out jumped all the machines which had ever existed before. 
You might almost think that he went so fast that he shocked the great
vaults of the sky, so that the ancient poem might have been written for
him alone.

"All the stars threw down their spears and watered heaven with their
tears."

Go he did, so fast, so far that people simply did not believe it at
first.  They thought it was a joke told by men, a farce spun forth by
rumor, a wild story to while away the summer afternoon.

We know his name now.

And our children and their children will know it for always.

Rambo.  Artyr Rambo of Earth Four.

But he followed his Elizabeth where no space was.  He went where men
could not go, had not been, did not dare, would not think.

He did all this of his own free will.

Of course people thought it was a joke at first, and got to making up
silly songs about the reported trip.

"Dig me a hole for that reeling feeling!  .  . ."  sang one.

"Push me the call for the umber number!  .  . ."  sang another.

"Where is the ship of the ochre joker?  .  . ."  sang a third.

Then people everywhere found it was true.  Some stood stock still and
got gooseflesh.  Others turned quickly to everyday things.

Space3 had been found, and it had been pierced.  Their world would
never be the same again.  The solid rock had become an open door.

Space itself, so clean, so empty, so tidy, now looked like a million
million light-years of tapioca pudding gummy, mushy, sticky, not fit to
breathe, not fit to swim in.

How did it happen?

Everybody took the credit, each in his own different way.

"He came for me," said Elizabeth.

"I died and he came for me because the machines were making a mess of
my life when they tried to heal my terrible, useless death."

II

"I went myself," said Rambo.

"They tricked me and lied to me and fooled me, but I took the boat and
I became the boat and I got there.  Nobody made me do it.  I was angry,
but I went.  And I came back, didn't I?"

He too was right, even when he twisted and whined on the green grass of
Earth, his ship lost in a space so terribly far and strange that it
might have been beneath his living hand, or might have been half a
galaxy away.

How can anybody tell, with Space3?

It was Rambo who got back, looking for his Elizabeth.  He loved her. So
the trip was his, and the credit his.

III

But the Lord Crudelta said, many years later, when he spoke in a soft
voice and talked confidentially among friends,

"The experiment was mine.  I designed it.  I picked Rambo.  I drove the
selectors mad, trying to find a man who would meet those
specifications.  And I had that rocket built to the old, old plans.  It
was the sort of thing which human beings first used when they jumped
out of the air a little bit, leaping like flying fish from one wave to
the next and already thinking that they were eagles.  If I had used one
of the regular plano form ships, it would have disappeared with a
Drunkboat sort of reverse gurgle, leaving space milky for a little bit
while it faded into nastiness and obliteration.  But I did not risk
that.  I put the rocket on a launching pad.  And the launching pad
itself was an interstellar ship!  Since we were using an ancient
rocket, we did it up right, with the old, old writing, mysterious
letters printed all over the machine.  We even had the name of our
Organization I and 0 and M, for 'the Instrumentality of Mankind'
written on it good and sharp.

"How would I know," went on the Lord Crudelta, "that we would succeed
more than we wanted to succeed, that Rambo would tear space itself
loose from its hinges and leave that ship behind, just because he loved
Elizabeth so sharply much, so fiercely much?"

Crudelta sighed.

"I know it and I don't know it.  I'm like that ancient man who tried to
take a water boat the wrong way around the planet Earth and found a new
world instead.  Columbus, he was called.  And the land, that was
Australia or America or something like that.

That's what I did.  I sent Rambo out in that ancient rocket and he
found a way through space-three Now none of us will ever know who might
come bulking through the floor or take shape out of the air in front of
us."

Crudelta added, almost wistfully,

"What's the use of telling the story?  Everybody knows it, anyhow.  My
part in it isn't very glorious.  Now the end of it, that's pretty.  The
bungalow by the waterfall and all the wonderful children that other
people gave to them, you could write a poem about that.  But the next
to the end, how he showed up at the hospital helpless and insane,
looking for his own Elizabeth.  That was sad and eerie, that was
frightening.

I'm glad it all came to the happy ending with the bungalow by the
waterfall, but it took a crashing long time to get there.  And there
are parts of it that we will never quite understand, the naked skin
against naked space, the eyeballs riding something much faster than
light ever was.  Do you know what an aoudad is?  It's an ancient sheep
that used to live on Old Earth, and here we are, thousands of years
later, with a children's nonsense rhyme about it.  The animals are gone
but the rhyme remains.  It'll be like that with Rambo someday.
Everybody will know his name and all about his drunk boat but they will
forget the scientific milestone that he crossed, hunting for Elizabeth
in an ancient rocket that couldn't fly from peetle to pootle.... Oh,
the rhyme?  Don't you know that?  It's a silly thing.  It goes: Point
your gun at a murky lurky.

(Now you're talking ham or turkey!) Shoot a shot at a dying doudad.
(Don't ask the lady why or how, dad!)
Don't ask me what 'ham' and 'turkey' are.  Probably parts of ancient
animals, like beefsteak or sirloin.  But the children still say the
words.  They'll do that with Rambo and his drunken boat some day.  They
may even tell the story of Elizabeth.  But they will never tell the
part about how he got to the hospital.  That part is too terrible, too
real, too sad and wonderful at the end.  They found him on the grass.
Mind you, naked on the grass, and nobody knew where he had come
from!"

IV

They found him naked on the grass and nobody knew where he had come
from.  They did not even know about the ancient rocket which the Lord
Crudelta had sent beyond the end of nowhere with the letters I, 0, and
M written on it.  They did not know that this was Rambo, who had gone
through Space3.  The robots noticed him first and brought him in,
photographing everything that they did.  They had been programmed that
way, to make sure that anything unusual was kept in the records.

Then the nurses found him in an outside room.

They assumed that he was alive, since he was not dead, but they could
not prove that he was alive, either.

That heightened the puzzle.

The doctors were called in.  Real doctors, not machines.  They were
very important men.  Citizen Doctor Timofeyev, Citizen Doctor Grosbeck,
and the director himself.  Sir and Doctor Vomact.  They took the
case.

(Over on the other side of the hospital Elizabeth waited, unconscious,
and nobody knew it at all.  Elizabeth, for whom he had jumped space,
and pierced the stars, but nobody knew it yet!) The young man could not
speak.  When they ran eye prints and fingerprints through the
Population Machine, they found that he had been bred on Earth itself,
but had been shipped out as a frozen and unborn baby to Earth Four.  At
tremendous cost, they queried Earth Four with an "instant message,"
only to discover that the young man who lay before them in the hospital
had been lost from an experimental ship on an intergalactic trip.

Lost.

No ship and no sign of ship.

And here he was.

They stood at the edge of space, and did not know what they were
looking at.  They were doctors and it was their business to repair or
rebuild people, not to ship them around.  How should such men know
about Space3 when they did not even know about Space3 except for the
fact that people got on the plano form ships and made trips through it?
They were looking
for sickness when their eyes saw engineering.  They treated him when
he was well.

All he needed was time, to get over the shock of the most tremendous
trip ever made by a human being, but the doctors did not know that and
they tried to rush his recovery.

When they put clothes on him, he moved from coma to a kind of
mechanical spasm and tore the clothing off.  Once again stripped, he
lay himself roughly on the floor and refused food or speech.

They fed him with needles while the whole energy of space, had they
only known it, was radiating out of his body in new forms.

They put him all by himself in a locked room and watched him through
the peephole.

He was a nice-looking young man, even though his mind was blank and his
body was rigid and unconscious.  His hair was very fair and his eyes
were light blue but his face showed character a square chin; a
handsome, resolute, sullen mouth; old lines in the face which looked as
though, when conscious, he must have lived many days or months on the
edge of rage.

When they studied him the third day in the hospital, their patient had
not changed at all.

He had torn off his pajamas again and lay naked, face down, on the
floor.

His body was as immobile and tense as it had been on the day before.

(One year later, this room was going to be a museum with a bronze sign
reading,

"Here lay Rambo after he left the Old Rocket for Space Three, " but the
doctors still had no idea of what they were dealing with.) His face was
turned so sharply to the left that the neck muscles showed.  His right
arm stuck out straight from the body.

The left arm formed an exact right angle from the body, with the left
forearm and hand pointing rigidly upward at 90 from the upper arm.  The
legs were in the grotesque parody of a running position.

Doctor Grosbeck said,

"It looks to me like he's swimming.

Let's drop him in a tank of water and see if he moves."  Grosbeck
sometimes went in for drastic solutions to problems.

Timofeyev took his place at the peephole.

"Spasm, still," he murmured.

"I hope the poor fellow is not feeling pain when his cortical defenses
are down.  How can a man fight pain if he does not even know what he is
experiencing?"

"And you.  Sir and Doctor," said Grosbeck to Vomact, "what do you
see?"

Vomact did not need to look.  He had come early and had looked long and
quietly at the patient through the peephole before the other doctors
arrived.  Vomact was a wise man, with good insight and rich
intuitions.  He could guess in an hour more than a machine could
diagnose in a year; he was already beginning to understand that this
was a sickness which no man had ever had before.  Still, there were
remedies waiting.

The three doctors tried them.

They tried hypnosis, electrotherapy, massage, sub sonics atropine,
surgital, a whole family of the digitalin ids and some quasi-narcotic
viruses which had been grown in orbit where they mutated fast.  They
got the beginning of a response when they tried gas hypnosis combined
with an electronically amplified tele path this showed that something
still went on inside the patient's mind.  Otherwise the brain might
have seemed to be mere fatty tissue, without a nerve in it.  The other
attempts had shown nothing.  The gas showed a faint stirring away from
fear and pain.  The tele path reported glimpses of unknown skies.  (The
doctors turned the tele path over to the Space Police promptly, so they
could try to code the star patterns which he had seen in the patient's
mind, but the patterns did not fit.  The tele path though a keen-witted
man, could not remember them in enough detail for them to be scanned
against the samples of piloting sheets.) The doctors went back to their
drugs and tried ancient, simple remedies morphine and caffeine to
counteract each other, and a rough massage to make him dream again, so
that the tele path could pick it up.

There was no further result that day, or the next.

Meanwhile the Earth authorities were getting restless.  They thought,
quite rightly, that the hospital had done a good job of proving that
the patient had not been on Earth until a few moments before the robots
found him on the grass.  How had he gotten on the grass?

The airspace of Earth reported no intrusion at all, no vehicle marking
a blazing arc of air incandescing against metal, no whisper of the
great forces which drove a plano form ship through Space2.

(Crudelta, using faster-than-light ships, was creeping slow as a snail
hack toward Earth, racing his best to see ifRambo had gotten there
first.) On the fifth day, there was the beginning of a breakthrough.

V

Elizabeth had passed.

This was found out only much later, by a careful check of the hospital
records.

The doctors only knew this much: Patients had been moved down the
corridor, sheet-covered figures immobile on wheeled beds.

Suddenly the beds stopped rolling.

A nurse screamed.

The heavy steel-and-plastic wall was bending inward.  Some slow, silent
force was pushing the wall into the corridor itself.

The wall ripped.

A human hand emerged.

One of the quick-witted nurses screamed,

"Push those beds!

Push them out of the way."

The nurses and robots obeyed.

The beds rocked like a group of boats crossing a wave when they came to
the place where the floor, bonded to the wall, had bent upward to meet
the wall as it tore inward.  The peach-colored glow of the lights
flicked.  Robots appeared.

A second human hand came through the wall.  Pushing in opposite
directions, the hands tore the wall as though it had been wet paper.

The patient from the grass put his head through.

He looked blindly up and down the corridor, his eyes not quite
focusing, his skin glowing a strange red-brown from the burns of open
space.

"No," he said.  Just that one word.

But that

"No" was heard.  Though the volume was not loud, it carried through the
hospital.  The internal telecommunications system relayed it.  Every
switch in the place went negative.  Frantic nurses and robots, with
even the doctors helping them, rushed to turn all the machines back on
the pumps, the ventilators, the artificial kidneys, the brain
re-recorders, even the simple air engines which kept the atmosphere
clean.

Far overhead an aircraft spun giddily.  Its "off switch, surrounded by
triple safeguards, had suddenly been thrown into the negative position.
Fortunately the robot-pilot got it going again before crashing into
earth.

The patient did not seem to know that his word had this effect.

(Later the world knew that this was part of the drunk boat effect." The
man himself had developed the capacity for using his neuro physical
system as a machine control.) In the corridor, the machine-robot who
served as policeman arrived.  He wore sterile, padded velvet gloves
with a grip of sixty metric tons inside his hands.  He approached the
patient.  The robot had been carefully trained to recognize all kinds
of danger from delirious or psychotic humans; later he reported that he
had an input of "danger, extreme" on every band of sensation.  He had
been expecting to seize the prisoner with irreversible firmness and to
return him to his bed, but with this kind of danger sizzling in the
air, the robot took no chances.  His wrist itself contained a
hypodermic pistol which operated on compressed argon.

He reached out toward the unknown, naked man who stood in the big
torn gap of the wall.  The wrist-weapon hissed and a sizable injection
of condamine, the most powerful narcotic in the known universe, spat
its way through the skin of Rambo's neck.

The patient collapsed.

The robot picked him up gently and tenderly, lifted him through the
torn wall, pushed the door open with a kick which broke the lock, and
put the patient back on his bed.  The robot could hear doctors coming,
so he used his enormous hands to pat the steel wall back into its
proper shape.  Work-robots or under people could finish the job later,
but meanwhile it looked better to have that part of the building set at
right angles again.

Doctor Vomact arrived, followed closely by Grosbeck.

"What happened?"  he yelled, shaken out of a lifelong calm.

The robot pointed at the ripped wall.

"He tore it open.  I put it back," said the robot.

The doctors turned to look at the patient.  He had crawled off his bed
again and was on the floor, but his breathing was light and natural.

"What did you give him?"  cried Vomact to the robot.

"Condamine," said the robot, "according to rule forty-sevenB.  The drug
is not to be mentioned outside the hospital."

"I know that," said Vomact absentmindedly and a little crossly.

"You can go along now.  Thank you."

"It is not usual to thank robots," said the robot, "but you can read a
commendation into my record if you want to."

"Get the blazes out of here!"  shouted Vomact at the officious robot.

The robot blinked.

"There are no blazes but I have the impression you mean me.  I shall
leave, with your permission."

He jumped with odd gracefulness around the two doctors, fingered the
broken door lock absent-mindedly, as though he might have wished to
repair it, and then, seeing Vomact glare at him, left the room
completely.

A moment later soft muted thuds began.  Both doctors listened a moment
and then gave up.  The robot was out in the corridor, gently patting
the steel floor back into shape.  He was a tidy robot, probably
animated by an amplified chicken-brain, and when he got tidy he became
obstinate.

"Two questions, Grosbeck," said the Sir and Doctor Vomact.

"Your service, sir!"

"Where was the patient standing when he pushed the wall into the
corridor, and how did he get the leverage to do it?"

Grosbeck narrowed his eyes in puzzlement.

"Now that you mention it, I have no idea of how he did it.  In fact, he
could not have done it.  But he has.  And the other question?"

"What do you think of condamine?"

"Dangerous, of course, as always.  Addiction can " "Can you have
addiction with no cortical activity?"

interrupted Vomact.

"Of course," said Grosbeck promptly.

"Tissue addiction."

"Look for it, then," said Vomact.

Grosbeck knelt beside the patient and felt with his fingertips for the
muscle endings.  He felt where they knotted themselves into the base of
the skull, the tips of the shoulders, the striped area of the back.

When he stood up there was a look of puzzlement on his face.

"I never felt a human body like this one before.  I am not even sure
that it is human any longer."

Vomact said nothing.  The two doctors confronted one another.

Grosbeck fidgeted under the calm stare of the senior man.  Finally he
blurted out: "Sir and Doctor, I know what we could do."

"And that," said Vomact levelly, without the faintest hint of
encouragement or of warning, "is what?"

"It wouldn't be the first time that it's been done in a hospital."

"What?"  said Vomact, his eyes those dreaded eyes!  making Grosbeck say
what he did not want to say.

Grosbeck flushed.  He leaned toward Vomact so as to whisper, even
though there was no one standing near them.  His words, when they came,
had the hasty indecency of a lover's improper suggestion, "Kill the
patient, Sir and Doctor.  Kill him.  We have plenty of records of him.
We can get a cadaver out of the basement and make it into a good
simulacrum.  Who knows what we will turn loose among mankind if we let
him get well?"

"Who knows?"  said Vomact without tone or quality to his voice.

"But Citizen and Doctor, what is the twelfth duty of a physician?"

" "Not to take the law into his own hands, keeping healing for the
healers and giving to the state or the Instrumentality whatever
properly belongs to the state or the Instrumentality."  " Grosbeck
sighed as he retracted his own suggestion.

"Sir and Doctor, I take it back.  It wasn't medicine which I was
talking about.  It was government and politics which were really in my
mind."

"And now ... ?"  asked Vomact.

"Heal him, or let him be until he heals himself."

"And which would you do?"

"I'd try to heal him."

"How?"  said Vomact.

"Sir and Doctor," cried Grosbeck, "do not ride my weaknesses in this
case!  I know that you like me because I am a bold, confident sort of
man.  Do not ask me to be myself when we do not even know where this
body came from.  If I were bold as usual, I would give him typhoid and
condamine, stationing tele paths nearby.  But this is something new in
the history of man.  We are people and perhaps he is not a person any
more.  Perhaps he
represents the combination of people with some kind of a new force.
How did he get here from the far side of nowhere?  How many million
times has he been enlarged or reduced?  We do not know what he is or
what has happened to him.  How can we treat a man when we are treating
the cold of space, the heat of suns, the frigidity of distance?  We
know what to do with flesh, but this is not quite flesh any more.  Feel
him yourself.  Sir and Doctor!  You will touch something which nobody
has ever touched before."

"I have," Vomact declared, "already felt him.  You are right.

We will try typhoid and condamine for half a day.  Twelve hours from
now let us meet each other at this place.  I will tell the nurses and
the robots what to do in the interim."

They both gave the red-tanned spreadeagled figure on the floor a
parting glance.  Grosbeck looked at the body with something like
distaste mingled with fear; Vomact was expressionless, save for a wry
wan smile of pity.

At the door the head nurse awaited them.  Grosbeck was surprised at his
chiefs orders.

"Ma'am and Nurse, do you have a weapon proof vault in this hospital?"

"Yes, sir," she said.

"We used to keep our records in it until we tele metered all our
records into Computer Orbit.  Now it is dirty and empty."

"Clean it out.  Run a ventilator tube into it.  Who is your military
protector?"

"My what?"  she cried, in surprise.

"Everyone on Earth has military protection.  Where are the forces, the
soldiers, who protect this hospital of yours?"

"My Sir and Doctor!"  she called out.

"My Sir and Doctor!

I'm an old woman and I have been allowed to work here for three hundred
years.  But I never thought of that idea before.

Why would I need soldiers?"

"Find who they are and ask them to stand by.  They are specialists too,
with a different kind of art from ours.  Let them stand by.  They may
be needed before this day is out.  Give my name as authority to their
lieutenant or sergeant.  Now here is the medication which I want you to
apply to this patient."

Her eyes widened as he went on talking, but she was a disciplined woman
and she nodded as she heard him out, point by point.  Her eyes looked
very sad and weary at the end but she was a trained expert herself and
she had enormous respect for the skill and wisdom of the Sir and Doctor
Vomact.  She also had a warm, feminine pity for the motionless young
male figure on the floor, swimming forever on the heavy floor, swimming
between archipelagoes which no man living had ever dreamed before.

VI

Crisis came that night.

The patient had worn hand prints into the inner wall of the vault, but
he had not escaped.

The soldiers, looking oddly alert with their weapons gleaming in the
bright corridor of the hospital, were really very bored, as soldiers
always become when they are on duty with no action.

Their lieutenant was keyed up.  The wire point in his hand buzzed like
a dangerous insect.  Sir and Doctor Vomact, who knew more about weapons
than the soldiers thought he knew, saw that the wire point was set to
high, with a capacity of paralyzing people five stories up, five
stories down, or a kilometer sideways.  He said nothing.  He merely
thanked the lieutenant and entered the vault, closely followed by
Grosbeck and Timofeyev.

The patient swam here too.

He had changed to an arm-over-arm motion, kicking his legs against the
floor.  It was as though he had swum on the other floor with the sole
purpose of staying afloat, and had now discovered some direction in
which to go, albeit very slowly.  His motions were deliberate, tense,
rigid, and so reduced in time that it seemed as though he hardly moved
at all.  The ripped pajamas lay on the floor beside him.

Vomact glanced around, wondering what forces the man could have used to
make those hand prints on the steel wall.  He remembered Grosbeck's
warning that the patient should die, rather than subject all mankind to
new and un thought risks, but though he shared the feeling, he could
not condone the recommendation.

Almost irritably, the great doctor thought to himself where could the
man be going?

(To Elizabeth, the truth was, to Elizabeth, now only sixty meters away.
Not till much later did people understand what Rambo had been trying to
do crossing sixty mere meters to reach his Elizabeth when he had
already jumped an un count of light-years to return to her.  To his
own, his dear, his well beloved who needed him!) The condamine did not
leave its characteristic mark of deep lassitude and glowing skin:
perhaps the typhoid was successfully contradicting it.  Rambo did seem
more lively than before.  The name had come through on the regular
message system, but it still did not mean anything to the Sir and
Doctor Vomact.  It would.  It would.

Meanwhile the other two doctors, briefed ahead of time, got busy with
the apparatus which the robots and the nurses had installed.

Vomact murmured to the others,

"I think he's better off.

Looser all around.  I'll try shouting."

So busy were they that they just nodded.

Vomact screamed at the patient,

"Who are you?  What are you?

Where do you come from?"

The sad blue eyes of the man on the floor glanced at him with a
surprisingly quick glance, but there was no other real sign of
communication.  The limbs kept up their swim against the rough concrete
floor of the vault.  Two of the bandages which the hospital staff had
put on him had worn off again.  The right knee, scraped and bruised,
deposited a sixty-centimeter trail of blood some old and black and
coagulated, some fresh, new and liquid on the floor as it moved back
and forth.

Vomact stood up and spoke to Grosbeck and Timofeyev.

"Now," he said, "let us see what happens when we apply the pain."

The two stepped back without being told to do so.

Timofeyev waved his hand at a small white-enameled orderly robot who
stood in the doorway.

The pain net, a fragile cage of wires, dropped down from the ceiling.

It was Vomact's duty, as senior doctor, to take the greatest risk.  The
patient was wholly encased by the net of wires, but Vomact dropped to
his hands and knees, lifted the net at one corner with his right hand,
thrust his own head into it next to the head of the patient.  Doctor
Vomact's robe trailed on the clean concrete, touching the black old
stains of blood left from the patient's "swim" throughout the night.

Now Vomact's mouth was centimeters from the patient's ear.

Said Vomact,

"Oh."

The net hummed.

The patient stopped his slow motion, arched his back, looked
steadfastly at the doctor.

Doctor Grosbeck and Timofeyev could see Vomact's face go white with the
impact of the pain machine, but Vomact kept his voice under control and
said evenly and loudly to the patient: " Who are you ?  " The patient
said flatly,

"Elizabeth."

The answer was foolish but the tone was rational.

Vomact pulled his head out from under the net, shouting again at the
patient,

"Who are you?"

The naked man replied, speaking very clearly: "Chwinkle, chwinkle,
little chweeble, I am feeling very feeble!"

Vomact frowned and murmured to the robot,

"More pain.

Turn it up to pain ultimate."

The body threshed under the net, trying to resume its swim on the
concrete.

A loud wild braying cry came from the victim under the net.

It sounded like a screamed distortion of the name Elizabeth, echoing
out from endless remoteness.

It did not make sense.

Vomact screamed back,

"Who are you?"

With unexpected clarity and resonance, the voice came back to the three
doctors from the twisting body under the net of pain: "I'm the shipped
man, the ripped man, the gypped man, the dipped man, the hipped man,
the tripped man, the tipped man, the slipped man, the flipped man, the
nipped man, the ripped man, the clipped man aah!"  His voice choked off
with a cry and he went back to swimming on the floor, despite the
intensity of the pain net immediately above him.

The doctor lifted his hand.  The pain net stopped buzzing and lifted
high into the air.

He felt the patient's pulse.  It was quick.  He lifted an eyelid.

The reactions were much closer to normal.

"Stand back," he said to the others.

"Pain on both of us," he said to the robot.

The net came down on the two of them.

"Who are you?"

shrieked Vomact, right into the patient's ear, holding the man halfway
off the floor and not quite knowing whether the body which tore steel
walls might not, somehow, tear both of them apart as they stood.

The man babbled back at him: "I'm the most man, the post man, the host
man, the ghost man, the coast man, the boast man, the closed man, the
grossed man, the toast man, the roast man, no!

no!  no!"

He struggled in Vomact's arms.  Grosbeck and Timofeyev stepped forward
to rescue their chief when the patient added, very calmly and clearly:
"Your procedure is all right.  Doctor, whoever you are.  More fever,
please.  More pain, please.  Some of that dope to fight the pain.
You're pulling me back.  I know I am on Earth.  Elizabeth is near.  For
the love of God, get me Elizabeth!  But don't rush me.

I need days and days to get well."

The rationality was so startling that Grosbeck, without waiting for
orders from Vomact, as chief doctor, ordered the pain net lifted.

The patient began babbling again: "I'm the three man, the he man, the
tree man, the me man, the three man, the three man...."

His voice faded and he slumped unconscious.

Vomact walked out of the vault.  He was a little unsteady.

His colleagues took him by the elbows.

He smiled wanly at them.

"I wish it were lawful.... I could use some of that condamine myself.
No wonder the pain nets wake the patients up and even make dead people
do twitches!

Get me some liquor.  My heart is old."

Grosbeck sat him down while Timofeyev ran down the corridor in search
of medicinal liquor.

Vomact murmured,

"How are we going to find his Elizabeth?  There must be millions of
them.  And he's from Earth Four too."

"Sir and Doctor, you have worked wonders," said Grosbeck.

"To go under the net.  To take those chances.  To bring him to speech.
I will never see anything like it again.  It's enough for any one
lifetime, to have seen this day."

"But what do we do next?"  asked Vomact wearily, almost in confusion.

That particular question needed no answer.

VII

The Lord Crudelta had reached Earth.

His pilot landed the craft and fainted at the controls with sheer
exhaustion.

Of the escort cats, who had ridden alongside the space craft in the
miniature spaceships, three were dead, one was comatose, and the fifth
was spitting and raving.

When the port authorities tried to slow the Lord Crudelta down to
ascertain his authority, he invoked Top Emergency, took over the
command of troops in the name of the Instrumentality, arrested everyone
in sight but the troop commander, and requisitioned the troop commander
to take him to the hospital.

The computers at the port had told him that one Rambo, "sans origine,"
had arrived mysteriously on the grass of a designated hospital.

Outside the hospital, the Lord Crudelta invoked Top Emergency again,
placed all armed men under his own command, ordered a recording monitor
to cover all his actions if he should later be channeled into a
court-martial, and arrested everyone in sight.

The tramp of heavily armed men, marching in combat order, overtook
Timofeyev as he hurried back to Vomact with a drink.

The men were jogging along on the double.  All of them had live helmets
and their wire points were buzzing.

Nurses ran forward to drive the intruders out, ran backward when the
sting of the stun-rays brushed cruelly over them.  The whole hospital
was in an uproar.

The Lord Crudelta later admitted that he had made a serious mistake.

The Two Minutes' War broke out immediately.

You have to understand the pattern of the Instrumentality to see how it
happened.  The Instrumentality was a self-perpetuating body of men with
enormous powers and a strict code.  Each was a plenum of the low, the
middle, and the high justice.  Each could do anything he found
necessary or proper to maintain the Instrumentality and to keep the
peace between the worlds.  But if he made a mistake or committed a
wrong ah, then, it was suddenly different.  Any Lord could put another
Lord to death in an emergency, but he was assured of death and disgrace
himself if he assumed this responsibility.  The only difference between
ratification and repudiation came in the fact that Lords who killed in
an emergency and were proved wrong were marked down on a very shameful
list, while those who killed other Lords rightly (as later examination
might prove) were listed on a very honorable list, but still killed.

With three Lords, the situation was different.

Three Lords made an emergency court; if they acted together, acted in
good faith, and reported to the computers of the Instrumentality, they
were exempt from punishment, though not from blame or even reduction to
citizen status.  Seven Lords, or all the Lords on a given planet at a
given moment, were beyond any criticism except that of a dignified
reversal of their actions should a later ruling prove them wrong.

This was all the business of the Instrumentality.  The Instrumentality
had the perpetual slogan: "Watch, but do not govern; stop war, but do
not wage it; protect, but do not control; and first, survive!"

The Lord Crudelta had seized the troops not his troops, but the light
regular troops of Manhome Government because he feared that the
greatest danger in the history of man might come from the person whom
he himself had sent through Space3.

He never expected that the troops would be plucked out from his command
an overriding power reinforced by robotic telepathy and the
incomparable communications net, both open and secret, reinforced by
thousands of years in trickery, defeat, secrecy, victory, and sheer
experience, which the Instrumentality had perfected since it emerged
from the Ancient Wars.

Overriding, overridden!

These were the commands which the Instrumentality had used before
recorded time began.  Sometimes they suspended their antagonists on
points of law, sometimes by the deft and deadly insertion of weapons,
most often by cutting in on other people's mechanical and social
controls and doing their will, only to drop the controls as suddenly as
they had taken them.

But not Crudelta's hastily called troops.

VIII

The war broke out with a change of pace.

Two squads of men were moving into that part of the hospital where
Elizabeth lay, waiting the endless returns to the jelly-baths which
would rebuild her poor ruined body.

The squads changed pace.

The survivors could not account for what happened They all admitted to
great mental confusion afterward.

At the time it seemed that they had received a clear, logical command
to turn and to defend the women's section by counterattacking their own
main battalion right in their rear.

The hospital was a very strong building.  Otherwise it would have
melted to the ground or shot up in flame.

The leading soldiers suddenly turned around, dropped for cover, and
blazed their wire points at the comrades who followed them.  The wire
points were cued to organic material, though fairly harmless to
inorganic.  They were powered by the power relays which every soldier
wore on his back.

In the first ten seconds of the turnaround, twenty-seven soldiers, two
nurses, three patients, and one orderly were killed.

One hundred and nine other people were wounded in that first exchange
of fire.

The troop commander had never seen battle, but he had been well
trained.  He immediately deployed his reserves around the external
exits of the building and sent his favorite squad, commanded by a
Sergeant Lansdale whom he trusted well, down into the basement, so that
it could rise vertically from the basement into the women's quarters
and find out who the enemy was.

As yet, he had no idea that it was his own leading troops turning and
fighting their comrades.

He testified later, at the trial, that he personally had no sensations
of eerie interference with his own mind.  He merely knew that his men
had unexpectedly come upon armed resistance from antagonists identity
unknown!  who had weapons identical with theirs.  Since the Lord
Crudelta had brought them along in case there might be a fight with
unspecified antagonists, he felt right in assuming that a Lord of the
Instrumentality knew what he was doing.  This was the enemy, all
right.

In less than a minute, the two sides had balanced out.  The line of
fire had moved right into his own force.  The lead men, some of whom
were wounded, simply turned around and began defending themselves
against the men immediately behind them.  It was as though an invisible
line, moving rapidly, had parted the two sections of the military
force.

The oily black smoke of dissolving bodies began to glut the
ventilators.

Patients were screaming, doctors cursing, robots stamping around, and
nurses trying to call each other.

The war ended when the troop commander saw Sergeant Lansdale, whom he
himself had sent upstairs, leading a charge out of the women's quarters
directly at his own commander!

The officer kept his head.

He dropped to the floor and rolled sidewise as the air chittered at
him, the emanations of Lansdale's wire point killing all the tiny
bacteria in the air.  On his helmet phone he pushed the manual controls
to top volume and to noncoms only and he commanded, with a sudden flash
of brilliant mother-wit: "Good job, Lansdale!"

Lansdale's voice came back as weak as if it had been off planet

"We' LL keep them out of this section yet, sir!"

The troop commander called back very loudly but calmly, not letting on
that he thought his sergeant was psychotic,

"Easy now.

Hold on.  I'll be with you."

He changed to the other channel and said to his nearby men, "Cease
fire.  Take cover and wait."

A wild scream came to him from the phones.

It was Lansdale.

"Sir!  Sir!  I'm fighting you, sir.  I just caught on.  It's getting me
again.  Watch out."

The buzz and burr of the weapons suddenly stopped.

The wild human uproar of the hospital continued.

A tall doctor, with the insignia of high seniority, came gently to the
troop commander and said,

"You can stand up and take your soldiers out now, young fellow.  The
fight was a mistake."

"I'm not under your orders," snapped the young officer.

"I'm under the Lord Crudelta.  He requisitioned this force from the
Manhome Government.  Who are you?"

"You may salute me, captain," said the doctor.

"I am Colonel General Vomact of the Earth Medical Reserve.  But you had
better not wait for the Lord Crudelta."

"But where is he?"

"In my bed," said Vomact.

"Your bed?"  cried the young officer in complete amazement.

"In bed.  Doped to the teeth.  I fixed him up.  He was excited.

Take your men out.  We'll treat the wounded on the lawn.  You can see
the dead in the refrigerators downstairs in a few minutes, except for
the ones that went smoky from direct hits."

"But the fight?  .  . ."

"A mistake, young man, or else "
"Or else what?"  shouted the young officer, horrified at the utter
mess of his own combat experience.

"Or else a weapon no man has ever seen before.  Your troops fought each
other.  Your command was intercepted."

"I could see that," snapped the officer, "as soon as I saw Lansdale
coming at me."

"But do you know what took him over?"  said Vomact gently, while taking
the officer by the arm and beginning to lead him out of the hospital.
The captain went willingly, not noticing where he was going, so eagerly
did he watch for the other man's words.

"I think I know," said Vomact.

"Another man's dreams.

Dreams which have learned how to turn themselves into electricity or
plastic or stone.  Or anything else.  Dreams coming to us out of
space-three."

The young officer nodded dumbly.  This was too much.

"Space-three?"  he murmured.  It was like being told that the really
alien invaders, whom men had been expecting for fourteen thousand years
and had never met, were waiting for him on the grass.  Until now Space3
had been a mathematical idea, a romancer's daydream, but not a fact.

The Sir and Doctor Vomact did not even ask the young officer.  He
brushed the young man gently at the nape of the neck and shot him
through with tranquilizer.  Vomact then led him out to the grass.  The
young captain stood alone and whistled happily at the stars in the sky.
Behind him, his sergeants and corporals were sorting out the survivors
and getting treatment for the wounded.

The Two Minutes' War was over.

Rambo had stopped dreaming that his Elizabeth was in danger.  He had
recognized, even in his deep sick sleep, that the tramping in the
corridor was the movement of armed men.

His mind had set up defenses to protect Elizabeth.  He took over
command of the forward troops and set them to stopping the main body.
The powers which Space3 had worked into him made this easy for him to
do, even though he did not know that he was doing it.

IX

"How many dead?"  said Vomact to Grosbeck and Timofeyev.

"About two hundred."

"And how many irrecoverable dead?"

"The ones that got turned into smoke.  A dozen, maybe fourteen.  The
other dead can be fixed up, but most of them will have to get new
personality prints."

"Do you know what happened?"  asked Vomact.

"No, Sir and Doctor," they both chorused.

"I do.  I think I do.  No, I know I do.  It's the wildest story in the
history of man.  Our patient did it Rambo.  He took over the troops and
set them against each other.  That Lord of the Instrumentality who came
charging in Crudelta.  I've known him for a long long time.  He's
behind this case.  He thought that troops would help, not sensing that
troops would invite attack upon themselves.  And there is something
else."

"Yes?"  they said, in unison.

"Rambo's woman the one he's looking for.  She must be here."

"Why?"  said Timofeyev.

"Because he's here."

"You're assuming that he came here because of his own will, Sir and
Doctor."

Vomact smiled the wise crafty smile of his family; it was almost a
trademark of the Vomact house.

"I am assuming all the things which I cannot otherwise prove.

"First, I assume that he came here naked out of space itself, driven by
some kind of force which we cannot even guess.

"Second, I assume he came here because he wanted something.  A woman
named Elizabeth, who must already be here.  In a moment we can go
inventory all our Elizabeths.

"Third, I assume that the Lord Crudelta knew something about it.  He
has led troops into the building.  He began raving when he saw me.  I
know hysterical fatigue, as do you, my brothers, so I condamined him
for a night's sleep.

"Fourth, let's leave our man alone.  There'll be hearings and trials
enough, Space knows, when all these events get scrambled out."

Voma ct was right.

He usually was.

Trials did follow.

It was lucky that Old Earth no longer permitted newspapers or
television news.  The population would have been frothed up to riot and
terror if they had ever found out what happened at the Old Main
Hospital just to the west of Meeya Meefla.

X

Twenty-one days later, Vomact, Timofeyev, and Grosbeck were summoned to
the trial of the Lord Crudelta.  A full panel of seven Lords of the
Instrumentality was there to give Crudelta an ample hearing and, if
required, a sudden death.  The doctors were present both as doctors for
Elizabeth and Rambo and as witnesses for the Investigating Lord.

Elizabeth, fresh up from being dead, was as beautiful as a newborn baby
in exquisite, adult feminine form.  Rambo could not take his eyes off
her, but a look of bewilderment went over his face every time she gave
him a friendly, calm, remote little smile.  (She had been told that she
was his girl, and she was prepared to believe it, but she had no memory
of him or of anything else more than sixty hours back, when speech had
been reinstalled in her mind; and he, for his part, was still thick of
speech and subject to strains which the doctors could not quite figure
out.) The Investigating Lord was a man named Starmount.

He asked the panel to rise.

They did so.

He faced the Lord Crudelta with great solemnity.

"You are obliged, my Lord Crudelta, to speak quickly and clearly to
this court."

"Yes, my Lord," he answered.

"We have the summary power."

"You have the summary power.  I recognize it."

"You will tell the truth or else you will lie."

"I shall tell the truth or I will lie."

"You may lie, if you wish, about matters of fact and opinion, but you
will in no case lie about human relationships.

If you do lie, nevertheless, you will ask that your name be entered in
the Roster of Dishonor."

"I understand the panel and the rights of this panel.  I will lie if I
wish though I don't think I will need to do so" and here Crudelta
flashed a weary intelligent smile at all of them "but I will not lie
about matters of relationship.  If I do, I will ask for dishonor."

"You have yourself been well trained as a Lord of the
Instrumentality?"

"I have been so trained and I love the Instrumentality well.

In fact, I am myself the Instrumentality, as are you, and as are the
honorable Lords beside you.  I shall behave well, for as long as I live
this afternoon."

"Do you credit him, my Lords?"  asked Starmount.

The members of the panel nodded their mitred heads.  They had dressed
ceremonially for the occasion.

"Do you have a relationship to the woman Elizabeth?"

The members of the trial panel caught their breath as they saw Crudelta
turn white.

"My Lords!"  he cried, and answered no further.

"It is the custom," said Starmount firmly, "that you answer promptly or
that you die."

The Lord Crudelta got control of himself.

"I am answering.

I did not
know who she was, except for the fact that Rambo loved her.  I sent
her to Earth from Earth Four, where I then was.  Then I told Rambo that
she had been murdered and hung desperately at the edge of death,
wanting only his help to return to the green fields of life."

Said Starmount,

"Was that the truth?"

"My Lord and Lords, it was a lie."

"Why did you tell it?"

"To induce rage in Rambo and to give him an overriding reason for
wanting to come to Earth faster than any man has ever come before."

"A-a-ah!  A-a-ah!"  Two wild cries came from Rambo, more like the call
of an animal than like the sound of a man.

Vomact looked at his patient, felt himself beginning to growl with a
deep internal rage.  Rambo's powers, generated in the depths of Space3,
had begun to operate again.  Vomact made a sign.  The robot behind
Rambo had been coded to keep Rambo calm.  Though the robot had been
enameled to look like a white gleaming hospital orderly, he was
actually a police-robot of high powers, built up with an electronic
cortex based on the frozen midbrain of an old wolf.  (A wolf was a rare
animal, something like a dog.) The robot touched Rambo, who dropped off
to sleep.

Doctor Vomact felt the anger in his own mind fade away.  He lifted his
hand gently; the robot caught the signal and stopped applying the
narcoleptic radiation.  Rambo slept normally; Elizabeth looked
worriedly at the man who she had been told was her own.

The Lords turned back from the glances at Rambo.

Said Starmount, icily,

"And why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted him to travel through space-three."

"Why?"

"To show it could be done."

"And do you, my Lord Crudelta, affirm that this man has in fact
traveled through space-three?"

"I do."

"Are you lying?"

"I have the right to lie, but I have no wish to do so.  In the name of
the Instrumentality itself, I tell you that this is the truth."

The panel members gasped.  Now there was no way out.

Either the Lord Crudelta was telling the truth, which meant that all
former times had come to an end and that a new age had begun for all
the kinds of mankind, or else he was lying in the face of the most
powerful form of affirmation which any of them knew.

Even Starmount himself took a different tone.  His teasing, restless,
intelligent voice took on a new timbre of kindness.

"You do therefore assert that this man has come back from outside our
galaxy with nothing more than his own natural skin to cover him?  No
instruments?  No power?"

"I did not say that," said Crudelta.

"Other people have begun to pretend I used such words.  I tell you, my
Lords, that I plano formed for twelve consecutive Earth days and
nights.

Some of you may remember where Outpost Baiter Gator is.

Well, I had a good Go-Captain, and he took me four long jumps beyond
there, out into intergalactic space.  I left this man there.  When I
reached Earth, he had been here twelve days, more or less.  I have
assumed, therefore, that his trip was more or less instantaneous.  I
was on my way back to Baiter Gator, counting by Earth time, when the
doctor here found this man on the grass outside the hospital."

Vomact raised his hand.  The Lord Starmount gave him the right to
speak.

"My Sirs and Lords, we did not find this man on the grass.  The robots
did, and made a record.  But even the robots did not see or photograph
his arrival."

"We know that," said Starmount angrily, "and we know that we have been
told that nothing came to Earth by any means whatever, in that
particular quarter hour.  Go on, my Lord Crudelta.  What relation are
you to Rambo?"

"He is my victim."

"Explain yourself!"

"I compute red him out.  I asked the machines where I would be most apt
to find a man with a tremendous lot of rage in him, and was informed
that on Earth Four the rage level had been left high because that
particular planet had a considerable need for explorers and
adventurers, in whom rage was a strong survival trait.  When I got to
Earth Four, I commanded the authorities to find out which border cases
had exceeded the limits of allowable rage.  They gave me four men.  One
was much too large.  Two were old.  This man was the only candidate for
my experiment.  I chose him."

"What did you tell him?"

"Tell him?  I told him his sweetheart was dead or dying."

"No, no," said Starmount.

"Not at the moment of crisis.

What did you tell him to make him cooperate in the first place?"

"I told him," said the Lord Crudelta evenly, "that I was myself a Lord
of the Instrumentality and that I would kill him myself if he did not
obey, and obey promptly."

"And under what custom or law did you act?"

"Reserved material," said the Lord Crudelta promptly, "There are tele
paths here who are not a part of the Instrumentality.  I beg leave to
defer until we have a shielded place."

Several members of the panel nodded and Starmount agreed with them.  He
changed the line of questioning.

"You forced this man, therefore, to do something which he did not wish
to do?"

"That is right," said the Lord Crudelta.

"Why didn't you go yourself, if it is that dangerous?"  "My Lords and
Honorables, it was the nature of the experiment that the experimenter
himself should not be expended in the first try.  Artyr Rambo has
indeed traveled through space-three.  I shall follow him myself, in due
course."  (How the Lord Crudelta did do so is another tale, told about
another time.) "If I had gone and if I had been lost, that would have
been the end of the space-three trials.  At least for our time."

"Tell us the exact circumstances under which you last saw Artyr Rambo
before you met after the battle in the Old Main Hospital."

"We had put him in a rocket of the most ancient style.  We also wrote
writing on the outside of it, just the way the Ancients did when they
first ventured into space.  Ah, that was a beautiful piece of
engineering and archeology!  We copied everything right down to the
correct models of fifteen thousand years ago, when the Paroskii and
Murkins were racing each other into space.  The rocket was white, with
a red and white gantry beside it.  The letters IOM were on the rocket,
not that the words mattered.  The rocket has gone into nowhere, but the
passenger sits here.  It rose on a stool of fire.  The stool became a
column.  Then the landing field disappeared."

"And the landing field," said Starmount quietly, "what was that?"

"A modified plano form ship.  We have had ships go milky in space
because they faded molecule by molecule.  We have had others disappear
utterly.  The engineers had changed this around.

We took out all the machinery needed for circumnavigation, for
survival, or for comfort.  The landing field was to last three or four
seconds, no more.  Instead, we put in fourteen plano form devices, all
operating in tandem, so that the ship would do what other ships do when
they plano form namely, drop one of our familiar dimensions and pick up
a new dimension from some unknown category of space but do it with such
force as to get out of what people call space-two and move over into
space three "And space-three, what did you expect of that?"  "I thought
that it was universal and instantaneous, in relation to our universe. 
That everything was equally distant from everything else. That Rambo,
wanting to see his girl again, would move in a thousandth of a second
from the empty space beyond Outpost Baiter Gator into the hospital
where she was."

"And, my Lord Crudelta, what made you think so?"

"A hunch, my Lord, for which you are welcome to kill me."

Starmount turned to the panel.

"I suspect, my Lords, that you are more
likely to doom him to long life, great responsibility, immense
rewards, and the fatigue of being his own difficult and complicated
self."

The mitres moved gently and the members of the panel rose.

"You, my Lord Crudelta, will sleep till the trial is finished."

A robot stroked him and he fell asleep.

"Next witness," said the Lord Starmount, "in five minutes."

XI

Vomact tried to keep Rambo from being heard as a witness.

He argued fiercely with the Lord Starmount in the intermission.

"You Lords have shot up my hospital, abducted two of my patients, and
now you are going to torment both Rambo and Elizabeth.  Can't you leave
them alone?  Rambo is in no condition to give coherent answers and
Elizabeth may be damaged if she sees him suffer."

The Lord Starmount said to him,

"You have your rules, Doctor, and we have ours.  This trial is being
recorded, inch by inch and moment by moment.  Nothing is going to be
done to Rambo unless we find that he has planet-killing powers.  If
that is true, of course, we will ask you to take him back to the
hospital and to put him to death very pleasantly.  But I don't think it
will happen.  We want his story so that we can judge my colleague
Crudelta.  Do you think that the Instrumentality would survive if it
did not have fierce internal discipline?"

Vomact nodded sadly; he went back to Grosbeck and Timofeyev, murmuring
sadly to them,

"Rambo's in for it.  There's nothing we could do."

The panel reassembled.  They put on their judicial mitres.  The lights
of the room darkened and the weird blue light of justice was turned
on.

The robot orderly helped Rambo to the witness chair.

"You are obliged," said Starmount, "to speak quickly and clearly to
this court."

"You're not Elizabeth," said Rambo.

"I am the Lord Starmount," said the investigating Lord, quickly
deciding to dispense with the formalities.

"Do you know me?"

"No," said Rambo.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Earth," said Rambo.

"Do you wish to lie or to tell the truth?"

"A lie," said Rambo, "is the only truth which men can share with each
other, so I will tell you lies, the way we always do."

"Can you report your trip?"

"No."

"Why not, citizen Rambo?"

"Words won't describe it."

"Do you remember your trip?"

"Do you remember your pulse of two minutes ago?"  countered Rambo.

"I am not playing with you," said Starmount.

"We think you have been in space-three and we want you to testify about
the Lord Crudelta."

"Oh!"  said Rambo.

"I don't like him.  I never did like him."

"Will you nevertheless try to tell us what happened also to you?"

"Should I, Elizabeth?"  asked Rambo of the girl, who sat in the
audience.

She did not stammer.

"Yes," she said, in a clear voice which rang through the big room.

"Tell them, so that we can find our lives again."

"I will tell you," said Rambo.

"When did you last see the Lord Crudelta?"

"When I was stripped and fitted to the rocket, four jumps out beyond
Outpost Baiter Gator.  He was on the ground.  He waved good-bye to
me."

"And then what happened?"

"The rocket rose.  It felt very strange, like no craft I had ever been
in before.  I weighed many, many gravities."

"And then?"

"The engines went on.  I was thrown out of space itself."

"What did it seem like?"

"Behind me I left the working ships, the cloth and the food which goes
through space.  I went down rivers which did not exist.  I felt people
around me though I could not see them, red people shooting arrows at
live bodies."

"Where were you?"  asked a panel member.

"In the wintertime where there is no summer.  In an emptiness like a
child's mind.  In peninsulas which had torn loose from the land.  And I
was the ship."

"You were what?"  asked the same panel member.

"The rocket nose.  The cone.  The boat.  I was drunk.  It was drunk.  I
was the drunk boat myself," said Rambo.

"And where did you go?"  resumed Starmount.

"Where crazy lanterns stared with idiot eyes.  Where the waves washed
back and forth with the dead of all the ages.

Where the stars became a pool and I swam in it.  Where blue turns to
liquor, stronger than alcohol, wilder than music, fermented with the
red red reds of love.  I saw all the things that men have ever thought
they saw, but it was me who really saw them.  I've heard
phosphorescence singing and tides that seemed like crazy cattle clawing
their way out of the ocean, their hooves beating the reefs.  You will
not believe me, but I found Floridas wilder than this, where the
flowers had human skins and eyes like big cats."

"What are you talking about?"  asked the Lord Starmount.

"What I found in space-three," snapped Artyr Rambo.

"Believe it or not.  This is what I now remember.  Maybe it's a dream,
but it's all I have.  It was years and years and it was the blink of an
eye.  I dreamed green nights.  I felt places where the whole horizon
became one big waterfall.  The boat that was me met children and I
showed them El Dorado, where the gold men live.  The people drowned in
space washed gently past me.

I was a boat where all the lost spaceships lay ruined and still.

Seahorses which were not real ran beside me.  The summer months came
and hammered down the sun.  I went past archipelagoes of stars, where
the delirious skies opened up for wanderers.  I cried for me.  I wept
for man.  I wanted to be the drunk boat sinking.  I sank.  I fell.  It
seemed to me that the grass was a lake, where a sad child, on hands and
knees, sailed a toy boat as fragile as a butterfly in spring.  I can't
forget the pride of unremembered flags, the arrogance of prisons which
I suspected, the swimming of the businessmen!  Then I was on the
grass."

"This may have scientific value," said the Lord Starmount, "but it is
not of judicial importance.  Do you have any comment on what you did
during the battle in the hospital?"

Rambo was quick and looked sane.

"What I did, I did not do.  What I did not do, I cannot tell.  Let me
go, because I am tired of you and space, big men and big things.  Let
me sleep and let me get well."

Starmount lifted his hand for silence.

The panel members stared at him.

Only the few tele paths present knew that they had all said, "Aye.  Let
the man go.  Let the girl go.  Let the doctors go.  But bring back the
Lord Crudelta later on.  He has many troubles ahead of him, and we wish
to add to them."

XII

Between the Instrumentality, the Manhome Government, and the
authorities at the Old Main Hospital, everyone wished to give Rambo and
Elizabeth happiness.

As Rambo got well, much of his Earth Four memory returned.

The trip faded from his mind.

When he came to know Elizabeth, he hated the girl.

This was not his girl his bold, saucy Elizabeth of the markets and the
valleys, of the snowy hills and the long boat rides.  This was somebody
meek, sweet, sad, and hopelessly loving.

Vomact cured that.

He sent Rambo to the Pleasure City of the Hesperides, where bold and
talkative women pursued him because he was rich and famous.

In a few weeks a very few indeed he wanted his Elizabeth, this strange
shy girl who had been cooked back from the dead while he rode space
with his own fragile bones.

"Tell the truth, darling."  He spoke to her once gravely and
seriously.

"The Lord Crudelta did not arrange the accident which killed you?"

"They say he wasn't there," said Elizabeth.

"They say it was an actual accident.  I don't know.  I will never
know."

"It doesn't matter now," said Rambo.

"Crudelta's off among the stars, looking for trouble and finding it. We
have our bungalow, and our waterfall and each other."

"Yes, my darling," she said, "each other.  And no fantastic Floridas
for us."

He blinked at this reference to the past, but he said nothing.

A man who has been through Space3 needs very little in life, outside of
not going back to Space3.  Sometimes he dreamed he was the rocket
again, the old rocket taking off on an impossible trip.  Let other men
follow!  he thought.  Let other men go!  I have Elizabeth and I am
here.

 Mother Hitton's Littul Kittons Poor communications deter theft; good
communications promote theft; perfect communications stop theft.  Van
Braam The moon spun.  The woman watched.  Twenty-one facets had been
polished at the moon's equator.  Her function was to arm it.

She was Mother Hitton, the weapons mistress of Old North Australia.

She was a ruddy-faced, cheerful blonde of indeterminate age.

Her eyes were blue, her bosom heavy, her arms strong.  She looked like
a mother, but the only child she had ever had died many generations
ago.  Now she acted as mother to a planet, not to a person; the
Norstrilians slept well because they knew she was watching.  The
weapons slept their long, sick sleep.

This night she glanced for the two-hundredth time at the warning bank.
The bank was quiet.  No danger lights shone.  Yet she felt an enemy out
somewhere in the universe an enemy waiting to strike at her and her
world, to snatch at the immeasurable wealth of the Norstrilians and she
snorted with impatience.  Come along, little man, she thought.  Come
along, little man, and die.  Don't keep me waiting.

She smiled when she recognized the absurdity of her own thought.

She waited for him.

And he did not know it.

He, the robber, was relaxed enough.  He was Benjacomin Bozart, and was
highly trained in the arts of relaxation.

No one at Sunvale, here on Ttiolle, could suspect that he was a senior
warden of the Guild of Thieves, reared under the light of the
starry-violet star.  No one could smell the odor of Viola Siderea upon
him.

"Viola
Siderea," the Lady Ru had said, "was once the most beautiful of worlds
and it is now the most rotten.  Its people were once models for
mankind, and now they are thieves, liars, and killers.  You can smell
their souls in the open day."  The Lady Ru had died a long time ago.
She was much respected, but she was wrong.  The robber did not smell to
others at all.  He knew it.  He was no more "wrong" than a shark
approaching a school of cod.  Life's nature is to live, and he had been
nurtured to live as he had to live by seeking prey.

How else could he live?  Viola Siderea had gone bankrupt a long time
ago, when the photonic sails had disappeared from space and the
plano-forming ships began to whisper their way between the stars.  His
ancestors had been left to die on an off-trail planet.  They refused to
die.  Their ecology shifted and they became predators upon man, adapted
by time and genetics to their deadly tasks.  And he, the robber, was
champion of all his people the best of their best.

He was Benjacomin Bozart.

He had sworn to rob Old North Australia or to die in the attempt, and
he had no intention of dying.

The beach at Sunvale was warm and lovely.  Ttiolle was a free and
casual transit planet.  His weapons were luck and himself: he planned
to play both well.

The Norstrilians could kill.

So could he.

At this moment, in this place, he was a happy tourist at a lovely
beach.  Elsewhere, else when he could become a ferret among conies, a
hawk among doves.

Benjacomin Bozart, thief and warden.  He did not know that someone was
waiting for him.  Someone who did not know his name was prepared to
waken death, just for him.  He was still serene.

Mother Hitton was not serene.  She sensed him dimly but could not yet
spot him.

One of her weapons snored.  She turned it over.

A thousand stars away, Benjacomin Bozart smiled as he walked toward the
beach.

II

Benjacomin felt like a tourist.  His tanned face was tranquil.

His proud, hooded eyes were calm.  His handsome mouth, even without its
charming smile, kept a suggestion of pleasantness at its corners.  He
looked attractive without seeming odd in the least.

He looked much younger than he actually was.  He walked with springy,
happy steps along the beach of Sunvale.

Mother Hitton's Littui Kittons The waves rolled in, white-crested,
like the breakers of Mother Earth.  The Sunvale people were proud of
the way their world resembled Manhome itself.  Few of them had ever
seen Manhome, but they had all heard a bit of history and most of them
had a passing anxiety when they thought of the ancient government still
wielding political power across the depth of space.  They did not like
the old Instrumentality of Earth, but they respected and feared it. The
waves might remind them of the pretty side of Earth; they did not want
to remember the not-so pretty side.

This man was like the pretty side of old Earth.  They could not sense
the power within him.  The Sunvale people smiled absently at him as he
walked past them along the shoreline.

The atmosphere was quiet and everything around him serene.

He turned his face to the sun.  He closed his eyes.  He let the warm
sunlight beat through his eyelids, illuminating him with its comfort
and its reassuring touch.

Benjacomin dreamed of the greatest theft that any man had ever planned.
He dreamed of stealing a huge load of the wealth from the richest world
that mankind had ever built.  He thought of what would happen when he
would finally bring riches back to the planet of Viola Siderea where he
had been reared.

Benjacomin turned his face away from the sun and languidly looked over
the other people on the beach.

There were no Norstrilians in sight yet.  They were easy enough to
recognize.  Big people with red complexions; superb athletes and yet,
in their own way, innocent, young, and very tough.  He had trained for
this theft for two hundred years, his life prolonged for the purpose by
the Guild of Thieves on Viola Siderea.  He himself embodied the dreams
of his own planet, a poor planet once a crossroads of commerce, now
sunken to being a minor outpost for spoliation and pilferage.

He saw a Norstrilian woman come out from the hotel and go down to the
beach.  He waited, and he looked, and he dreamed.

He had a question to ask and no adult Australian would answer it.

"Funny," thought he, "that I call them

"Australians' even now.

That's the old, old Earth name for them rich, brave, tough people.
Fighting children standing on half the world .  . . and now they are
the tyrants of all mankind.  They hold the wealth.  They have the santa
clara and other people live or die depending upon the commerce they
have with the Norstrilians.  But I won't.  And my people won't. We're
men who are wolves to man."

Benjacomin waited gracefully.  Tanned by the light of many suns, he
looked forty though he was two hundred.  He dressed casually, by the
standards of a vacationer.  He might have been an intercultural
salesman, a senior gambler, an assistant star port manager.  He might
even have been a detective working along the commerce lanes.  He
wasn't.  He was a thief.

And he was so good a thief that people turned to him and put their
property in his hands because he was reassuring, calm, gray-eyed,
blond-haired.  Benjacomin waited.  The woman glanced at him, a quick
glance full of open suspicion.

What she saw must have calmed her.  She went on past.  She called back
over the dune,

"Come on, Johnny, we can swim out here."  A little boy, who looked
eight or ten years old, came over the dune top, running toward his
mother.

Benjacomin tensed like a cobra.  His eyes became sharp, his eyelids
narrowed.

This was the prey.  Not too young, not too old.  If the victim had been
too young he wouldn't know the answer; if the victim were too old it
was no use taking him on.  Norstrilians were famed in combat; adults
were mentally and physically too strong to warrant attack.

Benjacomin knew that every thief who had approached the planet of the
Norstrilians who had tried to raid the dream world of Old North
Australia had gotten out of contact with his people and had died. There
was no word of any of them.

And yet he knew that hundreds of thousands of Norstrilians must know
the secret.  They now and then made jokes about it.

He had heard these jokes when he was a young man, and now he was more
than an old man without once coming near the answer.  Life was
expensive.  He was well into his third lifetime and the lifetimes had
been purchased honestly by his people.

Good thieves all of them, paying out hard-stolen money to obtain the
medicine to let their greatest thief remain living.

Benjacomin didn't like violence.  But when violence prepared the way to
the greatest theft of all time, he was willing to use it.

The woman looked at him again.  The mask of evil which had flashed
across his face faded into benignity; he calmed.  She caught him in
that moment of relaxation.  She liked him.

She smiled and, with that awkward hesitation so characteristic of the
Norstrilians, she said,

"Could you mind my boy a bit while I go in the water?  I think we've
seen each other here at the hotel."

"I don't mind," said he.

"I'd be glad to.  Come here, son."

Johnny walked across the sunlit dunes to his own death.  He came within
reach of his mother's enemy.

But the mother had already turned.

The trained hand of Benjacomin Bozart reached out.  He seized the child
by the shoulder.  He turned the boy toward him, forcing him down.
Before the child could cry out, Benjacomin had the needle into him with
the truth drug.

All Johnny reacted to was pain, and then a hammer-blow inside his own
skull as the powerful drug took force.

Mother Hitton's Littul Kittons Benjacomin looked out over the water.
The mother was swimming.  She seemed to be looking back at them.  She
was obviously unworried.  To her, the child seemed to be looking at
something the stranger was showing him in a relaxed, easy way.

"Now, sonny," said Benjacomin, "tell me, what's the outside defense?"

The boy didn't answer.

"What is the outer defense, sonny?  What is the outer defense?"
repeated Benjacomin.  The boy still didn't answer.

Something close to horror ran over the skin of Benjacomin Bozart as he
realized that he had gambled his safety on this planet, gambled the
plans themselves for a chance to break the secret of the
Norstrilians.

He had been stopped by simple, easy devices.  The child had already
been conditioned against attack.  Any attempt to force knowledge out of
the child brought on a conditioned reflex of total muteness.  The boy
was literally unable to talk.

Sunlight gleaming on her wet hair, the mother turned around and called
back,

"Are you all right, Johnny?"

Benjacomin waved to her instead.

"I'm showing him my pictures, ma'am.  He likes 'em.  Take your time."
The mother hesitated and then turned back to the water and swam slowly
away.

Johnny, taken by the drug, sat lightly, like an invalid, on
Benjacomin's lap.

Benjacomin said,

"Johnny, you're going to die now and you will hurt terribly if you
don't tell me what I want to know."  The boy struggled weakly against
his grasp.  Benjacomin repeated,

"I'm going to hurt you if you don't tell me what I want to know.  What
are the outer defenses?  What are the outer defenses?"

The child struggled and Benjacomin realized that the boy was putting up
a fight to comply with the orders, not a fight to get away.  He let the
child slip through his hands and the boy put out a finger and began
writing on the wet sand.  The letters stood out.

A man's shadow loomed behind them.

Benjacomin, alert, ready to spin, kill, or run, slipped to the ground
beside the child and said,

"That's a jolly puzzle.  That is a good one.  Show me some more."  He
smiled up at the passing adult.  The man was a stranger.  The stranger
gave him a very curious glance which became casual when he saw the
pleasant face of Benjacomin, so tenderly and so agreeably playing with
the child.

The fingers were still making the letters in the sand.

There stood the riddle in letters: mother hit ton littul kit tons

The woman was coming back from the sea, the mother with questions.
Benjacomin stroked the sleeve of his coat and brought out his second
needle, a
shallow poison which it would take days or weeks of laboratory work to
detect.  He thrust it directly into the boy's brain, slipping the
needle up behind the skin at the edge of the hairline.  The hair
shadowed the tiny prick.  The incredibly hard needle slipped under the
edge of the skull.  The child was dead.

Murder was accomplished.  Benjacomin casually erased the secret from
the sand.  The woman came nearer.  He called to her, his voice full of
pleasant concern,

"Ma'am, you'd better come here, I think your son has fainted from the
heat."

He gave the mother the body of her son.  Her face changed to alarm. She
looked frightened and alert.  She didn't know how to meet this.

For a dreadful moment she looked into his eyes.

Two hundred years of training took effect .  . . She saw nothing.  The
murderer did not shine with murder.  The hawk was hidden beneath the
dove.  The heart was masked by the trained face.

Benjacomin relaxed in professional assurance.  He had been prepared to
kill her too, although he was not sure that he could kill an adult,
female Norstrilian.  Very helpfully said he,

"You stay here with him.  I'll run to the hotel and get help.  I'll
hurry."

He turned and ran.  A beach attendant saw him and ran toward him.

"The child's sick," he shouted.  He came to the mother in time to see
blunt, puzzled tragedy on her face and with it, something more than
tragedy: doubt.

"He's not sick," said she.

"He's dead."

"He can't be."  Benjacomin looked attentive.  He felt attentive.  He
forced the sympathy to pour out of his posture, out of all the little
muscles of his face.

"He can't be.  I was talking to him just a minute ago.  We were doing
little puzzles in the sand."

The mother spoke with a hollow, broken voice that sounded as though it
would never find the right chords for human speech again, but would go
on forever with the ill-attuned flats of unexpected grief.

"He's dead," she said.

"You saw him die and I guess I saw him die, too.  I can't tell what's
happened.  The child was full of santa clara He had a thousand years to
live but now he's dead.  What's your name?"

Benjacomin said,

"Eldon.  Eldon the salesman, ma'am.  I live here lots of times."

III

"Mother Hitton's littul kit tons Mother Hitton's littul kit tons The
silly phrase ran in his mind.  Who was Mother Hitton?  Who was she the
mother of?  What were kit tons Were they a misspelling for "kittens"?
Little cats?  Or were they something else?

Had he killed a fool to get a fool's answer?

How many more days did he have to stay there with the doubtful,
staggered woman?  How many days did he have to watch and wait?  He
wanted to get back to Viola Siderea; to take the secret, bad as it was,
for his people to study.  Who was Mother Hitton?

He forced himself out of his room and went downstairs.

The pleasant monotony of a big hotel was such that the other guests
looked interestedly at him.  He was the man who had watched while the
child died on the beach.

Some lobby-living scandal mongers that stayed there had made up
fantastic stories that he had killed the child.  Others attacked the
stories, saying they knew perfectly well who Eldon was.  He was Eldon
the salesman.  It was ridiculous.

People hadn't changed much, even though the ships with the Go-Captains
sitting at their hearts whispered between the stars, even though people
shuffled between worlds when they had the money to pay their passage
back and forth like leaves falling in soft, playful winds.  Benjacomin
faced a tragic dilemma.  He knew very well that any attempt to decode
the answer would run directly into the protective devices set up by the
Norstrilians.

Old North Australia was immensely wealthy.  It was known the length and
breadth of all the stars that they had hired mercenaries, defensive
spies, hidden agents, and alerting devices.

Even Manhome Mother Earth herself, whom no money could buy was bribed
by the drug of life.  An ounce of the santa clara drug, reduced,
crystallized, and called "stroon," could give forty to sixty years of
life.  Stroon entered the rest of the Earths by ounces and pounds, but
it was refined back on North Australia by the ton.  With treasure like
this, the Norstrilians owned an unimaginable world whose resources
overreached all conceivable limits of money.  They could buy anything.
They could pay with other people's lives.

For hundreds of years they had given secret funds to buying foreigners'
services to safeguard their own security.

Benjacomin stood there in the lobby: "Mother Hitton's littul kit tons

He had all the wisdom and wealth of a thousand worlds stuck in his mind
but he didn't dare ask anywhere as to what it meant.

Suddenly he brightened.

He looked like a man who had thought of a good game to play, a pleasant
diversion to be welcomed, a companion to be remembered, a new food to
be tasted.  He had had a very happy thought.

There was one source that wouldn't talk.  The library.  He could at
least check the obvious, simple things, and find out what there was
already in the realm of public knowledge concerning the secret he had
taken from the dying boy.

of Man His own safety had not been wasted, Johnny's life had not been
thrown away, if he could find any one of the four words as a key.
Mother or Hitton or Littul, in its special meaning, or Kitton.  He
might yet break through to the loot of Norstrilia.

He swung jubilantly, turning on the ball of his right foot.  He moved
lightly and pleasantly toward the billiard room, beyond which lay the
library.  He went in.

This was a very expensive hotel and very old-fashioned.  It even had
books made out of paper, with genuine bindings.

Benjacomin crossed the room.  He saw that they had the Galactic
Encyclopedia in two hundred volumes.  He took down the volume headed

"Hi-Hl."  He opened it from the rear, looking for the name "Hitton,"
and there it was.

"Hitton, Benjamin pioneer of Old North Australia.  Said to be
originator of part of the defense system.  Lived ad.  10719-17213."
That was all.  Benjacomin moved among the books.  The word kit tons in
that peculiar spelling did not occur anywhere, neither in the
encyclopedia nor in any other list maintained by the library.  He
walked out and upstairs, back to his room.

"Littul" had not appeared at all.  It was probably the boy's own
childish mistake.

He took a chance.  The mother, half blind with bewilderment and worry,
sat in a stiff-backed chair on the edge of the porch.

The other women talked to her.  They knew her husband was coming.
Benjacomin went up to her and tried to pay his respects.

She didn't see him.

"I'm leaving now, ma'am.  I'm going on to the next planet, but I'll be
back in two or three subjective weeks.  And if you need me for urgent
questions, I'll leave my addresses with the police here."

Benjacomin left the weeping mother.

Benjacomin left the quiet hotel.  He obtained a priority passage.

The easy-going Sunvale police made no resistance to his demand for a
sudden departure visa.  After all, he had an identity, he had his own
funds, and it was not the custom of Sunvale to contradict its guests.
Benjacomin went on the ship and as he moved toward the cabin in which
he could rest for a few hours, a man stepped up beside him.  A youngish
man, hair parted in the middle, short of stature, gray of eyes.

This man was the local agent of the Norstrilian secret police.

Benjacomin, trained thief that he was, did not recognize the policeman.
It never occurred to him that the library itself had been attuned and
that the word kit tons in the peculiar Norstrilian spelling was itself
an alert.  Looking for that spelling had set off a minor alarm.  He had
touched the trip-wire.

The stranger nodded.  Benjacomin nodded back.

"I'm a traveling man,
waiting over between assignments.  I haven't been doing very well.

How are you making out?"

"Doesn't matter to me.  I don't earn money; I'm a technician, Liverant
is the name."

Benjacomin sized him up.  The man was a technician all right.

They shook hands perfunctorily.  Liverant said,

"I'll join you in the bar a little later.  I think I'll rest a bit
first."

They both lay down then and said very little while the momentary flash
of plano form went through the ship.  The flash passed.  From books and
lessons they knew that the ship was leaping forward in two dimensions
while, somehow or other, the fury of space itself was fed into the
computers and that these in turn were managed by the Go-captain who
controlled the ship.

They knew these things but they could not feel them.  All they felt was
the sting of a slight pain.

The sedative was in the air itself, sprayed in the ventilating system.
They both expected to become a little drunk.

The thief Benjacomin Bozart was trained to resist intoxication and
bewilderment.  Any sign whatever that a tele path had tried to read his
mind would have been met with fierce animal resistance, implanted in
his unconscious during early years of training.

Bozart was not trained against deception by a technician; it never
occurred to the Thieves' Guild back on Viola Siderea that it would be
necessary for their own people to resist deceivers.  Liverant had
already been in touch with Norstrilia Norstrilia whose money reached
across the stars, Norstrilia who had alerted a hundred thousand worlds
against the mere thought of trespass.

Liverant began to chatter.

"I wish I could go further than this trip.  I wish that I could go to
Olympia.  You can buy anything in Olympia."

"I've heard of it," said Bozart.

"It's sort of a funny trading planet with not much chance for
businessmen, isn't it?"

Liverant laughed and his laughter was merry and genuine.

"Trading?  They don't trade.  They swap.  They take all the stolen loot
of a thousand worlds and sell it over again and they change it and they
paint it and they mark it.  That's their business there.

The people are blind.  It's a strange world, and all you have to do is
to go in there and you can have anything you want.  Man," said
Liverant, "what I could do in a year in that place!  Everybody is blind
except me and a couple of tourists.  And there's all the wealth that
everybody thought he's mislaid, half the wrecked ships, the forgotten
colonies (they've all been cleaned out), and bang!  it all goes to
Olympia."

Olympia wasn't really that good and Liverant didn't know why it was his
business to guide the killer there.  All he knew was that he had a duty
and the duty was to direct the trespasser.

Many years before either man was born the code word had been planted
in directories, in books, in packing cases and invoices: Kittens
misspelled.  This was the cover name for the outer moon of Norstrilian
defense.  The use of the cover name brought a raging alert ready into
action, with systemic nerves as hot and quick as incandescent tungsten
wire.

By the time that they were ready to go to the bar and have
refreshments, Benjacomin had half forgotten that it was his new
acquaintance who had suggested Olympia rather than another place.  He
had to go to Viola Siderea to get the credits to make the flight to
take the wealth, to win the world of Olympia.

IV

At home on his native planet Bozart was a subject of a gentle but very
sincere celebration.

The elders of the Guild of Thieves welcomed him.  They congratulated
him.

"Who else could have done what you've done, boy?  You've made the
opening move in a brand new game of chess.  There has never been a
gambit like this before.  We have a name; we have an animal.  We'll try
it right here."  The Thieves' Council turned to their own encyclopedia.
They turned through the name

"Hitton" and then found the reference kit ton None of them knew that a
false lead had been planted there by an agent in their world.

The agent, in his turn, had been seduced years before, debauched in the
middle of his career, forced into temporary honesty, blackmailed and
sent home.  In all the years that he had waited for a dreaded
countersign a countersign which he himself never knew to be an
extension of Norstrilian intelligence he never dreamed that he could
pay his debt to the outside world so simply.  All they had done was to
send him one page to add to the encyclopedia.  He added it and then
went home, weak with exhaustion.  The years of fear and waiting were
almost too much for the thief.  He drank heavily for fear that he might
otherwise kill himself.  Meanwhile, the pages remained in order,
including the new one, slightly altered for his colleagues.  The
encyclopedia indicated the change like any normal revision, though the
whole entry was new and falsified: Beneath this passage one revision
read: Dated 24th year of second issue.

The reported

"Kittons" of Norstrilia are nothing more than the use of organic means
to induce the disease in Earth-mutated sheep which produces a virus in
its turn, refinable as the santa clara drug.

The term

"Kittons" enjoyed a temporary vogue as a reference term both to the
disease and to the destructibility of the disease in the event of
external attack.  This is believed to have been connected with the
career of Benjamin Hitton, one of the original pioneers of
Norstrilia.

The Council of Thieves read it and the Chairman of the Council said,

"I've got your papers ready.  You can go try them now.  Where do you
want to go?  Through Neuhamburg?"

"No," said Benjacomin.

"I thought I'd try Olympia."

"Olympia's all right," said the chairman.

"Go easy.  There's only one chance in a thousand you'll fail.  But if
you do, we might have to pay for it."

He smiled wryly and handed Benjacomin a blank mortgage against all the
labor and all the property of Viola Siderea.

The Chairman laughed with a sort of snort.

"It'd be pretty rough on us if you had to borrow enough on the trading
planet to force us to become honest and then lost out anyhow."

"No fear," said Benjacomin.

"I can cover that."

There are some worlds where all dreams die, but square clouded Olympia
is not one of them.  The eyes of men and women are bright on Olympia,
for they see nothing.

"Brightness was the color of pain," said Nachtigall, "when we could
see.  If thine eye offend thee, pluck thyself out, for the fault lies
not in the eye but in the soul."

Such talk was common in Olympia, where the settlers went blind a long
time ago and now think themselves superior to sighted people.  Radar
wires tickle their living brains; they can perceive radiation as well
as can an animal-type man with little aquariums hung in the middle of
his face.  Their pictures are sharp, and they demand sharpness.  Their
buildings soar at impossible angles.  Their blind children sing songs
as the tailored climate proceeds according to the numbers, geometrical
as a kaleidoscope.

There went the man, Bozart himself.  Among the blind his dreams soared,
and he paid money for information which no living person had ever
seen.

Sharp-clouded and aqua-skied, Olympia swam past him like another man's
dream.  He did not mean to tarry there, because he had a rendezvous
with death in the sticky, sparky space around Norstrilia.

Once in Olympia, Benjacomin went about his arrangements for the attack
on Old North Australia.  On his second day on the planet he had been
very lucky.  He met a man named Lavender and he was sure he had
of Man heard the name before.  Not a member of his own Guild of
Thieves, but a daring rascal with a bad reputation among the stars.

It was no wonder that he had found Lavender.  His pillow had told him
Lavender's story fifteen times during his sleep in the past week.  And,
whenever he dreamed, he dreamed dreams which had been planted in his
mind by the Norstrilian counterintelligence.  They had beaten him in
getting to Olympia first and they were prepared to let him have only
that which he deserved.  The Norstrilian police were not cruel, but
they were out to defend their world.  And they were also out to avenge
the murder of a child.

The last interview which Benjacomin had with Lavender in striking a
bargain before Lavender agreed was a dramatic one.

Lavender refused to move forward.

"I'm not going to jump off anywhere.  I'm not going to raid anything.
I'm not going to steal anything.  I've been rough, of course I have.
But I don't get myself killed and that's what you're bloody well asking
for."

"Think of what we'll have.  The wealth.  I tell you, there's more money
here than anything else anybody's ever tried."

Lavender laughed.

"You think I haven't heard that before?

You're a crook and I'm a crook.  I don't do anything that's
speculation.  I want my hard cash down.  I'm a fighting man and you're
a thief and I'm not going to ask you what you're up to ... but I want
my money first."

"I haven't got it," said Benjacomin.

Lavender stood up.

"Then you shouldn't have talked to me.  Because it's going to cost you
money to keep me quiet whether you hire me or not."

The bargaining process started.

Lavender looked ugly indeed.  He was a soft, ordinary man who had gone
to a lot of trouble to become evil.  Sin is a lot of work.  The sheer
effort it requires often shows in the human face.

Bozart stared him down, smiling easily, not even contemptuously.

"Cover me while I get something from my pocket," said Bozart.

Lavender did not even acknowledge the comment.  He did not show a
weapon.  His left thumb moved slowly across the outer edge of his hand.
Benjacomin recognized the sign, but did not flinch.

"See," he said.

"A planetary credit."

Lavender laughed.

"I've heard that, too."

"Take it," said Bozart.

The adventurer took the laminated card.  His eyes widened.

"It's real," he breathed.

"It is real."  He looked up, incalculably more friendly.

"I never even saw one of these before.  What are your terms?"

Meanwhile the bright, vivid Olympians walked back and forth past them,
their clothing all white and black in dramatic contrast. Unbelievable
geometric designs shone on their cloaks and their hats.  The two
bargainers ignored the natives.  They concentrated on their own
negotiations.

Benjacomin felt fairly safe.  He placed a pledge of one year's service
of the entire planet of Viola Siderea in exchange for the full and
unqualified services of Captain Lavender, once of the Imperial Marines
Internal Space Patrol.  He handed over the mortgage.  The year's
guarantee was written in.  Even on Olympia there were accounting
machines which relayed the bargain back to Earth itself, making the
mortgage a valid and binding commitment against the whole planet of
thieves.

"This," thought Lavender, "was the first step of revenge."

After the killer had disappeared his people would have to pay with
sheer honesty.  Lavender looked at Benjacomin with a clinical sort of
concern.

Benjacomin mistook his look for friendliness and Benjacomin smiled his
slow, charming, easy smile.  Momentarily happy, he reached out his
right hand to give Lavender a brotherly solemnification of the bargain.
The men shook hands, and Bozart never knew with what he shook hands.

V

"Gray lay the land oh.  Gray grass from sky to sky.  Not near the weir,
dear.  Not a mountain, low or high only hills and gray gray.  Watch the
dappled, dimpled twinkles blooming on the star bar.

"That is Norstrilia.

"All the muddy gubbery is gone all the work and the waiting and the
pain.

"Beige-brown sheep lie on blue-gray grass while the clouds rush past,
low overhead, like iron pipes ceilinging the world.

"Take your pick of sick sheep, man, it's the sick that pays.

Sneeze me a planet, man, or cough me up a spot of immortality.

If it's barmy there, where the noddies and the trolls like you live,
it's too right here.

"That's the book, boy.

"If you haven't seen Norstrilia, you haven't seen it.  If you did see
it, you wouldn't believe it.

"Charts call it Old North Australia."

Here in the heart of the world was the farm which guarded the world.
This was the Hitton place.

Towers surrounded it, and wires hung between the towers, some of them
drooping crazily and some gleaming with the sheen not shown by any
other metal made by men from Earth.  Within the towers there was open
land.  And within the open land there were twelve thousand hectares of
concrete.  Radar reached down to within millimeter smoothness of the
of Man surface of the concrete and the other radar threw patterns back
and forth, down through molecular thinness.  The farm went on.

In its center there was a group of buildings.  That was where Katherine
Hitton worked on the task which her family had accepted for the defense
of her world.

No germ came in, no germ went out.  All the food came in by space
transmitter.  Within this, there lived animals.  The animals depended
on her alone.  Were she to die suddenly, by mischance or as a result of
an attack by one of the animals, the authorities of her world had
complete facsimiles of herself with which to train new animal tenders
under hypnosis.

This was a place where the gray wind leapt forward released from the
hills, where it raced across the gray concrete, where it blew past the
radar towers.  The polished, faceted, captive moon always hung due
overhead.  The wind hit the buildings, themselves gray, with the impact
of a blow, before it raced over the open concrete beyond and whistled
away into the hills.

Outside the buildings, the valley had not needed much camouflage.  It
looked like the rest of Norstrilia.  The concrete itself was tinted
very slightly to give the impression of poor, starved, natural soil.
This was the farm, and this the woman.

Together they were the outer defense of the richest world mankind had
ever built.

Katherine Hitton looked out the window and thought to herself,

"Forty-two days before I go to market and it's a welcome day that I get
there and hear the jig of a music."

Oh, to walk on market day, And see my people proud and gay!

She breathed deeply of the air.  She loved the gray hills though in her
youth she had seen many other worlds.  And then she turned back into
the building to the animals and the duties which awaited her.  She was
the only Mother Hitton and these were her littul kit tons

She moved among them.  She and her father had bred them from Earth
mink, from the fiercest, smallest, craziest little minks that had ever
been shipped out from Manhome.  Out of these minks they had made their
lives to keep away other predators who might bother the sheep on whom
the stroon grew.  But these minks were born mad.

Generations of them had been bred psychotic to the bone.

They lived only to die and they died so that they could stay alive.

These were the kit tons of Norstrilia.  Animals in whom fear, rage,
hunger, and sex were utterly intermixed; who could eat themselves or
each other; who could eat their young, or people, or anything organic;
animals who screamed with murder-lust when they felt love; animals born
to loathe themselves with a fierce and livid hate and who survived only
because their waking moments were spent on couches,
strapped tight, claw by claw, so that they could not hurt each other
or themselves.  Mother Hitton let them waken only a few moments in each
lifetime.  They bred and killed.  She wakened them only two at a
time.

All that afternoon she moved from cage to cage.  The sleeping animals
slept well.  The nourishment ran into their blood streams; they lived
sometimes for years without awaking.  She bred them when the males were
only partly awakened and the females aroused only enough to accept her
veterinary treatments.  She herself had to pluck the young away from
their mothers as the sleeping mothers begot them.  Then she nourished
the young through a few happy weeks of kittonhood, until their adult
natures began to take, their eyes ran red with madness and heat, and
their emotions sounded in the sharp, hideous, little cries they uttered
through the building; and the twisting of their neat, furry faces, the
rolling of their crazy, bright eyes, and the tightening of their sharp,
sharp claws.

She woke none of them this time.  Instead, she tightened them in their
straps.  She removed the nutrients.  She gave them delayed stimulus
medicine which would, when they were awakened, bring them suddenly full
waking with no lulled stupor first.

Finally, she gave herself a heavy sedative, leaned back in a chair, and
waited for the call which would come.

When the shock came and the call came through, she would have to do
what she had done thousands of times before.

She would ring an intolerable noise through the whole laboratory.

Hundreds of the mutated minks would awaken.  In awakening, they would
plunge into life with hunger, with hate, with rage, and with sex;
plunge against their straps; strive to kill each other, their young,
themselves, her.  They would fight everything and everywhere, and do
everything they could to keep going.

She knew this.

In the middle of the room there was a tuner.  The tuner was a direct,
empathic relay, capable of picking up the simpler range of telepathic
communications.  Into this tuner went the concentrated emotions of
Mother Hitton's littul kit tons

The rage, the hate, the hunger, the sex were all carried far beyond the
limits of the tolerable, and then all were thereupon amplified.  And
then the waveband on which this telepathic control went out was
amplified, right there beyond the studio, on the high towers that swept
the mountain ridge, up and beyond the valley in which the laboratory
lay.  And Mother Hitton's moon, spinning geometrically, bounced the
relay into a hollow englobement.

From the faceted moon, it went to the satellites sixteen of them,
apparently part of the weather control system.  These blanketed not
only space, but nearby subspace.  The Norstrilians had thought of
everything.

The short shocks of an alert came from Mother Hitton's transmitter
bank.

A call came.  Her thumb went numb.

The noise shrieked.

The mink awakened.

Immediately, the room was full of chattering, scraping, hissing,
growling, and howling.

Under the sound of the animal voices, there was the other sound: a
scratchy, snapping sound like hail falling on a frozen lake.  It was
the individual claws of hundreds of mink trying to tear their way
through metal panels.

Mother Hitton heard a gurgle.  One of the minks had succeeded in
tearing its paw loose and had obviously started to work on its own
throat.  She recognized the tearing fur, the ripping of veins.

She listened for the cessation of that individual voice, but she
couldn't be sure.  The others were making too much noise.  One mink
less.

Where she sat, she was partly shielded from the telepathic relay, but
not altogether.  She herself, old as she was, felt queer wild dreams go
through her.  She thrilled with hate as she thought of beings suffering
out beyond her suffering terribly, since they were not masked by the
built-in defenses of the Norstrilian communications system.

She felt the wild throb of long-forgotten lust.

She hungered for things she had not known she remembered.

She went through the spasms of fear that the hundreds of animals
expressed.

Underneath this, her sane mind kept asking.

"How much longer can I take it?  How much longer must I take it?  Lord
God, be good to your people here on this world!  Be good to poor old
me."

The green light went on.

She pressed a button on the other side of her chair.  The gas hissed
in.  As she passed into unconsciousness, she knew that her kit tons
passed into instant unconsciousness too.

She would waken before they did and then her duties would begin:
checking the living ones, taking out the one that had clawed out its
own throat, taking out those who had died of heart attacks, rearranging
them, dressing their wounds, treating them alive and asleep asleep and
happy breeding, living in their sleep until the next call should come
to waken them for the defense of the treasures which blessed and cursed
her native world.

VI

Everything had gone exactly right.  Lavender had found an illegal plano
form ship.  This was no inconsequential accomplishment, since plano
form ships were very strictly licensed and obtaining an illegal one
was a chore on which a planet full of crooks could easily have worked
a lifetime.

Lavender had been lavished with money Benjacomin's money.

The honest wealth of the thieves' planet had gone in and had paid the
falsifications and great debts, imaginary transactions that were fed to
the computers for ships and cargoes and passengers that would be almost
untraceably commingled in the commerce of ten thousand worlds.

"Let him pay for it," said Lavender, to one of his confederates, an
apparent criminal who was also a Norstrilian agent.

"This is paying good money for bad.  You better spend a lot of it."

Just before Benjacomin took off Lavender sent on an additional
message.

He sent it directly through the Go-Captain, who usually did not carry
messages.  The Go-Captain was a relay commander of the Norstrilian
fleet, but he had been carefully ordered not to look like it.

The message concerned the plano form license another twenty-odd tablets
of stroon which could mortgage Viola Siderea for hundreds upon hundreds
of years.  The captain said: "I don't have to send that through.  The
answer is yes."

Benjacomin came into the control room.  This was contrary to
regulations, but he had hired the ship to violate regulations.

The Captain looked at him sharply.

"You're a passenger.  Get out."

Benjacomin said: "You have my little yacht on board.  I am the only man
here outside of your people."

"Get out.  There's a fine if you're caught here."

"It does not matter," Benjacomin said.

"I'll pay it."

"You will, will you?"  said the Captain.

"You would not be paying twenty tablets of stroon.  That's ridiculous.
Nobody could get that much stroon."

Benjacomin laughed, thinking of the thousands of tablets he would soon
have.  All he had to do was to leave the plano form ship behind, strike
once, go past the kit tons and come back.

His power and his wealth came from the fact that he knew he could now
reach it.  The mortgage of twenty tablets of stroon against this planet
was a low price to pay if it would pay off at thousands to one.  The
Captain replied: "It's not worth it, it just is not worth risking
twenty tablets for your being here.  But I can tell you how to get
inside the Norstrilian communications net if that is worth twenty-seven
tablets."

Benjacomin went tense.

For a moment he thought he might die.  All this work, all this training
the dead boy on the beach, the gamble with the credit, and now this
unsuspected antagonist!

He decided to face it out.

"What do you know?"  said Benjacomin.

"Nothing," said the Captain.

"You said

"Norstrilia."  " "That I did," said the Captain.

"If you said Norstrilia, you must have guessed it.  Who told you?"

"Where else would a man go if you look for infinite riches?

If you get away with it.  Twenty tablets is nothing to a man like
you."

"It's two hundred years' worth of work from three hundred thousand
people," said Benjacomin grimly.

"When you get away with it, you will have more than twenty tablets, and
so will your people."

And Benjacomin thought of the thousands and thousands of tablets.

"Yes, that I know."

"If you don't get away with it, you've got the card."

"That's right.  All right.  Get me inside the net.  I'll pay the
twenty-seven tablets."

"Give me the card."

Benjacomin refused.  He was a trained thief, and he was alert to
thievery.  Then he thought again.  This was the crisis of his life.  He
had to gamble a little on somebody.

He had to wager the card.

"I'll mark it and then I'll give it back to you."  Such was his
excitement that Benjacomin did not notice that the card went into a
duplicator, that the transaction was recorded, that the message went
back to Olympia Center, that the loss and the mortgage against the
planet of Viola Siderea should be credited to certain commercial
agencies in Earth for three hundred years to come.

Benjacomin got the card back.  He felt like an honest thief.

If he did die, the card would be lost and his people would not have to
pay.  If he won, he could pay that little bit out of his own pocket.

Benjacomin sat down.  The Go-captain signaled to his pin lighters The
ship lurched.

For half a subjective hour they moved, the Captain wearing a helmet of
space upon his head, sensing and grasping and guessing his way,
stepping stone to stepping stone, right back to his home.  He had to
fumble the passage, or else Benjacomin might guess that he was in the
hands of double agents.

But the captain was well trained.  Just as well trained as
Benjacomin.

Agents and thieves, they rode together.

They plano formed inside the communications net.

Benjacomin shook hands with them.

"You are allowed to materialize as soon as I call."

"Good luck, Sir," said the Captain.

"Good luck to me," said Benjacomin.

Mother Hitton's Littul Kittens He climbed into his space yacht.  For
less than a second in real space, the gray expanse of Norstrilia loomed
up.  The ship which looked like a simple warehouse disappeared into
plano form and the yacht was on its own.

The yacht dropped.

As it dropped, Benjacomin had a hideous moment of confusion and
terror.

He never knew the woman down below but she sensed him plainly as he
received the wrath of the much-amplified kit tons

His conscious mind quivered under the blow.  With a prolongation of
subjective experience which made one or two seconds seem like months of
hurt drunken bewilderment, Benjacomin Bozart swept beneath the tide of
his own personality.

The moon relay threw minkish minds against him.  The synapses of his
brain re-formed to conjure up might-have-be ens terrible things that
never happened to any man.  Then his knowing mind whited out in an
overload of stress.

His sub cortical personality lived on a little longer.

His body fought for several minutes.  Mad with lust and hunger, the
body arched in the pilot's seat, the mouth bit deep into his own arm.
Driven by lust, the left hand tore at his face, ripping out his left
eyeball.  He screeched with animal lust as he tried to devour
himself... not entirely without success.

The overwhelming telepathic message of Mother Hitton's littul kit tons
ground into his brain.

The mutated minks were fully awake.

The relay satellites had poisoned all the space around him with the
craziness to which the minks were bred.

Bozart's body did not live long.  After a few minutes, the arteries
were open, the head slumped forward, and the yacht was dropping
helplessly toward the warehouses which it had meant to raid.
Norstrilian police picked it up.

The police themselves were ill.  All of them were ill.  All of them
were white-faced.  Some of them had vomited.  They had gone through the
edge of the mink defense.  They had passed through the telepathic band
at its thinnest and weakest point.

This was enough to hurt them badly.

They did not want to know.

They wanted to forget.

One of the younger policemen looked at the body and said, "What on
earth could do that to a man?"

"He picked the wrong job," said the police captain.

The young policeman said: "What's the wrong job?"

"The wrong job is trying to rob us, boy.  We are defended, and we don't
want to know how."

The young policeman, humiliated and on the verge of anger, looked
almost as if he would defy his superior, while keeping his eyes away
from the body of Benjacomin Bozart.

The older man said: "It's all right.  He did not take long to die and
this is the man who killed the boy Johnny, not very long ago."

"Oh, him?  So soon?"

"We brought him."  The old police officer nodded.

"We let him find his death.  That's how we live.  Tough, isn't it?"

The ventilators whispered softly, gently.  The animals slept again.  A
jet of air poured down on Mother Hitton.  The telepathic relay was
still on.  She could feel herself, the sheds, the faceted moon, the
little satellites.  Of the robber there was no sign.

She stumbled to her feet.  Her raiment was moist with perspiration. She
needed a shower and fresh clothes .  . .

Back at Manhome, the Commercial Credit Circuit called shrilly for human
attention.  A junior subchief of the Instrumentality walked over to the
machine and held out his hand.

The machine dropped a card neatly into his fingers.

He looked at the card.

"Debit Viola Siderea credit Earth Contingency sub credit Norstrilian
account four hundred million man megayears."

Though all alone, he whistled to himself in the empty room.

"We'll all be dead, stroon or no stroon, before they finish paying
that!"  He went off to tell his friends the odd news.

The machine, not getting its card back, made another one.

 Alpha Ralpha Boulevard We were drunk with happiness in those early
years.

Everybody was, especially the young people.  These were the first years
of the Rediscovery of Man, when the Instrumentality dug deep in the
treasury, reconstructing the old cultures, the old languages, and even
the old troubles.  The nightmare of perfection had taken our
forefathers to the edge of suicide.  Now under the leadership of the
Lord Jestocost and the Lady Alice More, the ancient civilizations were
rising like great land masses out of the sea of the past.

I myself was the first man to put a postage stamp on a letter, after
fourteen thousand years.  I took Virginia to hear the first piano
recital.  We watched at the eye-machine when cholera was released in
Tasmania, and we saw the Tasmanians dancing in the streets, now that
they did not have to be protected any more.

Everywhere, things became exciting.  Everywhere, men and women worked
with a wild will to build a more imperfect world.

I myself went into a hospital and came out French.  Of course I
remembered my early life; I remembered it, but it did not matter.

Virginia was French, too, and we had the years of our future lying
ahead of us like ripe fruit hanging in an orchard of perpetual summers.
We had no idea when we would die.  Formerly, I would be able to go to
bed and think,

"The government has given me four hundred years.  Three hundred and
seventy-four years from now, they will stop the stroon injections and I
will then die."  Now I knew anything could happen.  The safety devices
had been turned off.  The diseases ran free.  With luck, and hope, and
love, I might live a thousand years.  Or I might die tomorrow.  I was
free.

We revelled in every moment of the day.

Virginia and I bought the first French newspaper to appear since the
Most Ancient World fell.  We found delight in the news, even in the
advertisements.  Some parts of the culture were hard to reconstruct. It
was difficult to talk about foods of which only the names survived, but
the homunculi and the machines, working tirelessly in Downdeep-down
deep
kept the surface of the world filled with enough novelties to fill
anyone's heart with hope.  We knew that all of this was make believe
and yet it was not.  We knew that when the diseases had killed the
statistically correct number of people, they would be turned off; when
the accident rate rose too high, it would stop without our knowing why.
We knew that over us all, the Instrumentality watched.  We had
confidence that the Lord Jestocost and the Lady Alice More would play
with us as friends and not use us as victims of a game.

Take, for example, Virginia.  She had been called Menerima, which
represented the coded sounds of her birth number.  She was small,
verging on chubby; she was compact; her head was covered with tight
brown curls; her eyes were a brown so deep and so rich that it took
sunlight, with her squinting against it, to bring forth the treasures
of her irises.  I had known her well, but never known her.  I had seen
her often, but never seen her with my heart, until we met just outside
the hospital, after becoming French.

I was pleased to see an old friend and started to speak in the Old
Common Tongue, but the words jammed, and as I tried to speak it was not
Menerima any longer, but someone of ancient beauty, rare and strange
someone who had wandered into these latter days from the treasure
worlds of time past.  All I could do was to stammer: "What do you call
yourself now?"  And I said it in ancient French.

She answered in the same language,

"Je m'appelle Virginie."

Looking at her and falling in love was a single process.  There was
something strong, something wild in her, wrapped and hidden by the
tenderness and youth of her girlish body.  It was as though destiny
spoke to me out of the certain brown eyes, eyes which questioned me
surely and wonderingly, just as we both questioned the fresh new world
which lay about us.

"May I?"  said I, offering her my arm, as I had learned in the hours of
hypnopedia.  She took my arm and we walked away from the hospital.

I hummed a tune which had come into my mind, along with the ancient
French language.

She tugged gently on my arm, and smiled up at me.

"What is it," she asked, "or don't you know?"

The words came soft and unbidden to my lips and I sang it very quietly,
muting my voice in her curly hair, half-singing half whispering the
popular song which had poured into my mind with all the other things
which the Rediscovery of Man had given me: She wasn't the woman I went
to seek.  I met her by the merest chance.  She did not speak the French
of France, But the surded French of Martinique.

She wasn't rich.  She wasn't chic.  She had a most entrancing glance,
And that was all... .

Suddenly I ran out of words.

"I seem to have forgotten the rest of it.  It's called

"Macouba' and it has something to do with a wonderful island which the
ancient French called Martinique."

"I know where that is," she cried.  She had been given the same
memories that I had.

"You can see it from Earthport!"

This was a sudden return to the world we had known.

Earthport stood on its single pedestal, twelve miles high, at the
eastern edge of the small continent.  At the top of it, the Lords
worked amid machines which had no meaning any more.  There the ships
whispered their way in from the stars.  I had seen pictures of it, but
I had never been there.  As a matter of fact, I had never known anyone
who had actually been up Earthport.

Why should we have gone?  We might not have been welcome, and we could
always see it just as well through the pictures on the eye-machine. For
Menerima familiar, dully pleasant, dear little Menerima to have gone
there was uncanny.  It made me think that in the Old Perfect World
things had not been as plain or forthright as they seemed.

Virginia, the new Menerima, tried to speak in the Old Common Tongue,
but she gave up and used French instead: "My aunt," she said, meaning a
kindred lady, since no one had had aunts for thousands of years, "was a
Believer.  She took me to the Abba-dingo.  To get holiness and luck."

The old me was a little shocked; the French me was disquieted by the
fact that this girl had done something unusual even before mankind
itself turned to the unusual.  The Abbadingo was a long-obsolete
computer set part way up the column of Earthport.  The homunculi
treated it as a god, and occasionally people went to it.  To do so was
tedious and vulgar.

Or had been.  Till all things became new again.

Keeping the annoyance out of my voice, I asked her: "What was it
like?"

She laughed lightly, yet there was a trill to her laughter which gave
me a shiver.  If the old Menerima had had secrets, what might the new
Virginia do?  I almost hated the fate which made me love her, which
made me feel that the touch of her hand on my arm was a link between me
and time-forever.

She smiled at me instead of answering my question.  The surface way was
under repair; we followed a ramp down to the level of the top
underground, where it was legal for true persons and hominids and
homunculi to walk.

I did not like the feeling; I had never gone more than twenty minutes'
trip from my birthplace.  This ramp looked safe enough.  There were few
hominids around these days, men from the stars who (though of true
human stock) had been changed to fit the conditions of a thousand
worlds.  The homunculi were morally repulsive, though many of them
looked like very handsome people; bred from animals into the shape of
men, they took over the tedious chores of working with machines where
no real man would wish to go.  It was whispered that some of them had
even bred with actual people, and I would not want my Virginia to be
exposed to the presence of such a creature.

She had been holding my arm.  When we walked down the ramp to the busy
passage, I slipped my arm free and put it over her shoulders, drawing
her closer to me.  It was light enough, bright enough to be clearer
than the daylight which we had left behind, but it was strange and full
of danger.  In the old days, I would have turned around and gone home
rather than expose myself to the presence of such dreadful beings.  At
this time, in this moment, I could not bear to part from my new-found
love, and I was afraid that if I went back to my own apartment in the
tower, she might go to hers.  Anyhow, being French gave a spice to
danger.

Actually, the people in the traffic looked commonplace enough.  There
were many busy machines, some in human form and some not.  I did not
see a single hominid.  Other people, whom I knew to be homunculi
because they yielded the right of way to us, looked no different from
the real human beings on the surface.  A brilliantly beautiful girl
gave me a look which I did not like saucy, intelligent, provocative
beyond all limits of flirtation.  I suspected her of being a dog by
origin.  Among the homunculi, d'persons are the ones most apt to take
liberties.

They even have a dog-man philosopher who once produced a tape arguing
that since dogs are the most ancient of men's allies, they have the
right to be closer to man than any other form of life.  When I saw the
tape, I thought it amusing that a dog should be bred into the form of a
Socrates; here, in the top underground, I was not so sure at all.  What
would I do if one of them became insolent?  Kill him?  That meant a
brush with the law and a talk with the Sub-commissioners of the
Instrumentality.

Virginia noticed none of this.

She had not answered my question, but was asking me questions about the
top underground instead.  I had been there only once before, when I was
small, but it was flattering to have her wondering, husky voice
murmuring in my ear.

Then it happened.

At first I thought he was a man, foreshortened by some trick of the
underground light.  When he came closer, I saw that he was not.  He
must
have been five feet across the shoulders.  Ugly red scars on his
forehead showed where the horns had been dug out of his skull.

He was a homunculus, obviously derived from cattle stock.

Frankly, I had never known that they left them that ill-formed.

And he was drunk.

As he came closer I could pick up the buzz of his mind.... they're not
people, they 're not hominids, and they 're not Us what are they doing
here?  The words they think confuse me.

He had never telepathed French before.

This was bad.  For him to talk was common enough, but only a few of the
homunculi were telepathic those with special jobs, such as in the
Downdeep-down deep where only telepathy could relay instructions.

Virginia clung to me.

Thought I, in clear Common Tongue: True men are we.  You must let us
pass.

There was no answer but a roar.  I do not know where he got drunk, or
on what, but he did not get my message.

I could see his thoughts forming up into panic, helplessness, hate.
Then he charged, almost dancing toward us, as though he could crush our
bodies.

My mind focused and I threw the stop order at him.

It did not work.

Horror-stricken, I realized that I had thought French at him.

Virginia screamed.

The bull-man was upon us.

At the last moment he swerved, passed us blindly, and let out a roar
which filled the enormous passage.  He had raced beyond us.

Still holding Virginia, I turned around to see what had made him pass
us.

What I beheld was odd in the extreme.

Our figures ran down the corridor away from us my black purple cloak
flying in the still air as my image ran, Virginia's golden dress
swimming out behind her as she ran with me.  The images were perfect
and the bull-man pursued them.

I stared around in bewilderment.  We had been told that the safeguards
no longer protected us.

A girl stood quietly next to the wall.  I had almost mistaken her for a
statue.  Then she spoke, "Come no closer.  I am a cat.  It was easy
enough to fool him.

You had better get back to the surface."

"Thank you," I said, "thank you.  What is your name?"

"Does it matter?"  said the girl.

"I'm not a person."

A little offended, I insisted,

"I just wanted to thank you."  As I spoke to her I saw that she was as
beautiful and as bright as a flame.  Her skin was clear, the color of
cream, and her hair finer than any human hair could possibly he was the
wild golden orange of a Persian cat.

"I'm C'mell," said the girl, "and I work at Earthport."

That stopped both Virginia and me.  Cat-people were below us, and
should be shunned, but Earthport was above us, and had to be respected.
Which was C'mell?

She smiled, and her smile was better suited for my eyes than for
Virginia's.  It spoke a whole world of voluptous knowledge.  I knew she
wasn't trying to do anything to me; the rest of her manner showed that.
Perhaps it was the only smile she knew.

"Don't worry," she said, "about the formalities.  You'd better take
these steps here.  I hear him coming back."

I spun around, looking for the drunken bull-man.  He was not to be
seen.

"Go up here," urged C'mell.

"They are emergency steps and you will be back on the surface.  I can
keep him from following.

Was that French you were speaking?"

"Yes," said I. "How did you ?"

"Get along," she said.

"Sorry I asked.  Hurry!"

I entered the small door.  A spiral staircase went to the surface.  It
was below our dignity as true people to use steps, but with C'mell
urging me, there was nothing else I could do.  I nodded goodbye to
C'mell and drew Virginia after me up the stairs.

At the surface we stopped.

Virginia gasped,

"Wasn't it horrible?"

"We're safe now," said I. "It's not safety," she said.

"It's the dirtiness of it.  Imagine having to talk to her!"

Virginia meant that C'mell was worse than the drunken bull-man.  She
sensed my reserve because she said, "The sad thing is, you'll see her
again .  . ."

"What!  How do you know that?"

"I don't know it," said Virginia.

"I guess it.  But I guess good, very good.  After all, I went to the
Abba-dingo."

"I asked you, darling, to tell me what happened there."

She shook her head mutely and began walking down the street way I had
no choice but to follow her.  It made me a little irritable.

I asked again, more crossly,

"What was it like?"

With hurt girlish dignity she said,

"Nothing, nothing.  It was a long climb.  The old woman made me go with
her.  It turned out that the machine
was not talking that day, anyhow, so we got permission to drop down a
shaft and to come back on the rolling road.  It was just a wasted
day."

She had been talking straight ahead, not to me, as though the memory
were a little ugly.

Then she turned her face to me.  The brown eyes looked into my eyes as
though she were searching for my soul.  (Soul.  There's a word we have
in French, and there is nothing quite like it in the Old Common
Tongue.) She brightened and pleaded with me: "Let's not be dull on the
new day.  Let's be good to the new us, Paul.  Let's do something really
French, if that's what we are to be.

"A cafe," I cried.

"We need a cafe.  And I know where one is."

"Where?"

"Two under grounds over.  Where the machines come out and where they
permit the homunculi to peer in the window."  The thought of homunculi
peering at us struck the new me as amusing, though the old me had taken
them as much for granted as windows or tables.  The old me never met
any, but knew that they weren't exactly people, since they were bred
from animals, but they looked just like people, and they could talk. It
took a Frenchman like the new me to realize that they could be ugly, or
beautiful, or picturesque.  More than picturesque: romantic.

Evidently Virginia now thought the same, for she said,

"But they'renette just adorable.  What is the cafe called?"

"The Greasy Cat," said I. The Greasy Cat.  How was I to know that this
led to a nightmare between high waters, and to the winds which cried?

How was I to suppose that this had anything to do with Alpha Ralpha
Boulevard?

No force in the world could have taken me there, if I had known.

Other new-French people had gotten to the cafe before us.

A waiter with a big brown moustache took our order.  I looked closely
at him to see if he might be a licensed homunculus, allowed to work
among people because his services were indispensable; but he was not.
He was pure machine, though his voice rang out with old-Parisian
heartiness, and the designers had even built into him the nervous habit
of mopping the back of his hand against his big moustache, and had
fixed him so that little beads of sweat showed high up on his brow,
just below the hairline.

"Mamselle?  M'sieu?  Beer?  Coffee?  Red wine next month.

The sun will shine in the quarter after the hour and after the half
hour At twenty minutes to the hour it will rain for five minutes so
that you can enjoy these umbrellas.  I am a native of Alsace.

You may speak French or German to me."

"Anything," said Virginia.

"You decide, Paul."

"Beer, please," said I. "Blonde beer for both of us."

"But certainly, M'sieu," said the waiter.

He left, waving his cloth wildly over his arm.

Virginia puckered up her eyes against the sun and said,

"I

wish it would rain now.  I've never seen real rain."

"Be patient, honey."

She turned earnestly to me.

"What is

"German," Paul?"

"Another language, another culture.  I read they will bring it to life
next year.  But don't you like being French?"

"I like it fine," she said.

"Much better than being a number.  But, Paul " And then she stopped,
her eyes blurred with perplexity.

"Yes, darling?"

"Paul," she said, and the statement of my name was a cry of hope from
some depth of her mind beyond new me, beyond old me, beyond even the
contrivances of the Lords who moulded us.  I reached for her hand.

Said I,

"You can tell me, darling."

"Paul," she said, and it was almost weeping,

"Paul, why does it all happen so fast?  This is our first day, and we
both feel that we may spend the rest of our lives together.  There's
something about marriage, whatever that is, and we're supposed to find
a priest, and I don't understand that, either.

Paul, Paul, Paul, why does it happen so fast?  I want to love you.  I
do love you.  But I don't want to be made to love you.  I want it to be
the real me," and as she spoke, tears poured from her eyes though her
voice remained steady enough.

Then it was that I said the wrong thing.

"You don't have to worry, honey.  I'm sure that the Lords of the
Instrumentality have programmed everything well."

At that, she burst into tears, loudly and uncontrollably.  I had never
seen an adult weep before.  It was strange and frightening.

A man from the next table came over and stood beside me, but I did not
so much as glance at him.

"Darling," said I, reasonably, "darling, we can work it out " "Paul,
let me leave you, so that I may be yours.  Let me go away for a few
days or a few weeks or a few years.  Then, if if if I do come back,
you'll know it's me and not some program ordered by a machine.  For
God's sake, Paul for God's sake!"  In a different voice she said,

"What is God, Paul?

They gave us the words to speak, but I do not know what they mean." The
man beside me spoke.

"I can take you to God," he said.

"Who are you?"  said I. "And who asked you to interfere?"

This was not the kind of language that we had ever used when speaking
the Old Common Tongue when they had given us a new language they had
built in temperament as well.

The stranger kept his politeness he was as French as we but he kept
his temper well.

"My name," he said, "is Maximilien Macht, and I used to be a
Believer."

Virginia's eyes lit up.  She wiped her face absentmindedly while
staring at the man.  He was tall, lean, sunburned.  (How could he have
gotten sunburned so soon?) He had reddish hair and a moustache almost
like that of the robot waiter.

"You asked about God, Mamselle," said the stranger.

"God is where he has always been around us, near us, in us."

This was strange talk from a man who looked worldly.  I rose to my feet
to bid him goodbye.  Virginia guessed what I was doing and she said:
"That's nice of you, Paul.  Give him a chair."

There was warmth in her voice.

The machine waiter came back with two conical beakers made of glass.
They had a golden fluid in them with a cap of foam on top.  I had never
seen or heard of beer before, but I knew exactly how it would taste.  I
put imaginary money on the tray, received imaginary change, paid the
waiter an imaginary tip.  The Instrumentality had not yet figured out
how to have separate kinds of money for all the new cultures, and of
course you could not use real money to pay for food or drink.  Food and
drink are free.

The machine wiped his moustache, used his serviette (checked red and
white) to dab the sweat off his brow, and then looked inquiringly at
Monsieur Macht.

"M'sieu, you will sit here?"

"Indeed," said Macht.

"Shall I serve you here?"

"But why not?"  said Macht.

"If these good people permit."

"Very well," said the machine, wiping his moustache with the back of
his hand.  He fled to the dark recesses of the bar.

All this time Virginia had not taken her eyes off Macht.

"You are a Believer?"  she asked.

"You are still a Believer, when you have been made French like us?  How
do you know you're you?  Why do I love Paul?  Are the Lords and their
machines controlling everything in us?  I want to be me.  Do you know
how to be me?"

"Not you, Mamselle," said Macht.

"That would be too great an honor.  But I am learning how to be myself.
You see," he added, turning to me,

"I have been French for two weeks now, and I know how much of me is
myself, and how much has been added by this new process of giving us
language and danger again."

The waiter came back with a small beaker.  It stood on a stem, so that
it
of Man looked like an evil little miniature of Earthport.  The fluid
it contained was milky white.

Macht lifted his glass to us.

"Your health!"

Virginia stared at him as if she were going to cry again.

When he and I sipped, she blew her nose and put her handkerchief away.
It was the first time I had ever seen a person perform that act of
blowing the nose, but it seemed to go well with our new culture.

Macht smiled at both of us, as if he were going to begin a speech.  The
sun came out, right on time.  It gave him a halo, and made him look
like a devil or a saint.

But it was Virginia who spoke first.

"You have been there?"

Macht raised his eyebrows a little, frowned, and said,

"Yes,"

very quietly.

"Did you get a word?"  she persisted.

"Yes."  He looked glum, and a little troubled.

"What did it say?"

For answer, he shook his head at her, as if there were things which
should never be mentioned in public.

I wanted to break in, to find out what this was all about.

Virginia went on, heeding me not at all: "But it did say something!"

"Yes," said Macht.

"Was it important?"

"Mamselle, let us not talk about it."

"We must," she cried.

"It's life or death."  Her hands were clenched so tightly together that
her knuckles showed white.  Her beer stood in front of her, untouched,
growing warm in the sunlight.

"Very well," said Macht, "you may ask ... I cannot guarantee to
answer."

I controlled myself no longer.

"What's all this about?"

Virginia looked at me with scorn, but even her scorn was the scorn of a
lover, not the cold remoteness of the past.

"Please, Paul, you wouldn't know.  Wait a while.  What did it say to
you, M'sieu Macht?"

"That I, Maximilien Macht, would live or die with a brown haired girl
who was already betrothed."  He smiled wryly.

"And I do not even quite know what 'betrothed' means."

"We'll find out," said Virginia.

"When did it say this?"

"Who is 'it'?"  I shouted at them.

"For God's sake, what is this all about?"

Macht looked at me and dropped his voice when he spoke: "The
Abba-dingo."  To her he said,

"Last week."

Virginia turned white.

"So it does work, it does, it does.  Paul darling, it
said nothing to me.  But it said to my aunt something which I can't
ever forget!"

I held her arm firmly and tenderly and tried to look into her eyes, but
she looked away.  Said I,

"What did it say?"

"Paul and Virginia."

"So what?"  said I. I scarcely knew her.  Her lips were tense and
compressed.  She was not angry.  It was something different, worse. She
was in the grip of tension.  I suppose we had not seen that for
thousands of years, either.

"Paul, seize this simple fact, if you can grasp it.  The machine gave
that woman our names but it gave them to her twelve years ago."

Macht stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over, and the waiter
began running toward us.

"That settles it," he said.

"We're all going back."

"Going where?"  I said.

"To the Abba-dingo."

"But why now?"  said I; and,

"Will it work?"  said Virginia, both at the same time.

"It always works," said Macht, "if you go on the northern side."

"How do you get there?"  said Virginia.

Macht frowned sadly.

"There's only one way.  By Alpha Ralpha Boulevard."  Virginia stood up.
And so did I. Then, as I rose, I remembered.  Alpha Ralpha Boulevard.
It was a ruined street hanging in the sky, faint as a vapor trail.  It
had been a processional highway once, where conquerors came down and
tribute went up.  But it was ruined, lost in the clouds, closed to
mankind for a hundred centuries.

"I know it," said I. "It's ruined."

Macht said nothing, but he stared at me as if I were an outsider .  .
.

Virginia, very quiet and white of countenance, said,

"Come along."

"But why," said I. "Why?"

"You fool," she said, "if we don't have a God, at least we have a
machine.  This is the only thing left on or off the world which the
Instrumentality doesn't understand.  Maybe it tells the future.

Maybe it's an un-machine.  It certainly comes from a different time.
Can't you use it, darling?  If it says we're us, we're us."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then we're not."  Her face was sullen with grief.

"What do you mean?"

"If we're not us," she said, "we're just toys, dolls, puppets that the
Lords have written on.  You're not you and I'm not me.  But if the
Abba-dingo, which knew the names Paul and Virginia twelve years before
it
happened if the Abba-dingo says that we are us, I don't care if it's a
predicting machine or a god or a devil or a what.  I don't care, but
I'll have the truth."

What could I have answered to that?  Macht led, she followed, and I
walked third in single file.  We left the sunlight of The Greasy Cat;
just as we left, a light rain began to fall.

The waiter, looking momentarily like the machine that he was, stared
straight ahead.  We crossed the lip of the underground and went down to
the fast expressway.

When we came out, we were in a region of fine homes.  All were in
ruins.  The trees had thrust their way into the buildings.

Flowers rioted across the lawn, through the open doors, and blazed in
the roofless rooms.  Who needed a house in the open, when the
population of Earth had dropped so that the cities were commodious and
empty?

Once I thought I saw a family of homunculi, including little ones,
peering at me as we trudged along the soft gravel road.

Maybe the faces I had seen at the edge of the house were fantasies.

Macht said nothing.

Virginia and I held hands as we walked beside him.  I could have been
happy at this odd excursion, but her hand was tightly clenched in mine.
She bit her lower lip from time to time.  I knew it mattered to her she
was on a pilgrimage.  (A pilgrimage was an ancient walk to some
powerful place, very good for body and soul.) I didn't mind going
along.  In fact, they could not have kept me from coming, once she and
Macht decided to leave the cafe.  But I didn't have to take it
seriously.

Did I?

What did Macht want?

Who was Macht?  What thoughts had that mind learned in two short weeks?
How had he preceded us into a new world of danger and adventure?  I did
not trust him.  For the first time in my life I felt alone. Always,
always, up to now, I had only to think about the Instrumentality and
some protector leaped fully armed into my mind. Telepathy guarded
against all dangers, healed all hurts, carried each of us forward to
the one hundred and forty-six thousand and ninety-seven days which had
been allotted us.  Now it was different.  I did not know this man, and
it was on him that I relied, not on the powers which had shielded and
protected us.

We turned from the ruined road into an immense boulevard.  The pavement
was so smooth and unbroken that nothing grew on it, save where the wind
and dust had deposited random little pockets of earth.

Macht stopped.

"This is it," he said.

"Alpha Ralpha Boulevard."

We fell silent and looked at the causeway of forgotten empires.

To our left the boulevard disappeared in a gentle curve.  It led far
north
of the city in which I had been reared.  I knew that there was another
city to the north, but I had forgotten its name.  Why should I have
remembered it?  It was sure to be just like my own.

But to the right To the right the boulevard rose sharply, like a ramp.
It disappeared into the clouds.  Just at the edge of the cloud-line
there was a hint of disaster.  I could not see for sure, but it looked
to me as though the whole boulevard had been sheared off by
unimaginable forces.  Somewhere beyond the clouds there stood the
Abba-dingo, the place where all questions were answered ... Or so they
thought.

Virginia cuddled close to me.

"Let's turn back," said I. "We are city people.  We don't know anything
about ruins."

"You can if you want to," said Macht.

"I was just trying to do you a favor."

We both looked at Virginia.

She looked up at me with those brown eyes.  From the eyes there came a
plea older than woman or man, older than the human race.  I knew what
she was going to say before she said it.  She was going to say that she
had to know.

Macht was idly crushing some soft rocks near his foot.

At last Virginia spoke up: "Paul, I don't want danger for its own sake.
But I meant what I said back there.  Isn't there a chance that we were
told to love each other?  What sort of a life would it be if our
happiness, our own selves, depended on a thread in a machine or on a
mechanical voice which spoke to us when we were asleep and learning
French?  It may be fun to go back to the old world.  I guess it is.  I
know that you give me a kind of happiness which I never even suspected
before this day.  If it's really us, we have something wonderful, and
we ought to know it.

But if it isn't " She burst into sobs.

I wanted to say,

"If it isn't, it will seem just the same," but the ominous sulky face
of Macht looked at me over Virginia's shoulder as I drew her to me.
There was nothing to say.

I held her close.

From beneath Macht's foot there flowed a trickle of blood.

The dust drank it up.

"Macht," said I, "are you hurt?"

Virginia turned around, too.

Macht raised his eyebrows at me and said with unconcern, "No.  Why?"

"The blood.  At your feet."

He glanced down.

"Oh, those," he said, "they're nothing.  Just the eggs of some kind of
an un-bird which does not even fly."

of Man "Stop it!"  I shouted telepathically, using the Old Common
Tongue.  I did not even try to think in our new-learned French.

He stepped back a pace in surprise.

Out of nothing there came to me a message: thank you thank you good
great go home please thank you good great go away man bad man bad man
bad... Somewhere an animal or bird was warning me against Macht.  I
thought a casual thanks to it and turned my attention to Macht.

He and I stared at each other.  Was this what culture was?

Were we now men?  Did freedom always include the freedom to mistrust,
to fear, to hate?

I liked him not at all.  The words of forgotten crimes came into my
mind: assassination, murder, abduction, insanity, rape, robbery .  .
.

We had known none of these things and yet I felt them all.

He spoke evenly to me.  We had both been careful to guard our minds
against being read telepathically, so that our only means of
communication were empathy and French.

"It's your idea," he said, most untruthfully, "or at least your
lady's..."

"Has lying already come into the world," said I, "so that we walk into
the clouds for no reason at all?"

"There is a reason," said Macht.

I pushed Virginia gently aside and capped my mind so tightly that the
anti-telepathy felt like a headache.

"Macht," said I, and I myself could hear the snarl of an animal in my
own voice, "tell me why you have brought us here or I will kill you."

He did not retreat.  He faced me, ready for a fight.  He said, "Kill?
You mean, to make me dead?"  but his words did not carry conviction.
Neither one of us knew how to fight, but he readied for defense and I
for attack.

Underneath my thought shield an animal thought crept in: good man good
man take him by the neck no-air he-aaah no-air he-aaah like broken
egg--- I took the advice without worrying where it came from.  It was
simple.  I walked over to Macht, reached my hands around his throat,
and squeezed.  He tried to push my hands away.  Then he tried to kick
me.  All I did was hang on to his throat.  If I had been a Lord or a
Go-captain, I might have known about fighting.  But I did not, and
neither did he.

It ended when a sudden weight dragged at my hands.

Out of surprise, I let go.

Macht had become unconscious.  Was that dead?

It could not have been, because he sat up.  Virginia ran to him.  He
rubbed his throat and said with a rough voice: "You should not have
done that."

This gave me courage.

"Tell me," I spat at him, "tell me why you wanted us to come, or I will
do it again."

Macht grinned weakly.  He leaned his head against Virginia's arm.

"It's fear," he said.

"Fear."

"Fear?"  I knew the word peur but not the meaning.  Was it some kind of
disquiet or animal alarm?

I had been thinking with my mind open; he thought back yes.

"But why do you like it?"  I asked.

It is delicious, he thought.  It makes me sick and thrilly and alive.
It is like strong medicine, almost as good as stroon.  I went there
before.  High up, I had much fear.  It was wonderful and bad and good,
all at the same time.  I lived a thousand years in a single hour.  I
wanted more of it, but I thought it would be even more exciting with
other people.

"Now I will kill you," said I in French.

"You are very very ..."  I had to look for the word.

"You are very evil."

"No," said Virginia, "let him talk."

He thought at me, not bothering with words.  This is what the Lords of
the Instrumentality never let us have.  Fear.  Reality.  We were born
in a stupor and we died in a dream.  Even the under people the animals,
had more life than we did.  The machines did not have fear.  That's
what we were.  Machines who thought they were men.  And now we are
free.

He saw the edge of raw, red anger in my mind, and he changed the
subject.  I did not lie to you.  This is the way to the Abba-dingo.  I
have been there.  It works.  On this side, it always works.

"It works," cried Virginia.

"You see he says so.  It works!  He is telling the truth.  Oh, Paul, do
let's go on!"

"All right," said I, "we'll go."

I helped him rise.  He looked embarrassed, like a man who has shown
something of which he is ashamed.

We walked onto the surface of the indestructible boulevard.

It was comfortable to the feet.

At the bottom of my mind the little unseen bird or animal babbled its
thoughts at me: goodman goodman make him dead take water take water...
I paid no attention as I walked forward with her and him, Virginia
between us.  I paid no attention.

I wish I had.

We walked for a long time.

The process was new to us.  There was something exhilarating in knowing
that no one guarded us, that the air was free air, moving without
benefit of weather machines.  We saw many birds, and when I thought at
them I found their minds startled and opaque; they were natural birds,
the like of
of Man which I had never seen before.  Virginia asked me their names,
and I outrageously applied all the bird-names which we had learned in
French without knowing whether they were historically right or not.

Maximilien Macht cheered up, too, and he even sang us a song, rather
off key, to the effect that we would take the high road and he the low
one, but that he would be in Scotland before us.  It did not make
sense, but the lilt was pleasant.  Whenever he got a certain distance
ahead of Virginia and me, I made up variations on

"Macouba" and sang-whispered the phrases into her pretty ear: She wasn
't the woman I went to seek.  I met her by the merest chance.

She did not speak the French of France, But the surded French of
Martinique.

We were happy in adventure and freedom, until we became hungry.  Then
our troubles began.

Virginia stepped up to a lamp-post, struck it lightly with her fist,
and said,

"Feed me."  The post should either have opened, serving us a dinner, or
else told us where, within the next few hundred yards, food was to be
had.  It did neither.  It did nothing.

It must have been broken.

With that, we began to make a game of hitting every single post.

Alpha Ralpha Boulevard had risen about half a kilometer above the
surrounding countryside.  The wild birds wheeled below us.  There was
less dust on the pavement, and fewer patches of weeds.  The immense
road, with no pylons below it, curved like an unsupported ribbon into
the clouds.

We wearied of beating posts and there was neither food nor water.

Virginia became fretful: "It won't do any good to go back now.

Food is even farther the other way.  I do wish you'd brought
something."

How should I have thought to carry food?  Who ever carries food?  Why
would they carry it, when it is everywhere?  My darling was
unreasonable, but she was my darling and I loved her all the more for
the sweet imperfections of her temper.

Macht kept tapping pillars, partly to keep out of our fight, and
obtained an unexpected result.

At one moment I saw him leaning over to give the pillar of a large lamp
the usual hearty but guarded whop in the next instant he yelped like a
dog and was sliding uphill at a high rate of speed.

I heard him shout something, but could not make out the words, before
he disappeared into the clouds ahead.

Virginia looked at me.

"Do you want to go back now?  Macht is gone.  We can say that I got
tired."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course, darling."

I laughed, a little angrily.  She had insisted that we come, and now
she was ready to turn around and give it up, just to please me.

"Never mind," said I. "It can't be far now.  Let's go on."

"Paul .  . ."  She stood close to me.  Her brown eyes were troubled, as
though she were trying to see all the way into my mind through my eyes.
I thought to her, Do you want to talk this way?

"No," said she, in French.

"I want to say things one at a time.

Paul, I do want to go to the Abba-dingo.  I need to go.  It's the
biggest need in my life.  But at the same time, I don't want to go.

There is something wrong up there.  I would rather have you on the
wrong terms than not have you at all.  Something could happen."

Edgily, I demanded,

"Are you getting this 'fear' that Macht was talking about?"

"Oh, no, Paul, not at all.  This feeling isn't exciting.  It feels like
something broken in a machine " "Listen!"  I interrupted her.

From far ahead, from within the clouds, there came a sound like an
animal wailing.  There were words in it.  It must have been Macht.  I
thought I heard "take care."  When I sought him with my mind, the
distance made circles and I got dizzy.

"Let's follow, darling," said I. "Yes, Paul," said she, and in her
voice there was an unfathomable mixture of happiness, resignation, and
despair .  . .

Before we moved on, I looked carefully at her.  She was my girl.  The
sky had turned yellow and the lights were not yet on.  In the yellow
rich sky her brown curls were tinted with gold, her brown eyes
approached the black in their irises, her young and fate-haunted face
seemed more meaningful than any other human face I had ever seen.

"You are mine," I said.

"Yes, Paul," she answered me and then smiled brightly.

"You said it!  That is doubly nice."

A bird on the railing looked sharply at us and then left.

Perhaps he did not approve of human nonsense, so flung himself downward
into dark air.  I saw him catch himself, far below, and ride lazily on
his wings.

"We're not as free as birds, darling," I told Virginia, "but we are
freer than people have been for a hundred centuries."

For answer she hugged my arm and smiled at me.

"And now," I added, "to follow Macht.  Put your arms around me and hold
me tight.  I'll try hitting that post.  If we don't get dinner we may
get a ride."

of Man I felt her take hold tightly and then I struck the post.

Which post?  An instant later the posts were sailing by us in a blur.
The ground beneath our feet seemed steady, but we were moving at a fast
rate.  Even in the service underground I had never seen a roadway as
fast as this.  Virginia's dress was blowing so hard that it made
snapping sounds like the snap of fingers.  In no time at all we were in
the cloud and out of it again.

A new world surrounded us.  The clouds lay below and above.

Here and there blue sky shone through.  We were steady.  The ancient
engineers must have devised the walkway cleverly.  We rode up, up, up
without getting dizzy.

Another cloud.

Then things happened so fast that the telling of them takes longer than
the event.

Something dark rushed at me from up ahead.  A violent blow hit me in
the chest.  Only much later did I realize that this was Macht's arm
trying to grab me before we went over the edge.  Then we went into
another cloud.  Before I could even speak to Virginia a second blow
struck me.  The pain was terrible.  I had never felt anything like that
in all my life.  For some reason, Virginia had fallen over me and
beyond me.  She was pulling at my hands.

I tried to tell her to stop pulling me, because it hurt, but I had no
breath.  Rather than argue, I tried to do what she wanted.  I struggled
toward her.  Only then did I realize that there was nothing below my
feet no bridge, no jetway nothing.

I was on the edge of the boulevard, the broken edge of the upper side.
There was nothing below me except for some looped cables, and, far
underneath them, a tiny ribbon which was either a river or a road.

We had jumped blindly across the great gap and I had fallen just far
enough to catch the upper edge of the roadway on my chest.

It did not matter, the pain.

In a moment the doctor-robot would be there to repair me.

A look at Virginia's face reminded me there was no doctor robot no
world, no Instrumentality, nothing but wind and pain.

She was crying.  It took a moment for me to hear what she was saying.

"I did it, I did it, darling, are you dead?"

Neither one of us was sure what "dead" meant, because people always
went away at their appointed time, but we knew that it meant a
cessation of life.  I tried to tell her that I was living, but she
fluttered over me and kept dragging me farther from the edge of the
drop.

I used my hands to push myself into a sitting position.

She knelt beside me and covered my face with kisses.

At last I was able to gasp,

"Where's Macht?"

She looked back.

"I don't see him."

I tried to look too.  Rather than have me struggle, she said, "You stay
quiet.  I'll look again."

Bravely she walked to the edge of the sheared-off boulevard.

She looked over toward the lower side of the gap, peering through the
clouds which drifted past us as rapidly as smoke sucked by a
ventilator.  Then she cried out: "I see him.  He looks so funny.  Like
an insect in the museum.

He is crawling across on the cables."

Struggling to my hands and knees, I neared her and looked too.  There
he was, a dot moving along a thread, with the birds soaring by beneath
him.  It looked very unsafe.  Perhaps he was getting all the "fear"
that he needed to keep himself happy.  I did not want that "fear,"
whatever it was.  I wanted food, water, and a doctor-robot.

None of these were here.

I struggled to my feet.  Virginia tried to help me but I was standing
before she could do more than touch my sleeve.

"Let's go on."

"On?"  she said.

"On to the Abba-dingo.  There may be friendly machines up there.  Here
there is nothing but cold and wind, and the lights have not yet gone
on."

She frowned.

"But Macht.  .. ?"

"It will be hours before he gets here.  We can come back."

She obeyed.

Once again we went to the left of the boulevard.  I told her to squeeze
my waist while I struck the pillars, one by one.  Surely there must
have been a reactivating device for the passengers on the road.

The fourth time, it worked.

Once again the wind whipped our clothing as we raced upward on Alpha
Ralpha Boulevard.

We almost fell as the road veered to the left.  I caught my balance,
only to have it veer the other way.

And then we stopped.

This was the Abba-dingo.

A walkway littered with white objects knobs and rods and imperfectly
formed balls about the size of my head.

Virginia stood beside me, silent.

About the size of my head?  I kicked one of the objects aside and then
knew, knew for sure, what it was.  It was people.  The inside parts.  I
had never seen such things before.  And that, that on the ground, must
once have been a hand.  There were hundreds of such things along the
wall.

"Come, Virginia," said I, keeping my voice even, and my thoughts
hidden.

She followed without saying a word.  She was curious about the things
on the ground, but she did not seem to recognize them.

For my part.  I was watching the wall.

At last I found them the little doors of Abba-dingo.

One said meteorological.  It was not Old Common Tongue, nor was it
French, but it was so close that I knew it had something to do with the
behavior of air.  I put my hand against the panel of the door.  The
panel became translucent and ancient writing showed through.  There
were numbers which meant nothing, words which meant nothing, and then:
Typhoon coming.

My French had not taught me what a "coming" was, but "typhoon" was
plainly typhon, a major air disturbance.  Thought I, let the weather
machines take care of the matter.  It had nothing to do with us.

"That's no help," said I. "What does it mean?"  she said.

"The air will be disturbed."

"Oh," said she.

"That couldn't matter to us, could it?"

"Of course not."

I tried the next panel, which said food.  When my hand touched the
little door, there was an aching creak inside the wall, as though the
whole tower retched.  The door opened a little bit and a horrible odor
came out of it.  Then the door closed again.

The third door said help and when I touched it nothing happened.
Perhaps it was some kind of tax-collecting device from the ancient
days.  It yielded nothing to my touch.  The fourth door was larger and
already partly open at the bottom.  At the top, the name of the door
was predictions.  Plain enough, that one was, to anyone who knew Old
French.  The name at the bottom was more mysterious: put paper here it
said, and I could not guess what it meant.

I tried telepathy.  Nothing happened.  The wind whistled past us.  Some
of the calcium balls and knobs rolled on the pavement.

I tried again, trying my utmost for the imprint of long-departed
thoughts.  A scream entered my mind, a thin long scream which did not
sound much like people.  That was all.

Perhaps it did upset me.  I did not feel "fear," but I was worried
about Virginia.

She was staring at the ground.

"Paul," she said, "isn't that a man's coat on the ground among those
funny things?"

Once I had seen an ancient X-ray in the museum, so I knew that the coat
still surrounded the material which had provided the inner structure of
the man.  There was no ball there, so that I was quite sure he was
dead.

How could that have happened in the old days?  Why did the
Instrumentality let it happen?  But then, the Instrumentality had
always forbidden this side of the tower.  Perhaps the violators had met
their own punishment in some way I could not fathom.

"Look, Paul," said Virginia.

"I can put my hand in."

Before I could stop her, she had thrust her hand into the flat open
slot which said put paper here.

She screamed.

Her hand was caught.

I tried to pull at her arm, but it did not move.  She began gasping
with pain.  Suddenly her hand came free.

Clear words were cut into the living skin.  I tore my cloak off and
wrapped her hand.

As she sobbed beside me I unbandaged her hand.  As I did so she saw the
words on her skin.

The words said, in clear French: You will love Paul all your life.

Virginia let me bandage her hand with my cloak and then she lifted her
face to be kissed.

"It was worth it," she said; "it was worth all the trouble, Paul. Let's
see if we can get down.  Now I know."

I kissed her again and said, reassuringly,

"You do know, don't you?"

"Of course," she smiled through her tears.

"The Instrumentality could not have contrived this.  What a clever old
machine!  Is it a god or a devil, Paul?"

I had not studied those words at that time, so I patted her instead of
answering.  We turned to leave.

At the last minute I realized that I had not tried predictions
myself.

"Just a moment, darling.  Let me tear a little piece off the
bandage."

She waited patiently.  I tore a piece the size of my hand, and then I
picked up one of the ex-person units on the ground.  It may have been
the front of an arm.  I returned to push the cloth into the slot, but
when I turned to the door, an enormous bird was sitting there.

I used my hand to push the bird aside, and he cawed at me.

He even seemed to threaten me with his cries and his sharp beak.

I could not dislodge him.

Then I tried telepathy.  I am a true man.  Go away!

The bird's dim mind flashed back at me nothing but no-no-nono-no!

With that I struck him so hard with my fist that he fluttered to the
ground.  He righted himself amid the white litter on the pavement and
then, opening his wings, he let the wind carry him away.

I pushed in the scrap of cloth, counted to twenty in my mind, and
pulled the scrap out.

The words were plain, but they meant nothing: You will love Virginia
twenty-one more minutes.

Her happy voice, reassured by the prediction but still unsteady from
the pain in her written-on hand, came to me as though it were far
away.

"What does it say, darling?"

Accidentally on purpose, I let the wind take the scrap.  It fluttered
away like a bird.  Virginia saw it go.

"Oh," she cried disappointedly.

"We've lost it!  What did it say?"

"Just what yours did."

"But what words, Paul?  How did it say it?"

With love and heartbreak and perhaps a little "fear," I lied to her and
whispered gently, "It said,

"Paul will always love Virginia."  " She smiled at me radiantly.  Her
stocky, full figure stood firmly and happily against the wind.  Once
again she was the chubby, pretty Menerima whom I had noticed in our
block when we both were children.  And she was more than that.  She was
my new-found love in our new-found world.  She was my mademoiselle from
Martinique.  The message was foolish.  We had seen from the food-slot
that the machine was broken.

"There's no food or water here," said I. Actually, there was a puddle
of water near the railing, but it had been blown over the human
structural elements on the ground, and I had no heart to drink it.

Virginia was so happy that, despite her wounded hand, her lack of
water, and her lack of food, she walked vigorously and cheerfully.

Thought I to myself.  Twenty-one minutes.  About six hours have passed.
If we stay here we face unknown dangers.

Vigorously we walked downward, down Alpha Ralpha Boulevard.  We had met
the Abba-dingo and were still "alive."  I did not think that I was
"dead," but the words had been meaningless so long that it was hard to
think them.

The ramp was so steep going down that we pranced like horses.  The wind
blew into our faces with incredible force.  That's what it was, wind,
but I looked up the word vent only after it was all over.

We never did see the whole tower just the wall at which the ancient
jetway had deposited us.  The rest of the tower was hidden by clouds
which fluttered like torn rags as they raced past the heavy material.

The sky was red on one side and a dirty yellow on the other.

Big drops of water began to strike at us.

"The weather machines are broken," I shouted to Virginia.

She tried to shout back to me but the wind carried her words away.  I
repeated what I had said about the weather machines.  She nodded
happily and warmly, though the wind was by now whipping her hair past
her face and the pieces of water which fell from up above were spotting
her flame-golden gown.  It did not matter.  She clung to my arm.  Her
happy face
smiled at me as we stamped downward, bracing ourselves against the
decline in the ramp.  Her brown eyes were full of confidence and life.
She saw me looking at her and she kissed me on the upper arm without
losing step.  She was my own girl forever, and she knew it.

The water-from-above, which I later knew was actual "rain,"

came in increasing volume.  Suddenly it included birds.  A large bird
flapped his way vigorously against the whistling air and managed to
stand still in front of my face, though his air speed was many leagues
per hour.  He cawed in my face and then was carried away by the wind.
No sooner had that one gone than another bird struck me in the body.  I
looked down at it but it too was carried away by the racing current of
air.  All I got was a telepathic echo from its bright blank mind:
no-no-no-no!

Now what?  thought I. A bird's advice is not much to go upon.

Virginia grabbed my arm and stopped.

I too stopped.

The broken edge of Alpha Ralpha Boulevard was just ahead.

Ugly yellow clouds swam through the break like poisonous fish hastening
on an inexplicable errand.

Virginia was shouting.

I could not hear her, so I leaned down.  That way her mouth could
almost touch my ear.

"Where is Macht?"  she shouted.

Carefully I took her to the left side of the road, where the railing
gave us some protection against the heavy racing air, and against the
water commingled with it.  By now neither of us could see very far.  I
made her drop to her knees.  I got down beside her.

The falling water pelted our backs.  The light around us had turned to
a dark dirty yellow.

We could still see, but we could not see much.

I was willing to sit in the shelter of the railing, but she nudged me.
She wanted us to do something about Macht.  What anyone could do, that
was beyond me.  If he had found shelter, he was safe, but if he was out
on those cables, the wild pushing air would soon carry him off and then
there would be no more Maximilien Macht.  He would be "dead" and his
interior parts would bleach somewhere on the open ground.

Virginia insisted.

We crept to the edge.

A bird swept in, true as a bullet, aiming for my face.  I flinched.  A
wing touched me.  It stung against my cheek like fire.

I did not know that feathers were so tough.  The birds must all have
damaged mental mechanisms, thought I, if they hit people on Alpha
Ralpha.  That is not the right way to behave toward true people.

At last we reached the edge, crawling on our bellies.  I tried to dig
the
fingernails of my left hand into the stone like material of the
railing, but it was flat, and there was nothing much to hold to, save
for the ornamental fluting.  My right arm was around Virginia.  It hurt
me badly to crawl forward that way, because my body was still damaged
from the blow against the edge of the road, on the way coming up.  When
I hesitated, Virginia thrust herself forward.

We saw nothing.

The gloom was around us.

The wind and the water beat at us like fists.

Her gown pulled at her like a dog worrying its master.  I wanted to get
her back into the shelter of the railing, where we could wait for the
air-disturbance to end.

Abruptly, the light shone all around us.  It was wild electricity,
which the ancients called lightning.  Later I found that it occurs
quite frequently in the areas beyond the reach of the weather
machines.

The bright quick light showed us a white face staring at us.

He hung on the cables below us.  His mouth was open, so he must have
been shouting.  I shall never know whether the expression on his face
showed "fear" or great happiness.  It was full of excitement.  The
bright light went out and I thought that I heard the echo of a call.  I
reached for his mind telepathically and there was nothing there.  Just
some dim obstinate bird thinking at me, no-no-no-no-no!

Virginia tightened in my arms.  She squirmed around.  I shouted at her
in French.  She could not hear.

Then I called with my mind.

Someone else was there.

Virginia's mind blazed at me, full of revulsion, The cat girl.

She is going to touch me!

She twisted.  My right arm was suddenly empty.  I saw the gleam of a
golden gown flash over the edge, even in the dim light.  I reached with
my mind, and I caught her cry: "Paul, Paul, I love you.  Paul..  . help
me!"

The thoughts faded as her body dropped.

The someone else was C'mell, whom we had first met in the corridor.

I came to get you both, she thought at me, not that the birds cared
about her.

What have the birds got to do with it?

You saved them.  You saved their young, when the red topped man was
killing them all.  All of us have been worried about what you true
people would do to us when you were free.

We found out.  Some of you are bad and kill other kinds of life.

Others of you are good and protect life.

Thought I, is that all there is to good and bad?

Perhaps I should not have left myself off guard.  People did not have
to understand fighting, but the homunculi did.  They were bred amidst
battle and they served through troubles.  C'mell, cat-girl that she
was, caught me on the chin with a piston like fist.  She had no
anesthesia and the only way cat or no cat that she could carry me
across the cables in the "typhoon" was to have me unconscious and
relaxed.

I awakened in my own room.  I felt very well indeed.  The robot-doctor
was there.  Said he: "You've had a shock.  I've already reached the
Subcommissioner of the Instrumentality, and I can erase the memories of
the last full day, if you want me to."

His expression was pleasant.

Where was the racing wind?  The air falling like stone around us?  The
water driving where no weather machines controlled it?  Where was the
golden gown and the wild fear-hungry face of Maximilien Macht?

I thought these things, but the robot-doctor, not being telepathic,
caught none of it.  I stared hard at him.

"Where," I cried, "is my own true love?"

Robots cannot sneer, but this one attempted to do so.

"The naked cat-girl with the blazing hair?

She left to get some clothing."

I stared at him.

His fuddy-duddy little machine mind cooked up its own nasty little
thoughts,

"I must say, sir, you 'free people' change very fast indeed .  . ."

Who argues with a machine?  It wasn't worth answering him.

But that other machine?  Twenty-one minutes.

How could that work out?  How could it have known?  I did not want to
argue with that other machine either.  It must have been a very
powerful left-over machine perhaps something used in ancient wars.  I
had no intention of finding out.

Some people might call it a god.  I call it nothing.

I do not need "fear" and I do not propose to go back to Alpha Ralpha
Boulevard again.

But hear, oh heart of mine!  how can you ever visit the cafe again?

C'mell came in and the robot-doctor left.

 The Ballad of Lost C'mell She got the which of the what-she did Hid
the bell with a blot, she did, But she fell in love with a hominid.

Where is the which of the what-she did

from THE BALLAD OF LOST C'MELL She was a girly girl and they were true
men, the lords of creation, but she pitted her wits against them and
she won.  It had never happened before, and it is sure never to happen
again, but she did win.  She was not even of human extraction.  She was
cat derived though human in outward shape, which explains the C in
front of her name.  Her father's name was C'mackintosh and her name
C'mell.  She won her tricks against the lawful and assembled Lords of
the Instrumentality.

It all happened at Earthport, greatest of buildings, smallest of
cities, standing twenty-five kilometers high at the western edge of the
Smaller Sea of Earth.

Jestocost had an office outside the fourth valve.

Jestocost liked the morning sunshine, while most of the other Lords of
the Instrumentality did not, so that he had no trouble in keeping the
office and the apartments which he had selected.  His main office was
ninety meters deep, twenty meters high, twenty meters broad.  Behind it
was the "fourth valve," almost a thousand hectares in extent.  It was
shaped helically, like an enormous snail.

Jestocost's apartment, big as it was, was merely one of the pigeonholes
in the muffler of the rim of Earthport.  Earthport stood like an
enormous wineglass, reaching from the magma to the high atmosphere.

Earthport had been built during mankind's biggest mechanical splurge.

of Man Though men had had nuclear rockets since the beginning of
consecutive history, they had used chemical rockets to load the
interplanetary ion-drive and nuclear-drive vehicles or to assemble the
photonic sail-ships for interstellar cruises.  Impatient with the
troubles of taking things bit by bit into the sky, they had worked out
a billion-ton rocket, only to find that it ruined whatever countryside
it touched in landing.  The Daimoni people of Earth extraction, who
came back from somewhere beyond the stars had helped men build it of
weatherproof, rustproof, time proof stress proof material.  Then they
had gone away and had never come back.

Jestocost often looked around his apartment and wondered what it might
have been like when white-hot gas, muted to a whisper, surged out of
the valve into his own chamber and the sixty-three other chambers like
it.  Now he had a back wall of heavy timber, and the valve itself was a
great hollow cave where a few wild things lived.  Nobody needed that
much space any more.  The chambers were useful, but the valve did
nothing.

Planoforming ships whispered in from the stars; they landed at
Earthport as a matter of legal convenience, but they made no noise and
they certainly had no hot gases.

Jestocost looked at the high clouds far below him and talked to
himself,

"Nice day.  Good air.  No trouble.  Better eat."

Jestocost often talked like that to himself.  He was an individual,
almost an eccentric.  One of the top council of mankind, he had
problems, but they were not personal problems.

He had a Rembrandt hanging above his bed the only Rembrandt known in
the world, just as he was possibly the only person who could appreciate
a Rembrandt.  He had the tapestries of a forgotten empire hanging from
his back wall.  Every morning the sun played a grand opera for him,
muting and lighting and shifting the colors so that he could almost
imagine that the old days of quarrel, murder, and high drama had come
back to Earth again.  He had a copy of Shakespeare, a copy of
Colegrove, and two pages of the Book of Ecclesiastes in a locked box
beside his bed.  Only forty-two people in the universe could read
Ancient English, and he was one of them.  He drank wine, which he had
made by his own robots in his own vineyards on the Sunset Coast.  He
was a man, in short, who had arranged his own life to live comfortably,
selfishly, and well on the personal side, so that he could give
generously and impartially of his talents on the official side.

When he awoke on this particular morning, he had no idea that a
beautiful girl was about to fall hopelessly in love with him that he
would find, after a hundred years and more of experience in government,
another government on Earth just as strong and almost as ancient as his
own that he would willingly fling himself into conspiracy and danger
for a cause which he only half understood.  All these things were
mercifully hidden from him by time, so that his only question on
arising was, should he or should he not have a
The Ballad of Lost C'mell small cup of white wine with his breakfast.
On the one hundred seventy-third day of each year, he always made a
point of eating eggs.  They were a rare treat, and he did not want to
spoil himself by having too many, nor to deprive himself and forget a
treat by having none at all.  He puttered around the room, muttering,
"White wine?  White wine?"

C'mell was coming into his life, but he did not know it.  She was fated
to win; that part, she herself did not know.

Ever since mankind had gone through the Rediscovery of Man, bringing
back governments, money, newspapers, national languages, sickness, and
occasional death, there had been the problem of the under people people
who were not human, but merely humanly shaped from the stock of Earth
animals.  They could speak, sing, read, write, work, love, and die; but
they were not covered by human law, which simply defined them as
"homunculi" and gave them a legal status close to animals or robots.
Real people from off-world were always called "hominids."

Most of the under people did their jobs and accepted their half-slave
status without question.  Some became famous C' mackintosh had been the
first Earth-being to manage a fifty-meter broad-jump under normal
gravity.  His picture was seen in a thousand worlds.  His daughter,
C'mell, was a girly girl earning her living by welcoming human beings
and hominids from the out worlds and making them feel at home when they
reached Earth.  She had the privilege of working at Earthport, but she
had the duty of working very hard for a living which did not pay
well.

Human beings and hominids had lived so long in an affluent society that
they did not know what it meant to be poor.  But the Lords of the
Instrumentality had decreed that under people derived from animal stock
should live under the economics of the Ancient World; they had to have
their own kind of money to pay for their rooms, their food, their
possessions, and the education of their children.  If they became
bankrupt, they went to the Poorhouse, where they were killed painlessly
by means of gas.

It was evident that humanity, having settled all of its own basic
problems, was not quite ready to let Earth animals, no matter how much
they might be changed, assume a full equality with man.

The Lord Jestocost, seventh of that name, opposed the policy.

He was a man who had little love, no fear, freedom from ambition, and a
dedication to his job: but there are passions of government as deep and
challenging as the emotions of love.  Two hundred years of thinking
himself right and of being outvoted had instilled in Jestocost a
furious desire to get things done his own way.

Jestocost was one of the few true men who believed in the rights of the
under people He did not think that mankind would ever get around to
correcting ancient wrongs unless the under people themselves had some
of
of Man the tools of power weapons, conspiracy, wealth, and (above all)
organization with which to challenge man.  He was not afraid of revolt,
but he thirsted for justice with an obsessive yearning which overrode
all other considerations.

When the Lords of the Instrumentality heard that there was the rumor of
a conspiracy among the under people they left it to the robot police to
ferret it out.

Jestocost did not.

He set up his own police, using under people themselves for the
purpose, hoping to recruit enemies who would realize that he was a
friendly enemy and who would in course of time bring him into touch
with the leaders of the under people

If those leaders existed, they were clever.  What sign did a girly girl
like C'mell ever give that she was the spearhead of a crisscross of
agents who had penetrated Earthport itself?  They must, if they
existed, be very, very careful.  The telepathic monitors, both robotic
and human, kept every thought-band under surveillance by random
sampling.  Even the computers showed nothing more significant than
improbable amounts of happiness in minds which had no objective reason
for being happy.

The death of her father, the most famous cat-athlete which the
under-people had ever produced, gave Jestocost his first definite
clue.

He went to the funeral himself, where the body was packed in an
ice-rocket to be shot into space.  The mourners were thoroughly mixed
with the curiosity-seekers.  Sport is international, in terrace
inter-world, interspe-cies.  Hominids were there: true men, one hundred
percent human, they looked weird and horrible because they or their
ancestors had undergone bodily modifications to meet the life
conditions of a thousand worlds.

Underpeople, the animal-derived "homunculi," were there, most of them
in their work clothes, and they looked more human than did the human
beings from the outer worlds.  None were allowed to grow up if they
were less than half the size of man, or more than six times the size of
man.  They all had to have human features and acceptable human voices.
The punishment for failure in their elementary schools was death.
Jestocost looked over the crowd and wondered to himself,

"We have set up the standards of the toughest kind of survival for
these people and we give them the most terrible incentive, life itself,
as the condition of absolute progress.  What fools we are to think that
they will not overtake us!"  The true people in the group did not seem
to think as he did.

They tapped the under people peremptorily with their canes, even though
this was an under person funeral, and the bear-men, bull men cat-men,
and others yielded immediately and with a babble of apology.

C'mell was close to her father's icy coffin.

Jestocost not only watched her; she was pretty to watch.  He
committed
an act which was an indecency in an ordinary citizen but lawful for a
Lord of the Instrumentality: he peeped her mind.

And then he found something which he did not expect.

As the coffin left, she cried,

"Ee-telly-kelly, help me!  help me!"

She had thought phonetically, not in script, and he had only the raw
sound on which to base a search.

Jestocost had not become a Lord of the Instrumentality without applying
daring.  His mind was quick, too quick to be deeply intelligent.  He
thought by gestalt, not by logic.  He determined to force his
friendship on the girl.

He decided to await a propitious occasion, and then changed his mind
about the time.

As she went home from the funeral, he intruded upon the circle of her
grim-faced friends, under people who were trying to shield her from the
condolences of ill-mannered but well meaning sports enthusiasts.

She recognized him, and showed him the proper respect.

"My Lord, I did not expect you here.  You knew my father?"

He nodded gravely and addressed sonorous words of consolation and
sorrow, words which brought a murmur of approval from humans and under
people alike.

But with his left hand hanging slack at his side, he made the perpetual
signal of alarm!  alarm!  used with the Earthport staff a repeated
tapping of the thumb against the third finger when they had to set one
another on guard without alerting the off world transients.

She was so upset that she almost spoiled it all.  While he was still
doing his pious doubletalk, she cried in a loud clear voice: "You mean
me]" And he went on with his condolences: "... and I do mean you,
C'mell, to be the worthiest carrier of your father's name.  You are the
one to whom we turn in this time of common sorrow.  Who could I mean
but you if I say that C'mackintosh never did things by halves, and died
young as a result of his own zealous conscience?  Good-bye, C'mell, I
go back to my office."

She arrived forty minutes after he did.

II

He faced her straightaway, studying her face.

"This is an important day in your life."  "Yes, my Lord, a sad one."

"I do not," he said, "mean your father's death and burial.  I speak of
the future to which we all must turn.  Right now, it's you and me."

Her eyes widened.  She had not thought that he was that kind of man
at
of Man all.  He was an official who moved freely around Earthport,
often greeting important off world visitors and keeping an eye on the
bureau of ceremonies.  She was a part of the reception team, when a
girly girl was needed to calm down a frustrated arrival or to postpone
a quarrel.  Like the geisha of ancient Japan, she had an honorable
profession; she was not a bad girl but a professionally flirtatious
hostess.  She stared at the Lord Jestocost.  He did not look as though
he meant anything improperly personal.  But, thought she, you can never
tell about men.

"You know men," he said, passing the initiative to her.

"I guess so," she said.  Her face looked odd.  She started to give him
smile No.  3 (extremely adhesive) which she had learned in the girly
girl school.  Realizing it was wrong, she tried to give him an ordinary
smile.  She felt she had made a face at him.

"Look at me," he said, "and see if you can trust me.  I am going to
take both our lives in my hands."

She looked at him.  What imaginable subject could involve him, a Lord
of the Instrumentality, with herself, an under girl

They never had anything in common.  They never would.

But she stared at him.

"I want to help the under people

He made her blink.  That was a crude approach, usually followed by a
very raw kind of pass indeed.  But his face was illuminated by
seriousness.  She waited.

"Your people do not have enough political power even to talk to us.  I
will not commit treason to the true human race, but I am willing to
give your side an advantage.  If you bargain better with us, it will
make all forms of life safer in the long run."

C'mell stared at the floor, her red hair soft as the fur of a Persian
cat.  It made her head seem bathed in flames.  Her eyes looked human,
except that they had the capacity of reflecting when light struck them;
the irises were the rich green of the ancient cat.  When she looked
right at him, looking up from the floor, her glance had the impact of a
blow.

"What do you want from me?"

He stared right back.

"Watch me.  Look at my face.  Are you sure, sure that I want nothing
from you personally?"

She looked bewildered.

"What else is there to want from me except personal things?  I am a
girly girl I'm not a person of any importance at all, and I do not have
much of an education.  You know more, sir, than I will ever know."

"Possibly," he said, watching her.

She stopped feeling like a girly girl and felt like a citizen.  It made
her uncomfortable.

"Who," he said, in a voice of great solemnity, "is your own leader?"

"Commissioner Teadrinker, sir.  He's in charge of all out world
visitors."

She watched Jestocost carefully; he still did not look as if he were
playing tricks.

He looked a little cross.

"I don't mean him.  He's part of my own staff.  Who's your leader among
the under people

"My father was, but he died."

Jestocost said,

"Forgive me.  Please have a seat.  But I don't mean that."

She was so tired that she sat down into the chair with an innocent
voluptuousness which would have disorganized any ordinary man's day.
She wore girly girl clothes, which were close enough to the everyday
fashion to seem agreeably modish when she stood up.  In line with her
profession, her clothes were designed to be unexpectedly and
provocatively revealing when she sat down not revealing enough to shock
the man with their brazenness, but so slit, tripped, and cut that he
got far more visual stimulation than he expected.

"I must ask you to pull your clothing together a little," said
Jestocost in a clinical turn of voice.

"I am a man, even if I am an official, and this interview is more
important to you and to me than any distraction would be."

She was a little frightened by his tone.  She had meant no challenge.
With the funeral that day, she meant nothing at all; these clothes were
the only kind she had.

He read all this in her face.

Relentlessly, he pursued the subject.

"Young lady, I asked about your leader.  You name your boss and you
name your father.  I want your leader."

"I don't understand," she said, on the edge of a sob.

"I don't understand."

Then, he thought to himself, I've got to take a gamble.  He thrust the
mental dagger home, almost drove his words like steel straight into her
face.

"Who .  . .," he said slowly and icily, "is ... Ee ... telly .  . .
kelly?"

The girl's face had been cream-colored, pale with sorrow.

Now she went white.  She twisted away from him.  Her eyes glowed like
twin fires.

Her eyes .  . . like twin fires.

(No under girl thought Jestocost as he reeled, could hypnotize me.) Her
eyes .  . . were like cold fires.

The room faded around him.  The girl disappeared.  Her eyes became a
single white, cold fire.

Within this fire stood the figure of a man.  His arms were wings, but
he had human hands growing at the elbows of his wings.  His face was
clear, white, cold as the marble of an ancient statue; his eyes were
opaque white.

"I am the E'telekeli.  You will believe in me.  You may speak to my
daughter C'mell."

The image faded.

Jestocost saw the girl staring as she sat awkwardly on the chair,
looking
of Man blindly through him.  He was on the edge of making ajoke about
her hypnotic capacity when he saw that she was still deeply hypnotized
even after he had been released.  She had stiffened and again her
clothing had fallen into its planned disarray.  The effect was not
stimulating; it was pathetic beyond words, as though an accident had
happened to a pretty child.  He spoke to her.

He spoke to her, not really expecting an answer.

"Who are you?"  he said to her, testing her hypnosis.

"I am he whose name is never said aloud," said the girl in a sharp
whisper.

"I am he whose secret you have penetrated.  I have printed my image and
my name in your mind."

Jestocost did not quarrel with ghosts like this.  He snapped out a
decision.

"If I open my mind, will you search it while I watch you?  Are you good
enough to do that?"

"I am very good," hissed the voice in the girl's mouth.

C" mell arose and put her two hands on his shoulders.  She looked into
his eyes.  He looked back.  A strong tele path himself, Jestocost was
not prepared for the enormous thought-voltage which poured out of
her.

Look in my mind, he commanded, for the subject o/underpeople only.

I see it, thought the mind behind C'mell.

Do you see what I mean to do for the under people

Jestocost heard the girl breathing hard as her mind served as a relay
to his.  He tried to remain calm so that he could see which part of his
mind was being searched.  Very good so far, he thought to himself.  An
intelligence like that on Earth itself, he thought and we of the Lords
not knowing it!

The girl hacked out a dry little laugh.

Jestocost thought at the mind.  Sorry.  Go ahead.

This plan of yours thought the strange mind may I see more of it?

That's all there is.

Oh, said the strange mind, you want me to think for you.  Can you give
me the keys in the Bell and Bank which pertain to destroying under
people ?

You can have the information keys if I can ever get them, thought
Jestocost, but not the control keys and not the master switch of the
Bell.

Fair enough, thought the other mind, and what do I pay for them?

You support me in my policies before the Instrumentality.  You keep the
under people reasonable, if you can, when the time comes to negotiate.
You maintain honor and good faith in all subsequent agreements.  But
how can I get the keys?  It would take me a year to figure them out
myself.

Let the girl look once, thought the strange mind, and I will be behind
her.  Fair?

Fair, thought Jestocost.

Break?  thought the mind.

How do we re-connect?  thought Jestocost back.

As before.  Through the girl.  Never say my name.  Don't think it if
you can help it.  Break?

Break!  thought Jestocost.

The girl, who had been holding his shoulders, drew his face down and
kissed him firmly and warmly.  He had never touched an under person
before, and it never had occurred to him that he might kiss one.  It
was pleasant, but he took her arms away from his neck, half turned her
around, and let her lean against him.

"Daddy!"  she sighed happily.

Suddenly she stiffened, looked at his face, and sprang for the door.

"Jestocost!"  she cried.

"Lord Jestocost!  What am I doing here?"

"Your duty is done, my girl.  You may go."

She staggered back into the room.

"I'm going to be sick," she said.  She vomited on his floor.

He pushed a button for a cleaning robot and slapped his desktop for
coffee.

She relaxed and talked about his hopes for the under people

She stayed an hour.  By the time she left they had a plan.  Neither of
them had mentioned E'telekeli, neither had put purposes in the open. If
the monitors had been listening, they would have found no single
sentence or paragraph which was suspicious.

When she had gone, Jestocost looked out of his window.  He saw the
clouds far below and he knew the world below him was in twilight.  He
had planned to help the under people and he had met powers of which
organized mankind had no conception or perception.  He was righter than
he had thought.  He had to go on through.

But as partner C'mell herself!

Was there ever an odder diplomat in the history of worlds?

III

In less than a week they had decided what to do.  It was the Council of
the Lords of the Instrumentality at which they would work the brain
center itself.  The risk was high, but the entire job could be done in
a few minutes if it were done at the Bell itself.

This is the sort of thing which interested Jestocost.

He did not know that C'mell watched him with two different facets of
her mind.  One side of her was alertly and wholeheartedly his
fellow-conspirator, utterly in sympathy with the revolutionary aims to
which they were both committed.  The other side of her was feminine.

She had a womanliness which was truer than that of any hominid woman.

She knew the value of her trained smile, her splendidly kept red hair
with its unimaginably soft texture, her lithe young figure with firm
breasts and persuasive hips.  She knew down to the last millimeter the
effect which her legs had on hominid men.  True humans kept few secrets
from her.  The men betrayed themselves by their unfulfillable desires,
the women by their irrepressible jealousies.  But she knew people best
of all by not being one herself.  She had to learn by imitation, and
imitation is conscious.

A thousand little things which ordinary women took for granted, or
thought about just once in a whole lifetime, were subjects of acute and
intelligent study to her.  She was a girl by profession; she was a
human by assimilation; she was an inquisitive cat in her genetic
nature.  Now she was falling in love with Jestocost, and she knew it.

Even she did not realize that the romance would sometime leak out into
rumor, be magnified into legend, distilled into romance.  She had no
idea of the ballad about herself that would open with the lines which
became famous much later: She got the which of the what-she did Hid the
bell with a blot, she did, But she fell in love with a hominid.

Where is the which of the what-she did

All this lay in the future, and she did not know it.

She knew her own past.

She remembered the off-Earth prince who had rested his head in her lap
and had said, sipping his glass of mott by way of farewell: "Funny,
C'mell, you're not even a person and you're the most intelligent human
being I've met in this place.  Do you know it made my planet poor to
send me here?  And what did I get out of them?  Nothing, nothing, and a
thousand times nothing.  But you, now.  If you'd been running the
government of Earth, I'd have gotten what my people need, and this
world would be richer too.

Manhome, they call it.  Manhome, my eye!  The only smart person on it
is a female cat."

He ran his fingers around her ankle.  She did not stir.  That was part
of hospitality, and she had her own ways of making sure that
hospitality did not go too far.  Earth police were watching her; to
them, she was a convenience maintained for out world people, something
like a soft chair in the Earthport lobbies or a drinking fountain with
acid-tasting water for strangers who could not tolerate the insipid
water of Earth.  She was not expected to have feelings or to get
involved.  If she had ever caused an incident, they would have punished
her fiercely, as they often punished animals or under people or else
(after a short formal hearing with
no appeal) they would have destroyed her, as the law allowed and
custom encouraged.

She had kissed a thousand men, maybe fifteen hundred.  She had made
them feel welcome and she had gotten their complaints or their secrets
out of them as they left.  It was a living, emotionally tiring but
intellectually very stimulating.  Sometimes it made her laugh to look
at human women with their pointed-up noses and their proud airs, and to
realize that she knew more about the men who belonged to the human
women than the human women themselves ever did.

Once a policewoman had had to read over the record of two pioneers from
New Mars.  C'mell had been given the job of keeping in very close touch
with them.  When the policewoman got through reading the report she
looked at C'mell and her face was distorted with jealousy and prudish
rage.

"Cat, you call yourself.  Cat!  You're a pig, you're adog, you're an
animal.  You may be working for Earth but don' t ever get the idea that
you' re as good as a person.  I think it's a crime that the
Instrumentality lets monsters like you greet real human beings from
outside!  I can't stop it.  But may the Bell help you, girl, if you
ever touch a real Earth man!  If you ever get near one!  If you ever
try tricks here!  Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Ma'am," C'mell had said.  To herself she thought,

"That poor thing doesn't know how to select her own clothes or how to
do her own hair.  No wonder she resents somebody who manages to be
pretty."

Perhaps the policewoman thought that raw hatred would be shocking to C'
mell.  It wasn't.  Underpeople were used to hatred, and it was not any
worse raw than it was when cooked with politeness and served like
poison.  They had to live with it.

But now, it was all changed.

She had fallen in love with Jestocost.  Did he love her?

Impossible.  No, not impossible.  Unlawful, unlikely, indecent yes, all
these, but not impossible.  Surely he felt something of her love.  If
he did, he gave no sign of it.

People and under people had fallen in love many times before.

The under people were always destroyed and the real people brainwashed.
There were laws against that kind of thing.  The scientists among
people had created the under people had given them capacities which
real people did not have (the fifty-meter jump, the tele path two miles
underground, the turtle-man waiting a thousand years next to an
emergency door, the cowman guarding a gate without reward), and the
scientists had also given many of the under people the human shape.  It
was handier that way.  The human eye, the five-fingered hand, the human
size these were convenient for engineering reasons.  By making under
people the same size and shape as
of Man people, more or less, the scientists eliminated the need for
two or three or a dozen different sets of furniture.  The human form
was good enough for all of them.

But they had forgotten the human heart.

And now she, C'mell, had fallen in love with a man, a true man old
enough to have been her own father's grandfather.

But she didn't feel daughterly about him at all.  She remembered that
with her own father there was an easy comradeship, an innocent and
forthcoming affection, which masked the fact that he was considerably
more catlike than she was.  Between them there was an aching void of
forever-unspoken words things that couldn't quite be said by either of
them, perhaps things that couldn't be said at all.  They were so close
to each other that they could get no closer.  This created enormous
distance, which was heart-breaking but unutterable.  Her father had
died, and now this true man was here with all the kindness "That" sit,"
she whispered to herself.

"With all the kindness that none of these passing men have ever really
shown.  With all the depth which my poor under people can never get.
Not that it's not in them.  But they're born like dirt, treated like
dirt, put away like dirt when they die.  How can any of my own men
develop real kindness?  There's a special sort of majesty to kindness.
It's the best part there is to being people.  And he has whole oceans
of it in him.  And it's strange, strange, strange that he's never given
his real love to any human woman."

She stopped, cold.

Then she consoled herself and whispered on,

"Or if he did, it's so long ago that it doesn't matter now.  He's got
me.  Does he know it?"

IV

The Lord Jestocost did know, and yet he didn't.  He was used to getting
loyalty from people, because he offered loyalty and honor in his daily
work.  He was even familiar with loyalty becoming obsessive and seeking
physical form, particularly from women, children, and under people He
had always coped with it before.  He was gambling on the fact that
C'mell was a wonderfully intelligent person, and that as a girly girl
working on the hospitality staff of the Earthport police, she must have
learned to control her personal feelings.

"We're born in the wrong age," he thought, "when I meet the most
intelligent and beautiful female I've ever met, and then have to put
business first.  But this stuff about people and under people is
sticky. Sticky.  We've got to keep personalities out of it."

So he thought.  Perhaps he was right.

If the nameless one, whom he did not dare to remember, commanded an
attack on the Bell itself, that was worth their lives.  Their emotions
could not come into it.  The Bell mattered; justice mattered; the
perpetual return of mankind to progress mattered.  He did not matter,
because he had already done most of his work.  C'mell did not matter,
because their failure would leave her with mere under people forever.
The Bell did count.

The price of what he proposed to do was high, but the entire job could
be done in a few minutes if it were done at the Bell itself.

The Bell, of course, was not a Bell.  It was a three dimensional
situation table, three times the height of a man.  It was set one story
below the meeting room, and shaped roughly like an ancient bell.  The
meeting table of the Lords of the Instrumentality had a circle cut out
of it, so that the Lords could look down into the Bell at whatever
situation one of them called up either manually or telepathically.  The
Bank below it, hidden by the floor, was the key memory-bank of the
entire system.

Duplicates existed at thirty-odd other places on Earth.  Two duplicates
lay hidden in interstellar space, one of them beside the
ninety-million-mile gold-colored ship left over from the war against
Raumsog and the other masked as an asteroid.

Most of the Lords were off-world on the business of the
Instrumentality.

Only three besides Jestocost were present the Lady Johanna Gnade, the
Lord Issan Olascoaga, and the Lord William Notfrom-here.  (The
Not-from-heres were a great Norstrilian family which had migrated back
to Earth many generations before.) The E'telekeli told Jestocost the
rudiments of a plan.

He was to bring C'mell into the chambers on a summons.

The summons was to be serious.

They should avoid her summary death by automatic justice, if the relays
began to trip.

C'mell would go into partial trance in the chamber.

He was then to call the items in the Bell which E'telekeli wanted
traced.  A single call would be enough.  E'telekeli would take the
responsibility for tracing them.  The other Lords would be distracted
by him, E'telekeli.

It was simple in appearance.

The complication came in action.

The plan seemed flimsy, but there was nothing which Jestocost could do
at this time.  He began to curse himself for letting his passion for
policy involve him in the intrigue.  It was too late to back out with
honor; besides, he had given his word; besides, he liked C'mell as a
being, not as a girly girl and he would hate to see her marked with
disappointment for life.  He knew how the under people cherished their
identities and their status.

With heavy heart but quick mind he went to the council chamber.  A
dog-
of Man girl, one of the routine messengers whom he had seen many
months outside the door, gave him the minutes.

He wondered how C'mell or E'telekeli would reach him, once he was
inside the chamber with its tight net of telepathic intercepts.

He sat wearily at the table And almost jumped out of his chair.

The conspirators had forged the minutes themselves, and the top item
was: "C'mell daughter to C" mackintosh, cat stock (pure), lot 1138,
confession of.  Subject: conspiracy to export homuncular material.
Reference: planet De Prinsensmacht."

The Lady Johanna Gnade had already pushed the buttons for the planet
concerned.  The people there, Earth by origin, were enormously strong
but they had gone to great pains to maintain the original Earth
appearance.  One of their first-men was at the moment on Earth.  He
bore the title of the Twilight Prince (Prins van de Schemering) and he
was on a mixed diplomatic and trading mission.

Since Jestocost was a little late, C' mell was being brought into the
room as he glanced over the minutes.

The Lord Not-from-here asked Jestocost if he would preside.

"I beg you.  Sir and Scholar," he said, "to join me in asking the Lord
Issan to preside this time."

The presidency was a formality.  Jestocost could watch the Bell and
Bank better if he did not have to chair the meeting too.

C'mell wore the clothing of a prisoner.  On her it looked good.

He had never seen her wearing anything but girly girl clothes before.
The pale-blue prison tunic made her look very young, very human, very
tender, and very frightened.  The cat family showed only in the fiery
cascade of her hair and the lithe power of her body as she sat, demure
and erect.

Lord Issan asked her: "You have confessed.  Confess again."

"This man," and she pointed at a picture of the Twilight Prince,
"wanted to go to the place where they torment human children for a
show."

"What!"  cried three of the Lords together.

"What place?"  said the Lady Johanna, who was bitterly in favor of
kindness.

"It's run by a man who looks like this gentleman here," said C'mell,
pointing at Jestocost.  Quickly, so that nobody could stop her, but
modestly, so that none of them thought to doubt her, she circled the
room and touched Jestocost's shoulder.  He felt a thrill of
contact-telepathy and heard bird-cackle in her brain.  Then he knew
that the E'telekeli was in touch with her.

"The man who has the place," said C'mell, "is five pounds lighter than
this gentleman, two inches shorter, and he has red hair.  His place is
at the
Cold Sunset corner of Earthport, down the boulevard and under the
boulevard.  Underpeople, some of them with bad reputations, live in
that neighborhood."

The Bell went milky, flashing through hundreds of combinations of bad
under people in that part of the city.  Jestocost felt himself staring
at the casual milkiness with unwanted concentration.

The Bell cleared.

It showed the vague image of a room in which children were playing
Hallowe'en tricks.

The Lady Johanna laughed,

"Those aren't people.  They're robots.  It's just a dull old play."

"Then," added C'mell, "he wanted a dollar and a shilling to take home.
Real ones.  There was a robot who had found some."

"What are those?"  said Lord Issan.

"Ancient money the real money of old America and old Australia," cried
Lord William.

"I have copies, but there are no originals outside the state museum."
He was an ardent, passionate collector of coins.

"The robot found them in an old hiding place right under Earthport."

Lord William almost shouted at the Bell.

"Run through every hiding place and get me that money."

The Bell clouded.  In finding the bad neighborhoods it had flashed
every police point in the northwest sector of the tower.

Now it scanned all the police points under the tower, and ran dizzily
through thousands of combinations before it settled on an old toolroom.
A robot was polishing circular pieces of metal.

When Lord William saw the polishing, he was furious.

"Get that here," he shouted.

"I want to buy those myself!"

"All right," said Lord Issan.

"It's a little irregular, but all right."

The machine showed the key search devices and brought the robot to the
escalator.

The Lord Issan said,

"This isn't much of a case."

C'mell sniveled.  She was a good actress.

"Then he wanted me to get a homunculus egg.  One of the E-type, derived
from birds, for him to take home."

Issan put on the search device.

"Maybe," said C'mell, "somebody has already put it in the disposal
series."

The Bell and Bank ran through all the disposal devices at high speed.
Jestocost felt his nerves go on edge.  No human being could have
memorized these thousands of patterns as they flashed across the Bell
too fast for human eyes, but the brain reading the Bell through his
eyes was not human.  It might even be locked into a computer of its
own.  It was, thought Jestocost,
an indignity for a Lord of the Instrumentality to be used as a human
spyglass.

The machine blotted up.

"You're a fraud," cried the Lord Issan.

"There's no evidence."

"Maybe the offworlder tried," said the Lady Johanna.

"Shadow him," said Lord William.

"If he would steal ancient coins he would steal anything."

The Lady Johanna turned to C'mell.

"You're a silly thing.  You have wasted our time and you have kept us
from serious inter-world business."  "It is inter-world business," wept
C'mell.  She let her hand slip from Jestocost's shoulder, where it had
rested all the time.  The body to-body relay broke and the telepathic
link broke with it.

"We should judge that," said Lord Issan.

"You might have been punished," said Lady Johanna.  The Lord Jestocost
had said nothing, but there was a glow of happiness in him.  If the
E'telekeli was half as good as he seemed, the under people had a list
of checkpoints and escape routes which would make it easier to hide
from the capricious sentence of painless death which human authorities
meted out.

V

There was singing in the corridors that night.

Underpeople burst into happiness for no visible reason.

C'mell danced a wild cat dance for the next customer who came in from
out world stations, that very evening.  When she got home to bed, she
knelt before the picture of her father C'mackintosh and thanked the
E'telekeli for what Jestocost had done.

But the story became known a few generations later, when the Lord
Jestocost had won acclaim for being the champion of the under people
and when the authorities, still unaware of E'telekeli, accepted the
elected representatives of the under people as negotiators for better
terms of life; and C'mell had died long since.

She had first had a long, good life.

She became a female chef when she was too old to be a girly girl Her
food was famous.  Jestocost once visited her.  At the end of the meal
he had asked,

"There's a silly rhyme among the under people No human beings know it
except me."

"I don't care about rhymes," she said.

"This is called

"The what-she-did."  " C' mell blushed all the way down to the neckline
of her capacious blouse.

She had filled out a lot in middle age.  Running the restaurant had
helped.

"Oh, that rhyme!"  she said.

"It's silly."

"It says you were in love with a hominid."

"No," she said.

"I wasn't."  Her green eyes, as beautiful as ever, stared deeply into
his.  Jestocost felt uncomfortable.  This was getting personal.  He
liked political relationships; personal things made him
uncomfortable.

The light in the room shifted and her cat eyes blazed at him; she
looked like the magical fire-haired girl he had known.

"I wasn't in love.  You couldn't call it that.  .."

Her heart cried out.  It was you, it was you, it was you.

"But the rhyme," insisted Jestocost, "says it was a hominid.  It wasn't
that Prins van de Schemering?"

"Who was he?"  C'mell asked the question quietly, but her emotions
cried out, Darling, will you never, never know?

"The strong man."

"Oh, him.  I've forgotten him."

Jestocost rose from the table.

"You've had a good life, C'mell.

You've been a citizen, a committeewoman, a leader.  And do you even
know how many children you have had?"

"Seventy-three," she snapped at him.

"Just because they're multiple doesn't mean we don't know them."

His playfulness left him.  His face was grave, his voice kindly.

"I meant no harm, C'mell."

He never knew that when he left she went back to the kitchen and cried
for a while.  It was Jestocost whom she had vainly loved ever since
they had been comrades, many long years ago.

Even after she died, at the full age of five-score and three, he kept
seeing her about the corridors and shafts of Earthport.  Many of her
great-granddaughters looked just like her and several of them practiced
the girly girl business with huge success.

They were not half-slaves.  They were citizens (reserved grade) and
they had photo passes which protected their property, their identity,
and their rights.  Jestocost was the godfather to them all; he was
often embarrassed when the most voluptuous creatures in the universe
threw playful kisses at him.  All he asked was fulfillment of his
political passions, not his personal ones.  He had always been in love,
madly in love With justice itself.

At last, his own time came, and he knew that he was dying, and he was
not sorry.  He had had a wife, hundreds of years ago, and had loved her
well; their children had passed into the generations of man.

In the ending, he wanted to know something, and he called to a
nameless
one (or to his successor) far beneath the world.  He called with his
mind till it was a scream.

I have helped your people.

"Yes," came back the faintest of faraway whispers, inside his head.

I am dying.  I must know.  Did she love me?

"She went on without you, so much did she love you.  She let you go,
for your sake, not for hers.  She really loved you.  More than death.
More than life.  More than time.  You will never be apart."

Never apart?

"Not, not in the memory of man," said the voice, and was then still.

Jestocost lay back on his pillow and waited for the day to end.

 A Planet Named Shayol There was was a tremendous difference between
the liner and the ferry in Mercer's treatment.  On the liner, the
attendants made gibes when they brought him his food.

"Scream good and loud," said one rat-faced steward, "and then we'll
know it's you when they broadcast the sounds of punishment on the
Emperor's birthday."

The other, fat steward ran the tip of his wet, red tongue over his
thick, purple-red lips one time and said,

"Stands to reason, man.  If you hurt all the time, the whole lot of you
would die.

Something pretty good must happen, along with the whatchamacallit.
Maybe you turn into a woman.  Maybe you turn into two people.  Listen,
cousin, if it's real crazy fun, let me know .  . ."  Mercer said
nothing.  Mercer had enough troubles of his own not to wonder about the
daydreams of nasty men.

At the ferry it was different.  The bio pharmaceutical staff was deft,
impersonal, quick in removing his shackles.  They took off all his
prison clothes and left them on the liner.  When he boarded the ferry,
naked, they looked him over as if he were a rare plant or a body on the
operating table.  They were almost kind in the clinical deftness of
their touch.  They did not treat him as a criminal, but as a
specimen.

Men and women, clad in their medical smocks, they looked at him as
though he were already dead.

He tried to speak.  A man, older and more authoritative than the
others, said firmly and clearly,

"Do not worry about talking.

I will talk to you myself in a very little time.  What we are having
now are the preliminaries, to determine your physical condition.

Turn around, please."

Mercer turned around.  An orderly rubbed his back with a very strong
antiseptic.

"This is going to sting," said one of the technicians, "but it is
nothing
of Man serious or painful.  We are determining the toughness of the
different layers of your skin."

Mercer, annoyed by this impersonal approach, spoke up just as a sharp
little sting burned him above the sixth lumbar vertebra.

"Don't you know who I am?"

"Of course we know who you are," said a woman's voice.

"We have it all in a file in the corner.  The chief doctor will talk
about your crime later, if you want to talk about it.  Keep quiet now.
We are making a skin test, and you will feel much better if you do not
make us prolong it."

Honesty forced her to add another sentence: "And we will get better
results as well."

They had lost no time at all in getting to work.

He peered at them sidewise to look at them.  There was nothing about
them to indicate that they were human devils in the antechambers of
hell itself.  Nothing was there to indicate that this was the satellite
of Shayol, the final and uttermost place of chastisement and shame.
They looked like medical people from his life before he committed the
crime without a name.

They changed from one routine to another.  A woman, wearing a surgical
mask, waved her hand at a white table.

"Climb up on that, please."

No one had said "please" to Mercer since the guards had seized him at
the edge of the palace.  He started to obey her and then he saw that
there were padded handcuffs at the head of the table.  He stopped.

"Get along, please," she demanded.  Two or three of the others turned
around to look at both of them.

The second "please" shook him.  He had to speak.  These were people,
and he was a person again.  He felt his voice rising, almost cracking
into shrillness as he asked her,

"Please, Ma'am, is the punishment going to begin?"

"There's no punishment here," said the woman.

"This is the satellite.  Get on the table.  We're going to give you
your first skin toughening before you talk to the head doctor.  Then
you can tell him all about your crime " "You know my crime?"  he said,
greeting it almost like a neighbor.

"Of course not," said she, "but all the people who come through here
are believed to have committed crimes.  Somebody thinks so or they
wouldn't be here.  Most of them want to talk about their personal
crimes.  But don't slow me down.  I'm a skin technician, and down on
the surface of Shayol you're going to need the very best work that any
of us can do for you.  Now get on that table.  And when you are ready
to talk to the chief you'll have something to talk about besides your
crime."

He complied.

Another masked person, probably a girl, took his hands in cool, gentle
fingers and fitted them to the padded cuffs in a way he had never
sensed before.  By now he thought he knew every interrogation machine
in the whole empire, but this was nothing like any of them.

The orderly stepped back.

"All clear.  Sir and Doctor."

"Which do you prefer?"  said the skin technician.

"A great deal of pain or a couple of hours' unconsciousness?"

"Why should I want pain?"  said Mercer.

"Some specimens do," said the technician, "by the time they arrive
here.  I suppose it depends on what people have done to them before
they got here.  I take it you did not get any of the
dream-punishments."

"No," said Mercer.

"I missed those."  He thought to himself, I didn't know that I missed
anything at all.

He remembered his last trial, himself wired and plugged in to the
witness stand.  The room had been high and dark.  Bright blue light
shone on the panel of judges, their judicial caps a fantastic parody of
the episcopal mitres of long, long ago.  The judges were talking, but
he could not hear them.  Momentarily the insulation slipped and he
heard one of them say,

"Look at that white, devilish face.  A man like that is guilty of
everything.  I vote for Pain Terminal."  "Not Planet Shayol?"  said a
second voice.

"The dromozoa place," said a third voice.

"That should suit him,"

said the first voice.  One of the judicial engineers must then have
noticed that the prisoner was listening illegally.  He was cut off.

Mercer then thought that he had gone through everything which the
cruelty and intelligence of mankind could devise.

But this woman said he had missed the dream-punishments.

Could there be people in the universe even worse off than himself?
There must be a lot of people down on Shayol.  They never came back.

He was going to be one of them; would they boast to him of what they
had done, before they were made to come to this place?

"You asked for it," said the woman technician.

"It is just an ordinary anesthetic.  Don't panic when you awaken.  Your
skin is going to be thickened and strengthened chemically and
biologically."

"Does it hurt?"

"Of course," said she.

"But get this out of your head.  We're not punishing you.  The pain
here is just ordinary medical pain.

Anybody might get it if they needed a lot of surgery.  The punishment,
if that's what you want to call it, is down on Shayol.

Our only job is to make sure that you are fit to survive after you are
landed.  In a way, we are saving your life ahead of time.  You can be
grateful for that if you want to be.  Meanwhile, you will save yourself
a lot of trouble if you realize that your nerve endings will
of Man respond to the change in the skin.  You had better expect to be
very uncomfortable when you recover.  But then, we can help that, too."
She brought down an enormous lever and Mercer blacked out.

When he came to, he was in an ordinary hospital room, but he did not
notice it.  He seemed bedded in fire.  He lifted his hand to see if
there were flames on it.  It looked the way it always had, except that
it was a little red and a little swollen.  He tried to turn in the bed.
The fire became a scorching blast which stopped him in mid-turn.
Uncontrollably, he moaned.

A voice spoke,

"You are ready for some pain-killer."

It was a girl nurse.

"Hold your head still," she said, "and I will give you half an amp of
pleasure.  Your skin won't bother you then."

She slipped a soft cap on his head.  It looked like metal but it felt
like silk.

He had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from threshing
about on the bed.

"Scream if you want to," she said.

"A lot of them do.  It will just be a minute or two before the cap
finds the right lobe in your brain."

She stepped to the corner and did something which he could not see.

There was the flick of a switch.

The fire did not vanish from his skin.  He still felt it; but suddenly
it did not matter.  His mind was full of delicious pleasure which
throbbed outward from his head and seemed to pulse down through his
nerves.  He had visited the pleasure palaces, but he had never felt
anything like this before.

He wanted to thank the girl, and he twisted around in the bed to see
her.  He could feel his whole body flash with pain as he did so, but
the pain was far away.  And the pulsating pleasure which coursed out of
his head, down his spinal cord, and into his nerves was so intense that
the pain got through only as a remote, unimportant signal.

She was standing very still in the corner.

"Thank you, nurse," said he.

She said nothing.

He looked more closely, though it was hard to look while enormous
pleasure pulsed through his body like a symphony written in
nerve-messages.  He focused his eyes on her and saw that she too wore a
soft metallic cap.

He pointed at it.

She blushed all the way down to her throat.

She spoke dreamily,

"You looked like a nice man to me.  I didn't think you'd tell on me . .
."

He gave her what he thought was a friendly smile, but with the pain in
his skin and the pleasure bursting out of his head, he really had no
idea of what his actual expression might be.

"It's against the law," he said.

"It's terribly against the law.  But it is nice."

"How do you think we stand it here?"  said the nurse.

"You specimens come in here talking like ordinary people and then you
go down to Shayol.  Terrible things happen to you on Shayol.  Then the
surface station sends up parts of you, over and over again.  I may see
your head ten times, quick-frozen and ready for cutting up, before my
two years are up.  You prisoners ought to know how we suffer," she
crooned, the pleasure-charge still keeping her relaxed and happy.

"You ought to die as soon as you get down there and not pester us with
your torments.  We can hear you screaming, you know.  You keep on
sounding like people even after Shayol begins to work on you.  Why do
you do it, Mr.  Specimen?"  She giggled sillily.

"You hurt our feelings so.  No wonder a girl like me has to have a
little jolt now and then.  It's real, real dreamy and I don't mind
getting you ready to go down on Shayol."  She staggered over to his
bed.

"Pull this cap off me, will you?  I haven't got enough will power left
to raise my hands."

Mercer saw his hand tremble as he reached for the cap.

His fingers touched the girl's soft hair through the cap.  As he tried
to get his thumb under the edge of the cap, in order to pull it off, he
realized this was the loveliest girl he had ever touched.

He felt that he had always loved her, that he always would.  Her cap
came off.  She stood erect, staggering a little before she found a
chair to hold to.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Just a minute," she said in her normal voice.

"I'll be with you in just a minute.  The only time I can get a jolt of
this is when one of you visitors gets a dose to get over the skin
trouble."

She turned to the room mirror to adjust her hair.  Speaking with her
back to him, she said,

"I hope I didn't say anything about downstairs."

Mercer still had the cap on.  He loved this beautiful girl who had put
it on him.  He was ready to weep at the thought that she had had the
same kind of pleasure which he still enjoyed.  Not for the world would
he say anything which could hurt her feelings.

He was sure she wanted to be told that she had not said anything about
"downstairs" probably shop talk for the surface of Shayol so he assured
her warmly,

"You said nothing.  Nothing at all."

She came over to the bed, leaned, kissed him on the lips.  The kiss was
as far away as the pain; he felt nothing; the Niagara of throbbing
pleasure which poured through his head left no room for more sensation.
But he liked the friendliness of it.  A grim, sane corner of his mind
whispered to him that this was probably the last time he would ever
kiss a woman, but it did not seem to matter.

With skilled fingers she adjusted the cap on his head.

"There, now.  You're a sweet guy.  I'm going to pretend-forget and
leave the cap on you till the doctor comes."

of Man With a bright smile she squeezed his shoulder.

She hastened out of the room.

The white of her skirt flashed prettily as she went out the door.  He
saw that she had very shapely legs indeed.

She was nice, but the cap... ah, it was the cap that mattered!

He closed his eyes and let the cap go on stimulating the pleasure
centers of his brain.  The pain in his skin was still there, but it did
not matter any more than did the chair standing in the corner.  The
pain was just something that happened to be in the room.

A firm touch on his arm made him open his eyes.

The older, authoritative-looking man was standing beside the bed,
looking down at him with a quizzical smile.

"She did it again," said the old man.

Mercer shook his head, trying to indicate that the young nurse had done
nothing wrong.

"I'm Doctor Vomact," said the older man, "and I am going to take this
cap off you.  You will then experience the pain again, but I think it
will not be so bad.  You can have the cap several more times before you
leave here."

With a swift, firm gesture he snatched the cap off Mercer's head.

Mercer promptly doubled up with the inrush of fire from his skin.  He
started to scream and then saw that Doctor Vomact was watching him
calmly.

Mercer gasped,

"It is easier now."

"I knew it would be," said the doctor.

"I had to take the cap off to talk to you.  You have a few choices to
make."

"Yes, Doctor," gasped Mercer.

"You have committed a serious crime and you are going down to the
surface of Shayol."

"Yes," said Mercer.

"Do you want to tell me your crime?"

Mercer thought of the white palace walls in perpetual sunlight, and the
soft mewing of the little things when he reached them.  He tightened
his arms, legs, back, and jaw.

"No," he said, "I don't want to talk about it.  It's the crime without
a name.

Against the Imperial family ..."

"Fine," said the doctor, "that's a healthy attitude.  The crime is
past.  Your future is ahead.  Now, I can destroy your mind before you
go down if you want me to."

"That's against the law," said Mercer.

Doctor Vomact smiled warmly and confidently.

"Of course it is.  A lot of things are against human law.  But there
are laws of science, too.  Your body, down on Shayol, is going to serve
science.  It doesn't matter to me
whether the body has Mercer's mind or the mind of a low-grade
shellfish.  I have to leave enough mind in you to keep the body going,
but I can wipe out the historic you and give your body a better chance
of being happy.  It's your choice.  Mercer.  Do you want to be you or
not?"

Mercer shook his head back and forth,

"I don't know."

"I'm taking a chance," said Doctor Vomact, "in giving you this much
leeway.  I'd have it done if I were in your position.  It's pretty bad
down there."

Mercer looked at the full, broad face.  He did not trust the
comfortable smile.  Perhaps this was a trick to increase his
punishment.  The cruelty of the Emperor was proverbial.  Look at what
he had done to the widow of his predecessor, the Dowager Lady Da.  She
was younger than the Emperor himself, and he had sent her to a place
worse than death.  If he had been sentenced to Shayol, why was this
doctor trying to interfere with the rules?

Maybe the doctor himself had been conditioned, and did not know what he
was offering.

Doctor Vomact read Mercer's face.

"All right.  You refuse.

You want to take your mind down with you.  It's all right with me.

I don't have you on my conscience.  I suppose you'll refuse the next
offer too.  Do you want me to take your eyes out before you go down?
You'll be much more comfortable without vision.  I know that, from the
voices that we record for the warning broadcasts.  I can sear the optic
nerves so that there will be no chance of your getting vision again."

Mercer rocked back and forth.  The fiery pain had become a universal
itch, but the soreness of his spirit was greater than the discomfort of
his skin.

"You refuse that, too?"  said the doctor.

"I suppose so," said Mercer.

"Then all I have to do is to get ready.  You can have the cap for a
while, if you want."

Mercer said,

"Before I put the cap on, can you tell me what happens down there?"

"Some of it," said the doctor.

"There is an attendant.  He is a man, but not a human being.  He is a
homunculus fashioned out of cattle material.  He is intelligent and
very conscientious.  You specimens are turned loose on the surface of
Shayol.  The dromozoa are a special life form there.  When they settle
in your body, B'dikkat that's the attendant carves them out with an
anesthetic and sends them up here.  We freeze the tissue cultures, and
they are compatible with almost any kind of oxygen-based life.  Half
the surgical repair you see in the whole universe comes out of buds
that we ship from here.  Shayol is a very healthy place, so far as
survival is concerned.  You won't die."

of Man "You mean," said Mercer, "that I am getting perpetual
punishment."

"I didn't say that," said Doctor Vomact.

"Or if I did, I was wrong.  You won't die soon.  I don't know how long
you will live down there.  Remember, no matter how uncomfortable you
get, the samples which B'dikkat sends up will help thousands of people
in all the inhabited worlds.  Now take the cap."

"I'd rather talk," said Mercer.

"It may be my last chance."

The doctor looked at him strangely.

"If you can stand that pain, go ahead and talk."

"Can I commit suicide down there?"

"I don't know," said the doctor.

"It's never happened.  And to judge by the voices, you'd think they
wanted to."

"Has anybody ever come back from Shayol?"

"Not since it was put off limits about four hundred years ago."

"Can I talk to other people down there?"

"Yes," said the doctor.

"Who punishes me down there?"

"Nobody does, you fool," cried Doctor Vomact.

"It's not punishment.  People don't like it down on Shayol, and it's
better, I guess, to get convicts instead of volunteers.  But there
isn't anybody against you at all."

"No jailers?"  asked Mercer, with a whine in his voice.

"No jailers, no rules, no prohibitions.  Just Shayol, and B'dikkat to
take care of you.  Do you still want your mind and your eyes?"

"I'll keep them," said Mercer.

"I've gone this far and I might as well go the rest of the way."

"Then let me put the cap on you for your second dose," said Doctor
Vomact.

The doctor adjusted the cap just as lightly and delicately as had the
nurse; he was quicker about it.  There was no sign of his picking out
another cap for himself.  The inrush of pleasure was like a wild
intoxication.  His burning skin receded into distance.

The doctor was near in space, but even the doctor did not matter.

Mercer was not afraid of Shayol.  The pulsation of happiness out of his
brain was too great to leave room for fear or pain.

Doctor Vomact was holding out his hand.

Mercer wondered why, and then realized that the wonderful, kindly
cap-giving man was offering to shake hands.  He lifted his own.  It was
heavy, but his arm was happy, too.

They shook hands.  It was curious, thought Mercer, to feel the
handshake beyond the double level of cerebral pleasure and dermal
pain.

"Goodbye, Mr.  Mercer," said the doctor.

"Goodbye and a good night..."

II

The ferry satellite was a hospitable place.  The hundreds of hours that
followed were like a long, weird dream.

Twice again the young nurse sneaked into his bedroom with him when he
was being given the cap and had a cap with him.

There were baths which calloused his whole body.  Under strong local
anesthetics, his teeth were taken out and stainless steel took their
place.  There were irradiations under blazing lights which took away
the pain of his skin.  There were special treatments for his
fingernails and toenails.  Gradually they changed into formidable
claws; he found himself stropping them on the aluminum bed one night
and saw that they left deep marks.

His mind never became completely clear.

Sometimes he thought he was home with his mother, that he was little
again, and in pain.  Other times, under the cap, he laughed in his bed
to think that people were sent to this place for punishment when it was
all so terribly much fun.  There were no trials, no questions, no
judges.  Food was good, but he did not think about it much; the cap was
better.  Even when he was awake, he was drowsy.

At last, with the cap on him, they put him into an adiabatic pod a
one-body missile which could be dropped from the ferry to the planet
below.  He was all closed in, except for his face.

Doctor Vomact seemed to swim into the room.

"You are strong, Mercer," the doctor shouted, "you are very strong! Can
you hear me?"

Mercer nodded.

"We wish you well, Mercer.  No matter what happens, remember you are
helping other people up here."

"Can I take the cap with me?"  said Mercer.

For an answer, Doctor Vomact removed the cap himself.  Two men closed
the lid of the pod, leaving Mercer in total darkness.

His mind started to clear, and he panicked against his wrappings.

There was the roar of thunder and the taste of blood.

The next thing that Mercer knew, he was in a cool, cool room, much
chillier than the bedrooms and operating rooms of the satellite.
Someone was lifting him gently onto a table.

He opened his eyes.

An enormous face, four times the size of any human face Mercer had ever
seen, was looking down at him.  Huge brown eyes, cow like in their
gentle in offensiveness moved back and forth as the big face examined
Mercer's wrappings.  The face was that of a handsome man of middle
years, clean-shaven, hair chestnut-brown, with sensual, full lips and
gig an-
of Man tic but healthy yellow teeth exposed in a half-smile.  The face
saw Mercer's eyes open, and spoke with a deep friendly roar.

"I'm your best friend.  My name is B'dikkat, but you don't have to use
that here.  Just call me Friend, and I will always help you."

"I hurt," said Mercer.

"Of course you do.  You hurt all over.  That's a big drop," said
B'dikkat.

"Can I have a cap, please," begged Mercer.  It was not a question; it
was a demand; Mercer felt that his private inward eternity depended on
it.

B'dikkat laughed.

"I haven't any caps down here.  I might use them myself.  Or so they
think.  I have other things, much better.

No fear, fellow, I'll fix you up."

Mercer looked doubtful.  If the cap had brought him happiness on the
ferry, it would take at least electrical stimulation of the brain to
undo whatever torments the surface of Shayol had to offer.

B'dikkat's laughter filled the room like a bursting pillow.

"Have you ever heard of condamine?"

"No," said Mercer.

"It's a narcotic so powerful that the pharmacopoeias are not allowed to
mention it."

"You have that?"  said Mercer hopefully.

"Something better.  I have super-condamine.  It's named after the New
French town where they developed it.  The chemists hooked in one more
hydrogen molecule.  That gave it a real jolt.

If you took it in your present shape, you'd be dead in three minutes,
but those three minutes would seem like ten thousand years of happiness
to the inside of your mind."  B'dikkat rolled his brown cow eyes
expressively and smacked his rich red lips with a tongue of enormous
extent.

"What's the use of it, then?"

"You can take it," said B'dikkat.

"You can take it after you have been exposed to the dromozoa outside
this cabin.  You get all the good effects and none of the bad.  You
want to see something?"

What answer is there except yes, thought Mercer grimly; does he think I
have an urgent invitation to a tea party?

"Look out the window," said B'dikkat, "and tell me what you see."

The atmosphere was clear.  The surface was like a desert, ginger-yellow
with streaks of green where lichen and low shrubs grew, obviously
stunted and tormented by high, dry winds.  The landscape was
monotonous.  Two or three hundred yards away there was a herd of bright
pink objects which seemed alive, but Mercer could not see them well
enough to describe them clearly.

Further away, on the extreme right of his frame of vision, there was
the statue of an enormous human foot, the height of a six story
building.  Mercer could not see what the foot was connected to.

"I see a big foot," said he, "but "
"But what?"  said B'dikkat, like an enormous child hiding the
denouement of a hugely private joke.  Large as he was, he would have
been dwarfed by any one of the toes on that tremendous foot.

"But it can't be a real foot," said Mercer.

"It is," said B'dikkat.

"That's Go-Captain Alvarez, the man who found this planet.  After six
hundred years he's still in fine shape.  Of course, he's mostly
dromozootic by now, but I think there is some human consciousness
inside him.  You know what I do?"

"What?"  said Mercer.

"I give him six cubic centimeters of super-condamine and he snorts for
me.  Real happy little snorts.  A stranger might think it was a
volcano.  That's what super-condamine can do.  And you're going to get
plenty of it.  You're a lucky, lucky man, Mercer.  You have me for a
friend, and you have my needle for a treat.  I do all the work and you
get all the fun.  Isn't that a nice surprise?"

Mercer thought, You're lying!  Lying!  Where do the screams come from
that we have all heard broadcast as a warning on Punishment Day?  Why
did the doctor offer to cancel my brain or to take out my eyes?

The cow-man watched him sadly, a hurt expression on his face.

"You don't believe me," he said, very sadly.

"It's not quite that," said Mercer, with an attempt at heartiness, "but
I think you're leaving something out."

"Nothing much," said B'dikkat.

"You jump when the dromozoa hit you.  You'll be upset when you start
growing new parts heads, kidneys, hands.  I had one fellow in here who
grew thirty-eight hands in a single session outside.  I took them all
off, froze them, and sent them upstairs.  I take good care of
everybody.

You'll probably yell for a while.  But remember, just call me Friend,
and I have the nicest treat in the universe waiting for you.

Now, would you like some fried eggs?  I don't eat eggs myself, but most
true men like them."

"Eggs?"  said Mercer.

"What have eggs got to do with it?"

"Nothing much.  It's just a treat for you people.  Get something in
your stomach before you go outside.  You'll get through the first day
better."

Mercer, unbelieving, watched as the big man took two precious eggs from
a cold chest, expertly broke them into a little pan, and put the pan in
the heat-field at the center of the table Mercer had awakened on.

"Friend, eh?"  B'dikkat grinned.

"You'll see I'm a good friend.

When you go outside, remember that."

An hour later, Mercer did go outside.

Strangely at peace with himself, he stood at the door.  B'dikkat pushed
him in a brotherly way, giving him a shove which was gentle enough to
be an encouragement.

of Man "Don't make me put on my lead suit, fellow."  Mercer had seen a
suit, fully the size of an ordinary space-ship cabin, hanging on the
wall of an adjacent room.

"When I close this door, the outer one will open.  Just walk on out."

"But what will happen?"  said Mercer, the fear turning around in his
stomach and making little grabs at his throat from the inside.

"Don't start that again," said B'dikkat.  For an hour he had fended off
Mercer's questions about the outside.  A map?  B'dikkat had laughed at
the thought.  Food?  He said not to worry.  Other people?  They'd be
there.  Weapons?  What for, B'dikkat had replied.  Over and over again,
B'dikkat had insisted that he was Mercer's friend.  What would happen
to Mercer?  The same that happened to everybody else.

Mercer stepped out.

Nothing happened.  The day was cool.  The wind moved gently against his
toughened skin.

Mercer looked around apprehensively.

The mountainous body of Captain Alvarez occupied a good part of the
landscape to the right.  Mercer had no wish to get mixed up with that.
He glanced back at the cabin.  B'dikkat was not looking out the
window.

Mercer walked slowly, straight ahead.

There was a flash on the ground, no brighter than the glitter of
sunlight on a fragment of glass.  Mercer felt a sting in the thigh, as
though a sharp instrument had touched him lightly.  He brushed the
place with his hand.

It was as though the sky fell in.

A pain it was more than a pain; it was a living throb ran from his hip
to his foot on the right side.  The throb reached up to his chest,
robbing him of breath.  He fell, and the ground hurt him.

Nothing in the hospital-satellite had been like this.  He lay in the
open air, trying not to breathe, but he did breathe anyhow.  Each time
he breathed, the throb moved with his thorax.  He lay on his back,
looking at the sun.  At last he noticed that the sun was
violet-white.

It was no use even thinking of calling.  He had no voice.

Tendrils of discomfort twisted within him.  Since he could not stop
breathing, he concentrated on taking air in the way that hurt him
least.  Gasps were too much work.  Little tiny sips of air hurt him
least.

The desert around him was empty.  He could not turn his head to look at
the cabin.  Is this it?  he thought.  Is an eternity of this the
punishment of Shayol?

There were voices near him.

Two faces, grotesquely pink, looked down at him.  They might have been
human.  The man looked normal enough, except for having two noses side
by side.  The woman was a caricature beyond belief.  She had grown a
breast on each cheek and a cluster of naked baby-like fingers hung
limp from her forehead.

"It's a beauty," said the woman, "a new one."

"Come along," said the man.

They lifted him to his feet.  He did not have strength enough to
resist.  When he tried to speak to them a harsh cawing sound, like the
cry of an ugly bird, came from his mouth.

They moved with him efficiently.  He saw that he was being dragged to
the herd of pink things.

As they approached, he saw that they were people.  Better, he saw that
they had once been people.  A man with the beak of a flamingo was
picking at his own body.  A woman lay on the ground; she had a single
head, but beside what seemed to be her original body, she had a boy's
naked body growing sidewise from her neck.  The boy-body, clean, new,
paralytic ally helpless, made no movement other than shallow breathing.
Mercer looked around.  The only one of the group who was wearing
clothing was a man with his overcoat on sidewise.  Mercer stared at
him, finally realizing that the man had two or was it three?  stomachs
growing on the outside of his abdomen.  The coat held them in place.
The transparent peritoneal wall looked fragile.

"New one," said his female captor.  She and the two-nosed man put him
down.

The group lay scattered on the ground.

Mercer lay in a state of stupor among them.

An old man's voice said,

"I'm afraid they're going to feed us pretty soon."

"Oh, no!"  "It's too early!"  "Not again!"  Protests echoed from the
group.

The old man's voice went on,

"Look, near the big toe of the mountain!"

The desolate murmur in the group attested their confirmation of what he
had seen.

Mercer tried to ask what it was all about, but produced only a caw.

A woman was it a woman?  crawled over to him on her hands and knees.
Besides her ordinary hands, she was covered with hands all over her
trunk and halfway down her thighs.  Some of the hands looked old and
withered.  Others were as fresh and pink as the baby-fingers on his cap
tress face.  The woman shouted at him, though it was not necessary to
shout.

"The dromozoa are coming.  This time it hurts.  When you get used to
the place, you can dig in " She waved at a group of mounds which
surrounded the herd of people.

"They're dug in," she said.

of Man Mercer cawed again.

"Don't you worry," said the hand-covered woman, and gasped as a flash
of light touched her.

The lights reached Mercer too.  The pain was like the first contact but
more probing.  Mercer felt his eyes widen as odd sensations within his
body led to an inescapable conclusion: these lights, these things,
these whatever they were, were feeding him and building him up.

Their intelligence, if they had it, was not human, but their motives
were clear.  In between the stabs of pain he felt them fill his
stomach, put water in his blood, draw water from his kidneys and
bladder, massage his heart, move his lungs for him.

Every single thing they did was well meant and beneficent in intent.

And every single action hurt.

Abruptly, like the lifting of a cloud of insects, they were gone.

Mercer was aware of a noise somewhere outside a brainless, bawling
cascade of ugly noise.  He started to look around.  And the noise
stopped.

It had been himself, screaming.  Screaming the ugly screams of a
psychotic, a terrified drunk, an animal driven out of understanding or
reason.

When he stopped, he found he had his speaking voice again.

A man came to him, naked like the others.  There was a spike sticking
through his head.  The skin had healed around it on both sides.

"Hello, fellow," said the man with the spike.

"Hello," said Mercer.  It was a foolishly commonplace thing to say in a
place like this.

"You can't kill yourself," said the man with the spike through his
head.

"Yes, you can," said the woman covered with hands.

Mercer found that his first pain had disappeared.

"What's happening to me?"

"You got a part," said the man with the spike.

"They're always putting parts on us.  After a while B'dikkat comes and
cuts most of them off, except for the ones that ought to grow a little
more.  Like her," he added, nodding at the woman who lay with the
boy-body growing from her neck.

"And that's all?"  said Mercer.

"The stabs for the new parts and the stinging for the feeding?"

"No," said the man.

"Sometimes they think we're too cold and they fill our insides with
fire.  Or they think we're too hot and they freeze us, nerve by
nerve."

The woman with the boy-body called over,

"And sometimes they think we're unhappy, so they try to force us to be
happy.  I think that's the worst of all."

Mercer stammered,

"Are you people I mean are you the only herd?"

The man with the spike coughed instead of laughing.

"Herd!

That's
funny.  The land is full of people.  Most of them dig in.  We're the
ones who can still talk.  We stay together for company.  We get more
turns with B'dikkat that way."

Mercer started to ask another question, but he felt the strength run
out of him.  The day had been too much.

The ground rocked like a ship on water.  The sky turned black.

He felt someone catch him as he fell.  He felt himself being stretched
out on the ground.  And then, mercifully and magically, he slept.

III

Within a week, he came to know the group well.  They were an
absent-minded bunch of people.  Not one of them ever knew when a
dromozoon might flash by and add another part.  Mercer was not stung
again, but the incision he had obtained just outside the cabin was
hardening.  Spike-head looked at it when Mercer modestly undid his belt
and lowered the edge of his trouser-top so they could see the wound.

"You've got a head," he said.

"A whole baby head.  They'll be glad to get that one upstairs when
B'dikkat cuts it off you."

The group even tried to arrange his social life.  They introduced him
to the girl of the herd.  She had grown one body after another, pelvis
turning into shoulders and the pelvis below that turning into shoulders
again until she was five people long.

Her face was unmarred.  She tried to be friendly to Mercer.

He was so shocked by her that he dug himself into the soft dry crumbly
earth and stayed there for what seemed like a hundred years.  He found
later that it was less than a full day.

When he came out, the long many-bodied girl was waiting for him.

"You didn't have to come out just for me," said she.

Mercer shook the dirt off himself.

He looked around.  The violet sun was going down, and the sky was
streaked with blues, deeper blues, and trails of orange sunset.

He looked back at her.

"I didn't get up for you.  It's no use lying there, waiting for the
next time."

"I want to show you something," she said.  She pointed to a low
hummock.

"Dig that up."

Mercer looked at her.  She seemed friendly.  He shrugged and attacked
the soil with his powerful claws.  With tough skin and heavy
digging-nails on the ends of his fingers, he found it was easy to dig
like a dog.  The earth cascaded beneath his busy hands.  Something pink
appeared down in the hole he had dug.  He proceeded more carefully.

He knew what it would be.

It was.  It was a man, sleeping.  Extra arms grew down one side of his
body in an orderly series.  The other side looked normal.

Mercer turned back to the many-bodied girl, who had writhed closer.

"That's what I think it is, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said.

"Doctor Vomact burned his brain out for him.

And took his eyes out, too."

Mercer sat back on the ground and looked at the girl.

"You told me to do it.  Now tell me what for."

"To let you see.  To let you know.  To let you think."

"That's all?"  said Mercer.

The girl twisted with startling suddenness.  All the way down her
series of bodies, her chests heaved.  Mercer wondered how the air got
into all of them.  He did not feel sorry for her; he did not feel sorry
for anyone except himself.  When the spasm passed the girl smiled at
him apologetically.

"They just gave me a new plant."

Mercer nodded grimly.

"What now, a hand?  It seems you have enough."

"Oh, those," she said, looking back at her many torsos.

"I

promised B'dikkat that I'd let them grow.  He's good.  But that man,
stranger.  Look at that man you dug up.  Who's better off, he or we?"

Mercer stared at her.

"Is that what you had me dig him up for?"

"Yes," said the girl.

"Do you expect me to answer?"

"No," said the girl, "not now."

"Who are you?"  said Mercer.

"We never ask that here.  It doesn't matter.  But since you're new,
I'll tell you.  I used to be the Lady Da the Emperor's stepmother."

"You!"  he exclaimed.

She smiled, ruefully.

"You're still so fresh you think it matters!  But I have something more
important to tell you."  She stopped and bit her lip.

"What?"  he urged.

"Better tell me before I get another bite.  I won't be able to think or
talk then, not for a long time.  Tell me now."

She brought her face close to his.  It was still a lovely face, even in
the dying orange of this violet-sunned sunset.

"People never live forever."

"Yes," said Mercer.

"I knew that."

"Believe it," ordered the Lady Da.

Lights flashed across the dark plain, still in the distance.  Said
she,

"Dig in, dig in for the night.  They may miss you."

Mercer started digging.  He glanced over at the man he had dug up.  The
brainless body, with motions as soft as those of a starfish under
water, was pushing its way back into the earth.

Five or seven days later, there was a shouting through the herd.

Mercer had come to know a half-man, the lower part of whose body was
gone and whose viscera were kept in place with what resembled a
translucent plastic bandage.  The half-man had shown him how to lie
still when the dromozoa came with their inescapable errands of doing
good.

Said the half-man,

"You can't fight them.  They made Alvarez as big as a mountain, so that
he never stirs.  Now they're trying to make us happy.  They feed us and
clean us and sweeten us up.  Lie still.  Don't worry about screaming.
We all do."

"When do we get the drug?"  said Mercer.

"When B'dikkat comes."

B'dikkat came that day, pushing a sort of wheeled sled ahead of him.
The runners carried it over the hillocks; the wheels worked on the
surface.

Even before he arrived, the herd sprang into furious action.

Everywhere, people were digging up the sleepers.  By the time B'dikkat
reached their waiting place, the herd must have uncovered twice their
own number of sleeping pink bodies men and women, young and old.  The
sleepers looked no better and no worse than the waking ones.

"Hurry!  "said the Lady Da.

"He never gives any of us a shot until we're all ready."

B'dikkat wore his heavy lead suit.

He lifted an arm in friendly greeting, like a father returning home
with treats for his children.  The herd clustered around him but did
not crowd him.

He reached into the sled.  There was a harnessed bottle which he threw
over his shoulders.  He snapped the locks on the straps.

From the bottle there hung a tube.  Midway down the tube there was a
small pressure-pump.  At the end of the tube there was a glistening
hypodermic needle.

When ready, B'dikkat gestured for them to come closer.  They approached
him with radiant happiness.  He stepped through their ranks and past
them, to the girl who had the boy growing from her neck.  His
mechanical voice boomed through the loudspeaker set in the top of his
suit.

"Good girl.  Good, good girl.  You get a big, big present."  He thrust
the hypodermic into her so long that Mercer could see an air bubble
travel from the pump up to the bottle.

Then he moved back to the others, booming a word now and then, moving
with improbable grace and speed amid the people.

His needle flashed as he gave them hypodermics under pressure.

The people dropped to sitting positions or lay down on the ground as
though half-asleep.

He knew Mercer.

"Hello, fellow.  Now you can have the fun.

It would have killed you in the cabin.  Do you have anything for me?"

Mercer stammered, not knowing what B'dikkat meant, and the two-
nosed man answered for him.

"I think he has a nice baby head, but it isn't big enough for you to
take yet."

Mercer never noticed the needle touch his arm.

B'dikkat had turned to the next knot of people when the super-condamine
hit Mercer.

He tried to run after B'dikkat, to hug the lead space suit, to tell
B'dikkat that he loved him.  He stumbled and fell, but it did not
hurt.

The many-bodied girl lay near him.  Mercer spoke to her.

"Isn't it wonderful?  You're beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

I'm so happy to be here."

The woman covered with growing hands came and sat beside them.  She
radiated warmth and good fellowship.  Mercer thought that she looked
very distinguished and charming.  He struggled out of his clothes.  It
was foolish and snobbish to wear clothing when none of these nice
people did.

The two women babbled and crooned at him.

With one corner of his mind he knew that they were saying nothing, just
expressing the euphoria of a drug so powerful that the known universe
had forbidden it.  With most of his mind he was happy.  He wondered how
anyone could have the good luck to visit a planet as nice as this.  He
tried to tell the Lady Da, but the words weren't quite straight.

A painful stab hit him in the abdomen.  The drug went after the pain
and swallowed it.  It was like the cap in the hospital, only a thousand
times better.  The pain was gone, though it had been crippling the
first time.

He forced himself to be deliberate.  He rammed his mind into focus and
said to the two ladies who lay pinkly nude beside him in the desert.

"That was a good bite.  Maybe I will grow another head.  That would
make B'dikkat happy!"

The Lady Da forced the foremost of her bodies into an upright position.
Said she,

"I'm strong, too.  I can talk.

Remember, man, remember.  People never live forever.  We can die, too,
we can die like real people.  I do so believe in death!"

Mercer smiled at her through his happiness.

"Of course you can.  But isn't this nice .  . ."

With this he felt his lips thicken and his mind go slack.  He was wide
awake, but he did not feel like doing anything.  In that beautiful
place, among all those companionable and attractive people, he sat and
smiled.

B'dikkat was sterilizing his knives.

Mercer wondered how long the super-condamine had lasted him.  He
endured the ministrations of the dromozoa without screams or movement.
The agonies of nerves and itching of skin were phenomena which happened
somewhere near him, but meant nothing.  He watched his own body with
remote, casual interest.  The Lady Da and the hand-covered woman
stayed near him.  After a long time the half-man dragged himself over
to the group with his powerful arms.  Having arrived, he blinked
sleepily and friendlily at them, and lapsed back into the restful
stupor from which he had emerged.  Mercer saw the sun rise on occasion,
closed his eyes briefly, and opened them to see stars shining.  Time
had no meaning.  The dromozoa fed him in their mysterious way; the drug
canceled out his needs for cycles of the body.

At last he noticed a return of the inwardness of pain.

The pains themselves had not changed; he had.

He knew all the events which could take place on Shayol.  He remembered
them well from his happy period.  Formerly he had noticed them now he
felt them.

He tried to ask the Lady Da how long they had had the drug, and how
much longer they would have to wait before they had it again.  She
smiled at him with benign, remote happiness; apparently her many
torsos, stretched out along the ground, had a greater capacity for
retaining the drug than did his body.  She meant him well, but was in
no condition for articulate speech.

The half-man lay on the ground, arteries pulsating prettily behind the
half-transparent film which protected his abdominal cavity.

Mercer squeezed the man's shoulder.

The half-man woke, recognized Mercer, and gave him a healthily sleepy
grin.

" "A good morrow to you, my boy."  That's out of a play.  Did you ever
see a play?"

"You mean a game with cards?"

"No," said the half-man, "a son of eye-machine with real people doing
the figures."

"I never saw that," said Mercer, "but I " "But you want to ask me when
B'dikkat is going to come back with the needle."

"Yes," said Mercer, a little ashamed of his obviousness.

"Soon," said the half-man.

"That's why I think of plays.  We all know what is going to happen.  We
all know when it is going to happen.  We all know what the dummies will
do" he gestured at the hummocks in which the decorticated men were
cradled "and we all know what the new people will ask.  But we never
know how long a scene is going to take."

"What's a 'scene'?"  asked Mercer.

"Is that the name for the needle?"

The half-man laughed with something close to real humor.

"No, no, no.  You've got the lovelies on the brain.  A scene is just
part of a play.  I mean we know the order in which things happen, but
we have no clocks and nobody cares enough to count days or to make
calendars and there's
not much climate here, so none of us know how long anything takes. The
pain seems short and the pleasure seems long.  I'm inclined to think
that they are about two Earth-weeks each."

Mercer did not know what an

"Earth-week" was, since he had not been a well-read man before his
conviction, but he got nothing more from the half-man at that time. The
half-man received a dromozootic implant, turned red in the face,
shouted senselessly at Mercer,

"Take it out, you fool!  Take it out of me!"

While Mercer looked on helplessly, the half-man twisted over on his
side, his pink dusty back turned to Mercer, and wept hoarsely and
quietly to himself.

Mercer himself could not tell how long it was before B'dikkat came
back.  It might have been several days.  It might have been several
months.

Once again B'dikkat moved among them like a father; once again they
clustered like children.  This time B'dikkat smiled pleasantly at the
little head which had grown out of Mercer's thigh a sleeping child's
head, covered with light hair on top and with dainty eyebrows over the
resting eyes.  Mercer got the blissful needle.

When B'dikkat cut the head from Mercer's thigh, he felt the knife
grinding against the cartilage which held the head to his own body.  He
saw the child-face grimace as the head was cut; he felt the far, cool
flash of unimportant pain, as B'dikkat dabbed the wound with a
corrosive antiseptic which stopped all bleeding immediately.

The next time it was two legs growing from his chest.

Then there had been another head beside his own.

Or was that after the torso and legs, waist to toe-tips, of the little
girl which had grown from his side?

He forgot the order.

He did not count time.

Lady Da smiled at him often, but there was no love in this place.  She
had lost the extra torsos.  In between teratologies, she was a pretty
and shapely woman; but the nicest thing about their relationship was
her whisper to him, repeated some thousands of times, repeated with
smiles and hope,

"People never live forever."

She found this immensely comforting, even though Mercer did not make
much sense out of it.

Thus events occurred, and victims changed in appearance, and new ones
arrived.  Sometimes B'dikkat took the new ones, resting in the
everlasting sleep of their burned-out brains, in a ground-truck to be
added to other herds.  The bodies in the truck threshed and bawled
without human speech when the dromozoa struck them.

Finally, Mercer did manage to follow B'dikkat to the door of the
cabin.  He had to fight the bliss of super-condamine to do it.  Only
the memory of previous hurt, bewilderment, and perplexity made him sure
that if he did not ask B'dikkat when he, Mercer, was happy, the answer
would no longer be available when he needed it.  Fighting pleasure
itself, he begged B'dikkat to check the records and to tell him how
long he had been there.

B'dikkat grudgingly agreed, but he did not come out of the doorway.  He
spoke through the public address box built into the cabin, and his
gigantic voice roared out over the empty plain, so that the pink herd
of talking people stirred gently in their happiness and wondered what
their friend B'dikkat might be wanting to tell them.  When he said it,
they thought it exceedingly profound, though none of them understood
it, since it was simply the amount of time that Mercer had been on
Shayol: "Standard years eighty-four years, seven months, three days,
two hours, eleven and one half minutes.  Good luck, fellow."

Mercer turned away.

The secret little corner of his mind, which stayed sane through
happiness and pain, made him wonder about B'dikkat.

What persuaded the cow-man to remain on Shayol?  What kept him happy
without super-condamine?  Was B'dikkat a crazy slave to his own duty or
was he a man who had hopes of going back to his own planet some day,
surrounded by a family of little cow people resembling himself? 
Mercer, despite his happiness, wept a little at the strange fate of
B'dikkat. His own fate he accepted.

He remembered the last time he had eaten actual eggs from an actual
pan.  The dromozoa kept him alive, but he did not know how they did
it.

He staggered back to the group.  The Lady Da, naked in the dusty plain,
waved a hospitable hand and showed that there was a place for him to
sit beside her.  There were unclaimed square miles of seating space
around them, but he appreciated the kindliness of her gesture none the
less.

IV

The years, if they were years, went by.  The land of Shayol did not
change.

Sometimes the bubbling sound of geysers came faintly across the plain
to the herd of men; those who could talk declared it to be the
breathing of Captain Alvarez.  There was night and day, but no setting
of crops, no change of season, no generations of men.  Time stood still
for these people, and their load of pleasure was so commingled with the
shocks and pains of the dromozoa that the words of the Lady Da took on
very remote meaning.

"People never live forever."

Her statement was a hope, not a truth in which they could believe.
They did not have the wit to follow the stars in their courses, to
exchange names with each other, to harvest the experience of each for
the wisdom of all.  There was no dream of escape for these people.
Though they saw the old-style chemical rockets lift up from the field
beyond B'dikkat's cabin, they did not make plans to hide among the
frozen crop of transmuted flesh.

Far long ago, some other prisoner than one of these had tried to write
a letter.  His handwriting was on a rock.  Mercer read it, and so had a
few of the others, but they could not tell which man had done it.  Nor
did they care.

The letter, scraped on stone, had been a message home.  They could
still read the opening: "Once, I was like you, stepping out of my
window at the end of day, and letting the winds blow me gently toward
the place I lived in.  Once, like you, I had one head, two hands, ten
fingers on my hands.  The front part of my head was called a face, and
I could talk with it.  Now I can only write, and that only when I get
out of pain.  Once, like you, I ate foods, drank liquid, had a name.  I
cannot remember the name I had.  You can stand up, you who get this
letter.  I cannot even stand up.  I just wait for the lights to put my
food in me molecule by molecule, and to take it out again.  Don't think
that I am punished any more.

This place is not a punishment.  It is something else."

Among the pink herd, none of them ever decided what was "something
else."

Curiosity had died among them long ago.

Then came the day of the little people.

It was a time not an hour, not a year: a duration somewhere between
them when the Lady Da and Mercer sat wordless with happiness and filled
with the joy of super-condamine.  They had nothing to say to one
another; the drug said all things for them.

A disagreeable roar from B'dikkat's cabin made them stir mildly.

Those two, and one or two others, looked toward the speaker of the
public address system.

The Lady Da brought herself to speak, though the matter was unimportant
beyond words.

"I do believe," said she, "that we used to call that the War Alarm."

They drowsed back into their happiness.

A man with two rudimentary heads growing beside his own crawled over to
them.  All three heads looked very happy, and Mercer thought it
delightful of him to appear in such a whimsical shape.  Under the
pulsing glow of super-condamine, Mercer regretted that he had not used
times when his mind was clear to ask him who he had once been.  He
answered it for them.  Forcing his eyelids open by sheer will power, he
gave the Lady
Da and Mercer the lazy ghost of a military salute and said, "Suzdal,
Ma'am and Sir, former cruiser commander.  They are sounding the alert.
Wish to report that I am ... I am ... I am not quite ready for
battle."

He dropped off to sleep.

The gentle peremptorinesses of the Lady Da brought his eyes open
again.

"Commander, why are they sounding it here?  Why did you come to us?"

"You, Ma'am, and the gentleman with the ears seem to think best of our
group.  I thought you might have orders."

Mercer looked around for the gentleman with the ears.  It was himself.
In that time his face was almost wholly obscured with a crop of fresh
little ears, but he paid no attention to them, other than expecting
that B'dikkat would cut them all off in due course and that the
dromozoa would give him something else.

The noise from the cabin rose to a higher, ear-splitting intensity.

Among the herd, many people stirred.

Some opened their eyes, looked around, murmured,

"It's a noise," and went back to the happy drowsing with
supercondamine.

The cabin door opened.

B'dikkat rushed out, without his suit.  They had never seen him on the
outside without his protective metal suit.

He rushed up to them, looked wildly around, recognized the Lady Da and
Mercer, picked them up, one under each arm, and raced with them back to
the cabin.  He flung them into the double door.  They landed with
bone-splitting crashes, and found it amusing to hit the ground so hard.
The floor tilted them into the room.  Moments later, B'dikkat
followed.

He roared at them,

"You're people, or you were.  You understand people; I only obey them.
But this I will not obey.

Look at that!"

Four beautiful human children lay on the floor.  The two smallest
seemed to be twins, about two years of age.  There was a girl of five
and a boy of seven or so.  All of them had slack eyelids.  All of them
had thin red lines around their temples and their hair, shaved away,
showed how their brains had been removed.

B'dikkat, heedless of danger from dromozoa, stood beside the Lady Da
and Mercer, shouting.

"You're real people.  I'm just a cow.  I do my duty.  My duty does not
include this.  These are children."

The wise, surviving recess of Mercer's mind registered shock and
disbelief.  It was hard to sustain the emotion, because the
super-condamine washed at his consciousness like a great tide, making
everything seem lovely.  The forefront of his mind, rich with the drug,
told him,

"Won't it be nice to have
some children with us!"  But the undestroyed interior of his mind,
keeping the honor he knew before he came to Shayol, whispered, "This is
a crime worse than any crime we have committed!  And the Empire has
done it."

"What have you done?"  said the Lady Da.

"What can we do?"

"I tried to call the satellite.  When they knew what I was talking
about, they cut me off.  After all, I'm not people.  The head doctor
told me to do my work."

"Was it Doctor Vomact?"  Mercer asked.

"Vomact?"  said B'dikkat.

"He died a hundred years ago, of old age.  No, a new doctor cut me off.
I don't have people-feeling, but I am Earth-born, of Earth blood.  I
have emotions myself.  Pure cattle emotions!  This I cannot permit."

"What have you done?"

B'dikkat lifted his eyes to the window.  His face was illuminated by a
determination which, even beyond the edges of the drug which made them
love him, made him seem like the father of this world responsible,
honorable, unselfish.

He smiled.

"They will kill me for it, I think.  But I have put in the Galactic
Alert all ships here.  " The Lady Da, sitting back on the floor,
declared,

"But that's only for new invaders!  It is a false alarm."  She pulled
herself together and rose to her feet.

"Can you cut these things off me, right now, in case people come?  And
get me a dress.  And do you have anything which will counteract the
effect of the supercondamine?"

"That's what I wanted!"  cried B'dikkat.

"I will not take these children.  You give me leadership."

There and then, on the floor of the cabin, he trimmed her down to the
normal proportions of mankind.

The corrosive antiseptic rose like smoke in the air of the cabin.
Mercer thought it all very dramatic and pleasant, and dropped off in
catnaps part of the time.  Then he felt B'dikkat trimming him too.
B'dikkat opened a long, long drawer and put the specimens in; from the
cold in the room it must have been a refrigerated locker.

He sat them both up against the wall.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"There is no antidote for supercondamine.  Who would want one?  But I
can give you the hypos from my rescue boat.  They are supposed to bring
a person back, no matter what has happened to that person out in
space."

There was a whining over the cabin roof.  B'dikkat knocked a window out
with his fist, stuck his head out of the window and looked up.

"Come on in," he shouted.

There was the thud of a landing craft touching ground quickly.

Doors
whirred.  Mercer wondered, mildly, why people dared to land on Shayol.
When they came in he saw that they were not people; they were Customs
Robots, who could travel at velocities which people could never match.
One wore the insigne of an inspector.

"Where are the invaders?"

"There are no " began B'dikkat.

The Lady Da, imperial in her posture though she was completely nude,
said in a voice of complete clarity,

"I am a former Empress, the Lady Da.  Do you know me?"

"No, Ma'am," said the robot inspector.  He looked as uncomfortable as a
robot could look.  The drug made Mercer think that it would be nice to
have robots for company, out on the surface of Shayol.

"I declare this Top Emergency, in the ancient words.  Do you
understand?  Connect me with the Instrumentality."

"We can't " said the inspector.

"You can ask," said the Lady Da.

The inspector complied.

The Lady Da turned to B'dikkat.

"Give Mercer and me those shots now.  Then put us outside the door so
the dromozoa can repair these scars.  Bring us in as soon as a
connection is made.

Wrap us in cloth if you do not have clothes for us.  Mercer can stand
the pain."

"Yes," said B'dikkat, keeping his eyes away from the four soft children
and their collapsed eyes.

The injection burned like no fire ever had.  It must have been capable
of fighting the super-condamine, because B'dikkat put them through the
open window, so as to save time going through the door.  The dromozoa,
sensing that they needed repair, flashed upon them.  This time the
super-condamine had something else fighting it.

Mercer did not scream but he lay against the wall and wept for ten
thousand years; in objective time, it must have been several hours.

The Customs Robots were taking pictures.  The dromozoa were flashing
against them too, sometimes in whole swarms, but nothing happened.

Mercer heard the voice of the communicator inside the cabin calling
loudly for B'dikkat.

"Surgery Satellite calling Shayol.

B'dikkat, get on the line!"

He obviously was not replying.

There were soft cries coming from the other communicator, the one which
the customs officials had brought into the room.

Mercer was sure that the eye-machine was on and that people in other
worlds were looking at Shayol for the first time.

B'dikkat came through the door.  He had torn navigation charts out of
his lifeboat.  With these he cloaked them.

Mercer noted that the Lady Da changed the arrangement of the cloak in
a few minor ways and suddenly looked like a person of great
importance.

They re-entered the cabin door.

B'dikkat whispered, as if filled with awe,

"The Instrumentality has been reached, and a Lord of the
Instrumentality is about to talk to you."

There was nothing for Mercer to do, so he sat back in a corner of the
room and watched.  The Lady Da, her skin healed, stood pale and nervous
in the middle of the floor.

The room filled with an odorless intangible smoke.  The smoke clouded.
The full communicator was on.

A human figure appeared.

A woman, dressed in a uniform of radically conservative cut, faced the
Lady Da.

"This is Shayol.  You are the Lady Da.  You called me."

The Lady Da pointed to the children on the floor.

"This must not happen," she said.

"This is a place of punishments, agreed upon between the
Instrumentality and the Empire.  No one said anything about
children."

The woman on the screen looked down at the children.

"This is the work of insane people!"  she cried.

She looked accusingly at the Lady Da.

"Are you imperial?"

"I was an Empress, Madam," said the Lady Da.

"And you permit this!"

"Permit it?"  cried the Lady Da.

"I had nothing to do with it."  Her eyes widened.

"I am a prisoner here myself.  Don't you understand?"

The image-woman snapped,

"No, I don't."

"I," said the Lady Da, "am a specimen.  Look at the herd out there.  I
came from them a few hours ago."

"Adjust me," said the image-woman to B'dikkat.

"Let me see that herd."

Her body, standing upright, soared through the wall in a flashing arc
and was placed in the very center of the herd.

The Lady Da and Mercer watched her.  They saw even the image lose its
stiffness and dignity.  The image-woman waved an arm to show that she
should be brought back into the cabin.

B'dikkat tuned her back into the room.

"I owe you an apology," said the image.

"I am the Lady Johanna Gnade, one of the Lords of the
Instrumentality."

Mercer bowed, lost his balance, and had to scramble up from the floor.
The Lady Da acknowledged the introduction with a royal nod.

The two women looked at each other.

"You will investigate," said the Lady Da, "and when you have
investigated, please put us all to death.  You know about the drug?"

"Don't mention it," said B'dikkat.

"Don't even say the name into a communicator.  It is a secret of the
Instrumentality!"

"I am the Instrumentality," said the Lady Johanna.

"Are you in pain?  I did not think that any of you were alive.  I had
heard of the surgery banks on your off-limits planet, but I thought
that robots tended parts of people and sent up the new grafts by
rocket.  Are there any people with you?  Who is in charge?  Who did
this to the children?"

B'dikkat stepped in front of the image.  He did not bow.

"I'm in charge."

"You're under people cried the Lady Johanna.

"You're a cow!"

"A bull, Ma'am.  My family is frozen back on Earth itself, and with a
thousand years' service I am earning their freedom and my own.  Your
other questions, Ma'am.  I do all the work.  The dromozoa do not affect
me much, though I have to cut a part off myself now and then.  I throw
those away.  They don't go into the bank.  Do you know the secret of
this place?"

The Lady Johanna talked to someone behind her on another world.  Then
she looked at B'dikkat and commanded,

"Just don't name the drug or talk too much about it.  Tell me the
rest."

"We have," said B'dikkat very formally, "thirteen hundred and
twenty-one people who can still be counted on to supply pans when the
dromozoa implant them.  There are about seven hundred more, including
Go-Captain Alvarez, who have been so thoroughly absorbed by the planet
that it is no use trimming them.  The Empire set up this place as a
point of uttermost punishment.  But the Instrumentality gave secret
orders for medicine" he accented the word strangely, meaning
supercondamine "to be issued so that the punishment would be
counteracted.  The Empire supplies our convicts.  The Instrumentality
distributes the surgical material."

The Lady Johanna lifted her right hand in a gesture of silence and
compassion.  She looked around the room.  Her eyes came back to the
Lady Da.  Perhaps she guessed what effort the Lady Da had made in order
to remain standing erect while the two drugs, the super-condamine and
the lifeboat drug, fought within her veins.

"You people can rest.  I will tell you now that all things possible
will be done for you.  The Empire is finished.  The Fundamental
Agreement, by which the Instrumentality surrendered the Empire a
thousand years ago, has been set aside.

We did not know that you people existed.  We would have found out in
time, but I am sorry we did not find out sooner.  Is there anything we
can do for you right away?"

"Time is what we all have," said the Lady Da.

"Perhaps we cannot ever leave Shayol, because of the dromozoa and the
medicine.  The one could be dangerous.  The other must never be
permitted to be known."

The Lady Johanna Gnade looked around the room.  When her glance
reached him, B'dikkat fell to his knees and lifted his enormous hands
in complete supplication.

"What do you want?"  said she.

"These," said B'dikkat, pointing to the mutilated children.

"Order a stop on children.  Stop it now!"  He commanded her with the
last cry, and she accepted his command.

"And, Lady " he stopped as if shy.

"Yes?  Go on."

"Lady, I am unable to kill.  It is not in my nature.  To work, to help,
but not to kill.  What do I do with these?"  He gestured at the four
motionless children on the floor.

"Keep them," she said.

"Just keep them."

"I can't," he said.

"There's no way to get off this planet alive.

I do not have food for them in the cabin.  They will die in a few
hours.  And governments," he added wisely, "take a long, long time to
do things."

"Can you give them the medicine?"

"No, it would kill them if I give them that stuff first before the
dromozoa have fortified their bodily processes."

The Lady Johanna Gnade filled the room with tinkling laughter that was
very close to weeping.

"Fools, poor fools, and the more fool I!  If super-condamine works only
after the dromozoa, what is the purpose of the secret?"

B'dikkat rose to his feet, offended.  He frowned, but he could not get
the words with which to defend himself.

The Lady Da, ex-empress of a fallen empire, addressed the other Lady
with ceremony and force: "Put them outside, so they will be touched.
They will hurt.  Have B'dikkat give them the drug as soon as he thinks
it safe.  I beg your leave, my Lady .  . ."

Mercer had to catch her before she fell.

"You've all had enough," said the Lady Johanna.

"A storm ship with heavily armed troops is on its way to your ferry
satellite.  They will seize the medical personnel and find out who
committed this crime against children."

Mercer dared to speak.

"Will you punish the guilty doctor?"

"You speak of punishment."  she cried.

"You!"

"It's fair.  I was punished for doing wrong.  Why shouldn't he be?"

"Punish punish!"  she said to him.

"We will cure that doctor.

And we will cure you too, if we can."

Mercer began to weep.  He thought of the oceans of happiness which
super-condamine had brought him, forgetting the hideous pain and the
deformities on Shayol.  Would there be no next needle?  He could not
guess what life would be like off Shayol.

Was there to be no more tender, fatherly B'dikkat coming with his
knives?

He lifted his tear-stained face to the Lady Johanna Gnade and choked
out the words.

"Lady, we are all insane in this place.  I do not think we want to
leave."

She turned her face away, moved by enormous compassion.

Her next words were to B'dikkat.

"You are wise and good, even if you are not a human being.  Give them
all of the drug they can take.  The Instrumentality will decide what to
do with all of you.

I will survey your planet with robot soldiers.  Will the robots be
safe, cowman?"

B'dikkat did not like the thoughtless name she called him, but he held
no offense.

"The robots will be all right, Ma'am, but the dromozoa will be excited
if they cannot feed them and heal them.

Send as few as you can.  We do not know how the dromozoa live or
die."

"As few as I can," she murmured.  She lifted her hand in command to
some technician unimaginable distances away.  The odorless smoke rose
about her and the image was gone.

A shrill cheerful voice spoke up.

"I fixed your window," said the Customs Robot.  B'dikkat thanked him
absentmindedly.  He helped Mercer and the Lady Da into the doorway.
When they had gotten outside, they were promptly stung by the dromozoa.
It did not matter.

B'dikkat himself emerged, carrying the four children in his two
gigantic, tender hands.  He lay the slack bodies on the ground near the
cabin.  He watched as the bodies went into spasm with the onset of the
dromozoa.  Mercer and the Lady Da saw that his brown cow eyes were
rimmed with red and that his huge cheeks were dampened by tears.

Hours or centuries.

Who could tell them apart?

The herd went back to its usual life, except that the intervals between
needles were much shorter.  The once-commander, Suzdal, refused the
needle when he heard the news.  Whenever he could walk, he followed the
Customs Robots around as they photographed, took soil samples, and made
a count of the bodies.

They were particularly interested in the mountain of Go-Captain Alvarez
and professed themselves uncertain as to whether there was organic life
there or not.  The mountain did appear to react to super-condamine, but
they could find no blood, no heart-beat.

Moisture, moved by the dromozoa, seemed to have replaced the once-human
bodily processes.

V

And then, early one morning, the sky opened.

Ship after ship landed.  People emerged, wearing clothes.

The dromozoa ignored the newcomers.  Mercer, who was in a state of
bliss, confusedly tried to think this through until he realized that
the ships were loaded to their skins with communications machines; the
"people" were either robots or images of persons in other places.

The robots swiftly gathered together the herd.  Using wheelbarrows,
they brought the hundreds of mindless people to the landing area.

Mercer heard a voice he knew.  It was the Lady Johanna Gnade.

"Set me high," she commanded.

Her form rose until she seemed one-fourth the size of Alvarez.

Her voice took on more volume.

"Wake them all," she commanded.

Robots moved among them, spraying them with a gas which was both
sickening and sweet.  Mercer felt his mind go clear.  The
super-condamine still operated in his nerves and veins, but his
cortical area was free of it.  He thought clearly.

"I bring you," cried the compassionate feminine voice of the gigantic
Lady Johanna, "the judgment of the Instrumentality on the planet
Shayol.

"Item: the surgical supplies will be maintained and the dromozoa will
not be molested.  Portions of human bodies will be left here to grow,
and the grafts will be collected by robots.

Neither man nor homunculus will live here again.

"Item: the under man B'dikkat, of cattle extraction, will be rewarded
by an immediate return to Earth.  He will be paid twice his expected
thousand years of earnings."

The voice of B'dikkat, without amplification, was almost as loud as
hers through the amplifier.  He shouted his protest,

"Lady, Lady!"

She looked down at him, his enormous body reaching to ankle height on
her swirling gown, and said in a very informal tone, "What do you
want?"

"Let me finish my work first," he cried, so that all could hear.

"Let me finish taking care of these people."

The specimens who had minds all listened attentively.  The brainless
ones were trying to dig themselves back into the soft earth of Shayol,
using their powerful claws for the purpose.

Whenever one began to disappear, a robot seized him by a limb and
pulled him out again.

"Item: cephalectomies will be performed on all persons with
irrecoverable minds.  Their bodies will be left here.  Their heads will
be taken away and killed as pleasantly as we can manage, probably by an
over dosage of super-condamine."

"The last big jolt," murmured Commander Suzdal, who stood near
Mercer.

"That's fair enough."

"Item: the children have been found to be the last heirs of the Empire.
An over-zealous official sent them here to prevent their committing
treason when they grew up.  The doctor obeyed orders without
questioning them.  Both the official and the doctor have been cured and
their memories of this have been erased, so that they need have no
shame or grief for what they have done."

"It's unfair," cried the half-man.

"They should be punished as we were!"

The Lady Johanna Gnade looked down at him.

"Punishment is ended.  We will give you anything you wish, but not the
pain of another.  I shall continue.

"Item: since none of you wish to resume the lives which you led
previously, we are moving you to another planet nearby.  It is similar
to Shayol, but much more beautiful.  There are no dromozoa."

At this an uproar seized the herd.  They shouted, wept, cursed,
appealed.  They all wanted the needle, and if they had to stay on
Shayol to get it, they would stay.

"Item," said the gigantic image of the lady, overriding their babble
with her great but feminine voice, "you will not have super-condamine
on the new planet, since without dromozoa it would kill you.  But there
will be caps.  Remember the caps.  We will try to cure you and to make
people of you again.  But if you give up, we will not force you.  Caps
are very powerful; with medical help you can live under them many
years."

A hush fell on the group.  In their various ways, they were trying to
compare the electrical caps which had stimulated their pleasure-lobes
with the drug which had drowned them a thousand times in pleasure.
Their murmur sounded like assent.

"Do you have any questions?"  said the Lady Johanna.

"When do we get the caps?"  said several.  They were human enough that
they laughed at their own impatience.

"Soon," said she reassuringly.

"Very soon."

"Very soon," echoed B'dikkat, reassuring his charges even though he was
no longer in control.

"Question," cried the Lady Da.

"My Lady ... ?"  said the Lady Johanna, giving the ex-empress her due
courtesy.

"Will we be permitted marriage?"

The Lady Johanna looked astonished.

"I don't know."  She smiled.

"I don't know any reason why not " "I claim this man Mercer," said the
Lady Da.

"When the drugs were deepest, and the pain was greatest, he was the one
who always tried to think.  May I have him?"

Mercer thought the procedure arbitrary but he was so happy that he said
nothing.  The Lady Johanna scrutinized him and then she nodded.  She
lifted her arms in a gesture of blessing and farewell.

The robots began to gather the pink herd into two groups.

One group was to whisper in a ship over to a new world, new problems
and new lives.  The other group, no matter how much its members tried
to scuttle into the dirt, was gathered for the last honor which
humanity could pay their manhood.

B'dikkat, leaving everyone else, jogged with his bottle across the
plain to give the mountain-man Alvarez an especially large gift of
delight.

 On the Gem Planet Consider the horse.  He climbed up through the
crevasses of a cliff of gems; the force which drove him was the love of
man.

Consider Mizzer, the resort planet, where the dictator Colonel Wedder
reformed the culture so violently that whatever had been slovenly now
became atrocious.

Consider Genevieve, so rich that she was the prisoner of her own
wealth, so beautiful that she was the victim of her own beauty, so
intelligent that she knew there was nothing, nothing to be done about
her fate.

Consider Casher O'Neill, a wanderer among the planets, thirsting for
justice and yet hoping in his innermost thoughts that "justice" was not
just another word for revenge.

Consider Pontoppidan, that literal gem of a planet, where the people
were too rich and busy to have good food, open air, or much fun.  All
they had were diamonds, rubies, tour malines and emeralds.

Add these together and you have one of the strangest stories ever told
from world to world.

When Casher O'Neill came to Pontoppidan, he found that the capital city
was appropriately called Andersen.

This was the second century of the Rediscovery of Man.

People everywhere had taken up old names, old languages, old customs,
as fast as the robots and the under people could retrieve the data from
the rubbish of forgotten star lanes or the subsurface ruins of Manhome
itself.

Casher knew this very well, to his bitter cost.  Re-acculturation had
brought him revolution and exile.  He came from the dry, beautiful
planet of Mizzer.  He was himself the nephew of the ruined ex-ruler,
Kuraf, whose collection of objectionable books had at one time been
unmatched in the settled galaxy; he had stood aside, half-assenting,
when the colonels
of Man Gibna and Wedder took over the planet in the name of reform; he
had implored the Instrumentality, vainly, for help when Wedder became a
tyrant; and now he traveled among the stars, looking for men or weapons
who might destroy Wedder and make Kaheer again the luxurious, happy
city which it once had been.

He felt that his cause was hopeless when he landed on Pontoppidan.  The
people were warm-hearted, friendly, intelligent, but they had no
motives to fight for, no weapons to fight with, no enemies to fight
against.  They had little public spirit, such as Casher O'Neill had
seen back on his native planet of Mizzer.  They were concerned about
little things.

Indeed, at the time of his arrival, the Pontoppidans were wildly
excited about a horse.

A horse!  Who worries about one horse?

Casher O'Neill himself said so.

"Why bother about a horse?

We have lots of them on Mizzer.  They are four-handed beings, eight
times the weight of a man, with only one finger on each of the four
hands.  The fingernail is very heavy and permits them to run fast.
That's why our people have them, for running."

"Why run?"  said the Hereditary Dictator of Pontoppidan.

"Why run, when you can fly?  Don't you have ornithopters?"

"We don't run with them," said Casher indignantly.

"We make them run against each other and then we pay prizes to the one
which runs fastest."

"But then," said Philip Vincent, the Hereditary Dictator, "you get a
very illogical situation.  When you have tried out these four fingered
beings, you know how fast each one goes.  So what?  Why bother?"

His niece interrupted.  She was a fragile little thing, smaller than
Casher O'Neill liked women to be.  She had clear gray eyes, well-marked
eyebrows, a very artificial coiffure of silver-blonde hair, and the
most sensitive little mouth he had ever seen.  She conformed to the
local fashion by wearing some kind of powder or face cream which was
flesh-pink in color but which had overtones of lilac.  On a woman as
old as twenty-two, such a coloration would have made the wearer look
like an old hag, but on Genevieve it was pleasant, if rather startling.
It gave the effect of a happy child playing grown-up and doing the job
joyfully and well.  Casher knew that it was hard to tell ages in these
off-trail planets.  Genevieve might be a grande dame in her third or
fourth rejuvenation.

He doubted it, on second glance.  What she said was sensible, young,
and pert: "But uncle, they're animals!"

"I know that," he rumbled.

"But uncle, don't you see it?"

"Stop saying 'but uncle' and tell me what you mean,"

growled the Dictator, very fondly.

"Animals are always uncertain."

"Of course," said the uncle.

"That makes it a game, uncle," said Genevieve.

"They're never sure that any one of them would do the same thing
twice.

Imagine the excitement the beautiful big beings from earth running
around and around on their four middle fingers, the big fingernails
making the gems jump loose from the ground!"

"I'm not at all sure it's that way.  Besides, Mizzer may be covered
with something valuable, such as earth or sand, instead of gemstones
like the ones we have here on Pontoppidan.  You know, your flower-pots
with their rich, warm, wet, soft earth?"

"Of course I do, uncle.  And I know what you paid for them.

You were very generous.  And still are," she added diplomatically,
glancing quickly at Casher O'Neill to see how the familial piety went
across with the visitor.

"We're not that rich on Mizzer.  It's mostly sand, with farmland along
the Twelve Niles, our big rivers."

"I've seen pictures of rivers," said Genevieve.

"Imagine living on a whole world full of flower-pot stuff!"

"You're getting off the subject, darling.  We were wondering why anyone
would bring one horse, just one horse, to Pontoppidan.  I suppose you
could race a horse against himself, if you had a stopwatch.  But would
it be fun?  Would you do that, young man?"

Casher O'Neill tried to be respectful.

"In my home we used to have a lot of horses.  I've seen my uncle time
them one by one."

"Your uncle?"  said the Dictator interestedly.

"Who was your uncle that he had all these four-fingered 'horses'
running around?  They're all Earth animals and very expensive."

Casher felt the coming of the low, slow blow he had met so many times
before, right from the whole outside world into the pit of his
stomach.

"My uncle" he stammered "my uncle I thought you knew was the old
Dictator of Mizzer, Kuraf."

Philip Vincent jumped to his feet, very lightly for so well fleshed a
man.  The young mistress, Genevieve, clutched at the throat of her
dress.

"Kuraf!"  cried the old Dictator.

"Kuraf!  We know about him, even here.  But you were supposed to be a
Mizzer patriot, not one of Kuraf's people."

"He doesn't have any children " Casher began to explain.

"I should think not, not with those habits!"  snapped the old man.

" so I'm his nephew and his heir.  But I'm not trying to put the
of Man Dictatorship back, even though I should be dictator.  I just
want to get rid of Colonel Wedder.  He has ruined my people, and I am
looking for money or weapons or help to make my home-world free."  This
was the point, Casher O'Neill knew, at which people either started
believing him or did not.  If they did not, there was not much he could
do about it.  If they did, he was sure to get some sympathy.  So far,
no help.  Just sympathy.

But the Instrumentality, while refusing to take action against Colonel
Wedder, had given young Casher O'Neill an all-world travel pass
something which a hundred lifetimes of savings could not have purchased
for the ordinary man.  (His obscene old uncle had gone off to Sunvale,
on Ttiolle, the resort planet, to live out his years between the casino
and the beach.) Casher O'Neill held the conscience of Mizzer in his
hand.  Only he, among the star travelers, cared enough to fight for the
freedom of the Twelve Niles.  Here, now, in this room, there was a
turning point.

"I won't give you anything," said the Hereditary Dictator, but he said
it in a friendly voice.  His niece started tugging at his sleeve.

The older man went on.

"Stop it, girl.  I won't give you anything, not if you're part of that
rotten lot of Kuraf's, not unless " "Anything, sir, anything, just so
that I get help or weapons to go home to the Twelve Niles!"

"All right, then.  Unless you open your mind to me.  I'm a good tele
path myself."

"Open my mind!  Whatever for?"  The incongruous indecency of it shocked
Casher O'Neill.  He'd had men and women and governments ask a lot of
strange things from him, but no one before had had the cold impudence
to ask him to open his mind.

"And why you?"  he went on,

"What would you get out of it?

There's nothing much in my mind."

"To make sure," said the Hereditary Dictator, "that you are not too
honest and sharp in your beliefs.  If you're positive that you know
what to do, you might be another Colonel Wedder, putting your people
through a dozen torments for a Utopia which never quite comes true.  If
you don't care at all, you might be like your uncle.  He did no real
harm.  He just stole his planet blind and he had some extraordinary
habits which got him talked about between the stars.  He never killed a
man in his life, did he?"

"No, sir," said Casher O'Neill, "he never did."  It relieved him to
tell the one little good thing about his uncle; there was so very, very
little which could be said in Kuraf's favor.

"I don't like slobbering old libertines like your uncle," said Philip
Vincent, "but I don't hate them either.  They don't hurt other people
much.  As a matter of actual fact, they don't hurt anyone but
themselves.  They waste property, though.  Like these horses you have
on Mizzer.  We'd never bring living beings to this world of
Pontoppidan.  just to play games
with.  And you know we're not poor.  We're no Old North Australia, but
we have a good income here."

That, thought Casher O'Neill, is the understatement of the year, but he
was a careful young man with a great deal at stake, so he said
nothing.

The Dictator looked at him shrewdly.  He appreciated the value of
Casher's tactful silence.  Genevieve tugged at his sleeve, but he
frowned her interruption away.

"If," said the Hereditary Dictator, "if," he repeated, "you pass two
tests, I will give you a green ruby as big as my head.  If my Committee
will allow me to do so.  But I think I can talk them around.  One test
is that you let me peep all over your mind, to make sure that I am not
dealing with one more honest fool.  If you're too honest, you're a fool
and a danger to mankind.  I'll give you a dinner and ship you
off-planet as fast as I can.  And the other test is solve the puzzle of
this horse.  The one horse on Pontoppidan.  Why is the animal here?
What should we do with it?  If it's good to eat, how should we cook it?
Or can we trade to some other world, like your planet Mizzer, which
seems to set a value on horses?"

"Thank you, sir " said Casher O'Neill.

"But, uncle," said Genevieve.

"Keep quiet, my darling, and let the young man speak," said the
Dictator.

" all I was going to ask, is," said Casher O'Neill, "what's a green
ruby good for?  I didn't even know they came green."

"That, young man, is a Pontoppidan specialty.  We have a geology based
on ultra-heavy chemistry.  This planet was once a fragment from a giant
planet which imploded.  The use is simple.

With a green ruby you can make a laser beam which will boil away your
city of Kaheer in a single sweep.  We don't have weapons here and we
don't believe in them, so I won't give you a weapon.  You'll have to
travel further to find a ship and to get the apparatus for mounting
your green ruby.  If I give it to you.

But you will be one more step along in your fight with Colonel
Wedder."

"Thank you, thank you, most honorable sir!"  cried Casher O'Neill.

"But uncle," said Genevieve, "you shouldn't have picked those two
things because I know the answers."

"You know all about him," said the Hereditary Dictator, "by some means
of your own?"

Genevieve flushed under her lilac-hued foundation cream.

"I

know enough for us to know."

"How do you know it, my darling?"

"I just know," said Genevieve.

Her uncle made no comment, but he smiled widely and indulgently as if
he had heard that particular phrase before.

She stamped her foot.

"And I know about the horse, too.  All about it."

"Have you seen it?"

"No."

"Have you talked to it?"

"Horses don't talk, uncle."

"Most under people do," he said.

"This isn't an under person uncle.  It's a plain unmodified Old Earth
animal.  It never did talk."

"Then what do you know, my honey?"  The uncle was affectionate, but
there was the crackle of impatience under his voice.

"I taped it.  The whole thing.  The story of the horse of Pontoppidan.
And I've edited it, too.  I was going to show it to you this morning,
but your staff sent that young man in."

Casher O'Neill looked his apologies at Genevieve.

She did not notice him.  Her eyes were on her uncle.

"Since you've done this much, we might as well see it."  He turned to
the attendants.

"Bring chairs.  And drinks.  You know mine.  The young lady will take
tea with lemon.  Real tea.  Will you have coffee, young man?"

"You have coffee!"  cried Casher O'Neill.  As soon as he said it, he
felt like a fool.  Pontoppidan was a rich planet.  On most worlds'
exchanges, coffee came out to about two man-years per kilo.  Here half
tracks crunched their way through gems as they went to load up the
frequent trading vessels.

The chairs were put in place.  The drinks arrived.  The Hereditary
Dictator had been momentarily lost in a brown study, as though he were
wondering about his promise to Casher O'Neill.

He had even murmured to the young man,

"Our bargain stands?

Never mind what my niece says."  Casher had nodded vigorously.

The old man had gone back to frowning at the servants and did not relax
until a tiger-man bounded into the room, carrying a tray with acrobatic
precision.  The chairs were already in place.

The uncle held his niece's chair for her as a command that she sit
down.  He nodded Casher O'Neill into a chair on the other side of
himself.

He commanded,

"Dim the lights..."

The room plunged into semi-darkness.

Without being told, the people took their places immediately behind the
three main seats and the under people perched or sat on benches and
tables behind them.  Very little was spoken.  Casher O'Neill could
sense that Pontoppidan was a well-run place.  He began to wonder if the
Hereditary Dictator had much real work left to do, if he could fuss
that much over a single horse.  Perhaps all he did was boss his niece
and watch the robots load truckloads of gems into sacks while the under
people weighed them, listed them, and wrote out the bills for the
customers.

II

There was no screen; this was a good machine.

The planet Pontoppidan came into view, its airless brightness giving
strong hints of the mineral riches which might be found.

Here and there enormous domes, such as the one in which this palace was
located, came into view.

Genevieve's own voice, girlish, impulsive, and yet didactic, rang out
with the story of her planet.  It was as though she had prepared the
picture not only for her own uncle but for off-world visitors as well.
By Joan, that's it!  thought Casher O'Neill.  If they don't raise much
food here, outside of the hydroponics, and don't have any real People
Places, they have to trade: that does mean visitors and many, many of
them.

The story was interesting, but the girl herself was more interesting.
Her face shone in the shifting light which the images a meter, perhaps
a little more, from the floor reflected across the room.  Casher
O'Neill thought that he had never before seen a woman who so peculiarly
combined intelligence and charm.  She was girl, girl, girl, all the way
through; but she was also very smart and pleased with being smart.  It
betokened a happy life.  He found himself glancing covertly at her.
Once he caught her glancing, equally covertly, at him.  The darkness of
the scene enabled them both to pass it off as an accident without
embarrassment.

Her view tape had come to the story of the dipsies, enormous canyons
which lay like deep gashes on the surface of the planet.

Some of the color views were spectacular beyond belief.  Casher
O'Neill, as the "appointed one" of Mizzer, had had plenty of time to
wander through the non-salacious parts of his uncle's collections, and
he had seen pictures of the most notable worlds.

Never had he seen anything like this.  One view showed a sunset against
a six-kilometer cliff of a material which looked like solid emerald.
The peculiar bright sunshine of Pontoppidan's small, penetrating,
lilac-hued sun ran like living water over the precipice of gems.  Even
the reduced image, one meter by one meter, was enough to make him catch
his breath.

The bottom of the dipsy had vapor emerging in curious cylindrical
columns which seemed to erode as they reached two or three times the
height of a man.  The recorded voice of Genevieve was explaining that
the very thin atmosphere of Pontoppidan would not be breathable for
another 2,520 years, since the settlers did not wish to squander their
resources on a luxury like breathing when the whole planet only had
60,000 inhabitants; they would rather go on with masks and use their
wealth in other ways.  After all, it was not as though they did not
have their domed cities, some of them many kilometers in radius.
Besides the usual hydroponics, they had
of Man even imported 7.2 hectares of garden soil, 5.5 centimeters
deep, together with enough water to make the gardens rich and
fruitful.

They had bought worms, too, at the price of eight carats of diamond per
living worm, in order to keep the soil of the gardens loose and
living.

Genevieve's transcribed voice rang out with pride as she listed these
accomplishments of her people, but a note of sadness came in which she
returned to the subject of the dipsies.  "... and though we would like
to live in them and develop their atmospheres, we dare not.  There is
too much escape of radioactivity.  The geysers themselves may or may
not be contaminated from one hour to the next.  So we just look at
them.  Not one of them has ever been settled, except for the Hippy
Dipsy, where the horse came from.  Watch this next picture."

The camera sheered up, up, up from the surface of the planet.

Where it had wandered among mountains of diamonds and valleys of tour
malines it now took to the blue-black of near, inner space.  One of the
canyons showed (from high altitude) the grotesque pattern of a human
woman's hips and legs, though what might have been the upper body was
lost in a confusion of broken hills which ended in a bright
almost-iridescent plain to the North.

"That," said the real Genevieve, overriding her own voice on the
screen, "is the Hippy Dipsy.  There, see the blue?  That's the only
lake on all of Pontoppidan.  And here we drop to the hermit's house."

Casher O'Neill almost felt vertigo as the camera plummeted from
off-planet into the depths of that immense canyon.  The edges of the
canyon almost seemed to move like lips with the plunge, opening and
folding inward to swallow him up.

Suddenly they were beside a beautiful little lake.

A small hut stood beside the shore.

In the doorway there sat a man, dead.

His body had been there a long time; it was already mummified.

Genevieve's recorded voice explained the matter: ". . . in Norstrilian
law and custom, they told him that his time had come.

They told him to go to the Dying House, since he was no longer fit to
live.  In Old North Australia, they are so rich that they let everyone
live as long as he wants, unless the old person can't take rejuvenation
any more, even with stroon, and unless he or she gets to be a real pest
to the living.  If that happens, they are invited to go to the Dying
House, where they shriek and pant with delirious joy for weeks or days
until they finally die of an overload of sheer happiness and
excitement.  . . ."  There was a hesitation, even in the recording.

"We never knew why this man refused.  He stood off-planet and said that
he had seen views of the Hippy Dipsy.  He said it was the most
beautiful place on all the worlds, and that he wanted to build a cabin
there,
to live alone, except for his non-human friend.  We thought it was
some small pet.  When we told him that the Hippy Dipsy was very
dangerous, he said that this did not matter in the least to him, since
he was old and dying anyhow.  Then he offered to pay us twelve times
our planetary income if we would lease him twelve hectares on the
condition of absolute privacy.  No pictures, no scanners, no help, no
visitors.  Just solitude and scenery.  His name was Perino.  My
great-grandfather asked for nothing more, except the written transfer
of credit.  When he paid it, Perino even asked that he be left alone
after he was dead.  Not even a vault rocket so that he could either
orbit Pontoppidan forever or start a very slow journey to nowhere, the
way so many people like it.  So this is our first picture of him.  We
took it when the light went off in the People Room and one of the
tiger-men told us that he was sure a human consciousness had come to an
end in the Hippy Dipsy.

"And we never even thought of the pet.  After all, we had never made a
picture of him.  This is the way he arrived from Perino's shack."

A robot was shown in a control room, calling excitedly in the old
Common Tongue.

"People, people!  Judgment needed!  Moving object coming out of the
Hippy Dipsy.  Object has improper shape.  Not a correct object.  Should
not rise.  Does so anyhow.  People, tell me, people, tell me!  Destroy
or not destroy?  This is an improper object.  It should fall, not rise.
Coming out of the Hippy Dipsy."

A firm click shut off the robot's chatter.  A well-shaped woman took
over.  From the nature of her work and the lithe, smooth tread with
which she walked, Casher O'Neill suspected that she was of cat origin,
but there was nothing in her dress or in her manner to show that she
was under people

The woman in the picture lighted a screen.

She moved her hands in the air in front of her, like a blind person
feeling his way through open day.

The picture on the inner screen came to resolution.

A face showed in it.

What a face!  thought Casher O'Neill, and he heard the other people
around him in the viewing room.

The horse!

Imagine a face like that of a newborn cat, thought Casher.

Mizzer is full of cats.  But imagine the face with a huge mouth, with
big yellow teeth a nose long beyond imagination.  Imagine eyes which
look friendly.  In the picture they were rolling back and forth with
exertion, but even there when they did not feel observed there was
nothing hostile about the set of the eyes.

They were tame, companionable eyes.  Two ridiculous ears stood high,
and a little tuft of golden hair showed on the crest of the head
between the ears.

of Man The viewed scene was comical, too.  The cat-woman was as
astonished as the viewers.  It was lucky that she had touched the
emergency switch, so that she not only saw the horse, but had recorded
herself and her own actions while bringing him into view.

Genevieve whispered across the chest of the Hereditary Dictator: "Later
we found he was a palomino pony.  That's a very special kind of horse.
And Perino had made him immortal, or almost immortal."

"Sh-h!"  said her uncle.

The screen-within-the-screen showed the cat-woman waving her hands in
the air some more.  The view broadened.

The horse had four hands and no legs, or four legs and no hands,
whichever way you want to count them.

The horse was fighting his way up a narrow cleft of rubies which led
out of the Hippy Dipsy.  He panted heavily.  The oxygen bottles on his
sides swung wildly as he clambered.  He must have seen something,
perhaps the image of the cat-woman, because he said a word:
Whay-yay-yay-yay-whay-yay!

The cat-woman in the nearer picture spoke very distinctly: "Give your
name, age, species, and authority for being on this planet."  She spoke
clearly and with the utmost possible authority.

The horse obviously heard her.  His ears tipped forward.  But his reply
was the same as before: Whay-yay-yay!

Casher O'Neill realized that he had followed the mood of the picture
and had seen the horse the way that the people on Pontoppidan would
have seen him.  On second thought, the horse was nothing special, by
the standards of the Twelve Niles or the Little Horse Market in the
city of Kaheer.  It was an old pony stallion, no longer fit for
breeding and probably not for riding either.  The hair had whitened
among the gold; the teeth were worn.  The animal showed many injuries
and burns.  Its only use was to be killed, cut up, and fed to the
racing dogs.  But he said nothing to the people around him.  They were
still spellbound by the picture.

The cat-woman repeated: "Your name isn't Whayayay.  Identify yourself
properly; name first."

The horse answered her with the same word in a higher key.

Apparently forgetting that she had recorded herself as well as the
emergency screen, the cat-woman said,

"I'll call real people if you don't answer!  They'll be annoyed at
being bothered."

The horse rolled his eyes at her and said nothing.

The cat-woman pressed an emergency button on the side of the room.  One
could not see the other communication screen which lighted up, but her
end of the conversation was plain.

"I want an ornithopter.  Big one.  Emergency."

A mumble from the side screen.

"To go to the Hippy Dipsy.  There's an under person there, and he's in
so much trouble that he won't talk."  From the screen beside her, the
horse seemed to have understood the sense of the message, if not the
words, because he repeated: Whay-yay-whay-yay-yay!

"See," said the cat-woman to the person in the other screen, "that's
what he's doing.  It's obviously an emergency."

The voice from the other screen came through, tinny and remote by
double recording: "Fool, yourself, cat-woman!  Nobody can fly an
ornithopter into a dipsy.  Tell your silly friend to go back to the
floor of the dipsy and we'll pick him up by space rocket."

Whay-yay-yay!  said the horse impatiently.

"He's not my friend," said the cat-woman with brisk annoyance.

"I just discovered him a couple of minutes ago.  He's asking for help.
Any idiot can see that, even if we don't know his language."

The picture snapped off.

The next scene showed tiny human figures working with searchlights at
the top of an immeasurably high cliff.  Here and there, the beam of the
searchlight caught the cliff face; the translucent faceted material of
the cliff looked almost like rows of eerie windows, their lights
snapping on and off, as the searchlight moved.

Far down there was a red glow.  Fire came from inside the mountain.

Even with telescopic lenses the cameraman could not get the close-up of
the glow.  On one side there was the figure of the horse, his four arms
stretched at impossible angles as he held himself firm in the crevasse;
on the other side of the fire there were the even tinier figures of
men, laboring to fit some sort of sling to reach the horse.

For some odd reason having to do with the techniques of recording, the
voices came through very plainly, even the heavy, tired breathing of
the old horse.  Now and then he uttered one of the special horse-words
which seemed to be the limit of his vocabulary.  He was obviously
watching the men, and was firmly persuaded of their friendliness to
him.  His large, tame, yellow eyes rolled wildly in the light of the
searchlight and every time the horse looked down, he seemed to
shudder.

Casher O'Neill found this entirely understandable.  The bottom of the
Hippy Dipsy was nowhere in sight; the horse, even with nothing more
than the enlarged fingernails of his middle fingers to help him climb,
had managed to get about four of the six kilometers' height of the
cliff face behind him.

of Man The voice of a tiger-man sounded clearly from among the shift
of men, under people and robots who were struggling on the face of the
cliff.

"It's a gamble, but not much of a gamble.  I weigh six hundred kilos
myself, and, do you know, I don't think I've ever had to use my full
strength since I was a kitten.  I know that I can jump across the fire
and help that thing be more comfortable.  I can even tie a rope around
him so that he won't slip and fall after all the work we've done.  And
the work he's done, too," added the tiger-man grimly.

"Perhaps I can just take him in my arms and jump back with him.  It
will be perfectly safe if you have a safety rope around each of us.
After all, I never saw a less prehensile creature in my life.  You
can't call those fingers of his 'fingers."

They look like little boxes of bone, designed for running around and
not much good for anything else."

There was a murmur of other voices and then the command of the
supervisor.

"Go ahead."

No one was prepared for what happened next.

The cameraman got the tiger-man right in the middle of his frame,
showing the attachment of one rope around the tiger-man's broad waist.
The tiger-man was a modified type whom the authorities had not bothered
to put into human cosmetic form.  He still had his ears on top of his
head, yellow and black fur over his face, huge incisors overlapping his
lower jaw, and enormous antenna-like whiskers sticking out from his
moustache.  He must have been thoroughly modified inside, however,
because his temperament was calm, friendly, and even a little humorous;
he must have had a carefully re-done mouth, because the utterance of
human speech came to him clearly and without distortion.

He jumped a mighty jump, right through the top edges of the flame.

The horse saw him.

The horse jumped too, almost in the same moment, also through the top
of the flame, going the other way.

The horse had feared the tiger-man more than he did the cliff.

The horse landed right in the group of workers.  He tried not to hurt
them with his flailing limbs, but he did knock one man a true man, at
that off the cliff.  The man's scream faded as he crashed into the
impenetrable darkness below.

The robots were quick.  Having no emotions except on, off, and high,
they did not get excited.  They had the horse trussed and, before the
true men and under people had ensured their footing, they had signaled
the crane operator at the top of the cliff.  The horse, his four arms
swinging limply, disappeared upward.

The tiger-man jumped back through the flames to the nearer ledge.  The
picture went off.

In the viewing room, the Hereditary Dictator Philip Vincent stood up.
He stretched, looking around.

Genevieve looked at Casher O'Neill expectantly.

"That's the story," said the Dictator mildly.

"Now you solve it."

"Where is the horse now?"  said Casher O'Neill.

"In the hospital, of course.  My niece can take you to see him."

III

After a short, painful, and very thorough peeping of his own mind by
the Hereditary Dictator, Casher O'Neill and Genevieve set off for the
hospital in which the horse was being kept in bed.

The people of Pontoppidan had not known what else to do with him, so
they had placed him under strong sedation and were trying to feed him
with sugar-water compounds going directly into his veins.  Genevieve
told Casher that the horse was wasting away.

They walked to the hospital over amethyst pebbles.

Instead of wearing his spacesuit, Casher wore a surface helmet which
enriched his oxygen.  His hosts had not counted on his getting spells
of uncontrollable itching from the sharply reduced atmospheric
pressure.  He did not dare mention the matter, because he was still
hoping to get the green ruby as a weapon in his private war for the
liberation of the Twelve Niles from the rule of Colonel Wedder.
Whenever the itching became less than excruciating, he enjoyed the walk
and the company of the slight, beautiful girl who accompanied him
across the fields of jewels to the hospital.  (In later years, he
sometimes wondered what might have happened.  Was the itching a part of
his destiny, which saved him for the freedom of the city of Kaheer and
the planet Mizzer?  Might not the innocent brilliant loveliness of the
girl have otherwise tempted him to forswear his duty and stay forever
on Pontoppidan?) The girl wore a new kind of cosmetic for outdoor
walking a warm peach-hued powder which let the natural pink of her
cheeks show through.  Her eyes, he saw, were a living, deep gray; her
eyelashes, long; her smile, innocently provocative beyond all ordinary
belief.  It was a wonder that the Hereditary Dictator had not had to
stop duels and murders between young men vying for her favor.

They finally reached the hospital, just as Casher O'Neill thought he
could stand it no longer and would have to ask Genevieve for some kind
of help or carriage to get indoors and away from the frightful
itching.

The building was underground.

The entrance was sumptuous.  Diamonds and rubies, the size of
building-bricks on Mizzer, had been set to frame the doorway, which was
apparently enameled steel.  Kuraf at his most lavish had never wasted
money on anything like this door-frame.  Genevieve saw his glance.

"It did cost a lot of credits.  We had to bring a blind artist all the
way from Olympia to paint that enamel-work.  The poor man.

He spent most of his time trying to steal extra gem-stones when he
should have known that we pay justly and never allowed anyone to get
away with stealing."

"What do you do?"  asked Casher O'Neill.

"We cut thieves up in space, just at the edge of the atmosphere.  We
have more manned boats in orbit than any other planet I know of.  Maybe
Old North Australia has more, but, then, nobody ever gets close enough
to Old North Australia to come back alive and tell."

They went on into the hospital.

A respectful chief surgeon insisted on keeping them in the office and
entertaining them with tea and confectionery, when they both wanted to
go see the horse; common politeness prohibited their pushing through.
Finally they got past the ceremony and into the room in which the horse
was kept.

Close up, they could see how much he had suffered.  There were cuts and
abrasions over almost all of his body.  One of his hooves the doctor
told them that was the correct name, hoof, for the big middle
fingernail on which he walked was split; the doctor had put a
cadmium-silver bar through it.  The horse lifted his head when they
entered, but he saw that they were just more people, not horsey people,
so he put his head down, very patiently.

"What's the prospect, doctor?"  asked Casher O'Neill, turning away from
the animal.

"Could I ask you, sir, a foolish question first?"

Surprised, Casher could only say yes.

"You're an O'Neill.  Your uncle is Kuraf.  How do you happen to be
called

"Casher'?"

"That's simple," laughed Casher.

"This is my young-man name On Mizzer, everybody gets a baby name, which
nobody uses.  Then he gets a nickname.  Then he gets a young-man-name,
based on some characteristic or some friendly joke, until he picks out
his career.  When he enters his profession, he picks out his own career
name.  If I liberate Mizzer and overthrow Colonel Wedder, I'll have to
think up a suitable career name for myself."

"But why

"Casher," sir?"  persisted the doctor.

"When I was a little boy and people asked me what I wanted, I always
asked for cash.  I guess that contrasted with my uncle's wastefulness,
so they called me Casher."

"But what is cash?  One of your crops?"

It was Casher's time to look amazed.

"Cash is money.  Paper credits.  People pass them back and forth when
they buy things."

"Here on Pontoppidan, all the money belongs to me.  All of it,"

said Genevieve.

"My uncle is trustee for me.  But I have never been allowed to touch it
or to spend it.  It's all just planet business."

The doctor blinked respectfully.

"Now this horse, sir, if you will pardon my asking about your name, is
a very strange case.

Physiologically he is a pure Earth type.  He is suited only for a
vegetable diet, but otherwise he is a very close relative of man.

He has a single stomach and a very large cone-shaped heart.

That's where the trouble is.  The heart is in bad condition.  He is
dying."

"Dying?"  cried Genevieve.

"That's the sad, horrible part," said the doctor.

"He is dying but he cannot die.  He could go on like this for many
years.  Perino wasted enough stroon on this animal to make a planet
immortal.

Now the animal is worn out but cannot die."

Casher O'Neill let out a long, low, ululating whistle.

Everybody in the room jumped.  He disregarded them.  It was the whistle
he had used near the stables, back among the Twelve Niles, when he
wanted to call a horse.

The horse knew it.  The large head lifted.  The eyes rolled at him so
imploringly that he expected tears to fall from them, even though he
was pretty sure that horses could not lachrymate.

He squatted on the floor, close to the horse's head, with a hand on its
mane.

"Quick," he murmured to the surgeon.

"Get me a piece of sugar and an under person-tele path The under
person-tele path must not be of carnivorous origin."

The doctor looked stupid.  He snapped

"Sugar" at an assistant, but he squatted down next to Casher O'Neill
and said,

"You will have to repeat that about an under person This is not an
under person hospital at all.  We have very few of them here.  The
horse is here only by command of His Excellency Philip Vincent, who
said that the horse of Perino should be given the best of all possible
care.  He even told me," said the doctor, "that if anything wrong
happened to this horse, I would ride patrol for it for the next eighty
years.  So I'll do what I can.  Do you find me too talkative?  Some
people do. What kind of an under person do you want?"

"I need," said Casher, very calmly, "a telepathic under person both to
find out what this horse wants and to tell the horse that I am here to
help him.  Horses are vegetarians and they do not like meat-eaters.  Do
you have a vegetarian under person around the hospital?"

"We used to have some squirrel-men," said the chief surgeon, "but
when we changed the air circulating system the squirrel-men went away
with the old equipment.  I think they went to a mine.  We have
tiger-men, cat-men, and my secretary is a wolf."

"Oh, no!"  said Casher O'Neill.

"Can you imagine a sick horse confiding in a wolf?"

"It's no more than you are doing," said the surgeon, very softly,
glancing up to see if Genevieve were in hearing range, and apparently
judging that she was not.

"The Hereditary Dictators here sometimes cut suspicious guests to
pieces on their way off the planet.  That is, unless the guests are
licensed, regular traders.

You are not.  You might be a spy, planning to rob us.  How do I know? I
wouldn't give a diamond chip for your chances of being alive next week.
 What do you want to do about the horse?  That might please the
Dictator.  And you might live."

Casher O'Neill was so staggered by the confidence of the surgeon that
he squatted there thinking about himself, not about the patient.  The
horse licked him, seemingly sensing that he needed solace.

The surgeon had an idea.

"Horses and dogs used to go together, didn't they, back in the old days
of Manhome, when all the people lived on planet Earth?"

"Of course," said Casher.

"We still run them together in hunts on Mizzer, but under these new
laws of the Instrumentality we've run out of under people-criminals to
hunt."

"I have a good dog," said the chief surgeon.

"She talks pretty well, but she is so sympathetic that she upsets the
patients by loving them too much.  I have her down in the second under
basement tending the dish-sterilizing machinery."

"Bring her up," said Casher in a whisper.

He remembered that he did not need to whisper about this, so he stood
up and spoke to Genevieve: "They have found a good dog-tele path who
may reach through to the mind of the horse.  It may give us the
answer."

She put her hand on his forearm gently, with the approbatory gesture of
a princess.  Her fingers dug into his flesh.  Was she wishing him well
against her uncle's habitual treachery, or was this merely the impulse
of a kind young girl who knew nothing of the way the world was run?

IV

The interview went extremely well.

The dog-woman was almost perfectly humani form She looked like a tired,
cheerful, worn-out old woman, not valuable enough to be given
the life-prolonging santa clara drug called stroon.  Work had been her
life and she had had plenty of it.  Casher O'Neill felt a twinge of
envy when he realized that happiness goes by the petty chances of life
and not by the large destiny.  This dog-woman, with her haggard face
and her stringy gray hair, had more love, happiness, and sympathy than
Kuraf had found with his pleasures, Colonel Wedder with his powers, or
himself with his crusade.  Why did life do that?  Was there no justice,
ever?  Why should a worn-out worthless old under woman be happy when he
was not?

"Never mind," she said, "you'll get over it and then you will be
happy."

"Over what?"  he said.

"I didn't say anything."

"I'm not going to say it," she retorted, meaning that she was
telepathic.

"You're a prisoner of yourself.  Some day you will escape to un
importance and happiness.  You're a good man.  You're trying to save
yourself, but you really like this horse."

"Of course I do," said Casher O'Neill.

"He's a brave old horse, climbing out of that hell to get back to
people."

When he said the word hell her eyes widened, but she said nothing.  In
his mind, he saw the sign of a fish scrawled on a dark wall and he felt
her think at him, So you too know something of the "dark wonderful
knowledge " which is not yet to be revealed to all mankind?

He thought a cross back at her and then turned his thinking to the
horse, lest their telepathy be monitored and strange punishments await
them both.

She spoke in words,

"Shall we link?"

"Link," he said.

Genevieve stepped up.  Her clear-cut, pretty, sensitive face was alight
with excitement.

"Could I could I be cut in?"

"Why not?"  said the dog-woman, glancing at him.  He nodded.

The three of them linked hands and then the dog-woman put her left hand
on the forehead of the old horse.

The sand splashed beneath their feet as they ran toward Kaheer.  The
delicious pressure of a man's body was on their backs.  The red sky of
Mizzer gleamed over them.  There came the shout: "I'm a horse, I'm a
horse, I'm a horse!"

"You're from Mizzer," thought Casher O'Neill, "from Kaheer itself!"

"I don't know names," thought the horse, "but you're from my land.  The
land, the good land."

"What are you doing here?"

"Dying," thought the horse.

"Dying for hundreds and thousands of sundowns.  The old one brought me.
No riding, no running, no people.  Just the old one and the small
ground.  I have been dying since I came here."

of Man Casher O'Neill got a glimpse of Perino sitting and watching the
horse, unconscious of the cruelty and loneliness which he had inflicted
on his large pet by making it immortal and then giving it no work to
do.

"Do you know what dying is?"

Thought the horse promptly: "Certainly.  No-horse."

"Do you know what life is?"

"Yes.  Being a horse."

"I'm not a horse," thought Casher O'Neill, "but I am alive."

"Don't complicate things," thought the horse at him, though Casher
realized it was his own mind and not the horse's which supplied the
words.

"Do you want to die?"

"To no-horse?  Yes, if this room, forever, is the end of things."

"What would you like better?"  thought Genevieve, and her thoughts were
like a cascade of newly-minted silver coins falling into all their
minds: brilliant, clean, bright, innocent.

The answer was quick: "Dirt beneath my hooves, and wet air again, and a
man on my back."

The dog-woman interrupted: "Dear horse, you know me?"

"You're a dog," thought the horse.

"Goo-oo-oo-ood dog!"

"Right," thought the happy old slattern, "and I can tell these people
how to take care of you.  Sleep now, and when you waken you will be on
the way to happiness."

She thought the command sleep so powerfully at the old horse that
Casher O'Neill and Genevieve both started to fall unconscious and had
to be caught by the hospital attendants.

As they re-gathered their wits, she was finishing her commands to the
surgeon.  " and put about 40% supplementary oxygen into the air.  He'll
have to have a real person to ride him, but some of your orbiting
sentries would rather ride a horse up there than do nothing.  You can't
repair the heart.  Don't try it.

Hypnosis will take care of the sand of Mizzer.  Just load his mind with
one or two of the drama-cubes packed full of desert adventure.  Now,
don't you worry about me.  I'm not going to give you any more
suggestions.  People-man, you!"  She laughed.

"You can forgive us dogs anything, except for being right.  It makes
you feel inferior for a few minutes.  Never mind.  I'm going back
downstairs to my dishes.  I love them, I really do.  Good-bye, you
pretty thing,"

she said to Genevieve.

"And good-bye, wanderer!  Good luck to you," she said to Casher
O'Neill.

"You will remain miserable as long as you seek justice, but when you
give up, righteousness will come to you and you will be happy.  Don't
worry.  You're young and it won't hurt you to suffer a few more years.
Youth is an extremely curable disease, isn't it?"

She gave them a full curtsy, like one Lady of the Instrumentality
saying
good-bye to another.  Her wrinkled old face was lit up with smiles, in
which happiness was mixed with a tiniest bit of playful mockery.

"Don't mind me, boss," she said to the surgeon.

"Dishes, here I come."  She swept out of the room.

"See what I mean?"  said the surgeon.

"She's so horribly happy\ How can anyone run a hospital if a dishwasher
gets all over the place, making people happy?  We'd be out of jobs. Her
ideas were good, though."

They were.  They worked.  Down to the last letter of the dog woman
instructions.

There was argument from the council.  Casher O'Neill went along to see
them in session.

One councillor, Bashnack, was particularly vociferous in objecting to
any action concerning the horse.

"Sire," he cried, "sire!  We don't even know the name of the animal!  I
must protest this action, when we don't know " "That we don't,"
assented Philip Vincent.

"But what does a name have to do with it?"

"The horse has no identity, not even the identity of an animal.

It is just a pile of meat left over from the estate of Perino.  We
should kill the horse and eat the meat ourselves.  Or, if we do not
want to eat the meat, then we should sell it off-planet.  There are
plenty of peoples around here who would pay a pretty price for genuine
Earth meat.  Pay no attention to me, sire!  You are the Hereditary
Dictator and I am nothing.  I have no power, no property, nothing.  I
am at your mercy.  All I can tell you is to follow your own best
interests.  I have only a voice.  You cannot reproach me for using my
voice when I am trying to help you, sire, can you?  That's all I am
doing, helping you.  If you spend any credits at all on this animal you
will be doing wrong, wrong, wrong.  We are not a rich planet.  We have
to pay for expensive defenses just in order to stay alive.  We cannot
even afford to pay for air that our children can go out and play.  And
you want to spend money on a horse which cannot even talk!  I tell you,
sire, this council is going to vote against you, just to protect your
own interests and the interests of the Honorable Genevieve as Eventual
Title-holder of all Pontoppidan.  You are not going to get away with
this, sire!  We are helpless before your power, but we will insist on
advising you " "Hear!  Hear!"  cried several of the councillors, not
the least dismayed by the slight frown of the Hereditary Dictator.

"I will take the word," said Philip Vincent himself.

Several had had their hands raised, asking for the floor.  One
obstinate man kept his hand up even when the Dictator announced his
intention to speak.  Philip Vincent took note of him, too:
"You can talk when I am through, if you want to."

He looked calmly around the room, smiled imperceptibly at his niece,
gave Casher O'Neill the briefest of nods, and then announced:
"Gentlemen, it's not the horse which is on trial.  It's Pontoppidan.
It's we who are trying ourselves.  And before whom are we trying
ourselves, gentlemen?  Each of us is before that most awful of courts,
his own conscience.

"If we kill that horse, gentlemen, we will not be doing the horse a
great wrong.  He is an old animal, and I do not think that he will mind
dying very much, now that he is away from the ordeal of loneliness
which he feared more than death.  After all, he has already had his
great triumph the climb up the cliff of gems, the jump across the
volcanic vent, the rescue by people whom he wanted to find.  The horse
has done so well that he is really beyond us.  We can help him, a
little, or we can hurt him, a little; beside the immensity of his
accomplishment, we cannot really do very much either way.

"No, gentlemen, we are not judging the case of the horse.  We are
judging space.  What happens to a man when he moves out into the Big
Nothing?  Do we leave Old Earth behind?  Why did civilization fall?
Will it fall again?  Is civilization a gun or a blaster or a laser or a
rocket?  Is it even a plano forming ship or a pin lighter at his work?
You know as well as I do, gentlemen, that civilization is not what we
can do.  If it had been, there would have been no fall of Ancient Man.
Even in the Dark Ages they had a few fusion bombs, they could make some
small guided missiles, and they even had weapons like the Kaskaskas
Effect, which we have never been able to rediscover.  The Dark Ages
weren't dark because people lost techniques or science.  They were dark
because people lost people.  It's a lot of work to be human, and it's
work which must be kept up, or it begins to fade.

Gentlemen, the horse judges us.

"Take the word, gentlemen.

"Civilization' is itself a lady's word.  There were female writers in a
country called France who made that word popular in the third century
before space travel.

To be 'civilized' meant for people to be tame, to be kind, to be
polished.  If we kill this horse, we are wild.  If we treat the horse
gently, we are tame.  Gentlemen, I have only one witness and that
witness will utter only one word.  Then you shall vote and vote
freely."

There was a murmur around the table at this announcement.

Philip Vincent obviously enjoyed the excitement he had created.

He let them murmur on for a full minute or two before he slapped the
table gently and said,

"Gentlemen, the witness.  Are you ready?"

There was a murmur of assent.  Bashnack tried to say

"It's still a question of public funds!"  but his neighbors shushed
him.  The table became quiet.  All faces turned toward the Hereditary
Dictator.

"Gentlemen, the testimony.  Genevieve, is that what you yourself told
me to say?  Is civilization always a woman's choice first, and only
later a man's?"

"Yes," said Genevieve, with a happy, open smile.

The meeting broke up amid laughter and applause.

V

A month later Casher O'Neill sat in a room in a medium-size plano
forming liner.  They were out of reach of Pontoppidan.  The Hereditary
Dictator had not changed his mind and cut him down with green beams. 
Casher had strange memories, not bad ones for a young man.

He remembered Genevieve weeping in the garden.

"I'm romantic," she cried, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his
cape.

"Legally I'm the owner of this planet, rich, powerful, free.  But I
can't leave here.  I'm too important.  I can't marry whom I want to
marry.  I'm too important.  My uncle can't do what he wants to do he's
Hereditary Dictator and he always must do what the Council decides
after weeks of chatter.  I can't love you.

You're a prince and a wanderer, with travels and battles and justice
and strange things ahead of you.  I can't go.  I'm too important.  I'm
too sweet!  I'm too nice; I hate, hate, hate myself sometimes.  Please,
Casher, could you take a flier and run away with me into space."

"Your uncle's lasers could cut us to pieces before we got out."

He held her hands and looked gently down into her face.  At this moment
he did not feel the fierce, aggressive, happy glow which an able young
man feels in the presence of a beautiful and tender young woman.  He
felt something much stranger, softer, quieter an emotion very sweet to
the mind and restful to the nerves.  It was the simple, clear
compassion of one person for another.  He took a chance for her sake,
because the "dark knowledge" was wonderful but very dangerous in the
wrong hands.

He took both her beautiful little hands in his, so that she looked up
at him and realized that he was not going to kiss her.

Something about his stance made her realize that she was being offered
a more precious gift than a sky-lit romantic kiss in a garden. Besides,
it was just touching helmets.

He said to her, with passion and kindness in his voice: "You remember
that dog-woman, the one who works with the dishes in the hospital?"

"Of course.  She was good and bright and happy, and helped us all."

"Go work with her, now and then.  Ask her nothing.  Tell her nothing.

Just work with her at her machines.  Tell her I said so.  Happiness is
catching.  You might catch it.  I think I did myself, a little."

"I think I understand you," said Genevieve softly.

"Casher, good-bye and good, good luck to you.  My uncle expects us."

Together they went back into the palace.

Another memory was the farewell to Philip Vincent, the Hereditary
Dictator of Pontoppidan.  The calm, clean-shaven, ruddy, well-fleshed
face looked at him with benign regard.  Casher O'Neill felt more
respect for this man when he realized that ruthlessness is often the
price of peace, and vigilance the price of wealth.

"You're a clever young man.  A very clever young man.  You may win back
the power of your Uncle Kuraf."

"I don't want that power!"  cried Casher O'Neill.

"I have advice for you," said the Hereditary Dictator, "and it is good
advice or I would not be here to give it.  I have learned the political
arts well: otherwise I would not be alive.  Do not refuse power.  Just
take it and use it wisely.  Do not hide from your wicked uncle's name.
Obliterate it.  Take the name yourself and rule so well that, in a few
decades, no one will remember your uncle.  Just you.  You are young.
You can't win now.  But it is in your fate to grow and to triumph.  I
know it.  I am good at these things.  I have given you your weapon.  I
am not tricking you.  It is packed safely and you may leave with it."

Casher O'Neill was breathing softly, believing it all, and trying to
think of words to thank the stout, powerful older man when the dictator
added, with a little laugh in his voice: "Thank you, too, for saving me
money.  You've lived up to your name, Casher."

"Saved you money?"

"The alfalfa.  The horse wanted alfalfa."

"Oh, that idea!"  said Casher O'Neill.

"It was obvious.  I don't deserve much credit for that."

"I didn't think of it," said the Hereditary Dictator, "and my staff
didn't either.  We're not stupid.  That shows you are bright.

You realized that Perino must have had a food converter to keep the
horse alive in the Hippy Dipsy.  All we did was set it to alfalfa and
we saved ourselves the cost of a shipload of horse food twice a year.
We're glad to save that credit.  We're well off here, but we don't like
to waste things.  You may bow to me now, and leave."

Casher O'Neill had done so, with one last glance at the lovely
Genevieve, standing fragile and beautiful beside her uncle's chair.

His last memory was very recent.

He had paid two hundred thousand credits for it, right on this liner.
He had found the Stop-Captain, bored now that the ship was in flight
and the Go-Captain had taken over.

"Can you get me a telepathic fix on a horse?"

"What's a horse?"  said the Stop-Captain.

"Where is it?  Do you want to pay for it?"

"A horse," said Casher O'Neill patiently, "is an unmodified earth
animal.  Not under people A big one, but quite intelligent.

This one is in orbit right around Pontoppidan.  And I will pay the
usual price."

"A million Earth credits," said the Stop-Captain.

"Ridiculous!"  cried Casher O'Neill.

They settled on two hundred thousand credits for a good fix and ten
thousand for the use of the ship's equipment even if there were
failure.  It was not a failure.  The technician was a snake man he was
deft, cool, and superb at his job.  In only a few minutes he passed the
headset to Casher O'Neill, saying politely, "This is it, I think."

It was.  He had reached right into the horse's mind.

The endless sands of Mizzer swam before Casher O'Neill.  The long lines
of the Twelve Niles converged in the distance.  He galloped steadily
and powerfully.  There were other horses nearby, other riders, other
things, but he himself was conscious only of the beat of the hooves
against the strong moist sand, the firmness of the appreciative rider
upon his back.  Dimly, as in a hallucination, Casher O'Neill could also
see the little orbital ship in which the old horse cantered in mid-air,
with an amused cadet sitting on his back.  Up there, with no weight,
the old worn-out heart would be good for many, many years.  Then he saw
the horse's paradise again.  The flash of hooves threatened to overtake
him, but he outran them all.  There was the expectation of a stable at
the end, a rubdown, good succulent green food, and the glimpse of a
filly in the morning.

The horse of Pontoppidan felt extremely wise.  He had trusted people
people, the source of all kindness, all cruelty, all power among the
stars.  And the people had been good.  The horse felt very much horse
again.  Casher felt the old body course along the river's edge like a
dream of power, like a completion of service, like an ultimate
fulfillment of companionship.

 On the Storm Planet "At two seventy-five in the morning," said the
Administrator to Casher O'Neill, "you will kill this girl with a knife.
At two seventy-seven, a fast ground car will pick you up and bring you
back here.  Then the power cruiser will be yours.  Is that a deal?"

He held out his hand as if he wanted Casher O'Neill to shake it then
and there, making some kind of an oath or bargain.

Casher did not want to slight the man, so he picked up his glass and
said,

"Let's drink to the deal, first!"

The Administrator's quick, restless, darting eyes looked Casher up and
down very suspiciously.  The warm sea-wet air blew through the room.
The Administrator seemed wary, suspicious, alert, but underneath his
slight hostility there was another emotion, of which Casher could
perceive just the edge.

Fatigue with its roots in bottomless despair: despair set deep in
irrecoverable fatigue?

That other emotion, which Casher could barely discern, was very strange
indeed.  On all his voyages back and forth through the inhabited
worlds, Casher had met many odd types of men and women.  He had never
seen anything like this Administrator before brilliant, erratic,
boastful.  His title was

"Mr.

Commissioner" and he was an ex-Lord of the Instrumentality on this
planet of Henriada, where the population had dropped from six hundred
million persons down to some forty thousand.  Indeed, local government
had disappeared into limbo, and this odd man, with the title of

"Administrator," was the only law and civil authority which the planet
knew.

Nevertheless, he had a surplus power cruiser and Casher O'Neill was
determined to get that cruiser as a part of his long plot to return to
his home planet of Mizzer and to unseat the usurper, Colonel Wedder.

The Administrator stared sharply, wearily at Casher and then he, too,
lifted his glass.  The green twilight colored his liquor and made it
seem like some strange poison.  It was only Earth-byegarr, though a
little on the strong side.

With a sip, only a sip, the older man relaxed a little.

"You may be out to trick me, young man.  You may think that I am an old
fool running an abandoned planet.  You may even be thinking that
killing this girl is some kind of a crime.  It is not a crime at all. I
am the Administrator of Henriada and I have ordered that girl killed
every year for the last eighty years.  She isn't even a girl, to start
with.  Just an under person Some kind of an animal turned into a
domestic servant.  I can even appoint you a deputy sheriff.

Or chief of detectives.  That might be better.  I haven't had a chief
of detectives for a hundred years and more.  You are my chief of
detectives.  Go in tomorrow.  The house is not hard to find.  It's the
biggest and best house left on this planet.  Go in tomorrow morning.
Ask for her master and be sure that you use the correct title,

"Mister and Owner Murray Madigan."  The robots will tell you to keep
out.  If you persist, she will come to the door.  That's when you will
stab her through the heart, right there in the doorway.  My ground car
will race up one metric minute later.  You jump in and come back here.
We've been through this before.

Why don't you agree?  Don't you know who I am?"

"I know perfectly well" Casher O'Neill smiled "who you are, Mr.
Commissioner and Administrator.  You are the honorable Rankin
Meiklejohn, once of Earth Two.  After all, the Instrumentality itself
gave me a permit to land on this planet on private business.  They knew
who I was, too, and what I wanted.

There's something funny about all this.  Why should you give me a power
cruiser the best ship, you yourself say, in your whole fleet just for
killing one modified animal which looks and talks like a girl?  Why me?
Why the visitor?  Why the man from off world Why should you care
whether this particular under person is killed or not?  If you've given
the order for her death eighty times in eighty years, why hasn't it
been carried out long ago?

Mind you, Mr.  Administrator, I'm not saying no.  I want that cruiser.
I want it very much indeed.  But what's the deal?  What's the trick? Is
it the house you want?"

"Beauregard?  No, I don't want Beauregard.  Old Madigan can rot in it
for all that I care.  It's between Ambiloxi and Mottile, on the Gulf of
Esperanza.  You can't miss it.  The road is good.  You could drive
yourself there."

"What is it, then?"  Casher's voice had an edge of persistence to it.

The Administrator's response was singular indeed.  He filled his huge
inhaler-glass with the potent byegarr.  He stared over the full glass
at Casher O'Neill as if he were an enemy.  He drained the glass. Casher
knew that that much liquor, taken suddenly, could kill the normal human
being.

The Administrator did not fall over dead.

He did not even become noticeably more drunk.

His face turned red and his eyes almost popped out, as the harsh
160-proof liquor took effect, but he still did not say anything.  He
just stared at Casher.  Casher, who had learned in his long exile to
play many games, just stared back.

The Administrator broke first.

He leaned forward and burst into a bird-like shriek of laughter.  The
laughter went on and on until it seemed that the man had hogged all the
merriment in the galaxy.  Casher snorted a little laugh along with the
man, more out of nervous reflex than anything else, but he waited for
the Administrator to stop laughing.

The Administrator finally got control of himself.  With a broad grin
and a wink at Casher, he poured himself four fingers more of the
byegarr into his glass, drank it down as if he had had a sip of cream,
and then only very slightly unsteady stood up, came over, and patted
Casher on the shoulder.

"You're a smart boy, my lad.  I'm cheating you.  I don't care whether
the power cruiser is there or not.  I'm giving you something which has
no value at all to me.  Who's ever going to take a power cruiser off
this planet?  It's ruined.  It's abandoned.

And so am I. Go ahead.  You can have the cruiser.  For nothing.

Just take it.  Free.  Unconditionally."

This time it was Casher who leaped to his feet and stared down into the
face of the feverish, wanton little man.

"Thank you, Mr.  Administrator!"  he cried, trying to catch the hand of
the Administrator so as to seal the deal.

Rankin Meiklejohn looked awfully sober for a man with that much liquor
in him.  He held his right hand behind his back and would not shake.

"You can have the cruiser all right.  No terms.  No conditions.

No deal.  It's yours.  But kill that girl first!  Just as a favor to
me.

I've been a good host.  I like you.  I want to do you a favor.  Do me
one.  Kill that girl.  At two seventy-five in the morning.

Tomorrow."

"Why?"  asked Casher, his voice loud and cold, trying to wring some
sense out of the chattering man.

"Just just just because I say so...."  stammered the Administrator.

"Why?"  asked Casher, cold and loud again.

The liquor suddenly took over inside the Administrator.  He groped back
for the arm of his chair, sat down suddenly, and then looked up at
Casher.  He was very drunk indeed.  The strange emotion, the elusive
fatigue-despair, had vanished from his face.

He spoke straightforwardly.  Only the excessive care of his
articulation would have shown a passer-by that he was drunk.

"Because, you fool," said Meiklejohn, "those people, more than eighty
in eighty years, that I have sent to Beauregard with orders to kill the
girl.  Those people " he repeated, and stopped speaking, clamping his
lips together.

"What happened to them?"  asked Casher calmly and persuasively.

The Administrator grinned again and seemed to be on the edge of one of
his wild laughs.

"What happened?"  shouted Casher at him.

"I don't know," said the Administrator.

"For the life of me, I don't know.  Not one of them ever came back."

"What happened to them?  Did she kill them?"  cried Casher.

"How would I know?"  said the drunken man, getting visibly more
sleepy.

"Why didn't you report it?"

This seemed to rouse the Administrator.

"Report that one little girl had stopped me, the planetary
Administrator?  Just one little girl, and not even a human being!  They
would have sent help, and laughed at me.  By the Bell, young man, I've
been laughed at enough!  I need no help from outside.  You're going in
there tomorrow morning.  At two seventy-five, with a knife.  And a
ground car waiting."

He stared fixedly at Casher and then suddenly fell asleep in his chair.
Casher called to the robots to show him to his room; they tended to the
master as well.

II

The next morning at two seventy-five sharp, nothing happened.  Casher
walked down the baroque corridor, looking into beautiful barren rooms.
All the doors were open.

Through one door he heard a sick, deep bubbling snore.

It was the Administrator, sure enough.  He lay twisted on his bed.  A
small nursing machine was beside him, her white enameled body only
slightly rusty.  She held up a mechanical hand for silence and somehow
managed to make the gesture seem light, delicate, and pretty, even from
a machine.

Casher walked lightly back to his own room, where he ordered hotcakes,
bacon, and coffee.  He studied a tornado through the armored glass of
his window, while the robots prepared his food.  The elastic trees
clung to the earth with a fury which matched the fury of the wind.  The
trunk of the tornado reached like the nose of a mad elephant down into
the gardens, but the flora fought back.  A few animals whipped upward
and out of sight.  The tornado then came straight for the house, but
did not damage it outside of making a lot of noise.

"We have two or three hundred of those a day," said a butler robot.

"That is why we store all space-craft underground and have no weather
machines.  It would cost more, the people said, to make this planet
livable than the planet could possibly yield.  The radio and news are
in the library, sir.  I do not think that the honorable Rankin
Meiklejohn will wake until evening, say seven-fifty or eight
o'clock."

"Can I go out?"

"Why not, sir?  You are a true man.  You can do what you wish."

"I mean, is it safe for me to go out?"

"Oh, no, sir!  The wind would tear you apart or carry you away."

"Don't people ever go out?"

"Yes, sir.  With ground cars or with automatic body armor.  I have been
told that if it weighs fifty tons or better, the person inside is safe.
I would not know, sir.  As you see, I am a robot.  I was made here,
though my brain was formed on Earth Two, and I have never been outside
this house."

Casher looked at the robot.  This one seemed unusually talkative.  He
chanced the opportunity of getting some more information.

"Have you ever heard of Beauregard?"

"Yes, sir.  It is the best house on this planet.  I have heard people
say that it is the most solid building on Henriada.  It belongs to the
Mister and Owner Murray Madigan.  He is an Old North Australian, a
renunciant who left his home planet and came here when Henriada was a
busy world.  He brought all his wealth with him.  The under people and
robots say that it is a wonderful place on the inside."

"Have you seen it?"

"Oh, no, sir, I have never left this building."

"Does the man Madigan ever come here?"

The robot seemed to be trying to laugh, but did not succeed.

He answered, very unevenly,

"Oh, no, sir.  He never goes anywhere."

"Can you tell me anything about the female who lives with him?"

"No, sir," said the robot.

"Do you know anything about her?"

"Sir, it is not that.  I know a great deal about her."

"Why can't you talk about her, then?"

"I have been commanded not to, sir."

"I am," said Casher O'Neill, "a true human being.  I herewith
countermand those orders.  Tell me about her."

The robot's voice became formal and cold.

"The orders cannot be countermanded, sir."

"Why not?"  snapped Casher.

"Are they the Administrator's?"

"No, sir."

"Whose, then?"

"Hers," said the robot softly, and left the room.

III

Casher O'Neill spent the rest of the day trying to get information; he
obtained very little.

The Deputy Administrator was a young man who hated his chief.

When Casher, who dined with him the two of them having a poorly-cooked
state luncheon in a dining room which would have seated five hundred
people tried to come to the point by asking bluntly,

"What do you know about Murray Madigan?"  he got an answer which was
blunt to the point of incivility.

"Nothing."

"You never heard of him?"  cried Casher.

"Keep your troubles to yourself, mister visitor," said the Deputy
Administrator.

"I've got to stay on this planet long enough to get promoted off.  You
can leave.  You shouldn't have come."

"I have," said Casher, "an all-world pass from the Instrumentality."

"All right," said the young man, "that shows that you are more
important than I am.  Let's not discuss the matter.  Do you like your
lunch?"

Casher had learned diplomacy in his childhood, when he was the heir
apparent to the Dictatorship of Mizzer.  When his horrible uncle,
Kuraf, lost the ruler ship Casher had approved of the coup by the
Colonels Wedder and Gibna; but now Wedder was supreme and enforcing a
period of terror and virtue.  Casher thus knew courts and ceremony, big
talk and small talk, and on this occasion, he let the small talk do.
The young Deputy Administrator had only one ambition, to get off the
planet Henriada and never to see or hear of Rankin Meiklejohn again.

Casher could understand the point.

Only one curious thing happened during dinner.

Toward the end, Casher slipped in the question, very informally: "Can
under people give orders to robots?"

"Of course," said the young man.

"That's one of the reasons we use under people They have more
initiative.  They amplify our orders to robots on many occasions."

Casher smiled.

"I didn't mean it quite that way.  Could an under person give an order
to a robot which a real human being could not then countermand?"

The young man started to answer, even though his mouth was full of
food.  He was not a very polished young man.  Suddenly he stopped
chewing and his eyes grew wide.  Then, with his mouth half full, he
said: "You are trying to talk about this planet, I guess.

You can't help it.  You're on the track.  Stay on the track, then.

Maybe you will get out of it alive.  I refuse to get mixed up with it,
with you, with him and his hateful schemes.  All I want to do is to
leave when my time comes."

The young man resumed chewing, his eyes fixed steadfastly on his
plate.

Before Casher could pass off the matter by making some casual remark,
the butler-robot stopped behind him and leaned over.

"Honorable sir, I heard your question.  May I answer it?"

"Of course," said Casher, softly.

"The answer, sir," said the butler-robot, softly but clearly, "to your
question is no, no, never.  That is the general rule of the civilized
worlds.  But on this planet of Henriada, sir, the answer is yes."

"Why?"  asked Casher.

"It is my duty, sir," said the robot butler, "to recommend to you this
dish of fresh artichokes.  I am not authorized to deal with other
matters."

"Thank you," said Casher, straining a little to keep himself looking
imperturbable.

Nothing much happened that night, except that Meiklejohn got up long
enough to get drunk all over again.  Though he invited Casher to come
and drink with him, he never seriously discussed the girl except for
one outburst.

"Leave it till tomorrow.  Fair and square.  Open and aboveboard.  Frank
and honest.  That's me.  I'll take you around Beauregard myself. You'll
see it's easy.  A knife, eh?  A traveled young man like you would know
what to do with a knife.  And a little girl, too.  Not very big.  Easy
job.  Don't give it another thought.  Would you like some apple juice
in your byegarr?"

Casher had taken three contra intoxicant pills before going to drink
with the ex-Lord, but even at that, he could not keep up with
Meiklejohn.  He accepted the dilution of apple juice gravely,
gracefully, and gratefully.

The little tornadoes stamped around the house.  Meiklejohn, now
launched into some drunken story of ancient injustices which had been
done to him on other worlds, paid no attention to them.  In the middle
of the night, past nine-fifty in the evening, Casher woke alone in his
chair, very stiff and uncomfortable.  The robots must have had standing
instructions concerning the Administrator, and had apparently taken him
off to bed.  Casher walked wearily to his own room, cursed the
thundering ceiling, and went to sleep again.

IV

The next day was very different indeed.

The Administrator was as sober, brisk, and charming as if he had never
taken a drink in his life.

He had the robots call Casher to join him at breakfast and said, by way
of greeting,

"I'll wager you thought I was drunk last night."

"Well.  . .," said Casher.

"Planet fever.  That's what it was.  Planet fever.  A bit of alcohol
keeps it from developing too far.  Let's see.  It's three-sixty now.

Could you be ready to leave by four?"

Casher frowned at his watch, which had the conventional twenty-four
hours.

The Administrator saw the glance and apologized.

"Sorry!  My fault, a thousand times.  I'll get you a metric watch right
away.  Ten hours a day, a hundred minutes an hour.  We're very
progressive here on Henriada."

He clapped his hands and ordered that a watch be taken to Casher's
room, along with the watch-repairing robot to adjust it to Casher's
body rhythms.

"Four, then," he said, rising briskly from the table.

"Dress for a trip by ground car The servants will show you how."

There was a man already waiting in Casher's room.  He looked like a
plump, wise ancient Hindu, as shown in the archaeology books.  He bowed
pleasantly and said,

"My name is Gosigo.  I am a for getty settled on this planet, but for
this day I am your guide and driver from this place to the mansion of
Beauregard."

Forgetties were barely above under people in status.  They were persons
convicted of various major crimes, to whom the courts of the worlds, or
the Instrumentality, had allowed total amnesia instead of death or some
punishment worse than death, such as the planet Shayol.

Casher looked at him seriously.  The man did not carry with him the
permanent air of bewilderment which Casher had noticed in many forget
ties Gosigo saw the glance and interpreted it.

"I'm well enough, now, sir.  And I am strong enough to break your back
if I had the orders to do it."

"You mean, damage my spine?  What a hostile, unpleasant thing to do!"
said Casher.

"Anyhow, I rather think I could kill you first if you tried it.
Whatever gave you such an idea?"

"The Administrator is always threatening people that he will have me do
it to them."

"Have you ever really broken anybody's back?"  asked Casher, looking
Gosigo over very carefully and re-judging him.  The man, though shorter
than Casher, was luxuriously muscled; like many plump men, he looked
pleasant on the outside but could be very formidable to an enemy.

Gosigo smiled briefly, almost happily.

"Well, no, not exactly."

"Why haven't you?  Does the Administrator always countermand his own
orders?  I should think that he would sometimes be too drunk to
remember to do it?"

"It's not that..  .," said Gosigo.

"Why don't you, then?"

"I have other orders," said Gosigo, rather hesitantly.

"Like the orders I have today.  One set from the Administrator, one set
from the Deputy Administrator, and a third set from an outside
source."

"Who's the outside source?"

"She has told me not to explain just yet."

Casher stood stock still.

"Do you mean who I think you mean?"

Gosigo nodded very slowly, pointing at the ventilator as though it
might have a microphone in it.

"Can you tell me what your orders are?"

"Oh, certainly.  The Administrator has told me to drive both himself
and you to Beauregard, to take you to the door, to watch you stab the
under girl and to call the second ground car to your rescue.  The
Deputy Administrator has told me to take you to Beauregard and to let
you do as you please, bringing you back here by way of Ambiloxi if you
happen to come out of Mister Murray's house alive."

"And the other orders?"

"To close the door upon you when you enter and to think of you no more
in this life, because you will be very happy."

"Are you crazy?"  cried Casher.

"I am a for getty said Gosigo, with some dignity, "but I am not
insane."

"Whose orders are you going to obey, then?"

Gosigo smiled a warmly human smile at him.

"Doesn't that depend on you, sir, and not on me?  Do I look like a man
who is going to kill you soon?"

"No, you don't," said Casher.

"Do you think what you look like to me?"  went on Gosigo, with a
purr.

"Do you really think that I would help you if I thought that you would
kill a small girl?"

"You know it!"  cried Casher, feeling his face go white.

"Who doesn't?"  said Gosigo.

"What else have we got to talk about, here on Henriada?  Let me help
you on with these clothes, so that you will at least survive the ride."
With this he handed shoulder padding and padded helmet to Casher, who
began to put on the garments, very clumsily.

Gosigo helped him.

When Casher was fully dressed, he thought that he had never dressed
this elaborately for space itself.  The world of Henriada must be a
tumultuous place if people needed this kind of clothing to make a short
trip.

Gosigo had put on the same kind of clothes.

He looked at Casher in a friendly manner, with an arch smile which came
close to humor.

"Look at me, honorable visitor.  Do I remind you of anybody?"

Casher looked honestly and carefully, and then said,

"No, you don't."

The man's face fell.

"It's a game," he said.

"I can't help trying to find out who I really am.  Am I a Lord of the
Instrumentality who has betrayed his trust?  Am I a scientist who
twisted knowledge into unimaginable wrong?  Am I a dictator so foul
that even the Instrumentality, which usually leaves things alone, had
to step in and wipe me out?  Here I am, healthy, wise, alert.  I have
the name Gosigo on this planet.

Perhaps I am a mere native of this planet, who has committed a local
crime.  I am triggered.  If anyone ever did tell me my true name or my
actual past, I have been conditioned to shriek loud, fall unconscious,
and forget anything which might be said on such an occasion.  People
told me that I must have chosen this instead of death.  Maybe.  Death
sometimes looks tidy to a for getty

"Have you ever screamed and fainted?"

"I don't even know that," said Gosigo, "no more than you know where you
are going this very day."

Casher was tied to the man's mystifications, so he did not let himself
be provoked into a useless show of curiosity.

Inquisitive about the for getty himself, he asked: "Does it hurt...
does it hurt to be a for getty

"No," said Gosigo, "it doesn't hurt, no more than you will."

Gosigo stared suddenly at Casher.  His voice changed tone and became at
least one octave higher.  He clapped his hands to his face and panted
through his hands as if he would never speak again.

"But Oh!  The fear the eerie, dreary fear of being me .  . .

!"

He still stared at Casher.

Quieting down at last, he pulled his hands away from his face, as if by
sheer force, and said in an almost-normal voice, "Shall we get on with
our trip?"

Gosigo led the way out into the bare bleak corridor.  A perceptible
wind was blowing through it, though there was no sign of an open window
or door.  They followed a majestic staircase, with steps so broad that
Casher had to keep changing pace on them, all the way down to the
bottom of the building.

This must, at some time, have been a formal reception hall.

Now it was full of cars.

Curious cars.

Land vehicles of a kind which Casher had never seen before.  They
looked a little bit like the ancient "fighting tanks" which he had seen
in pictures.  They also looked a little like submarines ofasingularly
short and ugly shape.  They had high spiked wheels, but their most
complicated feature was a set of giant corkscrews, four on each side,
attached to the car by intricate yet operational apparatus.  Since
Casher had been landed right into the palace by plano form he had never
had occasion to go outside among the tornadoes of Henriada.

The Administrator was waiting, wearing a coverall on which was
stenciled his insignia of rank.

Casher gave him a polite bow.  He glanced down at the handsome metric
wristwatch which Gosigo had strapped on his wrist, outside the
coverall.  It read: 3:95.

Casher bowed to Rankin Meiklejohn and said,

"I'm ready, sir, if you are."

"Watch him!"  whispered Gosigo, half a step behind Casher.

The Administrator said,

"Might as well be going."  The man's voice trembled.

Casher stood polite, alert, immobile.  Was this danger?  Was this
foolishness?  Could the Administrator already be drunk again?

Casher watched the Administrator carefully but quietly, waiting for the
older man to precede him into the nearest ground car which had its door
standing opened.

Nothing happened, except that the Administrator began to turn pale.

There must have been six or eight people present.  The others must have
seen the same sort of thing before, because they showed no sign of
curiosity or bewilderment.  The Administrator began to tremble.  Casher
could see it, even through the bulk of the travel wear The man's hands
shook.

The Administrator said, in a high nervous voice: "Your knife.

You have it with you?"

Casher nodded.

"Let me see it," said the Administrator.

Casher reached down to his boot and brought out the beautiful,
sit-perbly-balanced knife.  Before he could stand erect, he felt the
clamp of Gosigo's heavy fingers on his shoulder.

"Master," said Gosigo to Meiklejohn, "tell your visitor to put his
weapon away.  It is not allowed for any of us to show weapons in your
presence."

Casher tried to squirm out of the heavy grip without losing his balance
or his dignity.  He found that Gosigo was knowledgeable about karate
too.  The for getty held ground, even when the two men waged an
immobile, invisible sort of wrestling match, the leverage of Casher's
shoulder working its way hither and yon against the strong grip of
Gosigo's powerful hand.

The Administrator ended it.  He said,

"Put away your knife...."

in that high funny voice of his.

The watch had almost reached 4:00, but no one had yet gotten into the
car.

Gosigo spoke again, and when he did there was a contemptuous laugh from
the Deputy Administrator, who had stood by in ordinary indoor
clothes.

of Man "Master, isn't it time for 'one for the road'?"

"Of course, of course," chattered the Administrator.  He began
breathing almost normally again.

"Join me," he said to Casher.

"It's a local custom."

Casher had let his knife slip back into his boot sheath When the knife
dropped out of sight, Gosigo released his shoulder; he now stood facing
the Administrator and rubbed his bruised shoulder.  He said nothing,
but shook his head gently, showing that he did not want a drink.

One of the robots brought the Administrator a glass, which appeared to
contain at least a liter and a half of water.  The Administrator said,
very politely,

"Sure you won't share it?"

This close, Casher could smell the reek of it.  It was pure byegarr,
and at least 160-proof.  He shook his head again, firmly but also
politely.

The Administrator lifted the glass.

Casher could see the muscles of the man's throat work as the liquid
went down.  He could hear the man breathing heavily between swallows.
The clear liquid went lower and lower in the gigantic glass.

At last it was all gone.

The Administrator cocked his head sidewise and said to Casher in a
parrot-like voice,

"Well, toodle-oo!"

"What do you mean, sir?"  asked Casher.

The Administrator had a pleasant glow on his face.  Casher was
surprised that the man was not dead after that big and sudden a
drink.

"I just mean, g'bye.  I'm not feeling well."

With that he fell straight forward, as stiff as a rock tower.  One of
the servants, perhaps another for getty caught him before he hit the
ground.

"Does he always do this?"  asked Casher of the miserable and
contemptuous Deputy Administrator.

"Oh, no," said the Deputy.

"Only at times like these."

"What do you mean, 'like these'?"

"When he sends one more armed man against the girl at Beauregard.  They
never come back.  You won't come back, either.

You could have left earlier, but you can't now.  Go along and try to
kill the girl.  I'll see you here about 5:25 if you succeed.  As a
matter of fact, if you come back at all, I'll try to wake him up.  But
you won't come back.  Good luck.  I suppose that's what you need.

Good luck."

Casher shook hands with the man without removing his gloves.  Gosigo
had already climbed into the driver's seat of the machine and was
testing the electric engines.  The big corkscrews began to plunge down,
but before they touched the floor, Gosigo had reversed them and thrown
them back into the "up" position.

The people in the room ran for cover as Casher entered the machine,
though there was no immediate danger in sight.  Two of the human
servants dragged the Administrator up the stairs, the Deputy
Administrator following them rapidly.

"Seat belt," said Gosigo.

Casher found it and snapped it closed.

"Head belt," said Gosigo.

Casher stared at him.  He had never heard of a head belt.

"Pull it down from the roof, sir.  Put the net under your chin."

Casher glanced up.

There was a net fitted snug against the roof of the vehicle, just above
his head.  He started to pull it down, but it did not yield.

Angrily, he pulled harder, and it moved slowly downward.  By the Bell
and Bank, do they want to hang me in this!  he thought to himself as he
dragged the net down.  There was a strong fibre belt attached to each
end of the net, while the net itself was only fifteen to twenty
centimeters wide.  He ended up in a foolish position, holding the head
belt with both hands lest it snap back into the ceiling and not knowing
what to do with it.  Gosigo leaned over and, half-impatiently, helped
him adjust the web under his chin.  It pinched for a moment and Casher
felt as though his head were being dragged by a heavy weight.

"Don't fight it," said Gosigo.

"Relax."

Casher did.  His head was lifted several centimeters into a foam
pocket, which he had not previously noticed, in the back of the seat.
After a second or two, he realized that the position was odd but
comfortable.

Gosigo had adjusted his own head belt and had turned on the lights of
the vehicle.  They blazed so bright that Casher almost thought they
might be a laser, capable of charring the inner doors of the big
room.

The lights must have keyed the door.

V

Two panels slid open and a wild uproar of wind and vegetation rushed
in.  It was rough and stormy but far below hurricane velocity.

The machine rolled forward clumsily and was out of the house and on the
road very quickly.

The sky was brown, bright luminous brown, shot through with streaks of
yellow.  Casher had never seen a sky of that color on any other world
he had visited, and in his long exile he had seen many planets.

Gosigo, staring straight ahead, was preoccupied with keeping the
vehicle right in the middle of the black, soft, tarry road.

"Watch it!"  said a voice speaking right into his head.

It was Gosigo, using an intercom which must have been built into the
helmets.

Casher watched, though there was nothing to see except for the rush of
mad wind.  Suddenly the ground car turned dark, spun upside down, and
was violently shaken.  An oily, pungent stench of pure fetor
immediately drenched the whole car.

Gosigo pulled out a panel with a console of buttons.  Light and fire,
intolerably bright, burned in on them through the windshield and the
portholes on the side.

The battle was over before it began.

The ground car lay in a sort of swamp.  The road was visible thirty or
thirty-five meters away.

There was a grinding sound inside the machine and the ground car
righted itself.  A singular sucking noise followed, then the grinding
sound stopped.  Casher could glimpse the big corkscrews on the side of
the car eating their way into the ground.

At last the machine was steady, pelted only by branches, leaves, and
what seemed like kelp.

A small tornado was passing over them.

Gosigo took time to twist his head sidewise and to talk to Casher.

"An air-whale swallowed us and I had to burn our way out."

"A what?"  cried Casher.

"An air-whale," repeated Gosigo calmly on the intercom.

"There are no indigenous forms of life on this planet, but the imported
Earth forms have changed wildly since we brought them in.  The
tornadoes lifted the whales around enough so that some of them got
adapted to flying.  They were the meat-eating kind, so they like to
crack our ground cars open and eat the goodies inside.

We're safe enough from them for the time being, provided we can make it
back to the road.  There are a few wild men who live in the wind, but
they would not become dangerous to us unless we found ourselves really
helpless.  Pretty soon I can unscrew us from the ground and try to get
back on the road.  It's not really too far from here to Ambiloxi."

The trip to the road was a long one, even though they could see the
road itself all the time that they tried various approaches.

The first time, the ground car tipped ominously forward.  Red lights
showed on the panel and buzzers buzzed.  The great spiked wheels spun
in vain as they chewed their way into a bottomless quagmire.

Gosigo, calling back to his passenger, cried,

"Hold steady!

We're going to have to shoot ourselves out of this one backward!"

Casher did not know how he could be any steadier, belted, hooded, and
strapped as he was, but he clutched the arms of his seat.

The world went red with fire as the front of the car spat flame in
rocket-like quantities.  The swamp ahead of them boiled into steam, so
that they could see nothing.  Gosigo changed the windshield over from
visual to radar, and even with radar there was not much to be seen
nothing but a gray swirl of formless wraiths, and the weird lurching
sensation as the machine fought its way back to solid ground.  The
console suddenly showed green and Gosigo cut the controls.  They were
back where they had been, with the repulsive burnt entrails of the
air-whale scattered among the coral trees.

"Try again," said Gosigo, as though Casher had something to do with the
matter.

He fiddled with the controls and the ground car rose several feet.  The
spikes on the wheels had been hydraulically extended until they were
each at least 150 centimeters long.  In sensation, the car felt like a
large enclosed bicycle as it teetered on its big wheels.  The wind was
strong and capricious but there was no tornado in sight.

"Here we go," said Gosigo redundantly.  The ground car pressed forward
in a mad rush, hastening obliquely through the vegetation and making
for the highway on Casher's right.

A bone-jarring crash told them that they had not made it.  For a moment
he was too dizzy to see where they were.

He was glad of his helmet and happy about the web brace which held his
neck.  That crash would have killed him if he had not had full
protection.

Gosigo seemed to think the trip normal.  His classic Hindu features
relaxed in a wise smile as he said,

"Hit a boulder.  Fell on our side.  Try again."

Casher managed to gasp,

"Is the machine unbreakable?"

There was a laugh in Gosigo's voice when he answered, "Almost.  We're
the most vulnerable items in it."

Again fire spat at the ground, this time from the side of the ground
car It balanced itself precariously on the four high wheels.

Gosigo turned on the radar screen to look through the steam which their
own jets had called up.

There the road was, plain and near.

"Try again!"  he shouted, as the machine lunged forward and then
performed a veritable ballet on the surface of the marsh.  It rushed,
slowed, turned around on a hummock, gave itself an assist with the
jets, and then scrambled through the water.

Casher saw the inverted cone of a tornado, half a kilometer or less
away, veering toward them.

Gosigo sensed his unspoken thought, because he answered, "Problem: who
gets to the road first, that or we?"

The machine bucked, lurched, twisted, spun.

Casher could see nothing any more from the wind screen in front, but it
was obvious that Gosigo knew what he was doing.

There was the sickening, stomach-wrenching twist of a big drop and then
a new sound was heard a grinding as of knives.

Gosigo, unworried, took his head out of the head net and looked over at
Casher with a smile.

"The twister will probably hit us in a minute or two, but it doesn't
matter now.  We're on the road and I've bolted us to the surface."

"Bolted?"  gasped Casher.

"You know, those big screws on the outside of the car.  They were made
to go right into the road.  All the roads here are neoasphaltum and
self-repairing.  There will be traces of them here when the last known
person on the last known planet is dead.

These are good roads."  He stopped for the sudden hush.

"Storm's going over us .  . ."

It began again before he could finish his sentence.  Wild raving winds
tore at the machine, which sat so solid that it seemed bedded in
permastone.

Gosigo pushed two buttons and then calibrated a dial.  He squinted at
his instruments and then pressed a button mounted on the edge of his
navigator's seat.  There was a sharp explosion, like a blasting of rock
by chemical methods.

Casher started to speak but Gosigo held out a warning hand for
silence.

He tuned his dials quickly.  The windscreen faded out, radar came on
and then went off, and at last a bright map bright red in background
with sharp gold lines appeared across the whole width of the screen.
There were a dozen or more bright points on the map.  Gosigo watched
these intently.

The map blurred, faded, dissolved into red chaos.

Gosigo pushed another button and then could see out of the front glass
screen again.

"What was that?"  asked Casher.

"Miniaturized radar rocket.  I sent it up twelve kilometers for a look
around.  It transmitted a map of what it saw and I put it on our radar
screen.  The tornadoes are heavier than usual, but I think we can make
it.  Did you notice the top right of the map?"

"The top right?"  asked Casher.

"Yes, the top right.  Did you see what was there?"

"Why, nothing," said Casher.

"Nothing was there."

"You're utterly right," said Gosigo.

"What does that mean to you?"

"I don't understand you," said Casher.

"I suppose it means that there is nothing there."

"Right again.  But let me tell you something.  There never is."

"Never is what?"

"Anything," said Gosigo.

"There never is anything on the maps at that point.  That's east of
Ambiloxi.  That's Beauregard.  It never shows on the maps.  Nothing
happens there."

"No bad weather ever?"  asked Casher.

"Never," said Gosigo.

"Why not?"  asked Casher.

"She will not permit it," said Gosigo firmly, as though his words made
sense.

"You mean, her weather machines work?"  said Casher, grasping for the
only rational explanation possible.

"Yes," said Gosigo.

"Why?"

"She pays for them."

"How can she?"  exclaimed Casher.

"Your whole world of Henriada is bankrupt!"

"Her part isn't."

"Stop mystifying me," said Casher.

"Tell me who she is and what this is all about."

"Put your head in the net," said Gosigo.

"I'm not making puzzles because I want to do so.  I have been commanded
not to talk."

"Because you are a for getty

"What's that got to do with it?  Don't talk to me that way.

Remember, I am not an animal or an under person I may be your servant
for a few hours, but I am a man.  You'll find out, soon enough.  Hold
tight!"

The ground car came to a panic stop, the spiked teeth eating into the
resilient firm neo-asphaltum of the road.  At the instant they stopped,
the outside corkscrews began chewing their way into the ground.  First
Casher felt as though his eyes were popping out, because of the
suddenness of the deceleration; now he felt like holding the arms of
his seat as the tornado reached directly for their car, plucking at it
again and again.  The enormous outside screws held and he could feel
the car straining to meet the gigantic suction of the storm.

"Don't worry," shouted Gosigo over the noise of the storm.

"I

always pin us down a little bit more by firing the quick-rockets
straight up.  These cars don't often go off the road."

Casher tried to relax.

The funnel of the tornado, which seemed almost like a living being,
plucked after them once or twice more and then was gone.

This time, Casher had seen no sign of the air-whales which rode the
storms.  He had seen nothing but rain and wind and desolation.

The tornado was gone in a moment.  Ghostlike shapes trailed after it in
enormous prancing leaps.

"Wind-men," said Gosigo, glancing at them in curiously

"Wild people who have learned to live on Henriada.  They aren't much
more than animals.  We are close to the territory of the lady.  They
would not dare attack us here."

Casher O'Neill was too stunned to query the man or to challenge him.
Once more the car picked itself up and coursed along the smooth,
narrow, winding neo-asphaltum road, almost as though the machine itself
were glad to function and to function well.

VI

Casher could never quite remember when they went from the howling
wildness of Henriada into the stillness and beauty of the domains of
Mister Murray Madigan.  He could recall the feeling but not the
facts.

The town of Ambiloxi eluded him completely.  It was so normal a town,
so old-fashioned a little town that he could not think of it very much.
Old people sat on the wooden boardwalk taking their afternoon look at
the strangers who passed through.

Horses were tethered in a row along the main street, between the parked
machines.  It looked like a peaceful picture from the ancient ages.

Of tornadoes there was no sign, nor of the hurt and ruin which showed
around the house of Rankin Meiklejohn.  There were few under people or
robots about, unless they were so cleverly contrived as to look almost
exactly like real people.

How can you remember something which is pleasant and non memorable Even
the buildings did not show signs of being fortified against the
frightful storms which had brought the prosperous planet of Henriada to
a condition of abandonment and ruin.

Gosigo, who had a remarkable talent for stating the obvious, said
tonelessly,

"The weather machines are working here.  There is no need for special
precaution."

But he did not stop in the town for rest, refreshments, conversation,
or fuel.  He went through deftly and quietly, the gigantic armored
ground car looking out of place among the peaceful and defenseless
vehicles.  He went as though he had been on the same route many times
before, and knew the routine well.

Once beyond Ambiloxi he speeded up, though at a moderate pace, compared
to the frantic elusive action he had taken against storms in the
earlier part of the trip.  The landscape was earth like ... wet ... and
most of the ground was covered with vegetation.

Old radar counter missile towers stood along the road.  Casher could
not imagine their possible use, even though he was sure, from the looks
of
them, that they were long obsolete.

"What's the counter missile radar for?"  he asked, speaking comfortably
now that his head was out of the head net.

Gosigo turned around and gave him a tortured glance in which pain and
bewilderment were mixed.

"Countermissile radar?

Countermissile radar?  I don't know that word, though it seems as
though I should..  . ."

"Radar is what you were using to see with, back in the storm, when the
ceiling and visibility were zero."

Gosigo turned back to his driving, narrowly missing a tree.

"That?  That's just artificial vision.  Why did you use the word
counter missile radar'?  There isn't any of that stuff here except what
we have on our machine, though the mistress may be watching us if her
set is on."

"Those towers," said Casher.

"They look like countermissle towers from the ancient times."

"Towers.  There aren't any towers here," snapped Gosigo.

"Look," cried Casher.

"Here are two more of them."

"No man made those.  They aren't buildings.  It's just air coral.

Some of the coral which people brought from earth mutated and got so it
could live in the air.  People used to plant it for windbreaks, before
they decided to give up Henriada and move out.  They didn't do much
good, but they are pretty to look at."

They rode along a few minutes without asking questions.  Tail trees had
Spanish moss trailing over them.  They were close to a sea.  Small
marshes appeared to the right and left of the road; here, where the
endless tornadoes were kept out, everything had a park-like effect. The
domains of the estate of Beauregard were unlike anything else on
Henriada an area of peaceful wildness in a world which was rushing
otherwise toward uninhabitability and ruin.  Even Gosigo seemed more
relaxed, more cheerful as he steered the ground car along the pleasant
elevated road.

Gosigo sighed, leaned forward, managed the controls, and brought the
car to a stop.

He turned around calmly and looked full-face at Casher O'Neill.

"You have your knife?"

Casher automatically felt for it.  It was there, safe enough in his
boot-sheath.  He simply nodded.

"You have your orders."

"You mean, killing the girl?"

"Yes," said Gosigo, "killing the girl."

"I remember that.  You didn't have to stop the car to tell me that."

"I'm telling you now," said Gosigo, his wise Hindu face showing neither
humor nor outrage.

"Do it."

"You mean, kill her?  Right at first sight?"

of Man "Do it," said Gosigo.

"You have your orders."

"I'm the judge of that," said Casher.

"It will be on my conscience.  Are you watching me for the
Administrator?"

"That drunken fool?"  said Gosigo.

"I don't care about him, except that I am a for getty and I belong to
him.  We're in her territory now.  You are going to do whatever she
wants.  You have orders to kill her.  All right.  Kill her."

"You mean she wants to be murdered?"

"Of course not!"  said Gosigo, with the irritation of an adult who has
to explain too many things to an inquisitive child.

"Then how can I kill her without finding out what this is all about?"

"She knows.  She knows herself.  She knows her master.  She knows this
planet.  She knows me and she knows something about you.  Go ahead and
kill her, since those are your orders.  If she wants to die, that's not
for you or me to decide.  It's her business.

If she does not want to die, you will not succeed."

"I'd like to see the person," said Casher, "who could stop me in a
sudden knife attack.  Have you told her that I am coming?"

"I've told her nothing, but she knows we are coming and she is pretty
sure what you have been sent for.  Don't think about it.

Just do what you are told.  Jump for her with the knife.  She will take
care of the matter."

"But " cried Casher.

"Stop asking questions," said Gosigo.

"Just follow orders and remember that she will take care of you.  Even
you."  He started up the ground car

Within less than a kilometer they had crossed a low ridge of land and
there before them lay Beauregard the mansion at the edge of the waters,
its white pillars shining, its pergolas glistening in the bright air,
its yards and palmettos tidy.

Casher was a brave man, but he felt the palms of his hands go wet when
he realized that in a minute or two he would have to commit a murder.

VII

The ground car swung up the drive.  It stopped.  Without a word, Gosigo
activated the door.  The air smelled calm, sea-wet, salt and yet coolly
fresh.  Casher jumped out and ran to the door.  He was surprised to
feel that his legs trembled as he ran.  He had killed before, real men
in real quarrels.  Why should a mere animal matter to him?  The door
stopped him.  Without thinking, he tried to wrench it open.

The knob did not yield and there was no automatic control in sight.
This was indeed a very antique sort of house.  He struck the door with
his hands.  The thuds sounded around him.  He could not tell whether
they resounded in the house.  No sound or echo came from beyond the
door.

He began rehearsing the phrase,

"I want to see Mister and Owner Madigan.  . . ."

The door did open.

A little girl stood there.

He knew her.  He had always known her.  She was his sweetheart, come
back out of his childhood.  She was the sister he had never had.  She
was his own mother, when young.  She was at the marvelous age,
somewhere between ten and thirteen, where the child as the phrase goes
"becomes an old child and not a raw grown-up."  She was kind, calm,
intelligent, expectant, quiet, inviting, unafraid.  She felt like
someone he had never left behind: yet, at the same moment, he knew he
had never seen her before.

He heard his voice asking for the Mister and Owner Madigan while he
wondered, at the back of his mind, who the girl might be.  Madigan's
daughter?  Neither Rankin Meiklejohn nor the deputy had said anything
about a human family.

The child looked at him levelly.

He must have finished braying his question at her.

"Mister and Owner Madigan," said the child, "sees no one this day, but
you are seeing me."  She looked at him levelly and calmly.  There was
an odd hint of humor, of fearlessness, in her stance.

"Who are you?"  he blurted out.

"I am the housekeeper of this house."

"You?"  he cried, wild alarm beginning in his throat.

"My name," she said, "is Truth."

His knife was in his hand before he knew how it had gotten there.  He
remembered the advice of the Administrator: plunge, plunge, stab, stab,
run!

She saw the knife but her eyes did not waver from his face.

He looked at her uncertainly.

If this was an under person it was the most remarkable one he had ever
seen.  But even Gosigo had told him to do his duty, to stab, to kill
the woman named Truth.  Here she was.  He could not do it.

He spun the knife in the air, caught it by its tip, and held it out to
her, handle first.

"I was sent to kill you," he said, "but I find I cannot do it.  I have
lost a cruiser."

"Kill me if you wish," she said, "because I have no fear of you."

Her calm words were so far outside his experience that he took the
knife in his left hand and lifted his arm as if to stab toward her.

He dropped his arm.

"I cannot do it," he whined.

"What have you done to me?"

"I have done nothing to you.  You do not wish to kill a child and I
look to you like a child.  Besides, I think you love me.  If this is
so, it must be very uncomfortable for you."

Casher heard his knife clatter to the floor as he dropped it.  He had
never dropped it before.

"Who are you," he gasped, "that you should do this to me?"

"I am me," she said, her voice as tranquil and happy as that of any
girl, provided that the girl was caught at a moment of great happiness
and poise.

"I am the housekeeper of this house."  She smiled almost impishly and
added,

"It seems that I must almost be the ruler of this planet as well."  Her
voice turned serious.

"Man,"

she said, "can't you see it, man?  I am an animal, a turtle.  I am
incapable of disobeying the word of man.  When I was little I was
trained and I was given orders.  I shall carry out those orders as long
as I live.  When I look at you, I feel strange.  You look as though you
loved me already, but you do not know what to do.

Wait a moment.  I must let Gosigo go."

The shining knife on the floor of the doorway, she saw; she stepped
over it.

Gosigo had gotten out of the ground car and was giving her a formal,
low bow.

"Tell me," she cried, "what have you just seen?"  There was
friendliness in her call, as though the routine were an old game.

"I saw Casher O'Neill bound up the steps.  You yourself opened the
door.  He thrust his dagger into your throat and the blood spat out in
a big stream, rich and dark and red.  You died in the doorway.  For
some reason Casher O'Neill went on into the house without saying
anything to me.  I became frightened and I fled."

He did not look frightened at all.

"If I am dead," she said, "how can I be talking to you?"

"Don't ask me," cried Gosigo.

"I am just a for getty I always go back to the Honorable Rankin
Meiklejohn, each time that you are murdered, and I tell him the truth
of what I saw.  Then he gives me the medicine and I tell him something
else.  At that point he will get drunk and gloomy again, the way that
he always does."

"It's a pity," said the child.

"I wish I could help him, but I can't.  He won't come to Beauregard."

"Him?"  Gosigo laughed.

"Oh, no, not him!  Never!  He just sends other people to kill you."

"And he's never satisfied," said the child sadly, "no matter how many
times he kills me!"

"Never," said Gosigo cheerfully, climbing back into the ground car

"Bye now."

"Wait a moment," she called.

"Wouldn't you like something to eat or drink before you drive back?
There's a bad clutch of storms on the road."

"Not me," said Gosigo.

"He might punish me and make me a for getty all over again.  Say, maybe
that's already happened.

Maybe I'm a for getty who's been put through it several times, not just
once."  Hope surged into his voice.

"Truth!  Truth!  Can you tell me?"

"Suppose I did tell you," said she.

"What would happen?"

His face became sad.

"I'd have a convulsion and forget what I told you.  Well, good-bye
anyhow.  I'll take a chance on the storms.  If you ever see that Casher
O'Neill again," called Gosigo, looking right through Casher O'Neill,
"tell him I liked him but that we'll never meet again."

"I'll tell him," said the girl gently.  She watched as the heavy brown
man climbed nimbly into the car.  The top crammed shut with no sound.
The wheels turned and in a moment the car had disappeared behind the
palmettoes in the drive.

While she had talked to Gosigo in her clear warm high girlish voice,
Casher had watched her.  He could see the thin shape of her shoulders
under the light blue shift that she wore.  There was the suggestion of
a pair of panties under the dress, so light was the material.  Her hips
had not begun to fill.  When he glanced at her in one-quarter profile,
he could see that her cheek was smooth, her hair well-combed, her
little breasts just beginning to bud on her chest.  Who was this child
who acted like an empress?

She turned back to him and gave him a warm, apologetic smile.

"Gosigo and I always talk over the story together.  Then he goes back
and Meiklejohn does not believe it and spends unhappy months planning
my murder all over again.  I suppose, since I am just an animal, that I
should not call it a 'murder' when somebody tries to kill me, but I
resist, of course.  I do not care about me, but I have orders, strong
orders, to keep my master and his house safe from harm."

"How old are you?"  asked Casher.  He added, " if you can tell the
truth."

"I can tell nothing but the truth.  I am conditioned.  I am nine
hundred and six Earth-years old."

"Nine hundred?"  he cried.

"But you look like a child.  ..."

"I am a child," said the girl, "and not a child.  I am an Earth turtle,
changed into human form by the convenience of man.  My life expectancy
was increased three hundred times when I was modified.  They tell me
that
my normal life span should have been three hundred years.

Now it is ninety thousand years, and sometimes I am afraid.

You will be dead of happy old age, Casher O'Neill, while I am still
opening the drapes in this house to let the sunlight in.  But let's not
stand in the door and talk.  Come on in and get some refreshments.
You're not going anywhere, you know."

Casher followed her into the house but he put his worry into words.

"You mean I am your prisoner."

"Not my prisoner, Casher.  Yours.  How could you cross that ground
which you traveled in the ground car You could get to the ends of my
estate all right, but then the storms would pick you up and whirl you
away to a death which nobody would even see."

She turned into a big old room, bright with light-colored wooden
furniture.

Casher stood there, awkwardly.  He had returned his knife to its
boot-sheath when they left the vestibule.  Now he felt very odd,
sitting with his victim on a sun-porch.

T'ruth was untroubled.  She rang a brass bell which stood on an
old-fashioned round table.  Feminine footsteps clattered in the hall. A
female servant entered the room, dressed in a black dress with a white
apron.  Casher had seen such servants in the old drama cubes, but he
had never expected to meet one in the flesh.

"We'll have high tea," said T'ruth.

"Which do you prefer, tea or coffee, Casher?  Or I have beer and wines.
Even two bottles of whiskey brought all the way from Earth."

"Coffee would be fine for me," said Casher.

"And you know what I want, Eunice," said T'ruth to the servant.

"Yes, ma'am," said the maid, disappearing.

Casher leaned forward.

"That servant is she human?"

"Certainly," said T'ruth.

"Then why is she working for an under person like you?  I mean I don't
mean to be unpleasant or anything but I mean that's against all
laws."

"Not here, on Henriada, it isn't."

"And why not?"  persisted Casher.

"Because, on Henriada.  I am myself the law."

"But the government ?"

"It's gone."

"The Instrumentality?"

T'ruth frowned.  She looked like a wise, puzzled child.

"Maybe you know that part better than I do.  They leave an
Administrator here, probably because they do not have any other place
to put him and because he
needs some kind of work to keep him alive.  Yet they do not give him
enough real power to arrest my master or to kill me.  They ignore me.
It seems to me that if I do not challenge them, they leave me alone."

"But their rules ?"  insisted Casher.

"They don't enforce them, neither here in Beauregard nor over in the
town of Ambiloxi.  They leave it up to me to keep these places going. I
do the best I can."

"That servant, then?  Did they lease her to you?"

"Oh, no," laughed the girl-woman.

"She came to kill me twenty years ago, but she was a for getty and she
had no place else to go, so I trained her as a maid.  She has a
contract with my master, and her wages are paid every month into the
satellite above the planet.  She can leave if she ever wants to.  I
don't think she will."

Casher sighed.

"This is all too hard to believe.  You are a child, but you are almost
a thousand years old.  You're an under person but you command a whole
planet " "Only when I need to!"  she interrupted him.

"You are wiser than most of the people I have ever known and yet you
look young.  How old do you feel?"

"I feel like a child," she said, "a child one thousand years old.

And I have had the education and the memory and the experience of a
wise lady stamped right into my brain."

"Who was the lady?"  asked Casher.

"The Owner and Citizen Agatha Madigan.  The wife of my master.  As she
was dying they transcribed her brain on mine.

That's why I speak so well and know so much."

"But that's illegal!"  cried Casher.

"I suppose it was," said T'ruth, "but my master had it done, anyhow."

Casher leaned forward in his chair.  He looked earnestly at the person.
One part of him still loved her for the wonderful little girl that he
had thought she was, but another part was in awe of a being more
powerful than anyone he had seen before.  She returned his gaze with
that composed half-smile which was wholly feminine and completely
self-possessed; she looked tenderly upon him as their faces were
reflected by the yellow morning light of Henriada.

"I begin to understand," he said, "that you are what you have to be. It
is very strange, here in this forgotten world."

"Henriada is strange," she said, "and I suppose that I must seem
strange to you.  You are right, though, about each of us being what she
has to be.  Isn't that liberty itself?  If we each one must be
something, isn't liberty the business of finding it out and then doing
it that one job, that uttermost mission compatible with our natures?
How terrible it would be, to be something and never know what!"

"Like who?"  said Casher.

"Like Gosigo, perhaps.  He was a great king and he was a good king, on
some faraway world where they still need kings.

But he committed an intolerable mistake and the Instrumentality made
him into a for getty and sent him here."

"So that's the mystery!"  said Casher.

"And what am I?"

She looked at him calmly and steadfastly before she answered.

"You are a killer, too.  It must make your life very hard in many ways.
You keep having to justify yourself."

This was so close to the truth so close to Casher's long worries as to
whether justice might not just be a cover name for "revenge" that it
was his turn to gasp and be silent.

"And I have work for you," added the amazing child.

"Work?  Here?"

"Yes.  Something much worse than killing.  And you must do it, Casher,
if you want to go away from here before I die, eighty-nine thousand
years from now."  She looked around.

"Hush!"  she added.

"Eunice is coming and I do not want to frighten her by letting her know
the terrible things that you are going to have to do."

"Here?"  he whispered urgently.

"Right here, in this house?"

"Right here in this house," she said in a normal voice, as Eunice
entered the room bearing a huge tray covered with plates of food and
two pots of beverage.

Casher stared at the human woman who worked so cheerfully for an
animal; but neither Eunice, who was busy setting things out on the
table, nor T'ruth, who, turtle and woman that she was, could not help
rearranging the dishes with gentle peremptories, paid the least
attention to him.

The words rang in his head.

"In this house .  . . something worse than killing."  They made no
sense.  Neither did it make sense to have high tea before five hours,
decimal time.

He sighed and they both glanced at him, Eunice with amused curiosity,
T'ruth with affectionate concern.

"He's taking it better than most of them do, ma'am," said Eunice.

"Most of them who come here to kill you are very upset when they find
out that they cannot do it."

"He's a killer, Eunice, a real killer, so I think he wasn't too
bothered."

Eunice turned to him very pleasantly and said,

"A killer, sir.  It's a pleasure to have you here.  Most of them are
terrible amateurs and then the lady has to heal them before we can find
something for them to do."

Casher couldn't resist a spot inquiry.

"Are all the other would-be killers still here?"

"Most of them, sir.  The ones that nothing happened to.

Like me.  Where
else would we go?  Back to the Administrator, Rankin Meiklejohn?"  She
said the last with heavy scorn indeed, curtsied to him, bowed deeply to
the woman-girl T'ruth, and left the room.

T'ruth looked friendlily at Casher O'Neill.

"I can tell that you will not digest your food if you sit here waiting
for bad news.

When I said you had to do something worse than killing, I suppose I was
speaking from a woman's point of view.  We have a homicidal maniac in
the house.  He is a house guest and he is covered by Old North
Australian law.  That means we cannot kill him or expel him, though he
is almost as immortal as I am.  I hope that you and I can frighten him
away from molesting my master.

I cannot cure him or love him.  He is too crazy to be reached through
his emotions.  Pure, utter awful fright might do it, and it takes a man
for that job.  If you do this, I will reward you richly."

"And if I don't?"  said Casher.

Again she stared at him as though she were trying to see through his
eyes all the way down to the bottom of his soul; again he felt for her
that tremor of compassion, ever so slightly tinged with male desire,
which he had experienced when he first met her in the doorway of
Beauregard.

Their locked glances broke apart.

T'ruth looked at the floor.

"I cannot lie," she said, as though it were a handicap.

"If you do not help me I shall have to do the things which it is in my
power to do.  The chief thing is nothing.

To let you live here, to let you sleep and eat in this house until you
get bored and ask me for some kind of routine work around the estate. I
could make you work," she went on, looking up at him and blushing all
the way to the top of her bodice, "by having you fall in love with me,
but that would not be kind.  I will not do it that way.  Either you
make a deal with me or you do not.  It's up to you.  Anyhow, let's eat
first.  I've been up since dawn, expecting one more killer.  I even
wondered if you might be the one who would succeed.  That would be
terrible, to leave my master all alone!"

"But you wouldn't you yourself mind being killed?"

"Me?  When I've already lived a thousand years and have eighty-nine
thousand more to go!  It couldn't matter less to me.

Have some coffee."

And she poured his coffee.

VIII

Two or three times Casher tried to get the conversation back to the
work at hand, but T'ruth diverted him with trivialities.  She even made
him walk to the enormous window, where they could see far across the
marshes and the bay.  The sky in the remote distance was dark and full
of worms.

of Man Those were tornadoes, beyond the reach of her weather machines,
which coursed around the rest of Henriada but stopped short at the
boundaries of Ambiloxi and Beauregard.  She made him admire the weird
coral castles which had built themselves up from the bay bottom,
hundreds of feet into the air.  She tried to make him see a family of
wild wind people who were slyly and gently stealing apples from her
orchard, but either his eyes were not used to the landscape or T'ruth
could see much further than he could.

This was a world rich in water.  If it had not been located within a
series of bad pockets of space, the water itself could have become an
export.  Mankind had done the best it could, raising kelp to provide
the iron and phosphorus so often lacking in off-world diets,
controlling the weather at great expense.

Finally the Instrumentality recommended that they give up.  The exports
of Henriada never quite balanced the imports.  The subsidies had gone
far beyond the usual times.  The Earth life had adapted with a vigor
which was much too great.  Ordinary forms rapidly found new shapes,
challenged by the winds, the rains, the novel chemistry, and the odd
radiation patterns of Henriada.

Killer whales became airborne, coral took to the air, human babies lost
in the wind sometimes survived to become subhuman and wild, jellyfish
became sky-sweepers.  The former inhabitants of Henriada had chosen a
planet at a reasonable price not cheap, but reasonable from the owner
who had in turn bought it from a post-Soviet settling cooperative. They
had leased the new planet, had worked out an ecology, had emigrated,
and were now doing well.

Henriada kept the wild weather, the lost hopes, and the ruins.

And of these ruins, the greatest was Murray Madigan.

Once a prime landholder and host, a gentleman among gentlemen, the
richest man on the whole world, Madigan had become old, senile, weak.
He faced death or catalepsis.  The death of his wife made him fear his
own death, and with his turtle-girl T'ruth, he had chosen catalepsis.
Most of the time he was frozen in a trance, his heartbeat
imperceptible, his metabolism very slow.  Then, for a few hours or
days, he was normal.  Sometimes the sleeps were for weeks, sometimes
for years.  The Instrumentality doctors had looked him over more out of
scientific curiosity than from any judicial right and had decided that
though this was an odd way to live, it was a legal one.  They went away
and left him alone.  He had had the whole personality of his dying wife
Agatha Madigan impressed on the turtle-child, though this was illegal;
the doctor had, quite simply, been bribed.

All this was told by T'ruth to Casher as they ate and drank their way
slowly through an immense repast.

An archaic wood fire roared in a real fireplace.

While she talked, Casher watched the gentle movement of her shoulder
blades when she moved forward, the loose movement of her light dress
as she moved, the childish face which was so tender, so appealing, and
yet so wise.

Knowing as little as he did about the planet of Henriada, Casher tried
desperately to fit his own thinking together and to make sense out of
the predicament in which he found himself.

Even if the girl were attractive, this told him nothing of the real
challenges which he still faced inside this very house.  No longer was
his preoccupation with getting the power cruiser his main job on
Henriada; no evidence was at hand to show that the drunken, deranged
Administrator, Rankin Meiklejohn, would give him anything at all unless
he, Casher, killed the girl.

Even that had become a forgotten mission.  Despite the fact that he had
come to the estate of Beauregard for the purpose of killing her, he was
now on a journey without a destination.  Years of sad experience had
taught him that when a project went completely to pieces, he still had
the mission of personal survival, if his life were to mean anything to
his home planet, Mizzer, and if his return, in any way or any fashion,
could bring real liberty back to the Twelve Niles.

So he looked at the girl with a new kind of unconcern.  How could she
help his plans?  Or hinder them?  The promises she made were too vague
to be of any real use in the sad complicated world of politics.

He just tried to enjoy her company and the strange place in which he
found himself.

The Gulf of Esperanza lay just within his vision.  At the far horizon
he could see the helpless tornadoes trying to writhe their way past the
weather machines which still functioned, at the expense of Beauregard,
all along the coast from Ambiloxi to Mottile.  He could see the
shoreline choked with kelp, which had once been a cash crop and was now
a nuisance.  Ruined buildings in the distance were probably the
leftovers of processing plants; the artificial-looking coral castles
obscured his view of them.

And this house how much sense did this house make?  An under girl
eerily wise, who herself admitted that she had obtained an unlawful
amount of conditioning; a master who was a living corpse; a threat
which could not even be mentioned freely within the house; a household
which seemed to have displaced the planetary government; a planetary
government which the Instrumentality, for unfathomable reasons of its
own, had let fall into ruin.  Why?  Why?  And why again?

The turtle-girl was looking at him.  If he had been an art student, he
would have said that she was giving him the tender, feminine, and
irrecoverably remote smile of a Madonna, but he did not know the motifs
of the ancient pictures; he just knew that it was a smile
characteristic of T'ruth herself.

"You are wondering .  . . ?"  she said.

He nodded, suddenly feeling miserable that mere words had come between
them.

"You are wondering why the Instrumentality let you come here ... ?"

He nodded again.

"I don't know either," said she, reaching out and taking his hand.  His
hand felt and looked like the hairy paw of a giant as she held his
right hand with her two pretty, well-kept little-girl hands; but the
strength of her eyes and the steadfastness of her voice showed that it
was she who was giving the reassurance, not he.

The child was helping him\ The idea was outrageous, impossible, true.

It was enough to alarm him, to make him begin to pull his hand again.
She clutched him with tender softness, with weak strength, and he could
not resist her.  Again he had the feeling, which had gripped him so
strongly when he first met her at the door of Beauregard and failed to
kill her, that he had always known her and had always loved her.  (Was
there not some planet on which eccentric people believed a weird cult,
thinking that human beings were endlessly reborn with fragmentary
recollections of their own previous human lives?  It was almost like
that.  Here.  Now.  He did not know the girl but he had always known
her.  He did not love the girl and yet he had loved her from the
beginning of time.) Said she, so softly that it was almost a whisper:
"Wait.  . . .

Wait.  . . . Your death may come through that door pretty soon and I
will tell you how to meet it.  But before that, even, I have to show
you the most beautiful thing in the world."

Despite her little hand lying tenderly and firmly on his, Casher spoke
irritably: "I'm tired of talking riddles here on Henriada.  The
Administrator gives me the mission of killing you and I fail in it.
Then you promise me a battle and give me a good meal instead.  Now you
talk about the battle and start off with some other irrelevance. You're
going to make me angry if you keep on and, and, and" he stammered at
last "and I get pretty useless if I'm angry.  If you want me to do a
fight for you, let me know the fight and let me go do it now.  I'm
willing enough."

Her remote, kind half-smile did not waver.

"Casher," she said, "what I am going to show you is your most important
weapon in the fight."

With her free left hand she tugged at the fine chain of a thin gold
necklace.  Some kind of a piece of jewelry came out of the top of her
shift dress, where she had kept it hidden.  It was the image of two
pieces of wood with a man nailed to them.

Casher stared and then he burst into hysterical laughter.

"Now you've done it, ma'am," he cried.

"I'm no use to you or to anybody else.  I know what that is, and up to
now I've just suspected it.  It's
what the robot, rat, and Copt agreed on when they went exploring back
in space-three.  It's the Old Strong Religion.  You've put it in my
mind and now the next person who meets me will peep it and will wipe it
out.  Me too, probably, along with it.  That's no weapon.  That's a
defeat.  You've done me in.  I knew the Sign of the Fish a long time
ago, but I had a chance of getting away with just that little bit."

"Casher!"  she cried.

"Casher!  Get hold of yourself.  You will know nothing about this
before you leave Beauregard.  You will forget.  You will be safe."

He stood on his feet, not knowing whether to run away, to laugh out
loud, or to sit down and weep at the silly sad misfortune which had
befallen him.  To think that he himself had become brain-branded as a
fanatic forever denied travel between the stars just because an under
girl had shown him an odd piece of jewelry!

"It's not as bad as you think," said the little girl, and stood up
too.

Her face peered lovingly at Casher's.

"Do you think, Casher, that I am afraid?"  "No," he admitted.

"You will not remember this, Casher.  Not when you leave.  I am not
just the turtle-girl T'ruth.  I am also the imprint of the citizen
Agatha.  Have you ever heard of her?"

"Agatha Madigan?"  He shook his head slowly.

"No.  I don't see how .. . No, I'm sure that I never heard of her."

"Didn't you ever hear the story of the Hechizera of Gonfalon?"

Casher looked surprised.

"Sure I saw it.  It's a play.  A drama.  It is said to be based on some
legend out of immemorial time.  The 'space-witch' they called her, and
she conjured fleets out of nothing by sheer hypnosis.  It's an old
story."

"Eleven hundred years isn't so long," said the girl.

"Eleven hundred years, fourteen local months come tonight."

"You weren't alive eleven hundred years ago," said Casher accusingly

He stood up from the remains of their meal and wandered over toward the
window.  That terrible piece of religious jewelry made him
uncomfortable.  He knew that it was against all laws to ship religion
from world to world.  What would he do, what could he do, now that he
had actually beheld an image of the God Nailed High?  That was exactly
the kind of contraband which the police and customs robots of hundreds
of worlds were looking for.

The Instrumentality was easy about most things, but the transplanting
of religion was one of its hostile obsessions.

Religions leaked from world to world, anyhow.  It was said that
sometimes even the under people and robots carried bits of religion
through space, though this seemed improbable.  The Instrumentality left
religion alone when it had a settled place on a single planet, but the
Lords of the Instrumentality themselves shunned other people's
devotional lives and simply took good care that fanaticisms did not
once more flare up between the stars, once again bringing wild hope and
great death to all the man kinds

And now, thought Casher, the Instrumentality has been good to me in its
big impersonal collective way, but what will it do when my brain is on
fire with forbidden knowledge?

The girl's voice called him back to himself.

"I have the answer to your problem, Casher," said she, "if you would
only listen to me.  I am the Hechizera of Gonfalon, at least I am as
much as any one person can be printed on another."

His jaw dropped as he turned back to her.

"You mean that you, child, really are imprinted with this woman Agatha
Madigan?  Really imprinted?"

"I have all her skills, Casher," said the girl quietly, "and a few more
which I have learned on my own."

"But I thought it was just a story.  . . ."  said Casher.

"If you're that terrible woman from Gonfalon, you don't need me.

I'm quitting.  Now."

Casher walked toward the door.  Disgusted, finished, through.  She
might be a child, she might be charming, she might need help, but if
she came from that terrible old story, she did not need him.

"Oh, no, you don't," said she.

IX

Unexpectedly, she took her place in the doorway, barring it.

In her hand was the image of the man on the two pieces of wood.

Ordinarily Casher would not have pushed a lady.  Such was his haste
that he did so this time.  When he touched her, it was like welded
steel; neither her gown nor her body yielded a thousandth of a
millimeter to his strong hand and heavy push.

"And now what?"  she asked gently.

Looking back, he saw that the real T'ruth, the smiling girl woman still
stood soft and real in the window.

Deep within, he began to give up; he had heard of hypnotists who could
project, but he had never met one as strong as this.

She was doing it.  How was she doing it?  Or was she doing it?

The operation could be sub volitional There might be some art carried
over from her animal past which even her re-formed mind could not
explain.  Operations too subtle, too primordial for analysis.  Or
skills which she used without understanding.

"I project," she said.

"I see you do,"

he replied glumly and flatly.

"I do kinesthetics," she said.  His knife whipped out of his boot
sheath and floated in the air in front of him.

He snatched it out of the air instinctively.  It wormed a little in his
grasp, but the force on the knife was nothing more than he had felt
when passing big magnetic engines.

"I blind," she said.  The room went totally dark for him.

"I hear,"

he said, and prowled at her like a beast, going by his memory of the
room and by the very soft sound of her breathing.  He had noticed by
now that the simulacrum of herself which she had put in the doorway did
not make any sound at all, not even that of breathing.

He knew that he was near her.  His fingertips reached out for her
shoulder or her throat.  He did not mean to hurt her, merely to show
her that two could play at tricks.

"I stun," she said, and her voice came at him from all directions.  It
echoed from the ceiling, came from all five walls of the old odd room,
from the open windows, from both the doors.

He felt as though he were being lifted into space and turned slowly in
a condition of weightlessness.  He tried to retain selfcontrol, to
listen for the one true sound among the many false sounds, to trap the
girl by some outside chance.

"I make you remember," said her multiple echoing voice.  For an instant
he did not see how this could be a weapon, even if the turtle-girl had
learned all the ugly tricks of the Hechizera of Gonfalon.  But then he
knew.

He saw his uncle, Kuraf, again.  He saw his old apartments vividly
around himself.  Kuraf was there.  The old man was pitiable, hateful,
drunk, horrible; the girl on Kuraf s lap laughed at him, Casher
O'Neill, and she laughed at Kuraf, too.  Casher had once had a
teenager's passionate concern with sex and at the same time had had a
teenager's dreadful fear of all the unstated, invisible implications of
what the man-woman relationship, gone sour, gone wrong, gone bad, might
be.  The present-moment Casher remembered the long-ago Casher and as he
spun in the web of T'ruth's hypnotic powers he found himself back with
the ugliest memory he had.

The killings in the palace at Mizzer.

The colonels had taken Kaheer itself, and they ultimately let Kuraf run
away to the pleasure planet of Ttiolle.

But Kuraf s companions, who had debauched the old republic of the
Twelve Niles, those people!  They did not go.  The soldiers, stung to
fury, had cut them down with knives.  Casher thought of the blood,
blood sticky on the floors, blood gushing purple into the carpets,
blood bright red and leaping like a fountain when a white throat ended
its last gurgle, blood
turning brown where hand prints themselves bloody, had left it on
marble tables.  The warm palace, long ago, had gotten the sweet sick
stench of blood all the way through it.  The young Casher had never
known that people had so much blood inside them, or that so much could
pour out on the perfumed sheets, the tables still set with food and
drink, or that blood could creep across the floor in growing pools as
the bodies of the dead yielded up their last few nasty sounds and their
terminal muscular spasms.

Before that day of butchery had ended, one thousand, three hundred and
eleven human bodies, ranging in age from two months to eighty-nine
years, had been carried out of the palaces once occupied by Kuraf.
Kuraf, under sedation, was waiting for a starship to take him to
perpetual exile and Casher Casher himself O'Neill!  was shaking the
hand of Colonel Wedder, whose orders had caused all the blood.  The
hand was washed and the nails pared and cleaned, but the cuff of the
sleeve was still rimmed with the dry blood of some other human being.
Colonel Wedder either did not notice his own cuff, or he did not
care.

"Touch and yield!"  said the girl-voice out of nowhere.

Casher found himself on all fours in the room, his sight suddenly back
again, the room unchanged, and T'ruth smiling.

"I fought you," she said.

He nodded.  He did not trust himself to speak.

He reached for his water-glass, looking at it closely to see if there
were any blood on it.

Of course not.  Not here.  Not this time, not this place.

He pulled himself to his feet.

The girl had sense enough not to help him.

She stood there in her thin modest shift, looking very much like a wise
female child, while he stood up and drank thirstily.

He refilled the glass and drank again.

Then, only then, did he turn to her and speak: "Do you do all that?"

She nodded.

"Alone?  Without drugs or machinery?"

She nodded again.

"Child," he cried out, "you're not a person!  You're a whole weapons
system all by yourself.  What are you, really?  Who are you?"

"I am the turtle-child T'ruth," she said, "and I am the loyal property
and loving servant of my good master, the Mister and Owner Murray
Madigan."

"Madam," said Casher, "you are almost a thousand years old.  I am at
your service.  I do hope you will let me go free later on.  And
especially, that you will take that religious picture out of my
mind."

As Casher spoke, she picked a locket from the table.  He had not
noticed it.  It was an ancient watch or a little round box, swinging on
a thin gold chain.

"Watch this," said the child, "if you trust me, and repeat what I then
say."

(Nothing at all happened: nothing anywhere.) Casher said to her,

"You're making me dizzy, swinging that ornament.  Put it back on. Isn't
that the one you were wearing?"

"No, Casher, it isn't."

"What were we talking about?"  demanded Casher.

"Something," said she.

"Don't you remember?"

"No," said Casher brusquely.

"Sorry, but I'm hungry again."

He wolfed down a sweet roll encrusted with sugar and decorated with
fruits.  His mouth full, he washed the food down with water.  At last
he spoke to her.

"Now what?"

She had watched with timeless grace.

"There's no hurry, Casher.  Minutes or hours, they don't matter."

"Didn't you want me to fight somebody after Gosigo left me here?"

"That's right," she said, with terrible quiet.

"I seem to have had a fight right here in this room."  He stared around
stupidly.

She looked around the room, very cool.

"It doesn't look as though anybody's been fighting here, does it?"

"There's no blood here, no blood at all.  Everything is clean,"

said he.

"Pretty much so."

"Then why," said Casher, "should I think I had a fight?"

"This wild weather on Henriada sometimes upsets off worlders until they
get used to it," said T'ruth mildly.

"If I didn't have a fight in the past, am I going to get into one in
the future?"

The old room with the golden-oak furniture swam around him.  The world
outside was strange with the sunlit marshes and wide bayous trailing
off to the forever-thundering storm, just over the horizon, which lay
beyond the weather machines.

Casher shrugged and shivered.  He looked straight at the girl.

She stood erect and looked at him with the even regard of a reigning
empress.  Her young budding breasts barely showed through the thinness
of her shift; she wore golden flat-heeled shoes.  Around her neck there
was a thin gold chain, but the object on the chain hung down inside her
dress.  It excited him a little to think of her flat chest barely
budding into womanhood.

He had never been a man who had an improper
taste for children, but there was something about this person which
was not childlike at all.

"You are a girl and not a girl.  .. ."  he said in bewilderment.

She nodded gravely.

"You are that woman in the story, the Hechizera of Gonfalon.

You are reborn."

She shook her head, equally seriously.

"No, I am not reborn.

I am a turtle-child, an under person with a very long life, and I have
been imprinted with the personality of the Citizen Agatha.

This is all."

"You stun," he said, "but I do not know how you do it."

"I stun," she said flatly and around the edge of his mind there
flickered up hot little torments of memory.

"Now I remember," he cried.

"You have me here to kill somebody.  You are sending me into a
fight."

"You are going to a fight, Casher.  I wish I could send somebody else,
not you, but you are the only person here strong enough to do the
job."

Impulsively he took her hand.  The moment he touched her, she ceased to
be a child or an under person She felt tender and exciting, like the
most desirable and important person he had ever known.  His sister? But
he had no sister.  He felt that he was himself terribly, unendurably
important to her.  He did not want to let her hand go, but she withdrew
from his touch with an authority which no decent man could resist.

"You must fight to the death, now, Casher," she said, looking at him as
evenly as might a troop commander examining a special soldier selected
for a risky mission.

He nodded.  He was tired of having his mind confused.  He knew
something had happened to him after the for getty Gosigo, had left him
at the front door, but he was not at all sure of what it was.  They
seemed to have had a sort of meal together in this room.  He felt
himself in love with the child.  He knew that she was not even a human
being.  He remembered something about her living ninety thousand years
and he remembered something else about her having gotten the name and
the skills of the greatest battle hypnotist of all history, the
Hechizera of Gonfalon.

There was something strange, something frightening about that chain
around her neck: there were things he hoped he would never have to
know.

He strained at the thought and it broke like a bubble.

"I'm a fighter," he said.

"Give me my fight and let me know."

"He can kill you.  I hope not.  You must not kill him.  He is immortal
and insane.  But in the law of Old North Australia, from which my
master, the Mister and Owner Murray Madigan, is an exile, we must not
hurt a house guest, nor may we turn him away in a time of great need."
"What do I do" snapped Casher impatiently.

"You fight him.  You frighten him.  You make his poor crazy mind
fearful that he will meet you again."

"I'm supposed to do this."

"You can," she said very seriously.

"I've already tested you.

That's where you have the little spot of amnesia about this room."

"But why?  Why bother?  Why not get some of your human servants and
have them tie him up or put him in a padded room?"

"They can't deal with him.  He is too strong, too big, too clever, even
though insane.  Besides, they don't dare follow him."

"Where does he go?"  said Casher sharply.

"Into the control room," replied T'ruth, as if it were the saddest
phrase ever uttered.

"What's wrong with that?  Even a place as fine as Beauregard can't have
too much of a control room.  Put locks on the control."

"It's not that kind of a control room."

Almost angry, he shouted,

"What is it, then?"

"The control room," she answered, "is for a plano form ship.

This house.  These counties, all the way to Mottile on the one side and
to Ambiloxi on the other.  The sea itself, way out into the Gulf of
Esperanza.  All this is one ship."

Casher's professional interest took over.

"If it's turned off, he can't do any harm."

"It's not turned off," she said.

"My master leaves it on a very little bit.  That way, he can keep the
weather machines going and make this edge of Henriada a very pleasant
place."

"You mean," said Casher, "that you'd risk letting a lunatic fly all
these estates off into space."

"He doesn't even fly," said T'ruth gloomily.

"What does he do, then?"  yelled Casher.

"When he gets at the controls, he just hovers."

"He hovers?  By the Bell, girl, don't try to fool me.  If you hover a
place as big as this, you could wipe out the whole planet any moment.
There have been only two or three pilots in the history of space who
would be able to hover a machine like this one."

"He can, though," insisted the little girl.

"Who is he, anyhow?"

"I thought you knew.  Or had heard somewhere about it.  His name is
John Joy Tree."

"Tree the Go-Captain?"  Casher shivered in the warm room.

"He died a long time ago after he made that record flight."

"He did not die.  He bought immortality and went mad.  He came here
sand he lives under my master's protection."

' "Oh," said Casher.  There was nothing else he could say.

John Joy Tree, the great Norstrilian who took the first of the Long
Plunges outside the galaxy: he was like Magno Taliano of ages ago, who
could fly space on his living brain alone.

But fight him?  How could anybody fight him?  Pilots are for piloting;
killers are for killing; women are for loving or forgetting.  When you
mix up the purposes, everything goes wrong.  Casher sat down
abruptly.

"Do you have any more of that coffee?"  "You don't need coffee," she
said.  He looked up, inquiringly.

"You're a fighter.  You need a war.  That's it," she said, pointing
with her girlish hand to a small doorway which looked like the entrance
to a closet.

"Just go in there.  He's in there now.  Tinkering with the machines
again.  Making me wait for my master to get blown to bits at any
minute!

And I've put up with it for over a hundred years."  "Go yourself," he
said.

"You've been in a ship's control room," she declared.

"Yes," he nodded.

"You know how people go all naked and frightened inside.  You know how
much training it takes to make a GoCaptain.  What do you think happens
to me?"  At last, long last, her voice was shrill, angry, excited,
childish.

"What happens?"  said Casher dully, not caring very much; he felt weary
in every bone.  Useless battles, murder he had to try, dead people
arguing after their ballads had already grown out of fashion.  Why
didn't the Hechizera of Gonfalon do her own work?

Catching his thought, she screeched at him, "Because I can'?"  "All
right," said Casher.

"Why not?"  "Because I turn into me."  "You what?"  said Casher, a
little startled.

"I'm a turtle-child.  My shape is human.  My brain is big.

But I'm a turtle.  No matter how much my master needs me, I'm just a
turtle."  "What's that got to do with it?"

"What do turtles do when they're faced with danger?  Not under
people-turtles, but real turtles, little animals.  You must have heard
of them somewhere."

"I've even seen them," said Casher, "on some world or other.  They pull
into their shells."

"That's what I do" she wept "when I should be defending my master.  I
can meet most things.  I am not a coward.  But in that control room, I
forget, forget, forget!"

"Send a robot, then!"

She almost screamed at him.

"A robot against John Joy Tree?

Are you mad, too?"

Casher admitted, in a mumble, that on second thought it wouldn't do
much good to send a robot against the greatest GoCaptain of them all.
He concluded, lamely,

"I'll go, if you want me to."

"Go now," she shouted, "go right in!"

She pulled at his arm, half-dragging and half-leading him to the little
brightened door which looked so innocent.

"But " he said.

"Keep going," she pleaded.

"This is all we ask of you.  Don't kill him, but frighten him, fight
him, wound him if you must.

You can do it.  I can't."  She sobbed as she tugged at him.

"I'd just be me."

Before he knew quite what had happened she had opened the door.  The
light beyond was clear and bright and tinged with blue, the way the
skies of Manhome, Mother Earth, were shown in all the viewers.

He let her push him in.

He heard the door click behind him.

Before he even took in the details of the room or noticed the man in
the Go-Captain's chair, the flavor and meaning of the room struck him
like a blow against his throat.

This room, he thought, is hell.

He wasn't even sure that he remembered where he had learned the word
"hell."  It denoted all good turned to evil, all hope to anxiety, all
wishes to greed.

Somehow, this room was it.  And then....

X

And then the chief occupant of hell turned and looked squarely at
him.

If this was John Joy Tree, he did not look insane.

He was a handsome, chubby man with a red complexion, bright eyes,
dancing-blue in color, and a mouth which was as mobile as the mouth of
a temptress.

"Good day," said John Joy Tree.

"How do you do," said Casher inanely.

"I do not know your name," said the ruddy brisk man, speaking in a tone
of voice which was not the least bit insane.

"I am Casher O'Neill, from the city of Kaheer on the planet Mizzer."

"Mizzer?"  John Joy Tree laughed.

"I spent a night there, long, long ago.  The entertainment was most
unusual.  But we have other things to talk
of Man about.  You have come here to kill the under girl T'ruth.  You
received your orders from the honorable Rankin Meiklejohn, may he soak
in drink!  The child has caught you and now she wants you to kill me,
but she does not dare utter those words."

John Joy Tree, as he spoke, shifted the spaceship controls to standby,
and got ready to get out of his captain's seat.

Casher protested,

"She said nothing about killing you.  She said you might kill me."

"I might, at that."  The immortal pilot stood on the floor.  He was a
full head shorter than Casher but he was a strong and formidable man.
The blue light of the room made him look clear, sharp, distinct.

The whole flavor of the situation tickled the fear-nerves inside
Casher's body.  He suddenly felt that he wanted very much to go to a
bathroom, but he felt quite surely that if he turned his back on this
man, in this place, he would die like a felled ox in a stockyard.  He
had to face John Joy Tree.

"Go ahead," said the pilot.

"Fight me."

"I didn't say that I would fight you," said Casher.

"I am supposed to frighten you and I do not know how to do it."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," said John Joy Tree.

"Shall we go into the outer room and let poor little T'ruth give us a
drink?  You can just tell her that you failed."

"I think," said Casher, "that I am more afraid of her than I am of
you."

John Joy Tree flung himself into a comfortable passenger's chair.

"All right, then.  Do something.  Do you want to box?

Gloves?  Bare fists?  Or would you like swords?  Or wire points

There are some over there in the closet.  Or we can each take a pilot
ship and have a ship-duel out in space."

"That wouldn't make much sense," said Casher, "me fighting a ship
against the greatest Go-Captain of them all.  . . ."

John Joy Tree greeted this with an ugly under laugh a barely audible
sound which made Casher feel that the whole situation was ridiculous.

"But I do have one advantage," said Casher.

"I know who you are and you do not know who I am."

"How could I tell," said John Joy Tree, "when people keep on getting
born all over the place?"

He gave Casher a scornful, comfortable grin.  There was charm in the
man's poise.  Keeping his eyes focused directly on Casher, he felt for
a carafe and poured himself a drink.

He gave Casher an ironic toast and Casher took it, standing frightened
and alone.  More alone than he had ever been before in his life.

Suddenly John Joy Tree sprang lightly to his feet and stared with a
complete change of expression past Casher.  Casher did not dare look
around.  This was some old fight trick.

Tree spat out the words,

"You've done it then.  This time you will violate all the laws and kill
me.  This fashionable oaf is not just one more trick."

A voice behind Casher called very softly,

"I don't know."  It was a man's voice, old, slow, and tired.

Casher had heard no one come in.

Casher's years of training stood him in good stead.  He skipped
side-wise in four or five steps, never taking his eyes off John Joy
Tree, until the other man had come into his field of vision.

The man who stood there was tall, thin, yellow-skinned, and
yellow-haired.  His eyes were an old sick blue.  He glanced at Casher
and said,

"I'm Madigan."

Was this the master?  thought Casher.  Was this the being whom that
lovely child had been imprinted to adore?

He had no more time for thought.

Madigan whispered, as if to no one in particular,

"You find me waking.  You find him sane.  Watch out."

Madigan lunged for the pilot's controls, but his tall, thin old body
could not move very fast.

John Joy Tree jumped out of his chair and ran for the controls, too.

Casher tripped him.

Tree fell, rolled over, and got halfway up, one knee and one foot on
the floor.  In his hand there shimmered a knife very much like Casher's
own.

Casher felt the flame of his body as some unknown force flung him
against the wall.  He stared, wild with fear.

Madigan had climbed into the pilot's seat and was fiddling with the
controls as though he might blow Henriada out of space at any second.
John Joy Tree glanced at his old host and then turned his attention to
the man in front of him.

There was another man there.

Casher knew him.

He looked familiar.

It was himself, rising and leaping like a snake, left arm weaving the
knife for the neck of John Joy Tree.

The image-Casher hit Tree with a thud that resounded through the
room.

Tree's bright blue eyes had turned crazy-mad.  His knife caught the
image-Casher in the abdomen, thrust hard and deep, and left the young
man gasping on the floor, trying to push the bleeding entrails back
into his belly.  The blood poured from the image-Casher all over the
rug.

Blood!

Casher suddenly knew what he had to do and how he could do it all
without anybody telling him.

of Man He created a third Casher on the far side of the room and gave
him iron gloves.  There was himself, unheeded against the wall; there
was the dying Casher on the floor; there was the third, stalking toward
John Joy Tree.

"Death is here," screamed the third Casher, with a voice which Casher
recognized as a fierce crazy simulation of his own.

Tree whirled around.

"You're not real," he said.

Image-Casher stepped around the console and hit Tree with an iron
glove.  The pilot jumped away, a hand reaching up to his bleeding
face.

John Joy Tree screamed at Madigan, who was playing with the dials
without even putting on the pin lighter helmet.

"You got her in here," he screamed, "you got her in here with this
young man!  Get her out!"

"Who?"  said Madigan softly and absentmindedly.

"T'ruth.  That witch of yours.  I claim guest-right by all the ancient
laws.  Get her out."

The real-Casher, standing at the wall, did not know how he controlled
the image-Casher with the iron gloves, but control him he did.  He made
him speak, in a voice as frantic as Tree's own voice: "John Joy Tree, I
do not bring you death.  I bring you blood.

My iron hands will pulp your eyes.  Blind sockets will stare in your
face.  My iron hands will split your teeth and break your jaw a
thousand times, so that no doctor, no machine will ever fix you.

My iron hands will crush your arms, turn your hands into living rags.
My iron hands will break your legs.  Look at the blood, John Joy Tree..
.. There will be a lot more blood.  You have killed me once.  See that
young man on the floor."

They both glanced at the first image-Casher, who had finally shuddered
into death in the great rug.  A pool of blood lay in front of the body
of the youth.

John Joy Tree turned to the image-Casher and said to him, "You're the
Hechizera of Gonfalon.  You can't scare me.  You're a turtle-girl and
can't really hurt me."

"Look at me," said real-Casher.

John Joy Tree glanced back and forth between the duplicates.

Fright began to show.

Both the Cashers now shouted, in crazy voices which came from the
depths of Casher's own mind: "Blood you shall have!  Blood and ruin.
But we will not kill you.  You will live in ruin, blind, emasculated,
armless, legless.

You will be fed through tubes.  You cannot die and you will weep for
death but no one will hear you."

"Why?"  screamed Tree.

"Why?  What have I done to you?"

"You remind me," howled Casher, "of my home.  You remind me of
the blood poured by Colonel Wedder when the poor useless victims of my
uncle's lust paid with their blood for his revenge.

You remind me of myself, John Joy Tree, and I am going to punish you as
I myself might be punished."

Lost in the mists of lunacy, John Joy Tree was still a brave man.

He flung his knife unexpectedly at real-Casher.  Image-Casher, in a
tremendous bound, leaped across the room and caught the knife on an
iron glove.  It clattered against the iron glove and then fell silent
onto the rug.

Casher saw what he had to see.

He saw the place of Kaheer, covered with death, with the intimate
sticky silliness of sudden death the dead men holding little packages
they had tried to save, the girls, with their throats cut, lying in
their own blood but with the lipstick still even and the eyebrow-pencil
still pretty on their dead faces.  He saw a dead child, ripped open
from groin upward to chest, holding a broken doll while the child
itself, now dead, looked like a broken doll itself.  He saw these
things and he made John Joy Tree see them, too.

"You're a bad man," said John Joy Tree.

"I am very bad," said Casher.

"Will you let me go, if I never enter this room again?"

Image-Casher snapped off, both the body on the floor and the fighter
with the iron gloves.  Casher did not know how T'ruth had taught him
the lost art of fighter-replication, but he had certainly done it
well.

"The lady told me you could go."

"But who are you going to use," said John Joy Tree, calm, sad, and
logical, "for your dreams of blood if you don't use me?"

"I don't know," said Casher.

"I follow my fate.  Go now, if you do not want my iron gloves to crush
you."

John Joy Tree trotted out of the room, beaten.

Only then did Casher, exhausted, grab a curtain to hold himself upright
and look around the room freely.

The evil atmosphere had gone.

Madigan, old though he was, had locked all the controls on standby.

He walked over to Casher and spoke.

"Thank you.  She did not invent you.  She found you and put you to my
service."

Casher coughed out,

"The girl.  Yes."

"My girl," corrected Madigan.

"Your girl," said Casher, remembering the sight of that slight feminine
body, those budding breasts, the sensitive lips, the tender eyes.

"She could not have thought you up.  She is my dead wife over again.
The citizeness Agatha might have done it.  But not T'ruth."

Casher looked at the man as he talked.  The host wore the bottoms of
some very cheap yellow pajamas and a washable bathrobe which had once
been stripes of purple, lavender, and white.  Now it was faded, like
its wearer.  Casher also saw the white clean plastic surgical implants
on the man's arms, where the machines and tubes hooked in to keep him
alive.

"I sleep a lot," said Murray Madigan, "but I am still the master of
Beauregard.  I am grateful to you."

The hand was frail, withered, dry, without strength.  The old voice
whispered: "Tell her to reward you.  You can have anything on my
estate.  Or you can have anything on Henriada.  She manages it all for
me."  Then the old blue eyes opened wide and sharp and Murray Madigan
was once again the man, just momentarily, that he had been hundreds of
years ago a Norstrilian trader, sharp, shrewd, wise, and not unkind. He
added sharply: "Enjoy her company.  She is a good child.  But do not
take her.  Do not try to take her."

"Why not?"  said Casher, surprised at his own bluntness.

"Because if you do, she will die.  She is mine.  Imprinted to me.  I
had her made and she is mine.  Without me she would die in a few days.
Do not take her."

Casher saw the old man leave the room by a secret door.  He left
himself, the way he had come in.  He did not see Madigan again for two
days, and by that time the old man had gone far back into his
cataleptic sleep.

XI

Two days later T'ruth took Casher to visit the sleeping Madigan.

"You can't go in there," said Eunice in a shocked voice.

"Nobody goes in there.  That's the master's room."

"I'm taking him in," said T'ruth calmly.

She had pulled a cloth-of-gold curtain aside and she was spinning the
combination locks on a massive steel door.  It was set in Daimoni
material.

The maid went on protesting.

"But even you, little ma'am, can't take him in there!"

"Who says I can't?"  said T'ruth calmly and challengingly.

The awfulness of the situation sank in on Eunice.

In a small voice she muttered,

"If you're taking him in, you're taking him in.  But it's never been
done before."

"Of course it hasn't, Eunice, not in your time.  But Casher O'Neill has
already met the mister and owner.  He has fought for the mister and
owner.  Do you think I would take a stray or random guest in to look at
the master, Just like that?"

"Oh, not at all, no," said Eunice.

"Then go away, woman," said the lady-child.

"You don't want to see this door open, do you?"

"Oh, no," shrieked Eunice and fled, putting her hands over her ears as
though that would shut out the sight of the door.

When the maid had disappeared, T'ruth pulled with her whole weight
against the handle of the heavy door.  Casher expected the mustiness of
the tomb or the medicinality of a hospital; he was astonished when
fresh air and warm sunlight poured out from that heavy, mysterious
door.  The actual opening was so narrow, so low, that Casher had to
step sidewise as he followed T'ruth into the room.

The master's room was enormous.  The windows were flooded with
perpetual sunlight.  The landscape outside must have been the way
Henriada looked in its prime, when Mottile was a resort for the
carefree millions of vacationers, and Ambiloxi, a port feeding worlds
halfway across the galaxy.  There was no sign of the ugly snaky storms
which worried and pestered Henriada in these later years.  Everything
was landscape, order, neatness, the triumph of man, as though Poussin
had painted it.

The room itself, like the other great living-rooms of the estate of
Beauregard, was exuberant neo-baroque in which the architect, himself
half-mad, had been given wild license to work out his fantasies in
steel, plastic, plaster, wood, and stone.  The ceiling was not flat,
but vaulted.  The four corners of the room were each alcoves, cutting
deep into the four sides, so that the room was, in effect, an octagon.
The propriety and prettiness of the room had been a little diminished
by the shoving of the furniture to one side, sofas, upholstered
armchairs, marble tables, and knickknack stands all in an indescribable
melange to the left; while the right hand part of the room facing the
master window with the illusory landscape was equipped like a surgery
with an operating table, hydraulic lifts, bottles of clear and colored
fluid hanging from chrome stands, and two large devices which (Casher
later surmised) must have been heart-lung and kidney machines.

The alcoves, in their turn, were wilder.  One was an archaic funeral
parlor with an immense coffin, draped in black velvet, resting on a
heavy teak stand.  The next was a spaceship control cabin of the old
kind, with the levers, switches, and controls all in plain sight the
meters actually read the galactic ally-stable location of this very
place, and to do so they had to whirl mightily as well as a pilot's
chair with the usual choice of helmets and the straps and shock
absorbers.  The third alcove was a simple bedroom done in very
old-fashioned taste, the walls a Wedgwood blue with deep wine-colored
drapes, coverlets and pillowcases marking a sharp but tolerable
contrast.  The fourth alcove was the copy of a fortress: it might even
be a fortress: the door was heavy and
the walls looked as though they might be Daimoni material,
indestructible by any imaginable means.  Cases of emergency food and
water were stacked against the walls.  Weapons which looked oiled and
primed stood in their racks, together with three different calibers of
wire point each with its own fresh looking battery.

The alcoves had no people in them.

The parlor was deserted.

The Mister and Owner Murray Madigan lay naked on the operating table.
Two or three wires led to gauges attached to his body.  Casher thought
that he could see a faint motion of the chest, as the cataleptic man
breathed at a rate one-tenth normal or less.

The girl-lady, T'ruth, was not the least embarrassed.

"I check him four or five times a day.  I never let people in here. But
you're special, Casher.  He's talked with you and fought beside you and
he knows that he owes you his life.

You're the first human person ever to get into this room."

"I'll wager," said Casher, "that the Administrator of Henriada, the
Honorable Rankin Meiklejohn, would give up some of his 'honorable' just
to get in here and have one look around.  He wonders what Madigan is
doing when Madigan is doing nothing...."

"He's not just doing nothing," said T'ruth sharply.

"He's sleeping.  It's not everybody who can sleep for forty or fifty or
sixty thousand years and can wake up a few times a month, just to see
how things are going."

Casher started to whistle and then stopped himself, as though he feared
to waken the unconscious, naked old man on the table.

"So that's why he chose you."

T'ruth corrected him as she washed her hands vigorously in a
washbasin.

"That's why he had me made.  Turtle stock, three hundred years.
Multiply that with intensive stroon treatments, three hundred times.
Ninety thousand years.  Then he had me printed to love him and adore
him.  He's not my master, you know.  He's my god."

"Your what?"

"You heard me.  Don't get upset.  I'm not going to give you any illegal
memories.  I worship him.  That's what I was printed for, when my
little turtle eyes opened and they put me back in the tank to enlarge
my brain and to make a woman out of me.

That's why they printed every memory of the citizeness Agatha Madigan
right into my brain.  I'm what he wanted.  Just what he wanted.  I'm
the most wanted being on any planet.  No wife, no sweetheart, no mother
has ever been wanted as much as he wants me now, when he wakes up and
knows that I am still here.  You're a smart man.  Would you trust any
machine any machine at all for ninety thousand years?"

"It would be hard," said Casher, "to get batteries of monitors long
enough for them to repair each other over that long a time.

But that means you have ninety thousand years of it.  Four times, five
times a day.  I can't even multiply the numbers.  Don't you ever get
tired of it?"

"He's my love, he's my joy, he's my darling little boy," she caroled,
as she lifted his eyelids and put colorless drops in each eye.
Absentmindedly, she explained.

"With this slow metabolism, there's always some danger that his eyelids
will stick to his eyeballs.  This is part of the check-up."

She tilted the sleeping man's head, looked earnestly into each eye. She
then stepped a few paces aside and put her face close to the dial of a
gently-humming machine.  There was the sound of a shot.  Casher almost
reached for his gun, which he did not have.

The child turned back to him with a free mischievous smile.

"Sorry, I should have warned you.  That's my noisemaker.  I watch the
encephalo-graph to make sure his brain keeps a little auditory intake.
It showed up with the noise.  He's asleep, very deeply asleep, but he's
not drifting downward into death."

Back at the table she pushed Madigan's chin upward so that the head
leaned far back on its neck.  Deftly holding the forehead, she took a
retractor, opened his mouth with her fingers, depressed the tongue, and
looked down into the throat.

"No accumulation there," she muttered, as if to herself.

She pushed the head back into a comfortable position.  She seemed on
the edge of another set of operations when it was obvious that an idea
occurred to her.

"Go wash your hands, thoroughly, over there, at the basin.  Then push
the timer down and be sure you hold your hands under the sterilizer
until the timer goes off.  You can help me turn him over.  I don't have
help here.  You're the first visitor."

Casher obeyed and while he washed his hands, he saw the girl drench her
hands with some flower-scented unguent.  She began to massage the
unconscious body with professional expertness, even with a degree of
roughness.  As he stood with his hands under the sterilizer-drier,
Casher marveled at the strength of those girlish arms and those little
hands.  Indefatigably they stroked, rubbed, pummelled, pulled,
stretched, and poked the old body.

The sleeping man seemed to be utterly unaware of it, but Casher thought
that he could see a better skin color and muscle tone appearing.

He walked back to the table and stood facing T'ruth.

A huge peacock walked across the imaginary lawn outside the window, his
tail shimmering in a paroxysm of colors.

T'ruth saw the direction of Casher's glance.

"Oh, I program that, too.  He likes it when he wakes up.  Don't you
of Man think he was clever, before he went into catalepsis to have me
made, to have me created to love him and to care for him?  It helps
that I'm a girl.  I can't ever love anybody but him, and it's easy for
me to remember that this is the man I love.  And it's safer for him.

Any man might get bored with these responsibilities.  I don't."

"Yet " said Casher.

"Shh," she said, "wait a bit.  This takes care."  Her strong little
fingers were now plowing deep into the abdomen of the naked old man.
She closed her eyes so that she could concentrate all her senses on the
one act of tactile impression.  She took her hands away and stood
erect.

"All clear," she said.

"I've got to find out what's going on inside him.  But I don't dare use
X-rays on him.

Think of the radiation he'd build up in a hundred years or so.  He
defecates about twice a month while he's sleeping.  I've got to be
ready for that.  I also have to prime his bladder every week or so.

Otherwise he would poison himself just with his own body wastes.  Here,
now, you can help me turn him over.  But watch the wires.  Those are
the monitor controls.  They report his physiological processes, radio a
message to me if anything goes wrong, and meanwhile supply the missing
neuro physical impulses if any part of the automatic nervous system
began to fade out or just simply went off."

"Has that ever happened?"

"Never," she said, "not yet.  But I'm ready.  Watch that wire.

You're turning him too fast.  There now, that's right.  You can stand
back while I massage him on the back."

She went back to her job of being a masseuse.  Starting at the muscles
joining the skull to the neck, she worked her way down the body,
pouring ointment on her hands from time to time.  When she got to his
legs, she seemed to work particularly hard.  She lifted the feet, bent
the knees, slapped the calves.

Then she put on a rubber glove, dipped her hand into another jar one
which opened automatically as her hand approached and came out with her
hand greasy.  She thrust her fingers into his rectum, probing,
thrusting, groping, her brow furrowed.

Her face cleared as she dropped the rubber glove in a disposal can and
wiped the sleeping man with a soft linen towel, which also went into a
disposal can.

"He's all right.  He'll get along well for the next two hours.  I'll
have to give him a little sugar then.  All he's getting now is normal
saline."

She stood facing him.  There was a faint glow in her cheeks from the
violent exercise in which she had been indulging, but she still looked
both the child and the lady the child irrecoverably remote, hidden in
her own wisdom from the muddled world of adults, and the lady. mistress
in her
own home, her own estates, her own planet, serving her master with
almost-immortal love and zeal.

"I was going to ask you, back there " said Casher and then stopped.

"You were going to ask me?"

He spoke heavily.

"I was going to ask you, what happens to you when he dies?  Either at
the right time or possibly before his time.  What happens to you?"

"I couldn't care less," her voice sang out.  He could see by the open,
honest smile on her face that she meant it.

"I'm his.  I belong to him.  That's what I'm for.  They may have
programmed something into me, in case he dies.  Or they may have
forgotten.

What matters is his life, not mine.  He's going to get every possible
hour of life that I can help him get.  Don't you think I'm doing a good
job?"

"A good job, yes," said Casher.

"A strange one, too."

"We can go now," she said.

"What are those alcoves for?"

"Oh, those they're his make-believes.  He picks one of them to go to
sleep in his coffin, his fort, his ship, or his bedroom.  It doesn't
matter which.  I always get him up with the hoist and put him back on
his table, where the machines and I can take proper care of him.  He
doesn't really mind waking up on the table.  He has usually forgotten
which room he went to sleep in.  We can go now."

They walked toward the door.

Suddenly she stopped.

"I forgot something.  I never forget things, but this is the first time
I ever let anybody come in here with me.  You were such a good friend
to him.  He'll talk about you for thousands of years.  Long, long after
you're dead," she added somewhat unnecessarily.  Casher looked at her
sharply to see if she might be mocking or deprecating him.  There was
nothing but the little-girl solemnity, the womanly devotion to an
established domestic routine.

"Turn your back," she commanded peremptorily.

"Why?"  he asked.

"Why when you have trusted me with all the other secrets."

"He wouldn't want you to see this."

"See what?"

"What I'm going to do.  When I was the citizeness Agatha or when I
seemed to be her I found that men are awfully fussy about some things.
This is one of them."

Casher obeyed and stood facing the door.

A different odor filled the room a strong wild scent, like a geranium
pomade.  He could hear T'ruth breathing heavily as she worked beside
the sleeping man.

of Man She called to him: "You can turn around now."

She was putting away a tube of ointment, standing high to get it into
its exact position on a tile shelf.

Casher looked quickly at the body of Madigan.  It was still asleep,
still breathing very lightly and very slowly.

"What on earth did you do?"

T'ruth stopped in mid-step: "You're going to get nosy."

Casher stammered mere sounds.

"You can't help it," she said.

"People are inquisitive."

"I suppose they are," he said, flushing at the accusation.

"I gave him his bit of fun.  He never remembers it when he wakes up,
but the cardiograph sometimes shows increased activity.  Nothing
happened this time.  That was my own idea.  I read books and decided
that it would be good for his body tone.

Sometimes he sleeps through a whole Earth-year, but usually he wakes up
several times a month."

She passed Casher, almost pulled herself clear of the floor tugging on
the great inside levers of the main door.

She gestured him past.  He stooped and stepped through.

"Turn away again," she said.

"All I'm going to do is to spin the dials, but they're cued to give any
viewer a bad headache so he will forget the combination.  Even robots.
I'm the only person tuned to these doors."

He heard the dials spinning but did not look around.

She murmured, almost under her breath,

"I'm the only one.

The only one."

"The only one for what?"  asked Casher.

"To love my master, to care for him, to support his planet, to guard
his weather.  But isn't he beautiful?  Isn't he wise?  Doesn't his
smile win your heart?"

Casher thought of the faded old wreck of a man with the yellow pajama
bottoms.  Tactfully, he said nothing.

T'ruth babbled on, quite cheerfully,

"He is my father, my husband, my baby son, my master, my owner.  Think
of that, Casher, he owns me!  Isn't he lucky to have me?  And aren't I
lucky to belong to him?"

"But what for?"  asked Casher, a little crossly, thinking that he was
falling in and out of love with this remarkable girl himself.

"For life!"  she cried.

"In any form, in any way.  I am made for ninety thousand years and he
will sleep and wake and dream and sleep again, a large part of that."

"What's the use of it?"  insisted Casher.

"The use," she said, "the use?  What's the use of the little turtle-egg
they took and modified in its memory chains, right down to the
molecular level?  What's the use of turning me into an under girl so
that even you
have to love me off and on?  What's the use of little me, meeting my
master for the first time, when I had been manufactured to love him?  I
can tell you, man, what the use is.  Love."

"What did you say?"  said Casher.

"I said the use was love.  Love is the only end of things.  Love on the
one side, and death on the other.  If you are strong enough to use a
real weapon, I can give you a weapon which will put all Mizzer at your
mercy.  Your cruiser and your laser would just be toys against the
weapon of love.  You can't fight love.  You can't fight me."

They had proceeded down a corridor, forgotten pictures hanging on the
walls, unremembered luxuries left untouched by centuries of neglect.

The bright yellow light of Henriada poured in through an open doorway
on their right.

From the room came snatches of a man singing while playing a stringed
instrument.  Later, Casher found that this was a verse of the Henriada
Song, the one which went: Don't put your ship in the Boom Lagoon, Look
up North for the raving wave.  Henriada's boiled away But Ambiloxi's a
saving grave.

They entered the room.

A gentleman stood up to greet them.

It was the great go-pilot, John Joy Tree.  His ruddy face smiled, his
bright blue eyes lit up, a little condescendingly, as he greeted his
small hostess, but then his glance took in Casher O'Neill.

The effect was sudden, and evil.

John Joy Tree looked away from both of them.  The phrase which he had
started to use stuck in his throat.

He said, in a different voice, very "away" and deeply troubled, "There
is blood all over this place.  There is a man of blood right here.
Excuse me.  I am going to be sick."

He trotted past them and out the door which they had entered.

"You have passed a test," said T'ruth.

"Your help to my master has solved the problem of the captain and
honorable John Joy Tree.  He will not go near that control room if he
thinks that you are there."

"Do you have more tests for me?  Still more?  By now, you ought to know
me well enough not to need tests."

"I am not a person," she said, "but just a built-up copy of one.

I am getting ready to give you your weapon.  This is a communications
room as well as a music room.  Would you like something to eat or
drink?"

of Man "Just water," he said.

"At your hand," said T'ruth.

A rock-crystal carafe had been standing on the table beside him,
unnoticed.  Or had she transported it into the room with one of the
tricks of the Hechizera, the dreaded Agatha herself?  It didn't matter.
He drank.  Trouble was coming.

XII

T'ruth had swung open a polished cabinet panel.  The communicator was
the kind they mount in plano forming ships right beside the pilot.  The
rental on one of them was enough to make any planetary government
reconsider its annual budget.

"That's yours?"  cried Casher.

"Why not?"  said the little-girl lady.

"I have four or five of them."

"But you're rich!"

"I'm not.  My master is.  I belong to my master, too."

"But things like this.  He can't handle them.  How does he manage?"

"You mean money and things?"  The girlish part of her came out.  She
looked pleased, happy, and mischievous.

"I manage them for him.  He was the richest man on Henriada when I came
here.  He had credits of stroon.  Now he is about forty times
richer."

"He's a Rod McBan!"  exclaimed Casher.

"Not even near.  Mister McBan had a lot more money than we.  But he's
rich.  Where do you think all the people from Henriada went?"

"I don't know," said Casher.

"To four new planets.  They belong to my master and he charges the new
settlers a very small land-rent."

"You bought them?"  Casher asked.

"For him."  T'ruth smiled.

"Haven't you heard of planet brokers

"But that's a gambler's business " said Casher.

"I gambled," she said, "and I won.  Now keep quiet and watch me."

She pressed a button.

"Instant message."

"Instant message," repeated the machine.

"What priority?"

"War news, double A one, subspace penalty."

"Confirmed," said the machine.

"The planet Mizzer.  Now.  War and peace information.  Will fighting
end soon?"

The machine clucked to itself.

Casher, knowing the prices of this kind of communication, almost felt
that he could see the arterial spurt of money go out of Henriada's
budget as
the machines reached across the galaxy, found Mizzer, and came back
with the answer.

"Skirmishing.  Seventh Nile.  Ends three local days."

"Close message," said T'ruth.

The machine went off.

T'ruth turned to him.

"You're going home soon, Casher, if you can pass a few little tests."

He stared at her.

He blurted,

"I need my weapons, my cruiser, and my laser."

"You'll have weapons.  Better ones than those.  Right now, I want you
to go to the front door.  When you have opened the door, you will not
let anybody in.  Close the door.  Then please come back to me here,
dear Casher, and if you are still alive, I will have some other things
for you to do."

Casher turned in bewilderment.  It did not occur to him to contradict
her.  He could end up a for getty like the maidservant Eunice or the
Administrator's brown man, Gosigo.

Down the halls, he walked.  He met no one except for a few shy
cleaning-robots, who bowed their heads politely as he passed.

He found the front door.  It stopped him.  It looked like wood on the
outside, but it was actually a Daimoni door, made of near
indestructible material.  There was no sign of a key or dials or
controls.  Acting like a man in a dream, he took a chance that the door
might be keyed to himself.  He put his right palm firmly against it, at
the left or opening edge.

The door swung in.

Meiklejohn was there.  Gosigo held the Administrator upright.

It must have been a rough trip.  The Administrator's face was bruised
and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.  His eyes focused on
Casher.

"You're alive.  She caught you, too?"

Quite formally, Casher asked,

"What do you want in this house?"

"I have come," said the Administrator, "to see her."

"To see whom?"  insisted Casher.

The Administrator hung almost slack in Gosigo's arms.  By his own
standard and in his own way, he was a very brave man, indeed.  His eyes
looked clear, even though his body was collapsing.

"To see T'ruth, if she will see me," said Rankin Meiklejohn.

"She cannot," said Casher, "see you now.  Gosigo!"

The for getty turned to Casher and gave him a bow.

"You will forget me.  You have not seen me."

"I have not seen you, lord.  Give my greetings to your lady.

Anything else?"

"Yes.  Take your master home, as safely and swiftly as you can."

of Man "My lord!"  cried Gosigo, though this was an improper title for
Casher.  Casher turned around.

"My lord, tell her to extend the weather machines for just a few more
kilometers and I will have him home safe in ten minutes.  At top
speed."

"I can tell her," said Casher, "but I cannot promise she will do it."

"Of course," said Gosigo.  He picked up the Administrator and began
putting him into the ground car Rankin Meiklejohn bawled once, like a
man crying in pain.  It sounded like a blurred version of the name
Murray Madigan.  No one heard it but Gosigo and Casher; Gosigo busy
closing the ground car Casher pushing on the big house door.

The door clicked.

There was silence.

The opening of the door was remembered only by the warm sweet salty
stink of seaweed, which had disturbed the odor-pattern of the
changeless, musty old house.

Casher hurried back with the message about the weather machines.

T'ruth received the message gravely.  Without looking at the console,
she reached out and controlled it with her extended right hand, not
taking her eyes off Casher for a moment.  The machine clicked its
agreement.  T'ruth exhaled.

"Thank you, Casher.  Now the Instrumentality and the for getty are
gone."

She stared at him, almost sadly and inquiringly.  He wanted to pick her
up, to crush her to his chest, to rain his kisses on her face.  But he
stood stock still.  He did not move.  This was not just the
forever-loving turtle-child; this was the real mistress of Henriada.
This was the Hechizera of Gonfalon, whom he had formerly thought about
only in terms of a wild, melodic grand opera.

"I think you are seeing me, Casher.  It is hard to see people, even
when you look at them every day.  I think I can see you, too, Casher.
It is almost time for us both to do the things which we have to do."

"Which we have to do?"  he whispered, hoping she might say something
else.

"For me, my work here on Henriada.  For you, your fate on your homeland
of Mizzer.  That's what life is, isn't it?  Doing what you have to do
in the first place.  We're lucky people if we find it out.  You are
ready, Casher.  I am about to give you weapons which will make bombs
and cruisers and lasers and bombs seem like nothing at all."

"By the Bell, girl!  Can't you tell me what those weapons are?"

T'ruth stood in her innocently revealing sheath, the yellow light of
the old music room pouring like a halo around her.

"Yes," she said,

"I can tell you now.  Me."

"You?"

Casher felt a wild surge of erotic attraction for the innocently
voluptuous child.  He remembered his first insane impulse to crush her
with kisses, to sweep her up with hugs, to exhaust her with all the
excitement which his masculinity could bring to both of them.

He stared at her.

She stood there, calm.

That sort of an idea did not ring right.

He was going to get her, but he was going to get something far from fun
or folly something, indeed, which he might not even like.

When at last he spoke, it was out of the deep bewilderment of his own
thoughts,

"What do you mean, you're going to give me yourself?  It doesn't sound
very romantic to me, nor the tone in which you said it."

The child stepped close to him, reaching up and patting his forehead.

"You're not going to get me for a night's romance, and if you did, you
would be sorry.  I am the property of my master and of no other man.
But I can do something with you which I have never done to anyone else.
I can get myself imprinted on you.  The technicians are already coming.
 You will be the turtle-child.  You will be the citizeness Agatha
Madigan, the Hechizera of Gonfalon herself.  You will be many other
people.  And yourself.  You will then win.  Accidents may kill you,
Casher, but no one will be able to kill you on purpose.  Not when
you're me.  Poor man!  Do you know what you will be giving up?"

"What?"  he croaked, at the edge of a great fright.  He had seen danger
before, but never before had danger loomed up from within himself.

"You will not fear death, ever again, Casher.  You will have to lead
your life minute by minute, second by second, and you will not have the
alibi that you are going to die anyhow.  You will know that's not
special."

He nodded, understanding her words and scrabbling around his mind for a
meaning.

"I'm a girl, Casher.  . . ."

He looked at her and his eyes widened.  She was a girl a beautiful,
wonderful girl.  But she was something more.  She was the mistress of
Henriada.  She was the first of the under people really and truly to
surpass humanity.  To think that he had wanted to grab her poor little
body.  The body ah, that was sweet!  but the power within it was the
kind of thing that empires and religions are made of.

". . . and if you take the print of me, Casher, you will never lie with
a woman without realizing that you know more about her than she does.
You will be a seeing man among blind multitudes, a hearing person in
the world of the deaf.  I don't know how much fun romantic love is
going to be to you after this."

of Man Gloomily he said,

"If I can free my home planet of Mizzer, it will be worth it.  Whatever
it is."

"You're not going to turn into a woman!"  She laughed.

"Nothing that easy.  But you are going to get wisdom.  And I will tell
you the whole story of the Sign of the Fish before you leave here."

"Not that, please," he begged.

"That's a religion and the Instrumentality would never let me travel
again."

"I'm going to have you scrambled, Casher, so that nobody can read you
for a year or two.  And the Instrumentality is not going to send you
back.  I am.  Through space-three."

"It'll cost you a fine, big ship to do it."

"My master will approve when I tell him, Casher.  Now give me that kiss
you have been wanting to give me.  Perhaps you will remember something
of it when you come out of scramble."

She stood there.  He did nothing.

"Kiss me!"  she commanded.

He put his arm around her.  She felt like a big little girl.  She
lifted her face.  She thrust her lips up toward his.  She stood on
tiptoe.

He kissed her the way a man might kiss a picture or a religious object.
The heat and fierceness had gone out of his hopes.  He had not kissed a
girl, but power tremendous power and wisdom put into a single slight
form.

"Is that the way your master kisses you?"

She gave him a quick smile.

"How clever of you!  Yes, sometimes.  Come along now.  We have to shoot
some children before the technicians are ready.  It will give you a
good last chance of seeing what you can do, when you have become what I
am.  Come along, the guns are in the hall."

XIII

They went down an enormous light-oak staircase to a floor which Casher
had never seen before.  It must have been the entertainment and
hospitality center of Beauregard long ago, when the mister and owner
Murray Madigan was himself young.

The robots did a good job of keeping away the dust and the mildew.
Casher saw inconspicuous little air-driers placed at strategic places,
so that the rich tooled leather on the walls would not spoil, so that
the velvet bar-stools would not become slimy with mold, so that the
pool tables would not warp nor the golf clubs go out of shape with age
and damp.  By the Bell, he thought, that man Madigan could have
entertained a thousand people at one time in a place this size.

The gun-cabinet, now, that was functional.  The glass shone.

The velvet of
oil showed on the steel and walnut of the guns.  They were old Earth
models, very rare and very special.  For actual fighting, people used
the cheap artillery of the present time or wire points for close work.
Only the richest and rarest of connoisseurs had the old Earth weapons
or could use them.

T'ruth touched the guard-robot and waked him.  The robot saluted,
looked at her face, and without further inquiry, opened the cabinet.

"Do you know guns?"  said T'ruth to Casher.

"Wirepoints," he said.

"Never touched a gun in my life."

"Do you mind using a learning-helmet, then?  I could teach you
hypnotically with the special rules of the Hechizera, but they might
give you a headache or upset you emotionally.  The helmet is
neuro-electric and it has filters."

Casher nodded and saw his reflection nodding in the polished glass
doors of the gun-cabinet.  He was surprised to see how helpless and
lugubrious he looked.

But it was true.  Never before in his life had he felt that a situation
swept over him, washed him along like a great wave, left him with no
choice and no responsibility.  Things were her choice now, not his, and
yet he felt that her power was benign, self-limited, restricted by
factors at which he could no more than guess.  He had come for one
weapon the cruiser which he had hoped to get from the Administrator
Rankin Meiklejohn.  She was offering him something else psychological
weapons in which he had neither experience nor confidence.

She watched him attentively for a long moment and then turned to the
gun-watching robot.

"You're little Harry Hadrian, aren't you?  The gun-watcher."

"Yes, ma'am," said the silver robot brightly, "and I'm owl brained too.
That makes me very bright."

"Watch this," she said, extending her arms the width of the gun-cabinet
and then dropping them after a queer flutter of her hands.

"Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the little robot quickly, the emotion showing in his
toneless voice by the speed with which he spoke, not by the intonation,
"it-means-you-have-taken-over-and-I-am off-duty! 
Can-I-go-sit-in-the-gard n-and-look-at-the-live-things?"

"Not quite yet, little Harry Hadrian.  There are some wind people out
there now and they might hurt you.  I have another errand for you
first.  Do you remember where the teaching helmets are?"

"Silver hats on the third floor in an open closet with a wire running
to each hat.  Yes."

"Bring one of those as fast as you can.  Pull it loose very carefully
from its electrical connection."

of Man The little robot disappeared in a sudden, fast, gentle clatter
up the stairs.

T'ruth turned back to Casher.

"I have decided what to do with you.  I am helping you.  You don't have
to look so gloomy about it."

"I'm not gloomy.  The Administrator sent me here on a crazy errand,
killing an unknown under person I find out that the person is really a
little girl.  Then I find out that she is not an under person but a
frightening old dead woman, still walking around alive.  My life gets
turned upside down.  All my plans are set aside.  You propose to send
me home to fulfill my life's work on Mizzer.  I've struggled for this,
so many years!  Now you're making it all come through, even though you
are going to cook me through space-three to do it, and throw in a lot
of illegal religion and hypnotic tricks, that I'm not sure I can
handle.  Now you tell me to come along to shoot children with guns.
I've never done anything like that in my life and yet I find myself
obeying you.  I'm tired out, girl, tired out.  If you have put me in
your power, I don't even know it.  I don't even want to know it."

"Here you are, Casher, on the ruined wet world of Henriada.

In less than a week you will be recovering among the military
casualties of Colonel Wedder's army.  You will be under the clear sky
of Mizzer, and the Seventh Nile will be near you, and you will be ready
at long last to do what you have to do.  You will have bits and pieces
of memories of me not enough to make you find your way back here or to
tell people all the secrets of Beauregard, but enough for you to
remember that you have been loved.  You may even" and she smiled very
gently, with a tender wry humor on her face "marry some Mizzer girl
because her body or her face or her manner reminds you to me."

"In a week ?"  he gasped.

"Less than that."

"Who are you," he cried out, "that you, an under person should run real
people and should manipulate their lives?"

"I didn't look for power, Casher.  Power doesn't usually work if you
look for it.  I have eighty-nine thousand years to live, Casher, and as
long as my master lives, I shall love him and take care of him.  Isn't
he handsome?  Isn't he wise?  Isn't he the most perfect master you ever
saw?"

Casher thought of the old ruined-looking body with the plastic knobs
set into it; he thought of the faded pajama bottoms; he said nothing.

"You don't have to agree," said T'ruth.

"I know I have a special way of looking at him.  But they took my
turtle brain and raised the IQ to above normal human level.  They took
me when I was a happy little girl, enchanted by the voice and the
glance and the touch of my master they took me to where this real woman
lay dying and they put me into a machine and they put her into one,
too.  When they were through, they
picked me up.  I had on a pink dress with pastel blue socks and pink
shoes.  They carried me out into the corridor, on a rug.  They had
finished with me.  They knew that I wouldn't die.  I was healthy. Can't
you see it, Casher?  I cried myself to sleep, nine hundred years
ago."

Casher could not really answer.  He nodded sympathetically.

"I was a girl, Casher.  Maybe I was a turtle once, but I don't remember
that, any more than you remember your mother's womb or your laboratory
bottle.  In that one hour I was never to be a girl again.  I did not
need to go to school.  I had her education, and it was a good one.  She
spoke twenty or more languages.  She was a psychologist and a hypnotist
and a strategist.  She was also the tyrannical mistress of this house.
I cried because my childhood was finished, because I knew what I would
have to do.  I cried because I knew that I could do it.  I loved my
master so, but I was no longer to be the pretty little servant who
brought him his tablets or his sweetmeats or his beer.  Now I saw the
truth as she died I had myself become Henriada.  The planet was mine to
care for, to manage to protect my master.  If I come along and I
protect and help you, is that so much for a woman who will just be
growing up when your grandchildren will all be dead of old age?"

"No, no," stammered Casher O'Neill.

"But your own life?  A family, perhaps?"

Anger lashed across her pretty face.  Her features were the features of
the delicious girl-child T'ruth, but her expression was that of the
citizeness Agatha Madigan, perhaps, a worldly woman reborn to the
endless worldliness of her own wisdom.

"Should I order a husband from the turtle bank, perhaps?

Should I hire out a piece of my master's estate, to be sold to somebody
because I'm an under person or perhaps put to work somewhere in an
industrial ship?  I'm me.  I may be an animal, but I have more
civilization in me than all the wind-people on this planet.  Poor
things!  What kind of people are they, if they are only happy when they
catch a big mutated duck and tear it to pieces, eating it raw?  I'm not
going to lose, Casher.  I'm going to win.  My master will live longer
than any person has ever lived before.  He gave me that mission when he
was strong and wise and well in the prime of his life.  I'm going to do
what I was made for, Casher, and you're going to go back to Mizzer and
make it free, whether you like it or not!"

They both heard a happy scurrying on the staircase.

The small silver robot, little Harry Hadrian, burst upon them; he
carried a teaching helmet.

T'ruth said,

"Resume your post.  You are a good boy, little Harry, and you can have
time to sit in the garden later on, when it is safe."

"Can I sit in a tree?"  the little robot asked.

"Yes, if it is safe."

Little Harry Hadrian resumed his post by the gun-cabinet.

He kept the key in his hand.  It was a very strange key, sharp at the
end and as long as an awl.  Casher supposed that it must be one of the
straight magnetic keys, cued to its lock by a series of magnetized
patterns.

"Sit on the floor for a minute," said T'ruth to Casher; "you're too
tall for me."  She slipped the helmet on his head, adjusted the levers
on each side so that the helmet sat tight and true upon his skull.

With a touching gesture of intimacy, for which she gave him a
sympathetic apologetic little smile, she moistened the two small
electrodes with her own spit, touching her finger to her tongue and
then to the electrode.  These went to his temples.

She adjusted the verniered dials on the helmet itself, lifted the rear
wire, and applied it to her forehead.

Casher heard the click of a switch.

"That did it," he heard T'ruth's voice saying, very far away.

He was too busy looking into the gun-cabinet.  He knew them all and
loved some of them.  He knew the feel of their stocks on his shoulder,
the glimpse of their barrels in front of his eyes, the dance of the
target on their various sights, the welcome heavy weight of the gun on
his supporting arm, the rewarding thrust of the stock against his
shoulder when he fired.  He knew all this, and did not know how he knew
it.

"The Hechizera, Agatha herself, was a very accomplished sportswoman,"
murmured T'ruth to him.

"I thought her knowledge would take a second printing when I passed it
along to you.  Let's take these."

She gestured to little Harry Hadrian, who unlocked the cabinet and took
out two enormous guns, which looked like the long muskets mankind had
had on Earth even before the age of space began.

"If you're going to shoot children," said Casher with his new-found
expertness, "these won't do.  They'll tear the bodies completely to
pieces."

T'ruth reached into the little bag which hung from her belt.

She took out three shotgun shells.

"I have three more," she said.

"Six children is all we need."

Casher looked at the slug projecting slightly from the shotgun casing.
It did not look like any shell he had ever seen before.  The
workmanship was unbelievably fine and precise.

"What are they?  I never saw these before."

"Proximity stunners," she said.

"Shoot ten centimeters above the head of any living thing and the
stunner knocks it out."

"You want the children alive?"

"Alive, of course.  And unconscious.  They are a part of your final
test."

Two hours later, after an exciting hike to the edge of the weather
controls, they had the six children stretched out on the floor of the
great
hall.  Four were little boys, two girls; they were fine-boned, soft
haired people, very thin, but they did not look too far from
Earthnormal.

T'ruth called up a doctor-under man from among her servants.

There must have been a crowd of fifty or sixty under men and robots
standing around.  Far up the staircase, John Joy Tree stood hidden,
half in shadow.  Casher suspected that he was as inquisitive as the
others but afraid of himself, Casher, "the man of blood."

T'ruth spoke quietly but firmly to the doctor.

"Can you give them a strong euphoric before you waken them?  We don't
want to have to pluck them out of all the curtains in the house, if
they go wild when they wake up."

"Nothing simpler," said the doctor-under man He seemed to be of dog
origin, but Casher could not tell.

He took a glass tube and touched it to the nape of each little neck.
The necks were all streaked with dirt.  These children had never been
washed in their lives, except by the rain.

"Wake them," said T'ruth.

The doctor stepped back to a rolling table.  It gleamed with equipment.
He must have pre-set his devices, because all he did was to press a
button and the children stirred into life.

The first reaction was wildness.  They got ready to bolt.  The biggest
of the boys, who by Earth-standards would have been about ten, got
three steps before he stopped and began laughing.

T'ruth spoke the Old Common Tongue to them, very slowly and with long
spaces between the words: "Wind-children do you know where you are?"

The biggest girl twittered back to her so fast that Casher could not
understand it.

T'ruth turned to Casher and said,

"The girl said that she is in the Dead Place, where the air never moves
and where the Old Dead Ones more around on their own business.  She
means us."

To the wind-children she spoke again.

"What would you like most?"

The biggest girl went from child to child.  They nodded agreement
vigorously.  They formed a circle and began a little chant.  By the
second repetition around, Casher could make it out.

Shig shag sh uggery', shuck shuck shuck!  What all of us need is an all
around duck.

Shig shag shuggery, shuck shuck shuck!

At the fourth or fifth repetition they all stopped and looked at
T'ruth, who was so plainly the mistress of the house.

She in turn spoke to Casher O'Neill: "They think that they want a
tribal feast of raw duck.  What they are going to get is inoculations
against the worst diseases of this planet, several duck meals, and
their freedom again.  But they need something else beyond all measure.
You know what that is, Casher, if you can only find it."

The whole crowd turned its eyes on Casher, the human eyes of the people
and under people the milky lenses of the robots.

Casher stood aghast.

"Is this a test?"  he asked, softly.

"You could call it that," said T'ruth, looking away from him.

Casher thought furiously and rapidly.  It wouldn't do any good to make
them into forget ties The household had enough of them.  T'ruth had
announced a plan to let them loose again.

Mister and owner Murray Madigan must have told her, sometime or other,
to "do something" about the wind-people.

She was trying to do it.  The whole crowd watched him.  What might
T'ruth expect?

The answer came to him in a flash.

If she were asking him, it must be something to do with himself,
something which he uniquely among these people, under people and robots
had brought to the storm-sieged mansion of Beauregard.

Suddenly he saw it.

"Use me, my Lady Ruth," said he, deliberately giving her the wrong
title, "to print on them nothing from my intellectual knowledge, but
everything from my emotional makeup.  It wouldn't do them any good to
know about Mizzer, where the Twelve Niles work their way down across
the Intervening Sands.  Nor about Pontoppidan, the Gem Planet.  Nor
about Olympia, where the blind brokers promenade under numbered clouds.
Knowing things would not help these children.  But wanting " He was
unique.  He had wanted to return to Mizzer.  He had wanted to return
beyond all dreams of blood and revenge.  He had wanted things fiercely,
wildly, so that even if he could not get them, he zigzagged the galaxy
in search of them.

T'ruth was speaking to him again, urgently and softly, but not in so
low a voice that the others in the room could not hear.

"And what, Casher O'Neill, should I give them from you?"

"My emotional structure.  My determination.  My desire.

Nothing else.  Give them that and throw them back into the winds.
Perhaps if they want something fiercely enough, they will grow up to
find out what it is."

There was a soft murmur of approval around the room.

T'ruth hesitated a moment and then nodded.

"You answered, Casher.

You answered quickly and perceptively.  Bring seven helmets, Eunice.
Stay here, doctor."

Eunice, the for getty left, taking two robots with her.

"A chair," said T'ruth to no one in particular.

"For him."

A large powerful under man pushed his way through the crowd and dragged
a chair to the end of the room.

T'ruth gestured that Casher should sit in it.

She stood in front of him.  Strange, thought Casher, that she should be
a great lady and still a little girl.  How would he ever find a girl
like her?  He was not even afraid of the mystery of the Fish, or the
image of the man on two pieces of wood.  He no longer dreaded
space-three, where so many travelers had gone in and so few had come
out.  He felt safe, comforted by her wisdom and authority.  He felt
that he would never see the likes of this again a child running a
planet and doing it well; a half-dead man surviving through the endless
devotion of his maidservant; a fierce woman hypnotist living on with
all the anxieties and angers of humanity gone, but with the skill and
obstinacy of turtle genes to sustain her in her re-imprinted form.

"I can guess what you are thinking," said T'ruth, "but we have already
said the things that we had to say.  I've peeped your mind a dozen
times and I know that you want to go back to Mizzer so bad that
space-three will spit you out right at the ruined fort where the big
turn of the Seventh Nile begins.  In my own way I love you, Casher, but
I could not keep you here without turning you into a for getty and
making you a servant to my master.  You know what always comes first
with me, and always will."

"Madigan."

"Madigan," she answered, and with her voice the name itself was a
prayer.

Eunice came back with the helmets.

"When we are through with these, Casher, I'll have them take you to the
conditioning room.  Good-bye, my might-have-been!"

In front of everyone, she kissed him full on the lips.

He sat in the chair, full of patience and contentment.  Even as his
vision blacked out, he could see the thin light sheath of a smock on
the girlish figure, he could remember the tender laughter lurking in
her smile.

In the last instant of his consciousness, he saw that another figure
had joined the crowd the tall old man with the worn bathrobe, the faded
blue eyes, the thin yellow hair.  Murray Madigan had risen from his
private-life-in-death and had come to see the last of Casher O'Neill.
He did not look weak, nor foolish.

He looked like a great man, wise and strange in ways beyond Casher's
understanding.

There was the touch of T'ruth's little hand on his arm and everything
became a velvety cluttered dark quiet inside his own mind.

XIV

When he awoke, he lay naked and sunburned under the hot sky of Mizzer.
Two soldiers with medical patches were rolling him onto a canvas
litter.

"Mizzer!"  he cried to himself.  His throat was too dry to make a
sound.

"I'm home."

Suddenly the memories came to him and he scrabbled and snatched at
them, seeing them dissolve within his mind before he could get paper to
write them down.

Memory: there was the front hall, himself getting ready to sleep in the
chair, with the old giant of Murray Madigan at the edge of the crowd
and the tender light touch of T'ruth his girl, his girl, now
uncountable light-years away putting her hand on his arm.

Memory: there was another room, with stained glass pictures and
incense, and the weep worthy scenes of a great life shown in frescoes
around the wall.  There were the two pieces of wood and man in pain
nailed to them.  But Casher knew that scattered and coded through his
mind, there was the ultimate and undefeatable wisdom of the Sign of the
Fish.  He knew he could never fear fear again.

Memory: there was a gaming table in a bright room, with the wealth of a
thousand worlds being raked toward him.  He was a woman, strong,
big-busted, bejewelled, and proud.  He was Agatha Madigan, winning at
the games.  (That must have come, he thought, when they printed me with
T'ruth.} And in that mind of the Hechizera, which was now his own mind,
too, there was clear sure knowledge of how he could win men and women,
officers and soldiers, even under people and robots, to his cause
without a drop of blood or word of anger.

The man, lifting him on the litter, made red waves of heat and pain
roll over him.

He heard one of them say,

"Bad case of burn.  Wonder how he lost his clothes."

The words were matter-of-fact; the comment was nothing special; but the
cadence, that special cadence, was the true speech of Mizzer.

As they carried him away, he remembered the face of Rankin Meiklejohn,
enormous eyes staring with inward despair over the brim of a big glass.
That was the Administrator.  On Henriada.

That was the man who sent me past Ambiloxi to Beauregard at two
seventy-five in the morning.  The litter jolted a little.

He thought of the wet marshes of Henriada and knew that soon he would
never remember them again.  The worms of the tornadoes creeping up to
the edge of the estate.  The mad wise face of John Joy Tree.

Space-three?  Space-three?  Already, even now, he could not remember
how they had put him into space-three.

And space-three itself All the nightmares which mankind has ever had
pushed into Casher's mind.  He twisted once in agony, just as the
litter reached a medical military cart.  He saw a girl's face what was
her name?  and then he slept.

XV

Fourteen Mizzer days later, the first test came.

A doctor colonel and an intelligence colonel, both in the workaday
uniform of Colonel Wedder's Special Forces, stood by his bed.

"Your name is Casher O'Neill and we do not know how your body fell
among the skirmishers," the doctor was saying, roughly and
emphatically.  Casher O'Neill turned his head on the pillow and looked
at the man.

"Say something more!"  he whispered to the doctor.

The doctor said,

"You are a political intruder and we do not know how you got mixed up
among our troops.  We do not even know how you got back among the
people of this planet.  We found you on the Seventh Nile."

The intelligence colonel, standing beside him, nodded agreement.

"Do you think the same thing.  Colonel?"  whispered Casher O'Neill to
the intelligence colonel.

"I ask questions.  I don't answer them," said the man gruffly.

Casher felt himself reaching for their minds with a kind of fingertip
which he did not know he had.  It was hard to put into ordinary words,
but it felt as though someone had said to him, Casher: "That one is
vulnerable at the left forefront area of his consciousness, but the
other one is well armored and must be reached through the mid-brain."
Casher was not afraid of revealing anything by his expression.  He was
too badly burned and in too much pain to show nuances of meaning on his
face.

(Somewhere he had heard of the wild story of the Hechizera of Gonfalon!
Somewhere endless storms boiled across ruined marshes under a cloudy
yellow sky!  But where, when, what was that.  . . ?  He could not take
time off for memory.  He had to fight for his life.) "Peace be with
you," he whispered to both of them.

"Peace be with you," they responded in unison, with some surprise.

"Lean over me, please," said Casher, "so that I do not have to
shout."

They stood stock straight.

Somewhere in the resources of his own memory and intelligence, Casher
found the right note of pleading which could ride his voice like a
carrier wave and make them do as he wished.

"This is Mizzer," he whispered.

"Of course this is Mizzer," snapped the intelligence colonel, "and you
are Casher O'Neill.  What are you doing here?"

"Lean over, gentlemen," he said softly, lowering his voice so that they
could barely hear him.

This time, they did lean over.

His burned hands reached for their hands.  The officers noticed it, but
since he was sick and unarmed, they let him touch them.

Suddenly he felt their minds glowing in his as brightly as if he had
swallowed their gleaming, thinking brains at a single gulp.

He spoke no longer.

He thought at them torrential, irresistible thought.

I am not Casher O

"Neill.  You will find his body in a room, four doors down.  I am the
civilian Bindaoud.

The two colonels stared, breathing heavily.

Neither said a word.

Casher went on: "Our fingerprints and records have gotten mixed.  Give
me the fingerprints and papers of the dead Casher O'Neill.  Bury him
then, quietly, but with honor.  Once he loved your leader and there is
no point in stirring up wild rumors about returns from out of space.  I
am Bindaoud.  You will find my records in your front office.  I am not
a soldier.  I am a civilian technician doing studies on the salt in
blood chemistry under field conditions.  You have heard me, gentlemen.
You hear me now.  You will hear me always.  But you will not remember
this, gentlemen, when you awaken.  I am sick.  You can give me water
and a sedative."

They still stood, enraptured by the touch of his tight burned hands.

Casher O'Neill said,

"Awaken."

Casher O'Neill let go their hands.

The medical colonel blinked and said amiably,

"You'll be better, mister and doctor Bindaoud.  I'll have the orderly
bring you water and a sedative."

To the other officer he said,

"I have an interesting corpse four doors down.  I think you had better
see it."

Casher O'Neill tried to think of the recent past, but the blue light of
Mizzer was all around him, the sand-smell, the sound of horses
galloping.  For a moment, he thought of a big child's blue dress and he
did not know why he almost wept.

 On the Sand Planet This is the story of the sand planet itself,
Mizzer, which had lost all hope when the tyrant Wedder imposed the
reign of terror and virtue.  And its liberator, Casher O'Neill of whom
strange things were told, from the day of blood in which he fled from
his native city of Kaheer, until he came back to end the shedding of
blood for all the rest of his years.

Everywhere that Casher had gone, he had had only one thought in his
mind deliverance of his home country from the tyrants whom he himself
had let slip into power when they had conspired against his uncle, the
unspeakable Kuraf.  He never forgot, whether waking or sleeping.  He
never forgot Kaheer itself along the First Nile, where the horses raced
on the turf with the sand nearby.  He never forgot the blue skies of
his home and the great dunes of the desert between one Nile and the
others.  He remembered the freedom of a planet built and dedicated to
freedom.  He never forgot that the price of blood is blood, that the
price of freedom is fighting, that the risk of fighting is death.  But
he was not a fool.  He was willing, if he had to, to risk his own
death, but he wanted odds on the battle which would not merely snare
him home, like a rabbit to be caught in a steel trap, by the police of
the dictator Wedder.

And then, he met the solution of his crusade without knowing it at
first.  He had come to the end of all things, all problems, all
worries.  He had also come to the end of all ordinary hope.  He met
T'ruth.  Now her subtle powers belonged to Casher O'Neill, to do with
as he pleased.

It pleased him to return to Mizzer, to enter Kaheer itself, and to
confront Wedder.

Why should he not come?  It was his home and he thirsted for revenge.
More than revenge he hungered for justice.  He had lived many years for
this hour and this hour came.

He entered the north gate of Kaheer.

Casher walked into Mizzer wearing the uniform of a medical technician
in Wedder's own military service.  He had assumed the appearance and
the name of a dead man named Bindaoud.  Casher walked with nothing more
than his hands as weapons, and his hands swung freely at the end of his
arms.

Only the steadfastness of his feet, the resolute grace with which he
took each step, betrayed his purpose.  The crowds in the street saw him
pass but they did not see him.  They looked at a man and they did not
realize that they saw their own history going step by step through
their various streets.  Casher O'Neill had entered the city of Kaheer;
he knew that he was being followed.  He could feel it.

He glanced around.

He had learned in his many years of fighting and struggle, on strange
planets, countless rules of unremembered hazards.

To be alert, he knew what this was.  It was a suchesache.  The
suchesache at the moment had taken the shape of a small witless boy,
some eight years old, who had two trails of stained mucus pouring down
from his nostrils, who had forever-open lips ready to call with the
harsh bark of idiocy, who had eyes that did not focus right.  Casher
O'Neill knew that this was a boy and not a boy.  It was a hunting and
searching device often employed by police lords when they presumed to
make themselves into kings or tyrants, a device which flitted from
shape to shape, from child to butterfly or bird, which moved with the
suchesache and watched the victim; watching, saying nothing, following.
He hated the suchesache and was tempted to throw all the powers of his
strange mind at it so that the boy might die and the machine hidden
within it might perish.  But he knew that this would lead to a cascade
of fire and splashing of blood.  He had already seen blood in Kaheer
long ago; he had no wish to see it in the city again.

Instead he stopped the pacing which had been following his cadenced
walk through the street.  He turned calmly and kindly and looked at the
boy, and he said to the boy and to the hideous machine within the
boy,

"Come along with me; I'm going straightway to the palace and you would
like to see that."

The machine, confronted, had no further choice.

The idiot boy put his hand in Casher's hand and somehow or other Casher
O'Neill managed to resume the rolling deliberate march which had marked
so many of his years, while keeping a grip on the hand of the demented
child who skipped beside him.  Casher could still feel the machine
watching him from within the eyes of the boy.  He did not care; he was
not afraid of guns; he could stop them.  He was not afraid of poison;
he could resist it.  He was not afraid of hypnotism; he could take it
in and spit
it back.  He was not afraid of fear; he had been on Henriada.  He had
come home through space-three.  There was nothing left to fear.

Straightway went he to the palace.  The midday gleamed in the bright
yellow sun which rode the skies of Kaheer.  The whitewashed walls in
the arabesque design stayed as they had been for thousands of years.
Only at the door was he challenged, but the sentry hesitated as Casher
spoke: "I am Bindaoud, loyal servant to Colonel Wedder, and this is a
child of the streets whom I propose to heal in order to show our good
Colonel Wedder a fair demonstration of my powers."

The sentry said something into a little box which sat in the wall.

Casher passed freely.  The suchesache trotted beside him.  As he went
through the corridors, laid with rich rugs, military and civilians
moving back and forth, he felt happy.  This was not the palace of
Wedder, though Wedder lived in it.  It was his own palace.  He, Casher,
had been born in it.  He knew it.  He knew every corridor.

The changes of the years were very few.  Casher turned left into an
open courtyard.  He smelled the smell of salt water and the sand and
the horses nearby.  He sighed a little at the familiarity of it, the
good and kind welcome.  He turned right again and ascended long, long
stairs.  Each step was carpeted in a different design.

His uncle Kuraf had stood at the head of these very stairs while men
and women, boys and girls were brought to him to become toys of his
evil pleasures.  Kuraf had been too fat to walk down these stairs to
greet them.  He always let the captives come up to himself and to his
den of pleasures.  Casher reached the top of the stairs and turned
left.

This was no den of pleasures now.

It was the office of Colonel Wedder.  He, Casher, had reached it.

How strange it was to reach this office, this target of all his hopes,
this one fevered pinpoint in all the universe for which his revenge had
thirsted until he thought himself mad.  He had thought of bombing this
office from outer space, or of cutting it with the thin arc of a laser
beam, or of poisoning it with chemicals, or of assaulting it with
troops.  He had thought of pouring fire on this building, or water.  He
had dreamed of making Mizzer free even at the price of the lovely city
of Kaheer itself by finding a small asteroid somewhere and crashing it,
in an interplanetary tragedy, directly into the city itself.  And the
city, under the roar of that impact, would have blazed into
thermonuclear incandescence and would have become a poison lake at the
end of the Twelve Niles.  He had thought of a thousand ways of entering
the city and of destroying the city, merely in order to destroy
Wedder.

Now he was here.  So too was Wedder.

Wedder did not know that he, Casher O'Neill, had come back.

Even less did Wedder know who Casher O'Neill had become, the master of
space, the traveler who traveled without ships, the vehicle for devices
stranger than any mind on Mizzer had ever conceived.

Very calm, very relaxed, very quiet, very assured, the doom which was
Casher O'Neill walked into the antechamber of Wedder.  Very modestly,
he asked for Wedder.

The dictator happened to be free.

He had changed little since Casher last saw him, a little older, a
little fatter, a little wiser all these perhaps.  Casher was not sure.
Every cell and filament in his living body had risen to the alert.  He
was ready to do the work for which the light-years had ached, for which
the worlds had turned, and he knew that within an instant it would be
done.  He confronted Wedder, gave Wedder a modest assured smile.

"Your servant, the technician Bindaoud, sir and colonel,"

said Casher O'Neill.  Wedder looked at him strangely.  He reached out
his hand, and, even as their hands touched, Wedder said the last words
he would ever say on his own.

Within that handclasp, Wedder spoke again and his voice was strange:
"Who are you?"

Casher had dreamed that he would say,

"I am Casher O'Neill come back from unimaginable distances to punish
you," or that he would say,

"I am Casher O'Neill and I have ridden star lanes for years upon years
to find your destruction."  Or he had even thought that he might say,

"Surrender or die, Wedder, your time has come."  Sometimes he had
dreamed he would say,

"Here, Wedder," and then show him the knife with which to take his
blood.

Yet this was the climax and none of these things occurred.

The idiot boy with the machine within it stood at ease.

Casher O'Neill merely held Wedder's hand and said quite simply,

"Your friend."

As he said that, he searched back and forth.  He could feel inner eyes
within his own head, eyes which did not move within the sockets of his
face, eyes which he did not have and with which he could nevertheless
see.  These were the eyes of his perception.

Quickly, he adjusted the anatomy of Wedder, working kin esthetically
squeezing an artery there, pinching off a gland here.  Here, harden the
tissue, through which the secretions of a given endocrine material had
to come.  In less time than it would take an ordinary doctor to
describe the process, he had changed Wedder.  Wedder had been tuned
down like a radio with dials realigned, like a spaceship with its lock
sheets reset.

The work which Casher had done was less than any pilot does in the
course of an ordinary landing; but the piloting he had done was within
the
biochemical system of Wedder himself.  And the changes which he had
effected were irreversible.

The new Wedder was the old Wedder.  The same mind.  The same will, the
same personality.  Yet its permutations were different.  And its method
of expression already slightly different.

More benign.  More tolerant.  More calm, more human.  Even a little
corrupt, as he smiled and said,

"I remember you, now, Bindaoud.  Can you help that boy?"

The supposed Bindaoud ran his hands over the boy.  The boy wept with
pain and shock for a moment.  He wiped his dirty nose and upper lip on
his sleeves.  His eyes came into focus.  His lips compressed.  His mind
burned brightly as its old worn channels became human instead of idiot.
The suchesache machine knew it was out of place and fled for another
refuge.  The boy, given his brains, but no words, no education yet,
stood there and hiccupped with joy.

Wedder said very pleasantly,

"That is remarkable.  Is it all that you have to show me?"

"All," said Casher O'Neill.

"You were not he."

He turned his back on Wedder and did so in perfect safety.

He knew Wedder would never kill another man.

Casher stopped at the door and looked back.  He could tell from the
posture of Wedder that that which had to be done, had been done: the
changes within the man were larger than the man himself.  The planet
was free and Casher's own work was indeed done.  The suddenly
frightened child, which had lost the suchesache, followed him out of
blind instinct.

The colonels and the staff officers did not know whether to salute or
nod when they saw their chief stand at the doorway, and waved with
unexpected friendliness at Casher O'Neill as Casher descended the broad
carpeted steps, the child stumbling behind him.  At the furthest steps,
Casher looked one last time at the enemy who had become almost a part
of himself.  There stood Wedder, the man of blood.  And now, he
himself, Casher O'Neill, had expunged the blood, had redone the past,
and reshaped the future.  All Mizzer was heading back to the openness
and freedom which it had enjoyed in the time of the old Republic of the
Twelve Niles.  He walked on, shifting from one corridor to the other
and using short-cuts to the courtyards, until he came to the doorway of
the palace.  The sentry presented arms.

"At ease," said Casher.  The man put down his gun.

Casher stood outside the palace, that palace which had been his
uncle's, which had been his own, which had really been himself.  He
felt the clear air of Mizzer.  He looked at the clear blue skies which
he had always loved.  He looked at the world to which he had promised
he would return, with justice, with vengeance, with thunder, with
power.  Thanks to the strange
of Man and subtle capacities which he had learned from the
turtle-girl, T'ruth, hidden in her own world amid the storm-churned
atmosphere of Henriada, he had not needed to fight.

Casher turned to the boy and said,

"I am a sword which has been put into its scabbard.  I am a pistol with
the cartridges dropped out.  I am a wire point with no battery behind
it.  I am a man, but I am very empty."

The boy made strangled, confused sounds as though he were trying to
think, to become himself, to make up for all the lost time he had spent
in idiocy.

Casher acted on impulse.  Curiously, he gave to the boy his own native
speech of Kaheer.  He felt his muscles go tight, shoulders, neck,
fingertips, as he concentrated with the arts he had learned in the
palace of Beauregard where the girl T'ruth governed almost-forever in
the name of Mister and Owner Murray Madigan.  He took the arts and
memories he sought.  He seized the boy roughly but tightly by the
shoulders.  He peered into frightened crying eyes and then, in a single
blast of thought, he gave the boy speech, words, memory, ambition,
skills.  The boy stood there dazed.

At last the boy spoke and he asked,

"Who am I?"

Casher could not answer that one.  He patted the child on the shoulder.
He said,

"Go back to the city and find out.  I have other needs.  I have to find
out who I myself may be.  Good-bye and peace be with you."

Casher remembered that his mother still lived here.  He had often
forgotten her.  It would have been easier to forget her.  Her name was
Trihaep, and she had been sister to Kuraf.  Where Kuraf had been
vicious, she had been virtuous.  Where Kuraf had sometimes been
grateful, she had been thrifty and shifty.  Where Kuraf, with all his
evils, had acquired a toleration for men and things and ideas, she
remained set on the pattern of thought which her parents had long ago
taught her.

Casher O'Neill did something he thought he would never do.

He had never really even thought about doing it.  It was too simple. He
went home.

At the gate of the house, his mother's old servant knew him, despite
the change in his face, and she said, with a terrible awe in her
voice,

"It seems to me that I am looking at Casher O'Neill."

"I use the name Bindaoud," said Casher, "but I am Casher O'Neill.  Let
me in and tell my mother that I am here."

He went into the private apartment of his mother.  The old furniture
was still there.  The polished bricabrac of a hundred ages, the old
paintings and the old mirrors, and the dead people whom he had never
known,
represented by their pictures and their mementos.  He felt just as ill
at ease as he felt when he was a small boy, when he had visited the
same room, before his uncle came to take him to the palace.

His mother came in.  She had not changed.

He half-thought that she would reach out her arms to him, and cry in a
deliberately modern passion,

"My baby!  My precious!

Come back to me!"

She did no such thing.

She looked at him coldly as though he were a complete stranger.

She said to him,

"You don't look like my son, but I suppose that you are.  You have made
trouble enough in your time.  Are you making trouble now?"

"I make no malicious trouble.  Mother, and I never have," said Casher,
"no matter what you may think of me.  I did what I had to do.  I did
what was right."

"Betraying your uncle was right?  Letting down our family was right?
Disgracing us all was right?  You must be a fool to talk like this.  I
heard that you were a wanderer, that you had great adventures, and had
seen many worlds.  You don't sound any different to me.  You're an old
man.  You almost seem as old as I do.  I had a baby once, but how could
that be you?  You are an enemy of the house of Kuraf O'Neill.  You're
one of the people who brought it down in blood.  But they came from
outside with their principles and their thoughts and their dreams of
power.  And you stole from inside like a cur.  You opened the door and
you let in ruin.  Who are you that I should forgive you?"

"I do not ask your forgiveness.  Mother," said Casher.

"I do not even ask your understanding.  I have other places to go and
other things yet to do.  May peace be upon you."

She stared at him, said nothing.

He went on,

"You will find Mizzer a more pleasant place to live in, since I talked
to Wedder this morning."

"You talked to Wedder?"  cried she.

"And he did not kill you?"

"He did not know me."

"Wedder did not know you?"

"I assure you, Mother, he did not know me."

"You must be a very powerful man, my son.  Perhaps you can repair the
fortune of the house of Kuraf O'Neill after all the harm you have done,
and all the heartbreak you brought to my brother.

I suppose you know your wife's dead?"

"I had heard that," said Casher.

"I hope she died instantly in an accident and without pain."

"Of course it was an accident.  How else do people die these days?  She
and her husband tried out one of those new boats, and it overturned."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't there."

"I know that.  I know that perfectly well, my son.  You were outside
there, so that I had to look up at the stars with fear.  I could look
up in the sky and stare for the man who was my son lurking up there
with blood and ruin.  With vengeance upon vengeance heaped upon all of
us, just because he thought he knew what was right.  I've been afraid
of you for a long long time, and I thought if I ever met you again I
would fear you with my whole heart.  You don't quite seem to be what I
expected, Casher.  Perhaps I can like you.  Perhaps I can even love you
as a mother should.  Not that it matters.  You and I are too old
now."

"I'm not working on that kind of mission any longer, Mother.  I have
been in this old room long enough and I wish you well.  But I wish many
other people well, too.  I have done what I had to do.  Perhaps I had
better say good-bye, and much later perhaps, I will come back and see
you again.  When both of us know more about what we have to do."

"Don't you even want to see your daughter?"

"Daughter?"  said Casher O'Neill.

"Do I have a daughter?"

"Oh, poor fool, you.  Didn't you even find that out after you left? She
bore your child, all right.  She even went through the old-fashioned
business of a natural birth.  The child even looks something like the
way you used to look.  Matter of fact, she's rather arrogant, like you.
 You can call on her if you want to.

She lives in the house which is just outside the square in Golden Laut
in the leather workers' area.  Her husband's name is Ali Ali.  Look her
up if you want to."

She extended a hand.  Casher took the hand as though she had been a
queen.  And he kissed the cool fingers.  As he looked her in the face,
here, too, he brought his skills from Henriada in place.  He surveyed
and felt her personally as though he were a surgeon of the soul, but in
this case there was nothing for him to do.  This was not a dynamic
personality struggling and fighting and moving against the forces of
life and hope and disappointment.  This was something else, a person
set in life, immobile, determined, rigid even for a man with healing
arts who could destroy a fleet with his thoughts or who could bring an
idiot to normality by mere command.  He could see that this was a case
beyond his powers.

He patted the old hand affectionately and she smiled warmly at him, not
knowing what it meant.

"If anyone asks,"

said Casher, "the name I have been using is that of the Doctor
Bindaoud.  Bindaoud the technician.  Can you remember that, Mother?"

"Bindaoud the technician," she echoed, as she led him out the door to
walk in the street.

Within twenty minutes he was knocking at his daughter's door.

II

The daughter herself answered the door.  She flung it open.

She looked at the strange man, surveyed him from head to heels.

She noted the medical insignia on his uniform.  She noted his mark of
rank.  She appraised him shrewdly, quickly, and she knew he had no
business there in the quarters of the leather workers.

"Who are you?"  she sang out, quickly and clearly.

"In these hours and at this time, I pass under the name of the expert
Bindaoud, a technician and medical man back from the special forces of
Colonel Wedder.  I'm just on leave, you see, but sometime later, madam,
you might find out who I really am, and I thought you better hear it
from my lips.  I'm your father."

She did not move.  The significant thing is that she did not move at
all.  Casher studied her and could see the cast of his own bones in the
shape of her face, could see the length of his own fingers repeated in
her hands.  He had sensed that the storms of duty which had blown him
from sorrow to sorrow, the wind of conscience which had kept alive his
dreams of vengeance, had turned into something very different in her.
It, too, was a force, but not the kind of force he understood.

"I have children now and I would just as soon you not meet them.  As a
matter of fact, you have never done me a good deed except to beget me.
You have never done me an ill deed except to threaten my life from
beyond the stars.  I am tired of you and I am tired of everything you
were or might have been.  Let's forget it.

Can't you go your way and let me be?  I may be your daughter, but I
can't help that."

"As you wish, madam.  I have had many adventures, and I do not propose
to tell them to you.  I can see quickly enough that you have what is
seemingly a good life, and I hope that my deeds this morning in the
palace will have made it better.  You'll find out soon enough.
Good-bye."

The door closed upon him and he walked back through the sun-drenched
market of the leather workers.  There were golden hides there.  Hides
of animals which had then been artfully engraved with very fine strips
of beaten gold so that they gleamed in the sunlight.  Casher looked
upward and around.

Where do I go now?  thought he.  Where do I go when I've done
everything I had to do?  When I've loved everyone I have wanted to
love, when I have been everything I have had to be?  What does a man
with a mission do when the mission is fulfilled?  Who can be more
hollow than a victor?  If I had lost, I could still want revenge.  But
I haven't.  I've won.  And I've won nothing.  I've wanted nothing for
myself from this dear city.  I want nothing from this dear world.  It's
not in my power to give it or to take it.

Where do
of Man I go when I have nowhere to go?  What do I become when I am not
ready for death and I have no reason whatsoever for life?

There sprang into his mind the memory of the world of Henriada with the
twisting snakes of the little tornadoes.  He could see the slender,
pale, hushed face of the girl T'ruth and he remembered at last that
which it was which she had held in her hand.  It was the magic.  It was
the secret sign of the Old Strong Religion.  There was the man forever
dying nailed to two pieces of wood.  It was the mystery behind the
civilization of all these stars.  It was the thrill of the First
Forbidden One, the Second Forbidden One, the Third Forbidden One.  It
was the mystery on which the robot, rat, and Copt agreed when they came
back from space-three.  He knew what he had to do.

He could not find himself because there was no himself to be found.  He
was a used tool.  A discarded vessel.  He was a shard tossed on the
ruins of time, and yet he was a man with eyes and brains to think and
with many unaccustomed powers.

He reached into the sky with his mind, calling for a public flying
machine.

"Come and get me," he said, and the great winged birdlike machine came
soaring over the rooftops and dropped gently into the square.

"I thought I heard you call, sir."

Casher reached into his pocket and took out his imaginary pass signed
by Wedder, authorizing him to use all the vehicles of the republic in
the secret service of the regime of Colonel Wedder.  The sergeant
recognized the pass and almost popped out his eyes in respect.

"The Ninth Nile, can you reach it with this machine?"

"Easily," said the sergeant.

"But you better get some shoes first.  Iron shoes because the ground
there is mostly volcanic glass."

"Wait here for me," said Casher.

"Where can I get the shoes?"

"Two streets over and better get two water bottles, too."

IV

Within a matter of minutes he was back.  The sergeant watched him fill
the bottles in the fountain.  He looked at his medical insignia without
doubt and showed him how to sit on the cramped emergency seat inside
the great machine bird.  They snapped their seat belts and the sergeant
said,

"Ready?"  and the ornithopter spread out its wings, and flew into the
air.

The huge wings were like oars digging into a big sea.  They rose
rapidly and soon Kaheer was below them, the fragile minarets and the
white sand with the racing turf along the river, and the green fields,
and even the pyramids copied from something on Ancient Earth.

The operator did something and the machine flew harder.  The wings,
although far slower than any jet aircraft, were steady, and they moved
with respectable speed across the broad dry desert.

Casher still wore his decimal watch from Henriada, and it was two whole
decimal hours before the sergeant turned around, pinched him gently
awake from the drowse into which he had fallen, shouted something, and
pointed down.  A strip of silver matched by two strips of green
wandering through a wilderness of black, gleaming glittering black,
with the beige sands of the everlasting desert stretching everywhere in
the distance.

"The Ninth Nile?"  shouted Casher.  The sergeant smiled the smile of a
man who had heard nothing but wanted to be agreeable, and the
ornithopter dived with a lurching suddenness toward the twist in the
river.  A few buildings became visible.

They were modest and small.  Verandas, perhaps, for the use of a
visitor.  Nothing more.

It was not the sergeant's business to query anyone on secret orders
from Colonel Wedder.  He showed the cramped Casher O'Neill how to get
out of the ornithopter, and then, standing in his seat, saluted, and
said,

"Anything else, sir?"

Casher said,

"No.  I'll make my own way.  If they ask you who I was, I am the Doctor
Bindaoud and you have left me here under orders."

"Right, sir," said the sergeant, and the great machine reached out its
gleaming wings, flapped, spiraled, climbed, became a dot, and
vanished.

Casher stood there alone.  Utterly alone.  For many years he had been
supported by a sense of purpose, by a drive to do something, and now
the drives and the purpose were gone, and his life was gone, and the
use of his future was gone, and he had nothing.  All he had was the
ultimate imagination, health, and great skills.  These were not what he
wanted.  He wanted the liberation of all Mizzer.  But he had gotten
that, so what was it?

He almost stumbled towards one of the nearby buildings.

A voice spoke up.  A woman's voice.  The friendly voice of an old
woman.

Very unexpectedly, she said,

"I've been waiting for you, Casher; come on in.

V

He stared at her.

"I've seen you," he said.

"I've seen you somewhere.  I know you well.  You've affected my fate.
You did something to me and yet I don't know who you are.  How could
you be here to meet me when I didn't know I was coming?"

"Everything in its time," said the woman.

"With a time for everything
of Man and what you need now is rest.  I'm D'alma, the dog-woman from
Pontoppidan.  The one who washed the dishes."

"Her," cried he.

"Me," she said.

"But you but you how did you get here?"

"I got here," she said.

"Isn't that obvious?"

"Who sent you?"

"You're part of the way to the truth," she said.

"You might as well hear a little more of it.  I was sent here by a lord
whose name I will never mention.  A lord of the under people Acting
from Earth.  He sent out another dog-woman to take my place.  And he
had me shipped here as simple baggage.  I worked in the hospital where
you recovered and I read your mind as you got well.  I knew what you
would do to Wedder and I was pretty sure that you would come up here to
the Ninth Nile, because that is the road that all searchers must
take."

"Do you mean," he said, "that you know the road to " He hesitated and
then plunged into his question, " the Holy of Unholies, the Thirteenth
Nile?"

"I don't see that it means anything, Casher.  Except that you'd better
take off those iron shoes; you don't need them yet.  You'd better come
in here.  Come on in."

He pushed the beaded curtains aside and entered the bungalow.  It was a
simple frontier official dwelling.  There were cots hither and yon, a
room to the rear which seemed to be hers; a dining room to the right
and there were papers, a viewing machine, cards, and games on the
table.  The room itself was astonishingly cool.

She said,

"Casher, you've got to relax.  And that is the hardest of all things to
do.  To relax, when you had a mission for many many years."

"I know it," said he.

"I know it.  But knowing it and doing it aren't the same things."

"Now you can do it," said D'alma.

"Do what?"  he snapped.

"Relax, as we were talking about.  All you have to do here is to have
some good meals.  Just sleep a few times, swim in the river if you want
to.  I have sent everyone away except myself, and you and I shall have
this house.  And I am an old woman, not even a human being.  You're a
man, a true man, who's conquered a thousand worlds.  And who has
finally triumphed over Wedder.  I think we'll get along.  And when
you're ready for the trip, I'll take you."

The days did pass as she said they would.  With insistent but firm
kindness, she made him play games with her: simple, childish games
with
dice and cards.  Once or twice he tried to hypnotize her.  To throw
the dice his own way.  He changed the cards in her hand.  He found that
she had very little telepathic offensive power, but that her defenses
were superb.  She smiled at him whenever she caught him playing tricks.
And his tricks failed.

With this kind of atmosphere he really began to relax.  She was the
woman who had spelled happiness for him on Pontoppidan when he didn't
know what happiness was.  When he had abandoned the lovely Genevieve to
go on with his quest for vengeance.

Once he said to her,

"Is that old horse still alive?"

"Of course he is," she said.

"That horse will probably outlive you and me.  He thinks he's on Mizzer
by galloping around a patrol capsule.  Come on back; it's your turn to
play."

He put down the cards, and slowly the peace, the simplicity, the
reassuring, calm sweetness of it all stole over him and he began to
perceive the nature of her therapy.  It was to do nothing but slow him
down.  He was to meet himself again.

It may have been the tenth day, perhaps it was the fourteenth, that he
said to her,

"When do we go?"

She said,

"I've been waiting for that question and we're ready now.  We go."

"When?"

"Right now.  Put on your shoes.  You won't need them very much," she
said, "but you might need them where we land.  I am taking you part way
there."

Within a few minutes, they went out into the yard.  The river in which
he had swum lay below.  A shed, which he did not remember having
noticed before, lay at the far end of the yard.

She did something to the door, removing a lock, and the door flung
open.  And she pulled out a skeletonized ornithopter motor, wings,
tails.  The body was just a bracket of metal.  The source of power was
as usual an ultra-miniaturized, nuclear-powered battery.  Instead of
seats, there were two tiny saddles, like the saddles used in the
bicycles of old, old Earth which he had seen in museums.

"You can fly that?"  he asked.

"Of course I can fly it.  It's better than going 200 miles over broken
glass.  We are leaving civilization now.  We are leaving everything
that was on any map.  We are flying directly to the Thirteenth Nile, as
you well knew it should be that."

"I knew that," he said.

"I never expected to reach it so soon.

Does this have anything to do with that Sign of the Fish you were
talking about?"

"Everything, Casher.  Everything.  But everything in its place.

Climb in behind me."  He sat on top of the ornithopter, and this one
ran down the
of Man yard on its tall, graceful mechanical legs before the flaps of
its wings put it in the air.  She was a better pilot than the sergeant
had been; she soared more and beat the wings less.  She flew over
country that he, a native of Mizzer, had never dreamed about.

They came to a city gaudy in color.  He could see large fires burning
alongside the river, and brightly painted people with their hands
lifted in prayer.  He saw temples and strange gods in them.

He saw markets with goods, which he never thought to see marketed.

"Where are we?"  he asked.

D'alma said,

"This is the City of Hopeless Hope."  She put the ornithopter down and,
as they climbed out of the saddles, it lifted itself into the air and
flew back, in the direction from whence they had come.

"You are staying with me?"  asked Casher.

"Of course I am.  I was sent to be with you."

"What for?"

"You are important to all the worlds, Casher, not just Mizzer.

By the authority of the friends I have, they have sent me here to help
you."

"But what do you get out of it?"

"I get nothing, Casher.  I find my own destruction, perhaps, but I will
accept that.  Even the loss of my own hope if it only moves you further
on in your voyage.  Come, let us enter the City of Hopeless Hope."

VI

They walked through the strange streets.  Almost everyone in the
streets seemed to be engaged in the practice of religion.  The stench
of the burning dead was all round them.  Talismans, luck charms, and
funeral supplies were in universal abundance.

Casher said, speaking rather quietly to D'alma,

"I never knew there was anything like this on any civilized planet."

"Obviously," she replied, "there must be many people who believe in
worry about death; there are many who do know about this place.
Otherwise there would not be the throngs here.  These are the people
who have the wrong hope and who go to no place at all, who find under
this earth and under the stars their final fulfillment.  These are the
ones who are so sure that they are right that they never will be right.
We must pass through them quickly, Casher, lest we, too, start
believing."

No one impeded their passage in the streets, although many people
paused to see that a soldier, even a medical soldier, in uniform, had
the audacity to come there.

They were even more surprised that an old hospital attendant who
seemed to be an off-world dog walked along beside him.

"We cross the bridge now, Casher, and this bridge is the most terrible
thing I've ever seen, whereas now we are going to come to the Jwindz,
and the Jwindz oppose you and me and everything you stand for."

"Who are the Jwindz?"  asked Casher.

"The Jwindz are the perfect ones.  They are perfect in this earth.  You
will see soon enough."

VII

As they crossed the bridge, a tall, blithe police official, clad in a
neat black uniform, stepped up to them and said,

"Go back.

People from your city are not welcome here."

"We are not from that city," said D'alma.

"We are travelers."

"Where are you bound?"  asked the police official.

"We are bound for the source of the Thirteenth Nile."

"Nobody goes there," said the guard.

"We are going there," said D'alma.

"By what authority?"

Casher reached into his pocket and took out a genuine card.

He had remade one, from the memories he had retained in his mind.  It
was an all-world pass, authorized by the Instrumentality.

The police official looked at it and his eyes widened.

"Sir and master, I thought you were merely one of Wedder's men.  You
must be someone of great importance.  I will notify the scholars in the
Hall of Learning at the middle of the city.  They will want to see you.
Wait here.  A vehicle will come."

D'alma and Casher O'Neill did not have long to wait.  She said nothing
at all in this time.  Her air of good humor and competence ebbed
perceptibly.  She was distressed by the cleanliness and perfection
around her, by the silence, by the dignity of the people.

When the vehicle came, it had a driver, as correct, as smooth, and as
courteous as the guard at the bridge.  He opened the door and waved
them in.  They climbed in and they sped noiselessly through the
well-groomed streets: houses, each one in immaculate taste; trees,
planted the way in which trees should be planted.

In the center square of the city, they stopped.  The driver got out,
walked around the vehicle, opened their door.

He pointed at the archway of the large building and he said, "They are
expecting you."

of Man Casher and D'alma walked up the steps reluctantly.  She was
reluctant because she had some sense of what this place was, a special
dwelling for quiet doom and arrogant finality.  He was reluctant
because he could feel that in every bone of her body she resented this
place.  And he resented it, too.

They were led through the archway and across a patio to a large,
elegant conference room.

Within the room a circular table had already been set in preparation of
a meal.

Ten handsome men rose to greet them.

The first one said,

"You are Casher O'Neill.  You are the wanderer.  You are the man
dedicated to this planet and we appreciate what you have done for us,
even though the power of Colonel Wedder never reached here."

"Thank you," said Casher.

"I am surprised to hear that you know of me."

"That's nothing," said the man.

"We know of everyone.  And you, woman," said the same man to D'alma,
"you know full well that we never entertain women here.  And you are
the only under person in this city.  A dog at that.  But in honor of
our guest we shall let you pass.  Sit down if you wish.  We want to
talk to you."

A meal was served.  Little squares of sweet unknown meat, fresh fruits,
bits of melon, chased with harmonious drinks which cleared the mind and
stimulated it, without intoxicating or drugging.

The language of their conversations was clear and elevated.

All questions were answered swiftly, smoothly, and with positive
clarity.

Finally, Casher was moved to ask,

"I do not seem to have heard of you, Jwindz; who are you?"

"We are the perfect ones," said the oldest Jwindz.

"We have all the answers; there is nothing else left to find."

"How do you get here?"  said Casher.

"We are selected from many worlds."

"Where are your families?"

"We don't bring them with us."

"How do you keep out intruders?"

"If they are good, they wish to stay.  If they are not good, we destroy
them."

Casher still shocked by his experience of fulfilling all his life's
work in the confrontation with Wedder though his life might be at
stake, asked casually,

"Have you decided yet whether I am perfect enough to join you?  Or am I
not perfect and to be destroyed?"

The heaviest of all the Jwindz, a tall, portly man, with a great bushy
shock of black hair, replied ponderously.

"Sir, you are forcing our decision, but I think that you may be some-
thing exceptional.  We cannot accept you.  There is too much force in
you.  You may be perfect, but you are more than perfect.  We are men,
sir, and I do not think that you are any longer a mere man.

You are almost a machine.  You are yourself dead people.  You are the
magic of ancient battles coming to strike among us.  We are all of us a
little afraid of you, and yet we do not know what to do with you.  If
you were to stay here a while, if you calmed down, we might give you
hope.  We know perfectly well what that dog woman of yours calls our
city.  She calls it the City of the Perfect Ones.  We just call it
Jwindz Jo, in memory of the ancient Rule of the Jwindz, which somewhere
once obtained upon old Earth.  And therefore, we think that we will
neither kill you nor accept you.

We think do we not, gentlemen?  that we will speed you on your way, as
we have sped no other traveler.  And that we will send you, then, to a
place which few people pass.  But you have the strength and if you are
going to the source of the Thirteenth Nile, you will need it."

"I will need strength?"  Casher asked.

The first Jwindz who had met them at the door said,

"Indeed you will need strength, if you go to Mortoval.  We may be
dangerous to the uninitiated.  Mortoval is worse than dangerous.

It is a trap many times worse than death.  But go there if you must."

VIII

Casher O'Neill and D'alma reached Mortoval on a one wheeled cart, which
ran on a high wire past picturesque mountain gorges, soaring over two
serrated series of peaks and finally dropping down to another bend in
the same river, the illegal and forgotten Thirteenth Nile.

When the vehicle stopped, they got out.  No one had accompanied them.
The vehicle, held in place by gyroscopes and compasses, felt itself
relieved of their weight and hurried home.

This time there was no city: just one great arch.  D'alma clung close
to him.  She even took his arm and pulled it over her shoulder as
though she needed protection.  She whined a little as they walked up a
low hill and finally reached the arch.  They walked into the arch and a
voice not made of sound cried out to them.

"I am youth and am everything that you have been or ever will be.  Know
this now before I show you more."

Casher was brave, and this time he was cheerfully hopeless, so he
said,

"I know who I am.  Who are you?"

"I am the force of the Gunung Banga.  I am the power of this planet
which keeps everyone in this planet and which assures the order which
of Man persists among the stars, and promises that the dead shall not
walk among the men.  And I serve of the fate and the hope of the
future.  Pass if you think you can."

Casher searched with his own mind and he found what he wanted.  He
found the memory of a young child, T'ruth, who had been almost a
thousand years on the planet of Henriada.  A child, soft and gentle on
the outside, but wise and formidable and terrible beyond belief, in the
powers which she had carried, which had been imprinted upon her.

As he walked through the arch he cast the images of truth here and
there.  Therefore he was not one person but a multitude.  And the
machine and the living being which hid behind the machine, the Gunung
Banga, obviously could see him and could see D'alma walking through,
but the machine was not prepared to recognize whole multitudes of
crying throngs.

"Who are you thousands that you should come here now?  Who are you
multitudes that you should be two people?  I sense all of you.  The
fighters and the ships and the men of blood, the searchers and the for
getters there's even an Old North Australian renunciant here.  And the
great Go-Captain Tree, and there are even a couple of men of Old Earth.
 You are all walking through me.  How can I cope with you?"

"Make us, us," said Casher firmly.

"Make you, you," replied the machine.

"Make you, you.  How can I make you, you, when I do not know who you
are, when you flit like ghosts and you confuse my computers?  There are
too many, I say.  There are too many of you.  It is ordained that you
should pass."

"If it is so ordained, then let us pass."  D'alma suddenly stood proud
and erect.

They walked on through.

She said,

"You got us through."  They had indeed passed beyond the arch, and
there, beyond the arch, lay a gentle riverside with skiffs pulled up
along the beach.

"This seems to be next," said Casher O'Neill.

D'alma nodded.

"I'm your dog, master.  We go where you think."

They climbed into a skiff.  Echoes of tumult followed from the arch.

"Good-bye to troubles," the echoes said.

"Had they been people they would have been stopped.  But she was a dog
and a servant, who had lived many years in the happiness of the Sign of
the Fish.  And he was a combat-ready man who had incorporated within
himself the memories of adversaries and friends, too tumultuous for any
scanner to measure, too complex for any computer to assess."  The
echoes resounded across the river.

There was even a dock on the other side.  Casher tied the skiff to the
dock and he helped the dog-woman go toward the buildings that they saw
beyond some trees.

IX

D'Alma said,

"I have seen pictures of this place; this is the Kermesse Dorgiieil,
and here we may lose our way, because this is the place where all the
happy things of this world come together, but where the man and the two
pieces of wood never filter through.  We shall see no one unhappy, no
one sick, no one unbalanced; everyone will be enjoying the good things
of life; perhaps I will enjoy it, too.  May the Sign of the Fish help
me that I not become perfect too soon."

"You won't be," Casher promised.

At the gate of this city, there was no guard at all.  They walked on
past a few people who seemed to be promenading outside the town. Within
the city they approached what seemed to be a hotel and an inn or a
hospital.  At any rate it was a place where many people were fed.

A man came out and said,

"Well, this is a strange sight; I never knew that the Colonel Wedder
let his officers get this far from home, and as for you, woman, you're
not even a human being.  You're an odd couple and you're not in love
with each other.  Can we do anything for you?"

Casher reached into his pocket and tossed several credit pieces of five
denominations in front of the man.

"Don't these mean anything?"  asked Casher.

Catching them in his fingers, the man said,

"Oh, we can use money!  We use it occasionally for important things; we
don't need yours.  We live well here, and we have a nice life, not like
those two places across the river, which stay away from life.  All men
who are perfect are nothing but talk Jwindz they call themselves, the
perfect ones well, we're not that perfect.  We've got families and good
food and good clothes, and we get the latest news from all the
worlds."

"News," said Casher.

"I thought that was illegal."

"We get anything.  You would be surprised at what we have here.  It's a
very civilized place.  Come on in; this is the hotel of the Singing
Swans and you can live here as long as you wish.  When I say that, I
mean it.  Our treasure has unusual resources, and I can see that you
are unusual people.  You are not a medical technician, despite that
uniform, and your follower is not a mere dogunderperson or you wouldn't
have gotten this far."

They entered a promenade two stories high; little shops lined each side
of the corridor with the treasures of all the worlds on exhibit.  The
prices were marked explaining them, but there was no one in the
stalls.

The smell of good food came from a cool dining room in the inn.

"Come into my office and have a drink.  My name is Howard."

"That's an old Earth name," said Casher.

"Why shouldn't it be?"  asked Howard.

"I came here from old Earth.  I
looked for the best of all places, and it took me a long time to find
it.  This is it the Kermesse Dorgiieil.  We have nothing here but
simple and clean pleasures; we have only those vices which help and
support.  We accomplish the possible; we reject the impossible.  We
live life, not death.  Our talk is about things and not about ideas. We
have nothing but scorn for that city behind you, the City of the
Perfect Ones.  And we have nothing but pity for the holier than holies
far back where they claim to have Hopeless Hope, and practice nothing
but evil religion.  I passed through those places too, although I had
to go around the City of the Perfect Ones.  I know what they are and
I've come all the way from Earth, and if I have come all the way from
old old Earth I should know what this is.  You should take my word for
it."

"I've been on Earth myself," said Casher, rather dryly.

"It's not that unusual."

The man stopped with surprise.

"My name," said Casher, "is Casher O'Neill."

The man halted and then gave him a deep bow.

"If you are Casher O'Neill, you have changed this world; you have come
back, my lord and master.  Welcome.  We are no longer your host.  This
is your city.  What do you wish of us?"

"To look a while, to rest a while, to ask directions for the voyage."

"Directions?  Why should anyone want directions away from here?  People
come here and ask directions from a thousand places to get to Kermesse
Dorgiieil."

"Let's not argue this now," said Casher.

"Show us the rooms, let us clean ourselves up.  Two separate rooms."

Howard walked upstairs.  With an intricate twist of his hand he
unlocked two rooms.

"At your service," he said.

"Call me with your voice; I can hear you anywhere in the building."

Casher called once for sleeping gear, toothbrushes, shaving equipment.
He insisted that they send the shampooer, a woman of apparent Earth
origin, in to attend to D'alma; and D'alma actually knocked at his door
and begged that he not shower her with these attentions.

He said,

"You with your deep kindness have helped me so far.

I am helping you very little."

They ate a light repast together in the garden just below their two
rooms, and then they went to their rooms and slept.

It was only on the morning of the second day that they went with Howard
into the city to see what could be found.

Everywhere the city was strong with happiness.  The population could
not have been very large, twenty or thirty thousand persons at most.

At one point, Casher stopped; he could smell the scorch of ozone in
the air.  He knew the atmosphere itself had been burned and that meant
only one thing, spaceships coming in or going out.

He asked,

"Where is the spaceport for Earth?"

Howard looked at him quickly and keenly.

"If you were not the lord Casher O'Neill, I'd never tell you.  We have
a small spaceport there.  That is the way that we avoid our traffic
with most of Mizzer.  Do you need it, sir?"

"Not now," said Casher.

"I just wondered where it was."  They came to a woman who danced as she
sang to the accompaniment of two men with wild archaic guitars. Her
feet did not have the laughter of ordinary dance, but they had the
positiveness, the compulsion of a meaning.  Howard looked at her
appreciatively; he even ran the tip of his tongue across his upper
lip.

"She is not yet spoken for," said Howard.

"And yet she is a very unusual thing.  A resigned ex-lady of the
Instrumentality."

"I find that unusual, indeed.  What is her name?"

"Celalta," said Howard.

"Celalta, the other one.  She has been in many worlds, perhaps as many
worlds as you have, sir.  She's faced dangers like the ones you've
faced.  And oh, my lord and master, forgive me for saying it, but when
I look at her dancing, and I see you looking at her, I can see a little
bit into the future; and I can see you both dead together, the winds
slowly blowing the flesh off your bones.  And your bones anonymous and
white, lying two valleys over from this very place."

"That's an odd enough prophecy," said Casher.

"Especially from someone who seems not to be poetic.  What is that?"

"I seem to see you in the Deep Dry Lake of the Damned Irene.  There's a
road out of here that goes there and some people, not many, go there,
and when they go there, they die.  I don't know why," said Howard.

"Don't ask me."

D'alma whispered,

"That is the road to the Shrine of Shrines.

That's the place to the Quel itself.  Find out where it starts."

"Where does that road start?"  asked Casher.

"Oh, you'll find out; there's nothing you won't find out.  Sorry, my
lord and master.  The road starts just beyond that bright orange roof."
He pointed to a roof and then turned back.

Without saying anything more, he clapped his hands at the dancer and
she gave him a scornful look.  Howard clapped his hands again; she
stopped dancing and walked over.

"And what is it you want now, Howard?"

He gave her a deep bow.

"My former lady, my mistress, here is the lord and master of this
planet, Casher O'Neill."

"I am not really the lord and master," said Casher O'Neill.

"I

merely would have been if Wedder had not taken the rule away from my
uncle."

"Should I care about that?"  asked the woman.

Casher smiled back.

"I don't see why you should."

"Do you have anything you want to say to me?"

"Yes," said Casher.  He reached over and seized her wrist.  Her wrist
was almost as strong as his.

"You have danced your last dance, madam, at least for the time.  You
and I are going to a place that this man knows about, and he says that
we are going to die there, and our bones will be blown with the
wind."

"You give me commands," she cried.

"I give you commands," he said.

"What is your authority?"  she asked scornfully.

"Me," he said.

She looked at him, he looked back at her, still holding her wrist.

She said,

"I have powers.  Don't make me use them."

He said,

"I have powers, too; nobody can make me use mine."

"I'm not afraid of you; go ahead."

Fire shot at him as he felt the lunge of her mind toward his, her
attack, her flight for freedom, but he kept her wrist and she said
nothing.

But with his mind responding to hers he unfolded the many worlds, the
old Earth itself, the gem planet, Olympia of the blind brokers, the
storm planet, Henriada, and a thousand other places that most people
only knew in stories and dreams.  And then, just for a little bit, he
showed her who he was, a native of Mizzer who had become a citizen of
the Universe.  A fighter who had been transformed into a doer.  He let
her know that in his own mind he carried the powers of Truth the
turtle-girl, and behind T'ruth herself, he carried the personalities of
the Hechizera of Gonfalon.

He let her see the ships in the sky turning and twisting as they fought
nothing at all, because his mind, or another mind which had become his,
had commanded them to.

And then with the shock of a sudden vision, he projected to her the two
pieces of wood, the image of a man in pain.  And gently, but with the
simple rhetoric of profound faith, he pronounced: "This is the call of
the First Forbidden One, and the Second Forbidden One, and the Third
Forbidden One.  This is the symbol of the Sign of the Fish.  For this
you are going to leave this town, and you are going with me, and it may
be that you and I shall become lovers."

Behind him a voice spoke.

"And I," said D'alma, "will stay here."

He turned around to her.

"D'alma, you've come this far; you've got to come further."

"I can't, my lord.  I read my duty as I see it.  If the authorities who
sent me want me enough, they will send me back to my dishwasher on
Pontoppidan, otherwise they will leave me here.  I am temporarily
beautiful and I'm rich and I'm happy and I don't know what to do with
myself, but I know I have seen you as far as I can.  May the Sign of
the Fish be with you."

Howard merely stood aside, making no attempt to hinder them or to help
them.

Celalta walked beside Casher like a wild animal which had never been
captured before.

Casher O'Neill never let go of her wrist.

"Do we need food for this trip?"  he asked of Howard.

"No one knows what you need."

"Should we take food?"

"I don't see why," said Howard.

"You have water.  You can always walk back here if you have
disappointments.  It's really not very far."

"Will you rescue me?"

"If you insist on it," said Howard.

"I suppose somewhere people will come out and bring you back, but I
don't think you will insist because that is the Deep Dry Lake of the
Damned Irene, and the people who go in there do not want to come out,
and do not want to eat, and they do not want to go forward.  We have
never seen anyone vanish to the other side, but you might make it."

"I am looking," said Casher, "for something which is more than power
between the worlds.  I am looking for a sphinx that is bigger than the
sphinx on old Earth.  For weapons which cut sharper than lasers, for
forces that move faster than bullets.  I am looking for something which
will take the power away from me and put the simple humanity back into
me.  I am looking for something which will be nothing, but a nothing I
can serve and can believe in."

"You sound like the right kind of man," said Howard, "for that kind of
trip.  Go in peace, both of you."

Celalta said,

"I do not really know who you are, my lord, master, but I have danced
my last dance.  I see what you mean.

This is the road that leads away from happiness.  This is the path
which leaves good clothes and warm shops behind.  There are no
restaurants where we are going, no hotels, no river anymore.

There are neither believers nor unbelievers; but there is something
that comes out of the soil which makes people die.  But if you think,
Casher O'Neill, that you can triumph over it, I will go with you.  And
if you do not think it, I will die with you."

"We are going, Celalta, I didn't know that it was just going to be the
two of us, but we are going and we are going now."

X

It was actually less than two kilometers to get over the ridge away
from the trees, away from the moisture-laden air along the river, and
into a dry, calm valley which had a clean blessed quietness which
Casher had never seen before.  Celalta was almost gay.

"This, this is the Deep Dry Lake of the Damned Irene?"

"I suppose it is," said Casher, "but I propose to keep on walking.  It
isn't very big."

As they walked their bodies became burdensome; they carried not only
their own weight but the weight of every month of their lives.  The
decision seemed good to them that they should lie down in the valley
and rest amid the skeletons, rest as the others had rested.  Celalta
became disoriented.  She stumbled, and her eyes became unfocused.

Not for nothing had Casher O'Neill learned all the arts of battle of a
thousand worlds.  Not for nothing had he come through space-three. This
valley might have been tempting if already he had not ridden the cosmos
on his eyes alone.

He had.  He knew the way out.  It was merely through.  Celalta seemed
to come more to life as they reached the top of the ridge.

The whole world was suddenly transformed by not more than ten steps.
Far behind them, several kilometers, perhaps, there were still visible
the last rooftops of the Kermesse Dorgtiieil.  Behind them lay the
bleaching skeletons, in front In front of them was the final source and
the mystery, the Quel of the Thirteenth Nile.

XI

There was no sign of a house, but there were fruits and melons and
grain growing, and there were deep trees at the edges of caves, and
there were here and there signs of people that had been there long ago.
There were no signs of present occupancy.

"My lord," said the once-lady Celalta, "my lord," she repeated, "I
think this is it."

"But this is nothing," said Casher.

"Exactly.  Nothing is victory, nothing is arrival, nowhere is getting
there.  Don't you see now why she left us?"

"She?"  asked Casher.

"Yes, your faithful companion, the dog-woman D'alma."

"No, I don't see it.  Why did she leave this to us?"

Celalta laughed.

"We're Adam and Eve in a way.  It's not up to us to be
given a god or to be given a faith.  It's up to us to find the power
and this is the quietest and last of the searching places.  The others
were just phantoms, hazards on our route.  The best way to find freedom
is not to look for it, just as you obtained your utter revenge on
Wedder by doing him a little bit of good.  Can't you see it, Casher?
You have won at last the immense victory that makes all battles seem
vain.  There is food around us; we can even walk back to the Kermesse
Dorgiieil, if we want clothing or company or if we want to hear the
news.  But, most of all, this is the place in which I feel the presence
of the First Forbidden One, the Second Forbidden One, and the Third
Forbidden One.  We don't need a church for this, though I suppose there
are still churches on some planets.  What we need is a place to find
ourselves and be ourselves and I'm not sure that this chance exists in
many other places than this one spot."

"You mean," said Casher, "that everywhere is nowhere?"

"Not quite that," said Celalta.

"We have some work to do getting this place in shape, feeding
ourselves.  Do you know how to cook?  Well, I can cook better.  We can
catch a few things to eat; we can shut ourselves in that cave and then"
and then Celalta smiled, her face more beautiful than he ever expected
he would find a face to be "we have each other."

Casher stood battle-ready, facing the most beautiful dancer he had ever
met.  He realized that she had once been a part of the Instrumentality,
a governor of worlds, a genuine advisor in the destination of mankind.
He did not know what strange motives had caused her to quit authority
and to come up to this hard-to find river, unmarked on maps.  He didn't
even know why the man Howard should have paired them so quickly:
perhaps there was another force.  A force behind that dog-woman which
had sent him to his final destination.

He looked down at Celalta and then he looked up at the sky, and he
said,

"Day is ending; I will catch a few of those birds if you know how to
cook them.  We seem to be a sort of Adam and Eve, and I do not know
whether this is paradise or hell.  But I know that you are in it with
me, and that I can think about you because you ask nothing of me."

"That is true, my lord, I ask nothing of you.  I, too, am looking for
both of us, not myself alone.  I can make a sacrifice for you, but I
look for those things which only we two, acting together, can find in
this valley."

He nodded in serious agreement.

"Look," she said, "that is the Quel itself, there the Thirteenth Nile
comes out of the rocks, and here are the woods below.  I seem to have
heard of it.  Well, we'll have plenty of time.  I'll start the fire,
but you go catch two of those chickens.  I don't even think they're
wild birds.  I think they are just left over people-chickens that have
grown wild since their previous owners left.  . . ."

"Or died," said Casher.

"Or died," repeated Celalta.

"Isn't that a risk anybody has to take?  Let us live, my lord, you and
me, and let us find the magic, the deliverance which strange fates have
thrown in front of you and me.  You have liberated Mizzer, is that not
enough?

Simply by touching Wedder, you have done what otherwise could have been
accomplished at the price of battle and great suffering."

"Thank you," said Casher.

"I was once Instrumentality, my lord, and I know that the
Instrumentality likes to do things suddenly and victoriously.

When I was there we never accepted defeat, but we never paid anything
extra.  The shortest route between two points might look like the long
way around; it isn't.  It's merely the cheapest human way of getting
there.  Has it ever occurred to you, that the Instrumentality might be
rewarding you for what you have done for this planet?"

"I hadn't thought of it," said Casher.

"You hadn't thought of it?"  She smiled.

"Well.  . ."  said Casher, embarrassed and at a loss for words.

"I am a very special kind of woman," said Celalta.

"You will be finding that out in the next few weeks.  Why else do you
think that I would be given to you?"

He did not go to hunt the chickens, not just then.  He reached his arms
out to her and, with more trust and less fear than he had felt in many
years, he held her in his arms, and kissed her on the lips.  This time
there was no secret reserve in his mind, no promise that after this he
would get on with his journey to Mizzer.  He had won, his victory was
behind him, and in front of him there lay nothing, but this beautiful
and powerful place and .  . . Celalta.

 Three to a Given Star "Stick your left arm straight forward, Samm,"
said Folly.

He stretched his arm out.

"I can sense it!"  cried Folly.

"Now wiggle your fingers!"

Samm wiggled them.

Finsternis said nothing, but both of them caught from his mind, riding
clear and wise beside them, a "sense of the situation."  His "sense of
the situation" could be summed up in the one-word comment, which he did
not need to utter: "Foolishness!"

"It is not foolishness, Finsternis," cried Folly.

"Here are the three of us, riding empty space millions of kilometers
from nowhere.  We were people once, Earth people from Old Earth itself.
It is foolish to remember what we used to be?  I was a woman once.  A
beautiful woman.  Now I'm this this thing, bent on a mission of murder
and destruction.  I used to have hands myself, real hands.  Is it wrong
for me to enjoy looking at Samm's hands now and then?  To think of the
past which all three of us have left behind."

Finsternis did not answer; his mind was blank to both of them.  There
was nothing but space around them, not even much space dust, and the
bluish light ofLinschoten XV straight ahead.

From the third planet of that star they could occasionally hear the
cackle and gabble of the man-eaters.

Once again Folly cried to Finsternis,

"Is that so wrong, that I should enjoy looking at a hand?  Samm has
well-shaped hands.  I was a person once, and so were you.  Did I ever
tell you that I was a beautiful woman once?"

She had been a beautiful woman once and now she was the control of a
small spaceship which fled across emptiness with two grotesque
companions.

She was now a ship only eleven meters long and shaped roughly like an
ancient dirigible.  Finsternis was a perfect cube, fifty meters to the
side,
packed with machinery which could blank out a sun and contain its
planets until they froze to icy, perpetual death.  Samm was a man, but
he was a man of flexible steel, two hundred meters high.

He was designed to walk on any kind of planet, with any kind of
inhabitant, with any kind of chemistry or any kind of gravity.  He was
designed to bring antagonists, whomever they might be, the message of
the power of man.  The power of man .  . . followed by terror, followed
if necessary by death.  If Samm failed, Finsternis had the further
power of blocking out the sun, Linschoten XV.  If either or both
failed.  Folly had the job of adjusting them so that they could win. If
they had no chance of winning, she then had the task of destroying
Finsternis and Samm, and then herself.

Their instructions were clear: "You will not, you will not under any
circumstances return.

You will not under any conditions turn back toward Earth.  You are too
dangerous to come anywhere near Earth, ever again.  You may live if you
wish.  If you can.  But you must not repeat not come back.  You have
your duty.  You asked for it.  Now you have it.  Do not come back. Your
forms fit your duty.  You will do your duty."

Folly had become a tiny ship, crammed with miniaturized equipment.

Finsternis had become a cube blacker than darkness itself.

Samm had become a man, but a man different from any which had ever been
seen on Earth.  He had a metal body, copied from the human form down to
the last detail.  That way the enemies, whoever they might be, would be
given a terrible glimpse of the human shape, the human voice.  Two
hundred meters high he stood, strong and solid enough to fly through
space with nothing but the jets on his belt.

The Instrumentality had designed all three of them.  Designed them
well.

Designed them to meet the crazy menace out beyond the stars, a menace
which gave no clue to its technology or origin, but which responded to
the signal "man" with the counter-signal, "gabble cackle!  eat, eat!
man, man!  good to eat!  cackle gabble!

eat, eat!"

That was enough.

The Instrumentality took steps.  And the three of them the ship, the
cube, and the metal giant sped between the stars to conquer, to
terrorize, or to destroy the menace which lived on the third planet of
Linschoten XV.  Or, if needful, to put out that particular sun.

Folly, who had become a ship, was the most volatile of the three.

She had been a beautiful woman once.

II

"You were a beautiful woman once," Samm had said, some years before.

"How did you end up becoming a ship?"

"I killed myself," said Folly.

"That's why I took this name Folly.  I had a long life ahead of me, but
I killed myself and they brought me back at the last minute.  When I
found out I was still alive, I volunteered for something adventurous,
dangerous.  They gave me this.  Well, I asked for it, didn't I?"

"You asked for it," said Samm gravely.  Out in the middle of nothing,
surrounded by a tremendous lot of nowhere, courtesy was still the
lubricant which governed human relationships.  The two of them observed
courtesy and kindness toward one another.

Sometimes they threw in a bit of humor, too.

Finsternis did not take part in their talk or their companionship.  He
did not even verbalize his answers.  He merely let them know his sense
of the situation and this time, as in all other times, his response
was

"Negative.  No operation needed.  Communication nonfunctional.  Not
needed here.  Silence, please.  I kill suns.  That is all I do.  My
part is my business.  All mine."  This was communicated in a single
terrible thought, so that Folly and Samm stopped trying to bring
Finsternis into the conversations which they started up, every
subjective century or so, and continued for years at a time.

Finsternis merely moved along with them, several kilometers away, but
well within their range of awareness.  But as far as company was
concerned, Finsternis might as well not have been there at all.

Samm went on with the conversation, the conversation which they had had
so many hundreds of times since the plano form ship had discharged them
"near" Linschoten XV and left them to make the rest of their way alone.
(If the menace were really a menace, and if it were intelligent, the
Instrumentality had no intention of letting an actual plano form ship
fall within the powers of a strange form of life which might well be
hypnotic in its combat capacities.  Hence the ship, the cube, and the
giant were launched into normal space at high velocity, equipped with
jets to correct their courses, and left to make their own way to the
danger.) Samm said, as he always did,

"You were a beautiful woman.

Folly, but you wanted to die.  Why?"

"Why do people ever want to die, Samm?  It's the power in us, the
vitality which makes us want so much.  Life always trembles on the edge
of disappointment.  If we hadn't been vital and greedy and lustful and
yearning, if we hadn't had big thoughts and wanted bigger ones, we
would have stayed animals, like all the little things back on Earth.
It's strong life that
brings us so close to death.  We can't stand the beauty of it, the
nearness of the things we want, the remoteness of the things that we
can have.  You and me and Finsternis, now, we're monsters riding out
between the stars.  And yet we're happier now than we were when we were
back among people.  I was a beautiful woman, but there were specific
things which I wanted.  I wanted them myself.  I alone.  For me.  Only
for me.

When I couldn't have them, I wanted to die.  If I had been stupider or
happier I might have lived on.  But I didn't.  I was me intensely me.
So here I am.  I don't even know whether I have a body or not, inside
this ship.  They've got me all hooked up to the sensors and the viewers
and the computers.

Sometimes I think that I may be a lovely woman still, with a real body
hidden somewhere inside this ship, waiting to step out and to be a
person again.  And you, Samm, don't you want to tell me about yourself?
Samm.  SAMM.  That's no name for an actual person Superordinated Alien
Measuring and Mastery device.  What were you before they gave you that
big body?  At least you still look like a person.  You're not a ship,
like me."

"My name doesn't matter, Folly, and if I told it to you, you wouldn't
know it.  You never knew it."

"How wouldn't I know?"  she cried.

"I've never told you my name either, so perhaps we did know each other
back on Old Earth when we were still people."

"I can tell something," said Samm, "from the shape of words, from the
ring of thoughts, even when we're not out here in nothing.  You were a
lady, perhaps high-born.  You were truly beautiful.  You were really
important.  And I I was a technician.  A good one.  I did my work and I
loved my family, and my wife and I were happy with every child which
the Lords gave us for adoption.  But my wife died first.  And after a
while my children, my wonderful boy and my two beautiful, intelligent
girls my own children, they couldn't stand me anymore.  They didn't
like me.  Perhaps I talked too much.

Perhaps I gave them too much advice.  Perhaps I reminded them of their
mother, who was dead.  I don't know.  I won't ever know.

They didn't want to see me.  Out of manners, they sent me cards on my
birthday.  Out of sheer formal courtesy, they called on me sometimes.
Now and then one of them wanted something.  Then they came to me, but
it was always just to get something.  It took me a long time to figure
out, but I hadn't done anything.  It wasn't what I had done or hadn't
done.  They just plain didn't like me.  You know the songs and the
operas and the stories, Folly, you know them all."

"Not all of them," thought Folly gently, "not all of them.

Just a few thousand."

"Did you ever see one," cried Samm, his thoughts ringing fiercely
against her mind, "did you ever see a single one about a rejected
father?

They're all about men and women, love and sex, but I can tell you that
rejection hurts even when you don't ask anything of your loved ones but
their company and their happiness and their simple genuine smiles. When
I knew that my children had no use for me, I had no use for me either. 
The Instrumentality came along with this warning, and I volunteered."

"But you're all right now, Samm," said Folly gently.

"I'm a ship and you are a metal giant, but we're off doing work which
is important for all mankind.  We'll have adventures together.  Even
black and grumbly here," she added, meaning Finsternis, "can't keep us
from the excitement of companionship or the hope of danger.  We're
doing something wonderful and important and exciting.  Do you know what
I would do if I had my life again, my ordinary life with skin and
toenails and hair and things like that?"

"What?"  asked Samm, knowing the answer perfectly well from the
hundreds of times they had touched on this point.

"I'd take baths.  Hundreds and hundreds of them, over again.

Showers and dips in cold pools and soaks in hot bathtubs and rinses and
more showers.  And I would do my hair, over and over again, thousands
of different ways.  And I would put on lipstick, in the most outrageous
colors, even if nobody saw me, except for my own self looking in the
mirror.  Now I can hardly remember what it used to be to be dry or wet.
I'm in this ship and I see the ship and I do not really know if I am a
person or not any more."

Samm stayed quiet, knowing what she would say next.

"Samm, what would you do?"  Folly asked.

"Swim," he said.

"Then swim, Samm, swim!  Swim for me in the space between the stars.
You still have a body and I don't, but I can watch you and I can sense
you swimming out here in the nothing at-all."

Samm began to swim a huge Australian crawl, dipping his face to the
edge of the water as if there were water there.  The gestures made no
difference in his real motion, since they were all of them in the fast
trajectory computed for them from the point where they left the
Instrumentality's ship and started out in normal space for the star
listed as Linschoten XV.

This time, something very sudden happened, and it happened strangely.

From the dark gloomy silence of the cube, Finsternis, there came an
articulate cry, called forth in clear human speech: Stop it!  Stop
moving right now.  I attack.

Both Samm and Folly had instruments built into them, so they could read
space around them.  The instruments, quickly scanned, showed nothing.
Yet Folly felt odd, as though something had gone very wrong in her
ship-self, which had seemed so metal, so reliable, so inalterable.

She threw a thought of inquiry at Samm and instead got another command
from Finsternis.  Don't think.

III

Samm floated like a dead man in his gargantuan body.

Folly drifted like a fruit beside his hand.

At last there came words from Finsternis: "You can think now, if you
want to.  You can chatter at each other again.  I'm through."

Samm thought at him, and the thought-pattern was troubled and
confused.

"What happened?  I felt as though the immaculate grid of space had been
pinched together in a tight fold.  I felt you do something, and then
there was silence around us again."

"Talking," said Finsternis, "is not operational and it is not required
of me.  But there are only three of us here, so I might as well tell
you what happened.  Can you hear me, Folly?"

"Yes," she said, weakly.

"Are we on course," asked Finsternis, "for the third planet
ofLinschoten XV?"

Folly paused while checking all her instruments, which were more
complicated and refined than those carried by the other two, since she
was the maintenance unit.

"Yes," said she at last.

"We are exactly on course.  I don't know what happened, if anything did
happen."

"Something happened, all right," said Finsternis, with the gratified
savagery of a person whose quick-and-cruel nature is rewarded only by
meeting and overcoming hostility in real life.

"Was it a space dragon, like they used to meet on the old, old
ships?"

"No, nothing like that," said Finsternis, communicative for once, since
this was something operational to talk about.

"It doesn't even seem to be in this space at all.  Something just rises
up among us, like a volcano coming out of solid space.  Something
violent and wild and alive.  Do you two still have eyes?"

"Seeing devices for the ordinary light band?"  asked Samm.

"Of course we do!"  said Finsternis.

"I will try to fix it so that you will have a visible input."

There was a sharp pause from Finsternis.

The voice came again, with much strain.

"Do not do anything.  Do not try to help me.  Just watch.  If it wins,
destroy me quickly.  It might try to capture us and get back to Earth.
" Folly felt like telling Finsternis that this was unnecessary, since
the
first motion toward return would trigger destruction devices which had
been built into each of the three of them, beyond reach, beyond
detection, beyond awareness.  When the Instrumentality said,

"Do not come back," the Instrumentality meant it.

She said nothing.

She watched Finsternis instead.

Something began to happen.

It was very odd.

Space itself seemed to rip and leak.

In the visible band, the intruder looked like a fountain of water being
thrown randomly to and fro.

But the intruder was not water.

In the visible light-band, it glowed like wild fire rising from a
shimmering column of blue ice.  Here in space there was nothing to
burn, nothing to make light: she knew that Finsternis was translating
un resolvable phenomena into light.

She sensed Samm moving one of his giant fists uncontrollably, in a
helpless, childish gesture of protest.

She herself did nothing but watch, as alertly and passively as she
could.

Nevertheless, she felt wrenched.  This was no material phenomenon.  It
was wild unformed life, intruding out of some other proportion of
space, seeking material on which to impose its vitality, its frenzy,
its identity.  She could see Finsternis as a solid black cube, darker
than mere darkness, drifting right into the column.  She watched the
sides of Finsternis.

On the earlier part of the trip, since they had left the people and the
plano form ship and had been discharged in a fast trajectory toward
Linschoten XV, Finsternis' side had seemed like dull metal, slightly
burnished, so that Folly had to brush him lightly with radar to get a
clear image of him.

Now his sides had changed.

They had become as soft and thick as velvet.

The strange volcano-fountain did not seem to have much in the way of
sensing devices.  It paid no attention to Samm or to herself.  The dark
cube attracted it, as a shaft of sunlight might attract a baby or as
the rustle of paper might draw the attention of a kitten.

With a slight twist of its vitality and direction, the whole column of
burning, living brightness plunged upon Finsternis, plunged and burned
out and went in and was seen no more.

Finsternis' voice, clear and cheerful, sounded out to both of them.

"It's gone now."

"What happened to it?"  asked Samm.

"I ate it," said Finsternis.

"You what?"  cried Folly.

"I ate it," said Finsternis.  He was talking more than he ever had
before.

"At least, that's the only way I can describe it.  This machine they
gave me or made me into or whatever they did, it's really rather good.
It's powerful.  I can feel it absorbing things, taking them in, taking
them apart, putting them away.

It's something like eating used to be when I was a person.  That wild
thing attacked me, wrapped me up, devoured me.  All I did was to take
it in, and now it's gone.  I feel sort of full.  I suppose my machines
are sorting out samples of it to send away to rendezvous points in
little rockets.  I know that I have sixteen small rockets inside me,
and I can feel two of them getting ready to move.  Neither one of you
could have done what I do.  I was built to absorb whole suns if
necessary, break them down, freeze them down, change their molecular
structure, and shoot their vitality off in one big useless blast on the
radio spectrum.  You couldn't do anything like that, Samm, even if you
do have arms and legs and a head and a voice if we ever get into an
atmosphere for you to use it in.  You couldn't do what I have just
done.  Folly."

"You're good," said Folly, with emphasis.  But she added: "I can repair
you."

Obviously offended, Finsternis withdrew into his silence.

Samm said to Folly,

"How much further to destination?"

Said Folly promptly,

"Seventy-nine earth years, four months and three days, six hours and
two minutes, but you know how little that means out here.  It could
seem like a single afternoon or it could feel to us like a thousand
lifetimes.

Time doesn't work very well for us."

"How did Earth ever find this place, anyhow?"  asked Samm.

"All I know is that it was two very strong tele paths working together
on the planet Mizzer.  An ex-dictator named Casher O'Neill and an
ex-Lady named Celalta.  They were doing a bit of ps ionic astronomy and
suddenly this signal came in strong and clear.  You know that tele
paths can catch directions very accurately.  Even over immense
distances. And they can get emotions, too.  But they are not very good
at actual images or things.  Somebody else checked it out for them."

"M-m-m," said Samm.  He had heard all this before.  Out of sheer
boredom, he went back to swimming vigorously.  The body might not
really be his, but it made him feel good to exercise it.

Besides, he knew that Folly watched him with pleasure great pleasure,
and a little bit of envy.

Casher O'Neill and the Lady Celalta had finished with making love. They
had lain with their bodies tired and their minds clear, relaxed. They
had stretched out on a blanket just above the big gushing spring
Three to a Given Star which was the source of the Ninth Nile.  Both
tele paths they could hear a bird-couple quarreling inside a tree, the
male bird commanding the female to get out and get to work and the
female answering by dropping deeper and deeper into a fretful and
irritable sleep.

The Lady Celalta had whispered a thought to her lover and master,
Casher O

"Neill.

"To the stars?"

"The stars?"  thought he with a grumble.  They were both strong tele
paths He had been imprinted, in some mysterious way, with the greatest
tele path-hypnotist of all time, the Honorable Agatha Madigan. In the
Lady Celalta he had a companion worthy of his final talents, a natural
tele path who could herself reach not only all of Miner but some of the
nearer stars.  When they teamed up together, as she now proposed, they
could plunge into dusty infinities of depth and bring back feelings or
images which no Go-Captain had ever found with his ship.

He sat up with a grunt of assent.

She looked at him fondly, possessively, her dark eyes alight with
alertness, happiness, and adventure.

"Can I lift?"  she asked, almost timidly.

When two tele paths worked together, one cleared the vision for both of
them as far as their combined minds could reach and then the other
sprang, with enormous effort, as far and as fast as possible toward any
target which presented itself.  They had found strange things,
sometimes beautiful or dramatic ones, by this method.

Casher was already drinking enormous gulps of air, filling his lungs,
holding his breath, letting go with a gasp, and then inhaling deeply
and slowly again.  In this way he re oxygenated his brain very
thoroughly for the huge effort of a telepathic dive into the remote
depth of space.  He did not even speak to her, nor did he tele path a
word to her; he was conserving his strength for a good jump.

He merely nodded to her.

The Lady Celalta, too, began the deep breathing, but she seemed to need
it less than did Casher.

They were both sitting up, side by side, breathing deeply.

The cool night sands of Miner were around them, the harmless gurgle of
the Ninth Nile was beside them, the bright star-cluttered sky of Miner
was above them.

Her hand reached out and took hold of his.  She squeezed his hand.  He
looked at her and nodded to her again.

Within his mind.  Miner and its entire solar system seemed to burst
into flame with a new kind of light.  The radiance of Celalta's mind
trailed off unevenly in different directions, but there, almost 2 off
the pole of
Miner's ecliptic, he felt something wild and strange, a kind of being
which he had never sensed before.  Using Celalta 's mind as a base, he
let his mind dive for it.

The distance of the plunge left them both dizzy, sitting on the quiet
night sands of Miner.  It seemed to both of them that the mind of man
had never reached so far before.

The reality of the phenomenon was un doubtable

There were animals all around them, the usual categories: runners,
hunters, jumpers, climbers, swimmers, hiders, and handlers.  It was
some of the handlers who were intensely telepathic themselves.

The image of man created an immediate, murderous response.

"Cackle gabble, gabble cackle, man, man, man, eat them, eat them!"

Casher and Celalta were both so surprised that they let the contact go,
after making sure that they had touched a whole world full of beings,
some of them telepathic and probably civilized.

How had the beings known "man"?  Why had their response been immediate?
Why anthropophagous and homicidal?

They took time, before coming completely out of the trance, to make a
careful, exact note of the direction from which the danger-brains had
shrieked their warning.

This they submitted to the Instrumentality, shortly after the
incident.

And that was how, unknown to Folly, Samm, and Finsternis, the
inhabitants on the third planet of Linschoten XV had come to the
attention of mankind.

IV

As a matter of fact, the three wanderers later on felt a vague, remote
telepathic contact which they sensed as being warmhearted and human,
and therefore did not try to track down, with their minds or their
weapons.  It was O'NeiIl and Celalta, many years later by Mizzer time,
reaching to see what the Instrumentality had done about Linschoten

XV.

Folly, Samm, and Finsternis had no suspicion that the two most powerful
tele paths in the human area of the galaxy had stroked them, searched
them, felt them through, and seen things about them which the three of
them did not know about themselves or about each other.

Casher O'Neill said to the Lady Celalta,

"You got it, too?"

"A beautiful woman, encased in a little ship?"

Casher nodded.

"A redhead with skin as soft and transparent as living ivory?  A woman
who was beautiful and will be beautiful again?"

"That's what I got," said the Lady Celalta.

"And the tired old man, weary of his children and weary of his own life
because his children were weary of him."

"Not so old," said Casher O'Neill.

"And isn't that a spectacular piece of machinery they put him into?  A
metal giant.

It felt like something about a quarter of a kilometer high.  Acidproof.
Cold-proof.  Won't he be surprised when he finds that the
Instrumentality has rejuvenated his own body inside that monster?"

"He certainly will be," said the Lady Celalta happily, thinking of the
pleasant surprise which lay ahead of a man whom she would never know or
see with her own bodily eyes.

They both fell silent.

Then said the Lady Celalta,

"But the third person .  . ."  There was a shiver in her voice as
though she dared not ask the question.

"The third person, the one in the cube."  She stopped, as though she
could neither ask nor say more.

"It was not a robot or a personality cube," said Casher O'Neill.

"It was a human being all right.  But it's crazy.  Could you make out,
Celalta, as to whether it was male or female?"

"No," said she,

"I couldn't tell.  The other two seemed to think that it was male."

"But did you feel sure?"  asked Casher.

"With that being, I felt sure of nothing.  It was human, all right, but
it was stranger than any lost hominid we have ever felt around the
forgotten stars.  Could you tell, Casher, whether it was young or
old?"

"No," said he.

"I felt nothing only a desperate human mind with all its guards up,
living only because of the terrible powers of the black cube, the
sun-killer in which it rode.  I never sensed someone before who was a
person without characteristics.  It's frightening."

"The Instrumentality are cruel sometimes," said Celalta.

"Sometimes they have to be," Casher agreed.

"But I never thought that they would do that."

"Do what?"  asked Casher.

Her dark eyes looked at him.  It was a different night, and a different
Nile, but the eyes were only a very little bit older and they loved him
just as much as ever.  The Lady Celalta trembled as though she herself
might think that the all-powerful Instrumentality could have hidden a
microphone in the random sands.  She whispered to her lover,

"You said it yourself, Casher, just a moment ago."

"Said what?"  He spoke tenderly but fearlessly, his voice ringing out
over the cool night sands.

The Lady Celalta went on whispering, which was very unlike her usual
self.

"You said that the third person was 'crazy."  Do you realize that you
may have spoken the actual literal truth?"  Her whisper darted at him
like a snake.

At last, he whispered back,

"What did you sense?  What could you guess?"

"They have sent a madman to the stars.  Or a mad woman.  A real
psychotic."

"Lots of pilots," said Casher, speaking more normally, "are cushioned
against loneliness with real but artificially activated psychoses.  It
gets them through the real or imagined horrors of the sufferings of
space."

"I don't mean that," said Celalta, still whispering urgently and
secretly.

"I mean a real psychotic."

"But there aren't any.  Not loose, that is," said Casher, stammering
with surprise at last.

"They either get cured or they are bottled up in thought-proof
satellites somewhere."

Celalta raised her voice a little, just a little, so that she no longer
whispered but spoke urgently.

"But don't you see, that's what they must have done.  The
Instrumentality made a star-killer too strong for any normal mind to
guide.  So the Lords got a psychotic somewhere, a real psychotic, and
sent a madman out among the stars.  Otherwise we could have felt its
gender or its age."

Casher nodded in silent agreement.  The air did not feel colder, but he
got gooseflesh sitting beside his beloved Celalta on the familiar
desert sands.

"You're right.  You must be right.  It almost makes me feel sorry for
the enemies out near Linschoten XV.  Do you see nothing of them this
time?  I couldn't perceive them at all."

"I did, a little," said the Lady Celalta.

"Their tele paths have caught the strange minds coming at them with a
high rate of speed.  The telepathic ones are wild with excitement but
the others are just going cackle-gabble, cackle-gabble with each other,
filled with anger, hunger, and the thought of man."

"You got that much?"  he said in wonder.

"My lord and my lover, I dived this time.  Is it so strange that I
sensed more than you did?  Your strength lifted me."

"Did you hear what the weapons called each other?"

"Something silly."  He could see her knitting her brows in the bright
star shine which illuminated the desert almost the way that the Old
Original Moon lit up the nights sometimes on Manhome itself.

"It was Folly, and something like

"Superordinated Alien Measuring and Mastery machine' and something like
'darkness' in the Ancient Doyches Language."

"That's what I got, too," said Casher.

"It sounds like a weird team."

"But a powerful one, a terribly powerful one," said the Lady Celalta.

"You and I, my lover and master, have seen strange things and dangers
between the stars, even before we met each other, but we never saw
anything like this before, did we?"

"No," said he.

"Well, then," said she, "let us sleep and forget the matter as much as
we can.  The Instrumentality is certainly taking care of Linschoten XV,
and we two need not bother about it."

And all that Samm, Folly, and Finsternis knew was that a light touch,
unexplained but friendly, had gone over them from the far star region
near home.  Thought they, if they thought anything about it at all,

"The Instrumentality, which made us and sent us, has checked up on us
one more time."

V

A few years later, Samm and Folly were talking again while Finsternis
guarded, impenetrable, un communicating detectable only by the fierce
glow of human life which shone telepathically out of the immense cube
rode space beside them and said nothing.

Suddenly Folly cried out to Samm loudly, "I can smell them."

"Smell who?"  asked Samm mildly.

"There isn't any smell out here in the nothingness of space."

"Silly," thought Folly back,

"I don't mean really smell.  I mean that I can pick up their sense of
odor telepathically."

"Whose?"  said Samm, being dense.

"Our enemies', of course," cried Folly.

"The man-rememberers who are not man.  The cackle-gabble creatures. The
beings who remember man and hate him.  They smell thick and warm and
alive to each other.  Their whole world is full of smells.  Their tele
paths are getting frantic now.  They have even figured out that there
are three of us and they are trying to get our smells."

"And we have no smell.  Not when we do not even know whether we have
human bodies or not, inside these things.  Imagine this metal body of
mine smelling.  If it did have a smell,"

said Samm, "it would probably be the very soft smell of working steel
and a little bit of lubricants, plus whatever odors my jets might
activate inside an atmosphere.  If I know the Instrumentality, they
have made my jets smell awful to almost any kind of being.  Most forms
of life think first through their noses and then figure out the rest of
experience later.  After all, I was built to intimidate, to frighten,
to destroy.

The Instrumentality did not make this giant to be friendly with
anybody.  You and I can be friends.  Folly, because you are a little
ship
which I could hold like a cigar between my fingers, and because the
ship holds the memory of a very lovely woman.  I can sense what you
once were.  What you may still be, if your actual body is still inside
that boat."

"Oh, Samm!"  she cried.

"Do you think I might still be alive, really alive, with a real me in a
real me, and a chance to be myself somewhere again, out here between
the stars?"

"I can't sense it plainly," said Samm.

"I've reached as much as I can through your ship with my sensors, but I
can't tell whether there's a whole woman there or not.  It might be
just a memory of you dissected and laminated between a lot of plastic
sheets.  I really can't tell, but sometimes I have the strangest hunch
that you are still alive, in the old ordinary way, and that I am alive
too."

"Wouldn't that be wonderful!"  She almost shouted at him.

"Samm, imagine being us again, if we fulfill our mission and conquer
this planet and stay alive and settle there!  I might even meet you and
" They both fell silent at the implications of being ordinary alive
again.  They knew that they loved each other.  Out here, in the immense
blackness of space, there was nothing they could do but streak along in
their fast trajectories and talk to each other a little bit by
telepathy.

"Samm," said Folly, and the tone of her thought showed that she was
changing a difficult subject.

"Do you think that we are the furthest out that people have ever gone?
You used to be a technician.  You might know.  Do you?"

"Of course I know," thought Samm promptly.

"We're not.

After all, we're still deep inside our own galaxy."

"I didn't know," said Folly contritely.

"With all those instruments, don't you know where you are?"

"Of course I know where I am, Samm.  In relation to the third planet of
Linschoten XV.  I even have a faint idea of the general direction in
which Old Earth must lie, and how many thousands of ages it would take
us to get home, traveling through ordinary space, if we did try to turn
around."  She thought to herself but didn't add in her thought to
Samm,

"Which we can't."  She thought again to him,

"But I've never studied astronomy or navigation, so I couldn't tell
whether we were at the edge of the galaxy or not."

"Nowhere near the edge," said Samm.

"We're not John Joy Tree and we're nowhere near the two-headed
elephants which weep forever in intergalactic space."

"John Joy Tree?"  sang Folly; there was joy and memory in her thoughts
as she sounded the name.

"He was my idol when I was a girl.  My father was a Subchief of the
Instrumentality and always promised to bring John Joy Tree to our
house.  We had a country house and it was unusual and
very fine for this day and age.  But Mister and Go-Captain Tree never
got around to visiting us, so there I was, a big girl with
picture-cubes of him all over my room.  I liked him because he was so
much older than me, and so resolute-looking and so tender too.  I had
all sorts of romantic day-dreams about him, but he never showed up and
I married the wrong man several times, and my children got given to the
wrong people, so here I am.  But what's this stuff about two-headed
elephants?"

"Really?"  said Samm.

"I don't see how you could hear about John Joy Tree and not know what
he did."

"I knew he flew far, far out, but I didn't know exactly what he did.
After all, I was just a child when I fell in love with his picture.
What did he do?  He's dead now, I suppose, so I don't suppose it
matters."

Finsternis cut in, grimly and unexpectedly,

"John Joy Tree is not dead.  He's creeping around a monstrous place on
an abandoned planet, and he is immortal and insane."

"How did you know that?"  cried Samm, turning his enormous metal head
to look at the dark burnished cube which had said nothing for so many
years.

There was no further thought from Finsternis, not a ghost, not an echo
of a word.

Folly prodded him.

"It's no use trying to make that thing talk if it doesn't want to.

We've both tried, thousands of times.  Tell me about the two headed
elephants.  Those are the big animals with large floppy ears and the
noses that pick things up, aren't they?  And they make very wise,
dependable under people out of them?"

"I don't know about the under people part, but the animals are the kind
you mention, very big indeed.  When John Joy Tree got far outside our
cosmos by flying through Space3 he found an enormous procession of open
ships flying in columns where there was nothing at all.  The ships were
made by nothing which man has ever even seen.  We still don't know
where they came from or what made them.  Each open ship had a sort of
animal, something like an elephant with four front legs and a head at
each end, and as he passed the unimaginable ships, these animals howled
at him.  Howled grief and mourning.  Our best guess was that the ships
were the tombs of some great race of beings and the howling elephants,
the immortal half-living mourners who guarded them."

"But how did John Joy Tree ever get back?"

"Ah, that was beautiful.  If you go into Space3, you take nothing more
than your own body with you.  That was the finest engineering the human
race has ever done.  They designed and built a whole plano form ship
out of John Joy Tree's skin, fingernails, and hair.  They had to change
his body
of Man chemistry a bit to get enough metal in him to carry the coils
and the electric circuits, but it worked.  He came back.  That was a
man who could skip through space like a little boy hopping on familiar
rocks.  He's the only pilot who ever piloted himself back home from
outside our galaxy.  I don't know whether it will be worth the time and
treasure to use space-three for intergalactic trips.  After all, some
very gifted people may have already fallen through by accident.  Folly.
You and Finsternis and I are people who have been built into machines.
We are not ourselves the machines.  But with Tree they did it the other
way around.  They made a machine out of him.  And it worked.  In that
one deep flight he went billions of times further than we will ever
go."

"You think you know," said Finsternis unexpectedly.

"That's what you always do.  You think you know."

Folly and Samm tried to get Finsternis to talk some more, but nothing
happened.  After a few more rests and talks they were ready for landing
on the third planet of Linschoten XV.

They landed.

They fought.

Blood ran on the ground.  Fire scorched the valleys and boiled the
lakes.  The telepathic world was full of the cackle-gabble of fright,
hatred throwing itself into suicide, fury turning into surrender, into
deep despair, into hopelessness, and at last into a strange kind of
quiet and love.

Let us not tell that story.

It can be written some other time, told by some other voice.

The beings died by thousands and tens of thousands while Finsternis sat
on a mountain-top, doing nothing.  Folly wove death and destruction,
uncoded languages, drew maps, showed Samm the strong-points and the
weapons which had to be destroyed.

Part of the technology was very advanced, other parts were still
tribal.  The dominant race was that of the beings who had evolved into
handlers and thinkers; it was they who were the tele paths

All hatred ceased as the haters died.  Only the submissive ones lived
on.

Samm tore cities about with his bare metal hands, ripped heavy guns to
pieces while they were firing at him, picking the gunners off the gun
carriages as though they were lice, swimming oceans when he had to,
with Folly darting and hovering around or ahead of him.

Final surrender was brought by their strongest tele path a very wise
old male who had been hidden inside a deep mountain.

"You have come, people.  We surrender.  Some of us have always known
the truth.  We are Earth-born, too.  A cargo of chickens settled here
unimaginable times ago.  A time-twist tore us out of our convoy and
threw us here.  That's why, when we sensed you far across space, we
caught the relationship of eat-and-eaten.  Only, our brave ones had it
wrong.  You eat us: we don't eat you.  You are the masters now.  We
will serve you forever.  Do you seek our death?"

"No, no," said Folly.

"We came only to avert a danger, and we have done that.  Live on, and
on, but plan no war and make no weapons.  Leave that to the
Instrumentality."

"Blessed is the Instrumentality, whoever that may be.  We accept your
terms.  We belong to you."

When this was done, the war was over.

Strange things began to happen.

Wild voices sang from within Folly and Samm, voices not their own.
Mission gone.  Work finished.  Go to hill with cube.  Go and rejoice!

Samm and Folly hesitated.  They had left Finsternis where they landed,
halfway around the planet.

The singing voices became more urgent.  Go.  Go.  Go now.  Go back to
the cube.  Tell the chicken-people to plant a lawn and a grove of
trees.  Go, go, go now to the good reward!

They told the tele paths what had been said to them and voyaged wearily
up out of the atmosphere and back down for a landing at the original
point of contact, a long low hill which had been planted with huge
patches of green turf and freshly transplanted trees even in the hours
in which they flew off the world and back on it again.  The bird-tele
paths must have had strong and quick commands.

The singing became pure music as they landed, chorales of reward and
rejoicing, with the hint of martial marches and victory fugues woven
in.

Man, stand up, said the voices to Samm.

Samm stood on the ridge of the hill.  He stood like a colossus against
the red-dawning sky.  A friendly, quiet crowd of the chicken-people
fell back.

Man, put your hand to your right forehead, sang the voices.

Samm obeyed.  He did not know why the voices called him "Alan."

Ellen, land, sang the rejoicing voices to Folly.  Folly, herself a
little ship, landed at Samm's feet.  She was bewildered with happy
confusion and a great deal of pain which did not seem to matter much.

Alan, come forth, sang the voices.  Samm felt a sharp pain as his
forehead his huge metal forehead, two hundred meters above the ground
burst open and closed again.  There was something pink and helpless in
his hand.

The voices commanded, Alan, put your hand gently on the ground.

of Man Samm obeyed and put his hand on the ground.  The little pink
toy fell on the fresh turf.  It was a tiny miniature of a man.

Ellen, stand forth, sang the voices again.  The ship named Folly opened
a door and a naked young woman fell out.

Alma, wake up.  The cube named Finsternis turned darker than charcoal.
Out of the dark side, there stumbled a black-haired girl.

She ran across the hill-slope to the figure named Ellen.  The man body
named Alan was struggling to his feet.

The three of them stood up.

The voices spoke to them: This is our last message.  You have done your
work.  You are well.  The boat named Folly contains tools, medicine,
and the other equipment for a human colony.  The giant named Samm will
stand forever as a monument to human victory.  The cube named
Finsternis will now dissolve.  Alan!

Ellen!  Treat Alma lovingly and well.  She is now a for getty

The three naked people stood bewildered in the dawn.

Good-bye and a great high thanks from the Instrumentality.

This is a pre-coded message, effective only if you won.  You have won.
Be happy.  Live on!

Ellen took Alma who had been Finsternis and held her tight.  The great
cube dissolved into a shapeless slag-heap.  Alan, who had been Samm,
looked up at his former body dominating the skyline.

For reasons which the travelers did not understand until many years had
passed, the bird-people around them broke into ululant hymns of peace,
welcome, and joy.

"My house," said Ellen, pointing at the little ship which had spat
forth her body just minutes ago, "is now a home for all of us."

They climbed into the successful little ship which had been called
Folly.  They knew, somehow, that they would find clothes and food.  And
wisdom, too.  They did.

VI

Ten years later, they had the proof of happiness playing in the yard
before their house a substantial building, made of stone and brick,
which the local people had built under Alan's directions.  (They had
changed their whole technology in the process of learning from him, and
thanks to the efficiency and power of the telepathic priestly caste
things learned at any one spot on the planet were swiftly disseminated
to the whole group of races on the planet.) The proof of happiness
consisted of the thirty-five human children playing in the yard.  Ellen
had had nine, four sets of twins
and a single.  Alma had had twelve, two sets of quintuplets and a pair
of twins.  The other fourteen had been bottle-grown from ova and sperm
which they found in the ship, the frozen donations of complete
strangers who had done their bit for the off world settling of the
human race.  Thanks to the careful genetic coding of both the
womb-children and the bottle-children, there was a variety of types,
suitable for natural breeding over many generations to come.

Alan came to the door.  He measured the time by the place where the
great shadow fell.  It was hard to realize that the gigantic,
indestructible statue which loomed above them all had once been his own
self.  A small glacier was beginning to form around the feet of Samm
and the night was getting cold.

"I'm bringing the children in already," said Ch-tikkik, one of the
local nurses they had hired to help with the huge brood of human
babies.  She, in return, got the privilege of hatching her eggs on the
warm shelf behind the electric stove; she turned them every hour,
eagerly awaiting the time that sharp little mouths would break the
shell and human like little hands would tear an opening from which a
human like baby would emerge, oddly pretty-ugly like a gnome, and
unusual only in that it could stand upright from the moment of birth.

One little boy was arguing with Ch-tikkik.  He wore a warm robe of
vegetable-fiber veins knitted to serve as a base for a feather cloak.
He was pointing out that with such a robe he could survive a blizzard
and claiming, quite justly, that he did not have to be in the house in
order to stay warm.  Was that Rupert?

thought Alan.

He was about to call the child when his two wives came to the door, arm
in arm, flushed with the heat of the kitchen where they had been
cooking the two dinners together one dinner for the humans, now
numbering thirty-eight, and the other for the bird people who were
tremendously appreciative of getting cooked food, but who had odd
requirements in the recipes, such as "one quart of finely ground
granite gravel to each gallon of oatmeal, sugared to taste and served
with soybean milk."

Alan stood behind his wives and put a hand on the shoulder of each.

"It's hard to think," he said, "that a little over ten years ago, we
didn't even know that we were still people.  Now look at us, a family,
and a good one.

Alma turned her face up to be kissed, and Ellen, who was less
sentimental, lifted her face to be kissed, too, so that her co-wife
would not be embarrassed at being babied separately.  The two liked
each other very much.  Alma came out of the cube Finsternis as a for
getty conditioned to remember nothing of her long sad psychotic life
before the Instrumentality had sent her on a wild mission among the
stars.  When she had joined Alan
of Man and Ellen, she knew the words of the Old Common Tongue, but
very little else.

Ellen had had some time to teach her, to love her, and to mother her
before any of the babies were born, and the relationship between the
two of them was warm and good.

The three parents stood aside as the bird-women, wearing their
comfortable and pretty feather cloaks, herded the children into the
house.  The smallest children had already been brought in from their
sunning and were being given their bottles by bird-girls who never got
tired of watching the cuteness and helplessness of the human infant.

"It'shard to think of that time at all, "said Ellen, who had been
"Folly."  "I wanted beauty and fame and a perfect marriage and nobody
even told me that they didn't go together.  I have had to come to the
end of the stars to get what I wanted, to be what I might become."

"And me," said Alma, who had been

"Finsternis," "I had a worse problem.  I was crazy.  I was afraid of
life.  I didn't even know how to be a woman, a sweetheart, a female, a
mother.  How could I ever guess that I needed a sister and wife, like
the one you have been, to make my life whole?  Without you to show me,
Ellen, I could never have married our husband.  I thought I was
carrying murder among the stars, but I was carrying my own solution as
well.  Where else could I turn out to be me?"

"And I," said Alan, who had been

"Samm," "became a metal giant between the stars because my first wife
was dead and my own children forgot me and neglected me.  Nobody can
say I'm not a father now.  Thirty-five, and more than half of them
mine.  I'll be more of a father than any other man of the human race
has ever been."

There was a change in the shadow as the enormous right arm swung
heavily toward the sky as a prelude to the sharp robotic call that
nightfall, calculated with astronomical precision, had indeed come to
the place where he stood.

The arm reached its height, pointing straight up.

"I used to do that," said Alan.

The cry came, something like a silent pistol-shot which all of them
heard, but a shot without echoes, without reverberations.

Alan looked around.

"All the children are in.  Even Rupert.

Come in, my darlings, and let us have dinner together."  Alma and Ellen
went ahead of him and he barred the heavy doors behind them.

This was peace and happiness; that at last was goodness.  They had no
obligation but to live and to be happy.  The threat and the promise of
victory were far, far behind.

 Down to a Sunless Sea High, oh, high, oh, they jingle in the sky oh!
Bright how bright the light of those twin moons of Xanadu, Xanadu the
lost, Xanadu the lovely, Xanadu the seat of pleasure.  Pleasure of the
senses, body, mind, soul.  Soul?  Who said anything about soul?

Where they were standing the wind whispered softly.  From time to time
Madu in an ageless feminine gesture tugged at her tiny silver skirt or
adjusted her equally nominal open sleeveless jacket.  Not that she was
cold.  Her abbreviated costume was appropriate to Xanadu's equable
climate.

She thought: "I wonder what he will be like, this Lord of the
Instrumentality?  Will he be old or young, fair or dark, wise or
foolish?"  She did not think "handsome or ugly."  Xanadu was noted for
the physical perfection of its inhabitants, and Madu was too young to
expect anything less.

Lari, waiting beside her, was not thinking of the Space Lord.

His mind was seeing again the video tapes of the dancing, the intricate
steps and beautiful frenzy of movement of the group from ancient days
of Manhome, the group labeled

"Bawl-shoy."

"Someday," he thought, "oh, perhaps someday I too can dance like that.
.."

Kuat thought: "Who do they think they're fooling?  In all the years
I've been governor of Xanadu this is the first time a Lord has been
here.  War hero of the battle of Styron IV indeed!  Why, that's been
over substantive months ago.  . . . He's had plenty of time to recover
if it's really true he was wounded.  No, there's something more .  . .
they know or suspect something .  . . Well, we'll keep him busy.
Shouldn't be hard to do here with all the pleasures Xanadu has to offer
. . . and there's Madu.  No, he can't complain or he'll blow his cover.
 . . ."

And all the while, as the ornithopter
neared, their destiny was approaching.  He did not know that he was to
be their destiny; he did not intend to be their destiny, and their
destiny had not been predetermined.

The passenger in the descending ornithopter reached out with his mind
to try to perceive the place, to sense it.  It was hard, terribly hard
. . . there seemed to be a thick cloud-like cover a mist between his
mind and the minds he tried to feel.  Was it himself, his mind damage
from the war?  Or was it something more, the atmosphere of the planet
something to deter or prevent telepathy?

Lord bin Permaiswari shook his head.  He was so full of self-doubt, so
confused.  Ever since the battle .  . . the mind scarring probes of the
fear machines... how much permanent damage had they done?  Perhaps here
on Xanadu he could rest and forget.

As he stepped from the ornithopter Lord bin Permaiswari felt an even
greater sense of bewilderment.  He had known that Xanadu had no sun,
but he was unprepared for the soft shadowless light which greeted him.
The twin moons hung, seemingly, side by side, while their light was
reflected by millions of mirrors.  In the near distance li after li of
white sand beaches stretched, while farther on stood chalk cliffs with
the jet-black sea foaming on their bases.  Black, white, silver, the
colors of Xanadu.

Kuat approached him without delay.  Kuat's sense of apprehension had
diminished appreciably at the first glimpse of the Space Lord.  The
visitor did indeed look ill and confused; correspondingly, Kuat's
amiability increased without conscious effort on his part.

"Xanadu extends you welcome, oh Lord bin Permaiswari.

Xanadu and all that Xanadu contains is yours."  The traditional
greeting sounded strange in his rough tones.  The Space Lord saw before
him a huge man, tall and correspondingly heavy, muscles gleaming, his
longish reddish hair and beard showing magenta in the light of the
moons and mirrors.

"It gives me pleasure.  Governor Kuat, merely to be in Xanadu, and I
return the planet and its contents to you," replied Lord Kemal bin
Permaiswari.

Kuat turned and gestured toward his two companions.

"This is Madu, a distant relative, and so my ward.  And this is Lari,
my brother, son of my father's fourth wife she who drowned herself in
the Sunless Sea."  The Space Lord winced at Kuat's laugh, but the young
people appeared not to notice it.

Gentle Madu hid her disappointment and greeted the Lord with becoming
modesty.  She had expected (hoped for?) a shining figure, a blazing
armor, or perhaps simply an aura which proclaimed

"I am a hero."  Instead she saw an intellectual-looking man, tired,
looking somehow older than his substantive thirty years.  She wondered
what he had done, how this
man could be the talk of the Instrumentality as the savior of human
culture in the battle of Styron IV.

Lari, because he was a male, knew more of the facts of the battle than
Madu, and he greeted Lord bin Permaiswari with grave respect.  In his
dream world, second only to dancers and runners of easy grace, Lari
looked up to intelligence.  This was the man who had dared to pit
himself, his living mind, his intellect against the dread fear machines
... and won!  The price was evident in his face, but he had WON.  Lari
placed his hands together and held them to his forehead in a gesture of
homage.

The Lord reached out in a gesture which won Lari's heart forever.  He
touched Lari's hand and said,

"My friends call me Kemal."  Then he turned to include Madu and, almost
as an afterthought, Kuat.

Kuat did not notice the near omission.  He had turned and was walking
toward what appeared to be a huge lump of yellow and black striped fur.
He made a peculiar hissing sound, and at once the lump separated into
four enormous cats.

Each cat was saddled, and each saddle was equipped with a holding ring,
but there was no apparent means of guiding the cats.

Kuat answered Kemal's question.

"No, of course there's no way to guide them.  They're pure cat, you
know, unmodified except for size.  No under people here!  I think we're
the only planet in the Instrumentality that doesn't have under people
except for Norstrilia, of course.  But the reasons for Norstrilia and
Xanadu are at the opposite ends of the spectrum.  We enjoy our senses .
. . none of that nonsense about hard work building character like the
Norstrilians believe.  We don't believe in austerity and all that
malarkey.  We just get more sensual pleasure out of our unmodified
animals.  We have robots to do the dirty work."

Kemal nodded.  After all, wasn't that what he was here for?

To allow his senses to repair his damaged mind?

Nonetheless, the man who had faced the fear machines with scarcely a
tremble did not know how to approach the cat which was designated as
his.

Madu saw his hesitation.

"Griselda is perfectly friendly,"

she said.

"Just wait a minute till I scratch her ears; she'll lie down and you
can mount."

Kemal glanced up and caught an expression of disgust in Kuat's eyes. It
did not help in his search for self-mending.

Madu, oblivious to Kuat's displeasure, had coaxed the great cat to
kneeling position and smiled up at Kemal.

Kemal felt something like pain stab him at her glance.  She was so
beautiful and so innocent; her vulnerability wrenched at his heart.  He
remembered the Lady Ru's quotation of an ancient sage: "Innocence
within is armor without," but a web of fear settled on his mind.  He
brushed it aside and mounted the cat.

The As he lay dying nearly three centuries later, he remembered that
ride.  It was as thrilling as his first space jump.  The leap into
nothingness and then the sudden realization that he was traveling,
traveling, traveling without volition, with no personal control over
the direction his body might take.  Before fear had the opportunity to
assert itself it was converted into a visceral, almost orgasmic
excitement, a gush of pleasure almost too strong to bear.

Lank dark hair flying in his face, the Lord bin Permaiswari would have
been unrecognizable to the Lords and Ladies who gathered at the Bell on
Old Earth in time of crisis.  They would not have recognized the boyish
glee in a face which they were accustomed to seeing as grave and
preoccupied.  He laughed in the wind and tightened his knees against
Griselda's flanks, holding the saddle ring with one hand as he turned
back to wave at the others who were somewhat behind.

Griselda seemed to sense his pleasure at her long effortless bounds.
Suddenly the ride took on a new proportion.  Overhead the ornithopter
which had brought the Space Lord to Xanadu passed by on its way back to
the spaceport.  At once Griselda left the pride and leapt futilely
after the ascending ornithopter.

As she attempted to bat at it, Kemal was forced to use both hands on
the holding ring in order not to fall off ignominiously.

She continued to leap and bat hopelessly in its direction until it
disappeared from sight.  Then she sat down to lick herself and,
inadvertently, her passenger.

Lord Kemal found her sandpaper tongue not unpleasant, but he winced as
her fang brushed his leg.  At some distance Kuat sat laughing.  Madu's
face, even in the distance, showed concern, however, which cleared as
the Lord waved to her.

Lari, confident in the powers of the hero of Styron IV, was gazing
dreamily at the distant city.

Slowly now, Griselda joined the rest of the pride, her attitude
apparently one of some embarrassment at having performed such a
kittenish prank when she had been entrusted with the welfare of the
distinguished visitor.

In the distance the domes and towers of the city gleamed nacreous in
the soft shadowless light of the moons and mirrors.

Lord Kemal had his sense of unreality reinforced.  The city looked so
beautiful and so unreal that he had the feeling it might vanish as they
approached.  He was to learn that the city and all it stood for were
all too real.

As they neared the city walls, Kemal could see that the stark whiteness
of the city from afar was an illusion.  The shimmering white walls of
the buildings were set with gemstones in intricate patterns, flowers,
leaves, and geometric designs all heightening the beauty of the
incredible architecture.  In all the worlds he had visited Lord Kemal
had seen nothing to equal this city; Philip's palace on the Gem Planet
was a hovel compared to these buildings.

Formal gardens with fountains and artificial pools separated the
buildings.  Shrubbery in an artful plan which gave the appearance of
being natural was planted here and there.

Suddenly the Space Lord realized another strange aspect of the planet:
he had seen no trees.

Dogs yipped at them from safe distances as they entered the city, but
this time Griselda refused to be tempted.  Now that she was in the city
she had assumed a certain dignity; it was if she wanted to forget her
previous dereliction.  She headed straight for the palace steps.

Lord Kemal could feel the muscles of Griselda's haunches tighten as she
prepared to hurdle up the steps and through the open door.  It would be
a tight squeeze for the two of them.

Fortunately Kuat reached the steps first and hissed his command to her.
Kemal could feel her reluctance.  She would much have preferred
bounding up the steps, but she obeyed.

She lay belly down, back feet crouched, front feet stretched forward;
the Lord Kemal dismounted easily but with reluctance, a regret almost
as great as Griselda's that the ride was over.  He reached over to
scratch the cat's ears.

Madu smiled approvingly.

"That's right.  When you make friends with your cat, she'll obey you
much more readily."

Kuat grunted.

"I have my own way for making them obey if they get too many ideas of
their own."  For the first time the Space Lord noticed a small barbed
whip tucked into Kuat's belt, to which Kuat pointed now.

"Kuat, you wouldn't," Madu protested.

"You never have .  .

."

"You haven't seen me," he said.  Then as her face clouded he added as
if reassuringly "Up to now I haven't needed to.  But don't think I
wouldn't."

Kemal noticed that Kuat's reassurance was not quite adequate.  A gauze
of doubt or wonder seemed to obscure the open brightness of Madu's
face.  Once more the Lord Kemal felt a stab of fear for her and once
more dismissed it.

It was her innocence he feared for.  He found that her eyes reminded
him of D'irena from the ancient days of his true youth before he had
been made wise in the ways of mankind, before he had been made to know
that under persons and true men could not mix as equals.  D'irena with
the fawn like grace, the soft gentle mouth, the innocent eyes of the
doe she was derived from.  What had happened to her after he left?  Did
her eyes still hold that candid ingenuousness which he saw mirrored in
Madu's eyes?  Or had she mated with some gross stag and had some of his
grossness transferred itself to her?

He hoped, remembering her fondly, that she had mated with a fine
592 The buck who had given her does as gentle and as graceful as she
was in his memory.  He shook his head.  The fear machines had stirred
up all kinds of strange memories and feelings.  Absently, he petted the
cat.

Servants came forward to unsaddle the cats.  With a renewed start the
Space Lord realized that these were true men, not under persons doing
work, and he remembered Kuat's statement about enjoying the sensuality
of animals.  There was something else, something he had almost thought
of, but he could not quite think... it was as if he tried to catch the
tail of an elusive animal as it disappeared around the corner.

Led by Kuat and trailed by Madu and Lari, the Lord Kemal threaded his
way through a maze of rooms and corridors.  Each seemed more amazing
than the last.  The only time the Space Lord had seen anything similar
had been on videotapes a reconstruction of old Manhome as it had been
before Radiation III.  The walls were hung with tapestries and
paintings based on reproductions of those from Earth; couches, statues,
rugs of color and warmth brought here by Xanadu's founder, the original
Kahn.  Yes, Xanadu was a return to pleasure of the senses, to luxury
and beauty, to the unnecessary.

Kemal felt himself beginning to relax in this atmosphere of
enchantment, but the spell was broken when, upon reaching the main
salon, Kuat unceremoniously flung himself into the nearest couch.  As
he stretched full length, he vaguely waved a hand to the rest of the
party.

"Sit down, sit down," he said.  Candles flickered and glowed; low
tables and couches stood about invitingly.

For the first time since the introduction on the Space Lord's arrival
Lari spoke spontaneously.

"We welcome you to our home," he said, "and hope that we can do all
possible to make your visit enjoyable."

Kemal realized that he had paid little attention to the youth because
he had been so absorbed in new impressions, and (he had to admit it to
himself) the girl Madu had fascinated him.

Lari, in his own way, was as physically perfect as Madu.  Tall,
slender, lightly muscled, a golden boy.  And, like Madu, he had a
curious air of openness, of vulnerability.  It seemed strange to the
Lord Kemal that these two should grow up so innocent under the
guardianship of a man as coarse and boorish as Kuat seemed.

Kuat interrupted his reverie.

"Come!  The djudi!"

Madu immediately moved toward a table on which rested a copper-colored
tray with silvery highlights.  On the tray sat a dual-spouted pitcher
of the same material and eight small matching goblets.  A lid covered
the top of the pitcher.  As Madu picked up the pitcher, Kuat gave one
of the grunts which the Space Lord was finding increasingly
distasteful.

"Just be sure you put your thumb over the right hole."

Her answering tone was indulgent but as nearly scornful as Kemal could
imagine her being.

"I've been doing this since childhood.  Is it likely I'd forget now?"

In after years it seemed to Kemal bin Permaiswari that this night was
one of the important turns that his life took in its convoluted passage
through time.  He seemed removed from events as they occurred; he
seemed a spectator, watching the actions, not only of the others but of
himself, as if he had no control over them, as if in a dream .. .

Madu knelt gracefully and placed a thumb over one of the two holes at
the top of the pitcher.  Candlelight played over the light silvery
dusting of powder which covered the entire area of her bare skin.  As
she poured the reddish liquid into four of the little goblets, Kemal
noticed that even the nails of her small hands were painted silver.

Kuat raised his goblet.  The first toast by the rules of politeness
should have been to the guest of honor, or at the very least to the
Instrumentality, but Kuat went by his own rules.

"To pleasure," he said, and drank the contents with one gulp.

While the rest of the party slowly sipped their drinks, Kuat roused
himself to pour another cupful.  He had swallowed the second cupful
before the others had finished their first.

The Lord Kemal savored the taste of the djudi.  Unlike anything he had
ever tasted before, neither sweet nor sour, it was more like the juice
of pomegranate than any other flavor he had tasted, and yet it was
unique.

As he sipped he felt a pleasant tingling sensation pervade his body. By
the time he had finished the cup he had decided that djudi was the most
delicious thing he had ever tasted.

Instead of muddling his wits like alcohol or conferring nothing but
sensual pleasure like the electrode, djudi seemed to heighten all his
senses, his awareness.  All colors were brighter, background music of
which he had been only dimly aware was suddenly piercingly lovely, the
texture of the brocaded couch was a thing of joy, perfumes of flowers
he had never known overwhelmed him.  His scarred mind rejected Styron
IV and all its implications.  He felt a glow of comradeship,
momentarily even toward Kuat, and suddenly felt he had come against a
Daimoni wall.

Then he knew.  His inability to sense or to read the other minds on
this planet did not lie within himself or any defect incurred through
the fear machines but was directly connected to Kuat, to some non
authorized barrier which Kuat had erected.

The barrier was imperfect, however.  Kuat had not been able merely to
keep his own thoughts from being read; he had had to set up a universal
barrier.  This was obvious from the fact that Kuat showed no indication
that he could sense the Space Lord.

"And what," thought Kemal, "do you have to hide?  What is so much
594 The against the laws of the Instrumentality that you have had to
set up a universal mind barrier?"

Kuat, relaxed, smiled pleasantly.

For the first time since Styron IV the Lord Kemal bin Permaiswari felt
that he might in truth recover completely.  It was the first time he
had felt really interested in anything.

Madu brought him back to his present situation.

"You like our djudi?"  It was hardly a question.

Kemal nodded, blissful and still absorbed in the puzzle he had
encountered.

"You may have one more," she said, "but that is all that is good for
you.  After that, one begins to lose one's senses, and that, after all,
is not pleasurable, is it?"

She poured the second cup for Kemal, for Lari and herself.

Kuat reached for the pitcher, and she slapped playfully at his hand.

"One more and you might pour yourself pi sang by accident."

He laughed.

"I am bigger than most men and can drink more than they."

"At least let me pour it then," she said, and proceeded to do so.

She turned again to the Space Lord with a playful gaiety which did not
ring quite true.

"He is one whom we must all indulge; but, really, it is dangerous to
have too much.  You see how this pitcher is made?"

She took off the lid to demonstrate the division of the pitcher.

"In one half is djudi; in the other there is pi sang which is identical
in taste to djudi, but it is deadly.  One cup kills anyone drinking it
within eefunjung."  Involuntarily Kemal shuddered.  The unit of time
she mentioned was so small as to be almost instantaneous.

"No antidote?"

"None."

Lari, who had been sitting quietly, now spoke.

"It is the same thing, really.  Djudi is the distilled pi sang They
come from a fruit which grows here, only on Xanadu.  Galaxy knows how
many people must have died eating the fruit or drinking the fermented
but undistilled pi sang before the secret of djudi was discovered."

"Worth every one of them," Kuat laughed.  Any remaining warmth
engendered by the djudi which the Space Lord might have felt toward the
Governor of Xanadu was dissipated.  His curiosity regarding the duality
of the pitcher, however, was aroused.

"But if you know that pi sang is poison, why do you keep it in the same
container with djudi?  For that matter, why do you keep it in its
undistilled state at all?"

Madu nodded agreement.

"I have often asked the same question, and the answers I get make no
sense."

"It's the excitement of danger," Lari said.

"Don't you enjoy the djudi more knowing there's the element of chance
you'll get pi sang

"That's what I said," Madu repeated.

"The answers make no sense."

At this point Kuat broke in.  His speech was slightly slurred, but he
spoke intelligently enough.

"In the first place, there is tradition.  In the old days, under the
first Kahn and before Xanadu came under the jurisdiction of the Lords
of the Instrumentality, there was a great deal of lawlessness on
Xanadu.  There were power struggles for leadership.  People came here
from other planets to plunder our richness.  There had to be some
simple way of eliminating them before they knew they were being
eliminated.  The double pitcher is copied, so they say, from a
Chinesian one brought by the first Kahn.  I don't know about that, but
it has become traditional here.  You won't find a djudi holder on
Xanadu without its corresponding pi sang holder."  He nodded wisely, as
if he had explained everything, but the Space Lord was not satisfied.

"All right," he said, "you make the pitchers in the traditional way,
but why, by Venus's clouds, must you continue to put pi sang in
them?"

Kuat's answer, when it came, was in even more slurred tones than his
previous speech; the effects of too much djudi began to make him sound
intoxicated, and the Space Lord made mental note to heed Madu's
injunctions not to exceed two cupfuls of the drink.  Kuat gave a rather
leering smile and wagged a finger admonishingly at Lord Kemal.

"Strangers mustn't ask too many questions.  Might still be enemies
around and we're all prepared.  Anyway, that's the way we execute
criminals on Xanadu."  His laugh was uninhibited.

"They don't know what they're getting.  It's like a lottery.

Sometimes I tease them a little.  Give them djudi first, and they start
to think they're going to be freed.  Then I give them another cup, and
they don't suspect a thing.  Drink it happily because nothing happened
with the first cup.  Then when the paralysis hits them ha! you should
see their faces!"

For an instant the latent dislike which the Space Lord had conceived
for Kuat sprang full grown.  But the man's intoxicated, in effect, he
thought.  And then: But is this the real man speaking?

"No, no, Kuat, you don't mean that!"

Realization seemed to return to Kuat.  He gave his brother's knee a
reassuring pat.

"No, no, course don't.  Think I'll go to bed.  You'll take care of
guest, won't you?"

He staggered slightly as he stood up but managed to walk fairly
steadily from the room.

Suddenly the barrier was down slightly.  He could not read Kuat's mind,
but the Space Lord could sense, somewhere on the planet, something
evil, strange, unlawful.  A coldness seemed to replace the warmth of
the djudi in his veins.

596 The Across the white dunes the wind was beginning to rise.  Far
from the city, protected by the ancient crater lake of the sunless sea,
the laboratory had a deceptive exterior placidity.  Within, the illegal
die hr-dead, not yet quite sentient, stirred in their am biotic fluid;
outside, trees bearing their deadly fruit seemed to quiver as if in
dread anticipation.

Madu sighed.

"I knew he shouldn't have had that last one, but he would do it."  She
turned toward Lari, oblivious of the Space Lord, and said reassuringly:
"Of course he didn't mean what he said about teasing the prisoners.
He's been so good to us all these years ... nobody could be so kind to
us and cruel in other ways, could he?"

Once more the Space Lord glanced in Lari's direction.  The handsome
young face, vital but young, so young, held a look of uneasiness.

"No, I suppose not, and still I've heard tales...."  He broke off,
remembering the presence of the Space Lord.

"Of course it's all nonsense," he concluded, but Lord Kemal had the
feeling that he was trying as much to reassure himself as to erase the
bad impression his brother had made.

"We will eat now," Madu said brightly, and stood up to go into the
dining salon.  Again the Space Lord felt as if the subject were being
changed.

II

In after years the Space Lord remembered.  Thoughts raced through his
mind.  Oh, Xanadu, there is nothing with which to liken you in all the
galaxies.  The shadowless days and nights, the treeless plains, the
sudden rainless blasts of thunder and lightning which somehow add to
your charm.  Griselda.  The only pure animal I ever knew.  The great
rumbling purr, the soft pink nose with the black spot on one side, the
eyes which seemed to look beyond the features of my face into my very
being.  Oh, Griselda, I hope that somewhere you still bound and leap .
. .

But now: the first few days of the Lord Kemal bin Permaiswari on Xanadu
passed quickly as he was introduced to the infinite pleasures of
Xanadu.

On the day following Kemal's arrival a footrace had been scheduled in
which Lari was to run.  The element of competition which had been
brought back to Xanadu was part of a deliberate return to the simpler
joys which mankind in its mechanization had forgotten.

Crowds at the stadium were gay and bright.  Most of the young girls
wore their hair loose and flowing; the women, old and young alike, wore
the typical costume of Xanadu: tiny short skirt and open sleeveless
jacket.  On most worlds the older women would have looked grotesque or
at least
ludicrous in this costume, and the younger women would have seemed
lewd.  But on Xanadu there was a basic innocence and acceptance of the
body, and almost without exception the women of Xanadu, irrespective of
age, seemed to have retained their lovely lithe figures, and there was
no false modesty to call attention to their seminudity.

Most of the young people, male and female alike, wore the shimmering
body powder which the Space Lord had first noted on Madu; some matched
the powder to their clothes, others to their hair or eyes.  A few wore
a colorless luminescent dusting.  Of them all, the Space Lord thought
Madu the loveliest.

She radiated excitement, a portion of which communicated itself to Lord
Kemal.  Kuat seemed unemotional.

"How can you sit there so calmly?"  she asked.

"The boy'll win, you know.  Anyway horse racing is more exciting."

"For you, maybe.  Not for me."

Lord Kemal was interested.

"I have never seen this racing," he said.

"What is it?  The horses all run together to see which is the
fastest?"

Madu nodded agreement.

"They all start at a given signal and run a predetermined path.  The
one who reaches the goal first is the winner.  He," she nodded her head
playfully in Kuat's direction, "likes to bet, that is to wager, that
his horse will win.

That is why he likes horse races better than human races."

"And you have no wager on the human races?"

"Oh, no.  It would be degrading to human beings to wager on their
abilities or accomplishments!"

There were three races that day, each one narrowing the field of
contestants.  It became evident that there was no real competition;
Lari so far outdistanced the others that it was almost embarrassing. If
he had not been so obviously a superb runner, it would have been easy
to assume that the others had held back in order to allow the brother
of the governor of Xanadu to win.

Kuat went off to the center of the stadium to participate in a copy of
an ancient ritual from old Manhome in which a crown of golden leaves
was set on Lari's hair.

In his absence, Lord Kemal heard various whisperings behind him in
which he caught the words "dance with the aroi," "old governor will not
be pleased," "too bad his mother.  .."  Madu seemed not to be
listening.

After the celebrations, when the Governor and his party had returned to
the palace, Lord Kemal remembered the curious phrases; in particular he
was puzzled by the present or future tense of "old governor will be
(not would have been) pleased."  It stuck in his mind and fretted
there, like a splinter in a sore finger.

His mind was only just recovering from the
wounds of the fear machines, and he decided he could not risk a
further infection.

While Kuat was having his second goblet of djudi.  Lord Kemal said,
most casually,

"How long have you been governor of Xanadu, Kuat?"

The latter glanced up, sensing something beneath the casualness of the
immediate question.

Lari interrupted.

"I was a small baby " Kuat's gesture silenced him.

"For many years," he said.

"Does it matter how many?"

"No, I was curious," said the Space Lord, deciding on modified
candor.

"I thought that the governorship of Xanadu was hereditary, but I heard
something today which made me believe that the governor your father was
still alive."

Again Lari, before Kuat could silence him, rushed to answer.

"But he is.  He's with the aroi... that's why my mother " Kuat's frown
silenced him.

"These are not matters for the Instrumentality.  These are matters of
Xanadu's local customs, protected by Article #376984, sub-article a,
paragraph 34c of the instrument under which Xanadu agreed to come under
the protection of the Instrumentality.  I can assure the Lord that only
domestic matters of purely autochthonous origin are concerned."

Lord Kemal nodded in ostensible agreement.  He felt that he had somehow
uncovered another small portion of the mystery which intrigued him,
interested him as nothing else had done since Styron IV.

III

On the fourth "day" of his stay on Xanadu, Lord Kemal went out with
Madu and Lari for his first experience beyond the walls of the city
since his arrival.  By this time, the Space Lord had become quite fond
of the cat Griselda.  It pleased him inordinately when she gave a great
purr of pleasure and lay down for him to mount without awaiting a
command.

He saw animals in a new light.  With poignancy he knew that under
persons modified animals in the shape of human beings, were truly
neither one thing nor the other.  Oh, there were under persons of great
intelligence and power but... he let the thought trail off.

They raced across the plains with a singular joy.  Windswept, treeless,
the small planet had a wild beauty of its own.  The black sea lashed at
the foot of the chalk cliffs.  Kemal, watching the li of sand, felt the
strangeness of the place once more.  In the distance he saw a great
bird rise, falter, then fall.

Later, much later, the song the computer wrote when he fed it the
facts of time and place became known throughout the galaxies: On a dark
mountain Alone in the cloud The eagle paused And the wind shrieked
aloud The thunder rolled And the mist of the cloud Formed the eagle's
shroud As it fell to the ground Wings battered and torn.

And the surf At the foot Of the cliff Was white That night , And bright
The wing s Of the fallin g Bird.

I heard The cry.

Perhaps it was testimony to the depth of his feeling that the Lord
Kemal fed these facts to the computer in such a way that some of his
agony was expressed.

Madu and Lari watched also as the bird fell, their bright joy overcast
by something they could not quite comprehend.

"But why?"  Madu whispered.

"It flew along as freely as we were riding, we bounded as it soared,
all free and happy.  And now .  .."

"And now we must forget it," said the Space Lord, of a wisdom born of
endless endurance and a wariness he wished he did not feel.  But he
himself could not forget it.  Hence the computer.

"On a dark mountain .  . ."

More slowly now, chilled by the death of beauty, of life, they
proceeded, each involved in thought.

"What waste!"  the Space Lord thought.  What waste of beauty.

The bird had soared free as a dream.  Why?  A strange current of air?
Or something more deadly?

"What did my mother feel?"  thought Lari.

"What were her feelings and thoughts when she walked into the warm deep
dark sea and knew she would never return?"

Madu felt confused and lonely.  It was the first time that she
personally had ever confronted death in any form.  Her parents were
unreal to her; she had never known them.  But this bird she had seen it
alive and free, flying, concerned with nothing more important than its
graceful glides and soaring; and now, suddenly, it was dead.  She could
not reconcile the two thoughts in her mind.

It was Lord Kemal who, because of his age and experience, recovered
first.

"You haven't told me," he said, "where we are going."

Madu's smile was a feeble echo of her usual glow, but she made the
effort.

"We're going to ride around the edge of the crater up there by the
peak.  It's a beautiful view, and when you stand there you can almost
get the idea that you can see the whole planet."

Lari nodded, determined to participate in the conversation despite the
dark thoughts which had clouded his mind.

"It's true,"

he said.

"You can even see the grove of buah trees from there.  It's from the
fruit of the buah trees that we get pi sang and djudi."

"I was curious about that," the Space Lord said.

"I haven't seen a tree since I landed on the planet."

"No," said Madu and Lari simultaneously.  It created a small diversion,
and they both laughed spontaneously, acting more naturally than they
had since the death of the bird.  Unconsciously they communicated their
more cheerful attitude to the cats, which now began to bound forward
once more at increased speed.

The Space Lord's happiness at the upswing in spirits of his young
companions was tempered with chagrin that the conversation, which had
started to be interesting, could not continue while their steeds were
proceeding at this breakneck speed.

As they continued uphill, however, the cats gradually began to slow.
The change was imperceptible at first, but as the long climb continued,
Lord Kemal could feel Griselda's increasing effort.  He had begun to
think that nothing could tire her, but the climb to the edge of the
crater was considerably longer than it looked from below.

That the other cats were also feeling the strain was evident from their
decreased pace.

The Space Lord reopened the conversation.

"You were going to tell me about the trees," he said.

It was Lari who answered first.

"You are quite right about not having seen any trees," he said.

"The only trees which grow on Xanadu except the buah trees are the
Kelapa trees, and they grow down in the craters of the
smaller volcanoes.  You can see some of them too when we get to the
crater rim.  But the buah trees always grow in groves there must be
both male and female to bear fruit, and the fruit can only be
approached at certain times.  Otherwise, even to inhale the scent is
deadly."

Madu gravely concurred.

"We must always keep at a distance from the buah grove until Kuat has
consulted with the aroi, and when he tells us the time is right, then
everyone on Xanadu participates in the harvest.  The aroi dance, and it
is the best time of all... ."

Lari shook his head, disapprovingly.

"Madu, there are things we don't talk about to outsiders."

Her face suffused, eyes suddenly welling, she stammered, "But a Lord of
the Instrumentality ..."

Both men realized her unhappiness, and each in his own way hastened to
remedy it.  The Space Lord said,

"I'm good at not remembering things I shouldn't."

Lari smiled at her and put his right hand hard on her shoulder.

"It's all right.  He understands, and you didn't mean any harm.  We
won't either of us say anything to Kuat."

As he lay in his room after dinner, the Space Lord tried to reconstruct
the afternoon.  They had reached the rim of the crater and it had been
as Madu said: one could feel as if the horizon were infinite.  The
Space Lord had felt an overwhelming sense of the magnitude of infinity,
something he had never quite experienced to this degree before in all
of his trips through space or time.  And yet there had been a small
nagging feeling that something was not quite right.

Pan of the feeling was associated with the grove of buah trees.  He was
sure that he had glimpsed a building as the uncertain, sometimes
gusting, sometimes gentle wind blew the buah branches.  He had not
mentioned this observation to the young people.  It was probably
something else autochthonous and therefore forbidden to discussion, or
surely one of them would have mentioned it.

He searched his memory (yes, he felt, his mind was definitely
recovering) for a person among the servants at the palace who might be
willing to talk to a Lord of the Instrumentality.

Suddenly he remembered something of which he must have made subliminal
note at the time without being consciously aware.  One of the men in
the cat stable.  What was it now?  He had drawn a fish in the cat sand
and then, glancing at the face of the Space Lord, had casually brushed
it over.  Later he had caught the gleam of metal at the man's neck.
Could it have been a cross of the God Nailed High?  Was there a member
of the Old Strong Religion here on Xanadu?  If so, he had a subject for
blackmail.

Or did he?  The man had been trying to communicate to him.

Now that
he thought of it, he was sure.  Well, at least he had a possible
colleague.  Now all he had to do was remember the man's name.

He gave his mind free association; the face came to him; the man's hand
fumbling at the chain at his neck... yes, certainly the cross, he could
see it now .  . . why hadn't he noticed it before?  ... but there it
was, recorded on his mind .  . .

and, yes, the man's name: Mr.-Stokely-from-Boston.  The unlikely
suspicion that there was, after all, an under person on Xanadu crossed
his mind, Mr.-Stokely-from-Boston did not look as if he were
animal-derived, but the name indicated something odd in his
background.

Lord Kemal bin Permaiswari felt he could not wait until "morning" to
try to further his acquaintance with Mr.-Stokelyfrom-Boston.  What
excuse could he have to go down to the cat stables at this hour?  The
gates of Xanadu were closed for the next eight hours.  Then he realized
that he had been thinking as an ordinary human being.  He was a Lord of
the Instrumentality.

Why should he have to have an excuse for anything he chose to do?  Kuat
might be Governor of Xanadu, but in the schema of the Instrumentality
he was a very small speck.

Nevertheless, the Space Lord felt it best to be circumspect in his
movements.  Kuat had demonstrated his ruthlessness, and certain of
these "autochthonous" practices seemed very peculiar.  A Space Lord who
"accidentally" drank pi sang while of a disordered mind might be
written off.  And there was the well-being of Mr.-Stokely-from-Boston
to be considered.

Griselda.  That was the answer.  He had noticed that she was sneezing
this afternoon ... he had even mentioned it to Madu and Lari... and
they had passed it off as dust or pollen.  But it would serve as an
excuse.  He had become so obviously fond of Griselda as to be the
subject of teasing of a mild sort on her behalf.  Certainly no one
would find his concern for her out of the ordinary.

The corridors seemed strangely deserted as he strode through on his way
to the cat stable.  He realized that he had not ventured from his
living area after the final meal of the day since his arrival on
Xanadu.  Apparently everyone retired after this meal, servants and
masters alike.  He wondered if the stables would also be deserted.

It was his incredible good fortune to find Mr.-Stokely-from Boston
alone.  At least, at the time, he assumed that the meeting was
fortuitous.  Later he questioned the bird-man.  Mr.-Stokelyfrom-Boston
had proved to be, as the Space Lord had wildly surmised, an under
person

Mr.-Stokely-from-Boston's smile was wise and kindly.

"You see, Governor Kuat has no suspicion at all that I am an under
person And, of course, the universal mind barrier has no operative
effect on me.  It was a
little difficult, but I see I did manage to get through to you.  I was
somewhat worried when my mind probe showed all the leftover scar tissue
from Styron IV, but I've been using the latest methods to try healing
your mind, and I'm sure we're succeeding very nicely."

The Space Lord felt an odd momentary resentment that this
animal-derived person had such an intimate acquaintance with his mind,
but the anger was short-lived because he quickly equated the empathy he
had built up with Griselda to the mental communication he was having
with the bird-man.

Mr.-Stokely-from-Boston smiled even more broadly.

"I was quite right about you, Lord bin Permaiswari.  You are the ally
we have been needing here on Xanadu.  You look surprised?"

Lord bin Permaiswari nodded.

"The governor was so firm that there were no under persons on Xanadu "
"Getting through has not been without its difficulties," Mr.-
Stokely-from-Boston acknowledged, "but I am not alone.  And we have
other human families, of course, but none so powerful as a Space Lord
up to now.

Lord Kemal found that he did not resent the assumption that he was an
ally.  Again the bird-man read his thoughts and smiled at him.  He had
a curiously winning smile, assured but kindly.  He looked trustworthy,
and Lord Kemal felt himself ready to accept whatever the bird-man might
say.

Their thoughts locked.

"Let me introduce myself properly,"

spieked the bird-man.

"My real name is E'duard, and my progenitor was the great E'telekeli,
of whom you may have heard."

Lord Kemal found the false modesty of this statement rather touching.
He bowed his head momentarily in respect; the legendary bird-man, the
E'telekeli, was known throughout the Instrumentality as the
acknowledged leader and spiritual advisor of the under persons This
egg-derived under person could be a most helpful ally in carrying out
the work of the Instrumentality or an opposition of fearful
proportions.  The Lords and Ladies who ruled the Instrumentality were
anxious for his cooperation.

Many under persons were known to have extraordinary medical and psychic
powers, and it comforted the Space Lord to know that the animal-derived
person who had been manipulating his mind was a descendant of the
E'telekeli.  He found that he was spieking his thoughts because E'duard
could obviously hier them.

It would certainly make the process of solving Xanadu's mystery simpler
for the Space Lord if they cooperated, but first he wanted to know if
their peculiar alliance violated any of the laws of the
Instrumentality.

"No."  E'duard was emphatic.

"In fact, it is a correction of matters
which are in direct conflict with he laws of the Instrumentality, with
which we have to deal."

"Something 'autochthonous'?"  asked the Space Lord shrewdly.

"Native culture is involved," E'duard agreed, "but it's really being
used as a screen for something far more evil and I use the word 'evil'
not only in this sense" (he held up the cross of the God Nailed High)
"but in its sense of the basic violation of the rights of the living. I
mean the right of an entity to exist, to exist on its own terms
provided they do not violate the rights of others, to come to its own
terms with life, and to make its own decisions."

For a second time Lord Kemal bin Permaiswari nodded in respect and
agreement.

"These are inalienable rights."

E'duard shook his head.

"They should be," he spieked, "but on Xanadu, Kuat has found a way
around that inalienability.  You are, of course, familiar with the die
hr-dead?"

"Of course.

"And the'er a life of their own .  . ."  " he quoted from an ancient
song.

"But what does that have to do with the rights of the living?  The die
hr-dead are grown from the frozen bits of flesh of remarkable achievers
long dead.  It's true that in regenerating the physical person of the
dead one we have sometimes had extraordinary results with the die
hr-dead in their second lives; but sometimes not their achievements
seem to have been a combination of circumstances and genes, not of
genes alone...."

Again E'duard shook his head.

"It's not of the legal, scientifically controlled die hr-dead I speak,
although I sometimes feel very sorry for them.  But what would you
think of die hr-dead grown from the living?"

The Space Lord looked his wonder and horror as E'duard continued.

"Diehr-dead who are controlled like puppets by Kuat, die hr-dead who
are substituted for the originals, so that in truth neither the die
hr-dead nor the original has a life of its own.  . . ."

With quick realization the Space Lord knew what was in the building he
had glimpsed in the grove of buah trees.

"That's the laboratory, isn't it?"

E'duard nodded.

"It's a perfect location.  Kuat has spread the rumor that the scent of
the buah tree is deadly except when, after consultation with the aroi,
he pronounces it safe to harvest the fruit.  So nobody dares approach
the laboratory.  All nonsense.

There is only a very short period, just before harvest, when the scent
of the buah fruit is deadly ... in other words, just enough truth to
the rumor to give it currency.  You saw our scout killed this morning "
Lord Kemal looked uncomprehending.

"The unmodified eagle you saw fall from the skies this morning on your
ride.  He was scouting the
laboratory for us.  He was shot with a pi sang dart.  It's things like
that which make people believe they must stay away from the grove."

"You could communicate?"

For the first time the Space Lord thought that the smile of the
bird-man was a little smug.

"Of course."  Then his face fell and his eyes became old and sad.

"He was a brother of mine; we were hatched in the same nest, but I was
chosen for genetic coding as an under person and he was not.  Our
feelings are somewhat different from those of true persons, but we are
capable of love and loyalty, and sadness as well...."

Lord Kemal saw again in memory the handsome soaring bird of his
morning's ride, and he felt E'duard's sadness.  Yes, he could believe
in the feelings of the under persons E'duard touched his hand with a
tentative finger.

"I could tell that you grieved for him without knowing any of the
circumstances.  It is one of the reasons I willed you to come
tonight.

"There was a quick change in his mood.

"We must deal first with the aroi."

"I have heard the word, but I don't know its meaning," the Space Lord
acknowledged.

"I'm not surprised.  The aroi lead a life of pleasure: they sing, they
dance, they entertain, and they serve as a kind of priesthood.

Both men and women make up the aroi, and they are respected and
honored.  But there's a singularly ghastly requirement for joining the
aroi."

The Space Lord looked his question.

"All living descendants of the current mate of the person joining the
aroi must be sacrificed.  Or the mate must die, and if there is more
than one offspring of that union, an equivalent number of other
volunteers must also die."

Lord Kemal comprehended.

"So that is the reason that Lari's mother drowned herself in the
sunless sea to save her infant son.  But why did the old Governor join
the aroi?"

"Don't you see?  With Kuat as governor and the old Governor with the
aroi, that pair of conspirators wields a power over this planet so
absolute " "So it was a conspiracy from the beginning."

"Of course.  Kuat was the son of the first wife, when the governor was
in his first youth.  In his old age he wanted to continue the power but
with the help of a viceroy, as it were."

"And the die hr-dead in the laboratory?"

"That is the reason that the matter is urgent.  They are fullgrown and
almost sentient.  They must be destroyed before they are substituted
for the originals and the originals killed."

"I suppose there is no other way, but it seems almost like murder."

of Man E'duard disagreed.

"The substitution is both physical and spiritual murder.  These die
hr-dead are like robots without soul " He saw the Space Lord's faint
smile.  " I know you do not believe in the Old Strong Religion, but I
think you know what I mean."

"Yes.  They are not, in the sense you mean, living beings.  They have
no will of their own."

"The aroi are two villages away, about one hundred li.  After they have
performed their entertainment in those villages, they will proceed
here.  That will be the signal for the harvest of the buah fruit and
the substitution of the die hr-dead for their living counterparts. 
Then there will be no opposition to Kuat on the planet, and he can give
his cruelty full rein .  . . and plan for the conquest of other worlds.
His brother Lari is one of the planned victims because he fears the
boy's popularity with the crowds."

The Space Lord was almost incredulous.

"But the two persons he has seemed to be truly fond of are Lari and the
girl Madu."

"Nevertheless one of the die hr-dead in the laboratory is a replica of
the boy Lari."

"Won't the old Governor, the father, object?"

"Possibly, although the mere fact that he joined the aroi when he knew
what the cost would be in human terms argues against his
interference."

"And Madu?"

"He will keep her as she is, for the time being, and try to mold her to
his will.  He so little respects individuality that if he cannot, he
will obtain some bit of her flesh and eventually she too will be
replaced by a die hr-dead.  He could be satisfied with a physical
replica without caring that the person was missing."

The Space Lord felt his tired mind attempting to ingest more than was
possible at one time.  Immediately E'duard was sympathetic.

"I have kept you too long.  You must rest.  We will be in touch.

And don't worry; Kuat's mind barrier applies to him too; only under
persons and animals are exempt, and we are all in league."

As he made his way back to his living quarters.  Lord bin Permaiswari
was again aware of the silence, the absence of any human activity
anywhere in the palace.  He wondered how long it had been since he had
left his room to seek Mr.-Stokely-from Boston in the cat stables.  He
wished he had remembered to ask E'duard how he had acquired that
unlikely name.  Immediately he was aware of E'duard's voice spieking in
his mind: "It was bestowed upon me for some small service I rendered
the Instrumentality on old Manhome."  The Space Lord started with
surprise.  He had forgotten that there were no space barriers to
spieking if he left his mind open.  He spieked

"Thank you," then closed his mind.

IV

When he awoke from a dream-tormented sleep, the Space Lord felt a
weariness which he knew E'duard would have termed a tiredness of the
soul.  There was no way in which he could communicate with the
Instrumentality.  The next scheduled spaceship for the spaceport above
Xanadu was too far in the future to be of any use in the matter of the
illegal die hr-dead.

E'duard was right.  The substitution must be stopped before it began.
But how?  He felt it somehow belittling to his position for a Space
Lord to have to rely on an under person the only consolation was that
the under person involved was a descendant of the great E'telekeli.

As they ate their first meal of the day, Madu seemed subdued; Lari was
not present.  Lord Kemal, making his voice as pleasant as he could,
queried Kuat about the boy.

"He's gone down to Raraku to dance with the aroi," Kuat said.

Then, apparently, he realized that the Space Lord would not know the
word "aroi."  "It's a group of dancers and entertainers we have here on
Xanadu," he explained kindly.  Kemal felt a coldness about his heart.

He could hardly wait to communicate with E'duard.

"Lari is missing," he spieked, as soon as he was sure that Kuat would
not notice his expression.

"All the die hr-dead are still in place, our scouts report,"

E'duard spieked back.

"We will try to locate him and communicate with you."

But time passed; the only things the under persons were able to assure
Lord Kemal were that Lari was not with the aroi at Raraku and that the
die hr-dead replica of him was still in place in the laboratory.  He
seemed to have vanished from the planet.

Madu had taken Kuat's statement at its face value; she was much quieter
now, but she apparently believed that Lari was dancing with the aroi.
The Space Lord tried a gentle probing: "I had gathered from what I
heard that the aroi was a closed group which one had to join in order
to participate."

"Oh, yes, to participate fully," Madu said, "but near harvest time the
best dancers are allowed to dance with the aroi whether they are
members or not.  It will not be so long now.  The aroi have moved from
Raraku to Poike.  Then they will come here.  I will be so glad to see
Lari again; I always miss him when he goes off to run or to dance."

"He has gone away before to dance?"  the Space Lord asked.

"Well, no.  Not to dance.  To run, but not to dance before.  But he is
very good.  He really hasn't been quite old enough before."

"And do you have other entertainment at the harvest besides the
dancing?"  the Space Lord asked, still seeking a clue as to the
whereabouts of the vanished Lari.

Her smile had some of its old radiance.

"Oh, yes.  That is when we have the horse racing I told you about.  It
is Kuat's favorite sport.  Only," her face clouded, "this time I'm
afraid his horse doesn't have much chance of winning.  Gogle has really
been raced too long and too hard; his back legs are wearing out.

The vet was talking about doing a muscle transplant if they had a
suitable donor, but I don't think they've found one."

At the prospect of seeing Lari soon again, however, she seemed happier
with some of the joy the Space Lord associated with her.  They went for
a cat ride, and Lord Kemal felt again the overwhelming sense of wonder
and pleasure as he and the cat Griselda became as one being.  Their
feelings were in such close communication that he did not have to
tighten his knees or hiss at her to obey his slightest wish.  For the
first time in days Lord bin Permaiswari was able to forget about
E'duard and the die hr-dead, about his concern for Lari and his worry
as to whether the Instrumentality would approve his cooperation with
the bird-man.

For the first time, also, the Space Lord began to wonder to what extent
Madu and Lari were committed to each other.  Now that he had Madu to
himself, he felt more than ever the strong attraction she held for him.
He had never, in all the worlds he had known, felt such an attraction
for a woman before.  And, such was his honor, he began to feel it all
the more imperative to restore Lari safely before he could express his
feelings to her.  He tried spieking to E'duard.

"Nothing," said the bird-man.

"We have found no trace of him.  The last time he was seen by one of
our people was on the outskirts of the palace, headed in the direction
of the stables.

That is all."

On the day of the festival before the harvest the Space Lord, using
Griselda as a pretext, once more went to the cat stables.

E'duard as Mr.-Stokely-from-Boston was hard at work.  He looked gravely
at the Space Lord, but his mind remained closed.  He did not speak.
Lord bin Permaiswari found himself annoyed.  He opened his mind and
spieked,

"Animals!"

E'duard winced slightly but did not speak.

The Space Lord, apologetic, spieked,

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean that."

This time E'duard spieked back.

"Yes, you did.  And we are, but why so much contempt?  We are each what
we are."

"I was annoyed that your mind was closed to me, a Space Lord.  You have
the right to close your mind to anyone.  I apologize."

E'duard accepted the statement graciously.  He said,

"There was a reason that my mind was closed to you.  I was trying to
decide how to tell
you something.  And I needed to know your full feelings about the girl
Madu and the boy Lari before I can speak freely."

Lord bin Permaiswari felt a sense of shame; he had behaved, not as a
Space Lord, but as a child.  He tried to speak with complete
frankness.

"I am truly worried about the boy Lari.  As to Madu, you must know that
there is a strong attraction, but I must first find out about the boy
and see what her feelings are."

E'duard nodded.

"You speak as I hoped you would.  We have found Lari.  He is crippled
for life."

Lord Kemal's intake of air hurt his throat.

"What do you mean?"

"Kuat had his vet take the boy's calf muscles and transplant them to
his favorite horse, Gogle.  The horse will be able to run one more race
at top speed, thus fooling all those who bet against Kuat.  It's
improbable that any surgery will enable the boy to walk again, much
less to run or dance."

The Space Lord found his mind a blank.  He realized that E'duard was
still spieking.

"We will have the boy in his wheelchair at the horse race tomorrow. You
will need Madu's help.  Then you can decide what to do."

Until the time of the race next day Lord Kemal found himself moving as
if in a dream, dispassionately observing his movements.  E'duard
spieked to him only once.

"We must kill off the die hr-dead at once," he said.

"After the race tomorrow, when everybody is celebrating, will be the
time.  Keep Kuat busy and I will take care of the matter."

Fearful, unhappy, feeling weaker than he had since Styron IV, Lord
Kemal bin Permaiswari accompanied Madu and Governor Kuat to the horse
race.  At their box sat Lari, white-faced, thin, much older, in a
wheel-chair.

"Why?"  speak-shrieked the Space Lord.

E'duard's voice came through much more calmly.

"Kuat actually thought he was being kind.  With the boy crippled, he
can't be the racer-hero he has been to the people of Xanadu.  Kuat
thought that way he wouldn't need to substitute the die hr-dead.  He
didn't realize he's taken the boy's chief reason for wanting to live;
he might almost as well have substituted the die hr-dead."

Madu was sobbing.  Kuat, in what he intended as rough kindness, stroked
her hair.

"We'll take care of him.  And, Venus!

Will we fool the bettors today!  They think Gogle can't run anymore.
Will they be fooled!  Of course, it's only for this one race, but it'll
be worth it!"

"Be worth it," the Space Lord thought.  Be worth the rest of Lari's
life, spent crippled, unable to do what he loved most.

"Be worth it," Madu thought.  Never to dance again, never to run, to
feel the wind in his hair as the crowds cheered.

"Be worth it," Lari thought.  What does anything matter anymore.

Gogle won by half a track.Kuat, his mood expansive, said to the
others,

"See you in the main salon of the palace.  Have to collect my wagers.

"Madu's face was carved of marble as she wheeled Lari toward a special
two-cat cart brought up beside the stadium.  Lord Kemal, without a
word, mounted Griselda.  He felt the need, for a little while, at
least, for solitude.  They loped, in silent communication, away from
the walls of the city.  Lord Kemal heard a cry from the city gate, but
he paid no attention.  His mind was on Lari.  Again the cry.

Another lope.  Suddenly Griselda faltered, stumbled, fell.  At once the
Space Lord was down, beside her face.  Her eyes were glazing.  He saw,
then, the dart piercing her neck.  Pisang.  She tried to lick his hand;
he petted her, his eyes filled with tears.  She gave one great
wrenching sigh, looked into her being, shuddered, and died.  Part of
him died with her.  When he reached the gate he queried the guard.  No
one was supposed to leave the city between the end of the races and the
harvesting of the buah fruit.  Griselda was the victim of an error of
administrative oversight.  No one had remembered to tell the Space
Lord.  Silently he walked back through the pathways of the city.  How
beautiful it had seemed to him a short while ago.  How empty and how
sad it seemed now.  He reached the main salon shortly after Madu and
Lari in his wheel-chair arrived.  It was strange how all the budding
desire for Madu had withered like a flower in the frost.Kuat entered,
laughing.  Lord Kemal would be tortured for more than two centuries by
a question.  When did the end justify the means?  When was the law
absolute?  He saw in his mind's eye Griselda bounding over dunes and
plains a Madu innocent as dawn Lari dancing under a sunless moon.

"Djudi!"  demanded Kuat.Madu moved gracefully toward the low table. She
picked up the two-holed pitcher.  Lord Kemal saw, through E'duard's
spiech, that the pi sang flow was being let into the am biotic fluid of
the die hr-dead.  Soon they would be truly dead.Kuat laughed.

"I won every bet I made today.

"He looked away from Madu toward the Lord Kemal.Almost imperceptibly
Madu's thumb moved from one hole to the other.  Lord Kemal did nothing
in the endless night.

Other Stories
War No.  81-Q^ (Original Version) It came to war.

Tibet and America, each claiming the Radiant Heat Monopoly, applied for
a War Permit for 2127 ad.

The Universal War Board granted it, stating, of course, the conditions.
It was, after a few compromises and amendments had been effected,
accepted by the belligerent nations.

The conditions were: a. Five 22,000-ton aero-ships, combinations of
aero and dirigible, were to be the only combatants.

b. They were to be armed with machine-guns firing nonexplosive bullets
only.

c. The War Territory of Kerguelen was to be rented by the two nations,
the United American Nations and the Mongolian Alliance, for the two
hours of the war, which was to begin on January 5, 2127, at noon.

d. The nation vanquished was to pay all the expenses of the war,
excepting the War Territory Rent.

e. No human beings should be on the battlefield.  The Mongolian
controllers must be in Lhasa; the American ones, in the City of
Franklin.

The belligerent nations had no difficulty in renting the War Territory
of Kerguelen.  The rent charged by the Austral League was, as usual,
forty million dollars an hour.

Spectators from all over the world rushed to the borders of the
Territory, eager to obtain good places.  Q-ray telescopes came into
tremendous demand.

Mechanics carefully worked over the giant war-machines.

The radio-controls, delicate as watches, were brought to perfection,
both at the control stations in Lhasa and in the City of Franklin, and
on the war-flyers.

The planes arrived on the minute decided.

Controlled by their pilots thousands of miles away, the great planes
swooped and curved, neither fleet daring to make the first move.

There were five American ships, the Prospero, Ariel, Oberon, Caliban,
and Titania.  and five Chinese ships, rented by the Mongolians, the
Han, Yuen, Tsing, Tsin, and Sung.

The Mongolian fleet incurred the displeasure of the spectators by
casting a smoke screen, which greatly interfered with the seeing.  The
Prospero, every gun throbbing, hurled itself into the smoke screen and
came out on the other side, out of control, quivering with in
coordinating machinery.  As it neared the boundary, it was blown up by
its pilot, safe and sound, thousands of miles away.  But the sacrifice
was not in vain.  The Han and Sung, both severely crippled, swung
slowly out of the mist.  The Han, with a list that clearly showed it
was doomed, was struck by a lucky shot from the Caliban and fell
several hundred feet, its left wing ablaze.  But for a second or two,
the pilot regained control, and, with a single shot, disabled the
Caliban, and then the Han fell to its doom on the rocky islands
below.

The Caliban and Sung continued to drift, firing at each other.

As soon as it was seen that neither would be of any further use in the
battle, they were, by common consent, taken from the field.

There now remained three ships on each side, darting in and out of the
smoke screen, occasionally ascending to cool the engines.

Among the spectators, excitement prevailed, for it was announced from
the City of Franklin that a new and virtually unknown pilot, Jack
Bearden, was going to take command of three ships at once!  And never
before had one pilot commanded, by radio, more than two ships! Besides,
two of the most famous Mongolian aces, Baartek and Soong, were on the
field, while an even more famous person, the Chinese mercenary T'ang,
commanded the Yuen.

The Americans among the spectators protested that a pilot so young and
inexperienced should not be allowed to endanger the ships.

The Government replied that it had a thorough confidence in Bearden's
abilities.

But when the young pilot stepped before the television screen, on which
was pictured the battle, and the maze of controls, he realized that his
ability had been overestimated, by himself and by everyone else.

He climbed up on the high stool and reached for the speed control
levers, which were directly behind him.  He leaned back, and fell!  His
head struck against two buttons: and he saw the Oberon and Titania blow
themselves up.

The three enemy ships cooperated in an attack on the Ariel.

Bearden swung his ship around and rushed it into the smoke screen.

He saw the huge bulk of the Tsing bear down upon him.  He fired
instinctively and hit the control center.

Dodging aside as the Tsing fell past him, he missed the Tsin by
inches.

War No.  81-Q The pilot of the Tsin shot at the reinforcements of the
Ariel's right wing, loosening it.

For a few moments, he was alone, or, rather, the Ariel was alone.  For
he was at the control board in the War Building in the City of
Franklin.

The Yuen, controlled by the master-pilot T'ang, rose up from beneath
him, shot off the end of his left wing, and vanished into the mists of
the smoke screen before the astonished Bearden was able to register a
single hit.

He had better luck with the Tsin.  When this swooped down on the Ariel,
he disabled its firing control.  Then, when this plane rose from
beneath, intending to ram itself into the Ariel, Bearden dropped half
his machine-guns overboard.  They struck the Tsin, which exploded
immediately.

Now only the Ariel and the Yuen remained!  Master-pilot faced
master-pilot.

Bearden placed a lucky shot in the Yuen's rudder, but only partially
disabled it.

Yuen threw more smoke-screen bombs overboard.

Bearden rose upward; no, he was still safe and sound in America, but
the Ariel rose upward.

The spectators in their helicopters blew whistles, shot off pistols,
went mad in applause.

T'ang lowered the Yuen to within several hundred feet of the water.

He was applauded, too.

Bearden inspected his ship with the autotelevisation.  It would
collapse at the slightest strain.

He wheeled his ship to the right, preparatory to descending.

His left wing broke under the strain: and the Ariel began hurtling
downward.  He turned his autotelevisation on the Yuen, not daring to
see the ship, which carried his reputation, his future, crash.

The Yuen was struck by his left wing, which was falling like a stone.
The Yuen exploded forty-six seconds later.

And, by international law, Bearden had won the war for America, with it
the honors of war and the possession of the enormous Radiant Heat
revenue.

All the world hiiiled this Lindbergh of the twenty-second century.

Western Science Is So Wonderful The Martian was sitting at the top of
a granite cliff.  In order to enjoy the breeze better he had taken on
the shape of a small fir tree.  The wind always felt very pleasant
through non-deciduous needles.

At the bottom of the cliff stood an American, the first the Martian had
ever seen.

The American extracted from his pocket a fantastically ingenious
device.  It was a small metal box with a nozzle which lifted up and
produced an immediate flame.  From this miraculous device the American
readily lit a tube of bliss-giving herbs.  The Martian understood that
these were called cigarettes by the Americans.  As the American
finished lighting his cigarette, the Martian changed his shape to that
of a fifteen-foot, red-faced, black-whiskered Chinese demagogue, and
shouted to the American in English,

"Hello, friend!"

The American looked up and almost dropped his teeth.

The Martian stepped off the cliff and floated gently down toward the
American, approaching slowly so as not to affright him too much.

Nevertheless, the American did seem to be concerned, because he said,

"You're not real, are you?  You can't be.  Or can you?"

Modestly the Martian looked into the mind of the American and realized
that fifteen-foot Chinese demagogues were not reassuring visual images
in an everyday American psychology.  He peeked modestly into the mind
of the American, seeking a reassuring image.  The first image he saw
was that of the American's mother, so the Martian promptly changed into
the form of the American's mother and answered,

"What is real, darling?"

With this the American turned slightly green and put his hand over his
eyes.  The Martian looked once again into the mind of the American and
saw a slightly confused image.

When the American opened his eyes, the Martian had taken on the form of
a Red Cross girl halfway through a strip-tease act.

Although the maneuver was designed to be pleasant, the American was not
reassured.  His fear began to change into anger and he said,

"What the hell are you?"

The Martian gave up trying to be obliging.  He changed himself into a
Chinese Nationalist major general with an Oxford education and said in
a distinct British accent,

"I'm by way of being one of the local characters, a bit on the
Supernatural side, you know.  I do hope you do not mind.  Western
science is so wonderful that I had to examine that fantastic machine
you have in your hand.  Would you like to chat a bit before you go
on?"

The Martian caught a confused glimpse of images in the American's mind.
They seemed to be concerned with something called prohibition,
something else called "on the wagon," and the reiterated question,

"How the hell did I get here?"

Meanwhile the Martian examined the lighter.

He handed it back to the American, who looked stunned.

"Very fine magic," said the Martian.

"We do not do anything of that sort in these hills.  I am a fairly
low-class Demon.  I see that you are a captain in the illustrious army
of the United States.

Allow me to introduce myself.  I am the 1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate
Incarnation of aLohan.  Do you have time for a chat?"

The American looked at the Chinese Nationalist uniform.

Then he looked behind him.  His Chinese porters and interpreter lay
like bundles of rags on the meadowy floor of the valley; they had all
fainted dead away.  The American held himself together long enough to
say,

"What is a Lohan?"

"A Lohan is an Arhat," said the Martian.

The American did not take in this information either and the Martian
concluded that something must have been missing from the usual
amenities of getting acquainted with American officers.

Regretfully the Martian erased all memory of himself from the mind of
the American and from the minds of the swooned Chinese.  He planted
himself back on the cliff top, resumed the shape of a fir tree, and
woke the entire gathering.  He saw the Chinese interpreter
gesticulating at the American and he knew that the Chinese was
saying,

"There are Demons in these hills .

. ."

The Martian rather liked the hearty laugh with which the American
greeted this piece of superstitious Chinese nonsense.

He watched the party disappear as they went around the miraculously
beautiful little Lake of the Eight-Mouthed River.

That was in 1945.

The Martian spent many thoughtful hours trying to materialize a
lighter, but he never managed to create one which did not dissolve back
into some unpleasant primordial effluvium within hours.

Then it was 1955.  The Martian heard that a Soviet officer was coming,
and he looked forward with genuine pleasure to making the acquaintance
of another person from the miraculously up-to date Western world.

Peter Fairer was a Volga German.

The Volga Germans are about as much Russian as the Pennsylvania Dutch
are Americans.

They have lived in Russia for more than two hundred years, but the
terrible bitterness of the Second World War led to the breakup of most
of their communities.

Fairer himself had fared well in this.  After holding the
noncommissioned rank of yefreitor in the Red Army for some years he had
become a sub lieutenant In a technikum he had studied geology and
survey.

The chief of the Soviet military mission to the province of Yiinnan in
the People's Republic of China had said to him, "Farrer, you are
getting a real holiday.  There is no danger in this trip, but we do
want to get an estimate on the feasibility of building a secondary
mountain highway along the rock cliffs west of Lake Pakou.  I think
well of you, Farrer.  You have lived down your German name and you're a
good Soviet citizen and officer.

I know that you will not cause any trouble with our Chinese allies or
with the mountain people among whom you must travel.  Go easy with
them, Farrer.  They are very superstitious.  We need their full
support, but we can take our time to get it.  The liberation of India
is still a long way off, but when we must move to help the Indians
throw off American imperialism we do not want to have any soft areas in
our rear.  Do not push things too hard, Farrer.  Be sure that you get a
good technical job done, but that you make friends with everyone other
than imperialist reactionary elements."

Farrer nodded very seriously.

"You mean, comrade Colonel, that I must make friends with
everything?"

"Everything," said the colonel firmly.

Farrer was young and he liked doing a bit of crusading on his own.

"I'm a militant atheist, Colonel.  Do I have to be pleasant to
priests?"

"Priests, too," said the colonel, "especially priests."

The colonel looked sharply at Farrer.

"You make friends with everything, everything except women.  You hear
me, comrade?

Stay out of trouble."

Farrer saluted and went back to his desk to make preparations for the
trip.

Three weeks later Farrer was climbing up past the small cascades which
led to the River of the Golden Sands, the Chinshachiang, as the Long
River or Yangtze was known locally.

Beside him there trotted Party Secretary Kungsun.  Kungsun was a Peking
aristocrat who had joined the Communist Party in his youth.
Sharp-faced, sharp-voiced, he made up for his aristocracy by being the
most violent Communist in all of northwestern Yiinnan.  Though they had
only a
squad of troops and a lot of local bearers for their supplies, they
did have an officer of the old People's Liberation Army to assure their
military well-being and to keep an eye on Farrer's technical
competence.  Comrade Captain Li, roly-poly and jolly, sweated wearily
behind them as they climbed the steep cliffs.

Li called after them,

"If you want to be heroes of labor let's keep climbing, but if you are
following sound military logistics let's all sit down and drink some
tea.  We can't possibly get to Pakouhu before nightfall anyhow."

Kungsun looked back contemptuously.  The ribbon of soldiers and bearers
reached back two hundred yards, making a snake of dust clutched to the
rocky slope of the mountain.  From this perspective he saw the caps of
the soldiers and the barrels of their rifles pointing upward toward him
as they climbed.  He saw the towel-wrapped heads of the liberated
porters and he knew without speaking to them that they were cursing him
in language just as violent as the language with which they had cursed
their capitalist oppressors in days gone past.  Far below them all the
thread of the Chinshachiang was woven like a single strand of gold into
the gray-green of the twilight valley floor.

He spat at the army captain,

"If you had your way about it, we'd still be sitting there in an inn
drinking the hot tea while the men slept."

The captain did not take offense.  He had seen many party secretaries
in his day.  In the New China it was much safer to be a captain.  A few
of the party secretaries he had known had got to be very important men.
One of them had even got to Peking and had been assigned a whole Buick
to himself together with three Parker 51 pens.  In the minds of the
Communist bureaucracy this represented a state close to absolute
bliss.

Captain Li wanted none of that.  Two square meals a day and an endless
succession of patriotic farm girls, preferably chubby ones, represented
his view of a wholly liberated China.

Farrer's Chinese was poor, but he got the intent of the argument.  In
thick but understandable Mandarin he called, half laughing at them,

"Come along, comrades.  We may not make it to the lake by nightfall,
but we certainly can't bivouac on this cliff either."  He whistled Ich
halt' ein Kameraden through his teeth as he pulled ahead of Kungsun and
led the climb on up the mountain.

Thus it was Farrer who first came over the lip of the cliff and met the
Martian face to face.

This time the Martian was ready.  He remembered his disappointing
experience with the American, and he did not want to affright his guest
so as to spoil the social nature of the occasion.  While Farrer had
been climbing the cliff, the Martian had been climbing Farrer's mind,
chasing in and
out of Farrer's memories as happily as a squirrel chases around inside
an immense oak tree.  From Farrer's own mind he had extracted a great
many pleasant memories.  He had then hastened back to the top of the
cliff and had incorporated these in very substantial-looking
phantoms.

Farrer got halfway across the lip of the cliff before he realized what
he was looking at.  Two Soviet military trucks were parked in a tiny
glade.  Each of them had tables in front of it.  One of the tables was
set with a very elaborate Russian wkouska (the Soviet equivalent of a
smorgasbord).  The Martian hoped he would be able to keep these objects
materialized while Farrer ate them, but he was afraid they might
disappear each time Farrer swallowed them because the Martian was not
very well acquainted with digestive processes of human beings and did
not want to give his guest a violent stomach ache by allowing him to
deposit through his esophagus and into his stomach objects of extremely
improvised and uncertain chemical makeup.

The first truck had a big red flag on it with white Russian letters
reading "welcome to the heroes of bryansk."

The second truck was even better.  The Martian could see that Fairer
was very fond of women, so he had materialized four very pretty Soviet
girls, a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, and an albino just to make it
interesting.  The Martian did not trust himself to make them all speak
the correctly feminine and appealing forms of the Russian language, so
having materialized them he set them all in lounge chairs and put them
to sleep.  He had wondered what form he himself should take and decided
that it would be very hospitable to assume the appearance of Mao
Tze-tung.

Fairer did not come on over the cliff.  He stayed where he was.  He
looked at the Martian and the Martian said, very oilily, "Come on up.
We are waiting for you."

"Who the hell are you?"  barked Farrer.

"I am a pro-Soviet Demon," said the apparent Mr.  Mao Tzetung, "and
these are materialized Communist hospitality arrangements.  I hope you
like them."

At this point both Kungsun and Li appeared.  Li climbed up the left
side of Farrer, Kungsun on the right.  All three stopped, gaping.

Kungsun recovered his wits first.  He recognized Mao Tzetung.  He never
passed up a chance to get acquainted with the higher command of the
Communist Party.  He said in a very weak, strained, incredulous
voice,

"Mr.  Party Chairman Mao, I never thought that we would see you here in
these hills, or are you you, and if you aren't you, who are you?"

"I am not your party chairman," said the Martian.

"I am merely a local Demon who has strong pro-Communist sentiments and
would like to meet companionable people like yourselves."

At this point Li fainted and would have rolled back down the cliff
knocking over soldiers and porters if the Martian had not reached out
his left arm, concurrently changing the left arm into the shape of a
python, picking up the unconscious Li, and resting his body gently
against the side of the picnic trucks.  The Soviet sleeping beauties
slept on.  The python turned back into an arm.

Kungsun's face had turned completely white; since he was a pale and
pleasant ivory color to start with, his whiteness had a very marked
tinge.

"I think this wang-pa is a counter-revolutionary impostor,"

he said weakly, "but I don't know what to do about him.  I am glad that
the Chinese People's Republic has a representative from the Soviet
Union to instruct us in difficult party procedure."

Farrer snapped,

"If he is a goose, he is a Chinese goose.  He is not a Russian goose.
You'd better not call him that dirty name.  He seems to have some
powers that do work.  Look at what he did to Li."

The Martian decided to show off his education and said very con
cilia-torily,

"If I am a wang-pa you are a wang-pen."

He added brightly, in the Russian language,

"That's an ingrate, you know.  Much worse than an illegitimate one.  Do
you like my shape, comrade Farrer?  Do you have a cigarette lighter
with you?  Western science is so wonderful, I can never make very solid
things, and you people make airplanes, atom bombs, and all sorts of
refreshing entertainments of that kind."

Farrer reached into his pocket, groping for his lighter.

A scream sounded behind him.  One of the Chinese enlisted men had left
the stopped column behind and had stuck his head over the edge of the
cliff to see what was happening.  When he saw the trucks and the figure
of Mao Tze-tung he began shrieking,

"There are devils here!  There are devils here!"

From centuries of experience, the Martian knew there was no use trying
to get along with the local people unless they were very, very young or
very, very old.  He walked to the edge of the cliff so that all the men
could see him.  He expanded the shape of Mao Tze-tung until it was
thirty-five feet high.  Then he changed himself into the embodiment of
an ancient Chinese god of war with whiskers, ribbons, and sword tassels
blowing in the breeze.  They all fainted dead away as he had
intended.

He packed them snugly against the rocks so that none of them would fall
back down the slope.  Then he took on the shape of a Soviet WAC a
rather pretty little blonde with sergeant's insignia and rematerialized
himself beside Farrer.

By this point Farrer had his lighter out.

The pretty little blonde said to Farrer,

"Do you like this shape better?"

Farrer said,

"I don't believe this at all.  I am a militant atheist.  I have fought
against superstition all my life."  Farrer was twenty-four.

The Martian said,

"I don't think you like me being a girl.  It bothers you, doesn't
it?"

"Since you do not exist you cannot bother me.  But if you don't mind
could you please change your shape again?"

The Martian took on the appearance of a chubby little Buddha.  He knew
this was a little impious, but he felt Farrer give a sigh of relief.
Even Li seemed cheered up, now that the Martian had taken on a proper
religious form.

"Listen, you obscene demonic monstrosity," snarled Kungsun, "this is
the Chinese People's Republic.  You have absolutely no business taking
on supernatural images or conducting un atheistic activities.  Please
abolish yourself and those illusions yonder.

What do you want, anyhow?"

"I would like," said the Martian mildly, "to become a member of the
Chinese Communist Party."

Farrer and Kungsun stared at each other.  Then they both spoke at once,
Farrer in Russian and Kungsun in Chinese.

"But we can't let you in the Party."

Kungsun said,

"If you're a demon you don't exist, and if you do exist you're
illegal."

The Martian smiled.

"Take some refreshments.  You may change your minds.  Would you like a
girl?"  he said, pointing at the assorted Russian beauties who still
slept in their lounge chairs.

But Kungsun and Farrer shook their heads.

With a sigh the Martian de materialized the girls and replaced them
with three striped Siberian tigers.  The tigers approached.

One tiger stopped cozily behind the Martian and sat down.

The Martian sat on him.  Said the Martian brightly,

"I like tigers to sit on.  They're so comfortable.  Have a tiger."

Farrer and Kungsun were staring open-mouthed at their respective
tigers.  The tigers yawned at them and stretched out.

With a tremendous effort of will the two young men sat down on the
ground in front of their tigers.  Farrer sighed.

"What do you want?  I suppose you won this trick ..."

Said the Martian,

"Have a jug of wine."

He materialized a jug of wine and a porcelain cup in front of each,
including himself.  He poured himself a drink and looked at them
through shrewd, narrowed eyes.

"I would like to learn all about Western science.  You see, I am a
Martian student who was exiled here to become the 1,387,229th Eastern
Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan and I have been here more than two
thousand years, and I can only perceive in a radius of ten leagues.

Western science is very interesting.  If I could, I would like to be an
engineering student, but since I cannot leave this
place I would like to join the Communist Party and have many visitors
come to see me."

By this time Kungsun made up his mind.  He was a Communist, but he was
also a Chinese an aristocratic Chinese and a man well versed in the
folklore of his own country.  Kungsun used a politely archaic form of
the Peking court dialect when he spoke again in much milder terms.

"Honored, esteemed Demon, sir, it's just no use at all your trying to
get into the Communist Party.  I admit it is very patriotic of you as a
Chinese Demon to want to join the progressive group which leads the
Chinese people in their endless struggle against the vicious American
imperialists.

Even if you convinced me I don't think you can convince the party
authorities, esteemed sir.  The only thing for you to do in our new
Communist world of the New China is to become a counter-revolutionary
refugee and migrate to capitalist territory."

The Martian looked hurt and sullen.  He frowned at them as he sipped
his wine.  Behind him Li began snoring where he slept against the wheel
of a truck.

Very persuasively the Martian began to speak.

"I see, young man, that you're beginning to believe in me.  You don't
have to recognize me.  Just believe in me a little bit.  I am happy to
see that you.  Party Secretary Kungsun, are prepared to be polite.  I
am not a Chinese Demon, since I was originally a Martian who was
elected to the Lesser Assembly of Concord, but who made an inopportune
remark and who must live on as the 1,3 87,229th Eastern Subordinate
Incarnation of a Lohan for three hundred thousand springs and autumns
before I can return.  I expect to be around a very long time indeed. On
the other hand, I would like to study engineering and I think it would
be much better for me to become a member of the Communist Party than to
go to a strange place."

Farrer had an inspiration.  Said he to the Martian,

"I have an idea.  Before I explain it, though, would you please take
those damned trucks away and remove that wkouska?  It makes my mouth
water and I'm very sorry, but I just can't accept your hospitality."

The Martian complied with a wave of his hand.  The trucks and the
tables disappeared.  Li had been leaning against a truck.

His head went thump against the grass.  He muttered something in his
sleep and then resumed his snoring.  The Martian turned back to his
guests.

Farrer picked up the thread of his own thoughts.

"Leaving aside the question of whether you exist or not, I can assure
you that I know the Russian Communist Party and my colleague, Comrade
Kungsun here, knows the Chinese Communist Party.

Communist parties are very wonderful things.  They lead the masses in
the fight against wicked Americans.  Do you realize that if we didn't
fight on with the revolutionary struggle all of us would have to drink
Coca-Cola every day?"

"What is Coca-Cola?"  asked the Demon.

"I don't know," replied Farrer.

"Then why be afraid to drink any?"

"Don't be irrelevant.  I hear that the capitalists make everybody drink
it.  The Communist Party cannot take time to open up supernatural
secretariats.  It would spoil irreligious campaigns for us to have a
demonic secretary.  I can tell you the Russian Communist Party won't
put up with it and our friend here will tell you there is no place in
the Chinese Communist Party.  We want you to be happy.  You seem to be
a very friendly demon.  Why don't you just go away?  The capitalists
will welcome you.  They are very reactionary and very religious.  You
might even find people there who would believe in you."

The Martian changed his shape from that of a roly-poly Buddha and
assumed the appearance and dress of a young Chinese man, a student of
engineering at the University of the Revolution in Peking.  In the
shape of the student he continued, "I don't want to be believed in.  I
want to study engineering, and I want to learn all about Western
science."

Kungsun came to Farrer's support.  He said,

"It's just no use trying to be a Communist engineer.  You look like a
very absentminded demon to me and I think that even if you tried to
pass yourself off as a human being you would keep forgetting and
changing shapes.  That would ruin the morale of any class."

The Martian thought to himself that the young man had a point there. He
hated keeping any one particular shape for more than half an hour.
Staying in one bodily form made him itch.  He also liked to change
sexes every few times; it seemed sort of refreshing.  He did not admit
to the young man that Kungsun had scored a point with that remark about
shape-changing, but he nodded amiably at them and asked,

"But how could I get abroad?"

"Just go," said Kungsun, wearily.

"Just go.  You're a Demon.

You can do anything."

"I can't do that," snapped the student-Martian.

"I have to have something to go by."

He turned to Farrer.

"It won't do any good, your giving me something.  If you gave me
something Russian and I would end up in Russia, from what you say they
won't want to have a Communist Martian any more than these Chinese
people do.  I won't like to leave my beautiful lake anyhow, but I
suppose I will have to if I am to get acquainted with Western
science."

Farrer said,

"I have an idea."  He took off his wrist-watch and handed it to the
Martian.

The Martian inspected it.  Many years before, the watch had been
manufactured in the United States of America.  It had been traded by a
G.I. to a fraulein, by the fraulein's grandmother to a Red Army man for
three sacks of potatoes, and by the Red Army man for five hundred
rubles to Fairer when the two of them met in Kuibyshev.  The numbers
were painted with radium, as were the hands.  The second hand was
missing, so the Martian materialized a new one.  He changed the shape
of it several times before it fitted.  On the watch there was written
in English "marvin watch company."  At the bottom of the face of the
watch there was the name of a town: "WATERBURY, CONN."

The Martian read it.  Said he to Farrer,

"Where is this place Waterbury, Kahn?"

"The Conn.  is the short form of the name of one of the American
states.  If you are going to be a reactionary capitalist that is a very
good place to be a capitalist in."

Still white-faced, but in a sickly ingratiating way, Kungsun added his
bit.

"I think you would like Coca-Cola.  It's very reactionary."

The student-Martian frowned.  He still held the watch in his hand. Said
he,

"I don't care whether it's reactionary or not.  I want to be in a very
scientific place."

Farrer said,

"You couldn't go any place more scientific than Water-bury, Conn."
especially Conn.  that's the most scientific place they have in America
and I'm sure they are very pro-Martian and you can join one of the
capitalist parties.  They won't mind.

But the Communist parties would make a lot of trouble for you."

Farrer smiled and his eyes lit up.

"Furthermore," he added, as a winning point, "you can keep my watch for
yourself, for always."

The Martian frowned.  Speaking to himself the student Martian said,

"I can see that Chinese Communism is going to collapse in eight years,
eight hundred years, or eighty thousand years.  Perhaps I'd better go
to this Waterbury, Conn."

The two young Communists nodded their heads vigorously and grinned.
They both smiled at the Martian.

"Honored, esteemed Martian, sir, please hurry along because I want to
get my men over the edge of the cliff before darkness falls.  Go with
our blessing."

The Martian changed shape.  He took on the image of an Arhat, a
subordinate disciple of Buddha.  Eight feet tall, he loomed above them.
His face radiated unearthly calm.  The watch, miraculously provided
with a new strap, was firmly strapped to his left wrist.

"Bless you, my boys," said he.

"I go to Waterbury."  And he did.

Farrer stared at Kungsun.

"What's happened to Li?"

Kungsun shook his head dazedly.

"I don't know.  I feel funny."

(In departing for that marvelous strange place, Waterbury, Conn."  the
Martian had taken with him all their memories of himself.) Kungsun
walked to the edge of the cliff.  Looking over, he saw the men
sleeping.

"Look at that," he muttered.  He stepped to the edge of the cliff and
began shouting.

"Wake up, you fools, you turtles.  Haven't you any more sense than to
sleep on a cliff as nightfall approaches?"

The Martian concentrated all his powers on the location of Waterbury,
Conn.

He was the 1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan (or
an Arhat), and his powers were limited, impressive though they might
seem to outsiders.

With a shock, a thrill, a something of breaking, a sense of things done
and undone, he found himself in flat country.  Strange darkness
surrounded him.  Air, which he had never smelled before, flowed quietly
around him.  Farrer and Li, hanging on a cliff high above the
Chinshachiang, lay far behind him in the world from which he had
broken.  He remembered that he had left his shape behind.

Absentmindedly he glanced down at himself to see what form he had taken
for the trip.

He discovered that he had arrived in the form of a small, laughing
Buddha seven inches high, carved in yellowed ivory.

"This will never do!"  muttered the Martian to himself.

"I

must take on one of the local forms..."

He sensed around in his environment, groping telepathically for
interesting objects near him.

"Aha, a milk truck."

Thought he.  Western science is indeed very wonderful.

Imagine a machine made purely for the purpose of transporting milk!

Swiftly he transferred himself into a milk truck.

In the darkness, his telepathic senses had not distinguished the metal
of which the milk truck was made nor the color of the paint.

In order to remain inconspicuous, he turned himself into a milk truck
made of solid gold.  Then, without a driver, he started up his own
engine and began driving himself down one of the main highways leading
into Waterbury, Connecticut ... So if you happen to be passing through
Waterbury, Conn."  and see a solid gold milk truck driving itself
through the streets, you'll know it's the Martian, otherwise the
1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan, and that he
still thinks Western science is wonderful.

 Nancy Two men faced Gordon Greene as he came into the room.  The
young aide was a nonentity.  The general was not.  The commanding
general sat where he should, at his own desk.  It was placed squarely
in the room, and yet the infinite courtesy of the general was shown by
the fact that the blinds were so drawn that the light did not fall
directly into the eyes of the person interviewed.

At that time the colonel general was Wenzel Wallenstein, the first man
ever to venture into the very deep remoteness of space.

He had not reached a star.  Nobody had, at that time, but he had gone
farther than any man had ever gone before.

Wallenstein was an old man and yet the count of his years was not high.
He was less than ninety in a period in which many men lived to one
hundred and fifty.  The thing that made Wallenstein look old was the
suffering which came from mental strain, not the kind which came from
anxiety and competition, not the kind which came from ill health.

It was a subtler kind a sensitivity which created its own painful
ness

Yet it was real.

Wallenstein was as stable as men came, and the young lieutenant was
astonished to find that at his first meeting with the commander in
chief his instinctive emotional reaction should be one of quick
sympathy for the man who commanded the entire organization.

"Your name?"

The lieutenant answered,

"Gordon Greene."

"Born that way?"

"No, sir."

"What was your name originally?"

"Giordano Verdi."

"Why did you change?  Verdi is a great name too."

"People just found it hard to pronounce, sir.  I followed along the
best I could."

"I kept my name," said the old general.

"I suppose it is a matter of taste."

of Man The young lieutenant lifted his hand, left hand, palm outward,
in the new salute which had been devised by the psychologists.

He knew that this meant military courtesy could be passed by for the
moment and that the subordinate officer was requesting permission to
speak as man to man.  He knew the salute and yet in these surroundings
he did not altogether trust it.

The general's response was quick.  He countersigned, left hand, palm
outward.

The heavy, tired, wise, strained old face showed no change of
expression.  The general was alert.  Mechanically friendly, his eyes
followed the lieutenant.  The lieutenant was sure that there was
nothing behind those eyes, except world upon world of inward
troubles.

The lieutenant spoke again, this time on confident ground.

"Is this a special interview.  General?  Do you have something in mind
for me?  If it is, sir, let me warn you, I have been declared to be
psychologically unstable.  Personnel doesn't often make a mistake but
they may have sent me in here under error."

The general smiled.  The smile itself was mechanical.  It was a control
of muscles, not a quick spring of human emotion.

"You will know well enough what I have in mind when we talk together,
Lieutenant.  I am going to have another man sit with me and it will
give you some idea of what your life is leading you toward.  You know
perfectly well that you have asked for deep space and that so far as
I'm concerned you've gotten it.  The question is now,

"Do you really want it?"  Do you want to take it?

Is that all that you wanted to abridge courtesy for?"

"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant.

"You didn't have to call for the courtesy sign for that kind of a
question.  You could have asked me even within the limits of service.
Let's not get too psychological.  We don't need to, do we?"

Again the general gave the lieutenant a heavy smile.

Wallenstein gestured to the aide, who sprang to attention.

Wallenstein said,

"Send him in."

The aide said,

"Yes, sir."

The two men waited expectantly.  With a springy, lively, quick, happy
step a strange lieutenant entered the room.

Gordon Greene had never seen anybody quite like this lieutenant.  The
lieutenant was old, almost as old as the general.

His face was cheerful and unlined.  The muscles of his cheeks and
forehead bespoke happiness, relaxation, an assured view of life.

The lieutenant wore the three highest decorations of his service.

There weren't any others higher and yet there he was, an old man and
still a lieutenant.

Lieutenant Greene couldn't understand it.  He didn't know who this man
was.  It was easy enough for a young man to be a lieutenant but not
for
a man in his seventies or eighties.  People that age were colonels, or
retired, or out.

Or they had gone back to civilian life.

Space was a young man's game.

The general himself arose in courtesy to his contemporary.

Lieutenant Greene's eyes widened.  This too was odd.  The general was
not known to violate courtesy at all irregularly.

"Sit down, sir," said the strange old lieutenant.

The general sat.

"What do you want with me now?  Do you want to talk about the Nancy
routine one more time?"

"The Nancy routine?"  asked the general blindly.

"Yes, sir.  It's the same story I've told these youngsters before.

You've heard it and I've heard it, there's no use of pretending."

The strange lieutenant said,

"My name's Karl Vonderleyen.

Have you ever heard of me?"

"No, sir," said the young lieutenant The old lieutenant said,

"You will."

"Don't get bitter about it, Karl," said the general.

"A lot of other people have had troubles, besides you.  I went and did
the same things you did, and I'm a general.  You might at least pay me
the courtesy of envying me."

"I don't envy you, General.  You've had your life, and I've had mine.
You know what you've missed, or you think you do, and I know what I've
had, and I'm sure I do."

The old lieutenant paid no more attention to the commander in chief. He
turned to the young man and said, "You're going to go out into space
and we are putting on a little act, a vaudeville act.  The general
didn't get any Nancy.  He didn't ask for Nancy.  He didn't turn for
help.  He got out into the Up-and-Out, he pulled through it.  Three
years of it.  Three years that are closer to three million years, I
suppose.  He went through hell and he came back.  Look at his face.
He's a success.  He's an utter, blasted success, sitting there worn
out, tired, and, it would seem, hurt.  Look at me.  Look at me
carefully.  Lieutenant.  I'm a failure.  I'm a lieutenant and the Space
Service keeps me that way."

The commander in chief said nothing, so Vonderleyen talked on.

"Oh, they will retire me as a general, I suppose, when the time comes.
I'm not ready to retire.  I'd just as soon stay in the Space Service as
anything else.  There is not much to do in this world.

I've had it."

"Had what, sir?"  Lieutenant Greene dared to ask.

"I found Nancy.  He didn't," he said.

"That's as simple as it is."

The general cut back into the conversation.

"It's not that bad and it's
not that simple, Lieutenant Greene.  There seems to be something a
little wrong with Lieutenant Vonderleyen today.

The story is one we have to tell you and it is something you have to
make up your own mind on.  There is no regulation way of handling
it."

The general looked very sharply at Lieutenant Greene.

"Do you know what we have done to your brain?"

"No, sir."  Greene felt uneasiness rising in him.

"Have you heard of the sokta virus?"

"The what, sir?"

"The sokta virus.  Sokta is an ancient word, gets its name from
Chosen-real, the language of Old Korea.  That was a country west of
where Japan used to be.  It means 'maybe' and it is a 'maybe' that we
put inside your head.  It is a tiny crystal, more than microscopic.
It's there.  There is actually a machine on the ship, not a big one
because we can't waste space; it has resonance to detonate the virus.
If you detonate sokta, you will be like him.  If you don't, you will be
like me assuming, in either case, that you live.  You may not live and
you may not get back, in which case what we are talking about is
academic."

The young man nerved himself to ask,

"What does this do to me?  Why do you make this big fuss over it?"

"We can't tell you too much.  One reason is it is not worth talking
about."

"You mean you really can't, sir?"

The general shook his head sadly and wisely.

"No, I missed it, he got it, and yet it somehow gets out beyond the
limits of talking."

At this point while he was telling the story, many years later, I asked
my cousin,

"Well, Gordon, if they said you can't talk about it, how can you ?  "
"Drunk, man, drunk, " said the cousin.

"How long do you think it took me to wind myself up to this point? I'll
never tell it again never again.  Anyhow, you 're my cousin, you don't
count.  And I promised Nancy I wouldn't tell anybody.  " "Who's
Nancy?"  I asked him.

"Nancy's what it's all about.  That is what the story is.

That's what those poor old goo ps were trying to tell me in the office.
They didn't know.  One of them, he had Nancy; the other one, he
hadn't.  " "Is Nancy a real person ?  " With that he told me the rest
of the story.

The interview was harsh.  It was clean, stark, simple, direct.

The alter-
natives were flat.  It was perfectly plain that Wallenstein wanted
Greene to come back alive.  It was actual space command policy to bring
the man back as a live failure instead of letting him become a dead
hero.  Pilots were not that common.  Furthermore, morale would be
worsened if men were told to go out on suicide operations.

The whole thing was psychological and before Greene got out of the room
he was more confused than when he went in.

They kept telling them, both of them in their different ways the
general happily, the old lieutenant unhappily that this was serious.
The grim old general was very cheerful about telling him.  The happy
lieutenant kept being very sympathetic.

Greene himself wondered why he could be so sympathetic toward the
commanding general and be so perfectly carefree about a failed old
lieutenant.  His sympathies should have been the other way around.

Fifteen hundred million miles later, four months later in ordinary
time, four lifetimes later by the time which he'd gone through, Greene
found out what they were talking about.  It was an old psychological
teaching.  The men died if they were left utterly alone.  The ships
were designed to be protected against that.  There were two men on each
ship.  Each ship had a lot of tapes, even a few quite unnecessary
animals; in this case a pair of hamsters had been included on the ship.
They had been sterilized, of course, to avoid the problem of feeding
the young, but nevertheless they made a little family of their own in a
miniature of life's happiness on Earth.

Earth was very far away.

At that point, his copilot died.

Everything that had threatened Greene then came true.

Greene suddenly realized what they were talking about.

The hamsters were his one hope.  He thrust his face close to their cage
and talked to them.  He attributed moods to them.  He tried to live
their lives with them, all as if they were people.

As if he, himself, were a part of people still alive and not out there
with the screaming silence beyond the thin wall of metal.

There was nothing to do except to roam like a caged animal in machinery
which he would never understand.

Time lost its perspectives.  He knew he was crazy and he knew that by
training he could survive the partial craziness.  He even realized that
the instability in his own personality which had made him think that he
wouldn't fit the Space Service probably contributed to the hope that
went in with service to this point.

His mind kept coming back to Nancy and to the sokta virus.

of Man What was it they had said?

They had told him that he could waken Nancy, whoever Nancy was.  Nancy
was no pet name of his.  And yet somehow or other the virus always
worked.  He only needed to move his head toward a certain point, press
the resonating stud on the wall, one pressure, his mission would fall,
he would be happy, he would come home alive.

He couldn't understand it.  Why such a choice?

It seemed three thousand years later that he dictated his last message
back to Space Service.  He didn't know what would happen.  Obviously,
that old lieutenant, Vonderleyen, or whatever his name was, was still
alive.  Equally obviously the general was alive.  The general had
pulled through.  The lieutenant hadn't.

And now, Lieutenant Greene, fifteen hundred million miles out in space,
had to make his choice.  He made it.  He decided to fail.

But he wanted, as a matter of discipline, to speak up for the man who
was failing and he dictated, for the records of the ship when it got
back to Earth, a very simple message concluding with an appeal for
justice.

". . . and so, gentlemen, I have decided to activate the stud.  I do
not know what the reference to Nancy signifies.  I have no concept of
what the sokta virus will do except that it will make me fail.  For
this I am heartily ashamed.  I regret the human weakness that has
driven me to this.  The weakness is human and you, gentlemen, have
allowed for it.  In this respect, it is not I who is failing, but the
Space Service itself in giving me an authorization to fail.  Gentlemen,
forgive the bitterness with which I say good-bye to you in these
seconds, but now I do say goodbye."

He stopped dictating, blinked his eyes, took one last look at the
hamsters what might they be by the time the sokta virus went to work?
pressed the stud and leaned forward.

Nothing happened.  He pressed the stud again.

The ship suddenly filled with a strange odor.  He couldn't identify the
odor.  He didn't know what it was.

It suddenly came to him that this was new-mown hay with a slight tinge
of geraniums, possibly of roses, too, on the far side.

It was a smell that was common on the farm a few years ago where he had
gone for a summer.  It was the smell of his mother being on the porch
and calling him back to a meal, and of himself, enough of a man to be
indulgent even toward the woman in his own mother, enough of a child to
turn happily back to a familiar voice.

He said to himself,

"If this is all there is to that virus, I can take it and work on with
continued efficiency."

He added,

"At fifteen hundred million miles out, and nothing but two hamsters for
years of loneliness, a few hallucinations won't hurt me any."

The door opened.

It couldn't open.

The door opened nevertheless.

At this point, Greene knew a fear more terrible than anything else he
had ever encountered.  He said to himself,

"I'm crazy, I'm crazy," and stared at the opening door.

A girl stepped in.  She said,

"Hello, you there.  You know me, don't you?"

Greene said,

"No, no, miss, who are you?"

The girl didn't answer.  She just stood there and she gave him a
smile.

She wore a blue serge skirt cut so that it had broad, vertical stripes,
a neat little waist, a belt of the same material, a very simple blouse.
She was not a strange girl and she was by no means a creature of outer
space.

She was somebody he had known and known well.  Perhaps loved.  He just
couldn't place her not at that moment, not in that place.

She still stood staring at him.  That was all.

It all came to him.  Of course.  She was Nancy.  She was not just that
Nancy they were talking about, she was his Nancy, his own Nancy he had
always known and never met before.

He managed to pull himself together and say it to her,

"How do I know you if I don't know you?  You're Nancy and I've known
you all my life and I have always wanted to marry you.  You are the
girl I have always been in love with and I never saw you before. That's
funny.  Nancy.  It's terribly funny.  I don't understand it, do you?"

Nancy came over and put her hand on his forehead.  It was a real little
hand and her presence was dear and precious and very welcome to him.
She said,

"It's going to take a bit of thinking.

You see, I am not real, not to anybody except you.  And yet I am more
real to you than anything else will ever be.  That is what the sokta
virus is, darling.  It's me.  I'm you."

He stared at her.  He could have been unhappy but he didn't feel
unhappy, he was so glad to have her there.

He said,

"What do you mean?  The sokta virus has made you?

Am I crazy?  Is this just a hallucination?"

Nancy shook her head and her pretty curls spun.

"It's not that.  I'm simply every girl that you ever wanted.  I am the
illusion that you always wanted but I am you because I am in the depths
of you.  I am everything that your mind might not have encountered in
life.  Everything that you might have been afraid to dig up.  Here I am
and I'm going to stay.  And as long as we are here in this ship with
the resonance we will get along well."

My cousin at this point began weeping.  He picked up a wine flask and
of Man poured down a big glass of heavy Dago Red.  Fora while he
cried.

Putting his head on the table, he looked up at me and said,

"It's been a long, long time.  It's been a very long time and I still
remember how she talked with me.  And I see now why they say you can't
talk about it.  A man has got to be fearfully drunk to tell about a
real life that he had and a good one, and a beautiful one and let it
go, doesn't he?"  "That's right," I said, to be encouraging.

Nancy changed the ship right away.  She moved the hamsters.

She changed the decorations.  She checked the records.  The work went
on more efficiently than ever before.

But the home they made for themselves, that was something different. It
had baking smells, and it had wind smells, and sometimes he would hear
the rain although the nearest rain by now was one thousand six hundred
million miles away, and there was nothing but the grating of cold
silence on the cold, cold metal at the outside of the ship.

They lived together.  It didn't take long for them to get thoroughly
used to each other.

He had been born Giordano Verdi.  He had limitations.

And the time came for them to get even more close than lover and lover.
He said,

"I just can't take you, darling.  That is not the way we can do it,
even in space and not the way, even if you are not real.  You are real
enough to me.  Will you marry me out of the prayer book?"

Her eyes lit up and her incomparable lips gleamed in a smile that was
all peculiarly her own.  She said,

"Of course."

She flung her arms around him.  He ran his fingers over the bones of
her shoulder.  He felt her ribs.  He felt the individual strands of her
hair brushing his cheeks.  This was real.  This was more real than life
itself, yet some fool had told him that it was a virus that Nancy
didn't exist.  If this wasn't Nancy, what was it?  he thought.

He put her down and, alive with love and happiness, he read the prayer
book.  He asked her to make the responses.  He said,

"I

suppose I'm captain, and I suppose I have married you and me, haven't
I, Nancy?"

The marriage went well.  The ship followed an immense perimeter like
that of a comet.  It went far out.  So far that the sun became a remote
dot.  The interference of the solar system had virtually no effect on
the instruments.

Nancy came to him one day and said,

"I suppose you know why you are a failure now."

"No," he said.

She looked at him gravely.  She said,

"I think with your mind.

I live in your body.  If you die while on this ship, I die too.  Yet as
long as you live, I am alive and separate.  That's funny, isn't it?"

"Funny," he said, an old new pain growing in his heart.

"And yet I can tell you something which I know with that part of your
mind I use.  I know without you that I am.  I suppose I recognize your
technical training and feel it somehow even though I don't feel the
lack of it.  I had the education you thought I had and you wanted me to
have.  But do you see what's happening?  We are working with our brain
at almost half-power instead of one-tenth power.  All your imagination
is going into making me.  All your extra thoughts are of me.  I want
them just as I want you to love me but there are none left over for
emergencies and there is nothing left over for the Space Service.

You are doing the minimum, that's all.  Am I worth it?"

"Of course you are worth it, darling.  You're worth anything that any
man could ask of the sweetheart, and of love, and of a wife and a true
companion."

"But don't you see?  I am taking all the best of you.  You are putting
it into me and when the ship comes home there won't be any me."

In a strange way he realized that the drug was working.  He could see
what was happening to himself as he looked at his well-beloved Nancy
with her shimmering hair and he realized the hair needed no prettying
or hairdos.  He looked at her clothes and he realized that she wore
clothes for which there was no space on the ship.  And yet she changed
them, delightfully, winsomely, attractively, day in and day out.  He
ate the food that he knew couldn't be on the ship.  None of this
worried him.  And now he couldn't even be worried at the thought of
losing Nancy herself.

Any other thought he could have rejected from his subconscious mind and
could have surrendered to the idea that it was not a hallucination
after all This was too much.  He ran his fingers through her hair. He
said,

"I know I'm crazy, darling, and I know that you don't exist " "But I do
exist.  I am you.  I am a part of Gordon Greene as surely as if I'd
married you.  I'll never die until you do because when you get home,
darling, I'll drop back, back into your deeper mind but I'll live in
your mind as long as you live.  You can't lose me and I can't leave you
and you can't forget me.  And I can't escape to anyone except through
your lips.  That's why they talk about it.  That's why it is such a
strange thing."

"And that's where I know I'm wrong," stubbornly insisted Gordon.

"I love you and I know you are a phantom and I know you are going away
and I know we are coming to an end and it doesn't worry me.  I'll be
happy just being with you.  I don't need a drink.  I wouldn't touch a
drug.  Yet the happiness is here."

Note: In the version published in Satellite Science Fiction, the story
ended at this point.  Editor.

They went about their little domestic chores.  They checked his graph
paper, they stored the records, they put a few silly things into the
permanent ship's record.  They then toasted marshmallows before a large
fire.  The fire was in a handsome fireplace which did not exist.  The
flames couldn't have burned but they did.  There weren't any
marshmallows on the ship but they toasted them and enjoyed them
anyhow.

That's the way their life went full of magic, and yet the magic had no
sting or provocation to it, no anger, no hopelessness, no despair.

They were a very happy couple.

Even the hamsters felt it.  They stayed clean and plump.

They ate their food willingly.  They got over space nausea.  They
peered at him.

He let one of them, the one with the brown nose, out and let it run
around the room.  He said,

"You're a real army character.

You poor thing.  Born for space and serving out here in it."

Only one other time did Nancy take up the question of their future. She
said, "We can't have children, you know.  The sokta drug doesn't allow
for that.  And you may have children yourself but it is going to be
funny having them if you marry somebody else with me always there just
in the background.  And I will be there."

They made it back to Earth.  They returned.

As he stepped out of the gate, a harsh, weary medical colonel gave him
one sharp glance.  He said, "Oh, we thought that had happened."

"What, sir?"  said a plump and radiant Lieutenant Greene.

"You got Nancy," said the colonel.

"Yes, sir.  I'll bring her right out."

"Go get her," said the colonel.

Greene went back into the rocket and he looked.  There was no sign of
Nancy.  He came to the door astonished.  He was still not upset.  He
said, "Colonel, I don't seem to see her there but I'm sure that she's
somewhere around."

The colonel gave him a strange, sympathetic, fatigued smile.

"She always will be somewhere around, Lieutenant.

You've done the minimum job.  I don't know whether we ought to
discourage people like you.  I suppose you realize that you are frozen
in your present grade.  You'll get a decoration.  Mission Accomplished.
Mission successful, farther than anybody has gone before. Incidentally,
Vonderleyen says he knows you and will be waiting over yonder.  We have
to take you into the hospital to make sure that you don't go into
shock."

"At the hospital," said my cousin, "there was no shock."

He didn't even miss Nancy.  How could he miss her when she hadn 't
left?  She was always just around the corner, just behind the door,
just a few minutes away.

At breakfast time he knew he'd see her for lunch.  At lunch, he knew
she'd drop by in the afternoon.  At the end of the afternoon, he knew
he'd have dinner with her.

He knew he was crazy.  Crazy as he could be.

He knew perfectly well that there was no Nancy and never had been.  He
supposed that he ought to hate the sokta drug for doing that to him,
but it brought its own relief.

The effect of Nancy was an immolation in perpetual hope, the promise of
something that could never be lost, and a promise of something that
cannot be lost is often better than a reality which can be lost.

That's all there was to it.  They asked him to testify against the use
of the sokta drug and he said, "Me?  Give up Nancy?  Don't be silly."

"You haven't got her," said somebody.

"That's what you think," said my cousin.  Lieutenant Greene.

 The life of Bodidharma Music (said Confucius) awakens the mind,
propriety finishes it, melody completes it.

The Lun Yu, Book VIII, Chapter 8 It was perhaps in the second period of
the proto-Indian Harappa culture, perhaps earlier in the very dawn of
metal, that a goldsmith accidentally found a formula to make a
magical

LIFE.

To him, the LIFE became death or bliss, an avenue to choosable
salvations or dooms.  Among later men, the LIFE might be recognized as
a chancy pre discovery of ps ionic powers with sonic triggering.

Whatever it was, it worked!  Long before the Buddha, longhaired
Dravidian priests learned that it worked.

Cast mostly in gold despite the goldsmith's care with the speculum
alloy, the LIFE emitted shrill whistlings but it also transmitted
supersonic vibrations in a narrow range narrow and intense enough a
range to rearrange synapses in the brain and to modify the basic
emotions of the hearer.

The goldsmith did not long survive his instrument.  They found him
dead.

The LIFE became the property of priests; after a short, terrible period
of use and abuse, it was buried in the tomb of a great king.

II

Robbers found the LIFE, tried it and died.  Some died amid bliss, some
amid hate, others in a frenzy of fear and delusion.  A strong survivor,
trembling after the ordeal of inexpressibly awakened sensations and
emotions, wrapped the LIFE in a page of holy writing and presented it
to Bodidharma the Blessed One just before Bodidharma began his
unbelievably arduous voyage from India across the ranges of the spines
of the world over to far Cathay.

Bodidharma the Blessed One, the man who had seen Persia, the aged one
bringing wisdom, came across the highest of all mountains in the year
that the Northern Wei dynasty of China moved their capital out of
divine Loyang.  (Elsewhere in the world where men reckoned the years
from the birth of their Lord Jesus Christ, the year was counted as Anno
Domini 554, but in the high land between India and China the message of
Christianity had not yet arrived and the word of the Lord Gautama
Buddha was still the sweetest gospel to reach the ears of men.)
Bodidharma, clad by only a thin robe, climbed across the glaciers.  For
food he drank the air, spicing it with prayer.  Cold winds cut his old
skin, his tired bones; for a cloak he drew his sanctity about him and
bore within his indomitable heart the knowledge that the pure,
unspoiled message of the Lord Gautama Buddha had, by the will of time
and chance themselves, to be carried from the Indian world to the
Chinese.

Once beyond the peaks and passes he descended into the cold frigidity
of high desert.  Sand cut his feet but the skin did not bleed because
he was shod in sacred spells and magical charms.

At last animals approached.  They came in the ugliness of their sin,
ignorance, and shame.  Beasts they were, but more than beasts they were
the souls of the wicked condemned to endless rebirth, now incorporated
in vile forms because of the wickedness with which they had once
rejected the teachings of eternity and the wisdom which lay before them
as plainly as the trees or the nighttime heavens.  The more vicious the
man, the more ugly the beast: this was the rule.  Here in the desert
the beasts were very ugly.

Bodidharma the Blessed One shrank back.

He did not desire to use the weapon.  "0 Forever Blessed One, seated n
the Lotus Flower, Buddha, help me!"

Within his heart he felt no response.  The sinfulness and wickedness of
these beasts was such that even the Buddha had turned his face gently
aside and would offer no protection to his messenger, the missionary
Bodidharma.

Reluctantly Bodidharma took out his LIFE.

The LIFE was a dainty weapon, twice the length of a man's finger.
Golden in strange, almost ugly forms, it hinted at a civilization which
no one living in India now remembered.  The LIFE had come out of the
early beginnings of mankind, had ridden across a mass of ages, a legion
of years, and survived as a testimony to the power of early men.

At the end of the LIFE was a little whistle.  Four touch holes gave the
LIFE pitches and a wide variety of combinations of notes.

Blown once the LIFE called to holiness.  This occurred if all stops
were closed.

Blown twice with all stops opened the LIFE carried its own power.  This
power was strange indeed.  It magnified every chance emotion of each
living thing within range of its sound.

Bodidharma the Blessed One had carried the LIFE because it comforted
him.  Closed, its notes reminded him of the sacred message of the Three
Treasures of the Buddha which he carried from India to China.  Opened,
its notes brought bliss to the innocent and their own punishment to the
wicked.  Innocence and wickedness were not determined by the LIFE but
by the hearers themselves, whoever they might be.  The trees which
heard these notes in their own tree like way struck even more mightily
into the earth and up to the sky reaching for nourishment with new but
dim and tree like hope.  Tigers became more tigerish, frogs more
froggy, men more good or bad, as their characters might dispose them.

"Stop!"  called Bodidharma the Blessed One to the beasts.

Tiger and wolf, fox and jackal, snake and spider, they advanced.

"Stop!"  he called again.

Hoof and claw, sting and tooth, eyes alive, they advanced.

"Stop!"  he called for the third time.

Still they advanced.  He blew the LIFE wide open, twice, clear and
loud.

Twice, clear and loud.

The animals stopped.  At the second note, they began to thresh about,
imprisoned even more deeply by the bestiality of their own natures. The
tiger snarled at his own front paws, the wolf snapped at his own tail,
the jackal ran fearfully from his own shadow, the spider hid beneath
the darkness of rocks, and the other vile beasts who had threatened the
Blessed One let him pass.

Bodidharma the Blessed One went on.  In the streets of the new capital
at Anyang the gentle gospel of Buddhism was received with curiosity,
with calm, and with delight.  Those voluptuous barbarians, the Toba
Tartars, who had made themselves masters of North China, now filled
their hearts and souls with the hope of death instead of the fear of
destruction.

Mothers wept with pleasure to know that their children, dying, had been
received into blessedness.  The Emperor himself laid aside his sword in
order to listen to the gentle message that had come so bravely over
illimitable mountains.

When Bodidharma the Blessed One died he was buried in the outskirts of
Anyang, his LIFE in a sacred onyx case beside his right hand.  There he
and it both slept for thirteen hundred and forty years.

III

In the year 1894 a German explorer so he fancied himself to be looted
the tomb of the Blessed One in the name of science.

Villagers caught him in the act and drove him from the hillside.

He escaped with only one piece of loot, an onyx case with a strange
copper like LIFE.  Copper it seemed to be, although the metal was not
as corroded as actual copper should have been after so long a burial in
intermittently moist country.  The LIFE was filthy.  He cleaned it
enough to see that it was fragile and to reveal the un-Chinese
character of the declarations along its side.

He did not clean it enough to try blowing it: he lived because of that.
The LIFE was presented to a small municipal museum named in honor of a
German grand duchess.  It occupied case No.  34 of the Dorotheum and
lay there for another fifty-one years.

IV

The B-29s had gone.  They had roared off in the direction of Rastatt.

Wolfgang Huene climbed out of the ditch.  He hated himself, he hated
the Allies, and he almost hated Hitler.  A Hitler youth, he was
handsome, blond, tall, craggy.  He was also brave, sharp, cruel, and
clever.  He was a Nazi.  Only in a Nazi world could he hope to exist.
His parents, he knew, were soft rubbish.  When his father had been
killed in a bombing, Wolfgang did not mind.

When his mother, half-starved, died of influenza, he did not worry
about her.  She was old and did not matter.  Germany mattered.

Now the Germany which mattered to him was coming apart, ripped by
explosions, punctured by shock waves, and fractured by the endless
assault of Allied air power.

Wolfgang as a young Nazi did not know fear, but he did know
bewilderment.

In an animal, instinctive way, he knew without thinking about it that
if Hitlerism did not survive he himself would not survive either.  He
even knew that he was doing his best, what little best there was still
left to do.  He was looking for spies while reporting the weak-hearted
ones who complained against the Fuhrer or the war.  He was helping to
organize the Volkssturm and he had hopes of becoming a Nazi guerrilla
even if the Allies did cross the Rhine.  Like an animal, but like a
very intelligent animal, he knew he had to fight, while at the same
time, he realized that the fight might go against him.

He stood in the street watching the dust settle after the bombing.

The moonlight was clear on the broken pavement.  This was a quiet part
of the city.  He could hear the fires downtown making a crunching
sound, like the familiar noise of his father eating lettuce.  Near
himself he could hear nothing; he seemed to be all alone, under the
moon, in a tiny forgotten corner of the world.  He looked around.

His eyes widened in astonishment: the Dorotheum museum had been blasted
open.

Idly, he walked over to the ruin.  He stood in the dark doorway.

Looking back at the street and then up at the sky to make sure that it
was safe to show a light, he then flashed on his pocket electric light
and cast the beam around the display room.  Cases were broken; in most
of them glass had fallen in on the exhibits.

Window glass looked like puddles of ice in the cold moonlight as it lay
broken on the old stone floors.  Immediately in front of him a display
case sagged crazily.  He cast his flashlight beam on it.

The light picked up a short tube which looked something like the barrel
of an antique pistol.  Wolfgang reached for the tube.  He had played in
a band and he knew what it was.  It was a FIFE.

He held it in his hand a moment and then stuck it in his jacket.  He
cast the beam of his light once more around the museum and then went
out in the street.  It was no use letting the police argue.

He could now hear the laboring engines of trucks as they coughed,
sputtering with their poor fuel, climbing up the hill toward him.  He
put his light in his pocket.  Feeling the LIFE, he took it out.
Instinctively, the way that any human being would, he put his fingers
over all four of the touch holes before he began to blow.  The LIFE was
stopped up.

He applied force e.

He blew hard.

The LIFE sound ded.

A sweet note, golden beyond imagination, softer and wilder than the
most thrilling notes of the finest symphony in the world, sounded in
his ears.

He felt different, relieved, happy.

His soul, which he did not know he had, achieved a condition of peace
which he had never before experienced.  In that moment a small religion
was born.  It was a small religion because it was confined to the mind
of a single brutal adolescent, but it was a true religion,
nevertheless, because it had the complete message of hope, comfort, and
fulfillment of an order beyond the limits of this life.  Love, and the
tremendous meaning of love, poured through his mind.  Love relaxed the
muscles of his back and even
let his aching eyelids drop over his eyes in the first honest fatigue
he had admitted for many weeks.

The Nazi in him had been drained off.  The call to holiness, trapped in
the forgotten magic of Bodidharma's LIFE, had sounded even to him. Then
he made his mistake, a mortal one.

The LIFE had no more malice than a gun before it is fired, no more hate
than a river before it swallows a human body, no more anger than a
height from which a man may slip; the LIFE had its own power, partly in
sound itself, but mostly in the mechano-ps ionic linkage which the
unusual alloy and shape had given the Harappa goldsmith forgotten
centuries before.

Wolfgang Huene blew again, holding the LIFE between two fingers, with
none of the stops closed.  This time the note was wild.  In a terrible
and wholly convincing moment of vision he reincarnated in himself all
the false resolutions, the venomous patriotism, the poisonous bravery
of Hitler's Reich.  He was once again a Hitler youth, consummately a
Nordic man.  His eyes gleamed with a message he felt pouring out of
himself.

He blew again.

This third note was the perfecting note the note which had protected
Bodidharma the Blessed One fifteen hundred and fifty years before in
the frozen desert north of Tibet.

Huene became even more Nazi.  No longer the boy, no longer the human
being.  He was the magnification of himself He became all fighter, but
he had forgotten who he was or what it was that he was fighting for.

The blacked-out trucks came up the hill.  His blind eyes looked at
them.  life in hand, he snarled at them.

A crazy thought went through his mind.

"Allied tanks .  . ."

He ran wildly toward the leading truck.  The driver did not see more
than a shadow and jammed on the brakes too late.

The front bumper burst a soft obstruction.

The front wheel covered the body of the boy.  When the truck stopped
the boy was dead and the LIFE, half crushed, was pressed against the
rock of a German road.

V

Hagen von Grtin was one of the German rocket scientists who worked at
Huntsville, Alabama.  He had gone on down to Cape Canaveral to take
part in the fifth series of American launchings.

This included in the third shot of the series a radio transmitter
designed to hit standard wave radios immediately beneath the satellite.
The purpose was to allow ordinary listeners throughout the world to
take part in the tracking of the satellite.

This particular satellite was designed to have a relatively short
life.  With good luck it would last as long as five weeks, not
longer.

The miniaturized transmitter was designed to pick up the sounds, minute
though they might be, produced by the heating and cooling of the shell
and to transmit a sound pattern reflecting the heat of cosmic rays and
also to a certain degree to relay the visual images in terms of a sound
pattern.

Hagen von Grim was present at the final assembly.  A small part of the
assembly consisted of inserting a tube which would serve the double
function of a resonating chamber between the outer skin of the
satellite and a tiny microphone half the size of a sweet pea which
would then translate the sound made by the outer shell into radio
signals which amateurs on the Earth surface fifteen hundred miles below
could follow.

Von Grim no longer smoked.  He had stopped smoking that fearful night
in which Allied planes bombed the truck convoy carrying his colleagues
and himself to safety.  Though he had managed to scrounge cigarettes
throughout the war he had even given up carrying his cigarette holder.
He carried instead an odd old copper LIFE he had found in the highway
and had put back into shape.  Superstitious at his luck in living, and
grateful that the LIFE reminded him not to smoke, he never bothered to
clean it out and blow it.  He had weighed it, found its specific
gravity, measured it, like the good German that he was, down to the
last millimeter and milligram but he kept it in his pocket though it
was a little clumsy to carry.

Just as they put the last part of the nose cone together, the strut
broke.

It could not break, but it did.

It would have taken five minutes and a ride down the elevator to find a
new tube to serve as a strut.

Acting on an odd impulse, Hagen von Grim remembered that his lucky LIFE
was within a millimeter of the length required, and was of precisely
the right diameter.  The holes did not matter.  He picked up a fie,
filed the old LIFE, and inserted it.

They closed the skin of the satellite.  They sealed the cone.

Seven hours later the message rocket took off, the first one capable of
reaching every standard wave radio on earth.  As Hagen von Grim watched
the great rocket climb he wondered to himself,

"Does it make any difference whether those stops were opened or
closed?"

 Angerhelm Funny funny funny.  It's sort of funny funny funny to think
without a brain it is really something like a trick but not a trick to
think without a brain.  Talking is even harder but it can be done.

I still remember the way that phrase came ringing through when we
finally got hold of old Nelson Angerhelm and sat him down with the
buzzing tape.

The story began a long time before that.  I never knew the
beginnings.

My job is an assistant to Mr.  Spatz, and Spatz has been shooting holes
in budgets now for eighteen years.  He is the man who approves, on
behalf of the Director of the Budget, all requests for special liaison
between the Department of the Army and the intelligence community.

He is very good at his job.  More people have shown up asking for money
and have ended up with about one-tenth of what they asked than you
could line up in any one corridor of the Pentagon.

That is saying a lot.

The case began to break some months ago after the Russians started to
get back those odd little recording capsules.  The capsules came out of
their Sputniks.  We didn't know what was in the capsules as they
returned from upper space.  All we knew was that there was something in
them.

The capsules descended in such a way that we could track them by radar.
Unfortunately they all fell into Russian territory except for a single
capsule which landed in the Atlantic.  At the seven-million-dollar
point we gave up trying to find it.

The Commander of the Atlantic fleet had been told by his intelligence
officer that they might have a chance of finding it if they kept on
looking.  The Commander referred the matter to Washington, and the
budget people saw the request.  That stopped it, for a while.

The case began to break from about four separate directions at once.
Khrushchev himself said something very funny to the Secretary of State.
They had met in London after all.

Khrushchev said at the end of a meeting,

"You play jokes sometimes, Mr.  Secretary?"

The Secretary looked very surprised when he heard the translation.

"Jokes, Mr.  Prime Minister?"  "Yes."

"What kind of jokes?"

"Jokes about apparatus."

"Jokes about machinery don't sit very well," said the American.

They went on talking back and forth as to whether it was a good idea to
play practical jokes when each one had a serious job of espionage to
do.

The Russian leader insisted that he had no espionage, never heard of
espionage, and that his espionage worked well enough so that he knew
damn well that he didn't have any espionage.

To this display of heat, the Secretary replied that he didn't have any
espionage either and that we knew nothing whatever that occurred in
Russia.  Furthermore not only did we not know anything about Russia but
we knew we didn't know it and we made sure of that.  After this
exchange both leaders parted, each one wondering what the other had
been talking about.

The whole matter was referred back to Washington.  I was somewhere down
on the list to see it.

At that time I had

"Galactic" clearance.  Galactic clearance came a little bit after
universal clearance.  It wasn't very strong but it amounted to
something.  I was supposed to see those special papers in connection
with my job of assisting Mr.  Spatz in liaison.

Actually it didn't do any good except to fill in the time when I wasn't
working out budgets for him.

The second lead came from some of the boys over in the Valley.  We
never called the place by any other name and we don't even like to see
it in the federal budget.  We know as much as we need to about it and
then we stop thinking.

It is much safer to stop thinking.  It is not our business to think
about what other people are doing, particularly if they are spending
several million dollars of Uncle Sam's money every day, trying to find
out what they think and most of the time ending up with nothing
conclusive.

Later we were to find out that the boys in the Valley had practically
every security agent in the country rushing off to Minneapolis to look
for a man named Angerhelm.  Nelson The name didn't mean anything then
but before we got through it ended up as the largest story of the
twentieth century.

If they ever turn it loose it is going to be the biggest story in two
thousand years.  The third part of the story came along a little later.
Colonel Plugg was over in G-2.  He called up Mr.  Spatz and he couldn't
get Mr.  Spatz so he called me.

He said,

"What's the matter with your boss?  Isn't he ever in his room?"

"Not if I can help it.  I don't run him, he runs me.  What do you
want, Colonel?"  I said.

The colonel snarled.

"Look, I am supposed to get money out of you for liaison purposes.  I
don't know how far I am going to have to go to liaise or if it is any
of my business.  I asked my old man what I ought to do about it and he
doesn't know.  Perhaps we ought to get out and just let the
Intelligence boys handle it.  Or we ought to send it to State.  You
spend half your life telling me whether I can have liaison or not and
then giving me the money for it.  Why don't you come on over and take a
little responsibility for a change?"  I rushed over to Plugg's office.
It was an Army problem.  These are the facts.

The Soviet Assistant Military Attache, a certain Lieutenant Colonel
Potariskov, asked for an interview.  When he came over he brought
nothing with him.  This time he didn't even bring a translator.  He
spoke very funny English but it worked.

The essence of Potariskov's story was that he didn't think it was very
sporting of the American military to interfere in solemn weather
reporting by introducing practical jokes in Soviet radar.

If the American army didn't have anything else better to do would they
please play jokes on each other but not on the Soviet forces?  This
didn't make much sense.

Colonel Plugg tried to find out what the man was talking about.  The
Russian sounded crazy and kept talking about jokes.

It finally turned out that Potariskov had a piece of paper in his
pocket.  He took it out and Plugg looked at it.

On it there was an address.  Nelson Angerhelm, 2322 Ridge Drive,
Hopkins, Minnesota.

It turned out that Hopkins, Minnesota, was a suburb of Minneapolis.
That didn't take long to find out.

This meant nothing to Colonel Plugg and he asked if there was anything
that Potariskov really wanted.

Potariskov asked if the Colonel would confess to the Angerhelm joke.
Potariskov said that in Intelligence they never tell you about the
jokes they play with the Signal Corps.  Plugg still insisted that he
didn't know.  He said he would try to find out and let Potariskov know
later on.  Potariskov went away.

Plugg called up the Signal Corps, and by the time he got through
calling he had a lead back into the Valley.  The Valley people heard
about it and they immediately sent a man over.

It was about this time that I came in.  He couldn't get hold of Mr.
Spatz and there was real trouble.

The point is that all three of them led together.  The Valley people
had picked up the name (and it is not up to me to tell you how they got
hold of it).  The name Angerhelm had been running all over the Soviet
communications system.  Practically every Russian official in the world
had been asked if he knew anything about Nelson Angerhelm and almost
every official, at least as far as the boys in the Valley could tell,
had replied that he didn't know what it was all about.

Some reference back to Mr.  Khrushchev's conversation with the
Secretary of State suggested that the Angerhelm inquiry might have tied
in with this.  We pursued it a little further.  Angerhelm was
apparently the right reference.  The Valley people already had
something about him.  They had checked with the F.B.I. The F.B.I, had
said that Nelson Angerhelm was a 62-year-old retired poultry farmer. He
had served in World War I. His service had been rather brief.  He had
gotten as far as Plattsburg, New York, broken an ankle, stayed four
months in a hospital, and the injury had developed complications.  He
had been drawing a Veterans Administration allowance ever since.  He
had never visited outside the United States, never joined a subversive
organization, never married, and never spent a nickel.

So far as the F.B.I, could discover, his life was not worth living.

This left the matter up in the air.  There was nothing whatever to
connect him with the Soviet Union.

It turned out that I wasn't needed after all.  Spatz came into the
office and said that a conference had been called for the whole
Intelligence community, people from State were sitting in, and there
was a special representative from OCBM from the White House to watch
what they were doing.

The question arose,

"Who was Nelson Angerhelm?  And what were we to do about him?"

An additional report had been made out by an agent who specialized in
pretending to be an Internal Revenue man.

The

"Internal Revenue agent" was one of the best people in the F.B.I, for
checking on subversive activities.  He was a real expert on espionage
and he knew all about bad connections.  He could smell a conspirator
two miles off on a clear day.  And by sitting in a room for a little
while he could tell whether anybody had an illegal meeting there for
the previous three years.  Maybe I am exaggerating a little bit but I
am not exaggerating much.

This fellow, who was a real artist at smelling out Commies and anything
that even faintly resembles a Commie, came back with a completely blank
ticket on Angerhelm.

There was only one connection that Angerhelm had with the larger
world.  He had a younger brother, whose name was Tice.  Funny name and
I don't know why he got it.  Somebody told us later on that the full
name tied in with Theiss Ankerhjelm, which was the name of a Swedish
admiral a couple hundred years ago.  Perhaps the family was proud of
it.

The younger brother was a West Pointer.  He had had a regular career;
that came easily enough out of the Adjutant General's Office.

What did develop, though, was that the younger brother had died only
two months previously.  He too was a bachelor.  One of the
psychiatrists who got into the case said,

"What a mother!"

Tice Angerhelm had traveled a great deal.  He had something to do, as a
matter of fact, with two or three of the projects that I was liaising
on.  There were all sorts of issues arising from this.

However, he was dead.  He had never worked directly on Soviet matters.
He had no Soviet friends, had never been in the Soviet Union, and had
never met Soviet forces.  He had never even gone to the Soviet Embassy
to an official reception.

The man was no specialist, outside of Ordnance, a little tiny bit of
French, and the missile program.  He was something of a Saturday
evening Don Juan.  It was then time for the fourth stage.

Colonel Plugg was told to get hold of Lieutenant Colonel Potariskov and
find out what Potariskov had to give him.  This time Potariskov called
back and said that he would rather have his boss, the Soviet Ambassador
himself, call on the Secretary or the Undersecretary of State.

There was some shilly-shallying back and forth.  The Secretary was out
of town, the Undersecretary said he would be very glad to see the
Soviet Ambassador if there were anything to ask about.

He said that we had found Angerhelm, and if the Soviet authorities
wanted to interview Mr.  Angerhelm themselves they jolly well could go
to Hopkins, Minnesota, and interview him.

This led to a real flash of embarrassment when it was discovered that
the area of Hopkins, Minnesota, was in the "no travel" zone proscribed
to Soviet diplomats in retaliation against their "no travel" zones
imposed on American diplomats in the Soviet Union.

This was ironed out.  The Soviet Ambassador was asked, would he like to
go see a chicken farmer in Minnesota?

When the Soviet Ambassador stated that he was not particularly
interested in chicken farmers, but that he would be willing to see Mr.
Angerhelm at a later date if the American government didn't mind, the
whole thing was let go.

Nothing happened at all.  Presumably the Russians were relaying things
back to Moscow by courier, letter, or whatever mysterious ways the
Russians use when they are acting very deliberately and very
solemnly.

I heard nothing and certainly the people around the Soviet Embassy saw
no unusual contacts at that time.

Nelson Angerhelm hadn't come into the story yet.  All he knew was that
several odd characters had asked him about veterans that he scarcely
knew, saying that they were looking for security clearances.

And an Internal Revenue man had a long and very exhausting talk with
him about his brother's estate.  That didn't seem to leave much.

Angerhelm went on feeding his chickens.  He had television and
Minneapolis has a pretty good range of stations.  Now and then he
showed up at the church; more frequently he showed up at the general
store.

He almost always went away from town to avoid the new shopping centers.
He didn't like the way Hopkins had developed and preferred to go to the
little country centers where they still have general stores.  In its
own funny way this seemed to be the only pleasure the old man had.

After nineteen days, and I can now count almost every hour of them, the
answer must have gotten back from Moscow.  It was probably carried in
by the stocky brown-haired courier who made the trip about every
fortnight.  One of the fellows from the Valley told me about that.  I
wasn't supposed to know and it didn't matter then.

Apparently the Soviet Ambassador had been told to play the matter
lightly.  He called on the Undersecretary of State and ended up
discussing world butter prices and the effect of American exports of
ghee to Pakistan on the attempts of the Soviet Union to trade ghee for
hemp.

Apparently this was an extraordinary and confidential thing for the
Soviet Ambassador to discuss.  The Undersecretary would have been more
impressed if he had been able to find out why the Soviet Ambassador
just out of the top of his head announced that the Soviet Union had
given about a hundred and twenty million dollars' credit to Pakistan
for some unnecessary highways and was able to reply, therefore,
somewhat tartly to the general effect that if the Soviet Union ever
decided to stabilize world markets with the cooperation of the United
States we would be very happy to cooperate.  But this was no time to
discuss money or fair business deals when they were dumping every piece
of export rubbish they could in our general direction.

It was characteristic of this Soviet Ambassador that he took the rebuff
calmly.  Apparently his mission was to have no mission.  He left and
that was all there was from him.

Potariskov came back to the Pentagon, this time accompanied by a
Russian civilian.  The new man's English was a little more than
perfect.  The English was so good that it was desperately irritating.

Potariskov himself looked like a rather horsey, brown-faced school-
boy, with chestnut hair and brown eyes.  I got to see him because they
had me sitting in the back of Plugg's office pretending just to wait
for somebody else.

The conversation was very simple.  Potariskov brought out a recording
tape.  It was standard American tape.

Plugg looked at it and said,

"Do you want to play it right now?"  Potariskov agreed.

The stenographer got a tape recorder in.  By that time three or four
other officers wandered in and none of them happened to leave.  As a
matter of fact one of them wasn't even an officer but he happened to
have a uniform on that very day.

They played the tape and I listened to it.  It was buzz, buzz, buzz.
And there was some hissing, then it went clickety, clickety, clickety.
Then it was buzz, buzz, buzz again.  It was the kind of sound in which
you turn on a radio and you don't even get static.

You just get funny buzzing sounds which indicate that somebody has some
sort of radio transmission somewhere but it is not consistent enough to
be the loud whee, wheeeee kind of static which one often hears.

All of us stood there rather solemnly.  Plugg, thoroughly a soldier,
listened at rigid attention, moving his eyes back and forth from the
tape recorder to Potariskov's face.  Potariskov looked at Plugg and
then ran his eyes around the group.

The little Russian civilian, who was as poisonous as a snake, glanced
at every single one of us.  He was obviously taking our measure and he
was anxious to find out if any of us could hear anything he couldn't
hear.  None of us heard anything.

At the end of the tape Plugg reached out to turn off the machine.

"Don't stop it," Potariskov said.  The other Russian interjected,
"Didn't you hear it?"  All of us shook our heads.  We had heard
nothing.  With that, Potariskov said with singular politeness, "Please
play it again."

We played it again.  Nothing happened, except for the buzzing and
clicking.

After the fifteen-minute point it was beginning to get pretty stale for
some of us.  One or two of the men actually wandered out.  They
happened to be the bona fide visitors.  The non-bona fide visitors
slouched down in the room.

Colonel Plugg offered Potariskov a cigarette, which Potariskov took.
They both smoked and we played it a third time.  Then the third time
Potariskov said,

"Turn it off."

"Didn't you hear it?"  said Potariskov.

"Hear what?"  said Plugg.

"Hear the name and the address."

At that the funniest feeling came over me.  I knew that I had heard
something and I turned to the Colonel and said, "Funny, I don't know
where I heard it or how I heard it but I do know something that I
didn't know."

"What is that?"  said the little Russian civilian, his face lighting
up.

"Nelson," said I, intending to say,

"Nelson Angerhelm, 2322 Ridge Drive, Hopkins, Minnesota."  Just as I
had seen it in the "galactic" secret documents.  Of course I didn't go
any further.  That was in the document and was very secret indeed.

How should I know it?

The Russian civilian looked at me.  There was a funny, wicked,
friendly, crooked sort of smile on his face.  He said, "Didn't you
hear

"Nelson Angerhelm, 2322 Ridge Drive, Hopkins, Minnesota," just now, and
yet did you not know where you heard it?"

The question then arose,

"What had happened?"

Potariskov spoke with singular candor.  Even the Russian with him
concurred.

"We believe that this is a case of marginal perception.  We have played
this.  This is obviously a copy.  We have many such copies.  We have
played it to all our people.  Nobody can even specify at what point he
has heard it.  We have had our best experts on it.  Some put it at
minute three.  Others put it at minute twelve.  Some put it at minute
thirteen and a half and at different places.  But different people
under different controls all come out with the idea that they have
heard

"Nelson Angerhelm, 2322 Ridge Drive, Hopkins, Minnesota."  We have
tried it on Chinese people."

At that the Russian civilian interrupted.

"Yes, indeed, they tried it on Chinese persons and even they heard the
same thing, Nelson Angerhelm.  Even when they do not know the language
they hear

"Nelson Angerhelm."  Even when they know nothing else they hear that
and they hear the street numbers.  The numbers are always in English.
They cannot make a recording.

The recording is only of this noise and yet it comes out.  What do you
make of that?"

What they said turned out to be true.  We tried it also, after they
went away.

We tried it on college students, foreigners, psychiatrists.

White House staff members, and passers-by.  We even thought of running
it on a municipal radio somewhere as a quiz show and offering prizes
for anyone that got it.  That was a little too heavy, so we accepted a
much safer suggestion that we try it out on the public address system
of the SAC base.  The SAC was guarded night and day.

No one happened to be getting much leave anyhow and it was easy enough
to cut off the leave for an extra week.  We played that damn thing
six times over and almost everybody on that base wanted to write a
letter to Nelson Angerhelm, 2322 Ridge Drive, Hopkins, Minnesota.  They
were even calling each other Angerhelm and wondering what the hell it
meant.

Naturally there were a great many puns on the name and even some jokes
of a rather smutty order.  That didn't help.

The troublesome thing was that on all these different tests we too were
unable to find out at what point the subliminal transmission of the
name and address came.

It was subliminal, all right.  There's not much trick to that.

Any good psychologist can pass along either a noise message or a sight
message without the recipient knowing exactly when he got it.  It is
simply a matter of getting down near the threshold, running a little
tiny bit under the threshold, and then making the message sharp and
clear enough, just under the level of conscious notice, so that it
slips on through.

We therefore knew what we were dealing with.  What we didn't know was
what the Russians were doing with it, how they had gotten it, and why
they were so upset about it.

Finally it all went to the White House for a conference.  The
conference, to which my boss Mr.  Spatz went along as a sort of
rapporteur and monitor to safeguard the interests of the Director of
the Budget and of the American taxpayer, was a rather brief affair.

All roads led to Nelson Angerhelm.  Nelson Angerhelm was already
guarded by about half of the F.B.I, and a large part of the local
military district forces.  Every room in his house had been wired.  The
microphones were sensitive enough to hear his heart beat.  The safety
precautions we were taking on that man would have justified the program
we have for taking care of Fort Knox.

Angerhelm knew that some awful funny things had been happening but he
didn't know what and he didn't know who was concerned with it.

Months later he was able to tell somebody that he thought his brother
had probably done some forgery or counterfeiting and that the
neighborhood was being thoroughly combed.  He didn't realize his
safeguarding was the biggest American national treasure since the
discovery of the atomic bomb.

The President himself gave the word.  He reviewed the evidence.  The
Secretary of State said that he didn't think that Khrushchev would have
brought up the question of a joke if Khrushchev himself had not missed
out on the facts.

We had even tried Russians on it, of course Russians on our side.  And
they didn't get any more off the record than the rest of the people.
Everybody heard the same blessed thing,

"Nelson Angerhelm, 2322 Ridge Drive, Hopkins, Minnesota."

of Man But that didn't get anybody anywhere.

The only thing left was to try it on the man himself.

When it came to picking inconspicuous people to go along, the
Intelligence committee were pretty thin-skinned about letting outsiders
into their show.  On the other hand they did not have domestic
jurisdiction, particularly not when the President had turned it over to
J. Edgar Hoover and said,

"Ed, you handle this.

I don't like the looks of it."

Somebody over in the Pentagon, presumably deviled on by Air
Intelligence, got the bright idea that if the Army and the rest of the
Intelligence committee couldn't fit into the show the best they could
do would be to get their revenge on liaison by letting liaison itself
go.  This meant Mr.  Spatz.

Mr.  Spatz has been on the job for many, many years by always avoiding
anything interesting or dramatic, always watching for everything that
mattered which was the budget and the authorization for next year and
by ditching controversial personalities long before anyone else had any
idea that they were controversial.

Therefore, he didn't go.  If this Angerhelm fiasco was going to turn
out to be a mess he wanted to be out of it.

It was me who got the assignment.

I was made a sort of honorary member of the F.B.I, and they even let me
carry the tape in the end.  They must have had about six other copies
of the tape so the honor wasn't as marked as it looked.  We were simply
supposed to go along as people who knew something about the brother.

It was a dry, reddish Sunday afternoon, looking a little bit as though
the sunset were coming.

We drove up to this very nice frame house.  It had double windows all
the way around and looked as tight as the proverbial rug for a bug to
be snug in in cold winter.  This wasn't winter and the old gentleman
obviously couldn't pay for air conditioning.  But the house still
looked snug.

There was no waste, no show.  It just looked like a thoroughly livable
house.

The F.B.I, man was big-hearted and let me ring the doorbell.

There was no answer so I rang the doorbell some more.  Again, nobody
answered the bell.

We decided to wait outside and wandered around the yard.

We looked at the car in the yard; it seemed in running order.

We rang the doorbell again, then walked around the house and looked
into the kitchen window.  We checked his car to see if the radiator
felt warm.  We looked at our watches.  We wondered if he were hiding
and peeking out at us.  Once more we rang the doorbell.

Just then, the old boy came down the front walk.

We introduced ourselves and the preliminaries were the usual sort of
thing.  I found my heart beating violently.  If something had stumped
both the Soviet Union and the rest of the world, something salvaged
possibly out of space itself, something which thousands of men had
heard and none could identify, something so mysterious that the name of
Nelson Angerhelm rang over and over again like a pitiable cry beyond
all limits of understanding, what could this be?

We didn't know.

The old man stood there.  He was erect, sunburned, red cheeked
red-nosed, red-eared.  Healthy as he could be, Swedish to the bone.

All we had to do was to tell him that we were concerned with his
brother, Tice Angerhelm, and he listened to us.  We had no trouble, no
trouble at all.

As he listened his eyes got wide and he said,

"I know there has been a lot of snooping around here and you people had
a lot of trouble and I thought somebody was going to come and talk to
me about it but I didn't think it would be this soon."

The F.B.I, man muttered something polite and vague, so Angerhelm went
on.

"I suppose you gentlemen are from the F.B.I. I don't think my brother
was cheating.  He wasn't that dishonest."

Another pause, and he continued.

"But there is always a kind of a funny sleek mind he looked like the
kind of man who would play a joke."

Angerhelm's eyes lit up.

"If he played a joke, gentlemen, he might even have committed a crime,
I don't know.  All I do is raise chickens and try to have my life."

Perhaps it was the wrong kind of Intelligence procedure but I broke in
ahead of the F.B.I, and said,

"Are you a happy man, Mr.  Angerhelm?  Do you live a life that you
think is really satisfying?"

The old boy gave me a keen look.  It was obvious that he thought there
was something wrong and he didn't have very much confidence in my
judgment.

And yet underneath the sharpness of his look he shot me a glance of
sympathy and I am sure that he suspected I had been under a strain. His
eyes widened a little.  His shoulders went back, and he looked a little
prouder.

He looked like the kind of man who might remember that he had Swedish
admirals for ancestors, and that long before the Angerhelm name ran out
and ran dry there in this flat country west of Minneapolis there had
been something great in it and that perhaps sparks of the great name
still flew somewhere in the universe.

I don't know.  He got the importance of it, I suppose, because he
looked me very sharply and very clearly in the eye.

of Man "No, young man, my life hasn't been much of a life and I
haven't liked it.  And I hope nobody has to live a life like mine.

But that is enough of that.  I don't suppose you're guessing and I
suppose you've got something pretty bad to show me."

The other fellow then took over.

"Yes, but it doesn't involve any embarrassment for you, Mr.  Angerhelm.
And even Colonel Angerhelm, your brother, wouldn't mind if he were
living."

"Don't be so sure of that," said the old man.

"My brother minded almost everything.  As a matter of fact, my brother
once said to me,

"Listen, Nels, I'd come back from Hell itself rather than let somebody
put something over on me."  That's what he said.  I think he meant it.
There was a funny pride to him and if you've got anything here on my
brother, you'd better just show it to me."

With that, we got over the small talk and we did what we were told to
do.  We got out the tape and put it on the portable machine, the hi-fi
one which we brought along with us.

We played it for the old man.

I had heard it so often that I think I could almost have reproduced it
with my vocal cords.  The clickety-click and the buzz, buzz.  There
wasn't any whee, whee, but there was some more clickety-click and there
was some buzz, buzz, and long periods of dull silence, the kind of
contrived silence which a recording machine makes when it is playing
but nothing is coming through on it.

The old gentleman listened to it and it seemed to have no effect on
him, no effect at all.

No effect at all?  That wasn't true.

There was an effect.  When we got through the first time, he said very
simply, very directly, almost coldly,

"Play it again.  Play it again for me.  There may be something
there."

We played it again.

After that second playing he started to talk.

"It is the funniest thing, I hear my own name and address there and I
don't know where I hear it, but I swear to God, gentlemen, that's my
brother's voice.  It is my brother's voice I hear there somewhere in
those clicks and noises.  And yet all I can hear is Nelson Angerhelm,
2322 Ridge Drive, Hopkins, Minnesota.

But I hear that, gentlemen, and it is not only plain, it is my
brother's voice and I don't know where I heard it.  I don't know how it
came through."

We played it for him a third time.

When the tape was halfway through, he threw up his hands and said,

"Turn it off.  Turn it off.  I can't stand it.  Turn it off."

We turned it off.

He sat there in the chair breathing hard.  After a while in a very
funny cracked tone of voice he said,

"I've got some whisky.

It's back there on the shelf by the sink.  Get me a shot of it, will
you, gentlemen?"

The F.B.I, man and I looked at each other.  He didn't want to get mixed
up in accidental poisoning so he sent me.  I went back.

It was good enough whisky, one of the regular brands.  I poured the old
boy a two-ounce slug and took the glass back.  I sipped a tiny bit of
it myself.  It seemed like a silly thing to do on duty but I couldn't
risk any poison getting to him.  After all my years in Army
counterintelligence I wanted to stay in the Civil Service and I didn't
want to take any chances on losing my good job with Mr.  Spatz.

He drank the whisky and he said,

"Can you record on this thing at the same time that you play?"

We said we couldn't.  We hadn't thought of that.

"I think I may be able to tell you what it is saying.  But I don't know
how many times I can tell you, gentlemen.  I am a sick man.

I'm not feeling good.  I never have felt very good.  My brother had the
life.  I didn't have the life.  I never had much of a life and never
did anything and never went anywhere.  My brother had everything.  My
brother got the women, he got the girl he got the only girl I ever
wanted, and then he didn't marry her.  He got the life and he went away
and then he died.  He played jokes and he never let anybody get ahead
of him.  And, gentlemen, my brother's dead.  Can you understand that?
My brother's dead."

We said we knew his brother was dead.  We didn't tell him that he had
been exhumed and that the coffin had been opened and the bones had been
X-rayed.  We didn't tell him that the bones had been weighed, fresh
identification had been remade from what was left of the fingers, and
they were in pretty good shape.

We didn't tell him that the serial number had been checked and that all
the circumstances leading to the death had been checked and that
everybody connected with it had been interviewed.

We didn't tell him that.  We just told him we knew that his brother was
dead.  He knew that too.

"You know my brother is dead and then this funny thing has his voice in
it.  All it's got is his voice .  . ."

We agreed.  We said that we didn't know how his voice got in there and
we didn't even know that there was a voice.

We didn't tell him that we had heard that voice ourselves a thousand
times and yet never knew where we heard it.

We didn't tell him that we'd played it at the SAC base and that every
man there had heard the name, Nelson Angerhelm, had heard something
saying that and yet couldn't tell where.

of Man We didn't tell him that the entire apparatus of Soviet
Intelligence had been swearing over this for an unstated period of time
and that our people had the unpleasant feeling that this came out of a
Sputnik somewhere out in the sky.

We didn't tell him all that but we knew it.  We knew that if he heard
his brother's voice and if he wanted to record, it was something very
serious.

"Can you get me something to dictate on?"  the old man said.

"I can take notes," the F.B.I, man replied.

The old man shook his head.

"That isn't enough," he said.

"I

think you probably want to get the whole thing if you ever get it and I
begin to get pieces of it."

"Pieces of what?"  said the F.B.I, man.

"Pieces of the stuff behind all that noise.  It's my brother's voice
talking.  He's saying things I don't like what he is saying.

It frightens me and it just makes everything bad and dirty.  I'm not
sure I can take it and I am not going to take it twice.  I think I'll
go to church instead."

We looked at each other.

"Can you wait ten minutes?  I think I can get a recording machine by
then."

The old man nodded his head.  The F.B.I, man went out to the car and
cranked up the radio.  A great big aerial shot up out of the car, which
otherwise was a very inconspicuous Chevrolet sedan.

He got his office.  A recording machine with a police escort was sent
out from downtown Minneapolis toward Hopkins.  I don't know what time
it took ambulances to make it but the fellow at the other end said,

"You better allow me twenty to twenty-two minutes."

We waited.  The old man wouldn't talk to us and he didn't want us to
play the tape.  He sat there sipping the whisky.

"This might kill me and I want to have my friends around.  My pastor's
name is Jensen and if anything happens to me you get a hold of him
there but I don't think anything will happen to me.

Just get a hold of him.  I may die, gentlemen, I can't take too much of
this.  It is the most shocking thing that ever happened to any man and
I'm not going to see you or anybody else get in on it.

You understand that it could kill me, gentlemen."

We pretended that we knew what he was talking about, although neither
one of us had the faintest idea, beyond the suspicion that the old man
might have a heart condition and might actually collapse.

The office had estimated twenty-two minutes.  It took eighteen minutes
for the F.B.I, assistant to come in.  He brought in one of these new,
tight, clean little jobs, the kind of thing that I'd love to take home.
You can pack it almost anywhere.  And it comes out with concert
quality.

The old man brightened when he saw that we meant business.

"Give me a set of headphones and just let me talk and pick it up.  I'
ll try
to reproduce it.  It won't be my brother's voice.  It will be my voice
you're hearing.  Do you follow me?"

We turned on the tape.

He dictated, with the headset on his head.

That's when the message started.  And that's the thing I started with
in the very beginning.

Funny funny funny.  It's sort of funny funny funny to think without a
brain it is really something like a trick but not a trick to think
without a brain.  Talking is even harder but it can be done.

Nels, this is Tice.  I'm dead.

Nels, I don't know whether I'm in Heaven or Hell, but I think it's
Hell, Nels.  And I am going to play the biggest joke that anybody's
ever played.  And it's funny, I am an American Army officer and lama
dead one, and it doesn't matter.  Nels, don't you see what it is ?  It
doesn't matter if you 're dead whether you 're American or Russian or
an officer or not.  And even laughter doesn't matter.

But there's enough left of me, Nels, enough of the old me so that
perhaps for one last time I'll have a laugh with you and the others.

I haven't got a body to laugh with, Nels, and I haven't got a mouth to
laugh with and I haven't got cheeks to smile with and there really isn
't any me.  Tice Angerhelm is something different now, Nels.  I'm
dead.

I knew I was dead when I felt so different.  It was more comfortable
being dead, more relaxed.  There wasn't anything tight.

That's the trouble, Nels, there isn't anything tight.  There isn't
anything around you.  You can't feel the world, you can't see the
world, and yet you know all about it.  You know all about everything.

It's awfully lonely, Nels.  There are some corners that aren't lonely,
some funny little corners in which you feel friendship and feel things
creeping up.

Nels, it's like kittens or the faces of children or the smell of the
wind on a nice day.  It's any time that you turn away from yourself and
you don't think about yourself.

It's the times when you don't want something and you do want
something.

It's what you're not resenting, what you're not hating, what you're not
fearing, and what you're not jeering.  That's it, Nels, that's the good
part inside of death.  And I suppose some people could call it Heaven.
And I guess you get Heaven if you just get into the habit of having
Heaven every day in your ordinary life.

That's what it is.  Heaven is right there, Nels, in your ordinary life,
every day, day by day, right around you.

But that's not what I got.  Oh, Nels, I am Tice Angerhelm all right, I
am
of Man your brother and I'm dead.  You can call where I am Hell since
it's everything I hated.

Nels, it smells of everything that I ever wanted.  It smells the way
the hay smelted when I had my old Willys roadster and I made the first
girl I ever made that August evening.  You can go ask her.  She's a
Mrs.  Prai Jesselton now.  She lives over on the east side of St. Paul.
 You never knew I made her and if you don't think this is so, you can
listen for yourself.

And you see, I am somewhere and I don't know what kind of a where it
is.

Nels, this is me, Tice Angerhelm, and I'm going to scream this out loud
with what I've got instead of a mouth.  I am going to scream it loud so
that any human ear that hears it can put it on this silly, silly Soviet
gadget and take it back.  TAKE THIS

MESSAGE TO NELSON ANGER HELM 2322 RIDGE DRIVE,

hopkins, minnesota.  And I'm going to repeat that a couple more times
so that you 'll know that it's your brother talking and I'm somewhere
and it isn't Heaven and it isn't Hell and it isn't even really out
in space.  I am in something different from space, Nels.

It is just a somewhere with me in it and there isn't anything but me.
In with me there's everything.

In with me there is everything I ever thought and everything I ever did
and everything I ever wanted.

All the opposites are the same.  Everything I hated and everything I
loved, it's all the same.  Everything I feared and everything I yearned
for that's the same.  I tell you it's all the same now and the
punishment is just as bad if you want something and get it as if you
want something and don't get it.

The only thing that matters is those calm, nice moments in life when
you don't want anything, Nels.  You aren't anything.

When you aren't trying for anything and the world is just around you,
and you get simple things like water on the skin, when you yourself
feel innocent and you are not thinking about anything else.

That's all there is to life, Nels.  And I'm Tice and I'm telling you.
And you know I'm dead, so I wouldn't be telling you a lie.

And I especially wouldn't be telling you on this Soviet cylinder, this
Soviet gismo which will go back to them and bother them.

Nels, I hope it won't bother you too much, if everybody knows about
that girl.  I hope the girl forgives me but the message has got to go
back.

And yet that's the message everything I ever feared I feared something
in the war and you know what the war smells like.  It smells sort of
like a cheap slaughterhouse in July.  It smells bad all around. There's
bits of things burning, the smell of rubber burning and the funny smell
of gunpowder.  I was never in a big war with atomic stuff. Just the old
sort of explosions.  I've told you about it before and I was scared of
that.  And
right in with that I can smell the perfume that girl had in the hotel
there in Melbourne, the girl that I thought I might have wanted until
she said something and then I said something and that was all there was
between us.  And I'm dead now.

And listen, Nels Listen, Nels.  I am talking as though it were a trick.
I don't know how I know about the rest of us the other ones that are
dead like me.  I never met one and I may never talk to one.  I just
have the feeling that they are here too.  They can't talk.

It's not that they can't talk, really.

They don't even want to talk.

They don't feel like talking.  Talking is just a trick.  It is a trick
that somebody can pick up and I guess it takes a cheap, meaningless
man, a man who lived his life in spite of Hell and is now in that Hell.
That's the kind of silly man it takes to remember the trick of talking.
 Like a trick with coins or a trick with cigarettes when nothing else
matters.

So I am talking to you, Nels.  And Nels, I suppose you

"II

die the way I do.  It doesn't matter, Nels.  It's too late to change
that's all.

Good-bye, Nels, you 're in pretty good shape.  You 've lived your life.
You 've had the wind in your hair.  You 've seen the good sunlight and
you haven't hated and feared and loved too much.

When the old man got through dictating it, the F.B.I, man and I asked
him to do it again.

He refused.

We all stood up.  We brought in the assistant.

The old man still refused to make a second dictation from the sounds
out of which only he could hear a voice.

We could have taken him into custody and forced him but there didn't
seem to be much sense to it until we took the recording back to
Washington and had this text appraised.

He said good-bye to us as we left his house.

"Perhaps I can do it once again maybe a year from now.  But the trouble
with me, gentlemen, is that I believe it.  That was the voice of my
brother, Tice Angerhelm, and he is dead.  And you brought me something
strange.  I don't know where you got a medium or spirit reader to
record this on a tape and especially in such a way that you can't hear
it and I could.  But I did hear it, gentlemen, and I think I told you
pretty good what it was.

And those words I used, they are not mine, they are my brother's.  So
you go along, gentlemen, and do what you can with it and if you don't
want me to tell anybody that the U.S. government is working on mediums,
I won't."

That was the farewell he gave us.

We closed the local office and hurried to the airport.  We took the
tape back with us but a duplicate was already being teletyped to
Washington.

That's the end of the story and that is the end of the joke.

Potariskov got a copy and the Soviet Ambassador got a copy.

And Khrushchev probably wondered what sort of insane joke the Americans
were playing on him.  To use a medium or something weird along with
subliminal perception in order to attack the USSR.  for not believing
in God and not believing in death.  Did he figure it that way?

Here's a case where I hope that Soviet espionage is very good.

I hope that their spies are so fine that they know we're baffled.  I
hope that they realize that we have come to a dead end, and whatever
Tice Angerhelm did or somebody did in his name way out there in space
recording into a Soviet Sputnik, we Americans had no hand in it.

If the Russians didn't do it and we didn't do it, who did do it?

I hope their spies find out.

 The Good Friends Fever had given him a boyish look.  The nurse,
standing behind the doctor, watched him attentively.  Her half-smile
blended tenderness with an appreciation of his manly attraction.

"When can I go, doc?"

"In a few weeks, perhaps.  You have to get well first."

"I don't mean home, doc.  When can I go back into space?  I'm captain,
doc.  I'm a good one.  You know that, don't you?"

The doctor nodded gravely.

"I want to go back, doc.  I want to go back right away.  I want to be
well, doc.  I want to be well now.  I want to get back in my ship and
take off again.  I don't even know why I'm here.  What are you doing
with me, doc?"

"We're trying to make you well," said the doctor, friendly, serious,
authoritative.

"I'm not sick, doc.  You've got the wrong man.  We brought the ship in,
didn't we?  Everything was all right, wasn't it?  Then we started to
get out and everything went black.  Now I'm here in a hospital.
Something's pretty fishy, doc.  Did I get hurt in the port?"

"No," said the doctor, "you weren't hurt at the port."

"Then why'd I faint?  Why am I sick in a bed?  Something must have
happened to me, doc.  It stands to reason.  Otherwise I wouldn't be
here.  Some stupid awful thing must have happened, doc.  After such a
nice trip.  Where did it happen?"  A wild light came into the patient's
eyes.

"Did somebody do something to me, doc?  I'm not hurt, am I?  I'm not
ruined, am I?  I'll be able to go back into space, won't I?"

"Perhaps," said the doctor.

The nurse drew in her breath as though she were going to say something.
The doctor looked around at her and gave her an authoritative frown,
meaning keep quiet.

The patient saw it.

Desperation came into his voice, almost a whine.

"What's the matter,
of Man doc?  Why won't you talk to me?  What's wrong?  Something has
happened to me.  Where's Ralph?  Where's Pete?  Where's Jock?

The last time I saw him he was having a beer.  Where's Larry?

Where's Went?  Where's Betty?  Where's my gang, doc?  They're not
killed, are they?  I'm not the only one, am I?  Talk to me, doc.  Tell
me the truth.  I'm a space captain, doc.  I've faced queer hells in my
time, doc.  You can tell me anything, doc.  I'm not that sick.  I can
take it.  Where's my gang, doc my pals from the ship?  What a cruise
that was!  Won't you talk, doc?"

"I'll talk," said the doctor, gravely.

"Okay," said the patient.

"Tell me."

"What in particular?"

"Don't be a fool, doc!  Tell me the straight stuff.  Tell me about my
friends first, and then tell me what has happened to me."

"Concerning your friends," said the doctor, measuring his words
carefully,

"I am in a position to tell you there has been no adverse change in the
status of any of the persons you mentioned."

"All right, then, doc, if it wasn't them, it's me.  Tell me.  What's
happened to me, doc?  Something stinking awful must have happened or
you wouldn't be standing there with a face like a constipated horse!"

The doctor smiled wryly, bleakly, briefly at the weird compliment.

"I won't try to explain my own face, young fellow.  I was born with it.
But you are in a serious condition and we are trying to get you well. I
will tell you the whole truth."

"Then do it, doc!  Right away.  Did somebody jump me at the port?  Was
I hurt badly?  Was it an accident?  Start talking, man!"

The nurse stirred behind the doctor.  He looked around at her.

She looked in the direction of the hypodermic on the tray.  The doctor
gave her a brief negative shake of his head.  The patient saw the whole
interplay and understood it correctly.

"That's right, doc.  Don't let her dope me.  I don't need sleep.  I
need the truth.  If my gang's all right, why aren't they here?  Is
Milly out in the corridor?  Milly, that was her name, the little curly
head Where's Jock?  Why isn't Ralph here?"

"I'm going to tell you everything, young man.  It may be tough but I'm
counting on you to take it like a man.  But it would help if you told
me first."

"Told you what?  Don't you know who I am?  Didn't you read about my
gang and me?  Didn't you hear about Larry?  What a navigator!  We
wouldn't be here except for Larry."

The late-morning light poured in through the open window; a soft spring
breeze touched the young ravaged face of the patient.

There was mercy and more in the doctor's voice.

"I'm just a medical doctor.  I don't keep up with the news.  I know
your name, age, and medical history.  But I don't know the details of
your cruise.  Tell me about it."

"Doc, you're kidding.  It'd take a book.  We're famous.  I bet Went's
out there right now, making a fortune out of the pictures he took."

"Don't tell me the whole thing, young man.  Suppose you just tell me
about the last couple of days before you landed, and how you got into
port."

The young man smiled guiltily; there was pleasure and fond memory in
his face.

"I guess I can tell you, because you're a doctor and keep things
confidential."

The doctor nodded, very earnest and still kind.

"Do you want," said he softly, "the nurse to leave?"

"Oh, no," cried the patient.

"She's a good scout.  It's not as though you were going to turn it
loose on the tapes."

The doctor nodded.  The nurse nodded and smiled, too.  She was afraid
that there were tears forming at the corners of her eyes, but she dared
not wipe them away.  This was an extraordinarily observant patient.  He
might notice it.  It would ruin his story.

The patient almost babbled in his eagerness to tell the story.

"You know the ship, doc.  It's a big one: twelve cabins, a common room,
simulated gravity, lockers, plenty of room."

The doctor's eyes flickered at this but he did nothing, except to watch
the patient in an attentive sympathetic way.

"When we knew we just had two days to Earth, doc, and we knew
everything was all right, we had a ball.  Jock found the beer in one of
the lockers.  Ralph helped him get it out.  Betty was an old pal of
mine, but I started trying to make time with Milly.  Boy, did I make
it!  Yum."  He looked at the nurse and blushed all the way down to his
neck.

"I'll skip the details.  We had a party, doc.

We were high.  Drunk.  Happy.  Boy, did we have fun!  I don't think
anybody ever had more fun than we did, me and that old gang of mine. We
docked all right.  That Larry, he's a navigator.  He was drunk as an
owl and he had Betty on his lap but he put that ship in like the old
lady putting a coin in the collection plate.

Everything came out exactly right.  I guess I should have been ashamed
of landing a ship with the whole crew drunk and happy, but it was the
best trip and the best gang and the best fun that anybody ever had. And
we had succeeded in our mission, doc.

We wouldn't have cut loose at the end of the mission if we hadn't known
everything was hunky-dory.  So we came in and landed, doc.  And then
everything went black, and here I am.  Now you tell me your side of it,
but be sure to tell me when Larry and Jock and Went are going to come
in and see me.  They're characters, doc.

That little nurse of yours,
she's going to have to watch them.  They might bring me a bottle that
I shouldn't have.  Okay, doc.  Shoot."

"Do you trust me?"  said the doctor.

"Sure.  I guess so.  Why not?"

"Do you think I would tell you the truth?"

"It's something mean, doc.  Real mean.  Okay, shoot anyhow."

"I want you to have the shot first," said the doctor, straining to keep
kindness and authority in his voice.

The patient looked bewildered.  He glanced at the nurse, the tray, the
hypodermic.  Then he smiled at the doctor, but it was a smile in which
fright lurked.

"All right, doctor.  You're the boss."

The nurse helped him roll back his sleeves.  She started to reach for
the needle.

The doctor stopped her.  He looked her straight in the face, his eyes
focused right on hers.

"No, intravenous.  I'll do it.  Do you understand?"

She was a quick girl.

From the tray she took a short length of rubber tubing, twisted it
quickly around the upper arm, just below the elbow.

The doctor watched, very quiet.

He took the arm, ran his thumb up and down the skin as he felt the
vein.

"Now," said he.

She handed him the needle.

Patient, nurse, and doctor all watched as the hypodermic emptied itself
directly into the little ridge of the vein on the inside of the
elbow.

The doctor took out the needle.  He himself seemed relieved.

Said he: "Feel anything?"

"Not yet, doc.  Can you tell me now, doc?  I can't make trouble with
this stuff in me.  Where's Larry?  Where's Jock?"

"You weren't on a ship, young man.  You were alone on a one man craft.
You didn't have a party for two days.  You had it for twenty years.
Larry didn't bring your ship in.  The Earth authorities brought it in
with telemetry.  You were starved, dehydrated, and nine-tenths dead.
The boat had a freeze unit and you were fed by the emergency kit.  You
had the narrowest escape in the whole history of space travel.  The
boat had one of the new hypo kits.

You must have had a second or two to slap it to your face before the
boat took over.  You didn't have any friends with you.  They came out
of your own mind."

"That's all right, doc.  I'll be all right.  Don't worry about me."

"There wasn't any Jock or Larry or Ralph or Milly.  That was just the
hypo kit."

"I get you, doc.  It's all right.  This dope you gave me, it's good
stuff.  I
feel happy and dreamy.  You can go away now and let me sleep.

You can explain it all to me in the morning.  But be sure to let Ralph
and Jock in, when visiting hours open up."  He turned on his side away
from them.

The nurse pulled the cover up over his shoulders.

Then she and the doctor started to leave the room.  At the last moment,
she ran past the doctor and out of the room ahead of him.  She did not
want him to see her cry.

This book was produced on a Gateway 2000 PC, using Microsoft Word for
Windows.  Page layout was done using Aldus Page Maker 4.2 and printed
on an HP LaserJet 4M.

The book is set in Times New Roman on 60# acid-free paper.

It was printed by Braun-Brumfield, Inc.  NESFA Press has also produced
the Concordance to Cordwainer Smith by Anthony R. Lewis.  For
information about this and other NESFA Press books, please write for
our catalog.